#Do Golf Clubs Rust

[enkelimagnus]

Don't Feed It (It Will Come Back)

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True Detective Season 1, Rust/Marty, Rated E

Summary: Follow-up to Something Stuck In Your Teeth

They've fucked. They've gone back to normal, or whatever poses as normal for these two. Except Rust's not one man you own and Marty's not gotten that memo. So when Rust sleeps with a friend of Maggie's, Marty gets possessive. And Rust doesn't like this at all.

Warnings: The usual warnings that come with Canon True Detective, Period-Typical Homophobia, Anal Sex, Slurs, Bad Crash Stuff, French-bashing (self-inflicted)

Full text below the cut

His thumb caresses the grip of his gun where it rests against his belt, runs his fingerprint all over the hard, cold polymer casing and he wonders when they’ll catch him out. 

Quesada knows he’s not listening to a word he’s saying but he’s not snapping at him to get his head out of his ass and pay attention. His tolerance for Rust’s never-ending anti-authority attitude lowers every day they get closer to the weekend and today’s friday.

He’s letting Marty be the spokesman for the both of them, lets him deal with the politics of men like Quesada who only care as long as their superiors do, as long as it will shorten their afternoons lazing around a golf green pretending to play that limpdick excuse for a sport.

Quesada must have been a good cop once upon a time, or at least that’s what Marty’s desperate to believe. Rust only knows he must not have been that good, else he’d know the sort of creature sitting across from him now, and he would know he belongs somewhere the sun don’t ever shine. The least he would do was get that state-issued gun away from him and force him to fend for himself in the firearm department. 

When they walk out of there, Rust is still a free man and Marty’s hand rests onto his shoulder, onto that very spot on his trapezius where, under the shirt, half covered by his undershirt is the crescent moon scar of Marty’s own teeth. He’s gotten the habit of it, of letting his hand fall onto that mark from time to time, a claim or a warning or a threat, or perhaps all three at once. He knows it’s there still, he saw it in the locker room, saw how it was scarring, a bit red still underneath the brown of the scab.

Others have seen it too, men he can’t help but see at work when they grab showers or take a leak by the lockers or grab something from the jacket of their civilian garb. A woman’s seen it too, a blonde little thing with a genuinely fantastic ass Maggie had introduced him to over sweet tea and some help with the plumbing of the house. One thing with being raised by a mad man in a cabin in the middle of Alaska, you learn how to take care of a home, and if Marty felt emasculated by it, Rust couldn’t care less. If he had decided to help out his woman, she wouldn’t be calling him up to help with her fucking pipes.

She calls him sometimes, in the evenings or on days he and Marty both have off and Rust can’t help but wonder if Marty knows that his wife is calling for no real reason but to talk, like he’s one of the girls from her book club. It’s nice though, he likes her like a little sister. She can see through enough of his shit to give a fuck but not enough to run away screaming, and Marty might be annoyed by it at the end of the day, but he’s the one who opened the door first, the one who let his wife feed Rust like a wild animal at their doorway, plying him with coffee and letting him think he could trust them. You don’t feed a stray unless you want it to come back. 

That day though, it had only been a trap to get him in his wifebeater and a flannel over at the house while Suzie was there as well for entirely unrelated reason. He’d taken her on a date the next day, mostly because Maggie had been staring at him with eyes promising divine retribution if he didn’t make a move. She had a nice smile but Rust wasn’t a fan of blondes, and the entire evening, he’d kept seeing Dora Lange superimposed over her like a 1910s film’s archaic special effects. They’d still fucked though, at his place on his mattress in the living room and she hadn’t said anything about that. She’d asked about the bite mark. He’d kissed her to shut her up and it had worked. He had been thinking of Marty anyway. 

The days after that perfect storm are empty of threats and insults; they’ve pierced the abscess and let the pus out and it’s going to need some time to build back up. They know it’ll build back up. The sort of festering wound they have doesn’t ever heal fully. 

Rust’s got a lot of those. Most days he feels like a torn open carcass laying in a patch of sunlight, just awaiting to be shredded further in the claws of some great carrion bird. Vultures are essential to the health of an ecosystem, he knows as much, but he can feel the talons digging into his flesh, three points of pain on his left side, right where the bullets found their way. 

The first one he’d seen, a great big thing, half majestic and half ungainly, was on a field trip his pop had not been able to pull him out of. The wildlife center had a wing – more like a spare room, but they’d been trying to get money out of the state to keep their operation flowing and “wing” had sounded like they deserved the aid more – for the sort of animals that were not supposed to be as far up north as the likes of Ennis. 

They’d only managed to get at the vulture because it had, in its despair to feed and keep itself warm from the otherworldly cold of north Alaska, attempted to steal away some of their critters out of their goddamn dens. 

The vulture had stared into his eyes then, and Crash had once told this story to Ginger, just filed off the specifics and replaced it with another man’s details, and added that the bird must have known what he’d become. Crash had felt like a big carrion bird, but that was before he’d met Louisiana CID Homicide detective Rustin Cohle. Nah, that fucker, the one whose skin he now wears, whose suits he puts on every morning, whose apartment he lives in, that fucker’s the vulture.

So they go back to work, he goes back to making his living off of dead bodies, and they don’t talk about what happened off Highway 10. They settle down into the routine of biting words and eye rolls, into the monotony of the cases that come across their desks. They fail to capture Rust’s attention for too long.

He knows that what happened with Dora Lange shouldn’t be replicated. He knows the obsession, the nights spent drinking coffee like water, staying awake through the sheer force of his will, staying on his feet going through files in the archives, he knows those are not healthy. He also knows that was the most alive he’d felt in a really, really long time.

Even before he opened that big red box, even before he got into that absolutely grandiose cocaine in the evidence locker, the thrill of the chase had lit him up from the inside and it had been what he’d been aching for since he’d joined Homicide. And he’s aching for it now, needs it like you need to scratch an itch, and that stolen stop in the heat of summer, damp and tense and electric in every way had scratched it and for a short, blessed moment, he’d been breathing free. 

He’s always been obsessive, always stared at every tree for a bit too long, always spent nights laying in the middle of the woods staring at the stars and trying to remember what he’d learned from the physics and astronomy intro books he’d absolutely not accidentally forgotten to give back to the school library before spring break. He looked at the space between the stars and wondered if a black hole would ever come to swallow him whole. He’d stared at the constellations and felt ancient and so very new at the same time, a sight held by so many eyes and understood fully by none at all. 

He remembers losing the night every year for two months, and how it felt like losing shelter, losing safety. How losing the day felt like he’d dug himself too deep into the earth to run from the world and he’d gotten stuck in a maze of caverns, every stalagmite the shadow of a person he knew, uncanny and unhinged. He remembers men like Riley Marshall whose words became more and more slurred with every minute of sunlight lost to the night, until he spent those two months barely understandable, only to spring back up with the sun, as if alcoholism was seasonal. 

Louisiana is incredibly steady in comparison, comfortably warm even in the dead of winter, with that golden sun bearing down onto the bayou and the insects buzzing around your ears, steadfast companions. 

So Rust finds other ways to feed the prowling beast in his mind. He reads and throws himself into work and spends his weekends sitting in his convent cell of a house with his head a smear of robitussin or a haze of quaaludes that still smell like the cheap perfume of the women he bought them from. There’s nothing like being high off your fucking rocker and hallucinating dead people staring at you with empty eye sockets and blood bubbling out of their mouths, staining the carpet from where they stand awkwardly in the corner, nothing like feeling the weight of a dead child in your arms and the stench of cocaine sweats on your skin, while you’re neck deep in Thus Spoke Zarathustra. 

Death is a given of life, but it’s been feeling like death is a moth to whatever bayou bonfire Rust seems to be made of. He’s always known the smell of it, the color of it, the weight of it pulling at his feet like gravity, keeping him on the ground, keeping him in the world. He cannot remember knowing anyone who didn’t have a personal, intimate relationship with death. Claire had been an anomaly for four years, until she hadn’t.

There are a few places where Crash and Rust intersected, places that made it easier to blend himself and disappear into another man’s skin. They recommend it when you go undercover, to find a cover that has a few things in common, so that lying will be easier. Death had been the main one. Rust had shot a deer down by the time he’d gone into middle school and Crash had grown up listening to the rattling of rifles in the dark in a damp corner of a Texas ghetto. 

Both of them had taken naturally to holding guns, both taken to killing like a duck to water, and the murkier the pond, the better. Dead moms and absentee dads and authority issues and the substantial skill of being able to recognize stronger than you, of being able to follow the rules of the strongest. More than all of that, all the seams shared between those two costumes, what had allowed him to disappear inside of the chitinous armor of that particular monster had been death. Without death, he wouldn’t have been quite as willing to shoot himself full of unspoken substances and spend four years in a haze of chemicals. It’s what made it so easy to throw away a sanity that hadn’t been precious to him in months.

He’s given up on recovering that. He’s given up on getting clean too. That ship sailed a really long time ago. He can do sober, though, most of the time, because the downers help and the work busies his mind enough that he’s not completely trying to drown himself in an ocean of liquor.

He locked the Jameson back into the red box with Crash’s jacket and his boots, and the personal dose of coke he’d grabbed out of that bag for himself, with the rifles and the fake IDs and the markers of Crash. He doubts he can ever go back now, cause Ginger was with him and now he’s locked up, but… it’s in there. It’s in a closet in his house, a skeleton of electricity and leather and whiskey. It stinks up that corner so he never goes there. He locked the door with a padlock so it would be hard to get into. His neighborhood is quiet, no record of home invasion, but there are closer demons than the nameless thieves in the night.

When he’s laying on his mattress with Suzie by his side, quiet now that they’ve fucked a second time, and he’s staring at the ceiling and the light fixture is bloodshot and blinking at him – The eye was in the tomb and was watching Cain. – he can feel Crash in the closet, banging at the door to get out, he can smell the stench of him, of gunpowder and bad trips and murder. 

Marty wore that jacket with the full patch on the back and he must have known what it meant, he’d been in the force for too long not to know, even if bike clubs like the Iron Crusaders didn’t often make it up to him. Their murders were clear and motivated, rarely investigated the way they should, used as fodder to thicken the files that would take down men like Miles. 

He accepted it, though. He didn’t speak on it, didn’t judge it. Marty Hart, the great cowboy of Louisiana Homicide, let that wretched creature run free and didn’t come down on it afterwards. He let Rust put the box back in the closet and he still touched him like he wasn’t afraid of him, still fucked him like he wasn’t in danger. He liked being handled like he wasn’t a bomb waiting to go off. Or perhaps he liked that Marty didn’t care in that moment, that he might go off and kill the both of them at once, splattering red over the beige tiles in grotesque perversions of the shapes of their bodies. His mind supplied the image readily enough.

Marty lets go of him, lets that hand fall from the back of his neck as they reach their desks. Rust’s is clean and tidy, not a single sheet of paper out of place, not a hint of an open case, because there isn’t any. They’ve just finished one, the trail has ended with cuffs dug into a man’s skin and the wide, terrified eyes of cattle before execution. A commonplace crime, a commonplace horror, once again nothing sophisticated. Rust didn’t believe that homicide would be particularly rife with the sort of crimes you read in sensationally-titled books, but he’d thought there would be… more. He can get more intellectually stimulating shit from those dish rags they call gossip magazines, brightly colored like birds trying to attract mates, when he goes to buy his cigarettes at the shop next door to the station.

Marty threw him a comment about getting him one of those 3000-piece puzzles, threw it like a ball at football practice, and Rust let it fall down to the side and watched Marty’s eyes roll and his face show that look of ‘what else should I expect’ that he’s come to favor around Rust.

There’s a piece of wood and a knot of twine left over from those devil traps resting in the upper right corner of his desk, next to a neat stack of some procedure manuals he’s supposed to pass onto the next newbie to come in. There’s been one already, three weeks ago, but when Rust had made it in that morning, the kid’d been halfway down his first coffee, surrounded on all sides by Geraci’s little band of bootlickers and Rust hadn't even bothered with introductions.  

He can see him now, on his way out of the door with the brazen pep in his fucking step that comes with being fresh out the academy. He used to be that way too, before Paul and Ruddy had kicked some sense into him. 

Rust sits down and reaches for the pack of camels, and Marty reaches for his forgotten cup of coffee. It’s most likely cold by now but Marty has the uncanny ability to swallow down coffee no matter how long it has been sitting or how burnt it has become and Rust might just respect that quality in him more than any other. That’s a feat of herculanean strength if he’s ever seen one. 

They’ve got a rare empty workload, after months of back to back, open-simultaneously murders of jealous rage and covetous greed and insatiable lust, their own backwater Dante’s Inferno. 

The afternoon’s almost over. If they were any other men, they would walk out now, enjoy the early night with a beer and a conversation, but Rust doesn’t do beer and company, or early calls, and he’s managed to silently shame Marty into giving some of those habits up as well. They’re now staring at each other wondering who will make the first move and ask for additional work.

There’s politics to this sort of act. You can’t just shame your fellow officers by asking if they got anything they should be working on, no, you gotta beg for it, gotta add mumbles about not wanting to get home to the wife. That line only Marty can carry. He’s been back in Maggie’s good graces for two months now. 

Rust can beg. He can do it pretty too, can go with his hand outstretched like they’re giving him charity, like he’d owe them for it. Those are favors they’ll cash in when they need confessions and they see him idling in the station. They realized some time ago he’s good at those. He just enjoys the puzzles, and he enjoys watching human beings stripped down to their bare essential needs. He imagines he’d be entirely the same, pinned there and dissected, a rare butterfly in an entomologist's lab. 

Suffice to say, he’d rather Marty do it. At least he doesn’t have to flay himself open for it.

So they stare at each other and have this silent conversation, until they’ve reached an impasse and Rust just decides to wait it out. His eyes fall on the wood and the twine. They feel grotesque in this setting so devoid of anything natural, like broken off fingers of some greater entity, stolen in the night. 

They were called devil traps and Rust has been tangled up in them since he first saw them in that field on January 3rd. Did the one who made them know what it would mean to him? A child’s belief that evil could be warded off, left sarcastically to guard the corpse of a woman, of someone’s own child grown up to become disillusioned by the reality of life? 

Sophia wasn’t blonde, she had dark hair like her mother, a crow’s nest on the days they rushed out of the door late to drop her off at daycare. Still she’d haunted him that day, haunted the scenes of those crimes, all until Ledoux’s… bunker. He’d been too strung out for too long to remember her, until they’d had to move those bodies. It had been her hands pushing Marty out of the way to get the little girl. It had been her weight in Rust’s arms on the way out. 

Marty stands up with a long-suffering, exaggerated sigh, a smoke signal to all that he’s lost whatever silent battle he was fighting against his peculiar partner. That’s another way Marty can ask for work without shaming the others, by pretending Rust is pushing him to do unreasonable things. All Rust wants is for them to do their job, so he doesn’t have to go home early.

Rust stares at the back of Marty, the strong lines of shoulders and back, the way he stands with his feet apart, planted there like great oak trees to give himself balance. His hair is a little messy in the back, where he’s run his hand through it a number of times while they were talking to Quesada. He has one of his hands buried in one of his pockets, the other reaching forward, probably in the middle of asking for a file and it’s one hell of a picture, this all-American aged quarterback, begging for something under his breath. 

He’s never liked seeing that kicked-puppy look on Marty, the one he had when looking at Lisa at the Longhorn, when he wasn’t seething with rage. It feels obscene on a man like Marty, trying to make himself look innocent and victimized, trying to look small so someone will pity him. Rust finds it deeply unattractive, more so than the jealousy and the anger and the possessiveness, and all those biting, growling, snarling emotions that make a man into a beast, that make a man something to be scared of. 

Rust reaches up to grasp over the bitemark. He hides it with a roll of his right shoulder, like he’s working out a kink. 

They end up getting saddled with half the station’s paperwork, or something that feels like it at least, and Rust would care more that Marty is glaring daggers at him if he wasn’t cursing himself the whole time. He should have just accepted defeat and let Marty go home, while he went and hid in the archives somewhere in a cobwebbed corner until it felt safe to come out. It never felt safe to come out, but someone did eventually kick him out if he couldn’t justify his presence. 

“Maggie’s gonna kill me.”

“Just tell her you had to work late,” Rust mutters through his cigarette. Marty’s got one too, stolen from his pack as usual. It’s half burnt and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with it sometimes, it just hangs from his fingers uselessly. He could use a pen just as well and not waste the smokes. 

“That ain’t gonna work. Used it too many times for her to believe me now.”

“Man who cried work,” Rust shrugs. He doesn’t pity him. 

He tunes back into the file in his hands, reading through the confession scrawled with a pencil that needs sharpening like a drunk needs whiskey, handwriting like chicken scratches on a yellow block of paper. 

“That does make me think…” Marty starts and trails off.

The confession, where he can read it, is from a man killing his wife, nothing new under the fucking sun and typing it up into a proper format is going to be hell. He guesses that’s what he deserves for asking for extra work. 

Marty still hasn’t spoken again so Rust sighs and looks up from the slice of human stupidity and cupidity smeared in goose poop colors in front of him.

The man looks at him in a way that makes Rust believe he’s had whatever he’s going to say on his mind for much longer than that ‘that makes me think’ lets on. He’s staring him down in a way, with those blue eyes like at the first sky of spring. 

Rust raises an eyebrow. They’re almost alone in the department now, everyone’s gone and left the kind of on time that feels early now that they’ve unloaded their paperwork on them. Whatever Marty wants to talk to him about now, pretending to be casual about it, as casual as a bullet to the gut can be, it’s something he doesn’t mind talking about here. But he does mind talking about it in the presence of the other detectives. 

“Maggie’s been asking me if you had a good time with Suzie.”

Rust frowns. He’s been expecting Marty to talk about something all day. It’s been hanging around, curdling the air, moving around them and tangled in their legs. But he was not expecting Suzie. 

“I…. Sure. She was a nice girl.” 

He doesn’t do this sort of conversation. Especially with Marty, who doesn’t usually mind boasting about his conquests around the others. Rust would think it’s because of what happened off Highway 10, if he had been more talkative before.  

“Hmm mmm.” Marty hums under his breath. “I told her we don’t talk like that, you and I. We don’t have that sort of a rapport.”

“Right.” Maggie would rather not know what kind of rapport Marty and him entertain. 

Rust turns away, towards the typewriter, and he starts to type out that shitstain of a confession. It would make him angry if he wasn’t so used to it now. Men hurt women everyday, those are not news stories. 

“So… Suzie?”

Rust looks back and Marty’s not moved, with that cigarette in his finger burning off almost unattended. That makes him roll his eyes more than the question, more than anything else. He should buy his own fucking smokes if he’s gonna waste them. 

“Friend of Maggie’s. She called me up to fix a pipe problem ten days ago.” He watches Marty tense across their desks. “Her pipes were fine, of course. 'Twas some great elaborate scheme to get me in my civvies at your place while her friend was there.”

Marty’s still eyeing him suspiciously, like he can’t quite believe he wasn’t trying to make a move on his wife. It’s fucking ridiculous, this peacocking of his, this fucking… pissing on the fence to mark it as his. Rust has no intentions whatsoever towards Maggie Hart. 

“So I show up. And Maggie’s busy but she says I should come in, and that the toolbox or whatever is in the kitchen. So I walk into the kitchen and sitting there with a glass of sweet tea half full, is this… Suzie.”

There’s nothing he dislikes more than this stupid sort of show and tell men do. But Marty’s got a look to him and he can’t tell exactly where it is going. He has no desire to get into a fight tonight. 

“Blonde,” he provides. “Nice girl.” He stops for a moment. “Good ass.”

He can see a look of recognition in Marty’s eyes at that. Fucker. Of course that’s what makes it click.

“Susan Cornell,” Marty explains. “From church.”

Rust chuckles and shakes his head. He thinks of the crucifix nailed into the wall above his bed, above where Suzie and him fucked, twice. When he was looking at blinking eyes in ceiling fixtures, she must have been looking at her lord and savior. 

“Well. We didn’t do that much talking, all things considered.”

“So. I guess you like yourself a blonde.”

It’s thrown at him for him to catch, and he can tell Marty’s mad underneath it all. He can’t really figure out why. Suzie was nice and they spent an enjoyable night and he drove her home in the morning because Claire force-fed him manners before their daughter was born. He can’t see where it could have gone wrong.

So he just shrugs and finishes his cigarette. “I actually don’t. Most of the time.”

Marty finally releases that cigarette from the throes of agony. He brings it to his lips and sucks in whatever pitiful amount remains, one deep drag that hollows his cheeks and makes him look angrier than before. Rust leans back against his chair and crosses his arms. Something’s coming, gathering over Marty like a cloud, wreathing his head in lightning and curses. It sparkles minty hot in between them and burns into Rust’s gums. 

“Well,” Marty finally starts after a moment. “Color me surprised. Thought you didn’t like women all that much.”

This one Rust expected. After Highway 10, after that half-earnest conversation where they’d danced around the topic like angels on the head of a pin, he’d gathered Marty thought the insults and slurs were at least backed by lived experience. That was a truly black and white view of human sexuality that Rust had always encountered particularly in those smoke-filled, misery-reeking liminal spaces they called police departments and community churches. 

He licks his lips. There’s a meal to be made of the discomfort Marty Hart will soon be squirming with. 

“You do realize I was married,” Rust starts, slow and lazy like he’s not even trying to explain himself. “For three years. With a daughter.” The simplicity of that equation is plain to see. Even Bobby’s math skills could withstand that examination. 

“Right. You wouldn’t be the first person to get married despite being unsuited to it.” 

This one blooms unexpectedly in Rust’s skull bringing back with it the taste of overfilled forgotten garbage bins and Claire’s voice, too calm and too emotionless telling him she was leaving. The aftertaste is corrosive, burns like acid into the soft, empty crevice underneath his tongue and Ginger’s voice is in his ear, his hand is in his hair, muttering that he’s not normal, he’s not made for normal life, for kids and wives and 9 to 5s, and Crash in him agrees wholeheartedly and shifts ever so closer, hunting for clammy skin under leather.

“I may not be very suited for it these days,” he admits. There’s no use in arguing with the truth of that. “But it isn’t for lack of liking women, Marty. Not that that’s any of your business.”

A phone rings, shrill and demanding attention and one of the secretaries rushes to get to it from the break room, a new one Rust hasn’t managed to catch the name of, something like Annamarie or Annie or Jackie, with ‘a’s and ‘ie’s like twinkling lights over a ferris wheel.

Marty waits until she’s gone to reply. He feels orange again, tense and rough like barbed wire, waiting for him to explode is like walking through the pretend minefields his father set up around the cabin in late spring.

“Well, I’d reckon it is.”

Rust laughs at that, one sharp bark of laughter like a creaking door. From the look on Marty’s face, disbelief and anger at once, he wasn’t expecting that.

“Why? Wanna be my boyfriend?”

The face Marty makes at that word tells him all he needs to know. There’s disgust there, shame and fear so bright, ice cold as the sea up there, sharp as the wind in the dead of winter. Marty makes him think too often of Alaska.

“Thought so.”

He doesn’t love the concept either: boyfriend feels like too sweet chocolate cakes and baby pink shirts and old ladies looking at them with a mix of fascination and pity, like leopard patterns and strawberry lube and calling each other pet names that made people want to commit hate crimes. 

That, the reminder of what people could think of him if they knew, how Geraci would have his balls cut and framed for all to see, that seems to quiet Marty down enough they can finish work.

By the time Rust makes it home that night, his saliva tastes like the yellow confession paper and he walks past Crash’s closet begging himself to give in and open the box and find the pocket sized Jameson intact in there. He doesn’t. 

There’s no bravery, no glory to the act of refusing himself alcohol. He just does, because he knows a single sip becomes a bottle in the blink of an eye, a taste becomes a torrent he cannot fight against. If he gives in, he might as well be on the Titanic in 1912, might as well sink and drown in ice cold memories of death blurred away by cheap whiskey. 

His house is damp with fall heat, with Louisiana mosquitoes and sweat and he finds himself falling into the beat up sofa chair he found himself a few days prior, tipped over on the side of the road by an empty house like a forgotten toy. It’s not too dirty, not clean either, but he couldn’t find bed bugs, just the beat-down of life. So he loaded it in the back of his pick up and brought it home.

Time passes like coffee in a slow drip. He kicks off his shoes and socks and takes off his shirt and tie, throws what’s in need of a wash in the lonesome basket in the laundry room and walks back, barefoot on the carpet into the main room. He was halfway through Camus’s The Stranger when he fell asleep last night and it sits face down, splayed open like a dead bird by the right side of the bed. He doesn’t mind the French when he can read them instead of having to hear them talk. 

He picks the book up carefully and throws a glance at the page he’d been on. Four bullets shot into a dead body. Barely enough emotion to fill one of the espresso cups of those French cafés where you drank at the bar in the morning, throwing back a shot of coffee and a cigarette in the same smooth motion. The portrait of a man so detached from the world that nothing, neither the death of his mother nor a murder committed by his own hand, seemed to shake him too hard. Rust hadn’t fallen asleep because of the book. It had been the pills. 

There is nothing to do here, no case to work, no mystery to uncover, nothing to sink his teeth into. He can’t go out fishing for it either, not if he doesn’t want to end up a fish hooked at the end of a line, mouth opening on nothing, drinking down alcohol instead of water but still trying to fucking breathe. There’s one thing left that’s not drinking. He’s gonna have to go on a run. 

If the inside of his house is a damp armpit in the fall heat, the back of it, the little garden patch with the shed that leads back onto a thin strip of water running down the back of the lot like a piss streak on the end of a sidewalk in the morning, is a Southerner’s deranged rendition of those Alaskan saunas. 

Rust starts jogging down there and feels immediately ridiculous, a puppet whose strings have been cut, left to flail around purposelessly. He knows that this is useful, that this keeps him fast and strong and allows him to handle himself better in the field, that it’s only because he kept up the fucking training that he made it out of that powderkeg with Ginger alive. The price of it is this, the sweat and the repeated motions that feel more awkward than anything else, that make him ache for a cigarette, that make him curse the day his father and mother fucked. 

The worst part is of course that he’s doing it to himself. 

It takes about fifteen minutes for his brain to start shutting up for the most part, no longer rattling on about punishments and self-flagellation but rather showing him perfect images of the terrible things that haunt his dreams, whenever he has them. Broken bodies on concrete and the crown of antlers he’s never, ever going to forget. Those devil traps that didn’t catch anything but Rust in their triangular cages. 

Those he thinks about most. He has half a mind to make one himself and tie it up somewhere, not too far from the crucifix, so that he has something else to meditate about. God and the Devil, allowing your crucifixion and allowing children to believe you can be stopped, two sides of the same fucked up coin the Christian church has tossed over and over, landing in every corner of the known world like a never-ending sickness. 

He can’t say that to Marty. He can’t say that to anyone. He does not actually want to die, though it would be one hell of a way to kill himself. If he can’t do it himself, might as well delegate. 

It takes him an additional forty-five minutes to realize the sun has set and he should go back. He’s coughing and sweaty and hungry like a wolf in winter when he comes back to the nunnery cell he calls home, but there’s a heaviness to his limbs that promises a semblance of rest for the night. It’s not going to come for free, no, there will be a price, some vision of some kind – nightmare-ish, dead kids or dead women or dead somethings, or worse, a good one, of happiness and smiles and the sand of the beach they used to go to by Corpus Christi those first two summers. It’ll come though. Perhaps even unmedicated. 

He opens the back door and walks in, guard all the way down, so of course he gets caught with his pants down like a fucking rookie. He didn’t lock the door when he left. He never does when he goes running, there is nothing worse in the world than the noise of jingling keys in his pocket, it’s loud and metallic and too round on the edges, and it’s not in the right rhythm, always a bit after his feet hit the ground. 

So when Rust comes home and sees Marty there, sitting in his chair with his tie askew and his eyes gleaming with something viscous, something ugly, he’s aware it is entirely his fault. If he was less of a priss about fucking keys, a wild animal wouldn’t have found its way in. 

“So what? You take her back to this dump? Fuck her on that stupid mattress you got like a fucking college student?”

Whiskey slurs his words and Rust rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he might actually strain something. It’s about Suzie, it’s about Rust fucking a woman and it’s about Marty being a big tough guy and getting jealous like a teenage girl with a crush on an upperclassman that maybe said hi to her twice. He’s met enough teenage girls to know they get as murderous as gangbangers on a good day.

“I thought we had thoroughly established I don’t kiss and tell, Marty.”

It’s half of a threat underneath his heavy breathing and the sweat rolling down his back like the first drops of a rainstorm, heavy and slow and predicting something else. 

“It ain’t the same and you know it.” 

It’s not. He’s right. Suzie’s a woman and Marty’s a man and in this world, in this job, in Louisiana, it’s very different. No matter the truth of it, that deep down it’s all skin and bones and blood and Suzie’s teeth wouldn’t have hurt him differently than Marty’s did, and his blood wouldn’t have tasted different in either of their mouths. One day, he’ll be done pretending otherwise. Life is easier to live for now if it’s not made into hell by the men that think they know better than him what right is. 

The truth is, he hates them as much as they hate him.

“What do you want, Marty?” 

He’s hoping that this can be done before the heaviness in his limbs disappears, before the exhaustion falls under the neverending assault of his fucked up brain’s neon lights of thoughts. 

Marty growls under his breath as he stands up, an ugly sort of sound, wet with the alcohol and whatever anger he came in carrying and that sustained him sitting there in this chair for god knows how long. It’s not going to be done soon. It’s never going to fucking end. 

“You planning on seeing her again?” 

He’s stuck on Suzie, a skipping record on a turntable, one spiraling thought, that ugly green-eyed monster with teeth shaped like the scar on Rust’s shoulder. He should have known better than to think Marty would be done after that little interrogation at the station. He never is. He’s a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth with jealousy. 

“What I’m planning to do or not, is none of your business.” He’ll repeat it over and over again, but he’s not going to be happy about it.

Rust reaches for the camels on the kitchen counter, slides one out of the packet one-handed and brings it to his lips. Marty is glaring with that rage-filled intensity that makes his jaw lock into a hard, rectangular shape. A shiver runs down Rust’s spine, sharp and sudden like a lick of a lover’s tongue. 

“You gonna make her fuck you at one point? Tell her you like it like a queer?” 

Rust lights his cigarette and he swears he sees the flash of the flame reflected in the glassiness of Marty’s eyes. Jesus fuck, he’s drunk. 

“Are you gonna fucking stop with the childish insults and tell me what you mean or will I have to beat it out of you? I can treat you like a suspect, Marty, but you ain’t gonna like it.” 

He didn’t mean to get angry but he can feel it rising, the annoyance coursing through his veins like wildfire. He’s good at keeping his cool, at keeping his control, years of living with the strangest present father in the coldest part of the world, years of being someone else’s bitch to survive to the next day, of swallowing down his own vomit when seeing a man’s face without skin, choking to death and thinking this should be him, this will be him. He’s so fucking good at keeping his emotions buried deep inside that half the time he forgets they’re there. Marty’s somehow, within days of meeting him, managed to find the trigger to release them and he won’t fucking stop playing with it. 

Marty snarls now, raising his arms like he’s gearing for a fight because for all that fucking bravado and that attitude and the growling and snarling and acting like a big predator, he won’t talk about his fucking feelings. 

“That’s what I fucking thought,” Rust huffs and pulls on his cigarette, hard and long. He feels the smoke fill the empty cavity inside of his body, fill the space there and the space not there, the void where his heart beats hard and strong. It’s gray and red like blood, harsh as chemicals and natural as a forest fire. Marty’s staring at his mouth like he can’t believe it and Rust just sucks longer, until he runs out of oxygen and has to fucking let go. 

The smoke released rises like it’s signaling his position to someone, like it’s trying to warn others he’s in here. There’s no one to call. All there is is Marty there, that Rust can see through the screen of smoke he’s just created, big and strong and angry and almost ridiculous with it. He doesn’t know what to fucking do with himself. 

“I ain’t planning to see her again. I’m not tryna find a girlfriend, Marty. I just humor your wife ‘cause she doesn’t treat me like a lunatic half the time.” 

“Don’t fucking bring her up,” Marty points at him with his big hands, shaking almost from the anger and the tension and Rust shifts. There’s something different here than the game they’ve been playing. 

“We fucked, twice, on this mattress, and then she slept over and I drove her home. I’m a good little choir boy, Marty, I got manners.” Tame. 

He’s giving into Marty’s questioning because he doesn’t know what it is about anymore. Earlier he thought this was the game. But Marty’s actually mad, actually red with it, with the anger and the jealousy and the shaking need to grab at him and take him and get revenge for him… straying? Oh absolutely the fuck not. 

“If anything, if we’re going purely by numbers, she’s got more of a claim on me than you do, and you don’t see her parading around here acting like a kid whose favorite toy got stolen, now, do you?” 

There’s a flash of something on Marty’s face, something that Rust can’t recognize. Marty looks, briefly, like he’s been punched in the guts, but without the rage that comes with it, just the soft-tissue hurt of bones and organs getting unnaturally close. It’s gone within a blink. 

Sweat is drying on him now, a sticky and humid shell around his skin that makes the slowly gathering night outside feel almost cool. It’s a trick, he knows it. You can never trust sweat, it means too many things at once, it’s a pretty lie the body tells so you don’t believe you’re dying. He licks his lips and his tongue tastes salt. Tears or sweat, it all tastes the same. Another lie.

“You son of a bitch,” Marty spits out. “You fucking emotionless robot fuck,” he hisses at him, pointing a finger like an Old Testament God. “Fuck a woman, doesn’t give a fuck. Fuck a man, doesn’t give a fuck. Fuck me, no wonder your wife left you if you’re that big of a fucking…. Black hole of decency.” 

Rust puts down his cigarette, shoves it down into the ashtray in one smooth, hard motion. It’s getting out of hand. Marty’s ranting, and the things he’s saying… Claire’s staring at him in the corner with blood on her hands calling him a psychopath. How can you not care? Did you even love her? 

“They should lock you up, you know? Holes in the brain, shouldn’t get to go around with a gun. Shouldn’t get to go around with shit. Can’t act like a normal person for a fucking second, man.” 

He means it too, at this moment, Rust can tell. He means it, and he’s fucking right on every fucking count. 

“Marty, you should go,” he says with every bit of restraint he can pull out of his own scarred bone bag he calls a body. He might puke. He might bash his head in. There’s red and metal behind his tongue, blooming with every beat of his heart. “Before you say something you might regret.” 

“Right, cause none of this fucking touches you. Psychopathic fa–”

Rust’s on him before he can finish the sentence, grabbing his tie and pulling hard. Psycho. 

Marty chokes out some aborted noise of surprise and pain and tries to fight back but he’s stupidly drunk and Rust’s sober and hot and filled with so much fucking blood right now. It’s inside of him, bubbling and boiling, getting darker by the second. Next time Marty bites him, it’ll come out black and thick as tar. Marty can’t bite shit right now. 

He’s got his face slammed against the counter and his arm twisted behind his back and Rust’s full weight, with the years of training and knowing and skill, bearing down on him, hurting him. 

“Let GO of me, Rust!” Marty sputters, but it sounds scared, squeaking in Rust’s mind like a rat caught in a trap and it’s one of the most jubilatory feelings he's felt in a while. He’s not a violent man by nature. He just has an appreciation for violence.

Claire’s voice rings in his head. Psycho. Basket case. Why can’t you cry? Why can’t you be as sad as me? She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get the empty hole where his heart used to be, and how that’s taking in all the water. He has a waterfall inside, nothing can escape. 

“Listen to me very carefully now, Marty,” Rust hisses down into his ear, slow and threatening and with every part of him bubbling up with unshakeable anger. How fucking dare he call him that? Walking into his fucking house drunk and out of his mind because Rust dared to fuck someone else? “You’re gonna need to stop this shit.”

Marty bucks against him like a bronco, tries to shove him off but this time Rust isn’t moving. His whole weight is bearing down on him, his arm twisting Marty’s behind him so he can hear the menacing creak of the shoulder like music to his ears, like nails on a chalkboard equally. He can see Marty’s red face pressed into the white of the counter, can feel his body under his, a mass of muscle and fat and nerves and animalistic fear. He has one leg between Marty’s. A plume of smoke still rises from the ashtray.

“Don’t fucking believe for a single second that this?” He grinds his hips into Marty’s ass, slow and dirty and hard and the noise that escapes his partner is a shameful mix of emotions that bloom maroon into his mind and taste like sour candies. “Means you get a say in what the fuck I do with my life. I will let you bitch about my behavior at work but anything regarding the personal sphere is none of your fucking business.”

He wishes he could bite him now, sink his teeth into his neck and tear at the flesh with his own mouth but it would leave a mark. They can’t afford marks that cannot be covered by fabric. 

“I know this is your usual little…. Pathetic trumped up drama you do with the girls you fuck,” he continues and he does let his teeth graze the lobe of Marty’s right ear where he’s speaking, a threat and a promise. “I’m not one of your girls, Marty. You don’t own me. What happened off of Highway 10? I let happen cause I wanted a good time, and don’t you ever fucking forget that I let you fuck me.”

It’s the ‘let’ that makes Marty freeze in his tracks. Rust can almost hear his mind going, the gears shifting as he tries to make sense of what has just been said. Was he still deluded in thinking he made Rust do something he wasn’t entirely interested in? Had he still been living in the fantasy that the little exercise in domination was one Rust wasn’t entirely consenting to, that his folding had been coerced? 

Rust immediately lets go of him, the ugliness of that feeling burning under his hands. The ugliness and the ridiculousness. He takes a step back and watches Marty squirm his way back to being upright, raise his arms to cover his face, something wild and unbalanced in his eyes. 

He can’t help but drag his hands down against his undershirt, feel the sweat getting caught there and the feeling of Marty’s skin, hot and damp and desperate, hopefully letting it smear on the fabric. 

Marty stares at him, in utter disbelief. Even in the depths of Crash, Rust didn’t touch him like that. Oh, he wanted to, he wanted to to the point of getting hard at the very thought, but he didn’t. He had better things to do, Ginger to deal with, the memories and the cocaine to eat through.

Laughter bubbles out of Rust’s chest, tar-like, weighed down by cigarettes and the absolute ridicule of this, of them, watching each other like they’re about to pounce, two large predators stuck in one small room, except Rust’s not playing submission anymore and neither of them really knows what to do with that. 

So he laughs, laughs without smiling, with the jerks of it shaking his body, shaking his shoulders and the reminder of what Marty did that time, the healed scar that will never fucking go away. His laughter echoes in this white, empty room, bounces against the wall and comes back like a punch into their ears and he can’t stop himself, even as he sees Marty brace himself to be enraged again. 

“What’s funny?” Marty spits out but a lot of the bite is gone. He can’t recognize where they stand either. He just stands there, rumpled and a bit less drunk now that adrenaline has burnt through his veins with every rabbit-scared beat of his big beefy Southern heart. He’s getting hard in his pants too and there’s acid red victory in the back of Rust’s molars and in the depths of his guts. 

“You think…” Rust chuckles and shakes his head like it’s the best job he’s heard all year. It might be. “I was gonna fold for you?” The idea is sending zaps of hysterical joy through his confused brain and he can swear the smoke of the ashtray is shaped like a great big bird in flight. A vulture maybe, or Jesus Christ, or Superman, or Dora Lange. A Rorschach test, homemade and addict-approved.

“You… you came here. And you thought… What?” He continues, and he can feel his mouth pulling into a smile, or what would have been a smile on anyone but him. On him, it’s a clown’s forced rictus, it’s the pull of lip over fang, it’s ugly and vicious and cold as the tools a dentist shoves into your mouth and to replace everything where it’s supposed to be. It tastes like metal and bleach. “I was gonna be a good bitch and not say shit when you treat me like you got ownership papers?”

Marty’s eyes are saucer-wide. He’s never seen him smile, he realizes. He’s never seen him do more than a vague smirk and an eyebrow raise and that’s for the better because smiling feels wrong. His cheeks hurt with the ache of unused muscle. There is no happiness there. 

“Bitch,” he calls out, and Marty gets angry again, because that’s not a word you use on a man like him, no. “I didn’t fold for the fucking bike guys I was sucking off with a gun to the head for years, you think Imma fold for your over-inflated rat ego?”

He hasn’t said it to anyone before: not the shrinks, not the doctors, not his handlers. It’s not in any file, redacted or not, it’s not in the notes the shrinks took in Northshore, or in rehab, it’s nowhere but in his mind. And in Marty’s now. 

Regret hits him like a tsunami and he buckles underneath the weight of it, he can see it in Marty’s eyes, the widening, the realization of what it all means, the painful context he’s just imposed onto their relationship and onto what happened off of Highway 10. He wants to recall it immediately, to take it back, but he can’t.

A fly has been trapped since he came in, flying around the room in a frenzy to get out. He wonders, briefly and senselessly, if it knows the swamp of tension it just flew into and is now regretting ever heading in behind him. 

There’s too much Crash in him. The vocabulary and the admission, that’s Crash’s addled brain and his need to prove his toughness, it’s the anger at being thought of as weak. Rust’s not much better than him in that department but Crash is a mess of vulnerability sometimes: he was designed that way. That soft underbelly gets a bike guy like Ginger all hot and bothered, they can smell the bitch they can make out of him and that means an in. And once you have an in, you toughen up, learn to hide the soft behind armor, and show you can play as tough as everyone else, but the guy that got you in, like Ginger for Crash, knows the soft is there. It’s power and hierarchies and jungle law. 

Marty has no way of knowing all this shit. All he sees is Rust laughing like a maniac and throwing him a truth shaped like one of the bones that he must have imagined this whole time and buried deep with the rest of the queer shit he feels and sees in his dreams. A predator realizing his prey is rabid. 

“Jesus Christ, Rust.” 

Rust flinches. It’s a whole body thing, a pulse of electricity shot through him. The crucifix on the wall stares at them with unseeing undead eyes. It’s the same sort of ‘jesus christ’ that Marty says in front of a gored up body, in front of a godless crime, where he feels compelled to bring in his higher power of choice as back up. That’s how he’s reacting to Rust telling him he gave head at gunpoint. 

It’s an entirely appropriate reaction. Rust wants to wash his mouth of the taste of his pity; burned building and overripe cranberries. 

He’s on Marty like wildfire, sudden and unforeseen and he can taste whiskey now, a cheap one too, and beer as well, and cigarettes, terrible ones, not Camels. Marty smokes Camels because he steals them from Rust. The new smell on his clothes and taste in his mouth is disgusting. It’s still better than cranberries. 

Marty takes forever to kiss back, as if he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s not the one on the offensive, as if he wasn’t expecting this at all. He probably wasn’t. Two minutes ago, his cheek was hard against the counter and he was trying to get away from the wave of violence coming his way. Three minutes ago, he was shouting slurs at him. 

He grabs onto Marty’s head with both hands, a tight grip to keep him there but Marty’s not fighting him right now. He’s still reeling from the shock of it. Which shock? He’s not gonna ask, it’s not worth the taste. So he bites him. Hard, hard enough to bleed and there’s a beauty there, in the taste of iron and death that fills his mouth, a mirror to the beige-tiled memories. 

“The fuck!” Marty tries to exclaim, to project the word like a weapon but he’s got Rust’s lips against his and the offense dies there, muffled. 

There’s scratchy hair grown in uneven spots around Marty’s mouth, thin lips stained with the whiskey, the blood pearling over the torn skin, Rust half loses his mind over the textures of it all, the zings of electricity the whiskers send up into his brain with every brush. He’s not a great kisser, he’s been told, he uses too much teeth and is either too intense or too soft with it. He kisses like speaking a foreign tongue, mouth clumsy with positions it is not used to taking. 

Marty doesn’t get to complain. Like Rust didn’t get to complain about sitting in strange positions for a day or two. You can’t complain about things that don't happen. 

When he pulls back, Marty is staring at him with the blood on his lips and the liquor in his eyes and he seems utterly gobsmacked by it all. This is the sort of moment in time where Rust could step back and choose something else. His mind is clear after all, the pills have been out of his system for hours, he’s sober and as clean as he’ll let himself be, he’s just fresh from a run, he’s as close to the picture of fucking health that he can get. He can choose not to thread the needle deeper in. 

They’re partners. They’re coworkers. They’re men who cannot afford to be found out. Marty’s drunk and hard and angry, Rust knows exactly what to do with it. All that misplaced, desperate masculinity has a home, and he can fix it, for just a moment, he can take it into himself and eat it up, and use it to fuel his own dumpster fire body. Whatever that ends up doing to Marty, sending him into the sort of tailspin a man like him doesn’t recover from, that’s fine. That will keep him from staring too hard at Rust’s mouth and imagining things.

Rust is an addict. He’s always been, in some way, with an addictive personality and chasms where reserves of feelings should have been built by his parents. He drank early, smoked earlier, got hooked on adrenaline bow hunting caribou, then stealing bikes, then stealing books. He’s an addict. And Marty’s bright like cocaine, green like absinthe, hard and needy and alive and kicking like a bull in his hands right now. He’s gotta feed the habit. 

His hands drop from face to belt, start undoing it in frantic motions, but they’re steady. These are Rust’s hands, not Crash’s. This is Marty, this isn’t Ginger. It’s barely night, he’s home. He knows who he is, what today is, he knows who the president is. Clinton, September 15th ‘95, Rustin Spencer Cohle. 

Marty’s fingers are on his arm, tracing the edges of the old black bird with some kind of junkie’s fascination. From where Rust is, he can taste the questions on the other man’s tongue. When did you get this? Why? What does it mean? The truth is ugly and Rust will have to do much more than fuck Marty to get him to forget those answers, so he doesn’t leave him time to ask. 

He shoves his hand down the front of Marty’s pants and grabs his cock. Marty’s breath stutters and he makes a noise that only makes Rust tighten his grip. He watches pleasure and pain and everclear need bloom over Marty’s features, his head tilting back until he’s stuck against a wall and breathing out with the feelings of it. He can see it like a cloud exhaled from that open mouth. It’s incredibly vulnerable. Is this what the women get to see? Anyone but Maggie? 

There’s nothing like watching a man get high from his touch, even as small as this. Soon, with more touching, with more skin touching and sweat dripping, he’ll see the heart of him, chest splayed open, ripe for the taking. He cannot wait. 

“What are we doing?” Marty asks, breathless, needy, confused to his very core. Rust pulls out his hand for a second, just to spit on it, and pushes it back into the open fault of his slacks.

“I’m jerking you off,” Rust replies without missing a beat, and he sees Marty’s mouth open, sees the questions pressing there, the feelings he has about it, and decides to shut it down. “Stop talking.”

And though it bothers him, though Rust can see the anger rising into him like a dark cloud of storm over the prairie, he does shut the fuck up. There’s a second where all there is is the uncomfortable noise of almost dry skin rubbing together and a slightly labored breath. They’re so close now, there’s nowhere to look but Marty’s face, or the wall. And he’d stare at Marty for hours if he could, probably, if only it meant Marty wasn’t looking back at him more and more disturbed. 

So the wall works. It’s white and from here he can see the texture of the paint. He can feel his eyes darting towards Marty, pulled by some sort of magnetic field to the wet saliva on his open lips, to the half glazed eyes. He watches, from the corner of his eye, the expanding and contracting of the barrel of his chest, ragged and almost forced in between the little groans of pleasure. This is a position Rust’s familiar with, a hand down someone’s pants and the wall as horizon, as anchor. His head isn’t swimming in substances, but he feels a little unsteady all the same, deep down. Like his core ain’t working right anymore, something’s got shaken loose and he’s teetering at the edge of passing out. 

He leans closer, lets his weight rest against Marty’s shoulder, let his face tuck into the crook of his neck and mouths there, teeth grazing sweaty red skin, hand moving in lazy, dry motions. He can’t help but take it slow now. 

If they were other men, Rust might be on his knees right now, with his mouth full of the hot, heavy cock that Marty’s thrusting into his hand. But that’s not a position he’s willing to take today. Not with Marty. Not when sober. There are limits to how much he’ll debase himself with a man who can’t look him in the eyes when he’s giving him a handjob but doesn’t mind breaking into his house to berate him for fucking a random woman. 

For a moment there, it’s almost nice. It’s a little slow, a little sweet, Rust’s mouth is sucking marks in Marty’s skin that might threaten the fragile state of his marriage, but Marty says nothing, just moans, just bucks into his hand with primal, needy focus. 

It’s not what he wants. He cannot, under any circumstance, do sweet. And neither can Marty. He might not know it but sweet would shatter the thin veneer of straight masculinity he still coats over every interaction they have, the one so many men before him have used before, Rust shamelessly standing in that particular line up. He’ll admit to himself it would be harder to deal with Marty if he was the one that made him queer. It’s mostly for his own personal convenience that he goes through the roster of insults and taunts his mind readily provides. 

He doesn’t have to settle on one of those venomous, taunting spikes, Marty’s hand is on his, uncomfortable, firm, moist, holding his hand that’s holding his dick, nails digging in, hard. He’s maybe just realized this too; that he needs the harshness as the shield for his comfort, and there’s a relief there, Rust finds, in not having the responsibility of Marty’s sense of self rest entirely on his shoulders. 

The angle is worse suddenly, pulling at Rust’s shoulder unnaturally, but it’s easier psychologically. The motions of his hand are harsh, stunted, mechanical now, no longer sweet and languorous, no longer about pleasure. It’s power, again. It’s impersonal, like they’re not the men they are anymore, but still holding too hard onto their roles to let themselves do the exact things they’d like to do. Archetypal. 

Is it part of that pantomime when Marty shoves him back and Rust lets him, back towards the mattress on the ground and its white sheets, clean and fresh because he didn’t want to sleep in fucked-in sheets? Is it part of the play, the sharp sliver of a whine, an injury all the same, when Rust’s hand slips from Marty’s pants as he lets himself settle horizontally? 

He can read the spine of a book on his left, at the corner of his vision, ‘Sex Crimes’ written in obscene bright letters on black background, chemical, loud. It’s a title that screams at you, that demands fascination and horror, that tastes like bile from vomiting on an empty stomach, that feels like that too, eyes bulging, chest heaving, desperate to expel something unnatural and threatening.

Rust looks up at Marty towering over him, at the open pans and the ruffled shirt and the alcohol glaze over it all. He runs his tongue over his teeth, seeks out the sweet sweet taste of the pleasure, of the blood, of the whiskey. Marty stands there long enough for Rust to think of ancient Greeks and circular, traditional violence again, of heroin in his veins and Jameson in his mouth, of relief, of caramel. 

Marty hesitates but he can’t stop watching him, eyes like highway beams over him, staring at the sprawl of his form, the bulge in his sweatpants, the parting of his lips. He can’t look away and that terrifies him, that disgusts him, and Rust is about to pounce and pull him down himself when he finally moves. 

Whatever choice he made there, behind blue eyes where alcohol decreases and fear rises to take its place, that’s gonna come back to bite Rust in the ass one of these days, but he can’t bring himself to fucking care. Adrenaline, need, hunger thin out his blood and his heart is pumping hard, fast, down into his dick. He hasn’t felt this good in a while. He hasn’t felt this hot in a while either.

In this moment, in this choice posited behind normalcy and sin, he’s a succubi for Marty Hart, and there is a delicious irony to it. Marty Hart and his girlfriends and pieces of ass, standing at the door to Hell staring at a fully clothed but hard as rock carcass of a man. 

Marty takes off his clothes like he’s being processed at Avoyelles. Rust kicks off his trainers and the sweat-soaked, uncomfortable warmth of his sweats and there is relief at being naked. 

The bed is too narrow for the both of them, two grown men and the width of Marty, a problem Rust didn’t have with Suzie. Marty runs a hand up Rust’s leg, there’s almost a naive confusion to the way he feels him up, catching nails in hair, lean muscle where fat usually is. Rust doesn’t think he’ll ever be soft, age will dry him up, hollow him out, before it ever happens for him.

Rust lets him do it, touch and prod and grab what he wants. He reaches for lube and condoms by the pile of books to his right (next to Truman Capote's In Cold Blood), pops open the cap and slicks his fingers and there’s a look and a sigh of relief from Marty. Rust huffs, rolls his eyes, gets to work.

He’s fast and he’s thorough and doesn’t care for comfort as much as he should. There's a wince of pain, a sharp tang of acidity behind his teeth and he’s not even trying to make it part of the event for him. It has never really been about that. Foreplay is a luxury for women like Susan Cornell from church. 

The speed is to accommodate his own racing need, the heartbeat in his veins, the heat in his belly, the aching hardness of his cock, but it’s also to keep Marty from running away before they can both get something out of this, to keep him from achieving clarity of thought and running away like he probably should.

Three fingers in, tight, barely wet enough, electricity zinging up his spine with every shift of his hips, a spasm there but he’s almost done. Marty’s staring at his fingers with barely contained fascination, like he’s never fucked someone up the ass before, like he’s never fucked Rust up the ass before. 

Done, finally. Marty reaches for him when he finally finds himself ready, reaching for his hip and starting to pull at him, to get him into whatever position he seems to want him in. There’s another hand reaching for a pillow so Rust guesses he’d rather he be on his front, eyes looking away. Easier, more anonymous, less of a torturous memory, less shameful to put in his spank bank for later. 

Rust’s hand wraps around Marty’s wrist and tightens, hard, over the tendons on the sides, forcing him to let go of his grip. Marty’s cursing and calling out Jesus, telling him to let go but he doesn’t, not until he’s shoved him on his back, sprawled there in all his fucking glory. 

“What are you-”

Words die in his mouth. Rust sinks down on his cock with a hiss. Too hasty with the prep, but it’s fine, there will be no damage from this, just the blankness washing over his mind in the path of the hurt. 

Marty’s eyes are wide. Blue, like a summer sky. Red with lust, intense with pleasure and hunger. Church windows. Bells ringing. Rust can feel him inside, hard and thick and perfect, just fucking perfect. He’s wrenched control away and the truth is Marty’s in heaven right now from it, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, hands fluttering uselessly to the side. He wants to touch him, Rust can tell that much. He doesn’t know how to. 

Power. 

Rust starts moving. It’s a slow, heavy drag at first, in those first seconds where he gains his footing. His thighs start aching within seconds. He’s not ridden anyone in years, and definitely not on this mattress, in this apartment. His body’s not used to this anymore but muscle memory is a long lived creature, and there is nothing it known how to do better than fucking. 

“Ain’t gonna do all the work, Marty,” he warns when his thighs start complaining and somehow; that does it.

Marty’s hands snap to his hips to hold, fingers wrapped around the hard ridge of bone under the skin, hard, tight. It’s like he’s remembered he knows how to fuck someone like this, that he’s done this before. It’s so much better then onwards. 

Rust grinds his teeth and doesn’t say a fucking word, just moves, and takes and fucks himself on Marty’s dick and lets the crashing waves of feeling: pleasure, pain, sweat rolling down his back, nails digging in his hips, ache in his thighs, take him away. It’s so fucking easy, it comes naturally, like breathing air, like dancing to music, like running away.

He keeps his moans to himself, keeps his words behind lock and key, stares at the fucking ceiling now. He can’t see it, not really, he’s just chasing it, the pleasure running down the notches his spine, the heat that burns through him, and it’s not as good as heroin, it can never be, but for half a second, he pretends he’s not falling back into a habit. 

Marty’s hand sneaks from hip to stomach, to the three points of scar tissue on his chest. There’s a fascination under the groans, under the words he says that Rust is absolutely not listening to. He’s chasing something he’s not finding, desperate for the high of it, wishing they were against a wall, wishing for blood, for hurt, for electricity and leather. He misses Crash for half a second, Crash and the recklessness with which he fucked. Mindless, animal, painful. 

And then, and then. Marty’s hand wraps around his dick, tight, sudden, and Rust wasn’t looking where that second hand went, he wasn’t paying attention and he groans, high and surprised and ripped out of his throat with tooth and nail. Marty’s bitten the bullet, must have decided that if he was fucking him, he might as well fucking touch him too, right? He’s staring at his dick in his hand like he’s never seen a penis before and it’s hilarious, and sad at the same time.

Retaliation for taking him off guard. Rust shifts his weight back, leans a bit differently and suddenly the angle is just right and he feels pleasure, white hot and blinding, rushing through his bones, through his veins. He stops there for a second, grinds, slow and hard and dirty, muscles tightening around Marty. 

“Rust, goddamn it,” Marty hisses, choking with pleasure, grip around his dick not letting up, which is starting to hurt, which is perfect. 

Fuel, fire. Marty says his name like a curse, like something dirty and wrong and wretched. Rust bites his own lip until he tastes blood, hot, red, violent and metallic. A crowbar in the legs, a bullet ripped through his chest, broken bones, cocaine, a kiss from an ugly, dirty mouth, yellowed teeth and animalistic greed. 

Marty comes first. He barely has time to warn, barely has time to say a thing, he’s wrecked when Rust looks down at him finally from the haze of blood and pleasure. There’s sweat shining on him, redness everywhere, strain in the muscles of his chest, of his groin. He’s desperate. He needs an orgasm like a junkie needs a fix. Rust recognizes it. And he’s always been generous when it came to bringing people down with him.

Fingers tighten around him, stopping to jerk him off, grabbing at his hip to keep him down, keep him from moving away from long enough to fill the condom. He can feel the force there, feel how Marty wouldn’t stand him to wrench himself away so he doesn’t move, gives him at least that. 

The noise Marty makes when Rust starts moving again, squeezing around him to finish getting himself off: wrecked, small, wounded. That’s what makes him come. He wants to laugh with it, but all he does, once the white, blinding light is gone, once the rubber band has snapped, once pleasure has washed through him, cleansing fire, salt in wounds, all he does is smile. 

They’re panting. Both of them. Loud, bovine breathing in the silence. Rust lets himself get off that ride, lets himself fall, boneless, exhausted, high for a moment. He stretches himself out on the part of the mattress Marty isn’t occupying, watching from the corner of his eyes the rising and falling of Marty’s chest. His eyes are wide open, staring at the wall, at the crucifix. At Jesus Christ, lord and savior, and witness, sole witness of the blood pearling on Rust’s lips, of the splash of white semen on Marty’s stomach.

The laugh is wrenched from Rust’s chest without him having time to stop it. It’s maniacal, rusted, with those edges of contempt and pity. Pity for whom? Marty, who keeps straying further and further away from propriety, from normalcy, from sanity? Himself, who just fucked his partner, the one and only person who can stand to be in the same room as him for longer than five minutes, to satisfy the burning itch of addiction? 

Rust finds cigarettes and a lighter to his right, takes out two. His lip hurts, sharp and bright and tangy when it stretches as he puts one in his mouth. He lights it first, takes one long inhale of it. He holds it out to Marty, with his blood on it, and that’s unhygienic at best, dangerous at worst, and disgusting no matter what, but Marty – father of two, cowboy of Louisiana State – Hart takes it and starts smoking.

He lights the second and keeps it. His body is loose, relaxed for the first time in forever, sated. Pain and pleasure as self actualisation. 

He glances over at Marty, at the frown on his brow: deep in thought, hardness in his eyes, cogs turning in the background, so hard Rust can basically hear them. It’s even hotter than the blind pleasure and death of shame he just witnessed. 

“He ain’t gonna come to life cause you keep staring at him, you know? Jesus is dead.” 

Marty’s eyes dart to him, sharp and furious for a second and familiar. Rust’s teeth ache with it, with the knowledge he has of this look. He’s missed knowing people, he has to admit. He’s missed reading the shifts in body posture, the licking of lips, the popping of veins on foreheads, the darkening or lightening of eyes. Knowing Marty like this, even outside of the biblical nature of what they’ve just done, it’s good. 

“Don’t. Don’t bring this up right now.” 

It’s a warning, there’s a bite under it, and that’s surprising. Rust knows Marty’s as loose and tired as he is, probably even more with the alcohol he had before, and the anger burning energy. He still wants to fight him though. Doesn’t go soft and gentle on him. Good. Easier this way. Much more comfortable.

Silence falls again, just the sounds of cigarette smoke, the weight of it like swamp water in the room. Sweat cools, his lip stops bleeding. He doesn’t know how long time passes. 

“You should go. Maggie’s gonna wonder where you are.”

Marty moves. He shifts over, on his knees, cigarette in his mouth, hand landing on Rust’s throat and gripping. It’s violent and it’s sudden and there’s ash falling down barely an inch from his fucking face and the anger…. Oh the anger. Marty is glaring down at him but he’s not pressing down, he’s not hurting him. It’s a threat. It’s incredible.

“I just fucked you and you’re gonna say her fucking name? You’re a disturbed motherfucker.” 

Rust blinks at him, lazy, slow, unimpressed. They’ve just fucked, and he’s just come but this… It’s a treat. Ice cream after dessert. Indulgent. Minty. 

“World doesn’t stop turning just cause you came, Marty. Your stolen pleasures never actually belonged to anyone but you, it’s your time you’re using. No one else’s. You still got a wife.”

And oh, he hates it right now, he hates that Rust isn’t afraid and flinching away. That he’s got his hand on his throat and the weight of a former quarterback and current cop thrown over him, ready to crush, and he’s not fighting back. He keeps hoping Rust will forget he’s been threatened by scarier men before. He keeps hoping he’ll be the tougher one this time. 

“Get off of me, Marty,” Rust continues, calm. That Crash tire fire from earlier is gone, quieted down by an orgasm and a release. He’s taken control back and so the leather and the baseball bat and the barbed wire has been put away for a second. Get off of me, Marty, or I will break your arm getting you off myself. 

Marty doesn’t lean back. He leans forward. He kisses him.

Rust has to admit, this one was unexpected. This one doesn’t make sense in the framework he’s been working with, where Marty hates himself and is too much of a coward to touch a man in any way that isn’t violent. This one takes half of his breath away, coupled with the hand on his throat that finally does press in just a bit, it steals one terrible sound of yearning and pleasure from Rust. 

And the second that sound resounds around them, he’s pushing back. Puts his cigarette into the ashtray he could reach with his eyes gouged out, and grabs Marty’s hair. Blonde, and soft and sweaty from sex. He pulls hard, ugly, and Marty hisses in pain and bites his lip before he’s wrenched away.

Blood, and pain again. Rust pulls him away from him, tearing him off, and only lets go when he’s back on his knees too, no longer slow and lazy and warm. 

“Bitch,” Marty spits out, but it’s foreign to his mouth and he doesn’t mean it, not really. 

Rust reaches for the still burning cigarette and shoves it back into his mouth and winces, properly winces. He didn’t fucking miss him with those teeth. It’s gonna be worse this time than the last, he’s gonna have to explain the split. 

“I’m not your bitch, Marty,” he replies. “Never gonna be. I ain’t scared of you.” 

He watches it ripple over Marty’s face, the knowledge, the realization, curtains of delusion and denial parting. They’re afraid of him, the women he calls bitch, the women he gets jealous over. He uses his badge and his dick like weapons. Unfortunately for him, Rust also has both of those. 

Marty stumbles to his feet and Rust watches him put on his clothes again, using Rust’s discarded shirt to clean himself off of the fluids splashed over his stomach. Hiding away all the evidence. It’s not the triumphant relaxation of last time. It’s ugly and mean between them now. Unpleasant, and a little worrying.

Camaraderie might be gone forever now. Marty broke the treaty first, he attacked first, came into Rust’s house guns blazing but he’s never going to see it that way. He never does. He’s always betrayed, forever Abel, never throwing the first stone. 

He runs from Rust’s house, from the evidence of it. Rust lays back on his bed, lazy and tired. Deep down, somewhere, he’s hoping the fragile partnership they have hasn’t broken irreparably. It would be a shame. 

The eye was in the tomb and watching him. 

---------

*"The eye was in the tomb and was watching Cain" is the last line from La Conscience/The Counsciousness by Victor Hugo, one of my favorite poems of all time.

Throughtout the whole poem, Cain attempts to run away from the eye of God that won't stop staring at him after he's killed Abel. He runs to other countries, his children build cities where people cannot enter without forsaking God, but nothing works. So he asks them to build him an underground chamber, a sepulchre where he will be alone. They do. He goes sit down in that dark chamber, they close the door and he stays alone in the dark. And in the darkness of the walls. The eye was in the tomb and was watching Cain.

[sammy-is-not-smiley]

In The Moonlight

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: You went into a monster hunt totally blind just because you wanted to help out a couple of friends... and Steve blames himself for scaring the shit out of you.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings/Tags: language, use of (y/n), season 2 Steve, ptsd things, crying, fear, hurt/comfort cuz I'm mentally ill... and I think that's all?

A/N: Wowsers it's been a hot minute since I posted a fic. So this one is set in the junkyard scenes from season 2. Arguably the worst season but I have a huge soft spot for season 2 Steve lol. Initially this was supposed to be a panic attack with Steve request but I don't think I quite captured a panic attack so it's just hurt/comfort instead. Ok sorry long authors note, enjoy!

Your dad was going to kill you for putting a kink in one of his best golf clubs… But if you could only tell him that golf club is what helped save your life… maybe he wouldn't be so mad.

Why you had agreed to help Dustin Henderson and Steve Harrington, you weren't sure. Maybe it was because you were bored. Maybe it was because you knew what it was like to have a pet run away. Maybe it was because you had a small crush on Steve and a soft spot for Dustin. Maybe it was a mixture of all those things.

Regardless, it was safe to say you got more than you ever thought you were signing up for. The day was full of lighthearted banter, buckets of raw meat, and work to be done. But once night settled over the junk yard and a steady fog drifted in, you knew things were different than you had first interpreted them to be. Steve seemed to know your realization too, you noticed, catching him glancing at you with a guilty sympathy in his eyes. At first it confused you, but now it made sense. You weren't just looking to catch or kill a rabid lost pet. You were monster hunting, and they didn't warn you.

You soon could gather that the monsters, plural, were deadly… And nothing like you'd ever seen before. So when Steve stepped out from the relative safety of the armored school bus, you best believe you had followed him out. Although terrified, the weight of responsibility and admiration of the younger kids moved you to protect and defend. Nothing was getting to them. If the creatures wanted to hurt the middle schoolers, they'd have to go through you and Steve first.

So you stood with Steve, back to back, in the chill of the night to face the not-quite-canine shadows that began circling you all. His bat gripped in his hands, and your father's golf club gripped in yours, you worked in tandem to keep the creatures away from the bus and each other.

You'd never felt such a rush of adrenaline and terror when Steve grabbed your wrist to retreat back to the bus, the creature's numbers seemingly multiplying within minutes. The kids screaming at you to run faster didn't help the nausea in your gut.

Right as Steve had pushed you aside to try and face one of the monsters head on through the porthole on the roof, the oddest thing happened. They retreated. Every one of those gurgling beasts stopped what they were doing and ran off, back into the woods, their growls and chitters fading after them.

While confused and shaken, you had looked to Steve for an answer. He had looked back at you, gears churning behind his eyes. The silence outside made goosebumps erupt over your skin, a different kind of chill rattling your bones.

Steve was the first to open the door of the bus, weapon still firm in hand. The rusted hinges of the door screeched painfully as he opened it with discretion and peered out.

You followed, and of course the kids followed you like ducklings. Slowly you all piled out of the bus onto the damp grass, the monsters nowhere in sight as the sound of their howls grew further and further away.

After a few moments, Lucas broke the silence and spoke what everyone else was thinking. “What happened?....”

Dustin shrugged. “Steve and (y/n) scared ‘em off?”

“No,” Steve let out in a breath. “No way. They’re going somewhere.”

"Going somewhere…" You repeated, letting yourself lean back and fall against the bus. You were just now noticing the aching burn in your muscles. Where the hell would monsters like that have to go?

"Is that a good or a bad thing?" Max asked, head bouncing between you and Steve.

All Steve could give in response was a shrug and an uncertain shake of the head. When Max looked at you once more, your eyes darted around at the grass in thought. "Maybe… I don't know, maybe it's good for us but bad for someone else?" You looked back up at the group. "You think they're going to attack another group of stupid kids like us?" You half joked, the humor not reaching your tone.

Your eyes bounced off each person in the group, then landed finally on Steve. Everyone radiated cluelessness, which was extremely helpful.

You huffed out a sigh. “Okay, well, you said they were going somewhere,” You finally said as you gestured to Steve. “Maybe… we should… figure out where they were going?”

“Are you insane?” Max asked in a deadpan tone; it sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Well obviously she is, she left the bus to go help Steve Harrington,” Lucas mumbled.

“Who left to help us,” Dustin argued.

Steve put his hands up, silencing the bickering kids. “Look, guys, let’s just… make it back to my car first. We’ll figure out what to do there, alright?”

Everyone silently agreed, the children muttering to each other, and began to gather their things together from the bus to leave. You waited until everyone emptied from the bus before you went in to grab your backpack and club. Your mental energy waned, brain feeling like mush, and you desperately needed a moment alone. Just a few minutes to process what the hell just went down… and if this was even still reality.

The silence in the empty bus was deafening, yet you could still hear the roar of the monsters bouncing around in your skull. You glanced up at the porthole, only to see a flash of the blooming face of teeth through your mind. The bridge of your nose tingled as a wave of water began to well up in your eyes… only for it to stop as soon as it started, your heart beat becoming increasingly harder to ignore. The tears dried up but the sinking feeling in your chest became overwhelming, growing and tightening with every second.

You let yourself fall into one of the seats at the back, feeling dizzy, staring at the floor blankly as you tried to control your breathing. It was no use, your vision felt out of focus. Your breath was stolen from you, and the cold bus began to feel like an oven. Nothing felt right.

You screamed at yourself in your mind to grab your bag and meet the crew outside, that they were waiting on you, but your body ignored the command. Your muscles were far too tense to operate, your mind too jittery to work properly, and so you sat, helpless in an emotional limbo.

The kids all met Steve in the center of the junkyard, each ready to begin the trek back to his car. It was easy to see, however, that one member of the group was missing. You.

Dustin looked over the group, then around the dark junkyard. “(y/n)'s coming, right?”

Steve looked around as well trying to spot the missing party member. He looked to the bus and barely caught the silhouette of you cowering at the back, still as a statue. His brows drew together in concern.

“Here, Dust,” Steve handed the boy his spiked bat, “I’ll be right back. Stay here and call if something happens.”

Dustin’s eyes widened with excitement at the bat and took it. He looked at Lucas smugly as he threw it over his back and rested it on his shoulder. Lucas rolled his eyes in response, as did Max.

Steve’s shoes crunched on the now freezing grass up to the bus. He quietly stepped through the still open and rusty door, peering in to see you hunched over in the back corner. The light from the moon beamed through the open roof hatch and shone a dim spotlight over where you sat. If he wasn't so concerned for you, he would have just stood and admired the moment. It made you look ethereal… in a melancholy kind of way.

"(Y/n)?" He called out gently. "You okay?"

Immediately your head jerked up and you stared wide eyed at the boy at the other end of the bus. “Sorry, I'll be uh- just… Just a few minutes," You croaked hoarsely. The heavy breathing of the cold air earlier must've irritated your throat.

You let your hair fall in your face as you bent down and began stuffing the bent golf club in your bag as if it were a sheath. You didn't have to put the club in there, but you wanted to look as though you were still busy packing. That you weren't just staring off into space being bombarded with leftover terror.

The floor creaked and a pair of dirty, white Nike shoes walked up and stopped in front of you. The familiar feeling of tears brimming your eyes returned. Oh god, why did his caring have to make this harder?

Just… go away….

Your hands slowly came to a stop and you let her hand linger on the zipper of the bag in anticipation. You could feel your hands beginning to tremor ever so slightly. A storm was brewing and you didn't want Steve there to witness it.

“I know you're not okay." He finally muttered.

That pushed you back to the edge as you slapped your hand over your mouth to stifle a sob. The storm had been called.

The shoes in front of you moved to action and you could feel the sinking of another person sitting next to you.

There, you wept, breaths becoming more choppy and uncontrolled. You sat up again and covered your face with both hands. You hated being the only one that seemed to be freaking out over the situation. You hated that Steve, of all of them, had to be the one to see you fall apart.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get the image of that roaring, snarling creature out of your head. The dread that still tickled your scalp, the horror of feeling as though you were about to die still lingered in the air. It was a similar feeling you would have after waking from a nightmare. But this time you couldn’t dismiss the feelings away as a product of something not real. The relief of waking up was nonexistent. This was all real. Unbelievably real. You couldn't comprehend any of it and your body was having an extreme reaction.

Steve felt a hole gape in his chest full of bitterness at himself. This is exactly what he didn't want to happen.

He had known what to expect, knew how it felt to see and hurt one of those creatures. He knew the noises they made when you hit them and the awful stench of their breath. He had come to terms with the beast he fought the year before, leaving him mostly ready to face another one. Sleepless nights be damned. However, he had lost sight of the fact that you had come into the situation blind. All you expected was maybe some sort of rabid pet of Dustin's. Not a hoard of man eating monsters… and Steve couldn't help but blame himself for your current state. He should have pushed you away like he seemed to be doing to everyone else in his life. He should have left you at home that morning. He should have never picked you up.

He shifted to face his body to yours, reaching up and tugging at your wrists lightly by your face. "Hey, can you look at me? Please?"

You instinctively leaned back slightly, bowing your head, trying to tuck yourself further into the back corner. "Steve-" You tried to protest, but another sob interrupted you and shook you to the core.

His hands trailed from your wrists to the sides of your head, cupping your cold ears tenderly. "Please, just trust me," He begged, urging you to turn to him. "Look at me."

You drew in a slow breath and sighed shakily into your hands, closing your eyes behind them to will yourself to pull your hands away. You let them fall to your lap, not even bothering to wipe the tears coating your heated face.

You heard Steve sigh, then felt him pull a leg up to scooch closer to you, his hands never leaving your ears. "Please open your eyes." He didn't know why, but he wanted to see them. He had to see your eyes.

Begrudgingly you opened them, tears causing the figure in front of you to appear blurry for a few seconds. It didn't matter though. You'd recognize Steve anywhere.

Your jaw chattered ever so slightly as you tried to suppress another snivel. You quickly failed though, your face contorting and a whimper escaping your lips.

Steve's face contorted as well, one of empathy, pain, and…. There it was again. Guilt.

His hands squeezed your head slightly to hold your gaze, his head bowing down to yours to seem less intimidating. "You're okay now. I've got you, you're safe. You're alive." His tone was quiet, his voice gruff and a tad hoarse as well.

The moon beamed at just the right angle to capture one of his chocolate irises in the light, causing it to glow hazel. You tried hard to focus on it. However, another wave of tears pressed at your sinuses and you squeezed your eyes shut, letting them spill over onto your face. You turned your focus to the grounding feeling of Steve's hands cradling your head.

Immediately Steve's thumbs caught your tears, wiping them across your cheeks. "God, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have let you come with us. I should've just… forced you to mind your own goddamn business," He attempted a dry chuckle and his heart sank when you didn't smile.

You pulled his hands away from your head and shook it. "Jesus, Harrington, tell me about it. A warning would have been nice." You sniveled, watching his hands now hold yours in your lap. Your fingers were freezing but somehow his were still warm.

"I know and I'm a dick for not telling you the truth. I don't know why I even-" He paused, looking away as well and down at your hands. A scoff escaped his lips. "Shit, yes I do. I know exactly why I let you come," He muttered under his breath, averting his eyes.

You wiped your cheek on your shoulder, not wanting to let go of the comforting warmth of Steve's hands. "You let me come on purpose?" You asked incredulously, now confused once again that night.

His shoulders slouched. "No?.... I mean… not entirely. I guess I was too chicken to try and take care of the kid alone? And when you came around as I was leaving his place last night I…." He shook his head, breaking him from his monologue. "I was being selfish and I'm sorry. I should have told you everything in the first place. As soon as we get to my car I'm getting you a candy bar and I'm taking you home."

That made you genuinely laugh, your body finally shaking with laughter rather than sobs. "Steve no, I don't-" You stopped yourself again, confused at the next thing you were going to say. "I don't…. Want to go home. Not yet." You finally looked up again to meet his eyes that were back on you as well, one iris still glowing in moonlight.

"What? Why?" He lifted your hands in his. "You're literally shaking, I can feel it."

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back to watch the now dented roof. "Good lord, you don't realize how boring my life has been, do you?"

As pathetic as it sounded, it was true. The small town of Hawkins didn't have much to offer when it came to entertainment or meeting new friends. You had even almost considered going golfing with your dad a few times. As awful as you felt in that moment… you never felt more alive. Foreign blood splattered on your gold club and Steve's body heat so close to yours was exhilarating.

Steve scoffed. "I'd rather you be bored as hell safe in your room than panicking and crying in the middle of a junkyard," Steve argued. He had a point.

"Look, I just want to start over." You admitted. "I want to be here and help. I just need to know everything you know before we move on. I need to know what those things are and how literally everyone here is acting like it's normal." You stared at him intently, the shine of tears still visible on your face in the moonlight. "Because I'm in it now and you're not getting rid of me just like that."

Steve turned and looked down at your backpack and warped golf club. "Not even for a candy bar?"

You shook your head, fighting a smile. "Not even for a candy bar."

"What about two candy bars?"

"Not even for a hundred candy bars, doofus. You're stuck with me."

He smiled and shook his head in disbelief. "You should hate me right now…"

Your body finally broke out of its paralyzed state as you leapt forward and embraced him in a desperately needed hug. "You might have made me cry like a jerk, but you made me stop too. I think that stands for something."

His hands hung in the air for a moment in hesitation before slowly hugging you back. It wasn't a casual hug, nor one done unwillingly. It was snug and genuine, as if once he adjusted to it, he were trying to enfold you into his very soul.

"I'll make it up to you," He mumbled quietly into the fabric of your sweatshirt.

A sudden banging on the side of the bus made you both jump in each other's clutch. “You two better not be in there making out,” Dustin warned from the other side. “If I walk in and you two are kissing I won’t hesitate to throw up on your shoes.”

A sloppy laugh bubbled from you and you pulled away from Steve. You hoped the darkness hid the blush spreading over your cheeks. Steve chuckled as well, happy to hear you laugh again.

“I guess we should go,” He said, then looked down at you warily and squeezed your shoulder. “Unless you don’t want to yet.”

You shook your head and began to stand. “I’m- yeah, no- I’m okay now.” You stammered. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you averted your gaze from Steve's face. “We should go, they’re probably getting cold out there.”

Steve nodded, then reached down and grabbed your backpack before you could. Instead of giving it to you, he slung it over his shoulder and offered his hand instead. "If… you know it helps…"

You smiled gratefully and took his hand. Once again, it was warm and comforting like a campfire.

Standing proved to be more of a chore than you expected, your muscles now weaker from the strain of earlier. Steve was patient when you stood and wobbled slightly. When you adjusted you walked back outside with him, forgetting you were still holding his hand.

"Ah shit," Dustin exclaimed nearby. "You two were making out!"

Steve didn't even spare a glance at the boy as he passed him and snatched his bat back. "Shut it, Henderson. We have ground to cover."

[novumtimes]

Xander Schauffele leads PGA Championship with record-equalling 62

In short: Xander Schauffele equalled the lowest score in a round of a men’s major championship, shooting 62 in the opening round of the PGA Championship.Schauffele also achieved this feat during last year’s US Open.What’s next? The second round at the Valhalla Golf Club in Kentucky will begin on Friday evening, AEST. Xander Schauffele set the early target at the PGA Championship, firing a record-equalling opening round nine-under 62 at Valhalla Golf Club on Thursday as the Olympic champion looked to atone for a shock loss at the Wells Fargo. Schauffele, who held a final round two stroke lead at Quail Hollow on Sunday before losing by five shots to Rory McIlroy, was a man on a mission in Louisville and he matched the men’s major championship low score — for the second time. Despite an Olympic gold medal in Tokyo and a proven ability to go low, the 30-year-old American has yet to win a major and is without a win since the 2022 Scottish Open. While there is a lot of golf to be played, the world number three signalled he plans to end both droughts with a brilliant error-free opening round that matched his first round effort at last year’s US Open. Only two other men have returned 62s at a major, Rickie Fowler, also in the first round at the 2023 US Open and Branden Grace, in the third round at the 2017 Open Championship at Royal Birkdale. “I’ll take a 62 in any major any day,” Schauffele said. “Not winning makes you want to win more, as weird as that is. “For me, at least, I react to it, and I want it more and more and more, and it makes me want to work harder and harder and harder. “The top feels far away, and I feel like I have a lot of work to do.” Lurking four off the pace on five-under are red hot world number two McIlroy and Scotsman Robert MacIntyre. McIlroy, coming off back-to-back PGA Tour wins, carried that momentum into the first round. He rolled in a six-footer for a birdie on his opening hole, the par five 10th, then picked up a second at the 13th to briefly join a crowd at the top of the leaderboard. But the Northern Irishman, who announced on Monday that he had filed for divorce, stalled after the early burst. He took a bogey at the 17th before hitting his stride again after the turn by carding four birdies, including three straight from the fifth coming home. “Not a pretty 66,” summed up McIlroy, who won the last of his four majors in 2014 on the same Valhalla layout. “I sort of felt like it was pretty scrappy for the most part. “I thought I got a lot out of my game today. “Not really happy with how I played but at least happy with the score.” Defending champion and LIV Golf standard bearer Brooks Koepka, bidding to become the tournament’s first repeat winner since he retained the title in 2019, looked a threat to add a fourth Wanamaker trophy to his collection after returning a four-under 67 highlighted by an eagle, birdie, par finish. Tiger Woods, who collected one of his 15 major titles at Valhalla in 2000 with a play-off win over Bob May, opened with a one-over 72 but lamented a sloppy bogey, bogey finish to his day. For Woods, this is his first event since the Masters. Last month the injury-ravaged golfer had earned a tournament-record 24th consecutive made cut at Augusta National and finished last among those who played the weekend. “It’s just that I just don’t play a whole lot of competitive rounds,” said Woods. “I haven’t played since the Masters. “So it’s a little bit different than being at home and playing a flat Florida course.” New dad Scottie Scheffler, bidding for a fifth win in his last six starts, was just getting his round underway going out in the late wave. The world number one will look to shake off any competitive rust after sitting out last week’s tune-up event while awaiting the birth of his son Bennett. Sports content to make you think… or allow you not to. A newsletter delivered each Saturday. Reuters Source link via The Novum Times

[aim4birdiesltd]

Ladies Golf Equipment: Elevating Your Game in Style

Introduction

Embarking on a journey into the world of golf as a lady? Your choice of equipment plays a crucial role in shaping your game. In this guide, we delve into the realm of ladies golf equipment, offering insights, recommendations, and answering common questions to enhance your golfing experience.

The Essentials: Unveiling Ladies Golf Equipment

Ladies Golf Clubs: A Swing Above the Rest

Embark on a golfing journey with the perfect set of ladies golf clubs. These precision-engineered wonders are designed to complement the female physique, providing a seamless blend of power and finesse. From drivers to putters, we delve into the must-have clubs that can elevate your game.

Fashion Forward: Stylish Apparel for the Modern Golfer

Who says you can't be fashionable on the golf course? Explore the latest trends in ladies golf apparel that seamlessly marry style and functionality. From moisture-wicking fabrics to trendy designs, discover how to make a statement while mastering your swing.

Bags and Accessories: The Practical Side of Elegance

Carry your golfing essentials with flair. We uncover the chic world of ladies golf bags and accessories. From spacious carry-alls to compact, stylish pouches, find the perfect accompaniment for your golfing journey.

Shoes: Stride Confidently on the Greens

Step into the game with confidence wearing the right pair of ladies golf shoes. We break down the key features that make a golf shoe stand out, ensuring you walk the course in comfort and style.

Elevate Your Game: Specialized Equipment

Golf Tech: Gearing Up for Success

Embrace the future of golf with cutting-edge technology. From swing analyzers to GPS-enabled rangefinders, discover how ladies golf equipment has embraced innovation to help you refine your game.

Custom Fittings: Tailoring Equipment to Your Needs

Unleash your full potential by opting for custom-fitted ladies golf equipment. We explore the advantages of personalized fittings, ensuring your clubs and gear are tailored to your unique swing and physique.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

Q: How often should I upgrade my ladies golf clubs?

A: Investing in new clubs every 3-5 years is a general rule of thumb. Technological advancements can significantly improve performance over time.

Q: Are ladies golf shoes different from men's golf shoes?

A: Yes, ladies golf shoes are designed with a narrower heel and more room in the forefoot to accommodate the anatomy of a woman's foot.

Q: What accessories are essential for a day on the golf course?

A: Apart from clubs, a sturdy golf bag, comfortable shoes, and weather-appropriate apparel are essential. Don't forget sunscreen and a hat for sun protection.

Q: Can I use men's golf clubs if I can't find suitable ladies clubs?

A: While it's possible, using men's clubs may affect your performance. It's advisable to explore custom-fitting options for a better fit.

Q: How do I clean and maintain my ladies golf clubs?

A: Clean your clubs after every round using a brush and mild soap. Store them in a cool, dry place to prevent rusting, and regularly check for any signs of wear.

Q: Is golf tech suitable for beginners?

A: Absolutely! Golf tech, such as swing analyzers, can provide valuable insights for beginners, helping them refine their technique from the start.

Conclusion

Elevate your golfing experience with the right ladies golf equipment. From clubs that resonate with your swing to stylish apparel that makes a statement, the world of ladies golf gear offers a perfect blend of fashion and functionality. Equip yourself with the best, and let your game speak volumes on the course.

[pxgblog]

Off-Season Golf Tips to Keep Your Skills Sharp This Winter

You have no problem bundling up and golfing all winter long, but sometimes you might not have the option—local courses decide it’s time to close up shop for the season. With winter approaching, you need to plan for the off-season. Thankfully, you can still work on your game without stepping foot on the course. From getting fit for custom golf clubs to fine-tuning your swing, here’s how to level up your golf game this winter.

Work on Your Form

You can practice your golf swing practically anywhere. Inside, outside, with a club, without a club—this is the perfect way to swing away those winter blues.

Simply grab a club, a club-like stick, or an imaginary club and set up in your stance. Preferably in front of a mirror or somewhere you can record yourself.

Then, slowly go through every step of your swing. It should feel robotic at first, and remember every cue to maintain perfect form. Make sure your elbows stay together at the top of your backswing. Keep your trailing arm straight. Rotate your shoulders and hips. Get your legs engaged. Most importantly, don’t forget to follow through.

Then, put it all together and smooth it out. With no fear of mishits, you can make sure your form is impeccable. If you practice your swing all winter, you’ll minimize any “rust” in your game come springtime.

Schedule a Fitting for Custom Golf Clubs

Want to improve your game while escaping the cold weather? Schedule a golf club fitting.

During the fitting process, not only do you work with an expert to build custom clubs that match your swing, but you also get to work in a golf simulator. You don’t get that sweet smell of a fresh-cut fairway, but you do get to take countless swings at a ball and see how you’d fare on a simulated course.

Plus, custom golf club sets built to match your swing can provide a considerable boost to your game. Once spring rolls around, you’ll be so happy you invested in custom clubs this winter.

Try Out an Indoor Putting Green

Tired of three-putts ruining your chance at a birdie? Well, this winter might be the time to work on your putting skills.

No matter where you live, there are probably several indoor putting greens near you. And if it’s one at your favorite golf store, you also have the chance to try out different putters as well.

Or, you can even run a few putting drills at home. Set a quarter on the ground and aim for it with every swing. Or set a yardstick down on the floor and try to keep your putt in line with it. While you might not be able to practice your drive just anywhere, you can putt pretty much any place with a flat surface.

Take Some Time to Work on Things Besides Your Swing

There are other ways to improve your golf game besides practicing your swing. When the weather outside is frightful, you can make these your priority.

Hitting the weights and working on your flexibility can have huge returns on your game. Being able to swing harder and smoother is always a good thing.

Or, you can level up your game by researching clubs and finding ones with technology that helps you perform better on the course.

Finally, finding some time for a little rest and relaxation is a must in the golf off-season. The game will still be there when you get back. But by letting your body and mind recover, you can approach your first 18 holes back fresh and rejuvenated.

About PXG

Ultimate performance. Superior forgiveness. A sweet spot the size of Texas. These are just a few of the things you can expect from PXG golf clubs. These high-tech, aesthetically pleasing clubs not only look great on the course but also help you perform to the best of your abilities. From hybrid golf clubs with a high-speed face to putters that feature a customizable weighting system, PXG makes sure every one of their clubs is ready to perform. They continue to refine their designs to be the best in the business. Plus, they offer custom golf clubs and fitting services at the best golf store Houston, Chicago, and other cities have to offer. If you want to elevate your game on the course, there’s no better choice than PXG.

This winter, level up your golf game with clubs from PXG, available at https://www.pxg.com/

Original Source: https://bit.ly/47GOShL

[onelovegolfc]

Golf carts are the vehicle of choice in San Pedro Town because of the aluminum chassis used by Club Car Golf Carts that do not rust against the salty environmental conditions on the island and the size of the carts provides better traffic and parking spaces in town. Our rental rates are the lowest, carts are of superior quality, and our service to our customers is always in the highest of standards. We strive to be the best golf cart rental in town. (One Love Golf Cart Rental)

[the-firebird69]

Jason and his people and people of that generation and below are usually very not useful on job sites for anything even trash pickup or picking up metal before you clear. They can't do it and after a while they won't and they want to put stuff there we can't stand them so he told them they're building on Australia a bunch of stuff they use their forces. As bja and he has a lot of jobs and has them do it and he left some screw off but he has them doing like a basic day you know tasks going to do you do like a task. Now I know about it and they're going to probably evacuate to there and no sense is good they can go get chips and can do stuff but then we don't want them here doing the ships. So they're off to probably do that and today there's some changes already.

-five out of 10 projects we're starting our delayed because of a situation with the building department which is being fixed they approve the plans and they approve the project and we have these stickler more lock in there now and they crawled back in and it's supposed to start this morning getting an injunction in court no but they blocked it and they did it with the building department and they had a mat come out so it has a hold for a while.

-construction will resume momentarily and we're applying for 10 more projects and the gigantic my son's ideas are welcome a golf course maybe there or up north and yacht club but a real one and the yacht sales and yeah really hots and they have metal holes and the stronger than steel and they don't rust or electrolysis doesn't work on it as well it takes a long time versus a few years. And their bullet resistance and they go fast top speeds like 150 for 150 ft yacht and it is a nice very nice boat it's a Viking and we have other brands. And they want to sit there and they want to see their as soon as possible so putting the plans in today and they might approve it today and we'll do all sorts of stuff today subsurface and scanning and pulling out junk it's on land and our son says we can pull out junk now and we can ask for the permit to do that and it's not really clear it's not clearing it's making it suitable and this whole regimen so we're going to apply for that or waiting and they might go out but it's something to do and there's a lot of junk in there those combined it's like 20 by 20 miles roughly a little less that's probably 800 cars which is not bad but there's probably 50 tons of steel which is a lot that's twice as much as a bridge section of the bridge our sun was working at it's a lot of steel it's from all sorts of things buildings and trucks and makeshift structures and pull it all out of there and I'm going to go ahead with that idea and there's something else happening we're applying for permits all over Florida and it won't work in the East Coast and we're working on stuff and in the south some in the West not too much it's going to be a lot of work tons of buildings they got a very damn fast they said I'm so fast the blinking there is a city and we're not restricted well we are sort of but everybody is no we're working real hard and we see what's happening but we know what to do

-there's a few other things happening the neighbors are not kicked out the sheriff is reduced but not gone and the reduced to a much higher number than people thought it's still about 800 but the sheriff department is now about 7,000 strong and getting bigger for Charlotte county and it's going to be much bigger shortly and they're building up for this construction and the war and more the positions lost out of the $4,500 thus far are 1300 which brings it down to 3200 and that's not much of a loss but the jobs in the public government jobs in Charlotte county having cut by 75%. And they're in the panic and they don't know what to do. They're complaining. Of course it would be in private jobs are cut by about 85% and today they're going after grocery store workers as many as they can fire it's going to be huge there's a ton of them out and it's more the rings are being fortified so they can stop people from getting in and I said it means won't be able to get in from the sides or the front and more motorcycles are arriving daily about 100,000 octillion in the United States alone and the recycled version and were to take the vehicles out of the lots that were pulling and separated by punta Gorda or Port Charlotte and there's a special insignia that goes on and they want special bikes they're the big beefy ones and it's going to be a special unit so we do see that we understand it got to have those. There's a huge number of people wondering what we're doing but we don't say now there's more projects coming up in this town and in Port Charlotte this time we'll have a huge complex of schools we're going to build and punta Gordo will have probably one or two schools not complexes and it's going to be huge okay fast I'm talking about real schools and we're going to have eateries and other things put in and people are not going to be ready for it it's going to be huge on the main drag that's going to be more and more real stores and shops and eateries. And it's going to get built up very quickly in two weeks it's going to be built up and people are not going to be ready for it anyways he always does look at an amazing yes and he says so but it's going to be fun for him it's something to do something to look at he's watching that project going it went in very slowly and the workers were having trouble and it's dangerous and he said it too the way it's built but I was just not like that we just lifts and scaffolding and staging it goes up in half day and it comes down the next day and it's for everything it's just really a lot easier and it's a lot of buildings around here that need work and they're going to ask us and we have renovation contractors huge ones and each contractor we send for a big facility will have that your son's going to get stuff we're going to make sure of it.

-the town is starting to take notice that our son is saying it should beautify and they like his idea for the courtyard and you put in a really ruggage grass and it's going to be maintained by the city parks department and they do a decent job and they don't mind getting extra work and we'll have that fence and it'll have the building it goes in and that building can be an office as well and there's a space for it that's not right on site and I like the idea is in the thought I want to go ahead and help him and he's accepting he says my people can help it work and I'm going to go ahead and do it.

-I've been trying some stuff and then beginning tonight because it's very vehement and we're working with it and I'm trying to do it so far these people block almost everything that you try and do and they're not helping him much at all just watching him sit here and get mad so we're starting to get angry and the work thing is changing a little not much you're dying off for once in a while and some of them died off last night and something worse hanging in there looks like a lot but it's about the same.

-we have more action they're going to mass now at the same five points and a fleet. This time will be huge and they're going to bring tons and tons of ammo and ordinance and stuff and it's too entice people to try and take over so they can take over other ships but they lose every time and today they say they'll probably have a couple hundred thousand octane that's a giant amount of people it's emptying actual areas or taking those over and we are leveling the whole place and we're building citadels those are different than houses and apartments. We're also getting new contracts they want to have vaults and he described this building and it's meant to withstand attacks and things that's why it's shaped like that and it's a monstrous building we have to do some calculations and we'll have to put in some very big case I want to tie them together somehow and it seems systems they do that they just tunnel and we're going to have to do that and there are about 50,000 people in Miami who won it and all higher ups and he says we should have an expo on the vault we don't have any examples of vaults no we do we built a few and we were using them and other people and saved a lot of artifacts and that's awesome he says there's nothing better and we can bring some artifacts and put them under glass and have a security and so on so I know he says that because it's an exciting thing but we always do it professionally but still we can have a huge presentation and we can show the strength of concrete and that it's a nuclear proof and stuff like that and people going to love it cuz it's also a place you can go to if there's a problem when the when the city of New York City is submerged by Oblivion the building is still standing and for the most part it's watertight and it has pumps and it'll pump it out for a while and you could actually inject stuff to seal it and you can also go upwards and I like this idea of injection injecting pressure injection and you'd have the tools Ed there's a reason for doing that you need to maintain it anyways I wasn't sealed and envelopes and it should not leak most of our bunkers don't leak at all they have it anyways in case someone tries drilling their tunneling and we're going to have this expo shortly that's a very large demand in Sarasota is 20,000 people and that's a lot and in Tampa about 10:00 and here almost everybody because they're partially those people and it's enough higher ups because they're Max and they wanted in Miami and they want one in Tampa Tallahassee Sarasota and Sarasota will be kind of team Tampa can be pretty big of Miami would be obnoxious Tallahassee would be probably obnoxious and they might have one to stand alone so we are going to proceeding and send in our proposals there's several other projects he has when is the Chinese American motorcycle company I'm kind of stalled out and we didn't get the motorcycles because this invasion craft and which handling is not going to make them wait wait is not going to make him he's going to come in here and say you can't do that and the sun's going to say I don't even have one. And we're going to test it and send them out and we have a whole bunch that we modified and we'll see how it goes he says give me a break just throw them in the internet and give me a break and we're going to do that now I'm going to see it's a lot of work but we need people and we're hiring people so we can do it that's the holdup those people are not signing up and we can't have it we're on target for the large projects and we do our cutting corners but safely and there's a few other things happening we have several people here who are obnoxiously rude to us and her son and need to go we need to get them out now they're standing out there being obnoxious anymore you're standing out there trying to be obnoxious to cause a scene and moving fight with her son and they have to leave right now I want them out and I'm sending the order

-sure the things about here and they are coming in clearing out people who have criminal records now they're arresting people for crimes waiting around here and Major crimes elsewhere and for trying to war on them and they arrest you all the time

-the three projects were breaking around on one is way out there in Port Charlotte the other is punta Gorda and it's not downtown it's the one that is behind Publix but it's up the hill on the left the other one that we got the proced on is it is the one next to home Depot to the south of it and that's a big huge huge lot you can't see that the one that's closer near home Depot we should probably maybe get that today he said it's coming today sometime and spaghetti things lined up and they're going to call us about clearing junk out and they're going to call us about the vault. Other things happening are we are really in stuff to help our son with he needs things and we need to get it to him it's having trouble with warts and nobody's helping him he's mad and he's kind of depressed and she's upset and once it fixed in front of there's a few things at work apple cider vinegar does not work so good it's just acid there are some things to work but we can't tell them apparently. It's going to be a decent day their thing out the agencies that they're doing a steps process so it's not going to be like they say every once in a while but they are evacuating the Midwest huge ships pretty soon in hours and they're building up another Force but the huge ships are going to be leaving last night about 100,000 octillion which is gigantic and truthfully it's like a third of the upper Midwest but the Midwest still has a big chunk of it up north in the between the two rivers and all the way down probably two states down almost 1 and 3/4 States not really that large it's not it's not even a couple hundred miles it's like the tip of Florida but in that area are like 300,000 octillion people but it's going to get very nasty today what left was mostly the area below it in form a cone they went on another 150 mi and in that was 90% of the Ford factories and those are coming out. And the next run will be Chevy but with Ford are several other factories John Deere and case tractors and equipment and we need that pronto this doctor too and we need that we're going to take it all and use it and we're going to acquire companies today 9x AT&t Sprint Telecom and the major one which they thought they were going to retain and it is a huge company and it's Bell and they did not work the stocks correctly and it's ours. So type of stuff you have to come back and make a marker and you have to do it every day and it doesn't matter if you have to wait all day you have to do it if you're there waiting all day and they don't get to you can have a rain check but you have to prove you're there all day it really sucks you have to actually stand there all day to do it and it has to it shows the match are having us do it they say these are giant companies and they're signing over to us momentarily everybody please get ready we are going to call a massive meeting today and it is about signing up companies these people are very ornery already and then warlock and they don't like any of these companies to start and their hatred levels are going far too high we need troops and we need soldiers and we need them now and I'm putting it out and it is a formal request and we're going to send it out all over and from the government with our seal and everything and we are growing our small basis now and putting things on there it's going to show we're going to get help and we're moving out now

To all of us have a great day and remember we're happier working with us in for us and things are starting to blossom and we are starting to have the power we said we are going to and very soon there will be a lock

Thor Freya

Several very large ships is what we have and that is from Saturn and Jupiter and Neptune on those ships are class A ships and they're very big and I don't want to say how big and people say that I'm lying and stuff but I'm not the one to check with but they're different than the other ones they're Stone chips and we do clad them correctly too and these people don't plan to they're ridiculous. And we do it for a few reasons and we have a system and we use all of it and it works very well we have a lot of power and we need all of ours on and to make sure that nothing goes wrong we also have a lot of people that need freedom and need to be freed from these so please sign on now

Zues

I am saying what he is saying but I do know we need it now as of today we have a ton of projects and he's pushing for more and more things to happen almost anything that you like to do or do in life is being done here we increase your pay by mostly 2.5% and we do give you a holiday time it is a military lifestyle but you don't have to worry about all sorts of other things and it's less complicated and your family is sheltered it is society please sign on and we do need you and we do love you so yes

Hera

We're going to reiterate it we are opening up tons of projects and Zeus and Hera are opening them up and Thor and Freya are pushing for them too they are massive massive jobs but they're talking about here in these two small towns it's putting in about a million more people and there's just a million here so we have to wake up to the fact that we need to be here we're moving out and we're getting things done with this whole planet and there's a war on two and it's down below and it's extremely dangerous we need a lot of troops to help with that all of it is remote viewing you won't have to leave your area and you'll be in a safe area that has security real security so please come sign up and join the fight with us there's a very very valuable experience we also know that service is mandatory right now we're starting to initialize our mandatory service and it will be for 2 years and if you're 18 you are to sign on and if you have not you're to sign on and that will start in segments of the population fairly soon we are sending out information about the military in about our systems and we're sending out information on what we do and how capable we are and that we're very large and that part of our plan involves people signing on completely everyone has to and how much easier it will be when people signed on versus not and there's a few basic reasons okay send that on basic literature and we are going to recommend that you speak to relatives and friends to inform yourself about what our military is about so please sign on or sign on for the national guard part-time and you will be rewarded by understanding what the entire plan is and my mother and father have a plan for us and it is wonderful and it's all encompassing and it creates a lot less worry and stress in our lives and forever will be free from tyranny and oppression and bullying and evil people who make no sense and go in cycles that just hurt people badly

Olympus

[jimmydemaret]

CaddyDaddy Golf North Pole Golf Club Protector Travel Support Arm, Black/Silver

CaddyDaddy Golf North Pole Golf Club Protector Travel Support Arm, Black/Silver

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[redhairedfox]

Me when the rain starts pouring down after my shift at the golf course thinking about those golfers being stuck in the rain:

[solivar]

The Left Hand Path: Three Years Ago

aka the One In Which Genji and Zenyatta meet.

The Standing Stones of Santa Ana Pueblo

Location: Just above the Red Line off I-25 N/Old New Mexico Route 68 N, Sandoval County north of the Albuquerque Military Exclusion Area.

Before the Crisis, Santa Ana Pueblo was a thriving Tamayame reservation, part of the Greater Albuquerque Metropolitan area, and a major tourist draw in the region owing to its world-class golf courses and club, a well-regarded spa resort, a casino and Michelin-starred restaurant, and a multitude of easily accessible cultural sites and events spread throughout the year. All of that changed on the afternoon of August 13, 2046 when Omnic forces advancing on Albuquerque breached the containment cordon along Route 40 and the US military, massed there to stop them, unleashed experimental high energy weaponry designed for that task.

Once the dust settled, the city of Albuquerque and much of the surrounding area, including the Sandia and Santa Ana Pueblos, was almost completely leveled. In the aftermath, the military cordoned off the ruins of the city inside the Albuquerque Military Exclusion Area, which remains under heavily patrolled Federal military control to this day. Evacuees from the surrounding area were strongly encouraged not to return, with offers to purchase their land at pre-Crisis market value to sweeten the deal. Many accepted, a handful did not, and those that chose to do so returned to a pueblo whose buildings were reduced to rubble and scattered with wreckage -- and something weird that was neither.

The Standing Stones of Santa Ana Pueblo occupy a relatively compact chunk of land on the grounds of what was once Santa Ana Golf Club, shielded from casual view by a stand of cottonwood trees that somehow survived the explosions that leveled the clubhouse and most of the other course structures and did significant damage to the surrounding area. There are nine of them, standing in a geometrically perfect circle, varying in size from from well over six feet to a little over five, perfectly hexagonal in shape, crafted of a dark stone that at least superficially resembles basalt. The inner surface of each stone is densely carved with petroglyphs incised deeply into the rock. The outer surface of each stone is carved with one petroglyph unique to that stone and which cannot be found on any of the others, inside or out. Local experts on Native American petroglyphs continue to research this topic but, as of this writing, none of the petroglyphs that appear on the Standing Stones resemble any glyphs that appear on historical sites in the region.

Nor were the Standing Stones a feature of the area before the Omnic Crisis, as confirmed by surviving photos and video of the course and local residents of the area, including the former owners of the golf club. At some point after the evacuation of Santa Ana Pueblo, the Standing Stones appeared in their current location, unnoticed by anyone despite the heavy military presence and regular patrols of the area, and despite the amount of effort such a project would entail. The stones, though tall and relatively slender, are still estimated to weigh several hundred pounds each -- not something that could be loaded, unloaded, and placed by a single person working by hand alone.

The hundred or so families who make Santa Ana Pueblo their home give the Standing Stones a wide berth, citing weirdly colored lights that appear close to the ground around them and occasionally in the sky above, strange disembodied sounds, and a deep thrumming hum that periodically rises from the area. These phenomena have appeared on official reports from area law enforcement and also on official notices issued from the Albuquerque Exclusion Area’s patrol base. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, most of these phenomena have been observed around the anniversary of the Battle of Albuquerque on August 13th.

If you want to try to catch the weirdness in action, make certain you’re prepared to handle high desert summer weather and get your permissions in order accordingly. The former grounds of Santa Ana Golf Course are private property posted against trespass and the area is periodically patrolled by both the US military and tribal coalition police.

“Tonight’s the night, everybody. August the thirteenth. The anniversary of the Battle of Albuquerque. It’s taken months to get my uncle to trust me enough to go out on perimeter patrol but this is our pay off.” Cody Peshlakai lowered his voice, dramatically, because there was no real danger of being heard, to hype up the audience watching his live HollaGram stream. “Tonight I will investigate the Standing Stones and tonight you will be with me.”

He flashed a grin and a V-for-victory sign into his camera then clipped it to the stabilizer harness strapped around his shoulders and across his chest, one more piece of survival equipment among the molle pouches carrying the rest of his gear, no different from anyone else’s. It sat there, neatly hidden next to his cellphone and the primitive walkie talkie his uncle insisted the security crews carry, through the team muster and meeting at the pueblo ranger station, broadcasting all the while. Nobody objected when he called dibs on one of the spiffy little hybrid hover/wheels ATVs, a good chunk of the all-volunteer patrol crew being old enough to value the superior shock absorption of the service’s Jeeps and trucks. The ATV yielded a much better POV for the viewers as he jetted out across the scrubby desert hardpack on the eastern bank of the Rio Grande toward his goal: the grounds of the former Santa Ana Pueblo Golf Club.

Which was, unfortunately, on the western side of the Rio Grande.

On the way, he passed clusters of habitation: the small, self-contained farmsteads of single families, an artist’s commune, the little solar farm that served the area and its caretaker’s hacienda. He paused at each and exchanged a few words with the residents, radioed a handful of coyote sightings back to base, and continued on, the excitement churning higher and higher in his gut the closer he came to his goal, as his numbers climbed on his viewership monitor.

“So, yeah, that’s my job, stream -- I help keep my community, my friends and neighbors, safe. Sometimes that’s chasing off coyotes that are getting a little too comfortable raiding the compost bins but sometimes...sometimes it’s a lot weirder.” The remains of the old Highway 550 bridge loomed out of the twilight, crumbling concrete pilings jutting out of the shallowest, siltiest part of the river and he pulled to a halt, executing a slow pan to give the stream the best view possible. “On the other side of the river and a few miles west is what’s left of the Santa Ana Pueblo Golf Club. It used to be a world-class course, fancy-ass hotel and casino inclusive, made a lot of jobs and money for the community. All that, of course, came to an end during the Omnic Crisis.”

He revved the motivator, fired up the hoverpods to their highest yield, and skimmed across the surface of the river and up the opposite bank. A vista of devastation, stained in shades of sunset and shadow, spread out before them and the stream chat went absolutely wild. The residential neighborhoods south of 550 had been utterly flattened during the Battle of Albuquerque, hardly a brick left stacked or a wall left standing, blown all-but-flat by some incomprehensibly massive force. That, combined with the occasional blast crater and random scattering of unexploded ordnance, had discouraged resettlement so thoroughly nobody even wanted to risk putting up a solar farm. Wreckage still lay scattered as far as the eye could see and the eye could see quite a distance, even with twenty-plus years of desert scrub overgrowth blurring the harshest edges.

“Nobody really knows what happened here that day -- August thirteenth, the Battle of Albuquerque,” Cody narrated as he kicked the ATV back into motion, navigating carefully down the cracked and pitted remnants of 550 toward his goal. “Just about everybody was evacuated and the ones that stayed behind...well. Let’s just say that, when all was said and done, there wasn’t anyone left to tell the tale.”

The bombed-out, burned-out remnants of the old hotel-casino came into view, its parking lot still filled with the rusting hulks of abandoned vehicles. “The casino and golf course were used as a rallying and evacuation point for the nearby communities on the west bank of the Rio Grande in the days leading up to the battle. The US Army and local militia forces were massing along I-40 -- the Red Line -- and the Air Force and Air National Guard were flying refugees out by helo, the National Guard had commandeered every bus, van, and free personnel carrier they could get their hands on to get people out of harm’s way. This entire area was an absolute hive of activity, you can find video of it all over the internet.”

He paused long enough to link some of his favorites in the chat as he turned off the main road, easing the ATV along something that was once a paved maintenance access point, running roughly parallel with the river. He hit the first scraggly bits of “green,” grass genetically engineered to survive the heat and dry of a high desert summer, a few minutes later and he pulled up onto the flat, opened up his holomap, and pinged his location for the audience. “I’m here -- just south of the lower water trap which is, at this point, completely dry. Our objective is...here.” He touched the copse of cottonwood trees a mile and a half to the north. “The Standing Stones. No one knows how they got here -- they weren’t here before the battle and they weren’t here during the evacuation. But when the recovery teams swept through to see what, if anything, had survived...there they were.”

He gunned the motivator, turned the headlights up to maximum, and muted the call trying to come in from his uncle, likely demanding where the Hell he was. Oh, he was getting fired for this. So very, very fired. But very soon that wouldn’t matter, because after tonight his career was going elsewhere.

The stream picked up every jounce and bounce as he skimmed over ruts and bits of wreckage flung miles from their origins, swerved around scrub becoming less and less scrubby as he went and the wild descendants of decorative plants that had somehow survived despite it all. The cottonwood stand was still the tallest thing around and he slowed as it came into view. “My plan is to set up motion-activated cameras in a perimeter around the Standing Stones and several inside the circle of the Stones, as well, along with a super-sensitive microphone pickup and electromagnetic monitoring equipment. If something happens tonight, we’ll see and hear it.”

He stopped as the ATV’s headlights washed over the trees and struck glints from the Standing Stones themselves, dark stone reflecting darkly -- and more. Cody froze, still straddling his seat. “Oh, fuck -- there’s someone else in there --”

Cody killed the headlights and the motivator and rolled off the ATV into the relative cover of the underbrush in one smoothish and only mildly panicked motion. He even managed to avoid squeaking too much as he whispered, “Chat, did you see that? Did anyone else see that?!”

Yes!

Me, too!

I saw it -- it was TALL

Dozens of messages bubbled up in the chat as his audience scrolled back and scrutinized every frame for him. For his part, he dug his brand new Panopticon binoculars out of gear bag, clipped them into place on his tactical visor, and tried to get a better look of his own, zooming in on the Standing Stones so closely he could clearly see the petroglyphs incised into their surfaces, even with the last of the light bleeding out of the sky behind them. None of the grainy-green of old school low light optics with these babies, and he scanned the area and slow and careful, looking for some hint of what he saw, something, anything --

A flicker of motion caught his eye, something moving among the Stones, mostly obscured by their mass.

“Fuck.” This...was not a complication he had considered, much less prepared for. This whole area in general and the Standing Stones very much in specific were so far out of bounds that he never imagined encountering another person out here at all much less…

On the night of the anniversary of the battle of Albuquerque.

He had to physically resist the urge to facepalm. “Chat, I...think I know what this is.” He crawled back out of the brush and hunkered down next to the ATV, tried to get a better angle on the inside of the circle. “You know how every year there’s a remembrance ceremony at the big Crisis Memorial up in Santa Fe? Well...what if I told you that some people come down to the pueblo for their own private remembrances, too? It’s the anniversary, after all. Let me see if --”

A shriek of audio distortion drilled his ear with the enthusiasm of an icepick straight to the brain and it was all he could do not to howl as he clawed his audio pickup out. “Holy fuck, what was that?”

The chat, in the corner of the heads-up display on his visor, was losing its entire fucking mind -- whatever it was, they had heard it, too, and --

A second pulse of sound, deep and resonant, punched him in the chest hard enough to make both his heart and breathing stutter, and the chat went absolutely apeshit again as it fed through to them, as well.

“You know what, Chat,” Cody said, as soon as he got enough breath back to speak, “I think I’m going to take your advice and get the Hell --”

Golden light blossomed inside the circle of the Standing Stones -- for an instant, to his eyes, it looked as though the petroglyphs themselves were lighting up, searing their patterns into his retinas with a single unwary glance. He reeled back and looked away as he clawed both the tac visor and the binoculars off his face, blinking afterimages out of his vision, the light washing out of the stone circle, over him, over everything, and --

Calm flowed over him, over him and through him, a wave of perfect serenity that stole away all his fear between one breath and the next, left him wobbling on legs made of rubber, legs that folded up underneath him and left him sprawled on his back, eyes and camera both pointed at the swiftly darkening sky, hazed in golden light. He could hear the pinging of his stream’s chat freaking out a few physical inches and a couple thousand conceptual realities away, but couldn’t bring himself to care. That sweet golden light was all he knew and that majestic bone-deep music, and he allowed himself to drift away on it, blinking away like a pinched-out candle between one breath and the next.

It was some time later that the rescue team found him, sprawled out next to the ATV, boneless, blissed out and drooling. But not, as they feared, dead.

“I told you this little moron was up to something,” Julia Tso nudged him in the ribs with the tip of one hiking boot. “He’s been streaming crap on HollaGram for months, Joseph.”

“Yeah, I know.” Joseph Peshlakai sighed and signaled the medical evac team to come in from the road. “Keep an eye on him until they get here, yeah?”

Julia rolled her eyes but nodded and Joseph crossed the remaining distance to the Standing Stones, where a golden light still pulsed among them, within them, the petroglyphs alight. He stopped outside, cleared his throat, and said, “Thank you for not killing him, Wanderer. He’s an idiot but he’s my kid brother’s favorite child.”

Youth and folly are not offenses punishable by death, my old friend. The voice echoed in his mind, warm and amused, but not less awesome because of it. Thank you, as always, for watching over them in my absence.

“My honor, Wanderer. I’m honestly a little surprised to see you this soon. It’s only been, what, five years?” Five years to the day, Joseph thought but did not say.

Yes. I...think I will be staying for a time. Not here. But close. I feel...A frisson of unease passed between them, mind to mind, a chill crawling down his spine. I feel that I will be needed, sooner rather than later.

Joseph took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. “Things have been...a little stranger than usual, I will admit. It will be good to have you back, even if only for a time.”

It will be good to be home. Farewell for now, old friend.

The golden light blinked out, and Joseph knew he was alone. The Stones faded more slowly at his back, as he walked back down the shallow rise to his lieutenant and his idiot nephew and the knowledge growing in his mind that things were going to get worse before they got better.

[makebank]

nice things

Request: A topper request when he really likes this girl but she is a pouge and he asks her to midsummers and she says yes but then she realizes she doesn’t have a dress so she avoids him and then he finds out why so he buys her a gorgeous dress and she gets mad and says she isn’t going anymore because she doesn’t want handouts and then she ends up coming late to midsummers and he wasn’t expecting it so he’s like woah and then they dance and stuff

Warnings: a lil angst, reader thinking bad about herself

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: hope you like it anon. always love some topper

masterlist

To say you had been pining for Topper for a while would be an understatement. You have always caught yourself staring at the kook boy. It was hard not to, he just seemed perfect. His hair was always effortlessly in place. His clothes pressed, fitted, and without a trace of a wrinkle. Topper was big into working out and treated his body like a temple. It was as if everything had to be in place from head to toe. He had a perfect smile, that you loved when it was directed at you. His laugh made you feel warm, but that only made you crave it more. Sure, he hung around with questionable people that tormented the pogues, but he was always so sweet to you. 

As much as you tried to deny your feelings for him, he made it difficult. You worked at the country club that him and his friends played often. You drove the golf cart loaded with snacks around all day. He’d be sure to buy from you at least twice a round and leave a hefty tip alongside his smirk. 

You attempted not to read much into it to save yourself the heartache. But this had been going on for some time. He started to ask for your number or what your plans were after work. You declined each time thinking it was some kind of kook joke. Why else would he want anything to do with you? You were a pogue and they supposedly hated them. You worked all the time to help pay the bills and could never live up to his standards. 

One day after a particularly long shift, you trudged out to your car pockets full of tips from a certain blond. Just as you were opening the door to your rusted old beat up ride, you heard someone shout your name. 

“Y/n! Hey wait!” it was Topper running towards you alone for once. You rolled your eyes at what ridiculous thing he was going to say this time. 

“Yes, Topper?” you questioned. He caught his breath and then stared at the ground for a moment before meeting your gaze. “I was just wondering… If maybe you wanted to come to Midsummers with me?” he said the last part almost under his breath, but you definitely heard him. You laughed in shock. His face fell and you felt a little guilty for laughing. The other boys weren’t around, but this could still be some prank. “Wait. Are you being serious?” you asked incredulously.

He gnawed on his bottom lip and nodded his head yes. Why in the world would Topper Thornton want to take you to the biggest kook fest on the island? You thought about how nice it would be to dance with him and spend real time with him though. You decided you were done denying yourself from being happy.

“If this is some kind of sick joke, I’ll kill you. But yes, I’ll go” his face erupted into a giant grin. He moved to hug you and twirled you around. “Yes finally! I was starting to think you’d never say yes to anything.” You giggled at how excited he was, he actually sounded genuine.

The whole car ride home you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face. It was really happening. You were going on a date with Topper. Then it hit you. You didn’t own or have anywhere near the amount of money to buy a dress that would be appropriate for Midsummers. You started to sulk knowing you couldn’t go. You wanted to cry, but remembered this is why you always told him no. You whipped out your phone and searched for the contact you had wanted to text many times before. Topper’s number was saved from the many times he asked, and you relented one time, but still never texted him. 

hey i can’t go anymore. sorry. 

what? u already changed your mind?

You decided it was better not to reply after that. What could you even say to justify cancelling on him not twenty minutes later? He texted you a string of messages trying to get you to respond.

The next day at work you were restocking the cart trying to ignore your disappointment. Topper walked up behind you and started chatting like nothing happened. 

“What color do you like better white or blue? I’m trying to pick out my tie.” he asked nonchalantly. “Topper, what part of not going do you not understand?” you turned back around to continue your task. He raised his hands in the air confused, “You’re not actually serious about not going?” he was almost angry. 

“Yes, I’m serious! Sorry the poor pogue can’t afford a dress for your stupid Midsummers. Now if you’ll excuse me, some people have actual work to do.” You bumped into his shoulder and strutted away. He was left standing there hurt by your anger but more importantly upset that he didn’t realize. He had never any intention of making you pay for things, he had plenty of that. In fact, he wanted to take you dress shopping. It dawned on him that he lost that opportunity. 

After another long day of work, you slumped your way through the front door. You parents met you with confused looks on their face. “Y/n. It looks like someone left you something?” you mother hesitantly spoke. You rounded the corner to see a rack filled with white and blue dresses. Your heart stopped for a moment knowing who it was. They were so beautiful. That’s when you figured out that meant they were also expensive. He just thought of you as some charity case. You scoffed, “Leave them.” and you stormed off into your room leaving your parents stunned. 

The day of Midsummers had arrived, and you kept wavering between wanting to go and never wanting to see Topper’s face again. Evening rolled around and you had many missed calls and messages from him. He was still hopeful you would come. 

It was an hour into the event and Topper was sulking at the table. His friends had tried to get him to enjoy the night, but he just sent them away. He didn’t even mingle with his parent’s work friends like he was expected to. You decided you were being immature and there was a boy that really wanted to spend time with you. Even though he may have made a debatable choice. You sprinted around getting ready. You picked one of the blue, light, and airy dresses and rushed out of the door.

Once you spotted him your heart sank knowing you made him feel like that. You approached him, but he didn’t notice you since he was too enveloped in his own thoughts. “Hey, did you still want a date?” you offered a hopeful smile. He lifted his head at the sound of your voice and immediately stood up. “Y/n, you came. Of course, I do. Do you want to dance?” he extended his hand to you. You placed your hand into his and followed him to the dance floor, while a slow song played. 

“I’m sorry for standing you up and being rude. I just didn’t like you pitying me” you confessed. He wrapped his hands around your waist and started swaying. “I don’t pity you. I think you’re truly amazing. I didn’t even think about how insensitive I was being. I’m sorry.” 

You smiled at his apology. “Start over?” you offered. He nodded in return. You leaned your head on his chest and started to swing back and forth. 

You were thankful you finally took a chance on the boy. You deserved to enjoy nice things too.

my lil everything taglist i just started: @dpaccione @drewswannabegirl @outerbanksjjforever 💓

[arianishinoya]

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Inspo: tiktok; amadis_v

Scenario: You and Mirko go to a club after resting at home with boredom. While you're there, you dance with a stranger.ater you see hawks and make him jealous, he takes you outback for some private time.

WARNING: dom!hawks, jealous!hawks, 18+, oral (fem receiving), semi public s*x, choking kink, brat!reader(kind of)

Gimme More

《Fem!reader X Hawks》

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Y/n sat in her bedroom, waiting for anything interesting to happen today. She had woken up around 12pm, and had lounged in her pajamas all day, watching random shows on tv, and texting her friend Mirko.

The two girls had become friends when they crossed paths while fighting a villain, which lead to Mirko finding out her best friend was a vigilante, and not a hero. The h/c haired girl huffed out in annoyance at how slow her day was going, still waiting on a respond from her bunny hero friend. It felt like years when her phone vibrated next to shed as she mindlessly clicked on the random channels.

MIRKO 🐇♥️

There's this night club, it's called Rosette Flames. Get ready meet me there in an hour or so.

Y/n jumped from her bed, landing on the cold hard wood floor, but she ignored her pain and ran to her bathroom, showering in under ten minutes...and spent the next fifty minutes deciding on what to wear.

Finally she decided to wear a black lace bralette with a powder pink skirt, accompanied by black laced up heels. Her hair was done in messy curls, doing some final touch ups on her make up, going with a natural smokey eyeshadow with cherry glossed lips. Y/n took a final glance at her outfit and make up, before sending a text to her bunny friend that she was on her way, feeling a little bit bad that she would be thirty minutes late.

The two girls walked into the club, their eyes going wide to the size of golf balls. The ceiling of the club was pure glass, letting the silver moon shine through, lighting the dance floor slightly. The DJ stand looked something straight out of a retro movie, the whole place did, the bar was built like a semi circle, the purple lights making it look cyber retro. The dance floor was and LED tiled, as fairy lights hung above the dance floor.

Mirko linked her arm with y/n, a bewildered look on both of their faces at the sight. "Do you wanna dance!" Mirko had to shout over the loud music that penetrated their ears, making her voice come out muffled. The bunny hero took off her jacket waiting for her friend to respond, handing it to the bartender, asking if he could look after it.

Y/n looked at her friend, seeing her wear a white tight dress with red heels. Y/n has said this before, if Mirko wasn't seeing someone, she would try hitting on her. Which would always make Mirko say that of y/n wasn't interested in a certain winged male, Mirko would try making a move on the h/c haired girl. "Lets dance!" Mirko dragged y/n out on the dance floor, placing one hand on her waist as y/n swayed back and forth, feeling the beat of the music vibrating through her veins.

The vigilante had almost forgotten that she was in public, or that she was dancing with her friend at a club. All she could feel was the music coarsing through her body. The girl hasn't even noticed that her friend was dancing with a stranger with red hair, or that a raven haired male was dancing with y/n. She just danced to the music, feeling the male behind her follow her lead.

Unbeknownst to the two girls, the winged male sat at the bar, holding his gaze onto y/n, seeing her body sway side to side, feeling the rhythm of the music. But when the stranger came into view, he felt his anger boil at the sight of them two dancing close together. How the strangers hands roamed her body, or how he held her close to his chest. It made something dark grow in him, he wanted to be the one that would hold her like that, or be the one to be that close to her. He wanted her.

Ever since he talked to Mirko five months about how he felt around her, at first he thought he was poisoned, not being familiar to the whole liking thing. Only for Mirko to burst out laughing, finally telling him after ten minutes of her laughing. That he likes her. He looked at her with a blank stare, waiting for her to explain. The more they talked about her, the more he realised that he did like y/n. He likes y/n.

While Keigo was lost in his own mind, y/n had noticed him sitting there. She had felt someone staring at her, making the girl feel uneasy, but when she saw it was her friend, the guy she had feelings for, she felt at ease. Y/n excused herself from the guy, going over to her friend that was dancing with the red haired male. "Did you invite Keigo?" Y/n had to shout her question out. Mirko looked confused at first, but when she caught Keigos presence at the bar she shook her head no.

But her concussion faded into mischief, the sudden change in her mood made y/n worry a little. Especially after knowing what that look means, it meant something bad or interesting was going down. Mirko dragged y/n back to the stranger, "Make him jealous." Y/n was confused at what Mirko meant by that, not wanting to give their big secret away, so she played along. "Are you both that dense? He likes you! And you like him!." Mirko left her friend there with the stranger once again.

The stranger behind her asked her if she was okay, or that if she wanted to take a break. To which y/n shook her head and said she was okay. The pair went back to dancing, her hips pressed against his, as his hands roamed her body once again.

Keigo felt his anger rise to a wild fire. He wanted to be the one to dance with her like that. He could feel himself getting light headed at the sight of her though, it was very complicated, he wanted to be with her. But just looking at her for a certain amount of time made him toxicated, it made him weak to the knees and fuzzy minded. As he kept staring at her, he jumped slightly when he saw that she had caught his gaze. Not expecting her to look his way, but once she did, he was held hostage in her gorgeous eyes. He saw the mischief hidden in her e/c orbs. Keigo saw as she brought the strangers head down to her neck, as she threw her head back to his shoulder. The sight made him want to actually kill an innocent civilian.

Y/n turned her gaze to the stranger, not really minding his company, but silently preferred the winged males. The h/c haired girl spun around in his hold, his hands going on her a*s, a gasp left her lips when he lightly squeezed it. Tugging her closer to him. The two were oblivious to the looming winged male behind y/n, they were too captivated in their dance that Keigo had to pull y/n to his chest.

Y/n felt herself being tugged to a hard wall, making her look up at Keigos stone hard facial expression, his golden eyes glaring actual daggers at the male across from him. "I think that's enough." Y/n tensed up at his voice, even when fighting villains she has never heard his voice come out that threatening. It made her believe that keigo could most likely kill the male if he really wanted to.

The stranger rolled his eyes at keigo. "Dude we were just dancing, chill out." The stranger went to reach back for y/n, only for keigo to tug her further into him, and side step so she was further from his reach.

"I said. That's enough."

The raven haired male scoffed and walked away. Keigo held his gaze onto the male, making sure he was gone out of sight before tugging y/n from the dance floor. The girl behind him was actually surprised she was able to keep up with his speed. "Keig-" she cut herself off she saw keigo had brought her to the alley way of the club. "Okay...if you're gonna kill me, make sure you don't copy Jack The Ripper." She laughed lightly, trying to bring light into the current situation she was in.

Seeing that he had his back to her she reached for to him. Once her hand came in contact with his shoulder blade, he jumped and spun around in a quick movement. Before she could even blink he had her pinned to the brick wall, his body pressed against hers, trapping her between the wall and his body. Her placed his left hand on her neck, while his right hand was beside her hip. Y/n gasped out in surprise, feeling a fire pit grow in her abdomen at his actions.

"What the hell was that?" He growled out in her ear, his left hand squeezing her neck lightly when she didn't answer. "I won't ask twice baby bird." He looked into her e/c eyes, his golden eyes morphing into a rusted brown, they were practically glowing with rage.

"Mirko..." She gasped out when Keigo lifted her leg up to his waist to press harder against her. "Said to make you...jealo-" she stopped talking when she felt something hard pressing against her needy core. Biting back a moan, feeling his right right hand grip her thigh more.

"Make me jealous?" Keigo let out a harsh chuckle, it didn't sound like his normal go-happy-cute laugh, no. This one sounded empty, and filled with anger. It made a shiver run up and down her spine. "Baby bird, I'm not jealous. I'm pissed." She looked confused but when he started attacking her neck with his lips, she moaned out his name, making him dig his nails into her thigh.

"You let another man put his hands on you. Someone that wasn't me." He growled out in her ear, his left hand squeezing her neck tighter. Going back to bitting her neck, when he heard her moan loud when he reached her sweet spot, he stopped and abused it with all his power.

"What are you...talking about?" Y/n fluttered her eyes shut at his actions, confused on why he would be acting this way. She wanted to keep the innocent act up, finding it kind of funny. Mirko had wanted them to get together in the last three years they have known each other. When in reality they have been doing things like this for three months now.

Keigo used his strength to push her harder to the wall, a small gasp left her lips. "Dont." He unclipped his belt, along with his pants button and zipper, he grabbed her hand and put it in his pants, letting her feel how hard he was for her. "You don't get the right to act innocent right now." He groaned when he felt her rub him, enjoying the feeling of it.

Y/n felt the pit on her stomach grow by the second, wanting to tear his clothes off and let him have her. "I'm not acting, I really don't know what I did wrong." She looked over at Keigo, his eyes darkened, that they almost looked black. He stopped her actions, silently hating it. Y/n tilted her head confused on why he did that. Only for him to drop to his knees.

He lifted her skirt up a bit, seeing her black panties were drenched, "really baby bird?" He looked up at her skeptically, as y/n squirmed when she felt his fingers dance on the material that barely covered her needy area. She had wished she had something to hold onto when he kissed her thighs, leaving open mouthed kisses on her inner thighs slowly edging to her needy core. A loud gasp left her throat when she felt his tongue on her cl*t, a sharp scream when he inserted his fingers. "You mean to tell me...you didn't do anything wrong?" He mumbled against her area.

"Yeah." She could physically hear him roll his eyes at the sound of her soft giggle. She felt herself clamp around him, only for him to pull his finger out, making her whimper at the loss of contact she had with him.

"Why don't I believe you." He glared at her, kissing her hard, letting her taste herself on his lips, while she was distracted, he slammed himself into her, his left hand coming back to her neck. Her moans and his groan was muffled by their lips. "You really expect me to believe that songbird?" He hissed when she touched his wings, knowing how sensitive they were. He brought Her thigh up to his waist once again. Desperate to hit her deeper.

Y/n moved from his wings to his shoulders, needing to grip onto something, as his hips pounded into hers. "Its true~" Y/n barely managed to say that, already forgetting the whole English language, any language at that, the only thing she remembered was his name. So that's what she kept screaming out as his thrust became harder.

His lips went back to her neck, wanting to leave visible marks that she was his, as y/n scratched his back up, almost looking like he had gotten in a fight with a cat. "Keigo! Im...c-close~" she moaned in his ear, making him speed up his thrusts, she could feel herself clamp around him, wanting to finish. Y/n felt the pit in her stomach fade as she reached her high from him.

Keigo kept thrusting into her, desperately chasing after his own climax. Her thighs and hips started to ache in pain from how hard and fast he was going, but his moans and grunts that escaped his throat and collided with her ears made her almost faint in ecstasy. Y/n opened her eyes in time to see his wings flap behind him and flutter as he finished, every time they did it, that was her second favorite thing seeing them flutter to let her know he's done.

"That was--" she stopped when Keigo pulled out of her, fixing how he looks and how she looks, trying to look normal.

"Just wait till we get home song bird." He picked her up and winked at her fearful face, knowing damn well what always comes after that sentence.

NOTE:

I had to have one of my friends write the smut because well, it makes me awkward and cringe.

Also again, thank you amadis_v for the inspiration to write this, hopefully it came out kind of like you imagined. ♡

[pxgblog]

Best Practices for Cleaning Your Golf Clubs

Your clubs are important to you. And, when you use them as often as you do, they get dirty too quickly. If you don’t stick to your cleaning schedule, your golf drivers, irons, wedges, and putters could look dull and could even start to deteriorate. The good news is that maintaining your clubs doesn’t have to be complicated or time-consuming. In fact, it can be pretty easy and even fun. So, here are four tips to help you keep your clubs looking brand new.

Keep Them Clean on the Course First and foremost, you’ll want to clean your clubs as you play—especially your golf wedges and irons. Every time you dig into the dirt to pull a ball out of the rough or graze the grass for a low shot, clumps of debris can attach to your clubs. To combat this and keep your clubs in top shape, keep some simple cleaning supplies in your bag. A double-sided golf brush is great for cleaning materials out of your clubs’ grooves. Use the brass side for irons and wedges, and save the softer nylon bristles to help clean hybrids, woods, and drivers without scuffing the head. Not only does this keep the club clean, but it helps boost your performance because your clubfaces will be clean and contact the ball like they should. Second, use a golf towel to quickly wet and then dry off each club before it goes back in the bag. Using two towels, one wet and one dry, is an easy way to speed up this process. Plus, it helps your clubs sparkle for all 18 holes. Too Much Buildup? Time for an At-Home Cleanup While consistent cleaning on the course can help prevent buildup, it will likely still happen over time. Thankfully, you probably have everything you need to clean your clubs at home already. Start by filling a bucket with lukewarm water and adding a few drops of dish soap. Then, soak the heads of your irons, wedges, and putters in the bucket for around five minutes. After enough time has passed, use a soft brush or microfiber cloth to gently scrub the club to pull dirt out from the grooves and clean the rest of the club. For drivers, fairway woods, and hybrids, you’ll want to avoid submerging your clubs. Instead, dip a microfiber cloth into the bucket and gently wipe down your clubs, focusing on any areas of significant buildup. To Avoid Rust, Try Not to Rush You might move quickly and want to put your clubs away right after cleaning them, but it’s vital that you make sure they’re completely dry before putting them away. This extra patience can help you avoid rust in the long run. If you encounter rust, a spray bottle with a vinegar and lemon juice solution can help remove it. Or some gentle scrubbing with steel wool can also remove rust buildup and get your clubs shining like new. Just remember to scrub very lightly to avoid damaging the club itself. Cleaning Your Grips Now that the clubheads are clean, what about the grips? First, don’t soak them in water. Instead, put a little soap and water on your microfiber cloth, then wipe down the grips. Rinse the towel with clean water until all the soap is gone, and then wipe the grips again. Let the clubs air dry in a shady spot so the sun doesn’t damage your grips, and after a few hours, they’ll look brand new. With these tips, you’ll have the cleanest clubs on the whole course. About PXG Nothing beats the sweet sound of a perfect drive hitting off your club and soaring down the fairway, setting you up for an easy iron shot right onto the green. PXG clubs were made for moments like these. Their clubs feature the most advanced technology, intuitive design, and spectacular aesthetics for a golfing experience that can’t be beat. From the moment you meet with a PXG Master Fitter to your first hole with your 0311 GEN6 Driver, there’s no doubt that you’ve found the best clubs for you. Whether you need a complete golf club set, new hybrid golf clubs, or apparel from the best golf store Houston, Chicago, and cities across the country offer, PXG is the place for you. Replace old and worn-down clubs with the high-quality selection from PXG at https://www.pxg.com/ Original Source: https://bit.ly/45XWb43

[imaginationcemetary]

Hmmm maybe for the begining some general headcanons for being friends with Swapfell Purple and Swapfell Red skele boys? (◕ᴗ◕✿) Also besides the ask, may I interest you in checking au named Fellswap Gold? (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧

Hi, thanks for the question! I have actually looked up Swapfell/Fellswap Gold before. I adore the designs and the world settings, and actually prefer everyone from that Au who isn’t the skelebrothers. (I love them too, just a lot of my head cannons for them run together) I can try and do Wine and coffee as well if you’re interested though?

As for your other question, I’m so happy to see a friendship ask, I never see those! ^_^

Let’s start with (Swapfell Purple Papyrus), aka Syrup! :

He’s kind of standoffish at first, not really the type to let anyone get too close. The longer you hang around him without dipping out or stabbing him in the back, the more likely he is to open up to you. You’ll slowly find that his snide comments turn playful and teasing rather than outright malicious and nicknames like bitch, cunt, dick, or asshole are affectionately common place between the two of you. Hanging out with Syrup usually involves a trip to the arcade or the club, he fully expects you to be his player two when he needs you, and you can count on deep fried memes at 3 AM when you should be sleeping. You know you’ve hit best friend level when he drags you to IHop or Denny’s in the middle of the night and doesn’t make you foot the bill.

(Swapfell purple Sans) Blackberry/Berry:

Blackberry wants friends, so it’s not all that hard to get close to him. He’s the type of person who sees through bullshit pretty quickly, so if you’re genuine with him then he’ll be eager to hang out with you. He’ll tell you to just call him Berry and invite you over to spar with him then offer to cook lunch for you (you’d be better off eating taco bell than anything he makes...unless it’s pancakes, but he’s not making pancakes for lunch no matter how much you or his brother whine) He’s the type to drag you off on adventures to do things like go karting, mini golf, and sleepovers where you stay up playing the legend of Zelda all night long. He’ll want you to make friends with his brother, hoping you’ll be a good influence on him, but he’ll also get jealous if you spend more time with your other friends than him. You’ll know you’ve hit best friend status when he shyly offers to let you read the book he’s writing.

(Swapfell red Papyrus) Rust/Rus:

Rust is a chill kinda guy, and at first glance, it seems like he’s friends with everyone. He’s not. He’s an anxiety ball of distrust and abandonment issues. You’ll feel like you’re friends with him long before he actually considers you a friend, not that you’ll ever pick up on that. He’s pretty good at masking how he feels about people. Once you actually break through the chill guy facade you’ll find yourself with the most loving and loyal friend. Please hug him, he needs so many hugs. He likes to banter with you, and you’ll find yourself blushing more often than not because you’re never sure if he’s flirting with you or not. If someone upsets you, expect them to find three of their tires slashed the next morning without a trace of evidence left behind. Hang outs usually involve things like crashing on the floor and playing smash bros together, random motorcycle rides because dude, ya have ta check this place out, visiting the shooting range, going for drinks, and visiting petsmart because he wants to drag you to see the dogs. Expect him to kidnap you at random for hangouts because he’s super bad at planning. You’ll know you’re his best friend when he lets you just call him Rus.

(Swapfell red Sans) Razzberry/Razz:

He’s loud, he’s an asshole, he holds everyone at an arms length away, and he wants you to praise him all the time. Once he’s decided that you are worth his time you best bet he’s going to want to spend all of it with you. He has a bad habit of insulting everyone, but if he cares about you, he’ll constantly try to boost your self esteem; you’re friends with him, of course that makes you great! You’ll likely need to set up some boundaries, but don’t be too hard on him, his abandonment issues are almost as bad as his brother’s and he really needs to feel like you’ll be there for him when he needs you. He loves to drag you to the mall, there’s an arcade there that he’ll spend hours playing ddr with you if you let him, and he really likes to take you window shopping. Sometimes he’ll nab something that caught your eye and you’ll find it in your room later. His idea of going out for drinks is sipping wine in the kitchen and bitching to each other about work. Once you dig past the bratty exterior, he’s actually a lot of fun to be around.

[sidcrosbybro]

Pittsburgh Penguins 2018/19: Explained

Since we're about to kick off with the playoffs, I figured I'd do an updated silly explanation of the Penguins. So here goes...

Players

Kris "Tanger" Letang - a fashion icon who loves to tweet about how much he loves his team. Incredible two way defenseman. Loves to yell at the refs. It's not Tanger if he's not arguing.

Evgeni "Geno" Malkin - fashion disaster. NHL101. One of the best, if not the best, players in the league but constantly overlooked. Shouldn't be able to skate as gracefully as he does on such long legs. Has the softest hands. Would kill a man for Sidney Crosby.

Sidney "Sid the kid" Crosby - Captain Dad. Takes on rookies like it's his job and ninety percent of the comments from players about him is that he's great at making newbies feel welcome. Has adopted so many sons. Really likes candy. Is already a legend and isn't slowing down. Will probably take over the world at some point. Loves his teammates, especially the rest of the core. Has specially commissioned paintings of him and the boys hanging in his house. President of the Evgeni Malkin fan club.

Jake "Guentz" Guentzel - young but mighty. Really put all his heart into playing and came out from under Sid's wing like a champ. Won't stop scoring. Likes golf. Wrote a book report on Sid once.

Justin "Jultz" Schultz - Also known as Jeff. Amazing defenseman, literally don't know what we'd do without him. Missed a bunch of this season with a broken leg but thank God he came back. Has a fake tooth he just carries around with him for interviews. Best friends with Olli Maatta.

Olli Maatta - for a long time we all thought he was super quiet and shy and then at the 2016/17 cup parade we turned out to be very very wrong. Boy went buckwild and passed out on his own balcony. Soft and fluffy. We love him. Best friends with Justin Schultz.

Brian "Dumo" Dumoulin - looks like your typical frat boy but actually doubles as one of the best/most underrated defensemen in the league and the Ultimate Wine Connoisseur. Loves his wife and his dog more than anything. Team DJ but doesn't know what indie music is.

Matt "Cully" Cullen - (A.K.A Dad) Was with us for a few years, left us for a season and was meant to retire in Minnesota but then came back for 18/19 because he Missed Us Too Much. Not convinced he'll ever stop playing tbh. Has the funniest kids and loves his family.

Phil 'The Thrill' Kessel - ...Is a Stanley Cup Champion. Shy boy who doesn't like cameras. Plays like a God. Really loves his dog, Stella. Super Supportive Brother of Amanda Kessel. We are so blessed to have this man on our team.

Patric "Horny" Hornqvist - resident Swedish Viking. Was part of the iconic duo of Horny and Hags but this season stole that from us. Very shouty and very happy. A net-pest who upsets most goalies in the league. Allergic to wearing clothes.

Bryan "Rusty" Rust - soft boy. Great at breakaways and his job in general. Went through a period of time where empty nets just really weren't working for him to the point it became a team meme. Works really hard and deserves nice things.

Matt "Muzz" Murray - elite!!! Crazy good at his job and is going to be a complete legend one day. Has two giant Newfoundlands who are adorable. Was a mentee to Flower and It Shows. Works with charity a lot and is so humble. We love this boy.

Tristan Jarry - eyebrows!!! Also very good at his job. Sully once had to tell him to be LESS calm because he's so chill. He doesn't even break a sweat making insane saves. Fantastic dude.

Zach Aston-Reese - "ZAR" - looks like he should be in the wilderness chopping wood. Looks AMAZING when he gets into fights. Soft and lovely, works really hard for this team and deserves his place here. Poor boy won't stop getting injured though. Half of the iconic nose & eyebrows squad.

Garrett "Willy" Wilson - other half of the nose and eyebrows squad. Has freckles for days. Captain of WBS and it shows. BIG, looks like he could Kill, but is actually very soft spoken and has a little bit of a lisp. Loves kids and loves Pittsburgh. Deserves only the best.

Dominik "Domino" Simon - people can personally fight me about Dom, I love him. Had a bit of an up and down season but he'll be okay!!! Underrated two way player and trusted by Sully. Looks like a chick that just hatched for Easter.

Chad "Roo" Ruhwedel - used to play roller hockey a lot! We don't see him much but he's a good guy. Works hard and gets along with Sid a lot.

Jack Johnson, A.K.A. "JJ" - was Sid's roommate in school. Has a lot of stories about him he either can't or won't share about him. Had a questionable start but has been really really helpful to the whole team as of late. So big.

Theodore "Teddy" Blueger - somebody please let this boy get some rest. Looks like he has a cold 90% of the time but definitely doesn't play like it. He's going to have an amazing career. Jesus Christ.

Marcus "The Dragon" Pettersson - acquired him from the Ducks this season and it was definitely worth it. He's tall, young and has a play similar to Dumo's. Who knows, maybe in a few years he'll be just as unstoppable as him?

Jared "Canner" McCann - along with Bjuggy, Canner experienced maybe the most stressful move from his old team to the Penguins. Left Florida and showed up for their first game two minutes before the anthem started. Looks a bit like Guentz when he has his helmet on. Insanely good addition to this team, could not be more grateful for him.

Nick "Bjuggy" Bjugstad - like Canner, has been an incredible acquisition. You will hear his name pop up about 100 times a game because he never stops working for it. Just wow.

Erik Gudbranson - Large Man. He can really steamroll them. He's too new for me to know That Much about him but boy can he send opposing players flying.

Zach Trotman - called up from WBS recently. Looks a bit lost sometimes like he's not 100% sure where he is or what he's doing but he's a good guy.

Head & Assistant Coaches

Mike "Sully" Sullivan - Head Coach. Angry Bird. Loves his team, expresses his pride in the guys constantly, but is not afraid to yell. Has a good relationship with his players and makes good decisions most of the time. Unless it's an empty net. He really likes them. The fans wish he didn't.

Mark "Rex" Recchi - Assistant Coach. A kind guy who works hard and backs Sully most of the time. Looks after his players. Top notch dude.

Sergei "Gonch" Gonchar - Assistant Coach. Basically a second father to Geno, housed him when he first came to Pittsburgh. Played with him and Sid for a little while. Is permanently done with the whole team. Absolutely beloved.

Jacques Martin - Assistant Coach. Responsible for 'Jacques Squad' which was an incredible penalty team group the last few seasons.

[save-the-spiral]

Can you use the random word generator to generate three words, then write a story about an OC of yours who could reasonably fit all three? If you do, thanks :)

Generated Words: Crouch, House, Share. (word generator)

Made a direct continuation of a zombie apocalypse drabble I wrote two years ago, oops! (link to that) I continued it and added on, fleshing out the world and adding in characters of mine >:3

Content warnings for blood, guns, zombies, apocalypse scenarios, implied child abuse, medical stuff mention, and I did accidentally write a tiny gross bit about how bad zombies smell, oops. 

"Thanks again." Haley said.

"No problem! My group tries to help out anyone we can find." Irisi, a tall, lithe woman with pale brown skin and many freckles, was standing confidently, rifle slung over her back, the strap bisecting her heavy trench coat and leather vest underneath. Small dark stains on the coat revealed how she hadn't always been up in a perch when fighting zombies.

"But still-!" Noah was still breathing heavily, eyes fixed on the woman. "You didn't have to, so thanks, really. I don't know what I'd do without Haley."

Haley blushed, turning to look at the horizon. "So, you've got a group?" She changed the subject.

Irisi perked up even more. "Yeah, my dad, my girlfriend, and her brother and dad. Our dads were doctors- a surgeon and family doctor. The rest of us know basic first aid too- that's how we help people, we know our ways around hospitals too, so we've got a stockpile of supplies."  

“Sounds like a good set up.” Noah said blankly. “Well, we should get going, we’re heading across the city-”

“No-!” Irisi cut him off, then awkwardly shuffled in place before talking again. “I mean, you can stay with us. We found this gated community, we cleared it all out- so you can come pick a house and stay.” 

Haley snorted now, mouth twisting into a scowl. “What’s the catch?” 

“Catch?” Irisi’s amber eyes caught the light of the sunset, and she squinted at Haley.

“Yeah. Catch.” Haley’s eyes flashed with anger as she stepped forward, Noah automatically moving behind her, unknowingly in sync. “Nothing in this world is free anymore, Irisi.” 

The unspoken knowledge that the world didn’t give a fuck about fairness made Noah want to sigh and just take a year long nap, but it wasn’t the time for that. Maybe later.

“I-” Irisi bit her lip, turning away. “I don’t know what you want me to say here. My group does our best to not hurt or take advantage of others unless provoked. We could meet outside of our base first, if that made you feel better? We wouldn’t have a home advantage or anything?” 

“Fine.” Haley relented, all gratitude gone now, taking her endless anger out on a stranger as opposed to her brother, the only person she cared about nowadays.

Noah stepped in, "There's a cleared out diner two streets away, with the most god awful gold and blue booths inside. We can meet there."

Irisi simply nodded, eyes darting to look at Haley with a new wariness, and ran off, hopping from roof to roof carefully.

"Stop acting like a bitch, Haley." Noah muttered sharply, hefting his golf club back over his shoulder and turning, looking down at the alleyway they had escaped from. The dozen zombies were now feasting on the one Irisi shot. His lip curled with disgust as the undead ripped open their fallen ally, the stench of rotten innards and whatever the zombie had stuffed inside itself now wafting upwards. 

The more recent ones smelled even worse in his opinion, but that's just the combination of fruits and vegetables and whatever processed crap people scavenged and rotted meat. 

"We'll have to get down to the diner, Noah." Haley finally said, her voice small and apologetic in a way that meant more than any 'sorry'. 

"Sure thing, Hales." The nickname was an indicator that everything is okay, so when Noah turned to look at his twin, her shoulders were relaxing slightly. 

Making their way through the streets in early spring was a dichotomy of soft white and pink petals and dried brown splashes of blood, both resting on the concrete and only one temporary. The wind whistled through bare limbs of trees and broken windows, it sent ash and flakes of rust off of the cars that had long been pushed aside to create a clear path down the main boulevard for anyone lucky enough to get a working vehicle. 

In their silence they walk down the middle of the street, cautious of zombies in those cars and in alleyways. In these cities there was a tendency to be so many things that used to be people, especially if they hadn’t been evacuated, and instead quarantined. It hadn't worked, because it could take weeks, even months, for the disease to set in and show any symptoms. So before they knew it an entire city could be dead people walking. 

Sure, they made a vaccine. It worked pretty well, considering the alternative was dying and then becoming a monster. There was too much panic, and no one wanted to trust it. They deluded themselves into thinking that they could play apocalypse as opposed to trusting science and logic.

Noah and Haley had been watching it happen, sitting side by side in matching dresses they hated, glued to a television that gave updates to their area, their little generator working overtime, cautious of the mandatory lights out that the quarantined areas enforced. They watched the live footage of a mob storming the lab producing the vaccine, they watched as researchers and interns and students ran out of the building as it caught fire.

They watched the last hope of humanity go up in smoke, both of them guilty because they had been vaccinated just weeks before, a bonus for their mother being a good soldier, keeping peace in their little city district.

Considering how everything played out in the end, the only thing you could get out of the twins about their mother that didn’t end in breaking things or panic attacks was the fact that she was a good soldier.

Even then it would set Noah on edge, teetering, and would make Haley clench her fists so hard her tendons become frayed piano strings.

Noah was brought back to reality with a subtle shift, Haley’s knuckles brushing against the hairs on his bicep when she pointed to their destination, likely knowing of Noah’s contemplative mood. Noah was a half step behind her, golf club over one shoulder and the other holding onto the one untorn strap of his backpack. With every step he was reminded of the pistol shoved into the back of his jeans, how it had been without ammunition for weeks.

Haley had a metal baseball bat held loosely in her left hand, adjusting her jean jacket and frowning as another waft of something rancid hit them. They shared a look with the same expression, wrinkled noses and a grimace, then a shared smile at the reminder that they are two sides of one coin, even if it is long out of rotation currency, left in the bottom of a junk drawer with useless keys and forgotten things. 

The glass door into the diner was completely broken, traces of old blood on the shards in front of the door and on what little remained in the frame. Long dead neon signs and ragged flyers caked in dirt both decorate the wide and grimy windows. 

The diner was empty, and Haley promptly flopped down in a booth, sending up a cloud of dust and all kinds of likely hazardous spores. With a cough she turned around, resting on her back and letting her head fall off of the edge. Her hair barely touched the filthy linoleum, and she shifted for a moment before closing her eyes, resting but unable to sleep and render herself vulnerable.

Noah sat on the table of that booth, between his twin and the door, and kept watch.

It only took half an hour until he saw people. A group crossed the empty street, Irisi at the lead and pointing towards Noah, who waved lazily and tapped on the table to get Haley up. With a short, stifled gasp, Haley sat up slowly, eyes narrowed. Noah made eye contact with her so she could gage the situation, and seeing his relaxed posture and only slight nervousness, she relaxed as well, hand reaching for her bat nonetheless. 

The hinges creaked as Irisi pushed open the door, holding it like a gentleman for her group. An older man with a wispy white beard and spotted skin the color of teak wood walked in first, back hunched slightly over his cane. Following him was a pale asian boy with blue hair, a turtleneck, and glasses, who stared at them accusingly and had a hand over a holstered gun at his hip. Then a friendlier face entered, the shorter and older asian man nodding at them, but quickly moving to ensure the oldest man got a stable seat. The last to enter was a very short girl dressed in a leather jacket and a sneer, combat boots crunching savagely against the broken glass on the floor. Her wavy hair was half shaved, the other side just reaching her chin and she watched them with a similar glare to the boy’s. However, she had no gun, just a well used wooden baseball bat and an array of knives in what could’ve once been a bandolier.

The fathers, the girlfriend, and the girlfriend’s brother. Charming. 

“Hi, Noah. Haley.” Irisi said, letting the door swing shut. 

“Hi.” Noah smiled weakly. “Nice to see you without the gang of zombies about to murder us.”

Irisi huffed, smiling. “Yeah.” She hopped to sit on a table across from them, so they could look each other in the eye. The older man, seated in the booth for the table, placed a hand on hers and smiled shakily. “Oh! So this is my dad, Alhazred.”

“Nice to meet you.” Haley muttered, nodding.

Irisi began pointing to the other three, who were seated at the bar by the window, facing the rest of them. She pointed to the short girl with dark skin. “That’s Mari, my girlfriend. She’s best with up close and personal stuff, and first aid on the field. That’s Emrys, her brother and our best with handguns- and generally being a badass.” The boy with blue hair gave a short wave, then turned back to the window to watch the street. “Then that’s Quyen, Emrys and Mari’s dad, and the best with big problems, generally makes sure the rest of us aren’t idiots.” 

“I’ve never done anything wrong in my life.” Mari deadpanned, an obvious lie if her brother’s derisive snort was anything to go by. 

“Yes dear.” Irisi smirked, then turned back to Haley and Noah. “You two seem capable, and you did grab what was probably the last pharmacy supplies in the city, so I’m thinking you guys staying a while is the least we can do if we split the meds.” 

Haley turned slightly, catching Noah’s eye. She was not on board at all. 

Noah raised his eyebrows, making it clear that two backpacks instead of one full of medicine was not worth it. Not when they could potentially have a place to go back to if they needed, and maybe extra necessities if they leave on good terms.

Haley rolled her eyes, and turned back to the ragtag family. “That’s fine. As long as we both look through it and make sure it’s fair. By the end it got chaotic and I sure as hell don’t need like, fifteen boxes of laxatives or whatever when the other bag is full of painkillers.” 

Noah huffed, smiling and amused at her dry tone. If Haley still weren’t shaken by their close call she would probably have argued and made a scene just for the hell of it.

Quyen nodded, a slight smile on his face. “That sounds more than fair.” 

Haley’s shoulders relaxed subtly, the tension in her clenched jaw gone, her hand on the table grabbing at the thick fabric of the hoodie Noah had tied around his waist. A faded pink thing with blood splatters and stains decorating it like a modern painting.

“Yeah. Fair.” Haley said quietly, unable to eye the strange adult with anything but distrust. 

Noah made the big move this time, moving a hand off of his golf club and setting it on Haley’s, gripping it loosely until she twisted her wrist to interlock their fingers comfortably. Undoubtedly, every person in the room noticed, but he didn’t have it in him to care.

This might be the first good group they had found since setting out on their own. They seem kind, reliable. 

A family. A good one. A real one. 

After all Noah and Haley had been through, they deserved that, at least.

“So when do we move in?” Noah asked, smiling.