#its just fun beating the shit out of him LMAO

[todayisafridaynight]

wanna play y7 again so bad just to beat up aoki

[dumbseee]

down bad.

in which, jude is a little bit too obsessed with his celebrity crush.

jude bellingham x singer!reader.

fc: imaan hammam.

liked by judebellingham, bellahadid, haileybieber and 8 183 018 others.

y/n: had so much fun tonight!

_

fan1: y/n you look so good

fan2: you ATE this look

fan3: princess y/n

judebellingham: 😍

fan4: of COURSE jude is in the first people to like and comment

fan5: at this point i think jude has y/n’s notifications on because there is no way

judebellingham: ofc i do!

fan6: STOP TALKING ABOUT THIS JUDE GUY OMG

fan7: y/n i’m begging you to drop another album or i’ll kms

fan8: WHEN ARE YOU COMING TO BRAZIL??

fan9: Y/N I LOVE YOU SO MUCH

fan10: marry me pls

view all comments.

liked by judebellingham, zayn, champagnepapi and 9 728 091 others.

y/n: hope you liked 'message in a bottle' and i hope the bottle found its receiver :)

_

fan1: GIRL YOU CAN’T LEAVE US LIKE THAT

fan2: WHO IS THIS DAMN SONG FOR??

fan3: been on repeat, amazing job y/n!

fan4: i missed your voice so much!!

fan5: IS THIS ABOUT JUDE???

fan6: Y/N I’LL KMS IN FRONT OF YOU IF YOU DON’T GIVE US ANSWERS

fan7: damn y’all are crazy

fan8: why would y/n write a song about a random football player?? she only dates a-list celebrities

fan9: lmao bold of y’all to assume our y/n would give time to your little jude

declanrice: please dm him y/n, he’s been playing this song every since it came out

judebellingham: IT’S NOT TRUE

fan10: abjskslslq not declan calling him out for being a fanboy

trentarnold66: i’m begging you to dm jude so he can SHUT THE FUCK UP

judebellingham: I’LL BEAT YOUR ASS DELETE THAT

masonmount: yeah we’re considering booking a therapist because he’s been crying over that song and making up scenarios about you

judebellingham: FAKE NEWS I KNOW THE SONG ISN’T ABOUT ME

y/n: it is actually.

fan11: WHAT

fan12: HOLY SHIIIIIT

declanrice: just letting you know that jude has fainted

view all comments.

insta dms.

y/n.

you really made me dm you first hm?

judebellingham.

holy shit

nah i must be dreaming rn

y/n.

haha no you’re not

so, you liked the song?

judebellingham.

y/n l/n is dming me

i must have saved a whole nation in my past life to be such a lucky mf

I LOVED IT

seriously your voice is heavenly and your lyrics always hit deep

but were you lying?

y/n.

thanks jude! about what?

judebellingham.

the song being about me, was that a lie?

y/n.

absolutely not.

i wouldn’t lie about that, jude.

this song is for and about you.

so, i heard you had to play against barcelona tomorrow, can i have an invite?

judebellingham.

you want to come?

OMG

YES OFC IS THAT EVEN A QUESTION

_

liked by y/n, declanrice, trentarnold66, and 1 728 092 others.

judebellingham: couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate tonight’s win!

_

y/n: the man of the match indeed

liked by judebellingham.

trentarnold66: WAR IS OVEEEEER

fan1: OMGGGGGGGG

fan2: i can’t believe he actually went on a date with THEE y/n l/n!!

fan3: nah man, respect to you

fan4: bellingham is on fire lately

aurelientchm: 😏

rodrygogoes: 😏😏

masonmount: 😏😏😏

toni.kr8s: 😏😏😏😏

judebellingham: i’m going to block every single ones of you.

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[malereadermaniac]

Drinking games ~ Your Crush x Male Reader

Some cute sfw shit with your 'straight' male crush who has a secret soft spot for you word count: 1.3k m!reader (no genitalia mentioned) / FDNI

The few private moments you had shared with (Y/c) were sweet, even romantic at a push if you sprinkle in some 'delusion'

The man would chat to you, seemingly remembering most details you had shared with him in previous conversations, his (e/c) eyes looking over your features gently as he throws in some jokey flirts; his charisma through the roof, his hand's in his pockets and a smirk on his face as he calls you cute or funny

Moments like those almost, just almost make you forget that (y/c) is in fact a straight man, very much heterosexual

(Y/c) is quite popular, and damn is he very different around his friends than when he's has a very rare moment alone with you

When with his friends, the (h/c) barely spares you a glance, acting all nonchalant around his friends and replying with a 'sup' after you say hi to him - his friends teasing him about his 'friendship with you'

But again, when the two of you have a brief moment alone things are different

The slightly (taller/shorter) man will subconsciously go out of his way to text you or to see you by using almost every excuse under the sun; he needs help with an assignment? Of course you'll help, he missed a lecture? You make time to tutor him!

But either way, you knew that you attempts at 'flirting' and your heart rate increasing anytime you saw (Y/c) was realistically futile - the man was straight, and he barely tolerated you too

When you thought about it, the (h/c)'s friends make fun of him for talking to you, and he only really hangs out with you to get shit out of it; you two weren't actually even friends

Or so that's what you thought...

It came as a real shock when you got a text at 6pm on a random Saturday from (Y/c) who was inviting you to a party he was hosting

Not only were you surprised that he was hosting the party but also that you were invited

"I thought you hated hosting? lmao" you reply almost instantly, good god get some self-respect bro

"I do"

"I want you there to make it more tolerable"

The way blood rushed to your face faster than ever before, my lord

"I suppose i can clear my very busy schedule for you 🙄 "

And that's how you ended up at your first ever party! Well, at least a huge house party, unlike the small functions you had gone to with friends

After being greeted with many drunk people, made nicer by the alcohol in their system, you aimed to make your way to (Y/c); that was until you got dragged away by a group of people greeting you and inviting you to drink

It was surprisingly chill, you were enjoying yourself in the kitchen as you sat on a counter-top, drink in hand as you chatted with the other people you were with - laughing and gossiping

Eventually, word made its way to (Y/c) that you had turned up, and immediately the man made his way towards his kitchen

He couldn't explain why his heart dropped when he saw you talking and laughing with other guys, but it did, and he made his way towards you with a face like stone, aiming to hide his emotions

"(Y/c)! I found youuu!" you chuckle out endearingly, clearly a little tipsy already

"Hey, was lookin' for you... Looks like you made yourself at home" The man teased, his body quite close to yours, the counter-top bringing you to his height

You mumble an 'oh shit, sorry' as you jump down from the food surface, you body pushing against (Y/c)'s as you do so

"Nah it's fine, enjoy yourself.... wanna come hangout with my friends? They're becoming unbearable" The handsome man chuckles, looking exhausted by his drunk friends

You, of course, agree and make your may towards his group of friends in the (h/c)'s living room

Even when drunk, (Y/c)'s friends teased him about having you around, but shockingly, once the (taller/shorter) man saw you expression sour, he told his mates to 'fuck off' - well that made your heart skip a couple of beats!

After hanging out with your handsome crush for an hour or so, more and more people joined the group, people drinking more and more - even (Y/c) feeling comfortable enough to drink with you around

However, a situation arose when someone suggested a game of 'spin the bottle' with a truth or dare twist...

Of course everyone agreed, the alcohol in their system making them much more excitable than usual, and if the activity didn't involve anything getting broke, (Y/c) was cool with it

After a couple of rounds of people being dared to kiss other, secrets being revealed and gross 'would you rather' questions, you were getting progressively more drunk - having opted out of back flipping off of the couch and revealing your fat crush on (Y/c) just to name a few scenarios

(Y/c) was a little worried for you, seeing how drunk you were getting was making him feel overprotective of you - but man did you also look fucking cute!

Your cheeks flushed and your eyes droopy from the liquor, leaning up against him with you warm body as you chuckle for no reason from time to time

Inevitably, the bottle had landed on you once more, causing you to sit up and give everyone a chuckle after whining loudly 'not againnnnnnn~'

But the crowd was definitely silenced when the spinner of the bottle dared you to kiss someone - specifically, some guy you were cozy-ing up with when you first arrived at (Y/c)'s

You chuckle lightly when you see the man blush, his desire for you to kiss him evident on his face - the man had been trying it on with you since you got here!

But as you struggle to get up, wobbling around from the drinking, (Y/c) had shocked everyone

You watch with a fat fuck-off blush on your face as (Y/c) stands up and grabs the bottle from the middle of the circle, downing the whole thing and saying with a nonchalant tone - 'what? he's too drunk to drink anymore'

This man just took a drink for you! HOW FUCKIN ROMANTIC IS THAT???

You hadn't noticed it, but the (h/c) man had drank a lot throughout the night, and he'd even taken that drink for you but seemed literally sober

(Y/c) must have a real high alcohol tolerance, the thought of the big, handsome man being able to handle his drink so well and even be willing to take a drink for you? You had fallen for him all over again then and there!

Some of the people in the circle boo and other hype (Y/c) up, to which he just chuckles and shakes his head as he slings an arm of yours over his shoulders and lifts you up with a hand around your waist

And after the difficult trip up three flights of stairs to the man's bedroom, he gently lays you down on his bed and brings you a bowl to throw up in

You two spend hours up in his room, talkin about many, many things - like his room being cool, you being cute drunk, him being handsome always, you feeling bad that he's missing the party, him professing that he'd rather spend his time with you, and your long conversation had ended with you professing your undying love to your two year ongoing crush

You blushed and slammed your hands against your mouth, shouting that you were dreaming and that 'this wasn't happening!', trying to trick yourself into thinking that the amused man would just forget about this in the morning

He didn't.

(Y/c) remembered every moment in vivid detail... and so did you

But what you didn't expect was for the man to in turn, the morning after, confess that he too had some affectionate, maybe even loving feelings towards you - and also that he was extremely impressed that you didn't even throw up after drinking as much as you did!

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

TGCF couples at the beach

Because i want to go to the beach so bad rn

HuaLian:

Hua Cheng isnt too fond of the sun or the water but gege said he'd like to go so they're going.

Everything is fancy and luxurious, only the best for gege.

A large beach bed with a canopy, drinks and snacks served at all times, the whole nine yards.

He wears those fancy sunscreen lotions with foreign names cause he may be dead but he also burns easily and turns into a big baby about it.

Xie Lian insists they dont need to do all that and can just chill in the sand with a towel, which Hua Cheng finds preposterous.

They have a big ass umbrella over the canopy bed too cause the sun is a deadly laser.

So much affection - cuddling, kissing, being all sweet and lovey, feeding each other watermelon and gathering seashells

Theyre sickeningly sweet

Hua Cheng is able to keep his hands to himself for about 5 seconds max

If there are any noisy kids or families around, Hua Cheng sends Yin Yu to scare them off

(They take Yin Yu with for this express purpise but hey free all inclusive vacation, a win is a win)

Xie Lian never burns ever and refuses to wear sunscreen. Hua Cheng pouts about it because 1) dont want gege to get a sunburn and 2) cant teasingly rub lotion over him smh

Hua Cheng builds one of those fancy sand statues of Xie Lian and he thinks its the most romantic thing ever

It is

So many kisses in the water and swimming together all lovey

Hua Cheng is never seen not drinking a margarita

"You do not need to keep your swim trunks that low, San Lang." "Gege, tan lines are terrible."

BeefLeaf

SQX cant get He Xuan out of the water once they arrive to the beach. Nope. That is his habitat now. He belongs to the fishes.

SQX rents out beach chairs by the bar because how can one tan without a drink in hand?

Skimpy swimsuits because SQX also abides by the tan lines are the devil mentality

Manages to get He Xuan out of the water with the promise of ice cream

Talking shit about everyone around while eating ice cream and drinking martinis

So many seashells. He Xuan gives them to SQX as an offering aw

"XuanXuan you cant drown people that say indecent things about me!" "Who says" "the law??"

He Xuan brings SQX little fish he catches if they look colorful or pretty

"XuanXuan, put some tanning oil on my back!" And He Xuan spends like 10 mins trying to find the correct bottle because SQX brought like 50 and the tanning oil SQX wants looks like literally every other bottle there

So many selfies

He Xuan digs tunnels in the sand whenever he isnt in the water. SQX has to talk him into not using the Earth Master shovel

Theyre checking out hot people together

He Xuan puts on sunglasses to pretend he isnt staring at SQX

"XuanXuan you cant throw jellyfish at children!!"

SQX flirts their way into free drinks and He Xuan broods about it but also he is deeply in debt so he can't turn down free shit lmao

FengQing

Arguing, so much arguing, but hey thats their love language

"Thats a shit spot for a towel" "okay find a better one then" "here!" "Thats like a foot away whats the difference??"

Feng Xin refuses to put on sunscreen cause he thinks its not manly

"You cant beat the fucking sun, Feng Xin!"

Mu Qing refuses to get his hair wet. Feng Xin makes it a point to dunk him in the water at least once

Feng Xin falls asleep in the sun like an old man and Mu Qing draws dicks on him with sunscreen lmfao

They argue about who goes to get drinks and snacks and just end up going together

Feng Xin insists to exclusively drink beer until he tries one of Mu Qing's deadly cocktail combinations and hes hooked. He insists they add a little umbrella to his drink now so he and Mu Qing match

Sand castles competition turned chasing into the waves turned underwater kisses

Mu Qing judges everyone and Feng Xin cant help adding in to the commentary because its surprisingly entertaining

Beach sports! Theyre so competitive too so its extra fun and they make bets over everything

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

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

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

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

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

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

***

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

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

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

Seems like the sort of place for him.

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

Or somethin’ along those lines. 

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sigh. I ask him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

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

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

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

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

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

Asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I reply. 

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

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

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

He tilts his head away in dismissal. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

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

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

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

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

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

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

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

I want – my breath trembles with it.

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

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

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

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he contradicts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can feel you against my leg.” 

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

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

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

Give me strength. Give me strength. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

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

I can feel him swallow.

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

“Kiss me again, then.” 

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

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

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

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

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

A switch in his brain must flick on. 

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

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

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 

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

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

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

He kisses the hollow of my neck. 

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

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

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

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

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  

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

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

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

How unlike him. 

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

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

I sigh, try not to squirm. 

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

I nod. “Yeah.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 

My cunt flexes. 

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

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

“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 

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

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

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

“Can—?”

“Yes.” 

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

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

“Lie back.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” I reply. 

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

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

[kuroppiii]

  apple bottom jeans ᵕ̈       timeskip!hq men ( atsumu , shōyō ,       oikawa , ushijima ) that i think can       actually dance at the club ˎˊ˗

⋮⋮ ˒ ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ 𖥻 ⿻ : and i DON ' T mean just ⋮⋮  two-stepping to the music blasting, ⋮⋮  jesus christ no!!!

📋 content     ♡ # 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 🐮 ( ? )     ♡ # 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 🥛     ♡ # 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 - 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘱     ♡ # ~500 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴     ♡ # 𝙘𝙬 𝙨𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 ! ( 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘣 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨     𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘰 ) + 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

🎶 on shuffle " dare " - gorillaz

🧸 directory  ‹ ✩  like what you read ? check out more of my blog !  •ᴗ•

💬 kuroppiii ─ “ thought of this while listening to gorillaz 💪 someone take me out partying pleaseee i need to dance and sweat and get buzzed again !! ”

︴miya atsumu ․﹒∗*○․﹒✧∘°  

big frat guy energy but unfortunately he gets away with it because they way he looks at you, drink in hand, as he's bumpin to the beat is HOTTTT

like guys... c'mon now

with the top buttons of his shirt undone and like a chain on yes pls

the type to look straight into your eyes as you two sing along to songs line for line, BAR! for BAR!!!

lots of action with the arms and elbows from him (yeah frat energy i fear)

hand on your ass as you two vibe to the music, definitely, no question

he'd be hyping you up too with like one of those stupid cartoonish-ass whistles AHHHH THE DEMONS ARE MAKING ME TYPE THIS

also he can get into it without even drinking like just let this man dance!!! (but ofc he has a few shots it's a fucking party lmao)

beige flag: he will jump up and down to some carti or kanye or some shit and he will look a bit corny if you really squint

︴hinata shōyō ․﹒∗*○․﹒✧∘°  

A LITTLE MUCH AT TIMES like babes this is not magic mike chill with the body rolling bud

but also the redheads got some good moves, good for him!

it's all in the shoulders 🫡

like think that timothee chalemet edit that went viral during quarantine (💀💀💀)

likes to spin you around and really dance with you y'know

holding ur hands the whole time aw

just wants to make sure yall are having a good time

watch out for when those latin songs come on tho because this boy will go HAMMM

shoyo my brazillian king x bad bunny? YUPPPP

p.s. he would def end up crowd surfing somehow

︴oikawa tōru ․﹒∗*○․﹒✧∘°  

one that sways along with you from behind so that randos can't sneak up on you (romance is so back!!)

hands always on your waist, holding you close

talks to you by bending down and mumbling into your ear barkbarkwoofbarkwoofwoof

like a chiller 'tsumu bc i don't think he's really the type to be belting lyrics with you like that but he's definitely feeling himself LORD

don't be scared, shake some ass on him, he don't mind 🤷‍♀️

if he ends up in front of you, gets really close to you, like all up in your personal space, still dancing ofc

but he can't help his eyes RAKING you up and down when you two are like that heart eyes

if a nikki minaj song comes own he definitely knows all the lyrics OOPS WHO SAID THAT NOT ME

︴ushijima wakatoshi ․﹒∗*○․﹒✧∘°  

HEAR ME OUT

he needs a few drinks to get there BUT!!! he can get a little loose you feel me?

it's starts out gradual, bc completely sober he's definitely a two-stepper booooo

but as the alcohol kicks in, and they especially play the more fun and carefree songs not so much the tiktok thirst trap type tracks lol–he starts opening up more!

and its kinda cute like his skillset is kinda limited to dance moves straight out of a coming of age film dance montage

lowkey the toby maguire dance from spiderman 3 is gonna make an appearance (ushi secret geek agenda but that's my ted talk for another day)

i can see him getting turnt to some chappell roan (him doing the hot to go! dance 😭)

but but but the BEST part's when he's fighting back a smile as he's dancing, you two feeling like you're the only ones on the dance floor together

or your arms up and around his neck and his hands on your hips, him not being able to keep his eyes off you, feeling the bass hitting in your chests... yeahhhh

       ⇩  ⇩  ⇩ 𝘽𝙊𝙉𝙐𝙎 ::

︴nishinoya yū + tanaka ryūnosuke ․﹒∗*○․﹒✧∘° 

i HAVE to put them together in an honorable mention because you bet if one of them is dancing, the other is holding their phone flashlight up, shining it all on the other

they both pull up in shades even if the club is inside 💀💀💀

dance circle? THEY'RE GETTING STURDY IN THERE

THEY'RE DOING THE WORM

GETTIN DOWN LOWWWW

maybe even hitting the gritty? who knows? ironically ofc (not)

like yeah they obviously can dance well with someone each on their own

but the amount of money i'd pay to go clubbing with the both of them? embarrassingly large amount i'm willing to give up

trulyyy life of the party when they're both on the dancefloor together

[inamagicalhallucination]

sskk highschool/college/idk idc/ modern au where aku has a crush on the sweet kid he never talks to from the library or the cafe or whatever soft boy stereotypical place you can think of, who's all sweater paws (lmao he just "borrowed" a few of his older friends' and forgot to give them back) and glasses (dazai bought them for him and himself to poke fun at kunikida but atsushi likes to wear them so they dont just sit around) and soft smiles and stacks of books

and then one day, he's outside having lunch with his friends and a fight breaks out and he's only vaguely curious and even that much is becuz he finds out that its tanizaki junichiro who's in the fight and he doesn't really seem like the fight guy

anyway apparently the other guys r playing dirty and he's losing and akutagawa and his friends walk forward becuz that sucks and tanizaki seems like a cool dude

but before they can do anything, fluffy sweater and glasses atsushi pushes through the crowd asks someone to hold his book and glasses and then walks forward and grabs the people junichiro is in a fight with by their hair and pulls them away from him

and akutagawa watches, cheeks flushed, heart beating as his soft boy crush punches someone in the face, back to back with his apparently best friend, just beating the shit out of everyone, biting scratching, clawing

i feel like juni is insane enough to win so thats why it was like the other guys doing underhanded shit to pull one over him

[lunas-side-anime-blog]

AOT Icks (Eren, Armin and Mikasa)

one thing about me: i am a hater

Eren

def has mommy issues and no woman could ever compare to her like good luck to any of his girlfriends lmao

^^ that being said, as a roommate he’s a nightmare like you can tell his mom cleaned up after him all the time because it doesn’t even occur to him to do so now

toxic gym bro who says shit like “we all have the same 24 hours”

def has the the 3 in 1 bottle in his shower, I just know it

prob calls women “females” 

the cringiest instagram captions like I know he will post sum: “I think my closet bi-polar, it keeps throwing fits💯”  like dude, get a grip

attempts thirst traps, he has a ripped body so it kinda works but the content is so transparent you can’t help but roll your eyes

go out to a bar with him or something and he’s the type to try to make everything a fight

like if someone bumps into you, he's quickly in their face like "what's good bro😡” and you know its not actually about you so much as eren tryna beat someone up

i think he’ll use spit as lube thinking he’s so bad boy and lewd when it’s actually just so bad for your PH like ewwww (if u have a vag ofc)

i feel like his hair would get so greasy, mikasa and armin have had to force him down with shampoo in hand before 

so gross but you came here for icks and I don’t believe Eren believes in holding back his farts for anyone

it can be the most intense and serious event like a funeral and he’ll rip a loud one and be like “what? it’s not good to hold it in??”

Armin

nail biter who will chew on them till the bone and you hear that loud ass “crONCh"

says he hates drama but that’s just something he says to not seem petty bc at the first sight of a fight best believe he’s sitting there, watching it all go down, wine glass in hand like "🍷🤨👂" 

lil shit will even add lil comments to keep the beef alive, like i can see him loudly asking “okay but jean didn't you say her outfit made her look fat though?”

if you're in a debate with him, he’s the type to say something like “you're so uneducated about the subject, I’m actually pretty well versed in it” and your like "okay so what's all ur research then?" and he'll just quickly change the subject bc he didn’t actually have sources to cite lmao

is one of those bfs who would make fun of you for liking trashy tv but guess who eats that shit up everytime? armin.

he does that dad thing where he walks around in the living room and acts uninterested with what’s happening on the screen but he’s actually so invested and would be fuming if you dared watched an episode without him 

i think he’d also be the type to try to be friends with his ex even if they obviously still have feelings for him, but if you dared even talk to yours he’d get all huffy and puffy like “go be with him then🙄” 

got obsessed with skincare after watching your routine but u kinda created a monster bc now he’s critiquing your products and techniques? “Babe you should really consider a gel moisturizer, it’s better for your pores'' and you're like, “boy you used neutrogena when I met you???” 

is that bf who will shower at your place and use up all your expensive washes and scrubs 

not the best gift giver tbh, I think he’s a firm believer that all gifts should be practical so even if it’s a romantic anniversary date and he slides over a lil present, it’s probably just gonna be socks or something, srry

Mikasa

applies her chapstick like a man (iykyk)

“he know where home is” bitch, I hate to say it

i think she’s a girl’s girl until her man cheats on her, then she’d be the type to fight the girl and not really address her man…which is just… 😣

as a friend I think she’s sadly the type to unintentionally embarrass you bc she doesn’t get some social cues.

like you can miss a hang and ppl ask where you are and she’d just say matter of factly “oh they’re fine, they just have diarrhea rn!” and she won’t understand why you’d be mad?

outfit repeater to the max, she has like three tops that she likes and all pics of her are with her wearing one of those three tops

a lil delulu and prob genuinely believes all the tiktok pick a card vids on her feed

likes her coffee black and somehow thinks she’s better than everyone for that???

as a gf she checks your snap score and location regularly and has no shame in it 🙂

fights in her sleep like you will just be sleeping next to her all soundly and next thing you know you get punched in the face? she refuses to apologize in the morning bc she “has a right to defend myself in a nightmare” or whatever

when shes mad at someone she’ll post like ultra specific lyrics or captions and it’s so obviously targeted at one person everyone else is like "girl go to bed, don’t even post the quote…"

[magicxc]

Sizes

Pairings: Survey Corps - their dick sizes

Word Count: 857

Warnings: none

A/N: this is so self indulgent, it aint even funny lol. Please enjoy what I think the bois are packing.

Headcannons Masterlist

Eren - 9.5 inches

Phew I mean, this doesn’t take too much explaining…at least for me. Eren legit had the gall to wipe out 80% of the population so I can only imagine that he has the balls to match. It’s safe to say our boy is all bark and bite cause he’s absolutely backing up whatever the fuck he says. Needless to say, you need to be PREPPED before penetration.

Levi - 6.5

As my personal favorite of the bunch, daddy Levi is absolutely still working with sumn, okay!!! Let's not count our short king out the race. Matter of fact, I'm willing to bet my bottom dollar that Levi is giving you THEE best seggs. As fun as size kinks are, let's be real, it hurts before it pleases. And 6.5 is like the perfect length to comfortably kiss your cervix. That stamina? His insomnia? The low, sultriness of his voice? Yeahh, you can kiss a good night's rest goodbye and your pussy will absolutely thank you for it. It’s been said that Levi is one of the best in terms of ODM use because of how quick he is while maneuvering the gear and the way it’s used is by the wearers shifting a lot of their weight to their pelvis for movement. Once again YOUR PUSSY WILL THANK YOU! 

Erwin - 7.5

Though the Commander stands tall above his peers, he has some muscle mass to him and therefore I consider him a girthy fellow. Keep in mind this is the same man who stared down Reiner in his armor titan form, all the while being short one arm. It's been said that the horses that the scouts ride are bred specifically to outrun titans but what they leave out is that Erwins horse is bred specifically to carry balls as heavy as his. Lmfaoo this man is BRAVE, just daring a mf to try some shit. And he absolutely carries that trait into the bedroom as well. 

Connie - 7.5

Connie has always given me goofball vibes. That “huh” ass mf was sorta the comedic relief to the show and it’s like omg you brought dick too?? Funny men be getting me ngl jksjsks. It’s been said that Connie views the Scouts training almost like a summer camp and while he made the top ten his competitive edge doesn’t really set in until he sees someone doing better than him lol. I genuinely don’t think dick size matters to him all that much so when he becomes sexually active and gets so much praise, it’s like ohh wow - new kink unlocked.

Jean - 10 inches

I'm willing to physically debate this lmao. This is probably the only thing he’ll beat Eren in, but I whole heartedly believe that Jean is packing a SCHLONG. He’s always stood above his peers throughout the show and as he ages, it’s more prominent. Tall and skinny men are literally always packing and those pencils wanna write in every book. Mans would absolutely put Mikasa through a mattress if given the chance.

Onyankopon - 8.5 inches

Even though Ony doesn’t get a whole lotta screen time, I can safely assume his length here. This is the same man who fucking DARED Floch to kill him AFTER witnessing him kill a few others for refusing to fall in line. You wanna talk about standing on business? Ohhh Ony’s your man through and through. Mans is always fighting for the greater good and even willing to sacrifice his life for the cause; it’s safe to say you’d bark if he asked you to. 

Reiner - 7.0

Ok hear me out, mans is GIRTHY. And 7 inches isn’t a bad place to be at all. Very rarely do those beefcake ass men have length, but that doesn’t mean they're lacking. In fact, I’ll take it a step further and guess that Reiners smeat curves left. CHANGE MY MIND. Any man strong enough to wield that heavy ass armor titan is absolutely knocking the cobwebs off that pwussy. Needless to say, prep is still a must.

Armin - 7.0

Its certainly the quiet ones that shock you the most. Have you ever interacted with a chill and laid back man? It's definitely a reason for that and Armin is no exception. Although I consider him the least experienced, keep in mind that he is a QUICK learner. Every contort of your face and shift of your body is all the notes he needs to take to properly learn how to work your body over. And soon, you’ll be able to mold him to your perfect sex partner. That, coupled with his sweet attitude and sincere personality; sigh that bitch Annie really struck gold with this one. 

Floch - 8.0

If you look up unhinged in the dictionary, you’d literally find a picture of Floch. Many can make the argument that he may be overcompensating for something, but I di-fucking-gress. Even though he can be a bit off the walls, it truly was for good reason and all in the name of his country and THAT, my friends, is big dick behavior.

[iheartgirlzn]

may we have some hcs for katsuki bakugou where the reader is his kid sibling who got a recessive shapeshifting quirk like Nimona?

CAN A SHARK DANCE

BAKUGO WITH A YOUNGER SIBLING WHO HAS A SHAPESHIFTING QUIRK

pairing: katsuki bakugo x sibling!shapeshifter!reader

warning(s): swearing, probably ooc bakugo, mentions of him hating quirkless ppl and deku LMAO

🎸 notes: hopefully i got this right !! sorry if i got the whole quirk aspect bit wrong :,) // title from the nimona movie — sorry i haven’t read the comicsss

EEE OK OK!

he would never admit that he loves you.

even though he’d actually burn the world for you, because he’s an overprotective brother like that, he would still rather die than ever admit he doesn’t hate you.

this is what would happen if you asked him: “do you love me?” “………………” ← just intense silence with the most disgusted look on his face.

but honestly, he’d be an amazing brother (most of the time).

depending on how much younger than him you are, depends on how nice he is to you.

if you’re a toddler or tween for example (ages 5-9), he’d probably baby you a lot — but aggressively.

IDK HOW TO EXPLAIN IT ?! he’d act like how mitsuki does with him.

but if you’re a little older, like a teenager, he’d affectionately bully you.

he’d make fun of how you look and who your friends are, call you names, the usual.

speaking of, he’d never remember what any of your friends are called and because he ‘doesn’t know them’ he’d never let you go and hang with them.

dating is also off the table — he’d just be a dick and talk bad about your s/o the whole time. female, male, or anything in between is a big no no.

you’re look a little too nice for a normal hang out? well, guess what: you’re not going 🗣️

i wouldn’t be suprised if you also shared the family anger issues !!

outbursts (either his or yours) would lead to play fights, where you’d be on your back trying to kick him while he’s trying to jump on you and not get hit so he can put you in a headlock.

is SUPER competitive. like it’s actually a bit insane sometimes.

because you’re related to him he expects you to be great at everything—so during any game you play (card game, board game, etc) he wants you to win. but he will beat your ass if you do you actually end up winning against him.

ITS VERY CONFUSING !!

like, he wants you to win… unless it’s to him. and he will most definitely brag for the next month whenever he does beat you in any sort of game or competition.

is one of those older siblings who swears a bunch, all day, every day. but if YOU swear? nope nope nope. he will immediately snitch and look at you like you’ve just disgraced the whole family line. (me core !)

shadows boxes you 24/7. idk, i just feel like he’d do that. he’s like an annoying fly buzzing in your ear.

ANYWAYS!! TO THE QUIRK HCS!!

when you got your quirk he was like a proud dad. y’know that smug tiktok emoji or whatever? that was his face.

he was super excited that you weren’t (and i quote) a ‘quirkless loser’.

you probably pranked him a lot when you were young—turning into your parents or a random hero just to scare him.

the two of you also probably pranked other kids by turning into random pro heroes or some shit 😭 idk i just thought that would be super funny.

when he got into UA, he forced you to train with him and would sometimes make you shapeshift into someone he hated (*cough* deku *cough*) for motivation.

because you’re his younger sibling, of course you’re gonna mock him. so whenever he’d piss you off, you’d turn into him and start saying random shit like: “i love deku! he’s my hero!” or “i’m so angry all the time and have no friends *cue you acting all pouting and sulky*.”

that would always really piss him off. like he’d start exploding your shit.

basically you’re very chaotic and use your quirk to your advantage against him !! and honestly? i respect the grind 🫡

UHMM IDK WHAT ELSE TO ADD… SO BYEBYE MWAH MWAH ♡

[moonshynecybin]

Do you think the ranch visit 2014 ended with like slightly annoyed sex because Vale just annoyed with Marc beating his record but also slightly admiring him

i love this because its true. marc is ANNOYING ! of course it cannot be ignored that vale is ALSO annoying (max biaggi fight. hello.) like they match each others freak in that regard, but at what point do you look at this sexy ass twink who is obsessed with your dick and your bike (sex to vale. is motorcycle racing lest we forget he keeps that m1 in GROPING distance and marc is like GOD i wish that were me so it does. work comma sexually. for them. like a lot. but i digress) and obsessed with your ability to ride it and be like hmm. maybe this habit is NOT so cute. when beforeeee you thought hey hes just like MEEEEE and got HORNY about it. well obviously if youre vale it is when he doesnt let you win at your own goddamn track at your own goddamn house in front of your own goddamn brother and various peers. that shit is irritating. which i do think marc realizes now, but is also largely unrepentant about because he's hilarious. free my girl he did all that but it was funny. our marc not famous for his wealth of tact and restraint on the track. and vale is thirty six staring down one last chance to maybe win his tenth. and earlier that week when he beat marc at that karting event he said finally somewhere you dont win. so yeah when marc doesnt roll over and let him get the lap record that day in 2014 all of those endearing traits where they overlap and are similar. change. morph. arent so cute anymore. the light shifts. the music hits a minor chord. ominous. foreshadowing. chekov's gun carefully being placed on the wall. and suddenly. kind of a theme with them huh. vale hates him for all the things he learned from vale.

so. we are here to ask how that emotion translates to nasty sex. obviously. like all of these complex emotions do NOT mean that vale does not want to get his dick sucked lmao. like he's here he's thirsty marc's been in a tiny little titty huggin black tshirt all day its happenin. AND. it should be noted that in a very real sense this is their first sleepover. first time fr hanging out outside the paddock in a place where there is PRIVACY. no real REPORTERS. an actual locking DOOR. no way to hide from the fact that theyve been all over each other for like TWO YEARS now. AND multiple yamaha M1S that can be used as somewhat SEXUAL PROPS. (vale feeling also perhaps. emotionally complex here. a lil delicate. like YEAH i can invite my coworkers i like to hang at my track thats bro stuff but what about my years long situationship that —*static noises in vale's brain* like remember this is where MARC thinks things start to change between them...)

so yeah vale ends up like. amping up that competitive edge a little in bed. making this a fuckbuddy thing more than a RELATIONSHIP thing as much as he can in his head and with his hands and failing miserably and feeling even WEIRDER about that. so he's. i think he's working hard at putting marc where he wants him. hot hands a little rougher on the curve of marc's waist. cupping his ass making him gasp. sending him to his knees and making him suck his dick hot and nasty. teasing a little edging on the little feminine nicknames theyve never talked about but that make marc squirm and flush prettily. edging marc with three fingers in his ass while he whines for it. dragging it out. exerting a little control. not mean at all everyone is having fun (marc. out of his MIND.) just. excising some tension. its probably nothing hes just in his head. holding marc in his hands as he looks up at him. and marc trusting it. marc going. marc being just where vale wants him. just like he never does on the track. and marc thinks everything is fine when its happening thinks everything is AMAZING. but after that is when vale starts to go a little cold......

[necroromantics]

Okay but Apocalypse AU Ticciwork

What do you think???

I remember you mentioning this awhile back (which was when you sent this. Mb. Im getting through all my old asks. LMAO) and I pondered that shit so hard

I think an apocalypse AU would be so fucking fun. The Creeps already have the upperhand with knowledge on stealth, hunting, running from cops, surviving on very little, scavenging, self reliance, killing, etc etc. But I think as soon as things started getting bad, Toby would hang around Clockwork more just in case. He wanted to talk to her about how downhill everything is going in the world, how sick people are getting, how they're probably better off just staying in the forest. And for awhile she just brushes him off.

But fast forward to the height of the destruction the "zombie outbreak" has caused. Societies collapsed, governments falling apart, so many people dead or infected, Slender gone too. Now its just Toby, and Clock, them against the world, partners in crime. It wasnt a surprise they stuck together like they did. Toby separated from Tim and Brian pretty quickly after getting pissy with how strict they were getting, and Clock wanted to just be alone, fend for herself, but like always, Toby never let her. And she always let him in.

They had each others back for the longest time, they did pretty well for themselves, even crashed at a few safe havens ran by other survivors for a bit before inevitably getting kicked out or looting the place and making a run for it. They never found a place to stay for very long.

Eventually, they found themselves scavenging an abandoned prison, and they got swarmed by a hoard of undead. Toby got bit badly on his arm, and Clock dragged him out of there to safety, and frantically patched him up. He told her to cut off his arm with his axe before the disease spread. And she did, eyes closed. And it wasnt enough.

It started as pale, clammy skin. More pale and clammy than his typical complexion. Then, coughing, and vomiting, and Clock stayed by his side the entire time. At night, she'd finally agree to lay with him, and she'd rest her head on his chest and listen to his shallow breathing, nearly a groan. She could feel the sickness in every beat of his heart. And then she started noticing how cold he had gotten, when he used to be so warm.

And when he turned, after he begged her to cut his head off, Clock held his axe in her hands, and cut off his other arm. She muzzled that undead boy with whatever she could find so he didnt bite, and she brought him with her everywhere. And like a dog, he followed.

It was them against the world, partners in crime.

[tobyislame]

some ticci toby headcanons

consider this a headcanon salad cus these were all randomly thrown together as they came to me

- fragile masculinity up to the NINES with this one

- totally an ice eater what a sicko

- he's double jointed in so many places. also freakishly flexible. likes to freak people out by popping his joints in and out of place lmao

- has the crackiest bones ever. you think you hear sticks breaking in the woods its just toby's crack ass ankles

- weed partaker but stays the freak away from the bottle cus yk he doesn't want to find out if that "like father like son" stuff is true

- plays guitar and makes up shitty 1 minute sad guy with a guitar songs. fingerstyle typa guy

- plays ONLY FOR HIMSELF and gets embarrassed but tries to act like he's not if someone walks in on him. like he'll just hastily stop n scramble to put away his guitar n act all cool like he totally wasn't playing guitar just now and go "whaddyouwant"

- definitely sneaks into concerts and shows. it's easy for him to blend in there. gets suuuper fucking beat up in the pit cus yk he doesn't realize how battered up he's getting in the moment until he gets a glimpse of himself and is like oh hell my lip's busted and my nose is in a different place than it was before

- think he'd have an owen wilson nose on account of how much he's broken it

- also one of his canines is missing

- just a SUUUPER accident prone guy. has no sense of self preservation. like ZERO (cus he was never really taught how to manage his cipa) (well he was yk before The Incident but he doesn't remember much of it)

- has sun spots cus he's outside all day all the time. also tonsss of freckles and moles

- burns his playlists onto cds

- he'd like every music genre but in particular i think he'd listen to late 90s/early 2000s teenage boy music. also 80s music. specifically new wave stuff

- knows a lil bit of asl for his verbal shutdowns

- also i hc him as audhd

- along with his stutter (which i don't consider to be related to his tourettes) he also just has a speech impediment. like sometimes his r's or l's come out as w's and he has trouble pronouncing certain sounds or words and just says them wrong and people correct him consistently he just doesn't really listen or care to correct himself

- not too good at spelling or any of that grammar stuff

- i really want to stress that he's NOT stupid. he hate hate hates how people patronize him and make him out to be some sort of incapable dunce. it makes him feel small and he hates feeling small. he's smart, he's just not good at communicating it. no matter what he tries his words just come out wrong. "i'm lots smarter in my head" is what he'd probably say

- always has a fidget spinner/cube on him

- he kinda just vomits when he gets overwhelmed. like when he has to ride in a car he leans his head out the window like a dog the whole way, partly just cus he likes it and it's fun to play airplane with his hand in the wind but also cus he could spew his guts at any moment

- collects spider-man comics and cool rocks. also unironically looks up to spider-man cus he always gets back up despite all the shit he gets put through. he feels like he could learn from that. he thinks it makes him seem like a kid though which is something he really wants to prove that he's not so he keeps it to himself

- super gross oh my god he's so gross. like doesn't wash his body in the shower cus "the water will get it" picks his nose and eats it kind of gross. will also get all obnoxious and in your face about it if you rightfully tell him he's a sick fuck for that

- honestly that'd be his response every time someone criticizes him

- like you could be like "you fuckin reek" n he'd be like "oh yea?" and grapple you into a headlock with his armpit shoved in your face

- his speech pattern is a little funky. like his sentences just come out like they were sorta haphazardly put together. he doesn't make much sense a lot of the time

- i wanna say he's endearingly dorky but he's just fucking weird. like he probably flirts in a napoleon dynamite-esque fashion. he has a vague idea of what flirting is he just doesn't quite got it but hey he's got the spirit

- he really just has a vague idea of what conversation is in general. he just doesn't have that good of a grasp on how people talk to each other. he feels a major glaring disconnect between himself and every other human in the world and it just makes him feel even smaller

- a lost fucking puppy when it comes to talking to women. just completely and utterly helpless. he stutters a lot more he trips over his words a lot more which just makes him red it's brutal to watch

- my voiceclaim for him is whoever voices bumblebee before he loses his voice box in the michael bay transformers movies (just looked it up it's stiles fucking stilinski)

- his voice cracks all the time ESPECIALLY when he raises his voice. he gets red and embarrassed every time it does and he really badly tries to hide it which just makes it even funnier to everyone else poor guy

- wants so badly to be perceived as a big intimidating muscle man but he just isn't no matter how hard he tries

[valeriianz]

For the fic writer asks:

4. Obviously you did research for BitB. I'd love you to ramble about it if you like I'm sure you've got STORIES

5. Did you outline it?

7. How'd you decide it would be Hob's pov?

25-27 I'd love to know a/some favorite lines, details, and any lore you might want to share

omg TJ what wonderful questions! thank you!! this is going to get LONG!

4: Rambling about research!

do you wanna see a screen shot of my bookmarks under my "band au" folder?

man, and that's only what could fit on the screen.

there is... SO MUCH i chose to ignore for this fic. ideas that i had to drop, lines or extra details about the other band members equipment. more logistics, what Lucienne actually does, what Mervyn has to put up with as the new touring stage manager... i realized very early on that i couldn't possibly cram all this (super cool and eye opening) information into the fic and still keep reader's interest and, most importantly, to not stray away from the fact that this is a dreamling fic. whenever i felt myself getting carried away with a side character or job or even social media numbers, gossip, outside POVs, i had to reign myself in and get back on track. there will be time for exploring everything i missed in side stories after BitB is finished. i just hope i still have the energy to write it all.

once, i was so deep into research that after publishing chapter 2, i went into work and when my chef asked what "GA" meant on my prep list, i answered with full confidence, "general admission."

(it means "get ahead.")

the worst part of this entire writing process is im still learning new shit. i havent rewatched or read a lot of what i've saved because, to be very honest, i was feeling a little burnt out. it's why we're kinda full steam dreamling now. it's why ive been glossing over a lot of technical stuff and being vague about conversations amongst the crew/not including it at all. i don't prefer ignoring my research, but at the end of the day i want to still enjoy writing this fic and finish it. even if i can't be as descriptive and detailed and nuanced as i used to be.

5: Did you outline the fic?

(also asked by @hardly-an-escape!)

i wouldn't call what i have a proper "outline," it's more like a 20k word document filled to the brim with notes that i skim at least a dozen times while i'm writing a new chapter (being in my brain is literally hell). i live multichapter life very dangerously. i copy and paste lines or sections (always scattered, never together! augh!) that are meant to go together and plop them in a new document titled "band au ch.#" and then i structure the chapter around what i want to happen.

but to answer this question in the plainest of terms: yeah. i know exactly what's going to happen up until the very end. even if its all in my head and the only concrete shit that's written down are beats/plot points. i'll figure out the rest later!

7: How'd you decide it would be Hob's POV?

i actually never even considered writing it from Dream's POV. this was my first fic in the fandom (which is so nuts to think about lol) and writing in Dream's POV sounded so scary lol. i also just thought Hob's would be easier because i have worked a few backstage shows, back in my college years. i figured eh, i can make this work. and i loved exploring how weird and mysterious musicians can be, from a normie's POV. making Hob a fan first and having him worry about developing a parasocial relationship... it was fun to explore.

25: Share your favorite line

oh god, i have so many haha.

“What are you thinking about?” starting in ch.2 and onward lmao

“It’s–” Dream laughs quietly, bitterly. “I don’t like change.” He says each word with emphasis, eyes trailing down to fixate somewhere past Hob. “And I still hold onto the things I can control, like my instruments–” his eyes swing up to regard Hob apologetically. “Or my clothes or my–” he brings a hand up and wiggles his fingers around his head. “My hair.” ch.4

"His majesty is pleased." ch.5

“You are obsessive,” he states, slow and cool and with a quiet smile cracking through his composure. “Just like me.” ch.7

“You look good.” Hob has to lean in to say so, unwilling to raise his voice amongst the roar of the fans. ch.11

“Del looks like porcelain, but she’s actually made of steel.” Desire swirls the contents of their glass before pushing their shoulders back with a deep breath. “She's tougher than all of us.” ch.11

“Everything. I want…” his fingers tighten in Hob’s hair, pulling him closer, speaking against his lips. “…Everything.” ch.14

26: Share your favorite detail

how intentionally coy Dream behaves. i love keeping him a mystery and deciding when and how much to allow his intentions to peek through has been so fun lol.

Despair is in fact covered in tattoos and piercings! i say this because i feel like sometimes i forget lmao. (but also her and Hob don't interact much so. my bad haha).

Delirium's constant explosion of color in the way she dresses <3

Hob's dedication to his job, Dream, and the people he cares about the most. i don't care if people think i'm making him too soft and good, im gonna project on that man and make him a sweet, sweet simp lmao

and ah, this doesn't matter anymore, and i kinda regret doing it but. i originally had Dream's favorite bass all black but the pickguard was white. so it actually looked like Jessamy. not gonna lie when @designtheendless drew it all black i decided i liked it better that way. and truly i do. that's when i went back to ch.1 and changed it haha. to actually see the guitar with Dream, all done up sparkling black and purple flecks... gosh it's just so him. but then i got up to the reveal that the guitar's name was Jessamy and i was like, "oh, right." lmao. no one seems to care so i'll leave it be.

27: Share a piece of lore you made up for the story

i have a lot lmao. and this post is already so long... im hoping i can get to some if not all of it in side fics in the future. but for now, here's some that's more like headcanons but:

Dream hates flying. he can full on go into panic attacks on the plane if he allows himself to get into his own head.

this was mentioned briefly in ch.4, while Dream was discussing the formation of the band, but Despair was in another band before joining Endless. she is the only character in the fic who gets to keep her English roots (lol sorry) and is the oldest in the band (30).

all of the band members ages: Dream, Desire, and Death are all 28 and Delirium is 22.

Dream can experience subdrop after going too hard during a performance.

Dream paints his own nails, it's very therapeutic.

as an exercise, i explored my own headcanons for Dream in this verse in a word doc, and one thing i will share from it that you might find interesting: If I were to ever give Dream a theological values, I would describe him as a satanist. He is a physical and pragmatic person, nonconforming, and although he is introverted, he enjoys being a part of a community (he loves his band).

also found this in my notes: How Desire and Dream got along was Death making them fight it out. Hob raises an eyebrow “like in a brawl?” He couldn't imagine Desire throwing hands. “No, in a pillow fight that escalated in hair pulling and verbal taunts.”

fic writer asks

[laneydays]

ghost boy headcanons

______________

billy showalter

adults and old people LOVE him. take him to meet ur parents, do it

but also hes the type to act way different with ppl his age than adults

kind of a smart mouth.... but in a cool kind of annoying way

twirls his hair a lot LMAO

crosses his arms when he's upset mad sad or annoyed

loves coca cola and root beer

adores dogs, his dog is his best friend

extremely supportive of queer identities even if he isnt queer himself

love language is acts of service

just loves to be helpful

feels bad if people do stuff for him though

griffin stagg

autistic 

is lowkey a menace sometimes

but also a sweetheart

he likes weird unexpected shit for someone his age

incredibly smart but doesn't rlly know that

great at art

doesnt curse a whole bunch but when he does he curses like a sailor and he does it good

doesnt know how to match his clothes for the life of him

wears bandanas to pull his hair back, gets made fun of and called a girl for it

everyone just wants to kiss and hold him like a little kid, he doesn't understand it

doesn't like when people baby him

love language is gift giving, probably picks up random shit to give to you

"here have this rock" "i got a pretty flower for you" "i found a cola bottle cap"

you keep them all

vance hopper

adhd probably 

pinball hyperfixation need i say more

he's actually pretty chill when hes not angry. if u don't bother him he's real quiet

aromatic and asexual. no he wouldn't be a player

but also is open to meeting someone, whether its platonic or romantic (remember aroace people can still date)

tries to act tough but hes just a big nerd tbh

smoked a cig once. never again, hated it

gets very mad at people when they make fun of his choker, he gets embarrassed 

acts homophobic but he really doesnt care

would probably beat someone up if they made fun of a queer kid

that doesnt stop him from saying "thats gay" as a (joking) insult however

doesn't really have a specific love language, just anything to show you care he appreciates it quietly

not big on physical touch but he doesn't mind it 

collects vinyls

wears a looot of denim

finney blake

also autistic

space special interest

kind of good at drawing

literally wouldn't hurt a fly

his jokes are so unfunny that its funny

sounds like an angel when he laughs and looks like one when he smiles

and its hard to get a smile out of him

carries that little spaceship with him everywhere, freaks out if he can't find it

cant think of anything else for him

doesn't have a specific love language either, just anything to show that u care

bruce yamada

bro is not as good in school as everyone thinks he is

but tries very hard and does his best

really loves history

i feel like this is obvious but he collects baseball cards

flexes them on you every time you come to his house and it gets a little annoying 

is the nice guy of the friend group

probably the corniest person ever

is pretty funny but when he tries to be funny it doesn't work

love language is quality time definitely

also physical touch, just the little things though like touching shoulders or brushing fingers

robin arellano

wears his bandana literally every day and it smells so bad

says its to keep the hair out of his face

bro is gorgeous without it

his wardrobe is 70% sleeveless shirts

a huge showoff and a sucker for praise

laughs at potty jokes every single time

his humor is fake flirting

very protective but he isn't scary at all

fucks up the school lunch like its his last meal

probably complains about it though

can talk to literally anyone and everyone, its really nice

he's.... not great in school but he tries to be nice to the teachers

passes notes in class 24/7 and he gets in trouble so much for it

canon movie fanatic, loves watching them even if they suck

______________

[lowkeyrobin]

Mid90s gang reacting to reader writing a book about them and their friendship and reader wins a writing contest!!

- ♣️ (I'm giving you fluff okay I've decided I've tortured you enough with angst 🙄)

LMFAO YES YOU HAVE and I've been procrastinating those oneshots you sent me 💀💀

MID90S ; writer

includes ; fuckshit, ray, fourthgrade, ruben (platonic), & stevie (platonic)

warnings ; language, mentions of alcohol and drugs

masterlist

FUCKSHIT

you were no writer what-so-fucking-ever

while high, he dared you to enter some writing contest for school

"how funny would it be if some random junior won?"

honestly it would be funny, considering you're not a writer, you're a skater

you entered just for the fun of it, plus you had a great chance at beating some of the other contestants because you knew their writing was shit

you didn't even know what to write for the first two weeks

then it popped up in your head, like holy shit it was so obvious

you decided to write about yours and fuckshits long friendship history

from how you met, to your nicknames and to your other friends

let's just say, other than the profanity, the judges/senior english teachers loved it

you wrote like a whole motherfucking novel too

you got second place, considering they'd be in trouble for awarding a book with so much inappropriate content with first

plus the person who won first definitely deserved it

teachers were literally suggesting you publish the fuckin thing too like calm down ⁉️⁉️

fuckshit was too lazy to read it at first, but once you told him it was about you two and that you won second place? nah reading that was all he did

I honestly hc that he's a little dyslexic so he was struggling a little bit

but he loved it, it was genuinely moving to him and its literally about him

brought him to tears that he tried to hide

which he did to help his fragile ego by hugging you and hiding his face in your shoulder

genuinley so grateful for you

RAY

you were kinda iffy with writing

but once you saw the amount of money you could get from winning...?

shit sign me up

a thousand dollars to win first off of something you wrote? okay let's go LMAO

you didn't know what to write about because it's not like there was a given prompt so you just kinda spilled out stories and shit about you and ray

you made sure to leave out all the drugs and shit because you weren't gonna try and get in trouble LMAO honestly real

the judges loved it though

it was about 104 pages, so you made the actual like minimum, which was 80 pages

but thankfully for you, quantity doesn't equal quality

you actually got third surprisingly

that's still 400 dollars though

you didn't actually tell Ray or the others about you joining that contest so when you walked in with 400 dollars, a smile on your face and your skateboard and 52 sheets of notebook paper connected by a keyring under your arm, damn

you quickly explained and set your stuff down and Ray just scooped you up and spun you around while he hugged you

he's a simpleton but you got him giggling and shit okay??

genuinley so flustered that you wrote about you and him of all people like huh

he reads it front to back at least 3 times

FOURTHGRADE

you were pretty passionate about writing

so when your school was promoting a novel contest you knew you had to join

a thousand dollars would've done you a lot

you spent the next six months writing about you and fourthgrade, stories, how you met, favorite memories, random blurbs, etcetera

you told him about it but never that you were writing about him

you wanted it to be a surprise lmao

i also hc that he's a little dyslexic so 💀

you actually won too

apparently it was so "inspiring and moving amongst the youths" that you won ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS for it, IN CASH

you sprinted over to Motorz and immediately wrapped fourthgrade in a hug

"thanks for being such great inspiration"

"huh?"

you genuinley just retold some of his camcorder tapes for a bit of the book too so you had to give him some credit

you gave him 200 dollars because he refused to take any more

the duo

RUBEN

bro couldn't care less that you joined a writing competition

"whatever you want"

you have the annoying sibling dynamic what can I say

"dude I'll give you 100 bucks if you just be supportive"

"fine"

you wrote about him and your awesome sibling relationship

you made sure to cut out all the abuse and just say "growing up in a rough household" and "growing up not as privileged as everyone else" and shit bc you weren't getting cps called on anyone

you wrote like 70 pages

you got third

but you got 200 dollars so you basically split it with him

he ended up reading it because he was bored at motorz one night and you left it laying around

he's never smiled while crying before

you come in the next morning and he just silently hugs you

you see the book thing on the couch where he slept and you just kinda knew

"why are you crying?"

"i'm not!"

STEVIE

you also have a very sibling like dynamic

although instead of annoying each other you're kind of the comfort siblings you've both never had

so when you brought up the fact you joined a writing competition because you had a good chance at winning, he was like "oh cool"

"i'm writing about you"

"what the fuck why?"

he's supportive tho

he'll ask how it's going and stuff and you'll just give a vague answer

by the time they're due and judged, he asks what you placed

you shrug and pull out a thousand dollars cash from your backpack with a smile

"holy shit!"

you smile and hand him half of it

he's confused as to why but accepts it graciously

I mean half of its about him so he deserves some credit

gives you a little hug and shit