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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 27 days ago

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My heart is a bloodhound!

PART 1 ★ PART 2

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

Word count: 15K… 🤓

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Something in this place still irks me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My stomach churned dangerously at the sight of him.

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

Waved away like a fly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like I ever could have done that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rust comes back into focus, perfectly still.

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

“I read,” he confirms.

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

“It’s just—this lady’s tough.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone’s the hero of their own story.

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

“Sure I won’t catch whatever he had?”

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

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

He huffs. “I’m worse.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That seems to get him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My neck prickles.

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

Maybe he’s trying to defend Marty.

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

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

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

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

“Ego,” I chuckle darkly.

He hums. “Fragile ego.”

Underneath my smile lies an uneasiness stirred by his criticism.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Foul words push under my tongue, like vomit.

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

I eye him, try to figure out his game.

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

He cocks an eyebrow. “Most people do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Playing with the food.

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

Rust seems to soften in the knowledge of this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Immediately, I look away.

Maybe this is the bad kind of intimacy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shrug again. “I like thinking.”

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

I expect him to finally stop talking.

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

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

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

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

“Like what?” he challenges.

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

I bite my tongue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then why does he fucking look at me like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I almost recoil at the sudden bitterness of his tone.

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

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

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

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

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

I roll my jaw.

Does he look back on it with disdain?

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

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

“Or—yeah.” Shut up.

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

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

His gaze is fixed on my neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His expression has glazed over, cool and smooth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ, I should’ve left with Johansson.

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

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

My cheeks burn furiously.

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

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

“And currently?” he asks.

The moment hangs.

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

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

“Same.”

He nods. “Not better?”

I shake my head. “No, never better.”

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

So it is intimacy to him?

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

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

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

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

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

“And that’s what you want?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How else could he know me so well?

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

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

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

I swallow thickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never even told him I was trying to quit.

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

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

Rust nods.

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

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

“But I’m always thinkin’ about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Withdrawal’s a breeze, ain’t it?”

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

He quirks his head. “Well, do you?”

“Do I what, Rusty?”

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

“Do you feel better?”

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

He searches my face.

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

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

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

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

I scratch at my scalp.

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

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

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

He sits back, doesn’t answer the question.

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

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

Oh.

My eyes soften.

Oh – I have him, don’t I?

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

I stare back, brow pinched in confusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I watch him take a long drag.

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

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

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

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

He watches me.

“Don’t say anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” I ask, throat dry.

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

I scoff.

“S’that a good or bad thing?” I ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’s my cigarette,” Rust mutters.

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

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

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

The hunger laps at me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rust’s cigarette flares between his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t seem to smile. “Nothin’.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Straight home?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums. “So give in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#rust cohle #rust cohle x reader #true detective season 1 #rust cohle x reader smut #the idler wheel td #marty hart #true detective #i want to [redacted] his [redacted] until he [redacted] all over-#who said that #female manipulator doesn’t need to manipulate in this one??? crayzay #fic is basically them talking but im hoping ive been accidentally super introspective and deep #her vibe is like mannnn i have to make this guy love me #and his is like girl you don’t have to try I literally already do #i know it’s 15K but i swear it feels shorter if you get into it #got #whatever #only took me a year 😃#fucking finally

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seabirdtxt · 2 years ago

Note

man idk why but i just kinda want to make creator! reader's backstory SAD like they were tortured (?) just to keep the rest of humanity/teyvat safe.. like i am a SUCKER for sad/traumatic backstories!! just a little brainrot i need to get out!!

i'll keep this short and sweet i told myself. lmao. i forgot i'm a sucker for easy angst

Blood of God

Notes: Sagau cult au, cut-based injuries, blood sacrifice. bunch of fun stuff. Reader is the Creator, golden blood, etc. read at your own discretion

WC. 976

----- ⚘ -----

When you first descended into Teyvat, You were initially met with praise and celebration. Countless festivals were held in Your name. Your beloved characters, Your acolytes, were the first ones in line to beg for Your blessings.

That's when everything started to go downhill.

With the realization that Your physical presence in the world meant no more divine guidance, Your acolytes grew desperate for Your blessings. Blessings that You, as a mortal human being, could not grant. Not to the same degree that You used to, when You played the game and bestowed buffs and upgrades aplenty to all Your teams, and generously ascended even those You didn’t have plans for.

But now, even as You stand before them in flesh and blood, Your godlike abilities have been reduced to mere party tricks. You spoke to the animals, and twisted the breeze. You made flames dance with a single gesture, and grew pretty flowers in your footsteps. None of this helped the acolytes, though.

Interest in Your well-being, in You, dwindled. Your acolytes wished You well, the rare few even questioning Your divinity, and sent You on your merry way.

Abandoned and unarmed in a world full of hostile creatures, You took up jobs with the Adventurers Guild. First, it was fetching and delivering goods for the city citizens. Then, it was carrying messages across the countryside from town to town. Lastly, it was picking off monster camps that strayed too close to civilization.

This is where a few of your acolytes found You, injured and bleeding brass-coloured ichor into the dirt and swinging wildly with Your adventurer’s sword.

Deity or not, Your acolytes were not ones to stand idle while another was put in harm’s way. Into the fray they jumped, and fought by Your side despite their reservations about You.

In the heat of the battle, the acolytes noticed something strange. Those sprayed with Your blood were given increased strength and capability for a short while, until the stain dried and wore off.

Encouraged, they investigated further. Using some of Your blood as war paints extended the duration of the blessing by nearly double, coating their weapons with it would increase the effectiveness of their strikes, and a brave few discovered that ingesting it would boost them all-around for the entirety of the day.

Harken, and rejoice! For irrefutable proof of the Creator’s benevolent presence has been revealed! And You, desperate for their love and acceptance, gave it to them without question.

A beautiful, elaborate temple was built in Your honour, with ceremonial blades scattered throughout the decor and deep channels filled with ever-flowing ambrosia running across the floor. As Your holy blood continued to be spilled, the hue of it began to run a shimmering gold.

Those who sought Your blessings need only visit you in Your temple, bringing offerings of kill trophies and unearthed relics. Then, they would partake of Your divinity by their choice of method, dipping their reverent hands in the rivers of ichor that pulse across the temple grounds.

You haven’t stopped bleeding in months.

It was bearable at first, when the first time the channels were filled You were pleased to discover that they would not run dry for some time. When the acolytes came for lessings, you would only need to refill the trenches every few days.

You asked if they could bring You softer offerings, of sweet foods and thoughtful bouquets. Such shows of softness were dismissed with a laugh. What need did you have for plants, when the strength you gave them could afford you even the rarest and most difficult trophies to obtain?

But the Abyss came. Celestia’s wrathful gaze descended. Your acolytes were fighting a war on two fronts.

They came on their hands and knees, emptying your stores quicker than you could refill them. Eventually, you took to sitting in the golden throne with your preferred blade, sluggishly carving yourself open to ensure the continued survival of your beloved acolytes.

It wasn’t enough.

Please, they begged. Give us the strength You once were able to grant. Show us the stars in your eyes and in your blood once more, that we might fight and win in Your name.

Filled with fear, and hurt, and love, you gave them everything you had left.

Their lips and teeth stained with brilliant auric gore, they took to the fields once again. The Abyss fell before them, the cursed beasts of the land fell into disarray and fled into the winds. Celestia conceded victory.

The acolytes cheered and danced in the aftermath of their slaughter. Eager to show their renewed devotion, they returned home to You.

But Your temple had crumbled, and the deep wells that once held Your pulse have turned to dust. Your blessing was but glittering sand in their mouths as they sort through the rubble to find any traces of You.

There was no way to know who broke first. Your acolytes realized too late the price for Your continued generosity, and squandered Your love on chasing strength and war.

Your temple was rebuilt with petals replacing every blade. The grooves filled with the soil that was steeped with the blood of the fallen, and flowers of all shades of vibrant, terribly human red grew there.

Dendrobium and Mourning flowers. Even the azure Sea ganoderma bloomed in rare patches where water pooled deeper.

Had they loved You as a human and not as a seemingly bottomless resource, would You have stayed? The thought of such a question shamed them. You asked for their love and they’d given You their blades. You asked for sweets and they’d brought you the bones of their enemies.

And yet, You wanted to stay. Even as they literally bled You dry, You had only ever wanted their happiness, no matter the cost.

And heavy was the cost.

#genshin sagau #sagau #self aware genshin #genshin isekai #genshin self aware au #sagau cult au #sagau bloodletting au #genshin x reader #sagau x reader #seabird.inbox #seabird.txt #💜 anon

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rafetopia · 1 year ago

Text

𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

- 𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧

pairing: rafe cameron x fem!exgf!reader, topper thornton x fem!gf!reader (only mentioned)

genre: smut & minor angst -> 18+only

warnings: smutty stuff, mentions of past toxic relationship, some soft!rafe, some mean!rafe, name calling, mentions of drugs, choking (in a non sexual way), ass slapping, cheating, unprotected sex, lmk if k forgot something

words: ~3.3k

request: okay!! i wanted to request a rafe x reader based off the song ‘why are you here’ by machine gun kelly. write it however you want🖤 (by anonymous)

summary: after seeing your ex rafe in the club, you have to learn once again why the two of you never could’ve worked out, no matter how much you both wished you could

note: this is a repost from my old blog, which is why you might have seen it before. also i don’t remember if it’s proofread

also big thank you to my baby @chaos-mybeloved for beta reading this one for me

also i’m sorry for the format idk how to format my stuff

I hate that I saw you again last night

You were with somebody and so was I

Met you in the bathroom at 12:05

And I fucked you again

We can never be friends, yeah, yeah, yeah

“Baby, I’m gonna get another drink, you want one?” Topper screamed into your ear, trying to drown out the noise.

You shook your head with a smile and focused back on the music. They were playing your favorite song, there was no way you’d stop dancing just for another drink. The dance floor was full and still, most eyes were fixated on you, as you moved your body perfectly to the rhythm of the song. You were no professional dancer but you sure as hell knew what you were doing.

Concentrated on the music, you didn’t notice the new pair of eyes watching you from the corner of the dance floor. The young man was talking to the girl next to him but his gaze never moved from your body. The blonde must’ve noticed as her voice grew angry but the man didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t even listening to the words thrown at him, his attention only belonging to you.

The song was coming to an end and you opened your eyes back up, slowly adjusting to your surroundings. You did that sometimes while dancing, closing your eyes so you could focus more on the music and enjoy the moment instead of getting distracted by the people around you. You looked around, trying to see if you could find your boyfriend when your eyes met his. A sudden feeling of sadness and anger rushed through your body, keeping you from focusing. Your mind was all over the place, tons of thoughts blocking your mind all at once.

Unsure of how you got there, you found yourself in one of the club bathrooms, hanging above the sink. You tried to keep the tears inside your eyes and normally you were good at that but when it came to him, everything was different. You placed your hands on the sides of the sink, trying to keep your body from falling down when the door to the bathroom opened. You didn’t need to look up in order to know who it was.

“I’m pretty sure the tits on the door stand for “women”.” You spat out.

“(Y/N)…”

“What do you want, Cameron?” You hissed, now turning around to look directly into his light gray eyes.

His gaze went down to the ground, clearly trying to avoid your anger. “I don’t know… You looked sad and I… I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I’m fine.” You hissed, turning away from him. You looked into the mirror but the girl you met looked far from fine. Sure her makeup and hair looked perfect, but her eyes told a different story. They were watery, seconds from bursting out into tears. She tried to keep herself together but the presence of the boy behind her made everything harder.

You took a deep breath and looked at the boy in the mirror. His hair was a mess, sure it looked good, it always did but not because he put any effort into it. His lips were smiling but his eyes never were good at lying. You had always loved his eyes, the way they sparkled in the morning sun or the way they lit up when you told him one of your unfunny dad jokes that always made him laugh. He always sounded so beautiful when he was laughing, a sound you haven't heard in a very long time but missed terribly. He was in pain, clearly and it hurt you but it wasn’t that that was your fault. At least not completely.

“Listen…” He started, not sure if he should continue or just turn around and leave. “I… I’m sorry that you’re sad. Don’t like seeing you like this.”

“Don’t like seeing me like this?” You laughed. “That’s funny.” You turned around, now facing him directly. “Now be honest Cam-”

“Stop calling me that.”

“But that’s your fucking name now isn’t it?” You paused, walking one step closer to him. “Now be honest, why are you here, Cameron?”

“Like I already said (Y/L/N), because I wanted to see if you were okay.” He pressed, his face now only inches away from yours.

“Hmm. You see, I was okay I was having the time of my life until you and your blonde accessory of the week waltzed in.”

“Ohhh, my accessory of the week hm? Says the one who’s fucking my best friend.” His eyes were dark and his voice turned low. It was obvious how angry he was, something that had never stopped you from topping it off once more.

“That’s right Rafe Cameron, I’m fucking your best friend.” You paused, knowing if you’d go down that road, there would be no going back. “And guess what, he’s better at-” You wanted to continue but got cut off by Rafe's hand around your throat.

“Better at what sweetheart hm?” He whispered. “Tell me, darling.”

“There it is.” You grinned wickedly. “There’s the Rafe Cameron I know and hate.”

That hit him. It was obvious, his grip tightened around your throat and his eyes flickered. He knew you were mad at him but knowing you actually hated him, hit him harder than he thought it would. He wanted to say something, he wanted to spit out a response so dark even the devil would flinch but he couldn’t.

Your body tensed at the loss of oxygen flowing through your throat and you felt your heart fasten but you didn’t flinch. You met his dark gaze and countered with an even darker one. It was like when you were still together, you would challenge and provoke each other until one of you snapped. It had always been like this and it never changed even after you broke up.

He opened his mouth, about to say something when he stopped and let go of your throat. You gasped for air, your hand automatically wandering to your throat. He had done this shit before but never as strong and tight as he did now. His gaze wandered down to the hand on your throat and something in his eyes changed as if he was sorry. He held his hands up and took a few steps back until his back met the wall behind him.

“You know I… I…” He tried but clearly struggled with finding the right words. “I… I’m…” He looked at you, hoping for you to say something but you stayed silent. “You know what, forget it.” He pulled out before ripping the bathroom door open and making his way outside.

Split seconds later and his lips crashed onto yours. You didn’t quite remember how this happened, how your arm reached after him, how you pulled him towards you, or how he smashed the door back shut behind him, all you knew was how much you needed him, how much you missed him.

His hands wandered around your waist as he pulled you closer to him. You had only been making out for a few seconds but you could feel his hardened erection on your body, which turned you on even more. Your hands wandered through his hair, something that you had always loved to do when you were making out.

“Let me show you who the better lover is, sweetheart.” He whispered into your ear. “Bet Topper can’t make you scream the way I’m about to do.” His mouth wandered down your neck, gently kissing and sucking on your soft skin while his hand pushed down your left strap. Your dress was tight but it wasn’t enough to make it fall down your body but it was enough to make your left tit fall out.

He smirked at the sight of your exposed nipple before leaning down and gently sucking on it. He got more passionate with each second, causing you to grow impatient. You placed your finger under his chin and pulled his face back up to yours.

“I need you, to fuck me, Rafe Cameron. Now.” You whispered.

“Mhhh so needy for someone who hates me so bad.” He hummed with a grin on his face. “What would your boyfriend say if he saw his girl like this, all wet for me already, hm? Bet he can’t make you wet like this that fast.”

You rolled your eyes and hopped on the sink behind you, spreading your legs wide apart leaving him no choice but to look down at your exposed thong that was barely enough fabric to cover your folds. You gently let your hand wander through his hair before pulling him towards you. “I. Said. Fuck. Me. Rafe Cameron.” You smirked and continued: “Before I go out there and tell everyone that Topper's dick is bigger than yours.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Is it?”

“Oh god.” You groaned before pushing his head down to your crotch.

He chuckled before placing his teeth on your thong, ripping it from your body with one quick pull. You moaned at the sight of it and let your head fall back onto the mirror. He got down on his knees and started tongue fucking your pussy like there was no tomorrow. He had always had his special ways, techniques only Rafe Cameron knew how to use but this boy never failed to surprise you. You tried to keep quiet, afraid someone would hear you but he made it very hard when he added his thumb to the party. Soon, he started rubbing soft circles around your clit, something that had always been your weakness.

“Rafe…” You moaned out. “I’m close.”

He didn’t answer but you could feel him smirk against your soaking wet pussy. He sped up his pace, even adding another finger knowing how much you’d always loved it. You tried to hold on to the sink you were sitting on, nearly breaking off a nail as you press your fingertips against the cold ceramic. He could feel your walls tighten around his finger and shortly after, you were cumming all over him. He removed his finger and sucked off your juice, something he’d always loved to do.

You were still holding on to the sink, trying to prepare for what was about to come next. From experience you knew, there was no way in hell he’d let you go without having fucked you at least once, and regarding the boner that was pressing against your stomach, he wouldn't make an exception now.

He smashed his lips onto yours, not leaving any room for you to breathe. Your hands wandered down and unbuckled his belt, quickly exposing his hardened erection. You were about to push him inside you when pulled away.

“Uh, Uh, turn around for me baby, let me see that pretty ass of yours while I fuck you.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice, you quickly hopped off the counter and turned around making him able to slide right into you, causing you both to moan out at the sudden contact.

“Fuck (Y/N) you’re still so tight.”

“What, did you think Topper’s dick is so big it would’ve stretched me out?”

You could see his eye roll through the mirror, causing you to chuckle silently. “Glad to see you still have that pretty big mouth. Let’s see what we can do about that, huh?” He whispered into your ear as he leaned forward, his eyes never leaving yours. He reached into his pocket and pulled the ripped piece of fabric before shoving it into your mouth. “Now, we don’t want anyone to find out what a dirty little slut you are now do we?” You nodded quickly, hoping it would get him to finally start fucking you.

Your hopes were heard and soon you were met with his hips thrusting into your ass, making clap sounds every time your skin touched. His hands held onto your hips as his thrusts got faster and faster with every move. He pulled your hips closer to him, changing the ankle which made him reach the spot that made you lose all your senses. You wanted to scream out his name but instead, felt tears forming in your eyes caused by your inability to do so.

This of cource didn’t go unnoticed by him, causing him to grin and only sped up his pace, fucking you even harder than before. His eyes wandered from your face down to your ass where he watched it wiggle because of his movements. He loved the sight in front of him, you being all messed up because of him, salty tears rolling down your face, colored black mixed with your eyeliner, and your ass presented in front of him, begging him to get slapped. In fact, it was his favorite sight. He tried not to think about it too much but he tried to burn that image deep inside his mind, scared he wouldn’t be able to see it again that fast, if ever.

He wished he could’ve gone like this forever but there was still the risk of getting caught and even though he didn’t care, he knew you would, and believe it or not but upsetting you was the last thing he wanted. So he softly let his hands slide over your body, down to your clit where he placed his finger for support. You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, as he still leaned over you. He loved the way your skin felt on his, a feeling he had never felt with anyone else. He loved the way your hair smelled when you let yourself fall back, even though he hated having hair on his face.

You weren’t able to moan his name out loud but by the way, your nails dug into his thigh, he knew you were close and so was he. He sped up once again, causing you to reach your high almost synchronized with him. You could feel his cum shooting through your body as you tried to recover from your own orgasm.

Even though you were able to free yourself from your own panties by now, you still had trouble catching your breath which didn’t go unnoticed by the boy, still inside of you.

“Hey, are you okay?” He asked softly.

You nodded and gave him a happy smile through the mirror, causing him to smile himself. Oh, much he missed that smile. How much he missed you in general. But he knew you didn’t work out, you tried several times and it always ended in tears.

He slowly pulled out and quickly grabbed the piece of paper that you were handing him before you got yourself your own. The both of you cleaned yourself up and got back dressed. He wanted to say something, how much he enjoyed being close to you like this again but the words didn’t come out.

You watched him silently as he struggled to close his belt because it was stuck once again. You silently laughed at the sight in front of you, the boy that just fucked you mercilessly against the sink in the bathroom of your favorite club struggling with a task as simple as closing his belt. It reminded you of a side of Rafe, that he barely showed anyone these days. The side where he allowed himself to struggle, where he allowed himself to be human and not that perfect business robot, Ward Cameron tried to force him to be.

I'm a demon in the night

She's an angel with the white

Told me keep on all the lights

I'ma show you what you like

Help you put back on your clothes

Make sure nothing's on your nose

Ain't even tell my closest homies, nobody knows

“Here let me help you.” You said as you stepped forward and took the matter into your own hands. “I thought you’d thrown this thing out by now, it has been causing problems since the day I bought it for you.”

“It’s still working.” He answered, but there was a shift in his voice. He sounded harsher than before as if someone got into his mind and reminded him how he was supposed to act.

“Whatever you say then.” You mourned as you slid the belt into the buckle.

You got back up, ready to leave when he pulled you back. “You shouldn’t go out like that, here let me fix you.” He grabbed a piece of paper and poured some water on it, before softly removing black makeup stains from your face. He was very careful, not wanting to hurt you. “I think that’s it but maybe you should… like redo that or something… I don’t know. You always used to do that.”

“Right.” You grabbed into your bag and pulled out a thin, black eyeliner. “Do you want to do it? You used to like doing it.”

“Sure.” He chuckled. He wasn’t particularly good at drawing your eyeliner but you didn’t care. It always felt special when Rafe did your makeup, no matter if it looked perfect or not. You never let anyone do your makeup but there was something about the expression he made once he finished that you just couldn’t resist.

“You know… we could try to stay friends, at least.” You proposed carefully. “If you want to.”

“I don’t want to be your friend, (Y/N). When will you get that into your thick skull that this will never happen?” He spat out as he handed you back your eyeliner. “Like we could never be friends. Like… like what would we even do… as… as friends? Like, what would that friendship be good for?”

“Geez, as you wish Cameron, but know that this… whatever this was… will never happen again.” You paused, trying to fight back your incoming tears. “Like ever.”

“Fine by me.” He mumbled under his breath, but still loud enough for you to hear.

“Good, it’s settled then. I go back to Topper and you can go back to snorting coke off some whores ass.” You spat as you grabbed your bag and stormed out of the door.

He saw you walking through the crowd and stumbling back into the arms of your boyfriend.

Rafe knew he fucked up, but it was for the better. He knew how the both of you could get when you didn’t share the same opinion on something. He knew what power his words held over you if he lost control and said things he never wanted to say. He had seen you before, broken down on his kitchen floor between shattered bottles of glass after the both of you lost it. It was painful, seeing you walk back to Topper, the boy he used to call his best friend. He knew he’d go back to snorting coke, he could already feel the lack of substances in his blood and deep down, he knew Topper was the better man. He knew he wouldn’t hurt you the way he did, he never could and he was right. Topper could never hurt you the way Rafe did but that wasn’t because he was the better man, it was because Rafe had something that Topper never would. You loved him.

I hate that I saw you again last night

You were with somebody and so was I

Met you in the bathroom at 12:05

And I fucked you again

We can never be friends

#jas writes ❥#rafe cameron #outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x female reader #outer banks fanfiction

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lixies-favorite-cookie · 4 months ago

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Romanticism ◦ prologue

—the human condition: a soul filled with passion, but not a mouth to spill it into

Romanticism

(n.) a love lived in the confines of your own mind, caught in a constant state of daydream

You lived within the pages of a book, the notes of a song, the gentle breeze running through a tuft of fluttering flowers, romance—it weaved its way into your world in the most mysterious of ways, rose-colored glasses dipping your perspective red. Your life was a story, always searched for but never found—your dreams etched by paper characters and wooden words.

Some could say you were a hopeless romantic—equal parts of each. Your standards were unrealistic. Your desires were far-fetched. Your passion was channeled into the tip of a pen, stuck underneath the sharp edges of reality; you existed in a constant state of dystopia; your mind always at war. You were a poet—your body flooded with feeling, but passion was a pleasure built for two, and right now your soul was overflowing without a heart willing to listen

So you channel your thoughts into stories instead.

Stories about a love that seemed so impossible once put into perspective—the type of intensity that was palpable, the type of dedication that was deadly, the type of romance that made the world go 'round—you wanted a type of love that was only formed in the comfortable planes of fiction—a fervor that grew gardens in your graves, flowers vining through your tangled bones.

dig us up and see how our bodies intertwined

You scribbled the words in your journal, sentences seemed to be flighty when you were thinking fast, too deep in thought to compartmentalize.

Your journal knew more about the inner workings of your mind than any man ever will. It knew all your hopes, all your dreams, all your truths, all your lies. It was you in your rawest form; you didn't write; you bled—the scars of your soul etched into every letter.

You close the leather-bound book, setting the pencil down. It was hard hiding the very thing that consumed you, but when you first shared this vulnerable piece of you with Chan, he was turned off by your ardor.

You promised yourself that after that day you would never show anybody else this part of you—building walls around oceans of emotion, a dam to an unstoppable flood. You stuff the book in the drawer beside your bed, locking your love away.

You accepted the bitter truth a long time ago; that no matter how much you wished, you could dive into your daydreams. All fiction is is fantasy, and all fantasy is is-

fake

im going to be SO fr with yall right now idk what this is

SO i will probably be editing/adding more to it later but yeah :)

im impatient

also this is the most accurate depiction of my mind known to man honestly this blog is like the dream journal

see the rest of the series here

cookiecreates owns this please dont be a dick and steal my shit. thank you.

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daemon-in-my-head · 8 months ago

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You know, really playing the intro and thinking about some of the stuff Durge did, I truly do believe they weren't that "feral" or smth... It kinda reads more like they were scared of Bhaal, of failure, of what would happen if they couldn't live up to being the perfect Bhaalspawn.

It might just be my bias and all, but flaying oneself, literally begging for forgiveness for something as human as having feelings, the inherent wish for even their own obliteration, idk man. Doesn't sound like a feral madman but more like someone incredibly fucking scared who really does not want to be where they are. And I mean rightfully so, their father introduced himself by making them slaughter their family. Considering the whole Bhaalists think death is a mercy bit, Durge just really doesn't sound so vile yk. And while cannibalism sounds like a fun bit, the circumstances that would drive someone to do that kinda aren't, also the implication that there aren't more "homemade" Bhaalspawn because Durge failed at that + the whole fun with corpses thing? Reads more like that was rather involuntary and not the desirable outcome.

Once again, might just be my bias and love for tragedy, but if anything Durge sounds like a poor tortured soul to me, rather than the edgelord who did shit for funsies. I mean, for goodness sake, they considered Gortash, someone who grew up being abused by everyone and everything, their equal. An ally. Someone genius who understood them. As much as I love cocky sorcerer Durge, it does kinda appear like a well crafted mask to push away the unsettling truth beneath. To me at least.

#bg3 #bg3 spoilers #durge #dark urge #bg3 durge #durgetash

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 1 year ago

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ooh how about a lil thing based on the dream i just told you about? reader fixes up glamrock bonnie and surprises freddy! (not in ruin timeline btw) idk man i think it’s such a cute idea and i even saw it firsthand! -galaxy

"Are you sure you don't remember...anything after you walked into Monty Golf?"

"Nope. I wish I knew, though..I would've loved to remember what exactly went down.." Glamrock Bonnie regrettably shook his head as he laid back in the chair within the Parts & Services' cylinder enclosure.

He then stared down at chestplate you had discarded, frowning at the gashes that were slashed across it. Even though he had a brand new one on (that you were currently shining with a rag), he would always remember having those nasty marks...despite not knowing where they came from.

In fact, neither of you knew who could have left them.

Your immediate assumption was Monty, but then again...everybody and their mother who regularly visited the Pizzaplex suspected him, too.

The running theory was that he got jealous of Bonnie's role in the band and wanted to get rid of him--or at least break him down enough to no longer be functional enough to play his bass guitar.

Of course, the gator had his temper tantrums from time to time and always admired Freddy's role as the leader and the praise he's given Bonnie, but you couldn't fathom him being capable of something like this.

Not to mention how it didn't make sense for him to destroy the rabbit in the golf course...and then drag him all the way to the bowling alley, only to dump him inside a hidden room that none of them could have possibly known about.

Even you weren't aware that room existed.

Or at least..not until you went around the Pizzaplex to do maintenance on each and every Wet Floor Bot, as your manager complained about them experiencing simultaneous malfunctions. He just told you to shut them down so they could be collected later.

Somehow, they were the key to you finding Bonnie in that area, and there were still several active bots surrounding his damaged body.

It was strange, as though his software was tethered to theirs.

You weren't sure if this was some kind of "backup" plan or what, but you were relieved to find him alive--just barely hanging onto whatever percentage he had left on his battery, but still alive.

All the questions you had would have to wait.

What mattered most was getting approval to repair him, and to your surprise..management allowed it so long as you fixed him overnight and didn't talk about him too much with your coworkers.

Especially not in front of the guests.

The only other person on duty tonight was Vanessa, but she was usually doing her own stuff. She never talked to you much (aside from making a offhanded comment about how management was gonna explain his "disappearance"), so you weren't worried about her storming in and disrupting your work.

It took several nights' worth of blood, sweat, oil, and tears...but you finally completed all the necessary steps in repairing Bonnie.

Now he was ready to exit the cylinder.

You beamed with pride as you watched him step out and walk around for a bit, his ears flopping. "So...how do you feel, big guy?"

"Like a brand new bunny! Thank you, [y/n]." He turned to face you, although his smile faltered a bit. "But I've been wonderin'...how's Freddy doing? Does he still...?"

"He still talks about you a lot..every time he passes by the bowling alley or ice cream parlor, in fact."

"...awh..do ya think I'll be able to see him anytime soon? I know nobody's supposed to know I'm still here, but-"

"They only said guests, they never said anything about your bandmates." Your smile grew tenfold as you watched his ears perk up. "I already called him. He should be here right about-"

*SLAM*

"Now."

"I'm here, [y/n]. What....."

After walking through the double doors, Freddy suddenly stopped in his tracks, taking in the sight of a certain blue bunny who stared right back at him with the widest red eyes. Both of their mouths were agape in shock.

For a few long moments, there was total silence in the room--aside from the overhead lights and machines electronically buzzing in the background.

You stood by the computer terminal, starting to grow a little worried that this might be too overwhelming for either of them to handle.

Maybe you should have waited.

Or-

"B...Bonnie?"

"Yup. It's me, Freddy. I'm back."

"Bonnie!!"

And just like that...all of your initial fears quickly dispersed as the two embraced each other, teary-eyed with the biggest smiles on their faces.

"Y-You're back...you're really here.." Freddy whispered in both disbelief and relief, putting his hands on the bunny's shoulders. "What happened to you? I thought...y-you were dismantled and-"

"I'm afraid I don't have any answers, buddy." With a slight pout, he shook his head, desperately wishing he had more to tell him. "My memory's all scrambled from the time I went to Monty Golf to right now.....I'd call whatever happened to me was just..one big accident. But I'm here now."

"....yes..that's what matters right now. Nothing else. Nobody here has forgotten you, my friend. The children, Chica...oh, Bonnie-" Freddy choked out, eyebrows furrowed as he pulled him into another embrace. "They...we all missed you so much. I missed you."

"Awh, shucks..don't start cryin' again, pal. Cause that'll make me cry, too." Bonnie smiled sweetly.

After they both let go, he turned back to you. "[Y/n] just got through repairin' me. I owe 'em for finding me in some room that was off-limits to us..I'd probably still be there if it weren't for their little detective work."

"Of course, thank you so much, [y/n]." Freddy looked to you, grinning from ear-to-ear.

You just smiled and waved politely from your spot beside the terminal, happy that their reunion went better than expected.

There were times during Bonnie's repair process where you felt like throwing in the towel or pawning off the job to someone else. It was frustrating as hell, especially when you had to turn off his safety protocols and nearly got killed several times.

But seeing Freddy's reaction made all those painstaking hours worthwhile.

#clanask #galaxy anon #fnaf x reader #five nights at freddy's x reader #fnaf sb x reader #fnaf security breach x reader #glamrock freddy #glamrock bonnie #glamrock fronnie #fluff

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xxlady-lunaxx · 7 months ago

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hiiiii, i was wondering if u could do a "hashira reaction to gn s'o cheating on them? idk if u do that type of stuff, if u don't just ignore. if you can't/ don't wanna do all, can you please include giyuu and kyojuro? i love your writing sm it hurts

lots of love, me <3

AWEHJIFSKJDF THANK YOU SM!<33 I’m glad you like my writing and yes, I can write that ^^ I don’t normal write char x reader—though I have done it be4—so, sorry if it’s a bit silly bc I’m accustomed to writing char x char It’ll just be Giyuu in this part, I’ll do the others separately since it’s easier on me, if that’s alright. I’ll put the links to the others on this part too, when I finish them tho! (iyw to stay anon that’s fine, but I could tag you in the others if you wanted it?) Also im writing this on my tablet so I’m sorry if there’s any mistakes 😭 I write better on computer

Reaction to being cheated on by GN!Y/N

Giyuu Tomioka

Giyuu never showed much emotion. It bothered you, in ways you never could bring yourself to word. The thing was, however, that you didn’t know how much longer you could bear it. You had fallen in love with him before, but didn’t find yourself drawn to him now. It had been like a mystery, trying to find out the depths of this man whom refused to show anything. He was caring of you, yes. He tended to your wounds, tried his best to make you meals, bought you gifts. But he lacked the show of physical affection. He kissed you from time to time, but you had to initiate it; you had to ask for it. He never gave you the attention you so desperately sought for. Not the kind you wanted, at least.

So you did the unthinkable. You found another man—someone who would treat you as you wished. With only a wisp of guilt in the back of your mind, you pressed your lips upon this other man, thoughts far from the Hashira.

This went on for about two weeks, only, until Giyuu found out. He was supposed to be gone on a mission for a bit, so you invited the man over to your house. Giyuu had the key in, but he was supposed to be gone, of course.

It began with food. Drinks, small talk. It grew heated from there: kissing grew to making out, and that went to the point your uniform was hanging loosely from your shoulders, and then—

And then the door opened.

You had been so caught up in whatever the hell was going on that you hadn’t heard the front door being unlocked. Presumably, Giyuu had assumed you’d had a friend over. Because shock registered through his entire expression upon opening the bedroom door and finding you under another man.

You. Giyuu’s partner, his lover. Splayed under some man he knew not.

For a moment, all that could be heard was yours and the man’s heavy breathing. Giyuu was stock-still, eyes wide, mouth ajar. Then he spoke. His voice, usually so calm and collected, came out shaky. Uncertain.

“Y/n…?” he asked quietly, taking a hesitant step forward.

The man scoot off of you, buttoning his uniform hastily and standing. “I should go…” he murmured. He tried making a dash out the door, ducking under Giyuu’s arm, but Giyuu was quicker, grabbing him by his collar and tossing him back into the room carelessly, gaze stuck on you.

“Y/n, what… What the hell?” he said, his voice rising slightly. You rarely heard him swear. Even if it was something as mild as ‘hell.’

You flinched as he moved closer, his steps as inaudible as ever.

“Why…?” His question trailed off, his eyes tracing your half-exposed body. You tugged your uniform back on self-consciously. Why had you done this?

You averted your eyes, not wanting to see his expression anymore. You had thought he wouldn’t care, in all honesty. Though it didn’t stop you from hiding it.

“What did I do wrong?” Giyuu mumbled. There was a trace of hurt in his voice and you felt a twinge of regret. It wasn’t just the humiliation of being discovered.

“I… You didn’t kiss me much or anything. You didn’t really hug me, or cuddle me, or… I don’t know. I’m sorry,” you whispered. You chanced a glance back at him.

Giyuu’s hair had fallen over his eyes, obscuring them from your view. His lips opened and closed wordlessly for a moment. Eventually, he seemed to find his voice. But he sounded cold now, the kind of voice he would use to give orders to Demon Slayers. Dismissive. The kind that meant the conversation was over. “I loved you, Y/n. Did you know that? I’m sorry for not giving you enough. I hope this… other man can give you what I failed to do,” he said quietly. He turned abruptly, ignoring your calls as he stalked out of the room.

You heard the front door slam shut. There was a moment of silence. The ‘other man’ glanced at you.

“Want to continue…?” he asked tentatively.

“Shut up. Go away,” you hissed.

He raised his hands in surrender as he stood, backing towards the doorway. “Alright… It was just a question.”

You waited as his footsteps faded into the distance. The door Giyuu had slammed clicked shut behind him. You dipped your head down, burying it in your hands. God, what had you done?

///

« 700 or so words? (from eyeing it) »

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vannyinthestars · 2 months ago

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Guys guys guess what

I started writing the AFTG x American West/Rodeo/Cowboy/Ranch AU of my dreams.

Idk if it’ll actually become a long form fic, but I thought I’d give you some highlights:

A whistling carried over the yard. It guided Andrew’s eyes back to a single figure, perched atop one of the gates as if it were a throne. He didn’t feel a need to react, not until he realized it was Cracker’s pen. Noticing his mustang moving sent him stalking over, fully prepared to shove the stranger to the ground.

What stopped him short was watching Firecracker trot up to the man with her ears angled toward him curiously. The stranger pulled something from his pocket, and held out his hand. The mare sniffed from where she’d stopped, but refused to touch his hand. Andrew waited and watched as the stranger tossed it into her empty feed pan.

As soon as he was satisfied with her nibbling on his offering, the stranger turned to look at Andrew. He’d seemingly heard his approach, and knew he was there all along.

Andrew stood his ground, letting the stranger swing his legs over the gate and drop to the ground. Cracker jolted at the movement, and he said something to soothe her before he met Andrew on the lawn.

“She yours?”

Andrew hadn’t expected that. His face was still the picture of neutrality, but it encouraged his curiosity. “Yeah,” He kept his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. “Take it you’re the new kid Wymack warned me about.”

The stranger smirked. “Ah, I got my own warning,” He chuckled. “Neil- Neil Josten,” He offered Andrew his hand.

“Andrew Minyard,”

Okay so:

- Wymack runs a rodeo grounds, but also has a stable but also a boarding house. You help at the stable/ranch and your horse boards for free. He helps the kids event and stuff.

- Kevin rides a Friesian, big into Dressage. (I want to name his mare Queenie.)

- Allison does show-jumping, but also barrel racing. (Her thoroughbred (show jumper) is named Madonna and her quarter horse is Rocky.)

- Dan does team roping, she learned under Wymack but now helps him out with his “strays” (She has a paint that is technically Wymack’s but everyone knows that is her heart-horse named Whiskey. She thought it was funny bc her back story is still the same and Hennessy)

- Aaron is a vet student, he interns in town under Abby. Katelyn is the receptionist.

- Bee does equine therapy, she’s a retired barrel racer.

- Andrew worked as a jockey, made a decent amount of money in a lawsuit after an accident. He adopted a BLM mustang on a whim and gentled her himself with guidance from Bee. Her name is Firecracker.

- Nicky is a stable hand, he’s got an old draft horse cross named Bear. (Erik isn’t a horse guy, still German but he is working in the US on a land conservation/research thingy.)

- Renee is a trick rider. Neil makes a comment about her having a death wish.

- Matt was a bull rider? He got a nasty head injury but grew up around horses. He’s the biggest ranch help for Wymack. His horse is a retired Thoroughbred who also makes a good lesson pony.

- Neil never meets Seth, but his legacy is around the grounds. He died in a drunk driving accident on the rodeo grounds but Neil thinks there was more to it. (Seth was a bronc rider).

- Neil eventer in English when he was younger, he knows his way around horses.

- The story starts with him signing up to ride a bronc on a whim, he’s not a circuit cowboy, Wymack runs some searches and has no idea who the kid who just won the event is.

- Offers him a place to stay for the night, and some work if he needed it.

- I’m already tempted to write a TSC/Trojans spin off bc I need to give Jean Moreau a mustang that he can see himself in. He can’t be with Kevin (their story is slightly different but some aspects remain the same) but he can be with horses. Give him a mustang gelding that shies away from everything and who he has to learn to be gentle with as he learns to be gentle with himself. Also, Cowboy Jeremy. Team ropers Cat and Jeremy, barrel racing Laila. And bc Emma Swift is my Trojan I decided to project onto: she’s a ranch hand who works more with the cattle and less eventing.

Guys hear me out okay.

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cr4yolaas · 1 year ago

Text

— forget me not . kaeya x reader

synopsis . you loved him, and you thought he loved you too. you had to pay for your ignorance. [concept from @/o1kawasgirlfriends on tiktok]

warnings . angst !! i use a lot of rhetorical device stuff idk. arguments (kaeya and reader), one-sided relationship, kaeya is manipulative, little bit of gore-type descriptions towards the end, barely proofread, idk if i characterized anyone properly lol

notes . umm i was going thru my google drive for school thingies and ended up finding this from so long ago n i was wondering why it sounded so unfamiliar . realized i nvr posted it 😭

the sunlight drenched your bones, dandelion breezes humming away. bits of dirt and grass nipped away at your feet, while you pondered.

perhaps, the reason your chest felt so light was because you had placed the heart of clay once encased within your body into caramel hands. your heart, carved and sculpted to perfection by those who sat in celestia, had been put in the care of another.

how foolish.

and yet, you played with the idea. enjoyed it, even. the cotton in your ribcage began to feel familiar, warm, and you loved it. you loved the fuzzy sensation that blossomed when you caught a glance. you loved the grins that were smudged onto your face because of a man who had no cares and all the cares in the world. you adored it. and thus, you craved.

kaeya alberich. a name that rolled off of your tongue so gracefully, dripping off of the edge of your own chapped lips. a name that you called every so often, what with your position in mondstadt’s knights of favonius.

the concept that was once dreadful morphed into something you now deemed funny. you, an aspiring knight, wished only to protect your city. and instead, you had fallen for the man who was to help you reach that goal. stupid, stupid, stupid.

sword clashed against sword, the ring of metal echoing amongst the courtyard. there was no malice nor hatred laced in the slashes, no. there was adrenaline. excitement. energy. you could not say you loathed the one you were battling with, for he was the one that made your chest flutter and your teeth rot. adolescent grins were carved onto each of your faces, euphoria spilling through the cracks in your teeth. a sword clash that was not one of war or death or anger. in this moment, you couldn’t feel stupid. you could only feel ecstatic. joyful, even, as your blade knocked over his, and his eyes widened with both shock and pride.

“i’ve trained you well,” he spoke between heavy breaths. you watched as he walked over to pick up his sword, examining the worn hilt and the scratches painted across the metal. “excellent job.”

a mere hum escaped your lips, cracked and burning, as you lay on the floor. the cold stone was refreshing against your skin.

above you, a singular eye that reeked of crushed blueberries and ocean waves stared down. kaeya let out a gloved hand to assist you, pulling you up from the ground. “you can go home now. rest up. we have work tomorrow.” the words were soft to the ears, and you could’ve sworn the small grin on your face grew thrice.

kaeya sat in his office, waiting for you to bring him his coffee for the morning as usual. however, when you stepped in, you wore an expression of slight uncertainty, playing it off with a nervous smile. “sorry. i didn’t know which drink you wanted, so i got green tea, since i heard from lisa that it’s good to have in the earlier hours of the day.”

the man furrowed his brow at the cup. the green liquid that sat peacefully inside the porcelain seemed mocking, almost. “now, i thought you knew i prefer earl gray? you’ve always been good at keeping these things in that pretty little head of yours.”

“ah, i must’ve forgotten — apologies. i’ll do better next time.” kaeya dismissed the apology, staring down at the drink confusedly. the soft green was a great contrast to the obsidian black he was used to. he chose to ignore it for now, sipping at the drink absentmindedly.

you carried on with the morning, dropping off papers for your captain to finish and greeting the other knights. kaeya did the same, sitting at his desk and scribbling away with his favorite pen. and yet, the interaction continued to linger at the back of his head, itching at his skull endlessly.

odd.

you watched as jean dismissed herself from the building. the eyebags scribed onto her features were prominent, yet familiar. you pitied her for the stress placed atop her shoulders.

the halls of the headquarters were now silent. however, through the wooden door, you could hear the rough scratches of pen against paper, the sound seemingly louder than the hum of air around you.

this had become routine. kaeya would drop you off at your house once he finished his paperwork, wish you farewell, and make his merry way over to the tavern. you found comfort in the way he complained about work on the way back ( despite this, he never thought twice about quitting his job ) and how he would question you about your day right before reaching your doorstep. he held a tone towards you that was akin to honey, to dandelion kisses that you would constantly indulge in. unbeknownst to him ( or maybe he did know, after all ), he had you wrapped around his finger with every glance, every word.

both of you approached the door, your hands reaching for your keys. kaeya prepared to turn around, only for your grip to reach the end of his sleeve.

“...please stay.”

the aloof smirk on his face melted into a softer smile. “anything for you, dearest.” he stepped through the doorway, his boots clicking against the wooden floorboards.

kaeya welcomed himself onto your couch, motioning for you to sit beside you. “so,” he muttered. “what’s making you crave my presence?”

“i don’t know.” the response elicited a chuckle out of him. “... ‘m not sure. there’s something comforting and warm about talking to you. i can’t place it.”

your voice was soft, something he relished ever so slightly. he knew exactly what you were saying. it was a shame you didn’t.

and it was a shame he didn’t feel the same.

either way, he chose to succumb to your personal fantasies, feeding into them slowly and tantalizingly. “i may feel the same way.”

for your sake, he told himself.

there was a silence. sickening and dreadful. it gnawed at you, sculpting away at your limbs as you stared at the wall in front of you. “pardon?” your voice reeked of hesitance. his

confession felt ethereal, misplaced. despite the hint of wariness, you followed the hums of the sirens.

“did i not speak clearly enough?”

you gulped, face igniting with flames that even the most violent of ocean waves couldn’t quell. of course, you heard him perfectly. you just couldn’t quite process it. months of pining and obsessing over a man you were supposed to only know as a superior in the knights led up to this very moment spent on the cushions of your couch.

the moonlight that bled through the curtains illuminated his face, however, you still couldn’t place just what was swimming in his eyes. there was no genuineness. but there weren’t any hints of foul play.

and so, you fell into his hands once more.

kaeya seemed to be at his wit’s end lately. and unfortunately, you seemed to be the cause of it.

the crows of the evening invaded your window sill as your supposed lover stood across from you, his brow furrowed intensely as he struck you with his gaze. sharp and cold. the same way he stared at his enemies, those who he despised. maybe, if you waited for the rain to come, for the droplets to wash over the sorrowful earth, it would rid the sour expression on his face. however, rain showers didn’t come in the summer, and instead you would have to deal with the beatings of the sun as it melted the golden melodies you held onto so dearly.

“what do you mean you forgot about it?” venom dripped from his tongue so quickly, slowly forming a stream, a waterfall of white hot anger bleeding through the cracks in his teeth.

“i’m sorry, i-“

“are you, though?”

were you?

it was equally shocking to you. at least, it was once he brought it up. you had promised

to care for kaeya so dearly, and that came with remembering events that were important to him. so why was it that you made other plans today, of all days?

he shifted his stance, transferring his weight to his opposite leg. “he died today. and you forgot,” he took a step towards you. “how dare you?”

there was nothing for you to hold onto as you suffered through kaeya’s wrath, merely

watching as he spiraled into his long forgotten hole of pain and guilt and hatred. what could you do, anyways? he would swat your hand away again. remind you that he didn’t need to rely on you constantly. that he was his own person, and he didn’t need you hovering over him like a mother.

he ran a hand through his hair, the ribbon that held it in the day falling loose. an apology slipped from his lips, watered and broken. before you could reply, he escaped into the depths of night, clicking the front door softly. a rumble grew in your ribcage as guilt crawled up your spine carefully. so, so carefully. you doubt you ever even felt it.

the bedroom door creaked open. yellow rays, soft and gentle, barely there, fell from the crack between the wood and the doorway, and along with them came the man you could barely place. without a word, he made his way into the bathroom, leaving behind no trace. something he did so often, too often.

his arrival caused the book in your lap to fall. you clasped your hands together as you waited. how long were you willing to sit still, to hold for him as he moved as fast or slow as he wanted to?

kaeya slumped onto the bed, his back facing you once more as he propped his elbows on his knees. no words were spoken. the clock ticks and the gentle breezes said everything instead.

just as quickly as he sat, he collapsed into the spot beside you, his legs dangling off of the edge. a singular eye burned into the ceiling, writing scripts that couldn’t be deciphered by even teyvat’s top scholars. a mystery. just as you’d known him to be. just what you’d admired.

the path, eventually, circled back to you, in your mildly bewildered state. scrambled arpeggios flooded the room, the yellow light banished to the hallway as you both basked in the darkness. it was so sickeningly calming. almost as if you hadn’t just pissed him off.

your hands sneaked away from one another, remnants of sweat left on your palms. you didn’t want to look at him. but you did. his eye reeled you in so tenderly. it was far too tempting. and so, you stared, you drunk in every bit of eye contact he spared you, every second spent of silent gazes. you relished in it. and you loved it.

kaeya sighed, lifting himself up from his spot and burying himself beneath the blankets, handing you the wondrous sight of his back for the umpteenth time. vermillion flames of sorrow engulfed your being as you hoped for just a few more seconds, he would give you his face instead.

the bed bore a familiar coldness that the pile of blankets and pillows couldn’t dare rival. sunlit dust filtered in through the window, cascading onto your skin as the sun crawled onto the horizon. this time, the ceiling was barren. empty. the writings kaeya bore into the wood just last night had been erased, gone.

or were they?

perhaps it was your eyes playing tricks on you. your lips parted as you searched through your head for the memory of his gaze, locked onto your own, only to end up with nothing. the image seemed to have slipped from your grasp, sinking through the lines in your fingers.

you needed answers — but unfortunately, work always came first.

the paperwork in front of you was long forgotten, what with the ghouls scratching at your mind and your head resting deep in your hands. your leg shook beneath the desk violently. and at just the right second, a hurried alchemist stepped through the door.

“i’m here to collect a few papers, but,” he spoke, catching his breath — presumably from running from the lab where timaeus and sucrose worked to the knights’ headquarters. “are you alright? you look as if you’re in a state of distress - not from your work.” he held a look of concern that was, surprisingly, genuine.

you cleared your throat, letting your arms rest on your lap. “ah, well... it seems i’ve forgotten about him. pieces of him, i mean. it’s quite frightening.”

albedo closed the door behind him softly to give you both some privacy. “really? how often does this happen?”

“...a little too often,” you spoke, giggling softly in an attempt to lighten the mood. however, it was clear that the sound was strained. “i don’t know. he’s slipping from my memory.” the man nodded, lips parting to speak whatever conclusion he came to.

“hm. this is quite a rare case — but existent nonetheless,” he began, leaning against the wall as he started to ramble on. “the name escapes me, but it’s a sickness in which a person who faces one sided love begins to slowly forget about the one they admire. a phenomenon, really. it’ll start off with smaller things such as favorite colors or their birthday, but it quickly evolves into much larger memories like special events or anniversaries. through this process, the victim’s heart begins to deteriorate and rot slowly. as of now, there’s a cure, but no one’s sure if it’s that safe, considering how infrequent this is.” albedo snapped out of his trance of words as he looks back towards you, only to see your lip quivering as dews start spilling from your eyes. “…ah, i didn’t mean to scare you in any way... i’ll take my leave now.” however, before he could open the door, your hand stopped him, grasping desperately onto the end of his sleeve.

“you know how to treat me, don’t you?” he nodded slowly. “please. i could care less about the consequences.”

a hum left his mouth before he left with a single word, “understood.”

if you didn’t continue on with this parade of white hot sorrows, you might as well drown.

the porcelain walls confined you with your thoughts. with your ashen knees bent up to your chest, scrunched up hands buried beneath the water, you’d laugh at just how pitiful you looked. there was a ticking in your skull. it was due to end, to explode if you didn’t get an answer. then again, would there truly be any honest answer? even albedo’s scientific concoctions couldn’t dare get a truthful word out of kaeya in this situation, absolutely not. he was a man of secrets, and frankly, you fell into his trap. the nights replayed in and out on your bed, the book on your lap long forgotten as you stared at your lover’s plastic back. the pages were tainted. stained. all because you were slowly losing memory of his face, constructed of caramel blessings and dulcet poetry. you could not scribble it on paper, nor explain it, nor conjure it up in the confines of your imagination.

perhaps this was a bad dream. a bad dream where his face had been ripped and scratched and marred beyond words. you couldn’t dare face it. couldn’t dare accept it.

and, even through the blemishes of your eyes, you admired him. through the white lines, you adored him, loved him, cherished him.

how stupid.

you had come around full circle. the water in the tub had gone lukewarm from just how long you were sitting and staring, drumming your fingers against the stone of the bath to an unnamed rhythm of disarray. you were not the most religious of people, however, you prayed to whatever god heard you first that he could hear your melancholic symphonies just as well. unfortunately, that much was humanly impossible, for the distance from the house to the tavern was simply too great. he wouldn’t care to listen, wouldn’t tune in to hear a mere note. so you had to deal with your raptures alone. in your tub. as always.

three months had, apparently, been enough time.

however, three months was nothing compared to the five years you spent suffering with kaeya alberich. the cause of your downfall.

you couldn’t remember when it happened, where it happened - but all you knew was that the man who supposedly lived with you loathed you beyond description. there was a fierce stare in his eyes. you oblivious to where it sprouted from, merely observing as he prodded at your bones with a gaze of steel.

eventually, you could barely recognize he was there.

the man in blue had molded his anger into despair. you no longer found yourself victim to his stares, to his stabs. he was looking everywhere but you. and you didn’t know why.

the day you snapped was the day you had been banished from the home completely.

his voice was distant, however, you picked up on tidbits as he explained the situation to albedo, the chief alchemist who worked down in the city. according to him, you had thrown a fit, an unsettleable rage the moment he stepped into the room, purely because you had taken him as a stranger, recognized him as an intruder. the most noticeable part, however, was the look of fear in his eyes. one that contrasted the horrific glares he set you for weeks on end.

and so, as you lay on the wooden table of albedo’s lab, awaiting his arrival, you prayed that the sunkissed man would come too. however, such wishes were those of a fool, a moron, a selfish person. after all, you weren’t sure which sunkissed man you were hoping for, couldn’t place a face to the thought anymore. instead lay a blob of mishapen limbs that haunted your mind as the hours passed. only one man came in, dressed in a lab coat that fit him just right. his presence, sadly, did nothing to soothe your mind.

albedo sat on a chair placed too close and too far to the table. he seemed to be writing so fervently, as if his life depended on it — or rather, yours. with a sigh, he stood up, tightening the gloves that adorned his hands just before standing above you. “are you sure?” he spoke in a gentle tone, one that calmed the crashing waves in your guts and sent the ghouls away.

“yes, of course.”

time was of the essence. the alchemist - although not too experienced in the field of surgery - managed to work around the rot and mold building up inside in a good amount of time, using whatever scientific creations he had at hand. your sleeping form was a rather horrifying sight, for he wasn’t sure if you were still there every few seconds.

soon enough, the gaping hole in your chest had been stitched up neatly, your body dressed up in a plain white gown that albedo had borrowed from sucrose. he slumped onto the floor, not caring for how bad his posture was at the moment. now came the waiting. he would wait for you to awaken, no matter how long that would be, because this was his job - and he was dedicated.

surprisingly enough, it wasn’t that much time until you rose from your spot. he was achingly close to passing out, however, his path to sleep was quickly interrupted as you sat up. “good morning,” you spoke, voice somewhat raspy. you stood up, walking towards the counter to get a drink. “care to explain why i’m in your lab and you’re on the verge of falling asleep?”

“ah... surgery. i’m not sure it’d be very pleasant to hear the cause.” you hummed in response. the soft echo of chatter rang in the hallway, tempting you to step out. “don’t go out yet,” the boy spoke, as if he read your thoughts. “you need to recover for a bit. plus, i don’t think it’d be very fitting to step out in that gown.”

“oops.”

you returned to the table, sitting on the edge and allowing for your bare feet to ghost against the wooden floor. the iron stench of blood was still somewhat present in the air. your blood, you assumed. fortunately, albedo was able to take your mind off of the smell with his ( sleepy ) small talk, reminding you that it wouldn’t be safe to head home just yet considering your state.

it was comforting. and yet, you couldn’t help but feel like a piece was missing.

the sunlight drenched your bones, dandelion breezes humming away. bits of dirt and grass nipped away at your feet, while you pondered once more.

everything seemed to lack its color recently. you couldn’t place it, and it irritated you. however, even while you were stressing over how dull everything was, there was an airiness in your chest that you couldn’t place, couldn’t rip out and inspect. it fluttered so harshly, knotting around your limbs hastily.

perhaps it was because of that sunkissed man who offered to take you under his wing as a knight.

and so the cycle starts again.

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