#homicidal daydreams

[trickster-kat]

Current thought process about my job...

Psychotic enough to kill my coworkers. Disorganized enough to get caught. Intelligent enough to NOT do it.

[maladaptivedaydreamingculture]

Maladaptive Daydream Culture + Homicidal Ideation Culture is fantasizing all the violent ways to end those idiots

[columboscreens]

[mrnicegirl-remade]

dreams of killing gaurds and scientists and freeing all the other human test subjects is just soooo..... like what's my problem lol

[gamesweetdreaming]

Seeing cluster b shame edgy quirky ppl is like going through a rollercoaster

Me to myself reading the posts: yes, I'm gonna read this to be more self aware and stop doing something that can be low key harmful to ppl with actual cluster b disorders

Them: *explains better how it ACTUALLY is to have symptoms of the disorder which describes pretty well what I go through*

Me: Well, fuck

[scaleneventing50]

i wanna eat someone 🥲

[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.

[inklore]

if it's one thing your girl is great at it's making a million different google docs full of lists full of resources, ideas, etc that will help future me when it comes to posting fics.

fic titles are literally one of the biggest lists i have and not even in a perfect world where i write ten fics a day would i ever be able to use all of these, and i don't like to see things go to waste, and i know there's people out there that struggle with titles as much as i do. so i hope this list comes in handy for someone!

i don't think i need to say this but just in case: no one owns fic titles, anyone can use these, a dozen people or one or none. these are literally just words and letters. no one owns them. sharing is caring, enjoy lovies!

★ — ONE WORD.

overboard 

runaway 

repercussions 

sledgehammer 

stargazing 

symmetry 

deathless 

honey 

retrograde 

stitches 

gravity 

helpline 

hollow 

suffer 

pushing 

warrant 

want 

wonder 

emotions 

nonchalant 

lavender 

daydream 

nosebleed 

jigsaw 

static 

float 

limbs 

hologram 

careless 

lush 

rotting 

phonograph 

hypnotic 

splinters 

magnetic 

wasted 

lithium 

dealer 

she

candles 

sabotage 

secrets

better

crescendo

deny

phenomenon

nights

guilty

move

criminal

blue

rise

thirsty

strangers

clockwork

closer

hectic

change

somebody

more

misery

like

sour

lowkey

peaches

she

nervous

sympathy

scars

disappear

melody

gemini

cruel

persona

supernatural

nectar

obsessed

casual

tryant

xo

dare

honestly

yummy

out

paradise

nuts

groin

heaven

lost

stardust

tangerine

monolith

lunch

pov

perfume

dealer

tough

arson

★ — TWO WORDS.

hush hush

night away

heart stop

stone heart

waiting for

black rose

sad kids

spine breaker

look here

autumn leaves

for you

spring day

love maze

bad decisions

take two

wild flower

blue side

rainy days

face off

slow dancing

polar night

like crazy

club heaven

deeper water

romantic devil

hold me

angel eyes

picture you

after midnight

twilight zone

drain me

sorry sorry

pretty please

how sweet

bubble gum

empty box

love therapy

play me

red velvet 

cherry bullet 

midnight guest 

cherry wish 

code words

ghost walk

bad intentions 

atlas hands 

broken crown 

crystallized words 

filthy pride 

fresh eyes 

heavy feet 

hungry ghosts 

imaginary paintings 

neon jungle 

perfect storm 

slow hands 

stop signs 

sad farewells 

untranslated stars 

after hours 

bad liar 

bonfire heart 

bruised lips 

cherry bomb 

damaged goods 

dead end 

fire away 

gunpowder hourglass 

lonely together 

lost language 

old moons 

one dance 

paper knees 

sleepy eyes 

stolen dance 

vice city 

artificial heart 

cry baby 

daylight fading 

dream awake 

empty bottle 

exit wounds 

ghost orchards 

moving stones 

paper walls 

oceans away 

playing fiction 

something wild 

wild thoughts 

everybody’s fool 

eyes closed 

storms incarnate 

writing tragedies 

stereo driver 

soul searching 

party’s over 

backseat driving 

fearful heart 

backwards directions 

nosebleed seats 

high hopes 

lovers rock

wet dream 

selfish soul 

washed away 

rose rogue 

midnight sun 

teenage fantasy 

wandering romance 

sure thing 

wildest dreams 

rock candy

losing momentum 

ruin you 

heart holiday 

sink her 

cut splinters 

hot mess 

frozen devotion 

little star 

blind faith 

favorite crime 

romantic homicide 

those eyes 

play pretend 

plot line 

pretty poison 

intimidate you 

pretty face 

strawberry kisses 

lovers rock 

worlds apart 

desperate/separate ways 

those eyes 

the blonde 

loving machine 

spill blood

someone’s someone

★ — THREE WORDS.

got my number

happy without me

not over you

crazy for you

back to you

flame of love

just one day

let me know

hold me tight

make it right

closer than this

love me again

still with you

out of love

never let go

love in space

ready to bleed 

bleed for love

between the bars 

can’t be still

cold morning mist 

in cold blood

matter of time 

piece by piece 

ship to wreck 

taut with love 

waste a moment 

can’t see straight 

down and out 

in a blackout 

just like fire 

notes on tenderness 

across the room

fire with fire 

going half-mad

loving to ruins 

rust to gold

send my love 

talking in code 

cradling a dream 

cut to black 

dear to me 

run me dry 

dancing with demons 

kiss and tell 

if you care 

the cry out 

steal this night 

just for now 

heart on fire 

hold my head 

nobody but you 

simple and plain

a familiar sound 

fool for you 

drown your memory 

falling into you 

just like heaven 

warm like beaches 

love that stings 

rotting in places 

moves on you 

save your tears 

a single tear 

light my cigarette 

long nights, daydreams 

boys like you 

love me forever 

hands on me 

like a phonograph 

taking over me 

dug so deep 

touch the ground 

heart shaped box 

where’s my love

tears of gold

lover of mine 

love me wrong

kiss or kill 

exes and why’s 

love is easy 

stupid in love 

easy to love

lost with you 

glimpse of us 

keep you safe 

death with dignity 

just like heaven 

heart of glass 

baby i’m yours 

pull my strings 

★ — FOUR+ WORDS.

love me a little

happy without me

you can't hold my heart

wishing on a star

give it to me

around the world in a day

waste it on me

this mess is yours

feeling like i do 

on a war path 

blood on the surface 

corner of the sky 

do the divine love 

drinking the corinthian sun 

everything is laced in (add word) 

lost in the moment 

in the nick of time 

mouth like a pomegranate 

the bones you’re made of 

when the mania speaks 

all desire & no thought 

blue in the face 

collapsing and relapsing 

middle of the night 

sail to the sun 

lay down your arms 

falling into the sky 

take me where your heart is 

she’s like the bad weather 

kill for your love 

the cigarette and the smoker 

the match and the fuse 

saint, i’m a sinner 

when the sky comes falling 

pretty little hand in mine 

even when the sun don’t shine

staring at the sun / sunset 

tangled up with you all night 

paper airplanes flying 

maybe i’m a fool 

tastes like rock candy 

blood in a lemon

(a) heart ready to die 

fate is losing its patience 

at least we feel alive 

death for your secrets 

someone’s gonna ruin you 

dancing in a crowded room 

smell you on my clothes 

always taste like you 

leave me wanting more 

hunger for (insert here) 

swim before you drown 

put your hands on me 

drink my (these) tears and cry 

i’d sleep all day just to dream of you 

so high we never stood a chance 

i’d break down anytime for you 

maybe i’m wrong, or maybe it’s true 

i only breathe so that i breathe with you

a worn out cassette 

lips on my cold neck 

talking in my sleep 

make me feel like someone else 

locked inside your heart 

hooked on her flesh 

it’s bloody and raw 

the angel of small death 

just a couple sinners 

smiles cover your heart 

charmer and the snake 

stuck on your thumb 

if i killed someone for you 

dancing with your ghost 

i miss you, i’m sorry 

woman of the hour 

shut up and look pretty 

queen of the night 

devil in a dress 

the thought of you 

to be your lover 

falling over you 

just like a movie 

love on the line 

[grandline-fics]

Immune To Your Charms

DESCRIPTION: Soulmates are incapable of harming the other in any way. Normally that would be a good thing but not when you're meant to be enemies.

WARNINGS: It's Doflamingo so it features mentions of killing/ description of injury/ general violence. Some minor fluff and minor suggestiveness(maybe?) Soulmate! AU, Enemies to Lovers

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 3,922

A/N: Part of the Good For Your Soul Series. I'd gotten sick there for a couple weeks so here's a longer chapter to make up for it all. Things are happening now even just a little but hopefully you all like how it's going.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five (here) | Chapter Six |Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen(coming soon)

——————

Doflamingo felt a rush of triumph flood his body as he grinned widely at the sight of you falling to the ground under the impact of his hand striking you sharply across the face. He relished the yelp of pain and the thud as you slumped against the wall. Even better was the sight of your cheek already bruising from his strike and the trickle of blood slowly dripping from your trembling lips. Your defiant gaze and furious glare remained in place, only heightened now by the shine of unshed tears. With a building chuckle Doflamingo raised his hand with exaggerated slowness and arched his fingers, summoning his strings to attach themselves to your wrists, wrapping so tightly that faint red lines appears against your previously unmarked skin and dragged you against your will until you stood. Adding insult to injury, you were pulled higher until you were dangling in the air and eye-level with him. Another flick and twitch of his fingers and new strings began to slide around your throat, getting tighter and tighter and-

The sound of footsteps against the polished floors outside his office made Doflamingo snap out of his daydream and he glared heavily at the disruption. Whoever that was was going to pay severely for their inability to walk quietly. Slamming his hand on the desk he rose sharply and stormed towards the door, throwing it open and freezing to see you walk by at the right moment. You stopped and tilted your head at him, turning to face him properly as you slowly analysed his tense body and abrupt appearance. Condescendingly you pouted at him. “Aww what’s wrong? Were you hoping I was a defenceless servant to attack?” You asked, the mock concern in your voice thick and smug. “Really my heart’s breaking for your troubles.”

“Yeah, you really look it.” Doflamingo grinned, lowering his arm from its coiled position that had been ready to attack. “And what have you planned for today? Besides strutting about my palace?”

“Oh well I do have a large block of strutting scheduled for today, can’t be avoided.” You explained in false severity. “In between I have a packed diary of meetings and galas. You know how it is.” Doflamingo chuckled at your casual sarcasm. You’d been here for a week already and he still found it a strange mix of aggravating and refreshing to be spoken to the way you did. Even those in his family restrained their tongue in some capacity with him or they regarded him with a small flicker of fear combined with their undying adoration for him. Not you though, you held no fear for him. He watched as you slowly craned your head to look beyond him and into the office, in search of something or someone only to see it was empty. “Well what got you so homicidal this time?”

“You.” Doflamingo answered smoothly. He didn’t feel any need to hold back, instead he waited until you straightened and met his gaze once more before going into further detail. “Your footsteps interrupted the enjoyable daydream I was having about being able to hurt you.”

“Aww had I known I would have interrupted you sooner.” You grinned, not at all surprised. “Was I crying? Begging?”

“No, you were too busy being strangled by my strings to make a noise.” You eyed Doflamingo as he took a step closer towards you, his fingers reaching out to lightly move across your throat, the image of the thin deep red lines digging into your soft skin still fresh in his mind. 

“Fun.” You chimed in, lightly swatting his hand away with ease. “In my daydreams your drowning very slowly.” Doflamingo’s grinned widened significantly at your own confession. How strange to think that other soulmates in their existences must have had sweeter or more intimate daydreams about the other half of their pair, not the ways they’d harm the other like you and he did. 

Behind his red tinted glasses he watched you walk away from him, only turning to step into his office again when you’d disappeared around the corner. As he did so he paused to see Violet a few feet away, watching him intently. He knew that look and rolled his eyes, silently signalling for her to enter his office and even left his door open while he moved lazily to his desk. Doflamingo waited for the sound of Violet closing the door behind her before he looked up to see her approach. “What’s troubling you?”

“It’s not going to work out the way you’re hoping it is.”

“What isn’t?” He asked, leaning back in his seat and propping up one of his feet onto his knee. “I have a lot of things going on. You’re going to have to be specific.”

“You won’t be able to harm them. Ever.” Violet statement was firm and it made him cock his head slightly to the side, grin dropping just a fraction. “Nothing you’ve tried has worked so far and nothing you try in the future will work. Soulmates can’t harm one another regardless of their feelings for each other.”

“There’s a first for everything Violet and you know better than anyone that I always succeed once I set my mind to it.”

“Then perhaps this is the first time that you fail?” She suggested, her eyes steeling slightly as the true nature of the former Princess began to draw itself out from under her pretence of being his loyal officer. “I peered at your souls just now as you conversed. The connection has deepened since that first day you learned the truth. In spite of the cruel words and murder attempts the longer you two are in proximity the stronger that bond is getting.”

“Why are you telling me that, Violet?”

“Just letting you know what to expect so that down the line you can remember that I told you so. You should do the right thing for once and distance yourself from them now. Let them go and have some semblance of a life instead of being stuck here because you refuse to accept they are the one person you can’t kill.”

“They aren’t going anywhere Violet.” Doflamingo all but growled, his expression darkening. 

“Getting possessive?” Violet asked unable to hide the small smile twitching at her lips as she turned and headed for the door. “Fine. Just remember I warned you.”

———-

Doflamingo had intended to not let Violet’s words strike a nerve but it did. He’d declared from day one that you weren’t going anywhere because he refused to let you be at risk of meeting your end by any other means than his hands. Her assessment that the the longer you two were in each other’s direct presence ensured the bond as soulmates would strengthen also annoyed him. Would new ‘side effects’ occur over time too? Would he be incapable of saying an insult in case it technically counted as hurting your feelings? Angrily he ran his hand through his hair and glared out the window, watching the lights of the streets and houses in the city below break up some of the night’s darkness. Doflamingo scowled at the complication of it all and his mind began to drift back to his intention to draw out stronger emotions from you, to at least make you break in some capacity. If even that possibility was at risk of being taken from him, he became resolved to do that now.

Turning sharply he left his bedroom and made his way down to the corridor your living quarters were at. Grinning, he pulled out his gun and unloaded the full chamber into the ceiling, the gunshots echoing loudly just outside your door. He chuckled at the sound of movement from inside your door. The door to the bedroom opened and you appeared, your face scrunched in sleepy confusion. A long yawn built in your chest as you looked around only to groan at the sight of Doflamingo grinning at you. “Guns again?” You asked with another yawn, trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes to focus on him properly. Slowly you looked at your door to see there weren’t even any bullet holes. “Where did you aim?” You followed Doflamingo’s finger as he pointed up and now you were really confused. “What are you planning?”

“I decided you don’t need to sleep.” He explained with a shrug.

“You’re trying to see if you can kill me through sleep deprivation?” You asked groggily, leaning against your doorframe. Honestly Doflamingo hadn’t considered that, he was just set on seeing if he could torment you. Still he said nothing, now liking this possible solution to the problem. “A little unconventional but I guess it could work? But you know I’m not going to go along with that willingly? I like my sleep too much. So how do you plan on ensuring I don’t sleep without putting your own at risk of your own rest?”

“Oh I have my ways.”

“Without using servants or your fan club?”

“Family”

“Fanclub.” You repeated with a sleepy grin. “Because if they have a hand in keeping me awake then isn’t that the same as my idea of just getting someone to kill me on your behalf?”

“Like I said, I’ll find a way.” Doflamingo chuckled before turning and walking away, now having to start planning. The sound of gunfire tore through the air once more and Doflamingo stopped and looked at the floor. The bullets meant for him lying at his feet. Slowly he turned to see you pointing your own pistol at him. “Now where did you get that?”

“I have my ways too.” You answered before going back into your room. Doflamingo laughed and continued down the corridor. He’d let you have tonight to actually rest.

———-

For the next three days Doflamingo was true to his word and found a way to be responsible for keeping you awake. During the day when you had left your room he’d infiltrated a countless amount of alarm clocks into your quarters all set at specific times so you would woken and have no choice but to get out of bed to find the right one and turn it off. Then when he realised you were starting to find places to sneak off to and nap during the day he intervened by finding you and waking you. This time he found you in one of the libraries, curled up on one of the sofas and sleeping. With a curious tilt of his head he hummed to himself and grabbed the nearest vase of flowers, dumping the flowers and cold water onto your face. While he couldn’t drown you, the shock of the water hitting your face was enough to startle you awake. 

“You’re an asshole, you know that right?” You asked, voice thick with exhaustion and holding none of its usual edge that he’d been used to. With a groan you pulled yourself up to a sitting position and brush the flowers off of your soaked body. Doflamingo observed you silently, unable to stop himself from noting the way your clothes now clung just a little tighter against your skin. “I’m awake you can go now. Go do your criminal King duties.”

“Would love to but I’m just passing time while waiting on a call.” He explained. “Remember your little island you’d been stationed on? We’re going to finalise the deal.”

“Right. Weapons and foot soldiers in exchange for profit and resources.” You nodded slumping back and rubbing your stiff neck. 

“Exactly. I think I’m going to be kind and send them extra men to ensure every Marine is wiped off that island for good measure.” Doflamingo mused and grinned widely when you paused. There was the flicker in your eyes again. Only this time because of your lack of sleep you weren’t able to hide your emotions as clearly. You knew something about the island.

“This group doesn’t know you’re the one they’re working with do they?” You asked, a smile fighting to pull at your lips. ”You’re using an alias?”

“Still an alias they’re familiar with.”

“When your pirate friend calls, ask them if the Midnight Lake is as nice as it sounds.”

“And why would I do that?” Doflamingo asked while you got to your feet and tiredly stretched out your limbs. “What is it you know?”

“Ask him. Don’t ask him. Quite honestly I don’t care.” You shrugged, taking a step passed Doflamingo’s larger frame only to be grabbed sharply and in seconds you were pinned on the closest surface which was a desk, staring at him as he bore down, his face dangerously close. Tiredly your mind began to catch up with your position on the desk surface, your hands were captured in his larger ones, on either side of your head. His grip was like a vice, you could only really tell from the way the veins rose agains this skin but as always you felt no harm in the hold. You glanced away from his hand and returned your delayed attention back to his face. “What now?”

“I asked you what it is you know about the island.” Doflamingo repeated, his grin gone and his tone deeper and calmer which should have made him seem more sinister but still your body felt no fear. You had no need to be. You also had no need to give him an answer, at least not the one he wanted.

“Ask your friend first and then I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me now.”

“God this must frustrate you so much.” You laughed up at him. “I’m not your servant or part of your King Doffy fan club. I’m not going to just do something because you tell me to.” You lifted your foot and set it squarely against his chest, pushing him back so you could sit up. Just at that moment the library door burst open and you both looked to see one of the pirates under Doflamingo’s command freeze immediately at the sight. 

Blankly you blinked at the flustered subordinate as their mouth rapidly opened and shut as they tried to work out if they should apologise, say what they came in to say, kneel down and accept his punishment or just leave. You resumed sitting up and pulled out of Doflamingo’s hold while he straightened. Now back on your feet and walking you felt a fresh wave of exhaustion crash over your body. Your vision blurred briefly and your body staggered in the middle of your step but you managed to recover in time to avoid falling over. Knowing Doflamingo would be busy with his criminal call meant you could quickly change into dry clothes and sleep without interruption. 

———-

“Joker to hear you’re going to send more weapons than originally discussed is such a relief. Truly you’re a godsend. You-” Doflamingo began to zone out of fully listening to the adoring voice at the end of the phone, the overly appreciative words beginning to rub him the wrong way. He was too busy thinking about your suggestion to mention this ‘midnight lake’ and how it was clear you knew something. Even asking if this pirate knew who he was truly dealing with brought more irritation. He wouldn’t treat a betrayal kindly. “Joker?” Doflamingo blinked, his eyes on the map as he sharpened his mind once more. 

“Yes?”

“Sorry, you’re a busy man so I hope I’m not cutting into your valuable time.”

“No, no. I should apologise. I was distracted.” Doflamingo began, sitting back in his seat as he quickly thought of how to subtly bring up the subject without causing suspicion. “My new lover spotted the map you sent. They thought Midnight Lake sounded romantic, it’s made me curious.”

“Midnight Lake?” The voice on the end of the den den mushi repeated, their tone holding some degree of tension. So there was something. “Oh well you can tell them it’s a sight to behold. One of the gems of the island.”

“Good to know…” Doflamingo mused, fingers lightly drumming on his desk. Quickly he summoned a string to slam his office door open, the loud impact echoing through to the man at the other end of the call. “Something urgent’s come up. You’ll have to call me back, give me half an hour.” Without waiting for the only acceptable answer to sound, Doflamingo ended the call and left his office, heading straight to your room. Approaching your door he caught sight of the mountain of broken alarm clocks set outside. He chuckled, not entirely surprised to find you’d managed to find them all. The level of destruction you’d caused on them was a surprise though. Not able to stay and appreciate it fully, he entered your room and approached your bed where you lay, completely unconscious and breathing deeply. 

“Wake up.” He ordered, eye twitching when you didn’t even twitch. Doflamingo drew closer and called out your name, watching your finger twitch but still you remained sleeping. Clicking his tongue he climbed onto the bed and for the second time today he found himself poised over your relaxed form. 

At the added weight onto the mattress you finally stirred. Blearily your eyes cracked open and your heavy head lifted off of the pillows just enough to make out who was in front of you. When you saw it was Doflamingo you made a nonsensical grumble and flopped back down already asleep. You were only partly aware of his hands finding your shoulders but then let out a growl of frustration when you were shaken. “Whaaaat?” You drew out the word as you managed to summon the faintest resource of energy to waken and glare at the man who was unfortunately your soulmate and greatest annoyance in life. “What now?”

“Midnight Lake.” Doflamingo stated. “Tell me what it is and what you know.”

“What’s in it for me?” You asked with a yawn, sitting up and gathering the pillows behind you to at least prop you up since clearly you weren’t going back to sleep yet. 

“I’ll never interfere with your sleep again.” Doflamingo propositioned, catching your attention.

“Deal.” You agreed and gestured for him to start talking. “What did he say about it first?”

“He said it was a sight to behold, certainly one of the island’s gems.” He stated and waited for your response. What he hadn’t been expecting was for your burst of laughter. This was unlike any laugh he’d heard from you. This was not the hysterical laugh you’d made when you learned you were soulmates or the cold, scathing, mocking laughs you threw his way at times. This was genuine warmth and amusement. Finally you let your joy settle and you grinned at him.

“Oh you’re going to love this.” You began. “Well maybe not…Show me the map.”

“It’s in my office.”

“So go get it.” You instructed with a roll of your eyes. Doflamingo glared. It was bad enough you once again getting the upper hand but he wasn’t going to see to your whims. 

Swiftly he hooked his arm around your waist and lifted you out of the bed, carrying you down the corridor while you were too tired to really protest being dragged out of bed once again. If Doflamingo was to keep his word then this would be the last time he could do so. Plus you didn’t want to admit but being held against his chest and feeling the warmth of his body was oddly comfortable but you just reasoned it was because you were so sleep deprived. Before you knew it you were in Doflamingo’s office and sat at his desk, perched on his lap as he pulled the map you asked for into view. Yawning you rubbed your eyes and grabbed a pencil to begin indicating the areas for Doflamingo to pay attention to. 

“Okay firstly you’ve been given an old map.” You explained and Doflamingo’s jaw clenched. “I’d guess at least a year’s difference. Normally that wouldn’t be an issue but given all that’s happened here your little pirate friend is withholding information on purpose.”

“What happened?”

“Well for one there’s no more civilians living there.” You began, your pencil scoring out the names of the towns from the map. “The biggest mine is completely depleted of resources.” Your pencil slowly drew the border of the land that the mine had once occupied. “And sadly for you, there’s no Marine on that island. We left when all civilians had been evacuated and knew there was nothing left of value there.”

“It’s abandoned?” Doflamingo asked with a low snarl as the reality of the deception that was being attempted on him. 

“Not abandoned. Last I heard the Revolutionary Army occupied it to act as a small base of operations or something.” You shrugged, your stinging eyes getting heavier. Doflamingo’s anger was building, the Revolutionary Army hadn’t even been mentioned during the talks. “My guess is your friend is looking to just take your weapons and sell them on after killing your men and making it seem like they died ‘taking over the island’ and fighting the Revolutionaries. They were never intending on setting foot on that island. Plus you can’t give a share of resources if there are none to give. Someone tried to get the better of you.”

“So what was Midnight Lake?” Doflamingo asked, his teeth grinding together while you let out another sleepy laugh.

“Midnight Lake was man-made.” You explained managing to lift the pencil to indicate to its name on the map just beside where the mine was. “It was the waste water from the refinery and smelt atrocious. Certainly not a gem.” With another long heavy yawn you sat back, your eyes falling closed. Doflamingo looked down at the feeling of your body settling against his chest, asleep once again. His fingers twitched at the sight, part of him toyed with the idea of just setting you down on the sofa or taking you back to your room but stopped himself. After all he’d promised he wouldn’t interfere with your sleep ever again and this was just him keeping his word.  

Suddenly the den den mushi began to ring and you slightly stirred, causing Doflamingo’s hand to settle against your head while the other lifted the receiver to answer before you could wake. Immediately you settled and a small sigh broke from your lips. “Joker? Is now a good time?”

“Yes, everything is fine. The previous situation was dealt with but I’ll have to keep this brief.” Doflamingo began, managing to contain his rage against this disgusting weasel who thought they could ever succeed in getting the better of him and steal from him. “Given the amount of weapons and manpower I’ll be now giving you, you’ll have to come to me to collect it. The last thing I want is for my precious cargo to be at risk without ample protection and your ships will be more than enough.”

“O-oh well if you think that’d be best, Joker then who am I to argue?”

“Indeed..” Doflamingo grinned. “Give me your location and I’ll send my closest representative to escort you to the island I’m staying at. I promise you and your men will be given the best welcome.”

“Joker, your kindness is truly great. There’s no need for pirates as lowly as us.”

“Nonsense, you all deserve it.” Doflamingo chuckled. “We’ll see you soon.” 

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TAG LIST (If I've missed anyone or if you want to be added just let me know) @3v37773, @tsaaps , @i-am-all-love-puns-and-lazy , @sanemisnonexistenteyebrow , @fiery-captain-spider-santa @kabloswrld , @atanukileaf , @ane5e , @stuckinthewrongworld , @deathsmajestysworld , @cloudysunset04 , @extremely-ashtridic , @decayingpizza , @liesatemyocean , @ace-for-ace , @nerium-lil

[sillynarcissist]

I cannot relate to "violent intrusive thoughts" all my violent and homicidal thoughts are welcome. I WISH I could fucking indulge in them, but I have some self control.

I will sit and kick my feet and daydream endlessly about brutalizing people because it makes me feel better. I will never do anything I fantasize about, buy I do get stuck on those fantasies, and I've decided to be proud of them !!

[maidenborn]

Detective Love-struck!

Shoto x reader in which Reader discovers a love letter in her locker, and recruits deku to help her. fem reader, maybe oc deku and shoto idk, reader has an older brother, first little fanfic thingy, I haven't written in god knows how long don't burn me at the stake plz

Word count: 1,707

When you were younger, stupider and shameless, you and your only friend Shoto, would play detective during your free time together. At the age of five, you and your comrade had already solved ONE case, the infamous 'who stole older brother's motorbike?!' case, which you and shoto apparently 'took credit for' or whatever that means. Despite how much you swore to your brother how you and Shoto knew where it was before the police. And how you tipped the cops off with your super secret telepathy quirk that no one but shoto knew about.

He responded with a, "well if you're so smart why don't you figure out where my old 3DS is?? by the way, you don't have telepathic powers, forehead." You'd clench your fist every time that cursed nickname left his lips, but anyways, you accepted his challenge, walking away cursing him with the most vulgar name you could think up, telepathically of course. you swear you heard his breath stifle in shock as you stomped off, coincidence? I think not.

Your winning streak of problem solving ended with anger at your rivals, the police down the road, when they refused to let you into the station after you relentlessly demanded that they let you see the files of fifty year-old unsolved homicide case. The next day you sulked to Shoto during lunch, who stared at you with that blank stare he always does."you tried to break in again?" An accusation?!?!?!? The tipping point.

You fake-angry threw your paper cut-out detective badge, that you and your best-friend made during arts and crafts, with all your strength, only for it to slowly flutter to the ground awkwardly. That day you announced your retirement from the force. Claiming all the hard thinking was giving you wrinkles, that only caused shoto to look more confused, tilting his head to the side. "Wrinkles?"

"On my forehead." You huffed.

Your interest for the antics of detectives on tv and corny live-action crime thrillers died off as your ambition and hope to become a real life pro hero ignited, as did your connection with Shoto, even if you started to see him less frequently as the years of your childhood passed by. It was a blessing that you managed to land a place in class 1-A alongside your companion. Your bond reinvigorated, grew stronger as you were reunited with the boy, the lingering figure of his father, Endeavour had dissipated, granting the boy a newfound freedom. You found yourself spending almost all your free time with him now, way more than you ever did when you were kids. And you were grateful for it. So very grateful.

Now, both you and him had matured, albeit not a lot since you were both fifteen, but in a fifteen year olds eyes, it was a lot. The boy's once chubby cheeks now had a more slim-chiseled appearence. His head of hair was the same length, perfectly split down the middle, not one stray hair misplaced on either side. His eyes were more narrowed and stern, still fronting that blank look that his eyes always held. However hard his stare was when he looked at others, he'd never dare look at you with that coldness, whenever he caught himself glancing at you his creased brow would almost immediately flatten. His gaze defrosted into liquid, a softness so delicate and reminiscent of the early days of your relationship. The days where he'd follow you around, craving the warmth of your presence, your smile, you, and everything a five year old brat could offer. In your case, it was friendship.

You and him were two peas in a pod, Detective Shoto and his partner, Sometimes in class you'd daydream about playing detective with him, like how you used to, but you guess you both were a little too old for that now. Besides it's not like there was any mysteries to be solved in the halls of Yuuei.

Not until today.

"a love letter!?!? oh wow!" Deku shrieked a bit too loud for your liking. His whole body shook as he held onto the straps of his backpack. A few students lingering around the halls looked towards the commotion.

"Yeah but shhh!" You leaned closer to the boy pressing your finger to your lips harder and harder. " I don't want anyone to know, it's embarrassinggg! What if they're messing with me? I don't even know who wrote it! I don't wanna get my hopes up you know..." You mumbled that last part, your finger silencing yourself made it hard to talk. You've never been popular with the male species, only ever receiving confessions as jokes from more popular, less disliked, boys. Not that you minded all that, you had a best friend after all, and he was a boy! You were considered popular and you were liked by him!

You tossed your head about to shake the thought of Shoto to no avail. You felt you cheeks heat up. "Can you read it out to me? Maybe they gave a clue as to who they are!" Deku ignored the redness in your face, chalking it up to nervousness. Yeah, you were nervous alright, nervous about what Shoto would think. He's always been relentless in the pursuit of your attention, you couldn't help but wonder how he would react to all this. Would he be mad? No why would he. He has no reason for all that.

You take your time reading out the letter you found in your locker, looking up to meet Izuku's eyes after every sentence, waiting to see if he caught on to any hidden meanings written in-between the lines of the confession. You'd read the letter countless times, scanning over every word to no avail. Only deciding to drag Deku into your conundrum as he was walking past. Whoever had written the letter gave no clue towards their identity. It was just a confession. No 'can you meet me behind the school later today?' or ' will you go out with me? Just an ordinary love letter. Apart from the last section. At the bottom of the paper read a slightly threatening, ominous quote:

"I'll set your heart alight. "

The words made your chest tighten, but not in a good way. It gave you a funny feeling in your stomach, such a normal letter ending so strongly, you were kind of unsettled. "Don't you think that last parts s'a little odd?" You mentioned after finishing up reading. "Kinda sounds like a threat to me." You suddenly gasp, "What if our undercover lover is a villain! They could be plotting to kidnap me ..or worse!" Due to recent events, everyone had the possibility of kidnapping looming over them.

" Umm.. I doubt that a villain could sneak into Yuuei, especially now. I think it was maybe just an attempt romance." Deku chuckles, trying to lighten the mood.

"No I seriously thi-

"Yn. Midoriya." Shoto Todoroki stood behind you. You hadn't even noticed him sneaking up on you, whether it was his intention or not, he scared you straight.

"Oh! Hi Shoto!" You calmed yourself, turning your head to make eye contact with him. He only grew closer to you, taking the eye contact as permission to get closer. You could feel the air get hotter as he lingered next to you, reaching his head forward so he could peek at what you were holding so tightly in your hands. His eyes offering no insight to his current emotion whatsoever.

"What is that?" Tilting his head. Suddenly embarrassed you smushed the paper into your chest, crinkling it. "Uhhh.. I got a letter! I don't know who it's from though. Not that it matters." You shrugged. Nice, the nonchalant approach.

"What kind of letter?" He strained his neck for a moment longer before backing up. Face still, ice cold. You sighed at his retreat. Anxiety welling up in your stomach, 'why the hell am I so paranoid for?' You thought.

You were about to dodge the question when Deku asnwered for you, "Its a love letter! From someone unknown, we're actually trying to figure out who it could be from!" At that you crumpled in defeat. Thanks a lot Izuku. Why the hell are you trying to cover it up so much anyways? Huh?!? Your inner monologue accused you.

"Oh." He stepped back even more, No longer feeling his warmth, the hall seemed a whole lot colder without him so close, you urged to scuttle up to him, Only to turn to see Shoto preparing to leave.

"Would you like to help us Sho?" You offered, not wanting him to go so soon. Leaning at the hip towards him, head tilted down, eyes looking up at him.

"No thank you. I have to go, Goodbye Yn, Midoriya, good luck." And at that he started to walk away. You rushed to find something to say, deciding to just let him go, offering a small, "Bye Sho." Along with Izuku's cheery goodbye. 'Was something wrong? Did I do something wrong?' Your spiralling thoughts were soon interrupted by Deku," I wonder what that was all about." The look on Izuku's face mirrored yours, laced with confusion, only less angsty than yours.

"he's probably just busy with assignments or something, wants to get ahead." You chirped, lightening the tension.

"weird of him to turn down an opportunity like this though, he's usually all over this kinda stuff, he's a real hardcore theorist sometimes!... don't tell him I said that."

"oh really?" you jest. Tension dissolved, nice. As if you and him weren't attempting to solve murder mysteries during break time a couple years ago. The memory returning to you, you can't help but feel a little sad.

A couple moments of silence and then, "Ive got it! we could track them down through their handwriting!"

"yeaahhh... but the letters printed!" you retired the letter from your iron grip with an obnoxious groan, provoking a handful of glances from students passing by. "good idea though." You shrink into yourself a little, eye twitchy as you try to disappear through sheer willpower.

"the culprit has thought this out really well.."

"Yeah.. no clues or anything. Apart from the curse at the end."

"Yeah."

AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH PLZ LET ME KNOW IF YOU ENJOYED THIS IM WORKINT ON A PART TWO!!!

I don't rlly know how to write stories like this, perchance ill turn it into a mini series or something

part 2

[temis-de-leon]

Day 22 - Angry kiss

Characters: Simeon x male!MC

25 kisses challenge Masterlist

Main Masterlist

CW: some bad words and MC ranting about the brothers, Simeon being patient about it. Established relationship

A/N: Sorry for the delay and thank you for your patience!

.

There were loud steps before the bang, both catching Simeon’s attention and making the furniture rattle against the floor and the walls. He only had time to put down his notebook and start to get up before MC stomped his way towards his bed and let himself fall backwards.

He looked fretful, restless legs messing with the blankets while the angry pout in his face wrinkled his forehead.

Letting out a chuckle, Simeon smiled and sat at his boyfriend’s feet, rubbing his calf in a gentle motion. He noticed, then, that his socks were mismatched, only one of the pants’ legs was cuffed and the shoelaces were barely tied. MC likely rushed to Purgatory Hall.

What surprised him the most, however, was the homicidal glint to his eyes.

It wasn’t just anger. It was the yearning for murder.

Knowing what was coming, Simeon sighed and finally asked.

“Was it the brothers, my love?”

“The fucking brothers again”

MC sat against the headboard, avoiding Simeon’s gaze with trembling fingers, possibly daydreaming about chocking someone. Which one this time?

“The absolute morons” he continued, not registering the angel’s soothing touch “The audacity they have. The mental gymnastics they do, I swear. And they put me in the middle of their shit all the fucking time. What do I look like? A kindergarten teacher? Are they four years old now? Because they act like it!”

“Well…”

“And let me tell you”

Simeon could only stare as his beloved human got up and paced, placing every little trinket back in their place with absurd carefulness. Not that the room was messy to being with, but if that made him relax faster, then Simeon would let him be.

“They used to treat me like I was dumb, like I wouldn’t be able to breathe without their help, and they still make me responsible for every single one of his problems. Whenever Lucifer has too much work to do, guess who watches over the rest of them! Me! And when I get pulled into Satan and Belphie’s pranks against my will, guess who’s also getting punished! Me!!”

“My love…”

It was no use. His voice drowned under MC’s frustrations and he knew shouting to get his attention wouldn’t be the best idea. Also, they’d be lucky if Luke was still sleeping in his room. MC was talking loud enough for the both of them.

“And even when I’m not there, the blame still falls on me! Those snitches, those… assholes! We got trapped in a damn book the other day and Lucifer made us bathe Cerberus with our bare hands! I didn’t even know the book was cursed to begin with! I was just passing by!”

He kept rambling, moving books and pens and every other thing at arm’s reach and relocating them in other shelves and drawers.

Knowing the rant wouldn’t stop soon and wanting Luke’s rest to continue uninterrupted, Simeon got up and softly grabbed MC’s wrist and waist, walking them to the door to go to the kitchen.

Maybe a hot cup of tea, or any other beverage, really, could help MC relax and vent with a clearer mind. They still had some leftover cookies from Luke’s latest batch and, although he’d always love the sound of his lover’s voice, he knew the chewing would give Simeon a few seconds of silence to comfort MC.

He continued talking, thankfully in a lower tone, while Simeon prepared the drinks. The angel was extremely delighted to hear a slight quiver in his voice when he leaned over his shoulder to offer the teacup and kissed the top of his head.

Minute by minute, sipping scolding hot tea, eating pastries and talking about the demon brothers, MC slowly loosened up and accepted Simeon’s open hand, unconsciously bringing it to his lips and letting them rest there for a long while.

Hours later, when the morning came, Simeon made sure to pay a quick visit to his former brother.

.

.

Taglist: @ourfinalisation  @owlisbuffering  @chizukimp4  @ravenredwine @darkflowerav  @craftysclown   @mehkers

[vins-do-over]

stu finally gets tired of billy’s habit of constantly name calling stu due to his own internalized homophobia (“it’s called tact, you fuck rag”) and one day while they’re hanging out (kinda high) planning the murders and rewatching Halloween for like the millionth time another random comment from stu ends with a sneer and a “fag” from billy. this time however stu is just buzzed enough on both weed and homicidal daydreams to lazily respond with a classic— “i know you are but what am i?”

billy is stunned into silence for a good long moment. stu is understandably nervous but largely unrepentant. he finally decides that the eventual bruising, biting, almost angry make out session that eventually results is so worth getting socked in the jaw.

[byemambo]

4Minutes EP. 2 - My Takeaways

After losing my mind over This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans, I proceeded to lose my mind over 4 Minutes. My takeaways are definitely not as in depth as my previous post for episode 1, but more of overarching themes/thoughts.

Establishing Character Shots

Kudos for such amazing shots establishing the dynamic and characterization of each key player within the current story. From the lighting/gaffing, to the framing, even down to applying video effects such as double exposure to emphasize each character's significance. Tonkla and Fasai's compositions dominate over the person they're peering down upon, Tonkla peering down at his victim through violent means, whereas Fasai peers down at Korn and asserting her dominance over him in their dynamic. Win walking into the crime scene and immediately met with utmost respect is visually established by a lower camera tilt and composition from the clear sky. Dome viewing the situation from behind a barricade was interesting to me, highlighting that although he has moral high ground in comparison to Title, he is still trapped and unable to compete against his classmate knowing he will be met with retaliation and intimidation.

Great and Tyme First (Proper) Interaction

This scene is one of my favorites from this episode, which I felt that many of Great and Tyme's shared scenes had a very "quiet mouse" atmosphere to them. In their separate lives, both seem to navigate themselves absentmindedly. We see this when Great occupies the back of the classroom in his own bubble, daydreaming in the comfort of his own home trying to make sense of his visions, or even going with Title despite not being given what he should expect on this outing and becoming a bystander in the situation with Dome's abduction. Tyme seems to keep to himself as he works in the hospital, and keeps himself and his patients at an arm's length, refraining from building any bonds or attachments with others. Even when doctors like Den or the nurses display moments of silly and wholesome fun despite being in a stressful environment, Tyme usually doesn't plays along with their antics. However, once he acknowledged Great's presence, he quickly seizes the opportunity and shows us a less familiar side to him that we only got to really see when he was with his grandmother in episode 1. When he laid eyes on Great, it seemed as though time stopped on its own as if they were the only ones in existence in that moment.

Devices: What's the Content?

When we first meet Dome witnessing the argument between Title and View outside the dorms, we are shown his phone recording the entire altercation, which is apparent that this is not the first time he's possibly recorded Title's crimes. It's also mentioned by Title during their confrontation at the university that Dome's been "testing his patience for awhile now," which I want to believe that their current dynamic is rooted in complete disdain for each other. Towards the end of the episode when we're shown the silhouette of a figure (I think it looks like Tyme) being handed a flash drive, I'm also alert and claiming both of these devices as valuable items for the story, especially because both are likely filled with damning evidence to all the crimes being committed so far through Title's acts of confinement, abduction and intentional homicide and the family company organized crime through online gambling. I can only predict that there will be numerous attempts to seize either of these items to prevent exposure, especially if the brother that's deceased could possibly be Dome himself as Title is clearly alive and well.

Honorable Mentions: Comedic Relief

There were so many funny moments throughout this episode that genuinely made me laugh out loud: this one stealing the cake for me. Before episode 2, we had only seem a glimmer of Tyme's silly personality from his interactions with Den, fully getting a better idea of this lighthearted side from his moment with his grandmother. Since both of these individuals are significant to him, it's only natural for someone of his temperament to create walls between himself and others. However, once Great's presence grabs Tyme's attention and begins his pining towards him, we are slowly starting to see his innate silly and lighthearted personality expose itself outside of his safe people. I just love the way him and the nurse have a push and pull moment, she clearly found it entertaining to see the serious and detached surgeon be so pushy and demanding. I hope as the series goes on, we'll continue to have such moments because I enjoy how the director keeps such moments dependent on micro expressions and short exchange of words, accompanying these moments through appropriate comedic music.

[skeedelvee]

Carry On Countdown Day 4 - Daydreaming

For this year's COC I've decided to put together daily fic rec lists! Let me know if you find any new favorite reads from these <3

For todays prompt I've gone with fics that involve dreaming

A Dream is a Wish by @dragoneggos

Rated T, 17,239 words

This one is really sweet! Dream friends to dream lovers to real life lovers ❤️

"I began to cherish the time we had, the few hours in a day where I could pretend I didn’t hate him, where it wasn’t Agatha’s hand I was holding, but his. Where I could watch him unabashedly, and whisper nonsense to him until the sky opened to the sun. I dreaded the coming of day. In the darkness, we could pretend." Simon Snow doesn't know who the boy who's been haunting his dreams is. But Baz Pitch knows. Baz knows that it's been Simon the whole time. Simon he's been sharing dreams with, sharing everything with since they were eight years old. But how do you tell your arch nemesis that it was you who held them while they cried? It's even harder to tell them, when you've been kidnapped by numpties.

I'd Gladly Eat You for Breakfast by @whogaveyoupermission

Rated M, 6,981 words

Always love a good sex dream fic and this one’s great

When Simon has a sex dream, Baz asks for a demonstration.

Gates of Ivory and Horn by @aristocratic-otter

Rated E, 16,094 words

This one’s dream-ish, but I think it counts! Simon is shown two visions of the future and has to pick which ones real. SO GOOD!

Simon Snow falls to a Humdrum attack and is locked in a deadly dream. To survive, he has to choose the dream that is true. But Simon's not historically been good at recognising lies...

Cumdrop Buttons by @martsonmars

Rated E, 4,427 words

Simon has always been food motivated, so this fic is so him. And great for the holiday season! 🎄

“So good,” he whispers, lips wet and shining with saliva and precome. “You taste so good. I want to swallow you whole.” I shouldn’t find this as erotic as I do, but this is Simon, and of course eating people turns out to be a huge turn on for him. (I should add cannibalism to the list of his love languages, right next to homicide.) When Simon wakes up from a biscuit-themed wet dream, Baz has no other choice but to indulge him and roleplay his own "demise by mastication".

A Restless Mind by Theweatherbee

Rated E, 21,360 words

Dreaming and daydreaming in this one! Truly excellent! Pining Simon is the best

He was staring at Baz's legs, at his footwork, at his legs again, at his arms, and his legs just a little bit more, and then his face—he was staring at Baz like he’d never seen him before, which was ridiculous, because he’d spent most of his academic career staring at him. And then Coach Mac blew the whistle and Baz jogged to a stop, breathing heavily, and he pulled up his jersey to wipe the sweat off his face, and Simon's insides were performing some complicated acrobatics as he stared helplessly at Baz's stomach. A thought came to Simon, unasked for, something that hit both like a realization and like something he had always known. Baz was proper fucking fit. Baz was unreasonably fit. Baz was...Baz was looking right at him. In which Simon has a dream that has him looking differently at Baz. Baz notices.

✨Gratuitous self rec✨

Buttered Up by me! @skeedelvee

Rated E, 799 words

Baz and butter? It’s Simon’s perfect dream! 😂

Simon has a dream, it involves a gratuitous amount of butter and a tiny Baz Pitch.

If you have any recs that fit the prompt that I've missed, feel free to leave them in the comments! There's plenty of gaps in my reading so there's a good chance I may not have read it.

Also I've had a hard time finding if some people are here on Tumblr, so if you know someone who hasn't been tagged, feel free to leave that in the comments as well <3

@carryon-countdown

[ivory-ibis-starlike-skim]

i was fighting for my life drawing this. i had to force myself to stop redrawing stans face over and over, i couldnt figure out the palette i wanted, i seriously considered homicide, the usual art struggles

anyways, these sillies are from You're Not A Loser by @such-a-daydreamer. haven't completely decided on a design for reader but i know i want Big Ol Goggles and Big Ol Lab Coat :3

i love this fic so much. read it or i'll biblically accurate you /silly