#and I do own a yellow rain jacket

[pretentiouswreckingball]

thank you for the tags guys @faggylittleleatherboy @fxreflyes @angel-daydreams @drowninginthoughts27 @fruityindividual @whorerific & @ecstarry <33

link to make yours

I think everyone has already done this so open tag!!!

[i-identify-pet-products]

Wagwear Wagwellies Mojave in Cobolt Blue

He looks like an old light house keeper

[criminalamnesia]

Not a request but NEW TRAITOR CHAP WHEN??? prioritize urself no rush Pookie just the ppl gotta know

part 7 is here 🙏

ALL PARTS CAN BE FOUND HERE

it was pouring rain as you slid from the taxi, the driver attempting to yell at you to shut the door as thunder rumbled overhead.

you paid him no heed; boots splashed in murky puddles as you pushed the door closed and moved towards the yellow cab’s trunk.

you could barely hear yourself think. the rain was battering the ground as if locked in a viscous war with the cracked pavement— puddles forming as the asphalt resisted with all its might. it wasn’t enough, water seeping into the ground and muddying the grass nearby, drowning it mercilessly.

you grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder before shutting the trunk. you’d barely stepped back from the car before it was speeding off, kicking up water and splashing your legs.

you didn’t mind— you were soaked through to the bone, anyways. besides, you didn’t mind the storm. it was comfort— a distraction from what lay ahead.

your new team. a small, covert operations group made up of the best of the best. two sergeants, a lieutenant, a captain— and they wanted one more soldier.

the opening couldn’t have come at a better time. you’d run your course with your old squad. they’d been fine— until they weren’t. carelessness and ignorance from teammates almost resulted in your untimely death, and laswell hadn’t questioned your transfer request after hearing the tale.

in fact, she’d recommended the one-four-one to you.

you thought you’d be meeting them on base, but the captain had requested you meet them here, instead. a run-down old diner, with its bright, neon pink sign blinking down at you through the rain.

you inhaled, then exhaled. clenched your fists, then unclenched them. it was a habit you’d had since you were a child. it forced you to slow down and think, to overcome the emotions you were lost in.

you blinked. rain ran down your face, creating false tears as it streamed from the corners of your eyes. you were sure you looked a sight.

another inhale, another exhale, and then you moved towards the diner’s door. you pushed it open, stepping inside and wiping your boots on the mat in front of the door.

“I think you’re gonna need to do more than that to dry off, sweetheart” a woman’s voice calls to you, causing you to look up towards the counter. she’s grimacing, looking you up and down. no doubt she’ll be following your path through the building with a mop in hand.

“sorry,” you tell her, trying to brush some water from your jacket. “forgot my umbrella.”

the woman gave a huff, waving her hand before turning and attending to an ancient-looking coffee maker.

you take the time to glance around the diner then, noting the substantial lack of customers. only two booths were occupied, one containing a young couple tangled in each other’s arms, and the other containing a man wearing a baseball cap with the UK flag patched on it.

he looked up from his phone as you approached, seemingly unsurprised based on the grin he gave you.

“glad to see you got here in one piece,” he says as you shrug off your bag, placing it on the floor as you slide into the seat across from him.

“one drenched piece,” you say, and he gives a small chuckle.

“im kyle,” the man tells you. “don’t know what laswell told you,” he clicks off his phone and places it on the table. “but im one of the sergeants.”

you nod. “callsign ‘gaz,’ right?”

he gives a nod of his own. his phone buzzes, the screen lighting up. his eyes glance down, scan the message, then meet yours once more.

“rest of the team got held up. price is in a meeting. johnny and ghost are on assignment, but they’re due back any day now.”

“so you’re the welcome committee by default, huh?” you say, and he laughs.

“guess i am. have i scared you off yet?”

“dunno,” you tell him. “but laswell sings your praises. the captain’s, especially.”

“she sings yours, too.” kyle says.

you give a small nod, your mind racing at what laswell may have told the task force. you weren’t bad at your job— you were great at it. a great shot, a reliable solider, a tireless sentry.

your emotions got the better of you at times, that was all. attachments and bonds that formed, linking you and your fellow soldiers together in the web of warfare. tying you around the wrist and dragging you along, for better or worse. little siblings or lovers evolving from what once had been just another set of boots on the ground.

this job was all you had. you found family where you had too, and it made you all the more loyal. but when you were spurned? when the fire leapt from the pit and scorched your skin?

you weren’t quick to forgive, and you found that reasonable in this line of work. mistakes by teammates could get you killed. who could blame you for holding a grudge against an ally who had almost cost you your life?

it’s why you were here now. a new start with a new team— a team of the best, you included.

kyle’s phone buzzes again. he picks it up, the screen illuminating his face as the lights flicker overhead. the storm wasn’t letting up.

“cap’s on his way— says he’ll be here in less than 30.”

“price, right?” you recall his name. kyle nods.

“don’t tell him I told you,” he leans in, a mischievous look in his eyes, “but he’s been lookin’ forward to meeting you. maybe even more than johnny has.”

“why’s that?”

“said the one-four-one is overdue for someone else who can kick johnny’s ass. wants you to knock him down a few more pegs.”

you laugh at that, giving a small shake of your head. kyle’s lips curl into a smile. “nah, he’s just happy to have some more hands on deck. always helps to have another person that’ll watch your back.”

as kyle starts talking again, you find your nerves settling.

maybe this team could be your new family.

you looked down at your hands, noting the slight shake of them. you don’t think they’d been steady since before everything happened.

your eyes glance to the ugly, scarred stump of the finger you’d lost. simon hadn’t chopped it off prettily, and it’d been stitched up hastily. you couldn’t blame the doctor, there had been more pressing injuries to attend to.

such as the bone-deep cut to one leg, growing infected from your time spent in the chair. the scar was long, stretching from the top of your thigh to your knee. it was still pink, a sign of your body still trying to put itself back together.

your torso wasn’t much better. jagged scars and puckered knots of skin marred your image. both from before and from after.

your eyes met your own in the mirror. you barely recognized yourself. the anger within you still burned, but its flame had reduced to a simmer. exhaustion, apathy, and shame had taken its place.

perhaps that was a good thing. it saved you the energy of fighting the men you inevitably saw every day. despite your numerous pleas and demands for them to simply leave you alone, they seemed to have a hard time listening. it made you want to scream. to hurt them, digging your fingers into skin until they understood the pain behind your words.

a knock sounded at the door. you didn’t move.

a knock again. you could hear the shuffle of feet outside the door. you wished whoever it was would leave you be.

another knock, accompanied by the soft timbre of kyle’s voice.

“love, you alright in there?” he was saying. you still stood before the mirror.

things had been different since you attacked the doctor. it had only been a few days, but word spread quickly through base. if people had avoided you before, you were like the plague now.

and the shame you felt was insurmountable. the pain and regret and fury were building like a tidal wave in your stomach, rising and choking the air from your lungs.

you wanted to leave this place. get away from the men you once called family, the one you once called yours.

but leaving meant the end of your career. you just had to hold out until kate arranged your transfer, that’s all. just a few more days, right?

and then this place and these people wouldn’t be a constant reminder of what had happened to you. of what it had done to you, physically and mentally.

“go, kyle,” you called out to him, breaking from your trance as you reached for the scratchy robe johnny had gifted you one christmas.

“not until i see you breathin’, love.”

you sigh, tying the robe shut and hugging the material to your body. you moved to the door, turning the lock before inching it open.

“breathing,” you tell him, watching as his eyes flick away from yours. god, it made you want to strangle him.

to yell at him, to yell at all of them— "you did this, and you should be able to look me in the eyes and see it.”

“now go.”

he looks at you again, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “will you let me in?” he asks, and you scoff as you move to slam the door.

“fuck off, kyle.”

but he’s quick, and his hand shoots out, grasping the door’s wooden edge and keeping it from closing.

“we need to talk.”

“whatever you need to say, you can say it from there,” you tell him, and he pauses for a minute before he nods.

“doc is asking about you again. she’s up and runnin’ around. said she wants to see you.”

your lips press into a thin line. you didn’t deserve that woman’s kindness, not after what you’d done to her.

you hadn’t been in your right mind, but that didn’t excuse it. you had bloodied your fists; harmed an innocent in the war between you and your own mind.

you didn’t want to see her still worrying about you when you had assured her you were fine. you had left her supervision, and then you’d attacked her. and you hadn’t stopped until simon had pulled you away.

you would’ve killed her, you know that in your heart. you would’ve killed her, thinking she was one of the men who had wanted to kill you.

“tell her im fine,” you said, your hand tightening around the door’s knob.

“i think she’d rather see that for herself,” he says.

“im fine,” you repeat. “i’ll be out of everyone’s hair in a few days, anyways.”

kyle’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “you’re leaving?”

he knew this, they all did. perhaps they just didn’t truly believe it. all of them, every single one, still thought you’d turn around and run back into their arms.

bastards.

“as soon as laswell gives the word,” you reply. “should be soon.”

kyle doesn’t speak. he’s obviously biting his tongue— you’d seen the expression that was on his face enough to know when he was holding back, but you didn’t prod like you would’ve before.

let him keep his secrets, lies, promises, and sorries. you didn’t need them anymore.

“don’t bother me again,” you said before shutting the door in his face.

you hear him sigh on the other side of the wood, then hear the retreat of his steps. you turn back to the mirror, snarl, and grab the alarm clock from your nightstand.

you throw it into the glass, shattering it to pieces. seven years of bad luck, you think.

well, it couldn’t get much worse, could it?

kyle sighs, staring at your door for a second longer before turning away. simon looks down at him from where he was leaning against the wall, hidden from your view, his muscled arms crossed over his chest.

“surprised?” simon asks as the two of them retreat down the hallway. he makes sure they’re far enough from your door before speaking, so that you won’t hear his voice.

“we knew it was happening, price said as much after that whole thing with johnny,” kyle replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. “just thought this might change things.”

“change ‘em how?” simon says. “if anythin’, this speeds it up. they’re a liability now.”

“they’re hurt, ghost,” kyle retorts, his eyes meeting his superior’s. “that’s ptsd. not everyone’s as forgiving as the doc. they attack someone outside and that’s a fucking felony.”

“that’s not our problem, sergeant,” comes simon’s baritone reply, and kyle stops.

“you’re a fuckin’ case yourself, y’know that, LT?” he says, and simon stops. “we all played a part,” kyle continues. “but you? you would’ve killed ‘em if we never knew the truth. i know you would’ve. i’ve seen you do it.”

the men stare at each other. simon’s expression is hidden underneath his balaclava, but kyle knows it’s unreadable regardless.

mean, old ghost. heartless bastard, loyal to the mission only. that’s what the others around base whispered to each other.

kyle had seen proof to the contrary. yes, simon was loyal to the mission. but he was also loyal to his team, his family. you.

he was loyal to you.

“watch yourself, sergeant,” simon speaks, his voice a dangerous rumble.

kyle scoffs and walks off, shaking his head.

simon watches him go, his breath steady.

kyle didn’t understand him, not really. not the way you had begun to. and that was his own fault, he knows it. forever holding those close to him at arms length for fear of the worst.

he’d let you in— let you invade that space he enforced so ruthlessly. and the worst had happened.

kyle doesn’t know this is tearing him in half; none of the team does. they don’t understand that simon wants you to stay because you’re you, but he wants you gone because he can see how this is killing you.

even when he’s the villain in your story, he’s still trying to look out for you— in his own, twisted way.

he doesn’t regret it. that is cemented in his mind. but as he grapples with his own emotions, his mind in its own turmoil, he knows he wants you to be okay.

“im sorry,” he had spoken to deaf ears.

sorry for the ripping apart of your life, but not sorry for what he had done.

deep down, he knew you would never forgive them. he knew that leaving this team would be the best thing for you.

he knew, he knew, he knew.

knowing and accepting are two different things.

hope this was worth the wait! i think the next part will be the end, unless my idea changes 👀

[msafterhours]

No Promises

Reader POV x Joo Kyulkyung (Zhou Jieqiong)

~2.7k words

“We were meant to be together sounded so much sweeter when it felt like we had forever.”

There's something beautiful about intentionally making the wrong decision. Like, sure, it sounds crazy to step into the line of fire and say yeah, come on universe; take your best shot, but it’s also kinda fun, no? Granted, soaring down the streets of Seoul with the wind whipping against your jacket and the rain pouring past your helmet is maybe a bit much, but you left any concerns you might have had in the dust long before the sun set. Besides, this is far from the first time you’ve acted with the type of reckless abandon reserved for those who have yet to live long enough to have something to lose.

That calculus changes when you re-enter Seoul: speed limits shift from suggestions to mandates. After a third red in a row rips an extended groan from your chest, you spend the moment inspecting the streets you’ve traversed a thousand times. You’re met by the familiar sight of Gangnam-gu’s glimmering lights, gleaming skyscrapers, and garish nightclubs each casting their own unique reflection onto the shimmering street below. On most nights, you’re able to let the mess of colors fade into the background, but tonight, it feels uncharacteristically gray. Even then, it’s all so loud, from the rainfall on the swarms of umbrellas to the downcast expressions of the faceless crowd—hell, even the red light you’ve been keeping an eye on seems washed out.

Right as you’re wondering if you’ve been transported back in time and cast in a 1940s sitcom, a sudden flash of color at the far edge of vision completely derails your train of thought. You turn and are met by a sight pulled straight from a modern drama: a student close to your own age wearing a soaked banana yellow top and skirt clinging to her legs as she hides under her highlighter pink backpack like it’s some shoddy umbrella. It’s … not a pretty sight.

Or at least it wouldn't be, if not for the rest of her. Her long, dark hair cascades down past her shoulders and clings to her face, obscuring your view of her finer features, yet every aspect of her from her posture to the placement of her steps projects a practiced poise that monopolizes your attention. Everyone else fades from your vision as the light turns green and she turns the crosswalk into her personal runway … though the effect is kinda ruined by the urgency with which she scurries through the rain.

A feeling from deep within urges you to act—that and the person behind you honking their horn since you’ve spent the four seconds since the light turned green frozen in place. You release the brake, accelerate forward, and veer your motorcycle to the side where you know she's heading. With a quick step onto the soaked pavement and a tug on the strap of your helmet, you greet the rain with the widest of smiles, then feel it shift into a smirk as you call out, “Ouch, aren’t you a sad sight to behold. Need some help with that?”

She turns and stares, mouth agape, as she processes the sight of you. Your first glimpse of her leaves you stuck mirroring her expression, mouth agape in disbelief because she's gorgeous, with a sharp jawline that contrasts perfectly against her soft skin. It’s a face sculpted to show on billboards … and one whose disbelief shifts into a smirk as she remains unaffected by your reaction. Your eyes travel upwards past those invitingly soft lips, along the bridge of her nose, all the way up and meeting her own, where you’re all too tempted to lose yourself in them. Eventually, she breaks the silence and asks, “What. The. Fuck. Are you doing? Are you trying to die?”

“Of course not, don’t you listen? I already told you, I’m trying to help,” you say back, smile widening as her skepticism refuses to fade whatsoever. “I just figured that while we’re both out in the rain, only one of us wants to be, yeah? I'd be doing something wrong if I didn't at least offer to get you there faster, so I ask again: do you want my help or not?”

As you offer her your helmet, you see the distrust finally start thawing, just enough for her to crack a smile of her own. “This is insane—you’re insane. But you also seem fun, so why not?”

You hand her the helmet and exchange names, and as the girl you'll come to know as Kyulkyung repeats yours back to you, you watch as her eyebrows relax and the distrust starts leaving her eyes. As you go through a brief crash course—how to wear a helmet, where to sit, etc.—her posture slips too, hints of comfort and fatigue settling in as her shoulders slump. Yet through it all, her eyes remain locked on yours, causing an unexpected pang in your chest as you turn to climb onto the bike. It fades slightly when you turn back to her, offer your hand, and ask, “Okay, you ready?”

Even as Kyulkyung shivers and shakes like a leaf in the wind, the fire in her eyes burns bright as she dismisses your hand and climbs atop the bike with ease. Her arms wrap around you, sending a shock of heat through your system and your heart rate into the stratosphere as she asks, “Do you happen to know where the PLEDIS building is?”

“Funnily enough, I do,” you tell her, smirking with sinister intent as inspiration strikes. “What’re you, a trainee or something?”

“No …” Kyulkyung murmurs, averting her eyes as she continues, “I just have a really good reason to want to be there before 11:00.”

“Sure. Yeah. Totally,” you say. Her eyebrows raise; yours respond in kind. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth. You continue. “You, the ‘School of Performing Arts’ student—in said uniform—strutting around Gangnam of all places. You’re gonna try and convince me you’re not a trainee, just that you happen to have a ‘really good reason’ to be at an agency before a very specific time of night.”

“Are you trying to say something?”

“Two things actually: you’re full of shit and you’re out past curfew.”

“You sound pretty sure of that.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Why would it even matter?”

“Because I like being right, and you apparently hate being wrong. Aside from that, if I need to get you back before curfew, we’re going to have to book it, run a few red lights, pray that we don’t get pulled over—”

“Alright, enough,” Kyulkyung interjects, eyes rolling with a gymnast’s grace. “You’re not wrong, but let’s just focus on getting me back in one piece, alright? I’m pretty sure they care more about me being alive than on time.”

“We’re not going anywhere until you say it,” you insist. “Go ahead, tell me I’m right.”

“You’re actually serious?” she mutters in disbelief. You opt to let the silence act as your confirmation.

“Fine. You’re right: I’m a trainee. Happy?” Kyulkyung grumbles, grimacing as a grin overtakes your expression. “What gave it away?”

“I dunno, you kinda just seem ‘that kind of pretty’,” you say with a shrug. “Something about the way you walk too … honestly, nothing about you comes off as normal.”

“Bit rich for you of all people to say that, don’t you think? I wouldn’t exactly call this a ‘normal’ way to spend a Friday night.”

“I wouldn't either,” you admit, smiling wide as you respond. “But are you—the trainee—really gonna be the one to lecture me about running headfirst towards an enticing risk?”

“No, I'm not,” Kyulkyung says, her grip on your ribs tightening. “Though I might not be so kind if you keep me out in this rain any longer.”

“Alright, alright, fine,” you wheeze out, struggling to catch your breath as you paint on your most dramatic pout. “You’re no fun … but you are kinda cute, so I guess I can cave just this once.”

“Good,” she replies, smiling in smug satisfaction. “Now, let’s get going! I’m cold.”

“As you wish, princess,” you say, revving the engine and speeding off before she gets the chance to respond.

You immediately lose any semblance of newfound confidence as the unfiltered brunt of the elements threatens to overwhelm you on your first time riding without a helmet. First, it’s the scent of rain. Then, it’s the rain pummeling your brow. Finally, it’s the noise. Your motorcycle roars and the cars passing you scream off into the night as they pass—it’s all just so fucking loud and every single sensation threatens to pull your focus away from the road. Yet even amongst the brutal weather of a stormy night, Kyulkyung’s thoughts resonate through your mind clear as day. You feel her heartbeat race as you accelerate out of a turn, feel her cling to you tighter at every hint of yellow in the stoplights above. Without fail, she wordlessly pleads for you to choose caution, and, without fail, you do whatever she asks.

At one such intersection, you ask a question of your own: you let go of the handlebar and place your hand atop hers. Kyulkyung's response is just as silent, but she needs no words to tell you yes as she intertwines her fingers with yours as you wait together. Even through the drenched material of your glove, the heat of her touch wards off the cold, sending a surge of warmth through your shivering body as you both stare ahead into the awaiting darkness. You revel in the sensation as long as possible, right up until the light turns to green and you’re forced to pull away.

As she embraces you once more and you accelerate forward, a realization cuts through the fog and arrives at the forefront of your mind: you just met this girl and you already know you’re never going to be able to say no to her. And that’s … okay?

Yes. There’s something about her that takes the tension out of the knots in your shoulders, makes you breathe just that bit easier—at least when she’s allowing you to do so. It’s all too easy to ease into her embrace, all too tempting to take your time weaving your way through the tangled web of your home suburb’s streets. The thought proves far too tempting and you choose to do so, desperate to preserve the sanctity of these seconds spent together.

Unfortunately, the night only lasts so long and the road only goes so far, so you’re soon met by the familiar sight of your destination. You force yourself to ease off the gas, allowing your momentum to carry you forward until you come to a stop across the street from the building in question. With a sigh and a swing of your leg, you step off the motorcycle and turn to face her as you offer her your hand. This time, Kyulkyung accepts, taking it and joining you on the sidewalk. After loosening the chin strap, you gently pull the helmet off her head, granting you a glimpse of her parted lips before revealing the excitement and expectation in her wide eyes.

“So, what’d you think? Kinda fun, right?” you ask, allowing your eyebrows to lift in expectation as you await her response.

“Maaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyybbbbbeeee,” she says, drawing out that single syllable just long enough for smirks to overtake both your expressions.

“You know what? I’ll take it. And you—” you say, turning away for a moment as you unlock one of the side compartments of your bike and pull something out. “—should take this.”

Kyulkyung lets out the slightest squeak of surprise as she catches the umbrella you toss her, though the surprise is quickly replaced by the disdain and disbelief overtaking her expression. “Wait, you’re kidding. You have to be. You had this the whole fucking time?”

“Yep!”

“And you still felt the need to convince me to risk my life on that screaming metal death trap?”

“I thought it’d be a valuable experience,” you say, shrugging once more. “You can keep the umbrella by the way; it’s all yours.”

Kyulkyung’s sigh of resignation is all that keeps the street from falling into silence as you stand there, waiting for her to voice her thoughts. Eventually, she does so. “Give me your phone.”

“So greedy, honestly. I just gave you a ride and my umbrella, yet you’re still asking for more?” you scoff. Still though, you do as she asks, pulling it out of your pocket and unlocking it before handing it to her.

“It’s one of my toxic traits,” she replies as she taps away at the screen. “Everyone else seems to have gotten used to it, so I’m sure you’ll be fine, eventually.”

“Oh?” you ask, eyebrow arching as she piques your curiosity. “You hoping I’ll stick around?”

“No, I was just texting myself from your phone for the hell of it,” she says, sarcasm soaking her words like the rain-soaked streets as she finishes typing. “It totally wasn’t because I was gonna ask if I could get you coffee or something, as thanks for getting me home safe.”

Kyulkyung finally looks away from the screen, meeting your gaze with an infectious smile as she offers you your phone. “That’s unfortunate. I really like the thought of someone else paying for my drink.”

“Yeah?” she asks. A pause. Then, “Maybe we’ll just have to make it happen.”

“Maybe we will,” you agree. With that, you turn and remount your motorcycle. Before you go, you offer her one last smile as you bid her farewell. “I need to get back, but I hope you have a good night and good luck with—” you gesture wildly at the beautiful mess standing in front of you “—explaining everything I guess.”

“Thaaanks,” Kyulkyung grumbles, pouting as she shudders at the thought and ripping a warm laugh out from deep within your chest. As it echoes against the buildings’ frigid walls, her hints of a smile bloom into her own peals of laughter that harmonize with your own as they resonate as one.

“I hope you have a good night too,” she says softly after a short while. “Try not to die on the way home, alright?”

“No promises.”

Kyulkyung’s eyes roll once more, but there’s genuine gratitude in the nod she gives before turning away. As she disappears into the building’s darkened halls and vanishes from your sight, a chill courses through your veins, leaving you shivering as you adjust your helmet and take off down the road.

Barely a minute passes before you reach your apartment complex and the pale brick and light blue tones that define its color palette. After locking up your bike, you hike upstairs, step up to your door, turn the latch, and reveal … the silent darkness within. Empty, just like always. Muscle memory guides your hand to the switch, momentarily blinding you as the cool whites wash away the darkness to reveal the relaxing hues of your home.

While the sight normally instills a sense of calmness, it all seems to blur as the chill refuses to leave your body, rendering you seasick as your head swims. It remains even as you peel away your gloves and free yourself from the soaked leather of your jacket, leaving you shivering even as you turn on the shower and pray for it to heat quickly. As you wait, you decide to check your phone and see what message Kyulkyung sent herself.

You can’t help but scoff at the assumption, but it quickly shifts into a smile as you compose your response.

You (10:59 PM): When you read this, let me know if you got home safe.

I don’t want to put the time into making coffee plans if you’re not gonna show up

You (11:08 PM): You’re insufferable

You (11:08 PM): How’d everything go? Were you able to sneak back in?

Kyulkyung (11:09 PM): Oh, easily

You (11:09 PM): Not your first time pushing curfew?

Kyulkyung (11:09 PM): Definitely not

Kyulkyung (11:10 PM): And definitely not the last either

You (11:10 PM): Can't say I'm surprised lol

You (11:11 PM): I hope you enjoy the rest of your weekend, even if the most interesting part has already happened

Kyulkyung (11:11 PM): Lol thanks, try not to get into too much trouble while I'm not there to supervise

You (11:12 PM): No promises

(My sincerest gratitude to @capslocked as always for their contributions towards bettering this fic. This was a draft I started a while ago that I didn't foresee myself finishing, but as I was editing it, I had the idea of posting little vignettes from the plot that I had written instead of making it a singular narrative. The plot I had in mind originally spanned something like 4 years, so just writing the highlights seems like a better fit (if there's interest for this story at all, I know it's an idol that's been away from the industry for a bit). Regardless, thank you so much for spending your time reading my work and I hope you enjoyed it!)

[somewherebetweendisorder]

Gloomy

Jason Todd x fem!reader

Warnings: smut, language

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: smut is so hard to write guys. I tried, but maybe too hard. As always like, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

~~

I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO COPY, REPOST, OR USE MY WORK IN ANY WAY.

~~

The air conditioner in your car has been out for two summers. Normally it's not a big deal. Normally you'd roll the windows down. Normally you'd dress for the season. Normally Jason's hulking frame wouldn't be taking up more than his fair share of the cramped cabin. 

But today the Gotham skies have released torrential rains, and the air is thick with uncharacteristic humidity. Jason grumbles from beside you, shifting around in the passenger seat. His fingers twitch against his denim clad knees, tapping out a restless beat. Suddenly he reaches for the AC button, turning it on and off and on and off. 

"God, you're sure the damn thing doesn't work?"

Despite the tacky, wet sweat blazing a trail down your back, and your general frustration with the situation a small smile tugs at your lips. "Yes Jason, I'm sure. The whole thing is bad."

He sighs, loud and long. "Why haven't you said anything? I could have gotten it fixed."

And that's just the thing. At any point over the past two years, if you'd so much as mentioned it in passing to Jason, or Dick, or Bruce -hell, even Tim- it would be a non-issue. You know this, know their generosity knows no bounds for family, and neither do their bank accounts, but this is yours. Be it pride, or independence, this was just something you want for yourself. Even if you're not making progress with the situation, but Jason for all his finer qualities, wouldn't agree. 

"I love you, Jason."

He sighs again, and fiddles with the volume. The rain comes down impossibly harder, and you slow accordingly, the white lines on the road indistinguishable. 

"Just pull over here," he offers, pointing to the parking lot out his window. 

The store is closed given the hour, and the parking lot is empty. Flicking on your turn signal you make the turn, pulling into a spot and cutting the engine. Now the only sound is the tinny patter of the storm on the roof of your car, and the distant roll of thunder. Jason sighs again, attempting to stretch out his knee, which cracks in response. An awkward giggle spills past your lips, earning a crooked grin from Jason.

"Some weather, huh?"

His face is pretty and haunted in the dim yellow light of the nearby streetlamp, skin warm and inviting. The little scars scattered across his face almost glow in the dark, splitting his lip, and running jagged through his eyebrow where the little hairs won't regrow.

"Yeah, some weather," you echo softly, gaze mapping his features. 

He closes the distance, planting a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth before retreating, but not completely. He lingers large in the narrow space between your seats, body twisted towards you. "What's on your mind, ma?"

"You."

It's an honest answer, neither unusual or surprising. He blinks slowly, quiet, waiting for you to elaborate if you wish. You bypass the talking option, twisting around in your own seat, bringing your hands up to cup his face, your thumb skidding gently across the prominent pink-white scar on his upper lip. He kisses the pad of your thumb, teal eyes raking across your face.

And it doesn't take a lot, hardly anything at all to lean forward and close the gap again, pressing your lips so softly against his. It's teasing, gentle, and not nearly enough. Jason lets you do it once, twice, three times before he's had enough and nips at your bottom lip, teeth sinking into the pillowy flesh. You shouldn't give in so easily, you know that, but the action has you breathing out a soft moan, chasing his kiss with fervor. 

You're caught in his web now, planting a knee up on the middle console to follow him as he cranks the seat back as far as he can. He's yanking at the sleeves of your jacket as you tumble on top of him, eager to get it off. Eager to feel more skin, more of you. You slot your knees on either side of his waist, your right knee digging into seat-belt buckle but you hardly notice. Sitting back you pull your arms our of the sleeves of your jacket, chucking it across the backseat as your shirt follows. Large hands settling on your hips he grinds you down against him, eyes darkening as you unhook your bra. His undoes the button on your jeans, tapping your ass so you sit up to help get them off.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful."

He can't seem to decide what to do with his hands. They flex restlessly against the doughy flesh of your hips before flattening against the expanse of your back and tugging you down to him. His lips are on yours again, nearly bruising as you try to form a coherent thought. 

"Want this off," you mutter, tugging at the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers wandering beneath them hem to run softly across the slip of skin. His abs tense in response, a groan getting stuck in the back of his throat. He leans up just enough to tear it off before he's leaning back and taking you with his, lips burning a wet path across your jaw, down your neck and between the valley of your breasts. He's impossibly hard beneath you, and you can't resist the urge to tease him a bit more, grinding down on his arousal just as his tongue licks experimentally across the hardened peak of your nipple. 

It's the same game every time, where Jason knows just what it takes to turn you into a whimpering, sticky mess, but feigns ignorance. Your fingers anchor into the soft hair at the base of his skull, tugging gently. He groans again, finding his way to your other breast to lavish it in the same sloppy love. You try to be still, you really do, his hands firm against your waist, but the calm facade is impossible to manage when he guides you back and forth over his bulge, the friction fanning the flames building low in your gut. 

"Jason please. Please," you gasp out just as his teeth sink into your nipple, just hard enough. "I need you." 

His belt jangles in the stifling air of the cabin, and you huff impatiently when his zipper sticks. Finally you're shoving the denim our of the way, and he slipping his boxers down to pull out his throbbing dick. You hover, too eager, too hot, too hungry to wait, and he's guiding you down, the sound of pleasure ripping from your lungs a little too loud, but he hardly minds. He builds a steady pace, the skin on skin filling the car, the smell of sex thick. One of his hands stays anchored in your hair, tipping your head back so he has easy access to the slick column of your throat and breasts, his other hand on your hip. 

And you're so close, his swollen tip hitting that spongy spot with every thrust up into you. You reach down to play with your slit, chasing that high, determined to hit it together. Your scrape your nails against his navel earning a throaty whimper from the main beneath you, and fuck, if that isn't the most delicious sound. You clench around your boyfriend as your climax crashes over you, dragging him along, and he lets out a harsh groan as his thrusts grow sloppy. 

"Fuck, baby, cum for me."

And that does it. The string that's been stretched tighter and tighter snaps as you gush around his throbbing cock. You collapse against his chest, thoroughly spent. 

"Good girl," he chuckles, knuckles brushing against your back as he pushes your hair over your shoulder. The heat that was so unbearable doesn't seem quite as awful now. 

As you come back into your body thunder booms overhead, startling you as you jerk in Jason's arms. He huffs a soft laugh, tipping your chin up to kiss you on the bridge of your nose. You reach an arm up and draw a heart into the condensation on the window as it begins to bleed little tracks of moisture down the glass. He draws a dick next to it, just for good measure, and pulls you into a kiss. And it's moments like there when you're really glad to be alive; really glad to be with him.

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre. 

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp. 

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?” 

Or somethin’ along those lines. 

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark. 

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in. 

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice. 

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor. 

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned. 

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone. 

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice. 

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up. 

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick. 

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression. 

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly. 

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain. 

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread. 

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me. 

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose. 

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it. 

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be. 

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.  

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.  

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”  

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.  

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.   

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it. 

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile. 

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him. 

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else. 

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me. 

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?” 

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply. 

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.” 

He tilts his head away in dismissal. 

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.  

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest. 

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight. 

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too. 

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits. 

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!” 

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.  

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.  

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”  

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices. 

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.  

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate. 

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow. 

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me. 

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down. 

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .  

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work. 

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.  

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause. 

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought. 

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen;   Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night. 

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes. 

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter. 

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger. 

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.  

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.  

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”  

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it. 

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.  

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face. 

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin. 

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.  

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.  

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.” 

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing. 

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently. 

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving. 

Give me strength. Give me strength. 

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe. 

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly. 

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me. 

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact. 

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive. 

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation. 

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?” 

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace. 

“Kiss me again, then.” 

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth. 

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second. 

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid. 

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own. 

A switch in his brain must flick on. 

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt. 

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable. 

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return. 

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?” 

He kisses the hollow of my neck. 

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter. 

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this. 

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me. 

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.” 

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him. 

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.” 

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton. 

I sigh, try not to squirm. 

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing. 

I nod. “Yeah.” 

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering. 

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips. 

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back. 

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world. 

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine. 

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra. 

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut. 

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip. 

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead. 

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl. 

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point. 

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else. 

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 

My cunt flexes. 

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.” 

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager. 

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter. 

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.” 

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.  

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.   

“Lie back.”  

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth. 

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger. 

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit.  My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse. 

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers. 

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here. 

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away. 

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see. 

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him. 

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders. 

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him. 

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside. 

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound. 

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out. 

“It’s okay,” I reply. 

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver. 

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

[mazikeenhyde]

All is Fair in Love, War and Dominant Fuckery

POLY JUDGMENT DAY – 18+ MINORS DNI! 

WRESTLER-READER (female)  X WWE JUDGMENT DAY – RHEA RIPLEY, DAMIAN PRIEST, DOMINIK MYSTERIO, FINN BALOR 

WARNING - (A PURE & UNAPOLOGETIC ANGST FUELLED SMUT FICTION)

(Alcohol, verbal abuse, physical violence, angst, mentions of drug use)

This one is gonna get a little dark so….. Y’all beeeeen warned. What can I say? It’s KINKTOBER BABY, and personally I do love some dark-angst fueled smutty relationship drama!

All is Fair in Love, War and Dominant Fuckery… 

PART ONE 

It was late Friday evening; the sun had laid itself down on the crease of the horizon, exhausted and content with the days play as the moon prepared to take over its duty. Soft rain clouds hung low in the sky; their silver linings illuminated by the yellow tinged artificial light of the lamp posts dotted throughout the street. 

In a fast attempt to avoid the incoming rainstorm Rhea began making her way inside from the car. Reaching into her jacket pocket for her house keys she unlocked the front door to their shared home, her hands filled with a couple of shopping bags from a quick stop at the grocery store. The entire group were fortunate to have the full weekend off and had opted to have a full weekend at home together. A couple days of just them, of just her and her lovers. To get away from all the demanding cameras, all the nosey fans and the ever-challenging management & production team at WWE. Just the five of them with a mix of some good food, movie nights, warm cuddles and those oh so magical moments in the bedroom.

Except upon reaching the door Rhea could hear the muffled but increasingly loud voices from inside, what sounding like a screaming match between Y/N and Dominik? 

“What the hell?” Rhea muttered under her breath as she unlocked the door and made her way inside, dropping her own bag inside of the door, up against the wall and locked up the house behind her before making her way through the hallway to the kitchen. 

There, leaning against the cooking counters stood Finn and Damian, each with a drink in their hand looking ever more frustrated. Damian, who had opted for a cold bottle of beer straight from the fridge took a swig while offering a half smile to Rhea, the bottle still had small fragments of ice on the side of the label as it clung on to his skin, he ran his free hand over his head and through his tight braids leaving a few shards of ice behind which quickly melted from his own body heat, sighing as he did so. Meanwhile, Finn held a mug of hot coffee to his lips and took a sip raising his eyebrows in her direction. Taking a deep breath in he spoke.

“Welcome home love…” Finn said jokingly as he exhaled, the angry muffled voices above them continued, only getting louder with every passing minuite. All three of them glanced up at the ceiling, Damian shaking his head as they did. 

“Oy vey…” Damian stated, taking another swig of his beer. 

“What the hell is going on? I was gone for what… about an hour?” Rhea stated as she dropped the shopping bags on the counter, looking over at the clock on the wall. The contents of one of the bags had spilled out, to reveal boxes of fresh fruit, a packet of pre-made waffle mix and a container of fresh free-range eggs. 

“About an hour…?” Damian questioned looking over at Finn who tilted his head to the side and nodded, coffee still in hand. 

“Yep, about an hour? Id says that’s about how long they have been at it for.” He shook his head setting his coffee mug to the side and hopping up to take a seat on the edge of the countertop.

“What?!” Rhea exclaimed, rather surprised by their statement. 

“Mi Vida, about two minutes after you left they started.” Damian responded, finishing his drink and disposing of the bottle before offering to put the shopping away. 

Rhea removed her jacket and threw it to the side as she put her hands on her hips, looking up at the ceiling where it sounded as if a war had begun. It was no surprise to the three of them that y/n and Dom were arguing, being the youngest of the group they often bickered or fell out with each other. But it was always short lived and nine times out of ten, the whole argument was always over nothing. 

“What are they fighting about now?” Rhea questioned the boys. Damian who was putting the last of the groceries away looked over to Finn who was scrolling through social media on his phone. He looked up to Damian before they both glanced back at Rhea. 

“You don’t know do you…?” She stated. 

“Honestly love, we figured it was easier to just let them get on with it. You know what they are like” Finn responded, before returning to his phone. 

Damian closed the door and walked over to Rhea, running his hands up and down her arms, placing a gentle kiss on top of her head. “The gambling man I am, I would put money on the pair of them making up before dinner. And no doubt they will end up having a little make up session just to make us jealous” He took his hand to reach for her chin, placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

“I know you Rhea, you don’t need to worry about them, they will be…” But Damian’s voice was quickly cut off when suddenly a loud crash came from upstairs, followed swiftly a loud thump and another loud crashing sound against the floor. 

All three of the judgment day members in a blind panic tossed everything to one side and scrambled their way up the stairs. Rhea leading the charge swung open the door to the master bedroom to a sight none of them were fully prepared for. 

“FUCK YOU, YOU SELF ENTITLED PRICK!” Y/n screamed at the top of her voice, her arms swinging by her side having just launched one of the bedside lamps straight at Dominik’s head. He had been fortunate enough for his reflexes to kick in and had ducked out of the way just in time, knocking over the cabinet behind him sending the television set crashing down to the floor. 

“You fucking psychotic bitch! The fuck is wrong with you!” Dom spat back pulling himself back to his feet, with sweat dripping from his head he ran his hands back through his dark-haired mullet, exposing a rather obvious red mark from his fall just above his eye. 

“Me?! What’s wrong with me? You are a selfish rat do you know that! No wonder your dad was happy to see the back of you!” 

Dom lunged forward towards y/n as the fire of a thousand suns grew inside of him, the hatred for his girlfriend growing every stronger by her words. Damian was quick to leap into action and hold him back whilst Finn grabbed a hold of y/n, locking his arms into hers so the two of them couldn’t rip each other apart. 

“I don’t see Rey racing to get you back, do you? You're pathetic Dom, a pathetic little LIAR!” Y/n laughed through her teeth as she ran her tounge across her lip which had been busted open from a previous scuffle only minutes prior to this declaration of war. 

“Arghhh, FUCK YOU!!!” Dom tried to throw himself at her, kicking his legs and yelling at the top of his voice while Damian and Finn both held on tightly, trying to keep them apart. 

“SHUT UP THE PAIR OF YOU!” Rhea stepped in to the middle of their path towards each other, having finally both seen and heard enough from the pair. 

“I don’t know what the HELL is going on right now but THIS… THIS IS NOT OKAY! This is NOT ACCEPTABLE!” She took a breath in and looked at each of them, turning her head and letting out a heavy sigh. “This is not how we do things, in this relationship we talk, we talk with our voice’s and we DO NOT put our hands on one another. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME” Rhea stated, trying to control her temper as her blood boiled at the thought of any of her lovers on purposely trying to hurt the other. 

Damian and Finn didn’t release their grip as they both looked at each other, lightly shaking their heads as each of them felt their own little warriors’ bodies tightening in their grip. 

“You two clearly cannot be in the same room as each other…. And that, that hurts me to see.” Rhea’s voice broke off at the end, you could see the upset in her eyes as they glazed over with emotion. 

For a minute both y/n and Dom paused, seeing the genuine pain they had inflicted on Rhea. But it only lasted a moment, because the second Damian and Finn released their grip on the pair they locked eyes again, and like a bull in a China shop that rage came back, and boy did it hit like a tsunami. 

Dominik and y/n once again lunged toward each other, only millimeters part before the boys managed to regain their grip around the fighting duo and pull them back.

“Oh brilliant, bloody brilliant. I don’t know what the matter is between you two, but you need to sort this shit out, and sort it out now!” Rhea demanded, making her way over to Dominik. She looked up at Priest and signaled for him to let go of the boy who was ever so slightly lifted of the floor. Dominik dropped  back to his feet and fidgeted on the spot, unable to control the rage that was growing inside of him. 

Rhea snapped her fingers in his face to gain his attention and taking her hand to his face she examined his now semi blackeye. Glancing over her shoulder to y/n in a very unimpressed gesture she returned her focus to Dom. 

“Dom, take a breath, stand still and tell me why you are fighting” She asked, releasing her grip on his face. But Dominik said nothing, his eyes solely locked on y/n and his face showing nothing but discontent for his partner. 

Rhea took a sharp breath and turned on the spot now facing y/n, she shrugged her shoulders, inviting y/n to answer the same question but just like Dominik, y/n kept her eyes locked on the boy, seemingly oblivious to everyone else. 

“This. Ends. Tonight. Do you hear me?!” Rhea stared the pair of them down before signaling for Finn to release y/n. 

Rhea now stood directly in-between the pair. 

“So, help me god if either of you take a step forward, I will show you a whole new world of hurt…” She said as she crossed her arms. Damian and Finn both took a step back from the situation in an attempt to begin clearing up the mess that had been created. 

Y/n breathing was heavy, her breaths short and her hands shook in a mix of adrenaline and an alcohol induced buzz. Dom looked down at her palms noticing and smirked. He cleared his throat to gain some attention as Rhea looked over to him. 

“How many…?” He questioned y/n. Damian and Finn paused, stopping what they were doing and looked over to the young boy in both confusion and curiosity. 

Y/n stood still, her hands continuing to shake as her eyes glazed over in a furious spite for Dom, he wasn’t about to cross the line, was he? 

“How many baby…” Dom asked again, his menacing smile growing as his dark eyes pierced through her. 

“Careful…” y/n whispered under her breath, the look they gave each other signified the love they had was gone, now replaced by a need for revenge on the other. “Don’t cross that line Dominik, you aren’t the only one with skeletons in your closet” Y/n glared back at Dom who offered her a wink, knowing full well just how much it would infuriate her. 

“How many what? What skeletons? We don’t have secrets, what the hell are you both talking about!?” Rhea said, throwing her hands in the air as she turned repeatedly looking between them. Damian and Finn looking between each other equally confused and concerned.

“What is wrong with you two tonight? You’ve fallen out before sure; you’ve argued many times but not to this extreme. Why are you so intent on hurting each other! It’s just not like you…” Damian exclaimed, shaking his head, equally hurt by the events of the evening. 

Dom huffed and walked away, removing his shirt and tossing it in the laundry basket as headed for the bathroom to take a shower. Stopping for a moment he turned to look at Rhea, jerking his head for her to join him, but Rhea was more concerned with dealing with the incidents of the evening rather than ignoring it all just to have a quickie. 

Y/n turned and attempted to walk out of the room, her legs wobbling ever so slightly as she gained her composure. 

“Y/N!” Rhea shouted racing after her, now standing at the top of the stairs while y/n was already halfway down, Finn had swiftly followed behind her while Damian had opted to try and talk some sense into Dominik. "Where are you going?!" Rhea yelled.

Y/n paused for a moment, refusing to look up or make eye contact, instead staring emptily in front of her she responded “Gym” before carrying on. 

“I’ll join you” Finn stated, edging his way around Rhea and racing down the stairs after y/n. He paused and looked up to his auzzie lover whose eyes were full of worry. “It will do them good to be apart, talk to Dom, we will work this out… I promise” Finn smiled before running ahead to catch up once more to y/n who had already made her way out the front door and into the pouring rain. 

“But we….” Rhea called out but upon hearing the door slam behind Finn she collapsed onto the stair banister and sighed. “We have a gym here… and it’s raining.” 

-TEN MINUTES LATER – 

Rhea rose back to her feet, wiping the tears from her eyes and collected herself. She turned on the spot and strode into the master bedroom, she stomped straight past Damian who was adjusting the television set back into its place. Rhea opened the door to the ensuite bathroom and pulled at the shower curtain, reaching in and grabbing onto Dominik’s arm before pulling him out. He was quick to grab a towel from the rain and wrap it around his waist before Rhea threw him onto the edge of the bed and bent down so her face was in line with his. 

“Firstly….Dominik. If you ever, ever lay a hand on y/n again so help me god I will make you pay. Do you understand me?” Rhea was calm and collected, her eyes staring into his soul. Dom took a hard swallow and gulped, nodding his head. 

“Good. Secondly, do not think your actions this evening have been forgiven, you will both deal with the consequences of trashing this bedroom later, do you understand?” 

Again, Dom nodded, very aware than the Dominant and primal Mami had fully taken over the situation now. 

Rhea stood back up, straightening her back and crossed her arms. 

“Now, spill….” Rhea meant business, and Dom knew it. In fact so did Damian who was trying to keep himself busy reconnecting the television cables and stay distracted from his increasing hard on that was pulsing between his thighs. 

Dom paused for a moment, unsure of what to do, because while he hated Y/n in that moment, he didn’t really want to hurt her, he wanted to protect her, but doing that would run the risk of his own secrets coming out. 

“Dominik….” Rhea stated once more, bringing his attention fully back on her. 

He took another hard gulp and turned his head, pointing over to y/n bedside draw. 

Rhea walked over calmly and opened it to find nothing, it was empty. She turned her head, questioning the boy. Dom stood, holding tightly to the towel and made his way over, reaching a hand into the draw and with one finger slid the back of the draw compartment across, revealing a false back. 

He looked down at his feet and took a breath before stepping back as Rhea knelt down to look inside. 

“Fuck….” She said. 

TBC 

[dicenete]

This chaotic gremlin has happily skipped with light steps over the line that lets me to start dissecting his visual design and how it works for his story so far. These are pretty obvious ones and some are speculations as I have not finished his route yet. But I'm having fun. :) Overthinking starts here: - His color scheme. His signature color is purple, which is the complimentary color, or should I say the opposite color of yellow/gold in the color wheel. Chev's color is gold. Ahh the conflict. But also being complimentary colors, the fact that Clavis is helping Chev around works too, as he let's his older brother work more efficiently. - He is wearing a white/gold jacket over his shoulders but not fully wearing it. He is in Chev's factions and is his "servant". It also hides his own "main color" which can be seen as him hiding his true nature and motives. - His outfit underneath the jacket is more "servant like" than what other princes wear. He is prim and proper. You could just give a napkin to rest on his arm in his default pose and he would look like a servant. - I'm not sure, but the pin on his cravat seems to be a rose? Now I'm getting fully speculative, but I think the fact that it is stated that Clavis hates roses (or more specific, scent of rain soaked roses) can be foreshadowing for his distain for Rhodolite (as it is mentioned to be the kingdom of roses) but the rain part makes me think that it is more about him hating the idea of normal people of Rhodolite hurting. Rain usually symbolizes sadness and hurt. I feel like Clavis really wants good things for the kingdom, and understands that in some things, absolute monarchy is just an inferior option for the common people. I believe that he really wants to help everyone in Rhodolite, not just the kingdom as a construct. All this is just cloaked beneath the hatred of Chev as Chev symbolizes monarchy and the old ways. Don't get me wrong, I feel like they hate each other as the siblings usually do, but I feel like they still care about each other in some level. And in their own bizarre way. But I could be wrong. Because I'm still at the chapter 11 or so? Somewhere around there.

[itskattkm]

Multiverse

Based on a request: Could you do a fanfic where all of JOs characters meet and R has to explain they're all characters in movies and shows and how they're acted by R's gf, Jenna Ortega?

Characters would preferably be the following: Wednesday, Tara, Vada, Camila, Phoebe, Lorraine, Mabel, Ellie and Cairo (Even tho that movie isn't out yet)

If you don't want to use all the characters thats fine lol. I'm too lazy to write this myself.

JO Characters X Fem Reader

A/N: I’m so sorry that it took me so long. I wasn’t sure what end I wanted to choose. So I decided to not overthink to much and keep it short so the end is pretty shit haha. Hope you can still enjoy anon :)

————————

It’s been one of those rare summer days where the clouds were turning into a coal grey way and turning the whole light that fell onto the earth in a mix of yellow light and dark highlites. I saw just seconds ago a light struck in the corner of my eyes as I turned my head towards the window in the living room trying to say “there was a lightning it mus-“ and then there was it.

A growl. Something that sounded like a crisp crash high in the distance but still like it was happening right next to you. Thunder.

I chuckled to myself. Before I could end my own sentence the thunder had spoken for itself.

I walked towards the window. Watching rain falling down in an immense amount, feeling glad that I was in my apartment and didn’t had to walk through that wild mess.

“Rain... Rain is like a heavy mood. It is sad but it has a beautiful way of calming you down at the same time. Rain can make you cry but it can also make you calm"

I heard the familiar voice of my girlfriend. But kept watching the rain without turning around and smiled.

"You know... Rain can also be a bit spooky. Rain makes the shadows darker. Rain makes the dark even darker. Rain makes mystery even more mysterious."

I chuckled saying “wow that one turned a bit dark I guess…” I was turning around Expecting to see her soaked in the rain. Seeing already in front of my eyes how her bangs were probably all wet and sticking on her forehead. But when my eyes met hers, i was quite confused and a light laugh escaped me.

“Why do you look like Wednesday Addams?” I asked her. Walking a step towards her. It was almost like she became one with the shadows in the room. Wearing a big black coat. Covering what she was wearing under it. Her also black doc martens being pretty visible.

Her hair was darker then it was before she left to meet Enrique and prepare things for the upcoming met gala. I looked at her with a tilted head.

“I thought that people stopped asking stupid questions but here you are… another example for our current lost generation” she said monotone.

I looked even more confused feeling like there were tons of gears moving in my head and that she could see them “I’m confused…” I barely whispered.

“I often have that affect on people…”

She said and looked with an almost disgusted gaze at me. Scanning me from head to toe making me feel some kinda way uneasy. Even though I really loved the way Jenna played Wednesday Addams… that type of character was defiantly to much to handle. I found enough courage despise the mixed feelings I had and was about to say something when I recognized another figure beside me. My eyes landing on dark brown eyes, Emphasized with dark eyeliner wich Jenna rarely wore.

My mouth opened slight. Looking even more confused by now if this was possible.

My eyes scanning her figure within seconds. Seeing her wearing some short hot pants with a thin top and a congnac brown leather jacket. The fit feeling pretty familiar to me.

She was wearing eye makeup but the rest of her face was all clean. Wich made her freckles more present than usual. A smile with also slight confusion covered her face “wow you look pretty emo…” was what she said. But she didn’t said it to me.

“Some would consider I’m the definition of emo” said the one who looked like Wednesday.

I felt my heart running faster looking between the both of them.

“You see her too?” I asked Jenna beside me. But I wasn’t sure if it was actually Jenna.

“Yeah I do… by the way what’s your name?”

She answered giving me that big smile that showed her dimples and made me feel a bit flustered. That smile always had an effect on me.

But I was way to overwhelmed to actually tell her my name since there were two people that looked like Jenna so I asked

“Who are you?”

“Mabel…” she said and gave me a very knees weakening look, combined with that smile.

“Mabel… Wednesday…” I whispered looking between the both of you.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked more myself than both of them.

And right when the last few words left my mouth there was another person appearing in the living room. But the person seemed to be way to focused on my bookshelves.

All three of us watched the person.

She was wearing a white dress, showing her curves and long legs wich were wearing knee high brown boots. A tiny bag was hanging over her shoulders as her tiny but also gentle looking hands touched the backs of the books. Reading in silence the title names. Her hair was falling over her back in beautiful waves. The little light in the living room falling on it and showing a mixture of brown and red highlites.

“Y/N I don't think you have real books here... you have a Harry Potter book.. that's not a real book” She scrunches up her face “I'm sorry but it's the truth” She picks up a book and checks the title “Ugh... It's called a touch of darkness and it's about Persephone and Hades in a version of a Greek world in our time? *She shrugs it off*”

I felt a bit offended but also didn’t knew what to say.

Wednesday said “if you like Greek mythology you at least could’ve read the real tales. Like the ilias or oddysey” I nodded slightly ashamed and my gaze met Mabel’s she whispered “I only watched Percy Jackson once so don’t look at me for help…”

I took a deep breath and looked back at the woman beside my shelves. She had turned around by now and was lightning up a cigarette. I could see the amount of rings on her other hand and that cheeky but also dangerous smile on her dark bordo lips.

“Cairo Sweet?” I asked speechless.

“Wow well that’s a …unique name” said Mabel with a chuckled.

“I would say being called after a weekday is more unusual then being called as a well know city with history…” said Cairo and gave Wednesday a look.

My eyes widened feeling like Cairo was about to die.

“ I’m named after a nursery rhyme containing the line “Wednesday's child is full of woe.” The poem, which assigns personalities to children based on the day they were born, dates back to at least 1838. Cairo-Sweet. What kinda name is that, anyway? Sounds like the kind they'd use in a very bad written fanfiction” Wednesday glares at Cairo for daring to question the legitimacy of her name and gives her a dead stare.

I looked at both of them excited now and chuckled saying “as a writer you should have know that Cairo… you better not mess with Wednesday. She’s a writer and she could kill you if she wants”

Mabel beside me just whispered quite “okay this is getting very interesting here”

Wednesday and Cairo were throwing glares at each other when another person moved to my side and said “what kind of fever dream is that?”

I laughed and shaked my head looking at my right side to see another version of my girlfriend, wearing basketball shorts and an oversized shirt. I felt like nothing could surprise me anymore at this point so I smiled friendly and held my hand out saying “your Vada right? Nice to meet you I’m Y/N”

Vada smiled and shook my hand. I was explaining to her what was currently happening and introduced the others to her. Vadas hand rested on my shoulder now as she said “it’s like the most weirdest names I’ve ever seen…” an awkward smile appearing on her lips.

“You’re not surprised about the fact that you all look exact the same? Just different?”

Suddenly there was a Laugh “Yeah, there's a glitch in the system or something. It's just kind of...” said the 5.1 Latina beside me and shrugged. I looked speechless at Tara fucking Carpenter. Not sure if I was in a fan girl mode or going right into the simp mode.

“Tara Carpenter… holy shit” I whispered and looked at her stunned. Not sure how to process this all. She gave me a friendly smile and my head felt like exploding.

“She good?” Asked another version of Jenna’s Characters. Sitting on the armchair with her sunglasses and smoothie as she held a tiny book in her hands. Ellie from you I assumed.

My eyes kept jumping between all those people in my living room. Noticing even more of them.

“10 dollars she’s gonna pass out” said Wednesday cold as Cairo agreed and jumped in the bet. In my living room we’re around six characters that my girlfriend had played and it was way to hard to understand what the hell was going on.

No matter in what direction I looked. They were everywhere. Talking, arguing, connecting.

I took a deep breath and sat down on my couch. “What the hell is going on?” I asked louder and everyone became silent.

They looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.

“I have to admit this is weird… for real why do we all look like the same person?” Asked now Vada pointing out her hands at everyone.

Everyone looked around, till all gazes fell on me. Tara walked towards me saying “you seem to know every one of us… so you may enlighten us?” I nodded in an almost trance like mode and got up. Standing in the center while all of them were standing around me like in a circle.

“Okay… maybe this is some weird multiverse thing? A Paradoxon? Or I’m dreaming… dead… I don’t know but!” I said looked at all of you.

I shrugged my shoulders

“Well what can I say you all are movie characters…”

“ Y/N are you feeling alright? Or are the fumes from the glue factory getting to you?”Wednesday gives me a cold stare “Or do you need to sit down? Do you need a hit with the shovel so the bad thoughts go away?”

I looked at her serious saying

“What?! No! Listen…” I said and reached for my phone. I typed in Wednesday in Netflix and showed it to her and the others.

Cairo Looks at me with confusion “What a nerd, knowing all the facts about movie characters and who plays them. Like, who cares? I’ve got better things to do all day long than waste my time on silly little facts of the past, and I don’t even want to waste my time being in the same room as a loser like you!” She glares at me, showing clear signs of aggression.

“Okay you are defiantly meaner as you seem in your movie…” I said slight offended and looked over at Tara who was my fav character. Seeking for some comfort

She Shrugs “Oh don’t let her bother you, she’s... Anyways, did you guys want to talk about anything specific or are we going to all go to our separate corners and just stare at each other? I mean, that sounds kind of odd if I say it outloud...”

I laughed nervous “I would like to know why you guys even are here in the first place… this is against all rules. How is this even possible?”

“You’ll find a lot of things hard to explain away with logic, you know? Especially a certain someone who likes to hang out with a bunch of fictional characters” said Wednesday monotone and gave me another cold, intimidating stare “beside that you better stop trying to convince us that we are only movie characters. I’ll be good for you, if you drop the topic”

“Why? After all you all just appeared out of nowhere in my Apartment!..” I said a bit angry. Starting to feel like I was the bad one here suddenly.

Mabel looked around while playing with her moving her hands in the back of her pockets “So, what should we talk about then?” She asks awkwardly.

Vada was sitting in the corner and stares at the floor then says “I feel like the most... average one here....”

Tara Looks at Vada awkwardly “Don't say that... you're just as special as all of us. You're not average. Don't ever think that!”

“Yeah she’s right. You are special and we love you… what you’ve been through was awful” I said reassuring and hugged her. Since I knew what Vada had been through cause I watched the movie obviously, I had a soft spot for her.

“Uh... Thanks y/n......” She awkwardly hugged me back and blushed a little bit, looking down and covering her face. “How did you know?.....” She looked up at me a bit more, curious than before.

“Because you’re a movie character and I saw your story… that’s what I’m trying to explain to you guys” I sighed and looked at Tara.

“Tara you have a sister called Sam. You two had been survivors of a ghostface attack two times. You have several stab wounds in your abdomen and shoulder and on your hand as well. Sam ist the daughter of the origin Ghostface killer, Billy Loomies “ I explained “Your form the movie called Scream, your character was introduced in the fifth and sixth movie… my fav ones” I added with a shy smile.

Tara looked around impressed “How do you even know all these facts?” She whispered and realized that I knew all the names without even asking any one of you “It’s like, magic or something?” She asked.

I looked at Cairo and said “And your form one of the current movies my girlfriend made. It’s called millers girl. And yeah. I know what you did. Accusing your teacher for something he did not really do but I’m on your side tho. But it’s not cool to kiss and blackmail your best friend Winnie. Your dangerous Cairo. But I still feel mesmerized by you… somehow” I explained and shrugged.

Cairo rolled her Eyes “Wow, just wow. Who cares? I didn't ask for your input so keep it to yourself please and thank you” She turns her cigarette off and crosses her arms, giving me a pissed look.

“You are really mean... You seemed so nice at the beginning of your movie” i said almost disappointed. “Yeah well I turned out to be different and that's too bad for you” She continues to glare at me with aggressive eyes.

I sighed again and looked at Mabel.

“Mabel. You’re from the movie finestkind. You’re dating some fisher guy. It’s about crime and drugs. Your character is only a side character but you’re cool. Pretty bold and flirty. You had some spicy scenes respect for that…”

“Wow you really do know a lot-“ She was cut off by Wednesday, who started making an unimpressed sound.

I turned to her “And then the one and only Wednesday Addams. You are the currently new portrayed version of that character. You have your own tv show. You attend a dark Academy and solve crimes and murderes… second season will come out soon and by the way… people ship you pretty hard with Enid”

Wednesday looked me dead in the eyes “I do not appreciate your tone of delivery at all. I’m going to have to ask you to watch it a little, or else… that’s the nicest I can make” She gives me a scary look of disapproval and anger.

“Hey I didn’t wanted to be harsh or something… I’m just trying to telling you guys about the movies you all are from. I don’t know how you made it to my universe but you are all not real in this one…”

“Its your fault we're all here in the first place, so it’s best if you don’t go around with a mouth that likes to spill every detail about us that you possibly can, hmm?” Wednesday gave me a threatening look, daring me to break eye contact first.

I felt a bit hurt and said quite

“Sorry… but I really don’t how all of you came here” I looked around “You all just appeared suddenly” I said softly.

“it’s time for you to make us all disappear” Wednesday looked at me with cold, empty, soulless eyes.

“I don’t know how” exhausted I looked in the eyes of all of them.

“Look guys, let’s not make things too hard on her. She didn't even do anything, all of us just suddenly appeared and its not her fault! “ said Tara and stands up for me. I felt so relived when Tara stand up for me, making me fall for her even harder. Okay focus y/n Jenna is your girlfriend. But yeah… I also love all characters she plays… nevermind.

“I must say, you are very pretty y/n...” said randomly Mabel with a smile.

“Th-thank you” I said blushing hard and looked down.

Vadas eyes fell on me “Yeah, Tara’s right though. She didn’t have anything to do with why we’re here, did she?” Glances at Wednesday and Cairo, looking suspicious.

Cairo Shrugs “I’ve been trying to find out but so far I haven’t got a clue...” Her eyes narrow as she looks at her surroundings “We need to figure this out as soon as possible...”

„Well as soon as possible isn’t quick enough for me, I’m not going to sit around here forever just to wait this all out“ Wednesday added.

„You guys can do what ever you want.

I don’t know how all of you became real. Just know that in this universe none of you is supposed to be real“ I said and sat down on the couch exhausted

Wednesday Shrugs „Well we didn't do it on purpose. It's just something crazy I guess...

What if we never make our way back...“ She looks at everyone with a cold, intimidating stare. It’s clear she’s trying to hold her anger in check for the moment.

„Come on, don't even talk like that Wednesday... we'll find our way back, one way or another...“ Tara said.

„Yeah right? We're not stuck here with her forever!“ Cairo shudders at the thought.

„Ouch?“ I said not sure if I should feel offended.

„You should feel offended. We are going to find a way out of here and when we do, I am making sure I stay the hell away from you“ She glares at me again.

I gave Cairo a thumbs up and looked at Tara speechless saying

„I can’t believe I actually had a crush when I watched her movie back then“

Vada shrugged „Well I'm glad you changed your mind“

„Why? What kind of crush did you have on me?“ asked Cairo, not letting her anger die down yet.

„None“ I said trying to end the conversation. „Come on, you can tell me. Please?“ She leans forward with puppy eyes, but they look a little bit sinister.

„Just for the record since my girlfriend plays all your characters I do have a thing for all of you for sure“

„What do you mean your girlfriend plays all of us?“ Wednesday gives me a suspicious look, leaning in closer and giving a scary look again. „My girlfriend. The actress. Who portrays all your characters in this universe“

Mabel stares at me for a while. Her eyes narrow even more than before* What's her name?”

“I don’t buy it” Wednesday scoffed

“What's that supposed to mean, Wednesday?” I asked

“That was an act, you’re not just now realizing that y/n’s girlfriend is the one who plays all of us. I think she’s trying to hide something”

“I’m telling the truth you can google it” I said louder

Wednesday Takes me by the collar and glares at me with a cold, intimidating look “Okay then, Y/N. I want the truth and I want to know now. What’s your play here?”

Some part of me felt scared and turned on. It took me some time to answer. “I swear nothing. I was just enjoying my day off and suddenly all of you were here”

“And nothing at all happened before that?” Wednesdays voice was getting more and more sinister as each second passed.

“A storm came up. Thunder… lightning” I explained. “Hm... a storm...” She let go of my collar and turned her back on me. She began pacing around the room silently.

“Maybe it has to do with the storm then? Some Paradoxon?” I said

Wednesday looked st me “Is that really all you know? You have no other secrets you’re holding back?”

“Nothing. I’m the most boring person right here” I said quite

“Boring?” She looked back at me and smirked, and turned back around again “If you think your life isn’t interesting, then you’d better make your peace with this life being all you’ll ever be. You have no purpose here. You have nothing to contribute to this world” She stopped her pacing and turned back around again “This is it for you. This is all your life is worth” She let me take that in for a while before speaking again “So do not call yourself boring ever again. You hear me?”

I nodded feeling touched.

“Good” She sat down next to me, and put her hand on my shoulder. After a while of silence, she finally broke the tension “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I shouldn’t have done that” She looked down at her feet, ashamed.

“Thank you… i really appreciate your apology” I whispered feeling better now.

“Okay since we all don’t know why you’re here and I’m tired of explaining and arguing… Wanne watch a movie together?”

[the-kr8tor]

can I make a request about prowler hobie and reader is treating his wounds?? Prowler hobie is so slept on ☹️ give my boy some attention too!

you don’t have to though 🫶🏾

Yippeee! Prowler! Hobie ❤️ thank you for requesting!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader

Word count: 1.4 k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Prowler! Hobie, TW blood, CW injury, CW violence, Hurt/comfort

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Your trainers squeak against the moist pavement. The harsh rain is battering against your coat as you try to desperately shield yourself. You hug your bag tighter as a speeding car passes next to you, the sound of hurried sirens follow right after it. The smell of burnt rubber and exhaust smoke enters your nostrils, you cough loudly from the intrusion.

One word settles in your tired mind: Home, and perhaps him too if he ever decides to come home to you tonight.

You don't blame Hobie, he's had it rough and so does the city. With the death of spiderman, anyone who has a need for quick cash or a bone to pick with the city are now roaming the streets freely. No one can stop them, the city's finest or what's left of them are either desperately trying to do their best or joining the worst. Hobie is doing neither. He has his own goals, you just wish you were a part of it too.

You miss Hobie, truly. You miss the days where your only problem was what to eat for dinner, you miss the days where you and Hobie would go out the entire night and only come home when the sun has risen with grins on your faces and laughter stuck in your throat as he kisses you silly. You miss your Hobie, but you have to embrace the prowler too, for they are one and the same.

Sniffing from the cold, fog settles near your feet. Someone whistles down the street so you turn the other corner quickly and away from them. Fear has settled in your stomach and made it into its home. As you walk faster, heavy footsteps behind you get closer and closer. They whistle out, sneering and jeering as they follow you.

With your back turned away from them, you run.

Sprinting off, you hear hurried yells after you, then gasps, and suddenly you hear fists hitting skin. Boots crunching bones underneath it, loud thumps of bodies hitting the ground. Then, silence. The quiet makes you slowly turn around.

Heart in your stomach, you see him standing over seven unconscious bloodied men. His suit whirrs, sparks fly off from the purple lights that snake along his arms. He stomps at someone's arm, bones smashed under his foot, and you notice the blood leaking off his side.

“You're bleeding.” You breathlessly say, taking a step forward towards Hobie, he turns around to face you.

The streetlight above him serves as his spotlight, and the pavement below him is his stage. His mask shines in the yellow light, the faint purple lines in place of his eyes stare at you emotionlessly. He flexes his fists, steam rises off the gauntlets like an engine.

“Are you hurt?” He asks in a mechanical voice, none of the softness you were used to, none of the teasing tone you love dearly. It's him though, under all the steel covering his body, it's him, you're sure of it.

“You're the one who's bleeding.” You finally find the courage to stand side by side with him. Placing your cold hand against the colder metal where his warm ichor seeps through, you try your best to stop the flow. “Let me take you home, please.”

“I can’t—”

“Please,” you whisper softly, that's only for his ears to hear. “Hobie, let me fix this. Come home.”

After a beat, the rain drenches you both, and he nods. “... I'll come home, just for tonight.” And it's the best thing you've heard since everything fell.

—

You thank your past self for ‘forgetting’ to unlock your fire escape. He doesn't comment on it, knowing the real reason behind the lack of lock.

Hobie lets you enter first through the window while you take off your wet coat. He roams his eyes at the flat that hasn't changed much since he last saw it. The leather jacket he unceremoniously left on the back of the settee still hangs there, his trainers are still in the shoe rack by the door. His favourite mug still sits next to yours. The walls are still the same green you two once painted together. It still smells like home, it's still his home.

“Hobie?” You call softly on the couch. Patting the space beside you, you smile hopefully at him.

Wordlessly, he unclaces his boots near the windowsill, remembering how much you hated outdoor shoes inside the flat. Your heart reaches out to him at the small movement, you miss him, and now that he's standing in front of you, it's harder to not run up to him and whisper how much you missed him.

The metal of his suit creaks as he sits down. His blood stains the steel, the purple lights slightly blind you. Noticing your narrowed eyes, he shuts off the light, you smile in thanks.

“I can't treat you with the suit still on you.” You quietly say as you splash your hands with alcohol, you put on gloves and the smell of antiseptic makes you wish the circumstances were different.

“If you wanted to get me naked you could've just asked.” He teases, mask still on, voice still unrecognizable.

Instead of a giggle that he's used to hearing, you choke back a sob that you quickly hide with a calculated sniff. You give him a tight-lipped smile, hands suddenly shaking while holding on to the bandages.

Hobie takes your hands, calming you with his gloveless hands. He guides your hands to the clamps that hold his suit to his body. Silently and comfortably, he lets you take off the top part of his suit. It clunks loudly as it falls on the wooden floors, and he now realizes the lack of carpet.

“What happened to the old carpet?” He asks while you press on the gash near his hip.

“I dropped a bowl of soup, I couldn't get rid of the smell so I just threw it away.”

“You could've gotten it cleaned, you liked that carpet.”

“It's just a carpet, Hobie.” You look up at him through your lashes. “Besides, I don't have money to get it professionally cleaned.”

He knits his brows underneath his mask, “what happened to the money I sent you?”

“‘Sent’ isn't a word that I would use, more like ‘dropped off in front of my door like a stray kitten’” You sigh, blinking, “I used it don't worry, I've put it to good use.” You stop him before he could reply. “And I'm not starving, or behind on rent. Just— some people need it more than me.” The bleeding has finally stopped so you inspect the wound if it needs stitching. “I'm doing fine, don't worry about me.”

“It needs stitching, here let me—”

“Let me do this one thing for you, please.” You almost break in front of him. You want to savour the short moment with him, because if he was the one to suture it, he'll be out of the flat before you could even say goodbye. Just like last time. “Just…” you wipe a tear off your cheek, “I missed you, a lot. And I want you to just stay a few minutes longer.” You honestly tell him.

Hobie holds your face tenderly, thumb rubbing along your tear stained cheeks, the same softness that he doesn't show the people he fights night after night. They see it as weakness, he doesn't, he sees you as his reprieve from the world that wants to crush him in between its gnarled teeth.

He wishes everything was different, that everything would go back to normal where the seven don't rule the entire city, where they didn't plunge the whole city into darkness. Where he would hug you from behind as you two make dinner, where it's just you and him on the couch watching a film that makes you scrunch your face into annoyance.

He misses you too.

“Can I see you?” You ask gently as you hold his hands that's on your cheeks.

Hobie takes his hands away from your face, and for a second you think that he'll leave you right where you sat. But he brings his hands near his temples, with a whirr and a mechanical hiss, he takes off his mask, revealing the face you love so much.

There's new scars on his face, One underneath his left eye that makes your heart almost stop at how it must've felt when it was still fresh. An unrecognizable newer cut on his nose has you weeping.

“‘m doin' fine, don't worry about me, love.” Hobie holds you close, he doesn't mind the ache on his side anymore, arms around your torso, he presses you close to his heart.

“Don't use my own words against me, Hobart.” You mumble against his skin, the same word crosses your mind again, home.

“There’s the spark I miss so much,” he lays his forehead on top of yours, letting his warmth spread over to you. Home, this is his home.

“I missed you too.” You could only hope that the reunion isn't brief as you stitch him back together again.

[alwaysmoncheri]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐨 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

summary: in which best friends, y/n henderson and steve harrington get caught up in their feelings while paranormal activities occur in the small town of hawkins, indiana

cw: fem!reader, I wrote this a long time ago(I apologize for everything cringe), shit writing, first person pov, mentions of psychiatric hospital, mentions of sex, 2k

<3

When I get home that night, I lay in bed so many thoughts swirling through my mind. What happened to Will? Is he okay? Why didn't he make it home last night? And Steve. I couldn't stop obsessing over Steve. Why does Steve want to become close again? Why is he perusing Nancy? Why not me?

The thoughts make me sick.

Suddenly I hear a crash from inside the house. Instantly, I stand up and grab my hair brush, making my way towards the sound. I raise my arm up, ready to attack the unexpected visitor.

That's when I hear a muffled, "Shit!" emanating from the garage. Still armed with my raised arm, I fling open the door. I'm met with my brother picking up his bike off the ground.

Dustin jerks his head in my direction with wide eyes. He was caught.

"Dustin, where are you going?" I ask with eyebrows raised and head tilted down.

"Shit," he mumbles under his breath, "The party and I are finding Will." I start walking towards him intending to grab my own bike, "And there's nothing you can do to stop us."

"Relax, little bro," I roll my eyes, picking up my bike, "I'm coming with you." 

And whatever you do, don't go looking for Will.

|☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆|

Dustin and I meet up with Mike and Lucas, then bike to Mirkwood road, where we last saw Will. We reach a taped off section of the woods and set our bikes down. I hear a rumble of thunder in the distance and raindrops start to fall.

"Hey guys," Dustin says, a single raindrop falling on his face, "Feel that?"

"I think, maybe, we should go back"

"Yeah, Dustin's right, we shouldn't be out here in a thunderstorm." I say, agreeing with my brother.

"No, we're not going back, jus' stay close," Mike says determined in finding our friend, "Just stay on channel six, and don't do anything stupid!"

"Mike! Lucas! Come back!" I yell as they make their way further into the woods, "I told Hopper I would watch over you guys!"

"Hey guys, wait up," My brother shouts, running after them, "Wait up!"

"Damn it!"

And I run after them.

|☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆|

The rain pours down on us as we make our way through the dark woods. I tug my jacket tighter to my body, a shiver running down my spin when the breeze rushes past. This may not be my brightest moment, but someone has to watch over these kids.

"Will!" Mikes screams into the woods.

"Will" I yell, "Where are you!"

"Byers!" Lucas shouts, over the noisy rain.

"I've got your X-Men 134!" Dustin offers, "Guys, I really think we should turn back!" He adds.

"Seriously Dustin?" Lucas says frustrated with his friend, "If you wanna be a baby, then go home already!"

"Guys, c'mon! This is no time to fight! Our friend is missing!" I yell at the two.

They ignore me.

"I'm just being realistic, Lucas!" Dustin defends himself.

"No, you're just being a big sissy!" Lucas counters.

"Did you ever think Will went missing because he ran into something bad? And we're going in the exact same spot where he was last seen? And we have no weapons or anything?" Dustin rants.

"Dustin, shut up." Mike says.

"I'm just saying, that seem smart to you?" Dustin finishes loudly over the rain.

"Yeah, we really shouldn't be out here guys. We didn't come prepared." I add.

"Guys shut up, shut up!" Mike says, the trees rustling nearby, "Did you guys hear that?"

The forest rustles all around, each of us frantically searching for the source of the sound. Suddenly, in front of us, appears a girl in a yellow t-shirt and a buzzcut.

"Holy shit..."

|☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆|

Having successfully brought the girl to Mike's basement, I don't fully understand how we did it without being caught. We stand around her, eyes wide and breaths heavy, as she sits on the couch, too shocked to speak.

"Is there a number we can call?" Mike asks, "For your parents?"

"Where's you hair?" Dustin gasps, "Do you have cancer?"

"Did you run away?" Lucas asks.

"Are you in some kind of trouble?" Mike asks.

"Is that blood?" Lucas asks, reaching his hand towards the girl.

"Stop it!" Mike says, swatting Lucas's hand away, "You're freaking her out!"

"She's freaking me out!" Lucas says gesturing to the girl.

"I bet she's deaf." Dustin says before clapping his hands in front of the girl's face.

She flinches.

"Not deaf." Dustin says, over to us.

"Alright, that's enough, alright," Mike says, stopping the boys from anymore questions, "She's just scared and cold." Mike turns to get a clean shirt and pants.

Thunder rumbles loudly, causing the girl to jump back, scared and squeeze her eyes shut.

"Hey, it's okay. You're safe with us." I say softly to the girl and she looks up at me a little more at ease.

"Here, these are clean, okay?" Mike comes back, handing the clothes to the girl.

She stands up and starts taking off her shirt. All the boys start yelling and covering their eyes. I chuckle and gently bring the girl's shirt back down.

"Over there," I point, "That's the bathroom, honey, privacy. Get it?" I tell the girl before walking with her to the door.

I'm about to close the bathroom door when the girl suddenly puts her hand up, stopping me from doing so.

"You don't want it closed?" I ask.

"No." She responds shortly.

"Okay well, how about we just leave it like this?" I ask leaving the door open with a few inches cracked, "Is this better?"

"Yes." She responds again.

"Okay, sweetie, let me know if you need anything." I say giving her a soft smile before walking back over to the boys.

"This is mental." Dustin says.

"At least we know she can talk." I offer, shrugging slightly.

"She said "no" and "yes." Mike's three-year-old sister says more." Lucas responds slightly annoyed.

"She tried to get naked." Dustin points out.

"There's something seriously wrong with her," Lucas says, "Like wrong in the head." Lucas adds pointing to he head.

"She just went like..." Dustin says before going through the motion of taking off a shirt, knocking his hat off in the process.

"I bet she escaped from Pennhurst." Lucas says pointing at Mike.

"From where?" Mike asks annoyed.

"The nuthouse in Kerley County." Lucas says like it's obvious.

"You got a lot of family there?" Dustin asks with a smirk.

"Bite me." Lucas responds, "Seriously though, think out it. That would explain her shaved hair and why she's so crazy."

"Why she went like..." Dustin says, making the same motion as before.

"She's an escapee is the point," Lucas says, "She's probably a psycho."

"Like Micheal Myers." Dustin concludes with wide eyes.

"She's not like Micheal Myers, Dustin." I say, but I'm ignored.

"Exactly." Lucas agrees, "We should have never brought her here!" Lucas adds frustrated.

So you just wanted to leave her out in that storm?" Mike asks, equally frustrated with his friend.

"Yes! We went out to find Will, not another problem." Lucas argues.

"I think we should tell your mom," Dustin says.

"I second that." Lucas agrees.

"I third that." I say, raising my hand up.

"Who's crazy now?" Mike questions us.

"How is that crazy?" Lucas whisper-yells back.

"Cause, we weren't supposed to be out tonight, remember?" Mike sighs, making a point.

"So?" Lucas says.

"So, if Mike tells his mom, then she tells our moms." I say with a shrug.

"Oh man." Dustin says worried.

"Our houses become Alcatraz..." Lucas says.

"Exactly. We'll never find Will," Mike confirms.

"Alright, here's the plan," Mike begins, "She sleeps here tonight."

"You're letting a girl—" Dustin starts.

"Just listen," Mike cuts him off, "In the morning, she sneaks around my house, goes to the front door and rings my doorbell. My mom will answer and know exactly what to do. She'll send her back to Pennhurst or wherever she comes from. We'll be totally in the clear! And tomorrow night, we go back out. And this time, we find Will."

Mike's idea doesn't seem terrible. Dustin and Lucas glance at one another before giving Mike a nod. I follow suit and nod as well. With that, we leave the Wheeler's house.

Dustin and I bike back to our house in the middle of the thunderstorm. Not the safest choice, but what other option do we have. Thankfully our mom is once again, sound asleep on the couch.

I'm in my room getting ready for bed. I start to cross my room to get into bed when I hear two taps on my window. I freeze in place, and wait, maybe it was just rain.

Two more taps. When I walk over to the window and open my curtains, I'm met with a mop of familiar brown eyes and a sheepish smile. I quickly open the window and pull the soaked boy inside.

"Steve? What are you doing?" I question, holding his forearms, slowing moving my hands up to his biceps, "It's pouring outside!"

"When has a little rain ever stopped me before?" He says, running a hand through his dripping hair and then moving past me to sit on my bed.

"Oh no, you are not sitting on my bed with wet clothes, Harrington," I shoot him a pointed look, hands on my hips, "At least take off your jacket." I say gesturing to his jacket before plopping down on my bed.

"Tryin' to get me naked, sweetheart?" Steve responds while shrugging his jacket off placing it on my chair.

"For the love of g—"

"I'm kidding, I'm saving that for Nancy tomorrow night." He says cutting me off, sitting in the space next to me.

My stomach drops.

"What?"

"Tomorrow night, party at my house. I'm inviting Nancy and Barb." Steve says nonchalantly.

"Tommy and Carol will obviously be there and, I'm inviting you now." He shoots me a soft smile.

"Oh.”

"Yeah, I know right," Steve continues, "So, I'll definitely be getting to home base with Nance." He says almost giddy.

"Any tips, Henderson?"

"Did you just ask me, a girl who's never had sex in her life, for tips...?" I ask, sitting criss-cross.

"Not that, I mean tips for getting Nancy to like me." He says as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

There's a pause.

"Wait, you've never had sex?"

"Nope," I say casually.

"Like, no one ever..." He cuts himself off.

"No," I say more embarrassed, shifting uncomfortably on my bed.

"Oh," Steve says looking down awkwardly, "Shit, Henderson."

I fidget with my hands placed in my lap and decide to change the topic, "You want tips for getting into Nancy's pants?"

"That's not what I said."

"No, but it's what you meant."

"(Y/n)...please," Steve whispers.

I sigh.

"Okay, but you can't break her heart, Harrington." I say, pointing my finger at his chest.

"I won't, you know I won't." He says.

"Do I?" I respond.

"C'mon, you don't really believe that crap about me, do you?" Steve says, sadly, almost as if he cared what I thought, "It's all rumors and shit."

"I don't really know who you are anymore Steve." I say looking down to my lap.

"Then let me show you," He says softly, bringing his hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. My heart is racing. I start to feel hot, shamelessly thinking about something entirely different than his pure intentions.

"Come to the party, you won't be disappointed." Steve says confidently pulling his hand back.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"And I promise, I won't break Nancy's heart." He finishes.

"Okay, fine." I give in.

"Great, you won't regret it," He grins, as he stands up, grabs his jacket and walks over to the window.

"See you tomorrow, Henderson," Steve says, giving me one last glance before climbing out my window into the pouring rain.

"Bye," I say, "And Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Nancy already likes you, like a lot," I say softly, "Just have patience with her."

"Thanks (Y/n)." Steve smiles before pulling his hood over his head, "I'm so lucky to have a friend like you."

Friend.

<3

next chapter . masterlist . steve harrington masterlist . taglist

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[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-down AU Part 31

Part 1 Part 30

It’s felt like hours since Eddie was left alone in the small room, but the large clock ticking away in front of his eyes is its own form of psychological torture, telling him it’s been less than fifteen minutes.

Is this the way time passes for dogs? Years passing within hours, until suddenly you’re on your deathbed. The clock ticks again. Eddie starts screaming to be let out. For the fourth time.

It must work because the door bursts open, random goon number five leading the way in, crouching behind Eddie and uncuffing him. His wrists feel raw from his tugging, fingers full of ants from his circulation being cut off. He cradles them to his chest, rubbing the feeling away.

“Get up,” Hopper says from where he’s standing at the door, Wayne by his side. “We’re wasting time.”

Eddie stands up slowly, eyes darting from person to person, trying to figure out what’s happening. “I don’t understand.”

Hopper turns and strides out of the room, not waiting for anyone to follow. Wayne gestures for him to hurry it along as Eddie rushes to his side. It’s only once he’s out of the small room that he realizes Hopper isn’t leading the charge but following two more goons with guns in their hands.

Eddie jogs to catch up, Wayne trailing behind. “What’s happening?” he asks, once he’s at Hopper’s side.

“We came to an agreement.”

“What?” Eddie demands loudly. At Hopper’s warning look, he lowers his voice and asks, “what agreement?”

Hopper sighs. “Look, everything that’s happened here, and everything that’s gonna happen? We don’t talk about it.”

“What?” Eddie asks, voice raised once more.

Hopper stops, sending their entire precession of goons with guns into an awkward fumble to keep them in sight and close ranks. “You want Steve back?” Hopper asks, glaring at Eddie like it’s somehow his fault that Steve is there in the first place. “This place had nothing to do with it. That’s the deal. You got it?”

Eddie glares incandescently furious at the thought of them getting away with it. All those days rotting alone in the Upside-Down, the way he can still feel ash coating his tongue, all these hours later. He bites his lip on the rage and says, “I’ve got it.”

They continue on.

The passage gets narrow and bright, more like a hospital than a shady government agency. It leads to an antechamber, just as full of white paint and emptiness, except the pops of color that are the three suits lined up – vacant and waiting.

They’re yellow and plastic-looking, like a cheap costume from a ‘60’s horror movie.

“What’s this?” Eddie asks.

There’s a man in a lab coat, holding a clipboard as he looks things over and makes little tick marks on his paper. He doesn’t look up from his task as he answers. “Protection,” he says casually, like they’re discussing the weather, “the atmosphere is toxic.”

“My boy was in there,” Wayne says gruffly.

“Steve is in there right now!” Eddie says, feeling his heartbeat tick up and skip around.

“Hey!” Hopper says, clapping to get their attention. “Put them on.”

Wayne and Eddie share a look, but both comply. The suit sticks strangely to his bare skin, like it’s a crappy rain jacket, and not a device that’s supposed to be able to protect their lungs and skin. The helmets are even worse – boxy and claustrophobic. Eddie wants to take his off immediately. As if sensing his thoughts, Wayne gives him a squint-eyed look. He leaves it on, grumbling about all the toxic fumes his already taken in.

They go, Wayne leading the charge with his shotgun in hand. Goons of both science and gun varieties watch them go from a distance that Eddie finds suspicious.

“How much do you want to bet that they don’t expect us to come back?” Eddie asks.

“Don’t matter,” Wayne says, keeping his eyes trained on the prize. “We’re getting your boy.”

Hopper twitches his head like he wants to glare at him, and Eddie’s suddenly grateful for the shelter the boxy helmets provide.

The gate, when it appears looks like the mouth of a cave, slimy and dripping, looking almost organic as is secretes and pulses in tandem to some heartbeat Eddie can’t even begin to comprehend. Ash is billowing out like snow. And it’s all that same, familiar red.

Eddie feels like he should be afraid, but it doesn’t come. Squeezing through the entrance behind Wayne feels like going home. Even as the other two look around at the wasteland of a place in shock, Eddie wants to take off his helmet and breath it in.

No one speaks as Eddie leads at a brisk pace that has his lungs burning immediately. Every snap of a twig under one of their boots has Wayne raising his shotgun and Hopper reaching for the holster at his hip as Eddie plows doggedly on.

It’s like now that he’s on the other side, the fishhook in his sternum is urging him on, faster, faster. Toward Steve.

The Harrington house looms large above them, but Eddie already knows it’s too late before they reach what’s left of the front door. It’s caved in, mahogany splintered straight down the middle. Anything could walk inside.

“He’s not here,” Eddie says, hoping the tug at his sternum means that Steve’s out there somewhere, and not just dead.

 Hopper doesn’t listen, just shoves his way past the shards of what’s left of the Harrington’s austere front door. Wayne waits for him, mutters a quiet, “we’ll make it quick,” as they follow.

Eddie knows where to go, leads the way up winding stairs to Steve’s empty plaid bedroom in this empty house. The closet door has been ripped clean off, bolts attaching it to nothing but air.

Eddie looks down at the next of blankets on the carpet, looks for blood by rote, doesn’t find any.

It looks just the same as Eddie last saw it, past the destruction. His dirty clothes are still puddled on the floor, somehow still wet days later. Eddie’s pillow is nestled into the same place in the closet, like Steve was saving him a place for when he came back.

“He’s not here,” Eddie repeats, leading the way back out of Steve’s empty bedroom and down the winding stairs.

Wayne and Hoppers footsteps follow, Hopper pausing to look around like he’s casing the joint. “It was hurt,” he calls.

It almost hurts to turn away from the front door, from that tug tug tug. Wayne and Hopper are both peering down at a spot on the Harrington’s white living room carpet. It’s pooled with blood black enough that it looks like a misplaced shadow.

“Where is it?” It sounds like Nancy’s voice, echoing over from the other side.

“It has to be dead.” And there’s Johnny boy.

“Wheeler?” Hopper calls, alarmed.

“She’s not here,” Eddie replies. “Her and Jonathan must have done something stupid.”

Wayne, who had only caught the tail-end of their mad-dash plan to lure the Demogorgon to the other side, eyes the stained carpet and says, “that explains the blood.”

Eddie reaches out, brushes his hand across a lamp as he passes, basking in the way the light feels almost warm in his palm before he walks back out into the broken world through the Harrington’s broken front door.

The fishhook pulls. Eddie follows.

Part 32

[marlynnofmany]

Double Dog Dare

“Are you warm enough?” I asked Paint as we walked. My fingers were chilly against the box I carried, but it was small enough that I could reach to rub them together.

“Yes,” Paint said firmly. She pulled her heat shawl close, nuzzling her scaly orange face into its yellow warmth. “This is fully charged, and much better than my old one.”

“Well, no falling in the water for you today.”

“No falling in the water for me ever!” she said. “Unless the water is warm. Then it would be nice.”

I looked around at the industrial ruins that we walked through, all damp concrete and convoluted passageways. Even the sunlight on this planet felt thin. “I don’t think anything around here is warm.”

“Not yet,” Paint said with a lift of her snout. “I’m sure they’ll get things back in working order soon. That box probably holds a key heating circuit or something, and the area will become more hospitable in no time.”

I smiled at her priorities. As a coldblooded Heatseeker, she could hardly be blamed for expecting warmth to be high on the to-do list. I would have focused more on landing pad repair personally, so visiting couriers didn’t have to walk through this maze of alien architecture to reach the inhabited area, but that’s just me.

At any rate, our delivery timeline was short but so was the best route, at least according to the map on my phone. If we kept up a brisk pace, we’d get there well before the client started to grumble. And in this chill there was no reason to dawdle.

Sudden voices echoed off the walls: laughter from a few people at once. Distinctly human laughter. The locals were Frillians, so who were these?

Paint craned her neck to pinpoint the source of the voices, looking just as curious as I was. Then we walked around a corner and met a cluster of humans in blue jackets with a logo that I recognized immediately.

“Hey, it’s the crew of the good ship Hold My Beer!” I said in greeting. “How’s the droid jousting business?”

“Hello again!” said Captain Parker, flashing that bright smile set off by his dark skin. “We’re here for an outdoor tournament. Just on the way to check in now. You guys making another delivery?” The handful of other humans nodded at us.

Paint said, “Yes! It’s probably important! But we don’t know for sure. They wanted it in a hurry.”

Captain Parker pulled out a holo map of his own, and pointed down a concrete corridor. “This is definitely the fastest route that we can see. Pretty bonkers city design.” He started walking with a glance at the gray sky.

I hitched the box up and fell in step with the group. “I don’t think it was a city originally. No idea what, but these don’t look like stores or houses.”

Paint took short-legged strides beside me, offering suggestions for what these reclaimed ruins could have been, and the walk passed quickly. We’d moved on to discuss the jousting crew’s latest wins and new uniforms — those Stabby the Roomba emblems were very stylish — when we passed through an open doorway and discovered a problem.

The passage ahead of us was a deep chasm between concrete walls, open to the sky and devoid of branching passages, with a doorway at the bottom of several concrete steps. The door was closed. And the steps were filled with water.

I stopped. “Hm.”

“Aw man,” Captain Parker exclaimed, getting out his map again.

“What do we do?” asked Paint, clicking her scaly knuckles together. “This was the fast route! Our client is on a timeline!”

I thumped my chin against the box. “I knew we should have used the hoverbike.”

“You would have crashed into a wall! These walkways are far too narrow.”

“No I wouldn’t.”

A sturdy woman from the jousting crew shone a pocket flashlight into the murky water. It was all in shadow, thanks to an awning up top that seemed ironically meant to protect from the rain. Like everything else around here, it was janky and broken, but made of metal that hadn’t rusted through yet. Canvas would have been long gone.

I eyed the many cracks in the walls, with pipes and alien rebar sticking out. “I don’t suppose anyone feels like climbing over?”

“The box doesn’t have a carry strap,” Paint pointed out. “And I am not one of you climbing experts.”

A heavyset man with gray hair chuckled at that. “You’re not the only one.”

This turned into a side conversation about how Paint was under the impression that all humans were talented climbers by her standards, until Captain Parker interrupted.

“While this would be the most direct route, I see three other possibilities that shouldn’t take us in too many circles. It really is a shame, though. This one’s a nice straight shot if we could get the door open. Can you see the catch, Ruby?”

“Barely,” the woman reported. “This light is garbage. But it looks just like those other doors. Too bad we don’t have a long pole or something to work the catch with.”

I looked up. “That awning looks like it has a couple poles! I wonder if they come off.”

Paint yelped, “The water is rising!” She pointed, clutching her shawl. “It was below that step before!”

“Dang, you’re right.” Ruby stepped back. The other crewmates gestured to cracks that reached above water, which could easily be causing leaks below.

“We should go,” decided Captain Parker. “Get a head start on one of the long routes.”

“But our client!” Paint exclaimed. “They need the package in a hurry, and will tell everyone we’re unreliable!”

While everyone voiced an opinion, ranging from “Route B” to “Route C” to “rock-paper-scissors for who gets dunked in the hypothermia water,” I shoved the box at Paint. “Hold this,” I said. Then I got a running start and leapt up for a good grip on a crack in the wall.

There were plenty of footholds. Some of the metal bits sticking out were loose, but not enough to fall out. I focused on making sure each step was secure as quickly as possible, and reached the top in no time.

Thankfully it was wide enough to balance on without too much worry. That water wasn’t deep enough to land in safely, never mind the temperature.

Speaking of water, I thought with dawning horror, This is about to be bad.

Several rows away in this maze was a broken pipe the size of my torso, spewing water into a reservoir that was near to overflowing. Some of the water was leaking out through cracks in the sides already, leading to a puddle that was dripping through to make the one on our side.

The route back is in the danger zone too! Maybe if we’re fast enough, we can get to that open area over there. Or get everybody else up here. But I don’t trust this wall to stay intact if that dam fails all at once.

My phone buzzed, making me jump. It was Paint. I realized she’d probably been yelling for my attention, and I didn’t hear. There were sounds of pouring water up here, not to mention the blood rushing in my ears. I answered the phone.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Get the pole!”

“Right,” I said, hurrying along the wall. “We may not have enough time, even if I can get it free. There’s more water that could flood the area at any moment. I think somebody has to swim for the catch.”

“What! How much water?”

“Lots. Hang on.” I stuck the phone in my pocket to free both hands for the awning. Up close, it looked much rustier and ancient than below. The pole at the side was welded on. I braced my feet and gave it a good yank. That produced a metal screech and a rain of rust particles, but not much else. Pushing and pulling to work it loose let me fold the awning back so watery sunshine illuminated the door catch far below. The jousting crew shouted about it indistinctly.

I leaned against the awning, holding it back while I got my phone out. “It’s not coming loose,” I told Paint. “Tell him there’s a dam about to break, and one of his people needs to open the door.”

There was lots of indistinct shouting at that. I couldn’t make out all of the words, especially since the water sounds were increasing, thanks to a new crack the water levels had just reached. Captain Parker was shaking his head at Paint, who’d set down the box so she could hold the phone and gesture wildly. He waved at me to come down, and pointed back at the way we’d come. I shook my head and pointed at the reservoir, but he was already looking away.

“Paint!” I called into the phone. “Tell him he’s got to!”

“He wants to turn back!” Paint cried.

“Wait!” This was a dumb idea, but I’d had worse. “Paint, tell him you double dog dare him to do it.”

“What?”

“Human thing. If he doesn’t, he’s a coward. Use those exact words: you double dog dare him.”

Paint didn’t answer me, lowering the phone and jabbing a finger at Captain Parker. I could just make out her words over the water.

“I double dog dare you to do it! If you don’t, you’re a coward!”

He gaped at her for a moment while his crew burst into laughter. Ruby clapped him on the shoulder. A smaller man waggled his fingers like he was offering to hold the captain’s jacket. Captain Parker looked up at me, arms spread in a clear WTF.

I held the awning back and pointed emphatically downward.

Water rushed faster out of that new crack. People were laughing below. Paint repeated the phrase like an incantation.

And Captain Parker took off his jacket, handing it to the other man.

“Yes!” I breathed in relief, leaning harder against the metal. It really wanted to fold back down. But the captain would need light to see.

In moments he’d left his jacket, shoes, and pocket valuables with the crew, and was striding forward, shaking his head. Ruby aimed her flashlight at the door, though it was pretty visible now. I pocketed my phone and crossed my fingers. With a worried glance, I sent strengthening thoughts toward the dam.

Captain Parker stuck a foot in, swore loudly, then cannonballed directly into the deep end to the approving whoops of his crew. He surfaced, gasping at the cold, then took a few good breaths and submerged, going straight for the door.

The catch didn’t turn easily. Of course it didn’t. Why would any of this be easy? I watched him struggle with it, flicking my eyes back toward the straining reservoir. Water was starting to spill over the side. The big crack was spreading.

Then something clunked below me, and the door grated aside, gushing water and a very cold human into the corridor beyond.

I yelled my own wahoo along with the crew, and left the awning to jolt back into place with another rain of rust while I hurried back down. One of the pipes almost jerked out of the wall while I was holding it. I jumped the rest of the way.

“Take the box!” Paint told me. Humans were rushing down the wet stairs. I took it just as a thunderous crack filled the air, and the ground shuddered.

“Run!” I said. We dashed down the stairs to the sound of rushing water. The wall I’d just been standing on sprouted dozens of leaks, creaking ominously.

There was still a bit of a puddle at the bottom, but Paint bravely dashed through it with her heat shawl held tight. I was right behind her with the box. The other humans were already climbing dry stairs on the other side.

We made it through the door just as the wall collapsed, sending water and debris slamming into the place we’d been standing moments before.

I don’t think I’ve ever climbed stairs faster. Two of the nearest humans hoisted Paint up, her small legs kicking in the air. Water splashed behind us, wetting one of my pant legs in a terrifying moment that made me think we’d all be washed away after all, but then we were out of range and still standing.

Everybody stood in an open courtyard, breathing hard and staring. The water rushed in every direction below us, filling more passageways than I’d thought it could. We’d reached an area of high ground with the reconstruction offices in view, all freshly painted and gold in the sunlight.

But only just.

“We’ll need another way back to the ship,” said Ruby.

“Good thing we left all our stuff behind.”

“Hey Captain, you can use my shirt to dry off with.”

“Mine too.”

Captain Parker looked a little paler than his skin tone was really meant for as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Thanks,” he managed, sounding like he was keeping his teeth from chattering by force of will.

Paint approached him and made an elaborate bow, which I’m pretty sure she got from some media about old Earth customs since that’s not the kind of thing her people do. “Well done, Captain Parker,” she declared. “Your honor is unquestionable; you are not a dog this day.”

He smiled while the crew laughed again. “Thank you. Your challenge was well-timed.” He stripped off his wet shirt and toweled dry with someone else’s, then rolled up his pant legs instead of taking them off.

“Do you need to borrow my heat shawl?” Paint asked tentatively.

Captain Parker frowned, shivering violently. “You’re coldblooded. Don’t you need it?”

“I’ll be okay,” Paint assured him. “You need it more right now. The air isn’t as bad as that water.”

“You’re not wrong.” He accepted it when she handed it to him, settling it over his shoulders with a deep sigh of relief.

When Paint met my eyes, I gave her a smile of approval, and she beamed. Crew members were busy making calls: to their ship, to their local contact, and who knew where else. It occurred to me that we should do the same.

Paint told me, “Everyone’s going to want to hear about this. And you’ll have to explain the details of the double dog thing; I’d never heard of that before.”

I shrugged one shoulder, still holding the box. “It’s not a big deal. More of a kid thing, honestly. I’m sure there are lots of cultures with similar stuff.”

“Not mine,” she said thoughtfully. “Blip and Blop would probably appreciate it. And Trrili would probably appreciate it too much.”

“Oh man, Trrili would be an unholy menace.” I thought of our most frightening crewmate’s love of scaring people. “Let’s not tell her about double dares.”

When the captain had his shoes back on and his jacket thrown over the heat shawl, we all moved on toward the reconstruction office, leaving a trail of water droplets and honor in our wake.

~~~

Captain Parker and co made their other appearance in this story.

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

They're shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include some characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[employee052]

[A new ending and a new beginning.] (art + a fic)

[I accidentally wrote a lot for the art piece, so the full art is at the end under the cut!]

"An odd silence fell between the two of them as the sun began to gently rise from its slumber and out into the sky above. A soft drizzle pouring onto the ground below as Stanley clung to the jacket resting on his shoulders. The breeze hitting his skin as he realized what this was.

It was weather.

It was the rain. It was the cool breeze against his skin, the warmth of the sun above, the grass below him, the trees surrounding him.

It was freedom. Just like the way the two had hoped that they would one day see.

The Narrator smiled softly, Gently grabbing Stanley's hand as they sat side by side on the hilltop.

He gazed out into the world around them. The sunlight making his eyes shine a familiar yellow as he turned to see all there was to see in that moment alone. There was an odd sense of finality to his face, as though he was conjuring another story in his mind. Only this time, there were no more endings, no more resets.

Simply a story with a beginning and an end.

Stanley looked at him curiously, nudging his arm as The Narrator turned to face him with a guilty look.

This made Stanley nervous. Despite having only seen the Narrator in person for a short amount of time, in all his time within the office, he never once imagined that the same man that he was hearing all this time would be sitting beside him looking at him like he was his world.

And perhaps he was, Stanley thought to himself.

'It's funny, isn't it Stanley?' The Narrator asked in a low rumble, 'To think, the ending we've both desperately dreamed of achieving, and all you had to do was get me to listen."

Stanley smiled, it was a challenge to get him to stop without a voice. An even bigger challenge to get him to listen to what he had to say.

Yet as his legs ached from running up those stairs towards the escape pod, The Narrator holding his hand as he wondered if they were really about to be freed. Stanley knew that he would do it all again if it meant that the two of them could sit on this hill together for just a brief moment.

The Narrator sighed, looking down at their hands in silent acceptance. Gently caressing soft circles on the back of Stanley's hand.

Stanley didn't need to look. The weight in his chest telling him all that he needed to know.

Stanley kept his eyes on the Narrator's face. Set on dedicating it to memory as the soft wisps of distortion chipping off the Narrator's body. His coat on his shoulders growing steadily lighter.

'It's okay,' The Narrator reassured, his free hand wrapping around Stanley's torso in a gentle side hug. 'We've both achieved our freedom. Even if it was for a brief moment.'

A sob escaped Stanley's throat. A soft gasp before he broke out into tears. He pulled The Narrator in for a hug, clinging desperately to him as he felt him hug back. The two of them holding onto each other desperately as the ending was in sight.

'Oh... I have so many things I wish to tell you Stanley.'

Stanley felt the Narrators lips press against his head tenderly.

'But this isn't my ending to live. It's simply another beginning to your own story.'

The two stayed like this for another moment. Holding each other in their arms as the stars faded for the morning skies' hues to colour the atmosphere above them. Tears streaming down their faces. Stanley felt the Narrator's grip grow weaker feeling the distortion grow more intense as he clung to him even harder.

'Stanley, would you mind if I narrate this moment for us? For old times sake.' He whispered. 'It will be different, I promise.'

Stanley chuckled quietly. His shoulders shaking as he nodded, wiping his tears. For once, he never thought his lines would bring him this much comfort.

The Narrator coughed, the distortion about to overtake him as he pulled Stanley in closer. Speaking with whole chest befitting for a true and final ending.

'And so, Stanley and The Narrator could feel the breeze against their skin. A new ending, and a new beginning for them both. The feeling of freedom within themselves.'

'This was exactly the way, right now, that things were meant to happen.'

'And Stanley was free.' "

[The End]

~~~~~~~

[For different versions of the art!- uh... we can only have one cut, so just... scroll down lmao]

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

s4 episode 4 thoughts

woohoo!! it feels, again, like our separation has been so long, but it has been about… 3 whole days. oh, how i miss the earlier months in which i had time to post episode thoughts every day… 

this episode sounds interesting!!! no idea how someone’s thoughts could be captured on film, but we do a lot of disbelief suspension around these parts, with varying levels of success.

wait. hold on. i just saw the description for the episode after this one. what the hell is mulder getting himself into with that. do we need more mulder ex lore? i don’t need that. it doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy inside. 

putting aside my many questions on that matter to focus on what is here in front of us.

(author’s note post-episode: …. woaghhh. scully…)

in all honesty, having processed my thoughts, i think this one was just a LITTLE bit too intense for me. which i recognize is okay, and to each their own. but i need to speak my Truth.

liveblogging commences below 

we begin with this sketchy looking dude, who is being rude as hell to a woman putting on lipstick before getting a passport photo taken. god forbid a woman want to serve… then he says to act natural while not acting natural himself. HYPOCRITE!

she goes in for a passport photo and…. she left her money in the car! she must return to this unfortunate man and go get it. but someone is following her…. 

he did something to her… and she gets back to the car to “billy”, but someone did something to him, too!! he appears to be dead and bleeding from the ear!! then she falls to the ground and tries to crawl to safety, but the mystery man in the yellow rain jacket comes back for her…. 

and the man in the photo store looks at the passport photos, but despite taking just a standard headshot, he sees the woman’s dying face in the images!!

oh. that is an unpleasant day on the job for such a nice seeming man.

this intro always makes me laugh... i’m sorrrrryyy the ufo pictures just remind me that this show is fundamentally unserious 

scully and mulder are rolling up to a town in michigan, while he asks her for any thoughts on the case. it appears this woman was abducted three days ago. and billy was punctured in the brain. yuck.

okay, so her name is mary. and this poor pharmacist…. he has to take people’s pictures, and give them drugs, AND deal with this nonsense 

they are at the pharmacy where the “druggist” (they keep using that term which i have never heard before) is showing them his camera, which he keeps under lock and key, and i notice he has some fun candy in the background. but i assume things are not fun at this time for him. 

scully wants to see the camera, and mulder takes a step back to let her pass. it kinda looks like he does that thing where he touches her back, but it’s hard to tell. and once again for all readers, that thing where men touch your back is only attractive when it’s mulder to scully and not between some randos!

scully notices something on the pharmacist’s foot, and also that the film is out of date. she is always noticing things. one of her many lovely qualities. 

mulder calls the pharmacist “bruno hauptman” and i don’t get that reference so i do what i do best: go to wikipedia. oh! bruno is the guy that was executed for kidnapping the lindbergh baby. i don’t know why i thought that mystery was unsolved. i guess it’s because the article is saying it was a heavily criticized and debated case. huh, a mystery for another time.

anyway, mulder is saying this all tauntingly with his stupid beautiful mulder smile, but scully is saying yeah, this nice old pharmacist doesn’t look like a usual suspect.

but she does point out that the film has heat damage, and a heater is right there… “so you think that would make it look like she posed screaming for a passport photo?” <- LMAO MAN LET HER FINISH

BAHAHA she is onto nothing 🔥🔥 

“plus, the film is two years out of date” “oh” the- the photographic chemistry could have changed” (mulder nodding) “uh-huh” “the- the dyes fade… they… alright, what’s your theory?” <- BAHAHA love that… you have to admit when you don’t know wtf is going on! i had full confidence she would pull something out of her science-y brain, but sometimes you just don’t know!

(this stupid scene had me giggling, as did her face of resignation)

mulder seems to ALSO have no idea wtf is going on, but as they discuss this, a police officer walks in and says they might have wasted the agents’ time…. what does that mean? did they figure it out that quick?

back at the house of the victims, they meet a postal inspector. okay!!! that’s fun and different. and i pause to write this down, and scully is SO beautiful, i actually might blow up. a full on explosion where once stood me is liable to go down. oh my gooooood.

okay: postal inspector is investigating a mail theft. mary had been working at the postal office, stealing people’s credit cards, and her boyfriend was signing them! oh! very illegal. inspector seems to think she faked her disappearance, but mulder points out that would not explain the stabbing of the boyfriend. also, they have this creepy ass broccoli magnet on their fridge which. bleugh. it did not spark joy.

mulder wants a camera from their house, and he finds one! did he just. take a picture of scully…? oh my god. he said “stand back, scully, it’s loaded” and took one… he didn’t even let her pose or anything… that's so cute... even if it's a little weird to use a dead person's camera from a crime scene... he wanted to take her picture

no, i am all wrong, for it appears he is just… taking random photos. because someone in the 60’s once claimed that he could concentrate really hard on undeveloped film and show his thoughts. uh. press f to doubt.

(man, i want to live in that very brief and exciting moment where i thought he was taking a cute little candid of her again… it was so blissful there)

wait. what da hell. he just clicked the camera a bunch of times and it comes up with the screaming mary photo again and again.

oh… he thinks that someone was stalking mary, and the stalker’s psychic energy altered the film by him coming in its proximity. i didn't realize that was how psychic powers worked but i am listening and learning

scully says that these images had to be doctored, which is, again, a reasonable conclusion, but he asks her to “what if” the situation and just think about it!!! just imagine!!!

cutscene to… someone crawling on the side of the road. it’s mary!!! she’s bleeding from her eyes (?) and not responding at all to the police car arriving behind her.

now she is in a stretcher at the hospital that our agents are helping to steer. they are kind like that. she had a “painkiller cocktail” in her system, but that wouldn’t account for her condition. scully orders a PET scan for her, a term i have never heard before. i love when she uses terms i have never heard before.

they’re putting mary in what looks like an MRI sort of thing to look at her brain. whatever it is, it is clearly very bad, as told by scully’s visible reaction and audible declaration of “oh my god”, while mulder looks at her and asks “what is it”? 

(and while i appreciate that this is a sensitive moment for our story, mulder not knowing wtf is going on with these medical things always is a favorite trope of mine, 1. because me too, and 2. he is usually such an insufferable know-it-all i love watching him admit when he knows nothing. humility!)

oh my god… “she has been given what’s called a transorbital lobotomy” <- oh that does NOT sound good… it used to be known as an ice pick lobotomy!!! oh my gosh i’ve heard of that one!! ice pick… eye sockets… i can feel myself growing faint…

but whoever did it, did it wrong… who would do a lobotomy without knowing how to do it the right way???

in the machine, mary is mumbling!! she is saying “unruhe” according to the closed captioning, but it just sounds like faint groaning to me. however, given that this phrase is the title of the episode, i venture to guess that it IS in fact relevant.

a policeman bursts in and says there has been a second abduction, and our agents look deeply sorrowful at this news, seeming to know what will happen next if they cannot crack the case.

oh! now we are seeing the new victim, and whoever took her is in fact saying “unruhe”, and other stuff in german! NO! he pulls out a pick…. fade to black. 

WHO in this small seeming town speaks german and has a psychic effect on cameras… ?? i hope this can be narrowed down to a slim pool of candidates!!

scully is going into the next crime scene, where mulder reports that a man has been murdered, and his secretary alice taken. this is not good.

mulder has been looking into what that word alice was mumbling means- first in a phone book, but then as a translation, i guess, because it means “trouble” in german.

WOAH, WHAT?

! SCULLY LORE REVEAL ! she took german in college!!! and knows that the word is more accurately translated as “unrest”! 

(oh my gosh, i need to get back into compiling lore reveals at the end of each season like i did for s1…. good thing i take such detailed notes so i can go back and do them for s2 and s3)

((we didn’t get a ton in the last 2 seasons, so i thought of doing one post for both seasons- but the organization freak in me wants to do 1 per season, so i’ll go through them again and see what i can find when i get bored someday))

scully hands him a photo from the first crime scene, but mulder says the criminal wasn’t there, because if he was, he would have altered the photos. scully seems annoyed that he’s looking for psychic photos and not crime scene evidence, but he explains that whoever did this has to be very good, and photos may be their only lead since he doesn’t seem to know he is doing it. but then scully sees something and her eyes go SUPER wide… and she says she wants to show him something. 

oh! they find a construction company’s logo at both sites. so maybe the criminal worked at places under construction and was able to kidnap the women…? this theory is brought to you by scully.

he says she might be right, but he is going back to DC to get analysis on the photo. she still is skeptical, but he says that since the woman’s time is running out, that’s all the more reason to analyze the one piece of hard evidence they do have, and that he’ll be in touch. 

he must have really cared if he said he’ll be in touch, because usually he just runs off to god knows where to do god knows what. 

(and how much time would they even HAVE if he has to drive all the way back??? that isn’t a quick trip, is it???)

the same criminal dude from before is now saying stuff in german and taping alice’s mouth shut, while mulder is back in the photo lab sitting practically on top of this nerdy yet attractive fellow, asking for the blurriness in the image to be reduced. and it reveals very scary looking demon things! 

mulder sees someone in the back of the photo… and they get a more enhanced image on the face, but it isn’t clear to me who it is. i felt like i was supposed to know who it was, but luckily i wasn't!

scully is ordering people out to canvas and investigate the employees who may have been working at both construction sites. i like when she does that.

mulder and the lab guy figure out that there is a shadow in the background of the photo from the kidnapper. “he’s standing over her, he means to pass judgement on her, like a god” <- an unsettling thing to say, mr. spooky

scully rolls up to one of the construction sites and i’m thinking, oh please, do not get kidnapped, please please, it’s not something we need today. she’s yelling “hello” and no one is answering... but she hears something….. 

it’s a… guy on stilts? it’s the foreman named gerry. oh… could he have made the big shadow in the picture his stilts? but he doesn’t sound german…

mulder calls and says the kidnapper’s legs are unusual, either he’s very tall or he wants to be. stilts man?!?! is it you?!

instead of playing it chill upon hearing this news, she hangs up on mulder, and turns to gerry and says “unruhe”, pulling out her gun. but he uses his stilts to jump across the building! only to collapse and fall. his getaway is thwarted as scully tells him to stop or she’ll shoot, and to prove her seriousness, she does so. but i’m not buying he’s the guy!! sorry my queen!!

NO!! I WAS FOOLED, WASN’T I??? she reaches into his pocket and pricks her finger!!! NOOO! it’s a huge pick in there! like we saw before at the kidnapping!!

is she gonna be drugged from that….

(thankfully, the pick itself did not contain the drugs)

they’re interrogating the dude, and he denies everything. i mean, i guess a lot of people could have stilts and a pick at construction sites. maybe they didn't grab the right fellow.

he says that tool is used to start keyholes in the sheetrock and all fixtures. a good excuse…

but he really does seem confused. 

however, mulder brings up that gerry was arrested before, for attacking his father with an axe handle until he spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair. OH! this is not promising.

gerry says that he was institutionalized, which mulder reveals was for a schizophrenic disorder. gerry claims that since his release, he had been taking care of his father 24/7, until he passed away in january. well i’m not entirely sure if that makes amends, but i guess it’s better than nothing?

“and how did you feel about that?” asks mulder about gerry's father's death, sounding very much like the psychology expert i sometimes forget that he is. then he reveals that the same year gerry attacked his father, gerry’s sister passed. connected….?

gerry is staring intently back at scully, saying that she looks troubled. oh! do not talk to her that way.

then mulder comes in with the enhanced photo from earlier, and asks if it shows gerry’s father. he seems taken aback, like it really is his father, and then further taken aback when he pulls out the full photo and asks if those demons figures are what he sees when he closes his eyes. this finally gets gerry to crack and say that he knows where alice is, and that she is safe, “from the howlers”. HUH? 

(is it bad my thoughts went straight to a howler monkey when he said that? i was thinking man, monkeys do not look like that at all. you and i have seen some different monkeys, gerry. but no, he does not refer to those types of howlers)

a ton of cop cars are arriving in the woods, to find alice, who is bleeding from the eyes, which can only mean one thing in this context. oh noooo. scully seems horrified and as if she is blaming herself 

oh, we get a very charged exchange here. she says it doesn’t matter what is in the photos, or if it shows gerry’s dreams or nightmares, because it’s over, and they couldn’t save alice. she starts the engine, and when i think she’s gonna drive off without mulder, he hops in. i bet that guilt that doctors feel when that cannot save a patient is even worse in her than in usual doctors, because she also has to deal with trying to rescue people from crime. :(

gerry is being taken in and photographed by the cops. but instead of a mugshot, when we see the picture, it’s the guy who was taking him in with a bullet hole in his head. oh! so that seems to confirm earlier suspicions on behalf of mulder. 

OH NO!! gerry reaches out and grabs the gun from the cop! NOOO! 

mulder points out that the image from that interaction showed the man shot in the head, but in reality, he was shot in his throat. so i guess it’s not based on reality as much as his intentions? sure, why not. and scully says there was a robbery at the pharmacy back where the very first photo was taken. no! our druggist friend!

gerry took all of the film in the store and a ton of drugs for more “twilight sleep”, which is a bad sign. i think i’ve seen this film before…

scully thinks that perhaps he was stalking his next victim at the construction site, and i’m thinking, girl i think he picked out his victim alright, but i don’t think she’s in the apartments.

mulder wants to wait a bit for his photo to come out. so he sends her to pull the car around and i’m screaming NO, NO, DON’T SEPARATE, NOT WITH A GUY ON THE LOOSE WHO LOOKED AT HER AND SAID “YOU LOOK TROUBLED” AFTER DOING 2 DIY LOBOTOMIES ON OTHER WOMEN AND KILLING 2 OTHER MEN! JUST WAIT A MINUTE AND WALK TO THE CAR TOGETHER!!!

but she cannot hear me….

NO! as she unlocks the car, a hand from beneath reaches out and pierces her foot with a needle NOOOO… and it’s gerry and she’s going down and NOOOOOO!!!!

AND MULDER PULLS THE PHOTO OUT TO FIND GERRY WAS THINKING OF SCULLY WHEN IT WAS TAKEN!

he is RUNNING after that car. despite his best efforts, even trackstar mulder is not as fast as a car, yet he follows her and screams her name regardless. until he realizes he will not win this race.

back at the police office, mulder is STARING at that photograph, the one showing scully being taken by these horrific creatures known as “the howlers”. he’s asking for any leads, including “does he have a summer house? a winter house?” which could be seen as desperation for answers or mulder being out of touch with how many people grew up with summer houses, take your pick.

OH! in gerry’s wallet was his father’s obituary. and his father was a dentist… and the name sounds german… 

so they go to his old dentist’s office, where they did an ad for the pain medicine cocktail he’s been cooking up. and mulder finds a footprint and a missing dentist’s chair. 

NO!! scully is in the dentist’s chair at some undisclosed location. waking up to find her arms and legs bound with a pick on the table and gerry in the distance. she’s watching him…. and she says to let her go. 

he begins his german ranting that has happened before the other lobotomies, and she… RESPONDS???? in clumsy german??? she says she has no unrest and doesn’t need saving, but he insists she does??? WHAT!!!

good on her for remembering some words after all those years :,)

he says everyone has some unrest, but especially her. she thinks she must remind him of his sister, and they talk about “the howlers”, who live inside your head, and make you say and do things you don’t mean.

so she turns the tables on this, and says maybe there are no such thing as howlers, and maybe he made them up to justify what his father did to his sister, which sets him off further. OH… so she thinks gerry attacking his father and his sister’s death were related. damn… that’s heavy

she tries to convince him that the “howlers” are just in HIS head, and no one else’s, as he approaches with a camera to try and prove they do exist. because cameras cannot lie!!

back at the dentist’s office, mulder appears to be losing it. mumbling about the 6 fingers the howler had in the photos, and yelling “WHY are there 6?” to no one in particular, as if he can find an answer through sheer willpower. one of the cops is asking him what to do while he looks at the obituary and counts five headstones…. and the father makes 6? sure, if that makes sense to you king!

they’re off to the graveyard while scully is still in a mystery location, with tears in her eyes as gerry shows her the photos he took. he takes the photos to mean he doesn’t have much time left, and tapes her mouth… and oh my gosh, i think of what would go down here if i knew she wasn’t gonna pull through… until gerry hears a tapping and MULDER IS LOOKING IN!! YES!!!

gerry is doing this in a camper van! by the graveyard!!! mulder is peeking in, sees a tooth keychain, and realizes she’s in there!!!! he’s yelling her name, and she’s yelling that she’s in here, while gerry tries to hold her down!!!

mulder’s BEATING on the window of the camper with his hands, and when that doesn’t work, he finds a giant metal pipe and SLAMS it into the window, goes in, and shoots gerry. this escalated quickly, but it was almost not quick enough.

mulder asks if she’s hurt, and neither of them say anything as she walks out, with mulder kneeling down to see that the last photos gerry had taken were of himself dead on the floor. it’s a terribly thick tension that reminds me of the ending to irresistible, but without the tension bursting like it did in that episode with her finally revealing her fear to him. i wish that she did it again this time. 

scully is doing the episode wrap up, sounding terribly solemn. she is reporting that gerry had written a diary intended as a letter for his father, including the list of the women he hoped to “save”. and her name is the last entry. she has no explanation for the photographs. but she empathized with him, which her survival depended upon.

“i see now the value of such insight. for truly to pursue monsters, we must understand them. we must venture into their minds. only in doing so, do we risk letting them venture into ours?” (said while there are tears in her eyes, as she looks at the photograph of her being pulled by the howlers)

WHAT THE HELL.

okay, so chris carter… you and i need to have some words. 

i have a lot of thoughts. perhaps number one: what if mulder had been 5 minutes later… can you imagine him never being able to cope with that….? oh my gosh. oh my gosh. no, i shan’t imagine. but i’m sure they both were imagining it. and that is probably why she couldn’t say anything as she walked out of the camper van. it was too horrific.

second. this was a dark one. i was giggling at first and then it got really dark. lobotomies… are a hard subject.

third. when the writers make the bad guy have a mental illness, i do feel it to be insulting, because we don’t often get a character where a guy with schizophrenia is just a guy doing normal things like working at the store or going to get his oil changed. no, he’s gotta be up to something nefarious. i wish that wasn’t the case and that these episodes didn’t use mental illness in that way, and i understand that things were kind of Like That in the 90’s and arguably still are in media, but it has been observed with distaste. 

okay, final thoughts? like i’ve said before, i believe in gender equality when it comes to kidnapping and rescuing, and i hope that will be evened out at some point. i understand that gerry had a fixation on women for his own personal reasons, but that’s the doyleist vs watsonian debate thing. and i want a 1:1 ratio on who goes about saving the day. although the ratio was uneven in s2, i’m not recalling the ratio from s3, and we’re 4 episodes into s4 with a 1:1 ratio. so i hope that overall, the entire series ratio evens out eventually. damsel in distress is gender neutral

i was actually really invested in this episode, probably because it let us look into scully deeper, and also because the stakes were high, the pacing fast, and the horror a new kind rather than a standard serial killer we get in a lot of episodes. 

but… while i appreciate that, i’m not sure i can say i enjoyed it, you know? because even a “scully speaks german” lore reveal cannot save me from the feeling of… something adjacent to fear? not horror as in “ahhh i’m so scared” but maybe a sort of horror as in “stop putting her into these fuckass situations, let my girl have a day off” and also a bit of terrible grief in knowing that lobotomies were a very real thing and did untold harm. and to be clear, i’m not saying that fact shouldn’t be explored and discussed, i just think that for me it seems to provoke some intense feelings that make me want some fluff. now. 

deliver it. to my door. as we speak. in fact, here is an incomplete list of things i want to read our agents doing in fanfiction form:

apple picking and apple cider sipping, hiking and sharing weird facts they know about the things they encounter (scully will be all “this type of spider has a unique silk production gland” and he’ll be all “this type of wildflower is used to induce hallucinogenic states” while they look at a pretty view), ice skating (can they ice skate? need to explore that), getting ice cream cones, a visit to the beach, decorating for various holidays, a very serious game night- perhaps uno or some sort of trivia where it turns into a real nerd-off, arguing over unsolved mysteries, more implications of them starting a family together if you feel bold and brave, even, but for those who like it more reserved we can just have an aquarium date, watching a meteor shower, scully attempting to understand his fascination with the various sports of the world by tagging along on an anthropological expedition to a knicks game with him, baking, movie theater trip, etc

well! i have gotten myself so enthused at the idea of them doing silly stuff like handing out halloween candy that i have forgotten all about my initial feelings, which shall surely resurface soon when i go through and edit my notes, but you’re gonna sit there and tell me you don’t want to play dolls in your head of them getting hot chocolate together? 

canon? what is canon? c’mere, kid. let’s daydream about them eloping without ever having the “what are we” conversation and ignore the suffering 

[saxifrage-wreath]

Trespass Against Us

(Inklings Challenge 2024, Team Lewis, Space Travel, c.1070 words, Incomplete)

this is maybe just over half done. hope y'all enjoy what I've got so far <3

--

Alexei sat at the cafe table nursing his black tea and staring out at the rain. The view outside looked as grey and drear as he felt. If there were wetter places in habitable space than Innisfallen, he had yet to see them.

He glanced over as the door opened and a woman entered, placing her dripping umbrella with the stack of others by the entrance. She wore her brown hair ponytailed and had on an old military jacket over drab work pants and a bright blue t-shirt. The sight of her jacket made him think that perhaps rejoining the Fleet might not be the worst way out of his current predicament. Then recognition dawned upon him.

“Arcus?” he said. She turned his way.

“Hey, Alexei!” she said, breaking into a smile. “How are you doing?” she asked as she sat down across from him.

“Still alive and kicking, you?”

“Not drowned yet,” she replied. She caught the eye of the waitress and ordered coffee and something to eat. “So I heard about your ship. A bad business that. I’m sorry it happened to you.”

“Thanks, amiga. Yeah, I’ll get by but it’s set me right back. If that cussed sneak Gershow hadn’t stolen my salvage, I would have been fine and dandy.” He exhaled hard, “No good dwelling on it though.”

“Hurts,” Arcus said. Alexei nodded. They sat without speaking while her food arrived and she began eating. He’d known Arcus Briar for years, since they’d both been demobilised after the war and decided to go flying for themselves, seeing as the Commonwealth Navy had no further need of their services. She was a hard worker, a good pilot, and a good friend.

“Hey, do you need a job?” she asked, breaking the silence as she pushed back her empty plate.

“Yeah, I do. You know of any going?” “I’d give you one for sure. I’m a couple crew down on the Hawkins: Jochi’s getting married and Bob’s off to Arcadia to help out his daughter and her family for a while.

“Count me in. It’ll be good to be about something and it’ll take my mind off things.”

“Glad to hear it. You can join us whenever you like. The Hawkins is docked down in Bay 15.”

“I’ll be there tonight,” Alexei promised. He had little enough to pack and put in order.

** ** **

Alexei hoisted himself off the top of the ladder and secured the hatch to the cargo hold.

Four days since he joined her, the Jim Hawkins was well underway, bound for a port far across the void of space. Arcus had secured them a contract to ship produce off world, and the hold was packed with the tea, coffee, cocoa, and sugar that grew so well on Innisfallen. It wasn’t glamorous work, but there was real money in it, as she’d told her crew.

“And we’d starve if we held out for only the glamorous jobs,” Alexei had thought. Now he made his way along the Hawkins’ main corridor to the galley. His boots thumping dully on the metal of the deck. Strains of Arcus’ music drifted down from the cockpit. Their captain almost always had something playing off a cassette, and the sound of the moment was Cap Kennedy’s Red Planet Potato Farm, not his favourite, but okay to have on in the background.

The galley was a snug space, decorated mostly in warm orange and yellow besides the clean, polished metal. As he stepped inside, Alexei thought he might have to do décor somewhat like it when he had his own vessel again, in his own favoured colours.

“Hey Phil,” he greeted the aproned man working at the counter.

“Hey Alexei,” the other replied cheerfully. Philip Asiimwe had been flying with Arcus for very near as long as Alexei had known her, and could turn his hand to most every task aboard, from the care and feeding of the Hawkins’ powerplant to the preparation of remarkably good meals from the ship’s provisions. “Coffee’s hot if you want some.”

“So, how are you going man?” he asked as Alexei helped himself to coffee and powdered milk.

“Better for being out here with you folk, and working,” Alexei told him, leaning back against the counter out of Philip’s way. “Keeps me from stewing over things so much, y’know.”

“I hear you. A thing like that eats at a man if he lets it.”

“Yeah, doesn’t it just,” Alexei agreed. He stayed there, drinking his coffee, keeping Philip company, and lending a hand here and there until Arcus came down from the cockpit.

“All done?” she enquired of Alexei.

“Yep. Everything’s shipshape below, Captain.”

“Excellent. Hey, I’m going for a nap. I’ve given Meg the helm, but she asked if you could back her up, supervise like.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Alexei pushed off from the bench he’d been leaning on.

“Thank you,” Arcus smiled and departed for her cabin. Alexei thanked Philip for the coffee and conversation and headed for the cockpit. Meg Langdon, Arcus’ protege, was a good kid with the makings of a fine pilot, and he was quite happy to help her along that journey.

** ** **

Floorboards creaked as Alexei strode along the upstairs passage of the boarding house near Wintergreen’s main spaceport. Their business on world was going to take a while longer than originally anticipated – there was apparently some holdup with part of their contracted cargo. Arcus had decided to sleep out of ship and so had shouted everyone rooms for the few nights they would be there.

“We could all use the space and the change of scene, I’m sure,” she’d said, and Alexei was not about to argue. The berths aboard the Hawkins were more comfortable than some he’d occupied over his years in space, but were still not the roomiest of accommodations.

The room he was sharing with Philip was near the end of the hall; Alexei opened the door and was about to step inside but halted at what he saw and heard.

Philip was sitting across his bunk with his back against the wall, praying the Our Father. Alexei stood silent in the doorway, not wanting to disturb his friend.

“...and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…” Philip said, words that Alexei had heard a thousand times, and said more than once himself, but which just this time gave him an odd feeling.

[to be continued]