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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 1 year ago

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

PART 1 ★ PART 2

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

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

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

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

***

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

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

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

Seems like the sort of place for him.

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

Or somethin’ along those lines.

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sigh. I ask him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

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

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

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

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

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

Asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I reply.

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

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

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

He tilts his head away in dismissal.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

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

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

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

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

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

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

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

I want – my breath trembles with it.

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

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

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

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he contradicts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can feel you against my leg.”

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

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

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

Give me strength. Give me strength.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

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

I can feel him swallow.

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

“Kiss me again, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

A switch in his brain must flick on.

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

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

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt.

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

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

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

He kisses the hollow of my neck.

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

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

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

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

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.

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

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

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

How unlike him.

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

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

I sigh, try not to squirm.

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

I nod. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me.

My cunt flexes.

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

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

“Said lie back, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

“Can—?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“Lie back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” I reply.

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

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

#true detective #rust cohle #marty hart #rust cohle x reader #rust cohle x reader smut #okay cool this is a bit niche hope you liked it #this show made me question my life's purpose #the first season at least #thanks matthew mcconaughey #anybody else here like Fiona apple or what #the idler wheel TD

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threeacttragedy · 3 months ago

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Entry 1 - The One About That Weird Ass Cressida Post

This is my first blog entry and, before you start reading, let me just drop in this little disclaimer:

You will find that I bounce between fact and speculation with a mix of sarcasm and [I hope] level-headedness, common sense, and deductive reasoning.

I am a Lukola. Plain and simple. You will not change my mind. It’s an all or nothing thing for me. How I got here, I’m not exactly sure – wait, no I do know how I got here (thank you Nicola and Luke for being so fucking charming).

Of course, I knew what Bridgerton was before I joined the Lukola fandom. In fact, I watched both Seasons 1 and 2, and they were okay. Yes, just okay.

I knew that Season 3 was about Penelope – the only character I found remotely interesting – so when I saw an article on People’s page showing Nicola and her costar holdings hands, I admit I was intrigued.

Were they dating?

Let’s ask Mr. Google and find out.

No, apparently, they were not.

Okay, fine.

I then made the mistake of clicking on a video of Nicola and Luke being interviewed in Australia. And, motherfuck, they were like lightning in a bottle! Luke – being asked if he believed in friends to lovers – responded in a way that left me feeling a bit blindsided. My immediate thought was: “He fell in love with Nicola the moment he met her.” It’s funny how many people I’ve spoken to since who had an identical reaction and, to be honest, Luke’s response won’t make your heart flutter. But, it was something in the way he said it.

Now, let me explain my feelings about love at first sight. Actually, Nicola explained it best when she said lust at first sight is often mistaken for love at first sight. This, I agree with wholeheartedly. To me, love at first sight does not have to be lusty. It can be, sure, but it can also be something entirely different. Maybe it’s a fleeting feeling of recognizing someone in a way you cannot possibly articulate out loud. Maybe it’s a palpitation of your heartbeat. Maybe it feels like home. Regardless, when you experience it, you’ll know it.

That, my friends, is how I got here, and why I [sometimes begrudgingly] stay here – walking alongside this rather long, winding, and often pothole-filled road waiting for two people to admit to the general public – whether it be in a blatant or subtle manner – that they are, in fact, together.

I’ve noticed in this fandom we seem to have three types of people. We have the Sincerely Ignorant, the Conscientiously Stupid, and the Fact Finders.

The Sincerely Ignorant are those that are easily persuaded. They are like sheep following their shepherd. In fact, the Sincerely Ignorant are the most dangerous as they tend to spiral hard and fast – and often without reason.

Next, we have the Conscientiously Stupid. These are the shippers that choose to live in error because it fits their narrative. We are all a bit Conscientiously Stupid but there are those that push an idea so hard that they omit certain truths from their storyboard. The danger here is obvious and their victims always include the Sincerely Ignorant.

Lastly, we have the Fact Finders. The people who track information – key players, side characters, dates, places, statements, etc. These are the people who often find themselves pulling the Sincerely Ignorant out of the water when they spiral, usually due to narratives being pushed by the Conscientiously Stupid.

I am a Fact Finder. Am I perfect? Fuck no, but I do find it fun to collect and analyze information and share it with my fellow Fact Finders. Plus, collecting data helps me maintain some indifference towards the USS Lukola because, let’s face it, this god-damned ship has been blasted by quite a few cannonballs at this point. Some days, I’m surprised we’re still afloat.

Let’s start with Cannonball No. 1. Pap-fucking-smear. June 12/13, 2024. What a fucking shit show. Who shows up to the London premiere? Antonia, Luke’s – I honestly don’t even know what word to use here because I have a lot of different thoughts but out of [a small amount of] respect I will call her – “girl friend” [yes, that space was intentional]. We all know the story, Luke was papped outside his hotel with Antonia on premiere night and he was pegged an overnight dumpster fire.

And, oh my God, the Sincerely Ignorant and Conscientiously Stupid ran with it. I mean, they practically became wild dogs chasing down a fox under the command of Nicola the Huntsman. However, Nicola, almost immediately, came to Luke’s rescue by posting an “in support of” style story to her IG. I’m not saying Nicola wasn’t affected by this mishap. At the very least, the post-premiere PR efforts were dumped squarely on her tiny shoulders. At the worst, she’d had her heart broken.

I never liked the Papsmear pictures. Not because I disliked what they depicted but because there was something “off” about them. Luke didn’t look like a man happy to be out with his lady friend. He looked like a man who had been hoodwinked and whether that was because he knew he’d just made a major PR misstep or because he knew the narrative that would follow was false doesn’t really matter because it’s all speculative. But, what makes me believe it was the latter is what Luke did next.

On June 15, Luke put a story on his IG promoting Season 3. That isn’t all that interesting but the scene it depicted made me do a double take.

Could it be?

No…no way…

But…it was.

It was the scene in Ep. 6 where Cressida entered the Mondrich Ball and Colin pulled Penelope aside and told her he wouldn’t let Cressida ruin their evening.

What in the hot fuck? I mean, really, what in the hot fuck??

Did Luke really just blast out an IG story where his character tells Nicola’s character not to let the Cressida character ruin their evening? Was Cressida…Antonia?

Because that’s fucking loud.

I mean, of all the scenes over four episodes, Luke chose THAT one to promote Pt. 2?

Surely, Antonia or one of her friends or family members would have picked up on this, right? And, told Antonia.

No one is going to convince me that Luke and Antonia were in a blissful relationship after that IG story was posted. Why? Because the deductive reasoning part of my brain tells me Luke chose Nicola straight outta Pap-gate.

The Conscientiously Stupid may [rather they WILL] argue that it was just for PR. Okay, but that would mean Antonia accepted the comparison between Cressida, the Evening-Ruiner, and herself. Take a moment and put yourself in Antonia’s shoes. Would you accept this from your partner? (P.S. If you said yes, you have bigger problems in life than following real people’s relationships.) We know Antonia accepted this role to some extent because we have evidence she attended events with Luke over the summer. So, what the fuck?

In my opinion, Luke’s IG story is a defining moment in the Lukola narrative, but one that was overlooked in June and one that continues to be overlooked – and ignored – now.

Luke’s character is telling Nicola’s character he won’t let another woman ruin their evening.

Let me repeat that again for you: Luke’s character is telling Nicola’s character he won’t let another woman ruin their evening.

Now wrap your head around that.

#lukola #nicola coughlan #luke newton #my opinion #my thoughts #sincerely ignorant #conscientiously stupid #fact finder #speculation only

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meazalykov · 4 months ago

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scenes of envy

sydney lohmann x actress!reader

summary: seeing you so affectionate with someone else doesn't sit right with sydney, even if it really wasn't you.

you’re sitting on the hotel bed in new york, flipping through your script for the latest press interviews when your phone buzzes with a message from sydney.

you smile and open it, expecting her usual sweet texts about how she misses you. but instead, it’s short:

just watched the new episode with laura. great job, babe.

the words seem normal enough, but you can feel something underneath them, something unsaid. you can almost picture her sitting there, awkwardly watching that make-out scene between your character, dina, and your costar‘s character, ellie.

you can guess how she might have shifted uncomfortably, maybe biting her lip while laura sat beside her, completely engrossed in the show.

you quickly type back,

thanks, liebe! only two weeks until i’m back in munich ❤️ i miss you.

as the night goes on and you think back to her message, the subtle weirdness of it lingers. sydney knows what your job entails. she knew it before the two of you even got serious, that being with an actress meant dealing with things like this—intimate scenes that are just part of the job.

still, there’s that lingering feeling of jealousy in her text, and you know it’s probably bothering her more than she lets on.

when you finally get back to munich, sydney is waiting at the airport with her usual bright smile, but you can tell something’s on her mind.

she pulls you into a tight hug, holding on a little longer than usual, as if grounding herself in your presence after weeks apart.

later, the two of you are sitting in your shared apartment, catching up over a quiet dinner when sydney glances at you, her eyes dancing with something playful but still a little vulnerable.

“so… dina and ellie, huh?” she says with a teasing smirk, but the edge in her voice makes you pause.

“you’re really good at pretending to make out with someone.”

you laugh, rolling your eyes as you set down your fork.

“pretending, babe. it’s all just pretend. you know that.”

she leans back in her chair, the smirk fading as she looks down at her plate.

“i know. i do. i mean, i signed up for this when i started dating an actress,” she says, her voice a little softer now.

“but it’s still weird seeing you with someone else like that, even if it’s just acting.”

you stand up, walking over to her and taking her hand. she looks up at you with that slight hint of jealousy in her eyes.

“syd, it’s not real,” you say, your thumb brushing over her knuckles.

“i don’t even talk to her outside of work, except for scenes with the show. you’re the only one i care about. you know that.”

she squeezes your hand, but you can tell the reassurance helps only a little. jealousy isn’t always rational, but you’ve been away for a while, and you get it.

“yeah, i know,” she says with a small smile. “it’s just…laura was so into it, and i was sitting there like, ‘y/n’s kissing someone else on my tv right now.’ it’s weird, okay?”

you laugh softly and lean down, kissing her cheek.

“you’re cute when you’re jealous, you know that?”

“i’m not jealous,” she mutters, but the blush creeping up her cheeks says otherwise.

you grin, wrapping your arms around her from behind, resting your chin on her shoulder. “i love you, sydney. you, not my costar, not anyone else. just you.”

"besides, 90% of the time we aren't really doing anything. there are choreographers that teach us how to film intimate scenes without actually being intimate at all."

finally, she turns her head, giving you a proper smile, and you know she believes you. it’s not easy being apart for so long, and you know the show adds some complications.

at the end of the day, it’s always been the two of you, and that’s never going to change.

masterlist

#sydney lohmann #sydney lohmann x reader #woso x reader #woso community #woso #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso imagines #woso appreciation #woso soccer #laura freigang

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earlysunshines · 1 month ago

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secret rhymes — 29. sweet dreams (half-written)

your roommate yujin is back home during winter break, so when you return to your shared dorm it's just you and silence. a soft sigh leaves your lips as you set your things down before heading to the bathroom to unwind and change into something comfier.

before you do so, you make sure to send a text to hanni, keeping a mental note to check your notifications after.

(as if you don't already wait eagerly for her texts.)

when you're done, you're met with a lovely notification from hanni that says 'i can call when you can :)' and smile at the screen.

almost without thinking, you quickly check how you look in the mirror. your hair is still a little damp, which stains the gray t-shirt you have on just a bit. you run a hand through your hair before sitting on your bed comfortably. you press the 'facetime' icon, though not without hesitating a bit.

the ringtone echoes through your room as you lean back against your bedframe, with your blanket covering you perfectly. you decide to grab the guitar sitting beside your bed while you wait, setting it beside you on the mattress. you did have some ideas for a song earlier.

you glance at the screen, waiting for hanni to pick up. the anticipation makes you all giddy.

when the call finally connects, the first thing you see is her forehead filling up half of the screen.

you chuckle. "...hello?"

"oh, hang on," she mutters, adjusting the camera until her whole face comes into view. she's in a t-shirt as well, her hair slightly tousled before, and she offers a sheepish grin. "hi."

"hey," you reply, smiling at the screen. "nice view of your forehead earlier, by the way."

she rolls her eyes but smiles anyway, settling into her bed. "i was getting comfortable, okay? not everyone can be ready for a close-up 24/7."

"you're an idol, though," you tease, setting your phone down and grabbing your guitar. "isn't that like, in the job description?"

"funny." she says flatly, though there's a hint of amusement in her tone.

she watches you strum lazily, only the neck of your guitar, your fingers, and your face in view as the sound fills the call. you pluck at the strings idly, creating random chords and humming softly to a tune that you made up earlier in the day.

the conversation drifts easily—catching up about your week, her recounting an interview she did earlier in the day, and how they recorded a 'jeans zine.'

"it's always a bit hectic," she admits, tucking her knees up to her chest. "but fun. i think this one's going to be really cute, it's a special for new years."

"i'll make sure to watch it. i watched your christmas one not too long ago, very cute." you say absentmindedly, still experimenting with a melody. "and your interview?"

"oh, the usual. promotions with 'ditto' and 'omg,' inspirations, what we've been up to. sometimes it's weird to me, like, talking about my life like it's newsworthy."

"it is," you tease lightly. "you're an idol, remember? and just you as a person, you're really interesting."

"right," she laughs softly. "anyway, how was your week?"

"ah, i just spent most of it with a friend from home. but it's been hectic too." you reply, "with yunjin's song out, me being on the credits, and her like—soft launching me? i've gotten a lot of attention and more support. it's really cool, but there's so much going on, especially on twitter, tiktok, and instagram."

"that's funny. i'm glad you're getting recognition, you deserve it."

"aw, thank you hanni."

there's a lull, but it's comfortable. hanni watches you as you hum a tune under your breath, occasionally pausing to scribble something in a notebook beside you.

"do you always multitask like this?" she asks, resting her cheek on her knee.

"too often," you admit, glancing at her through the screen. "am i boring you? maybe you should sleep, i don't want to keep you up like this."

"no, no. it's fine, i don't mind at all." she says quickly, almost too quickly, and you swear you catch the faintest blush creeping up her cheeks. it could also be the light, though. "it's... relaxing, actually. i really like this."

you don't respond, instead, you opt for a simple grin. you keep playing, trying to focus on the chords and not the way her gaze lingers on you.

"hey... y/n?" hanni says after a while, earning your attention.

"yeah?"

"we're still on for wednesday, right?"

"of course."

"right, just making sure." hanni mutters, shifting herself so she can lay down on the bed comfortably. there's a small, content grin resting on her lips.

conversation slows, her responses become softer, and you've found a little scrap of a song throughout the call. there's a stretch of silence when you run the song back, humming a melody and singing whatever lyrics come to your mind.

you glance back at your phone minutes later to see that hanni's out. her eyes are closed and her head rests against her arm.

"hanni?" you whisper, but there's no response. she's asleep, her soft breaths barely heard through the phone. you try again once more, whispering another, "hanni?" but she doesn't stir.

you smile to yourself. "goodnight hanni," you say softly, letting her sleep as you continue to strum quietly, filling the silence with your voice.

it's odd, you think. you've known hanni for a short amount of time, yet even after a few hours during the late hours at night and a few texts—something about your friendship seems right.

hanni being an addition to your life seems perfect.

—

masterlist ; previous - next

taglist ! @namojoon @ly-gushka @layonaiguess @sonotcopingatall @artrizzler19 @yerimbrit @sixflame438 @nwjnsloona @saysirhc @nimnia @somedaydream @trovao-penguins @modanisgf @c-yerim @starstruckgoateepuppy @tzuyusdoughnut @kaypanaq @peranoo @haerinkisser @electronicluminarycoffee @yoohtonyy @secretcessy @keiji-jin @awkwardtoafault @syronns @linnnsworld @inybits @ynwrites

#kpop x reader #hanni x reader #hanni pham x reader #newjeans x reader #newjeans smau

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wordingg · 4 months ago

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Proud Parents

Dead Boy Ween Day 5, prompt: family

Summary: Crystal is insistent that she doesn't need the dead boys to attend her graduation ceremony. But, Charles and Edwin would never let Crystal go alone.

AN: I got like halfway through this one and realized that schools in the UK probably don't have graduation ceremonies the same way American schools. They might not even have graduation ceremonies at all. BUT I HAVEN'T MISSED A DAY YET AND IM NOT GONNA START NOW SO YOU'RE JUST GONNA HAVE TO SUSPEND YOUR DISBELIEF. okay thanks.

“You guys can’t come to my graduation, okay?” Crystal said firmly.

It was a little hard to take her seriously when she was standing in a veritable ocean of clothes and shaking what looked like a very fancy sunhat at them, but her expression was very serious.

“My parents are going to be there and I don’t want any weird ghost shit going on, okay?” Crystal added. She threw them an exasperated look when both boys just stared at her with folded arms.

“They said they’re going to be there?” Charles asked with a raised eyebrow.

“They gave a very firm maybe, which is practically a yes for them,” Crystal snapped back.

Charles frowned at that, but Edwin spoke over whatever he was planning to say.

“Of course, if you don’t want us to attend your graduation ceremony, we will respect your wishes,” Edwin said benevolently.

“Thank you, Edwin,” Crystal said, with a pointed look at Charles.

“You’re quite welcome, Crystal,” Edwin said with a polite nod.

Crystal disappeared back into her walk in closet to continue to dig for something good enough to wear under her graduation gown. Charles turned to Edwin with a confused frown.

“There’s no way her parents are going to show up for graduation, is there?” he asked sincerely.

“Not a chance,” Edwin said, still watching the closet door. “I checked their calendar and they’ve already booked two interviews and something called an ‘experimental banjo sesh’ for the same time as the ceremony.”

“God, what arseholes,” Charles muttered. “Crystal deserves better.”

“Of course she does,” Edwin said with an arched brow. “That is why we will be better for her.”

Charles’ mouth stretched into a manic grin and Edwin’s own mouth twitched at the edges with infectious glee.

---

The day of her graduation, Crystal was sweating with nerves. She had opted to finish her degree online when her attempts to make up with many of the people in her class that she had wronged had gone badly, to say the least. It was the first time in months that she was in the same room with them. It was a big gymnasium, but it was hard not to notice all the venomous looks pointed her way from almost every corner.

Crystal wiped her palms on the fabric of her gown, but the artificial fabric did nothing to wick the moisture away from her skin. She wanted to touch her cap to make sure it was sitting straight, but was worried about knocking her elaborate hairstyle down. She had gotten up early to arrange her curls into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. It had been a bigger challenge than she expected and as a result her hair was mostly held together by two dozen bobby pins and sheer determination.

Crystal’s parents had already been gone by the time she was ready to leave for the ceremony, but she tried not to let that get her down. She had just talked to them the night before and they had confirmed their definite maybe for her graduation. She just had to have faith. They probably were picking up flowers or a cake or something. They knew Crystal was very self sufficient and could call her own cab to take her to the school.

Finally it was time to line up and walk out onto the field. Luckily, Crystal ended up in line between two boys that she didn’t recognize and who didn’t seem all that interested in her. They walked out of the gymnasium and into the bright spring day outside. Crystal was briefly blinded, but as soon as her eyes cleared she looked out into the crowd for her parents.

The field outside the gym was absolutely packed with people. There were rows and rows of folding chairs set up for the students graduating. The line steadily filled the rows in, directed by teachers in suits and skirts. Around the folding chairs were metal bleachers packed with adults and other kids alike, everyone snapping photos and waving and shouting things as the students filing into the chairs occasionally picked someone out of the crowd and waved back.

She didn’t see her parents as she walked out, but it was a madhouse. Probably they were there and she just didn’t see them. That was fine. Crystal turned around during a speech started to try and look again and got hissed at by one of the teachers, so she turned back around and pretended to pay attention.

The speeches washed over her like so much noise. She couldn’t have recalled anything that was said even if her life depended on it. Her mind was on the crowd at her back and her parents, the anxiety of not knowing crawling up her throat and threatening to choke her.

Then, finally, they started calling names and it was time to walk across the stage and claim her diploma. The school had considered ‘Von Hoverkraft’ to be her last name, so she had to wait until almost every other kid had gone before she could stand up and walk across the small pop up stage to shake the hand of a sweaty middle aged man she didn’t recognize and take her diploma.

As she did so, a camera flashed from the crowd, loud and bright and briefly blinding her. Crystal felt tears pricking her eyes and it wasn’t just from the bright flash. Someone was taking her picture and she couldn’t help but hope it was her dad, memorializing her finally finishing high school, finally becoming an adult.

Her smile turning sincere for the first time that day, Crystal walked to the other side of the stage and back to her seat feeling breathless. They were here somewhere in the crowd. They had come. They had shown up for her.

A few more kids went up to get their diploma and there was one last short speech. Everyone was itching for the ceremony to be over, so the speech didn’t last for very long. Soon, the ceremony was over and the two crowds (students and families) rushed toward each other, students merging into the bleachers while parents and siblings ran into the lines of folding chairs.

Crystal stood up, but then she froze. She was short in her sensible flats and couldn’t see over the heads of the crowd to find her parents. She started to move toward the bleachers, but it was a wild press of people and she felt a surge of panic that she wouldn’t be able to find them in time, that the crowds would deter them and her parents would leave without her seeing them.

Halfway to the bleachers, Crystal felt a man’s hand on her upper arm, pulling her to a stop. Crystal whipped around, not sure if she should be ecstatic or vicious, and looked into a familiar face. Familiar, but not the one she was hoping for.

An older man, maybe in his fifties, with red hair almost completely turned white and distinguished rimless glasses was smiling down at her. It was Charles in his living person disguise.

“Crystal, this way!” he said over the low roar of the crowd, guiding her away from the bleachers and through them toward the parking lot.

Briefly, Crystal felt irritated. She had told them not to come. But, she couldn’t hold onto her frustration for very long. She was scared and upset and hopeful by equal measures and Charles’ presence was a comforting. She eventually shook his hand off her arm so that she could instead grab his hand in hers and he smiled down at her again.

Charles led her out of the crowd and around to the back of the metal bleachers, where Crystal saw a woman in big acrylic frames wearing a little maroon beret over blonde hair peppered with white. Edwin.

“I told you guys I didn’t want you here,” Crystal muttered. “I have to get back. My parents might leave if they can’t find me.”

Charles and Edwin exchanged a speaking look and Crystal’s stomach dropped.

“We weren’t going to come,” Charles started to say. Crystal realized suddenly that he was wearing a big old fashioned camera around his neck by a strap. She swallowed around a lump in her throat.

“But, we also weren’t about to leave you here alone if they didn’t come,” Edwin said quickly.

Crystal felt her eyes filling with tears and firmly told herself not to blink. If she blinked, they would fall and if they started to fall, they might never stop.

She looked at Edwin. Edwin would tell her the truth, even if it hurt. She could trust him to do that for her.

“I’m sorry, Crystal,” he said quietly. “I followed them all morning. We only came once we were sure they were not going to make it to your graduation ceremony.”

It didn’t matter that Crystal hadn’t blinked, the tears began to fall anyway. She dashed them away viciously but they just kept falling.

“God, you must think I’m so naive,” she laughed. “You must have wanted so bad to tell me how stupid I was being. So, go ahead. Say it,” she glared at Edwin, but he only stared evenly back. “Say I was stupid for believing in them! You would be right!” she cried.

“Crystal Palace, you are the farthest thing from stupid,” Edwin said, like it was the most factual thing in the world.

“You’re a good daughter,” Charles said gently, “and you love your parents. That’s not a fault, Crystal. It’s admirable that you keep trying.”

The tears were coming faster now and Crystal gave up on trying to preserve her mascara and eyeliner and instead rubbed at her eyes, probably smearing black makeup everywhere.

“Eds! The flowers!” Charles whispered while Crystal tried desperately to get her tears under control.

She heard rustling and then when she opened her eyes it was to a huge bouquet of lilies, big pink ones with little brown spots exploding out from yellow centers, filled in all around with delicate baby’s breath.

“You got me flowers?” Crystal wobbled, fresh tears threatening to fall.

“And a balloon, but I sort of forgot those things float and it got away from me,” Charles said with a hangdog expression.

Edwin sighed at the mention of the balloon, but shook it off quickly. He stepped in to run his thumbs delicately under Crystal’s eyes, clearing away the smudged makeup along with a few stray tears.

“And, we will be taking you to that awful raw fish buffet that you like,” Edwin said as he cleaned up her makeup here and there.

“It’s called sushi, I know you know that. And, I don’t think they’ll let you come in if you aren’t going to eat anything,” Crystal sniffed.

“I dare say you will eat enough raw fish for the rest of us,” Edwin said, dry as the Sahara desert.

“And, we’ll tell everyone within hearing distance how proud we are of our amazing daughter who just graduated from high school!” Charles added with a grin.

“Yes, she’s quite amazing,” Edwin said, stepping back and judging Crystal’s makeup good enough so long as she didn’t start crying again. “Neither of us ever finished high school. She’s the first in our family to do so.”

“We’re proud parents, we are,” Charles said, elbowing Edwin with a grin that earned him an eye roll and a reluctant smile.

“You guys…” Crystal trailed off, sniffing. She clutched the flowers closer to her chest, the paper crinkling against her graduation gown. Golden pollen smeared against the cheap polyester and stuck to it, but she couldn’t possibly bring herself to care at the moment.

“Please, Crystal, no more tears. I just fixed your mascara,” Edwin complained, stepping in again to fan at her face with his hands like maybe he could dry the tears before they fell.

Crystal hiccuped around a sound that might have been a sob or a laugh, even she wasn’t sure. She threw her arms around both of their necks, drawing Charles and Edwin into a group hug. The bracketed her sides and the flowers crinkled against their backs. She felt their arms settle around her waist, their heads tilted against her own.

“Thanks, you guys,” she said thickly.

“Of course, Crystal,” Edwin whispered back.

“Anytime,” Charles agreed.

#dead boy detectives #dbda #fanfiction #prompt fic #dead boy ween #deadboyween #graduation #crystal palace #friendship #found family #tw: neglect #sorry crystal youve been adopted #its official now #wordinggwrites

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f1fantasys · 8 months ago

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The Best

Summary - Ex's who find their way back to each other after a tough few races for Lando.

Warnings - 18+ minors DNI, swearing, fingering, fucking :) - you know the rest.

You'd dated Lando for 2 years until you broke up about 7 months ago. The pressures of your modelling jobs and his F1 career slowly slid their way into your relationship until it became too much for the both you. You didn't break up because you stopped loving each other, but rather quite the opposite. You loved each other so much but at the same time you were both straining your relationship. Missed texts, missed calls, missed dates. There was just never time to be simple girlfriend and boyfriend. Being away from each other for too long, only to be sitting in the same room doing your own thing and hardly talking to each other, too busy concentrating on what had to be done for work. Eventually though, you decided together that it was the best for both mental and physical reasons. You never told anyone, but the breakup was the hardest thing you had gone through. You loved Lando so much and to suddenly stop having him in your life was awful. There were countless nights after where you would stare at his contact, almost calling him and telling him you needed him back, but you had to hold your ground. Especially since he seemed to have moved on from you pretty quickly - which only made it hurt more. Weeks after you breakup he was constantly spotted with a new girl on his arm every time he went out. You really tried hard not to look at your socials but at the same time you couldn't keep your eyes away.

Both living in Monaco, there were a handful of times you had seen Lando around. It was actually always an almost awkward encounter, even though you didn't end of bad terms. You'd just say a quick ''hi, how are you'' before moving on.

It was until he was seen with the same girl, multiple times. Regularly going out, holding hands, kissing, all captured by the paps. Your heart broke at how quickly he found someone, yet here you were, still trying to find yourself after the breakup. A lot of people on twitter were convinced that this new 'relationship' of his was just a PR stint - that they weren't actually dating. This gave you a sliver of hope.

Max and Ria, whom you were extremely close with, hardly talked about Lando in front of you, however they did let slip that Lando never talked about his new flame to them, so they knew as little as you did. Recently though, maybe the last 2/3 weeks, there was not one new picture of them, no news. Nothing. And you weren't complaining.

The Monaco GP had just finished. You'd watched it from your balcony with all your best friends from the UK, Max and Ria included. Lando has had a pretty frustrating last few races. He was had placed P2 3 times now, so close to the front, just not getting the edge to overtake Max. You could tell from his body language after the races how much he was beating himself up. He was always too hard on himself. You wished he would see just how talented and loved he is by all his fans. Yet again in Monaco, he was P2. 0.7 seconds behind Max. This time though it broke your heart to see how sad he was, how angry he was to not cross the line at P1. About two hours after the post race interviews and everything had concluded, you got a missed call from Adam, Lando's dad.

It wasn't a surprise as you still kept in touch with Lando's family but you did think it was weird for his dad to call you after a race like this. Wearily, you answered.

''Hello?

''Hey Y/N, how are you?'' he asked.

''All good Adam, how are you guys? Is everything ok?''

''Yeah we're all good. Maybe Lando not so much.. you know with the race and all. I actually called to see if you would be okay to come over and be with him. He's really been beating himself down the last few races and you were always the one who could calm him down. He's actually been talking a lot about you recently and I thought maybe it would be good for you to see him.'' he said.

You stayed silent for a few seconds. Of course you wanted to be there for Lando but you weren't sure if you were willing to let your heart break again when you left him.

''I-I..'' you started but Adam cut you off.

''I know it's a lot what I'm asked for. But I know you didn't end on bad terms. I think he just really needs you right now.''

''Okay, I'll come over.'' you said, still second guessing yourself.

''Thank you so much, Y/N, really.''

You told your friends you needed to be somewhere, luckily no one asked many questions, Either too drunk or tired to care. You changed into some shorts and a hoodie, looking at yourself in the mirror. You were going to see him after a while, and you wanted to look decent at least. So you fixed your hair and applied a little powder to yourself, not that Lando would even notice to be honest.

The drive to his house had your mind spiraling. What would you say to him. What would he say to you being there? Maybe he wouldn't even want you there. 'Shit' you thought to yourself as your parked in front of his penthouse.

You took a few breaths to calm yourself down before walking up his front door and knocking. Cisca, Lando's mum opened the door.

''Y/N, it's so good to see you'' she said, pulling you into a hug.

''You too Cisca'' you told her before Adam joined you and started talking.

''Thank you so much for coming, it sure means a lot to us and I'm sure it will mean a hell of a lot to our boy. He's in his room.'' he told you.

Once again, collecting your emotions, you walked to Lando's room. The door was closed so you took a deep breath and gentle knocked. You could hear him shuffling around, so when he didn't open the door or say anything you told him it was you.

''Lando, its Y/N. Can I come in?'' you asked.

The noise on the other side stopped. Within the next few seconds the door flew open.

There he stood. Eyes red and puffy, staring into your soul, mouth quivering and nose sniffling. But at the same time, beautiful as you remember. Curls brown and messy, eyes bright and blue. You both literally stopped breathing for a moment. Just taking the moment to take each other in. You didn't look any better to be honest. Sleepless nights thinking about him, eye bags formed under your eyes.

He broke the silence.

''Y/N'' he whispered.

You couldn't make out if he was relieved or happy to see you, or angry. You suddenly felt like you had to justify why you were here, standing at his bedroom door.

''I--, Umm, your dad asked me to come over and check in on you'' you started. But as you continued he came closer to you. So close that you could feel his breath on your face.

''Can I hug you?'' he asked.

And your heart broke into a million pieces.

You didn't respond verbally. You just pulled him to yourself. Arms wrapping around his head while his found your waist and pulled you flush against him. You could feel and hear start to gently shake and silently sob. It took everything in you not to cry. You had to be strong for him.

''Lan, please. Don't cry. Come on. You're stronger than this. Please don't beat yourself up. Please.'' you whispered as you soothed the hair on the back of his neck.

He gently pulled away and pulled you into his room before closing the door and making his way to sit on his bed.

''I'm so fucking useless. Can't even get past the same guy on track. Race after race. It's bullshit and I'm sick of it.'' He said, resting his face in his hands.

You let out a breath and made your way to sit next to him.

''Lando, look at me,'' you said quite sternly, so he did. You started rubbing his back.

''You are not fucking useless. You are one of the most talented drivers out there. If you weren't good enough, then trust me, you wouldn't be within seconds of the race leader. You need to just have faith in yourself and give yourself time. Me, your family, your fans, everyone knows that you are the best out there - and it's only a matter of time until you get P1. You've done it before, and you'll do it a thousand more times. It hurts to see you blaming yourself after every race. As much as you are alone in the car, you know there are other things- and people who determine how your race goes.''

His gaze on you was so fixed, so intense that you almost felt shy now. But you were telling him the truth. In your eyes, he was the best, and his time to shine would come soon. You knew it.

Small tears continued to slip out his eyes so you gently wiped them away.

Lando clung himself to you again, making you engulf him in another hug.

''Just be positive Lan, you're doing so well. And you'll continue to get better.'' you said.

You don't know how long you stayed like that, a while for sure, before Lando spoke up.

''I'm so tired, can we cuddle?'' he wearily asked.

You so wanted to stay with him and comfort him, but your head was telling you not to. You stayed silent for a few seconds when he spoke up again.

''Please? Just for a bit. I'll give you a t-shirt to change into.'' he said.

''Okay'' you eventually told him.

Since he was still in his race suit he quickly found you some clothes to change into and disappeared into the bathroom for a quick shower.

While he was showering it took everything in you not to imagine him standing there, letting the water run down his warm, tan, muscled body, not to mention other parts of him that you so deeply missed. When you were together, your sex life was incredible. You knew each others bodies inside out and it was a big part of your relationship.

You really needed to get those thoughts out of your head though. You weren't here for that, You were here to be here for him.

You quickly changed your clothes into his before scrolling away on your phone waiting for him.

He emerged from the bathroom in just a pair of shorts, no t-shirt and you had to stop yourself from staring. He pulled back the covers and climbed in the bed, gesturing for you to do the same.

And for the first time, he was the little spoon. He curled up into a little ball and you hugged and cuddled him from behind. Playing with his hair and massaging him gently. It felt good to be this close to him after so long. You missed having his body pressed to yours, you missed smelling his scent.

Lando seemed to have settled down after a while, both of you drifting into a light slumber when you heard him talk.

''Thank you for being here for me, Y/N.''

''Always, Lan'' you said, finding his hand and squeezing it in an assuring manner.

Slowly, he turned his body so he was now facing you. Your hand stayed in his hair, gently twisting his curls all the while you both stared at each other, longingly.

He bought his face closer to yours. Again, so close that you could feel his breath fanning your face. His eyes wandered down to your lips. You knew that look all too well. He wanted to kiss you.

''Lan'' you mumbled.

''Please'' he begged.

By now you couldn't contain yourself, so you nodded your head.

In no time he crashed his lips to yours. It was messy and desperate. As if you were both starved of each other. In no time Lando's tongue was in your mouth, searching for gold. He nipped and sucked at your bottom lip as you moaned into the kiss and pulled him closer, so now he was hovering over you.

At the back of your mind you knew this was wrong. But you couldn't help the feeling of having him kiss you as if his life depended on it. You pulled on his hair as his lips left yours and traveled to you neck, quickly finding your sweet spot.

By now both of your breathing was heavy, both gasping for air but not stopping your activities what-so-ever, the kiss getting sloppier by the second.

You felt Lando's hand reach the hem of your shorts, itching to slip past them, but you stopped him. You knew you couldn't go further without leaving with a broken heart again.

''Lando no, I can't.'' you almost sobbed even though you so badly didn't want him to stop.

''I need you, Y/N. I've needed you since you walked out the door 7 months ago.''

Now you had tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

''And not for sex. For you. Your whole being.''

''What about her?'' you couldn't help but ask.

His face immediately dropped.

''It was nothing. The other girls were just to get my mind away from you and then my socials were blowing up. So they got her and me to pretend, so I didn't look like a douche with a new girl just to fall deeper into a hole.'' he spoke quickly.

You were shocked, but let out a sigh of relieve.

Lando kissed you again, re-assuring you. ''You're the only one I want. I don't want to rush things if you're not ready t be together again.''

You didn't say anything, you just kissed him again, and took his hand back to it's place on your hips, slightly nodding at him to continue.

Lando's hands slipped on the inside and he cupped your sex. Your breath hitched in your throat and you grunted through his movements. His thumb found you clit and immediately started rubbing circles on it, while his middle finger slipped into you with ease due to how wet you were for him.

He snaked his head under your oversized hoodie and latched his mouth to your nipple. Sucking and biting down at it which had you writhing under him. Desperate for more.

His finger continued sliding in and out of you before he added another.

''Lan, please'' you begged him for more.

He quickly sat on his knees and removed all of your clothes, leaving you bare naked under him. You toyed with the strings of his joggers but he swiped your hands away. ''The nights' gonna end early if you do that'' he said, showing you the first smile he had this evening.

You pulled him back down for a kiss and he snaked his way down your body, settled between your legs.

You cunt was glistening with juices, clenching around nothing, begging for attention. So he licked a stripe up, collecting all your juices on his tongue before using them to easy his way into you.

You were a moaning mess by now. Body so relieved to be getting attention from the one you craved the most, pulling at his hair and scratching his shoulders, surely leaving marks.

He continued his onslaught on your pussy until you felt that all familiar warmth building in your stomach and within minutes you released your cum all over his face, gasping for air - the both of you.

''Fuck, Y/N, so good'' he said through breaths, coming up to kiss you again. Both your mouths a mess - full of spit and cum.

''Need to feel you in me, please'' he begged him between breaths.

This time Lando wasted no time in shedding his joggers. His member springing free, slapping his stomach, red and angry, with pre cum already dripping through the tip.

You gasped at seeing how angry it looked. How delicious it looked. You took him in your hands and started pumping him, causing him to be the one gasping this time, dick twitching in your hands.

You sat up slighlty and licked the pre cum off the tip, making Lando buck his hips forward, latching onto the headboard to keep himself up.

''Hmm, fuck, Y/N' he said as you took as much of him in your mouth, sucking and licking at him.

''Not gonna last long if you carry on'' he said, so he pulled out of your mouth and pushed you to lie down again. But instead he changed his mind and roughly man handled you to turn your body over so you were now on all fours.

He swiped his cock through your folds, collecting more of your juices and finally, placed himself at your entrance before pushing in, fast and hard.

''Ah, oh, Lando'' you said through gritted teeth.

He wasn't making love to you. He was fucking you, straight away. He gave your cunt no time to get used to the intrusion after having gone months without it.

''That's it, Y/N, so tight for me, walls clenching around me so nicely'' he whispered i n your ear as his hand found its way around your throat, turning you on so much more.

You latched your hands onto the headboard and steadied your body, coming back to meet him halfway, bodies slamming into each other.

A few grunts and moans later your brain remembered where you were. In Lando's house, with his family in the lounge down the hall.

''Fuck Lando, everyone can hear us.'' you said, trying to slow his movements.

''Hmm, let them. Don't care. Just wanna fuck you until you can't walk anymore'' he said, body still slamming into yours.

It almost felt as if sad Lando was gone and now angry Lando was back. And he was fucking his frustrations and anger into you. Using you to help him feel better about yourself. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

In no time you were silently screaming his name, your juices gushing all over his cock, before you pulled out and flipping you over again, only to slam into you again.

You wrapped your legs around him as tight as you could and pulled on his curls.

Lando had his eyes closed ''Might not me the best fucking drivers, but definitely fucking my girl the best. That's it baby, taking me so well'' he grunted through gritted teeth, before lowering his mouth to your nipples again, showing them no mercy.

Hearing him call you his girl instantly had the butterflies brewing in your stomach again, edging closer to your orgasm. You could feel his movements start to get sloppier by the second as well, the both of you barely able to keep your moans in.

All that could be heard in the room were grunts, moans, and bodies slamming into each other, sticky juices all over.

You orgasm came with no warning, and as soon as you released you felt Lando empty his warm milky cum into you, dick twitching, so overstimulated. Your body was a shaking mess underneath Lando's as he let his weight fall on you and slumped down on you, which you didn't mind at all.

You stayed there, just holding onto each other, catching your breaths and your mind up to what just happened.

Lando's dick was softening inside you so he gentle pulled out, eyes never leaving yours. You whimpered at the loss of contact but he kept you distracted enough by lowering his mouth to your cunt, sucking up a mixture of both of your cum, and leaning back up to kiss you and make a mess on your face.

You moaned into the kiss again until Lando got up to get a warm towel to clean you both up.

After doing so, he climbed back into bed and this time you were little spoon, back in your place.

''Seriously Y/N, thank you for being there for me today. I miss you so bloody much and this time I'm going to put the work in to make us work. I love you fucking much baby.'' he cooed into your ear and you squeezed his hand.

''I love you too Lan. Promise me one thing though?'' you asked.

''Yeah?''

''Stop being so hard on yourself. You are the most amazing person I know and I want you to see how special and talented you are. Please'' you begged him.

You felt him nod his head. ''Yeah, I'll try. Thank you.''

''And I've missed you more than you can ever imagine. I love you Lan. You're it for me.'' you whispered back, before he kissed you gently.

You'd finally found you way back to each other.

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 #f1 smut #lando norris #lando x reader #f1 fic #lando norris smut #lando smut

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seduzist · 6 months ago

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helloooo!!!! this is my first time sending a request sorry if its a bit awkward :< could you do artxtashixpatrickxfem!reader (if u write for challengers!) where reader's an idol (or any career, really) who's very successful and rich but lonely bcus people only date her for social climbing? and then the three decide to try and make her feeeeellll... better?

sorry if this is a bit unclear, like i said this is my first time sending a req! :3

(an: guys its so hard to write a foursome i had no idea like- 😭 and i wrote it really sleepy so im sorry ill fix any mistakes later.)

art x patrick x tashi x fem!reader

cw. smut, foursome, dirty, just very dirty.

even if u’re a famous singer, with many fans and required by many people, when tashi duncan herself invites you to watch her husband’s game after you tell on a interview that you liked to watch tennis, you couldn’t possibly refuse. it was a really exciting game, but sadly came to an end after patrick zweig loses for just a few points, but that didn’t really matter because what happened afterwards is even more exciting. tashi invited you to her dorm, you were all staying at same hotel after all, wasn’t weird of her to want to know you better and introduce you to her champion husband.

you entered shyly as tashi opened to you, saying it was a pleasure to know you in person, that she was happy you were there, what really surprised you was seeing patrick sitting at the couch drinking a beer and talking with art, like the game of a few hours ago didn’t happen.

you sit by their side and after being introduced you were all already on a involvent conversation, they convinced you to drink some beers with them and after a few ones you were drunk. they were funny, made you feel comfortable enough to rest your head on tashi’s lap while you talked abt your shitty ex who used you just for social climbing. that’s how comfortable they made you, or maybe that’s how lonely you felt. while you laughed at some stupid joke patrick made, tashi started caressing your face gently, and before you could even realize her thumb circled your lips, like she was asking you to suck her finger. it was a little awkward but art’s kept looking at you, curious if you would do it or not, and in a act of courage, you did, made him mumbles a “fuck” under his breath and bring one hand to his bonner. that’s when you fully realized what was happening, you all exchanged looks.

“if you wanna leave, it’s okay, but if you stay… we just want to make you feel good..” tashi whispered lowly, and you thought for a sec or two, but then you got up, kneeling on the couch and kissing her lips, she kissed you back in a heartbeat and grabbed your hair in her hand. you heard patrick gasp and art breath heavily and looked at them, seeing hunger in both of their eyes, tashi calls them and they both get closer, patrick involved your waist with his arm you all started to exchange messy kisses, to the point where you could differentiate them by the kiss.

after a few minutes they took you to bed, you couldn’t even tell how did all of you get naked, but you wasn’t complaining. tashi sits with you laying between her thighs, it was clear that her words kept you relaxed at this point, she massaged your breasts while patrick started positioning himself between your legs, but before he could part them, you heard the voice above your ear.

“who do you think that deserves to fuck you first, hm? the winner as a reward, or the loser as a consolation prize?”

“oh c’mon, tashi-“ patrick was cut off by her warning look, silently shutting him up.

art just found it funny, even though his dick was rock hard and you could see the precum leaking, he didn’t seen to be desperate like patrick, that’s when you made your decision.

“i’m no consolation prize, i’m the fucking reward.” the married couple enjoyed your answer but patrick gave a loud slap on your thigh playfully before leaving, giving room for art to come, he leaned over to kiss you as a thanks before got up again, thrusting his pretty cock on your dripping entrance, so slippery that didn’t take long for him to get rough.

you felt patrick by your side, offering his cock for you to suck, which you tried to, but your body were moving to much with art’s thrust and you couldn’t stop moan, poor boy only gets a few seconds with his cock inside your mouth before tashi started to jerk him off in front of your face.

didn’t take long for them to cum too, art spewing his load inside you while you came around his cock, and patrick leaking thick cum all over your pretty face and tits, you looked at him with doe eyes, almost apologizing to him silently, but he smiled at you when he finished, letting you know that it was fine.

you felt your pussy aching when art took his softened cock out, but smiled when you heard tashi above your ear “hope you’re not tired yet, it’s girls time now, doll.”

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artist-issues · 5 months ago

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the truth is, it’s crazy how Christian the lyrics and the concepts in twenty one pilots’ songs are, and how nobody in their group of fans is talking about it. I mean, the fans can decode and find information on basically every little potential meaning behind lyrics or promotional material…and they just blow past the Christian stuff.

I mean like. Vignette. Vignette is definitely about being addicted to doubt. Doubt in God. That one’s not hard to decode. Tyler literally said “it makes the most sense within the context of addiction” and everybody on Twitter goes “omg what is he addicted to,” then they start virtue-signaling in arguments like, “ya’ll don’t know him, addiction can take many forms, how dare you say you don’t believe he’s addicted to substances,” and it’s like. Guys. He’s only ever used “addiction” to describe one thing, and it’s doubt. Addict With a Pen.

I mean, ya’ll know him. Supposedly. The guy talks in riddles in interviews because he knows fans are watching. You don’t think he would talk in a pretty-obvious but safely-vague riddle about the meaning of a song in the Livestream?

This isn’t the only example. It’s just one of the most recent ones. To try and contextualize or understand any of twenty one pilots’ albums or the concepts inside—and by “understand,” I mean, “understand what it meant to Tyler Joseph/what Tyler Joseph meant”—not what it means to you or the next guy in line—without taking the Christianity that bleeds through into account? That’s an exercise in futility.

but let’s be real, ya’ll are all more obsessed with the skeleton visuals, the romanticization of mental health struggles, and the sexual fantasization than you’re obsessed with what the songs were intended to say

You can focus on whatever you want to in and with their music, that’s the beauty and the ugliness of art. I’m just pointing out; it’s weird that ya’ll will focus on everything but Christianity when decoding and theorizing. The most I never see is “must be about his faith” “it’s abt God” or “awwwe his Christian roots.” Okay, but you’ll dig up the life and history of Simone Weil based on a single word’s (maybe intentional) misspelling, and learn every fact about her life, convinced he was referencing her? Whatever, man.

#I should just never go on twitter #people are seriously at their worst there #twenty one pilots #tøp #skeleton clique #clique #tøp clique #christianity #Tyler Joseph #critical thinking #Josh dun #dema #bishops

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grcetxt · 10 months ago

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Fuck it we ball fanfic time. Gn reader x lars pinfield WOO

Okay WOO lmk if this is shit or ooc or anything, but im pretty happy with how this went :D its a little rushed, might redo it in the future idk. Also i made Y/N bit too much like me (northern) so watch out for that american readers SORRYYY. anwyays enjoy!

I am smart.

No don't laugh, I am, genuinely I am.

Maybe not in the way that others deem important, maybe not in the traditional sense, but I am bright.

Pinfield doesn't think so, the prick.

Every day I come into work, all smiling and welcoming, and what do I get in return? A roll of the eyes if I'm lucky.

Dickhead.

But I don't let him get to me, I love my job. My boss is chill, I love hanging out with Lucky, and the Spenglers seem nice! It's a good gig, really.

I'm the "PR guy" for Ghost Corps. Every time they fuck up and destroy a building or whatever I'm the one who covers it up. I'm a real smooth talker, 'gift of the gab' my mum used to call it.

The team needs me, I know that, they know that. Im crucial to the whole operation, the sole reason why that whiny mayor dude hasnt shut them down.

I'm the one who goes to press interviews, who goes on the radio or on TV. I'm the social media manager, I make videos, and post tweets, fuck I've even started a Ghostbusters youtube account! I deserve a raise honestly. #justiceforY/NthePRguy

I get on with everyone at work except for Pinfield, and I genuinely dont know why.

I've tried getting him to feature in videos, or explain the science of stuff to me so I can actually seem like I know what I'm talking about- but he just brushes me off.

Gary tries to reassure me about this on a daily basis. "Its nothing to do with you Y/N" he smiled one day, putting a hand on my shoulder and guiding me away from the busy scientist. "He doesnt really talk to anyone, he gets really passionate about his work"

"I get that, but there's no need for him to be a dick to me, he's got me thinking all kinds of shit honestly!" I replied, exhasperated "I've never done nowt to him"

Suddenly, Pinfield raised his head from his work, scrunching his eyebrows together. "thats a double negative" he commented, looking at me as if I was stupid. Great, It's the most he's ever spoken to me and its a fucking insult- atleast I think it is.

"you what?" I ask, making my way over to him despite Garys protests. I fold my arms, looking as menacing as i can (which ive been told isn't very menacing at all)

"I said its a double negative, if you've never done nothing then you must've done something" before I can reply, he adds onto the end "which you haven't, by the way. I dont know why you think that. I treat you the same as anyone else"

I can't explain why his answer bothers me so much, but it does. Why does he view me in the same way he views the others? That's hardly fair. I'm always welcoming to him, I make time out of my day to include him in things. I hate to admit it, but I genuinely admire him aswell. His love for all things paranormal, the way he gets so excited and proud when he gets to explain the science of ghost-catching to someone. It's oddly endearing.

I tell him as much (excpet for the stuff about him being endearing, he doenst need his ego inflated any more than it already is)

He looks confused, I've never seen him look like that- its weird. Arrogant? sure. Annoyed? when is he not bffr. Happy? Once or twice. But confused? Weird. This is the guy with all the answers, the smart one.

He thinks for a moment, before seemingly making a desision. He stands up with a small huff of exhasperation, and walks off.

As he goes past me, he grabs my arm, more gently than I thought he was capable of. Okay, i guess im coming too. Fun, roadtrip time.

He takes me out of the lab and down the corridor, into a relatively well lit small room.

"Well this is-" before i can speak properly, he cuts me off. Told you he was a prick.

"I dont understand you Y/N" he blurts out, looking at me, as if I'm some sort of specimin hes studying in the lab.

"Well good." I joke. I dont like the serious tone he's taking. Dont like how aware I am of his gaze. HATE the fact I can feel my cheeks burning. Gross. Pinfield is a dick, we've established this. Why the fuck am I BLUSHING because he's LOOKING at me? Bit embarassing, pull it together Y/LN.

He doenst like this though. He shakes his head, pacing around.

"No Y/N you dont get it. I understand everyone, sort of anyways. I've observed them, I can predict their reactions to things. I know what they're all like- but you're... I just dont understand! You're so happy and nice all the time, but you also get angry at stupid stuff, but never really properly angry? I cant make sense of it, genuinely. You've not done anything wrong, you can't do anything wrong. Thats frustrating too. It's like you're this perfect, beautiful person, and I've been trying to see flaws but I cant-" He rambles, speaking like hes just letting out one stream of constant thoughts. He seems stressed, poor guy.

I interupt him, grabbing his arm. "Hey, c'mon Pinfi- I- Lars. C'mon Lars. I'm not worth the stress mate" I try and reassure him, but that just agitates him more.

"See! That's just it! I've been horrible to you, I admit it. But you've kept trying with me! When I hurt my hand you were the one who bandaged it and put it in a sling"

(i had found him almost blacked out from the pain on the lab floor, even the memory of it sent a shiver down my spine)

"you were the only one that looked for me after we all nearly died fighting Garraka"

("Pinfield? Pinfield!? Oh my god, there you are! Thank fuck you're alright!" Okay maybe this tiny non-crush had been going on longer than i thought... christ)

"I dont like the thought of you hurt..." i muttered, embarrased. this definitely wasnt how i was expecting this conversation to go, fuck my life I was crushing on a nerdy scientist who defintely didn't like me back.

He stopped his pacing and walked over to me until the gap between us was non existant. He slowly, hesitantly, lifted his hand until he cupped my cheek.

"I don't like the thought of you upset because of me" he muttered, his voice low.

My heart completely stopped, my breath caught in my throat, was this happening? how was this happening? i swear this guy was like my mortal enemy not even 5 minutes ago. so many revelations were bieng made today...

I decided to be bold, why not? fuck it, i've got nothing to loose at this point.

I leaned in so our noses just grazed eachother, looking at him, really genuinely looking at him. his soft blue eyes that seemed to peer into my soul. Not pierce through it, like some weird blue eyed fuckers i knew, but looked. gently, tenderly, as if he was looking at everything i ever had been, or would be. like i was something beautiful, something to be treaured.

It made me want to sob at the thought. god, how disgustingly sweet.

"make up for it then" i whispered, the tension so thick i could cut it with a knife.

I'd planned on being the one to make the forst move, but apparently, that was all that Lars needed.

He kissed me. His soft lips pressed against mine, sotfly, tenderly, tentatively.

I could feel the anxiety radiating off of him, so i quickly reciprocated. More eagerly than i owuldve liked- but oh well.

I could feel his hand resting on my waist, his thumb gently stroking my cheek. It all felt so tender, so raw, not at all how i thought it would be.

I felt like a teenager again, and couldnt resist letting out a small giggle, making Lars pull away. He looked confused again, making me laugh once again.

"What?" he aksed, a sort of amused smile on his face.

"Nothing- sorry. Nothing at all. Just thinking of how fuming mums gonna be when i tell her ive got a posho for a boyfriend"

"I am NOT posh!"

"you are a littleee"

"I AM NO- wait- boyfriend?"

"oh shit didnt mean to say that bi-"

he cut me off with another kiss, this one much more confident.

It felt like a million fireworks were going off in my head, oh I could definetly get used to this feeling. This war, sweet, happy feeling. My senses were flooded with everything Lars. His taste, his smell, his touch.

I felt like I was learning to live again.

#AAAA #lars pinfield #james acaster #fanfic #ghostbusters frozen empire #lars pinfield x reader #gn reader #should prolly add more tags but its 2 am im tired #nightnight everyone #lmk what you think

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digitaldiarystuff · 1 year ago

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The Interview

Hi guyss! Thank you so much for the support for my last post, here’s another idea I’ve had and if you want a part 2 to any of my stories feel free to reach out to me!

————

summary: You’re an actress in Spain who supports atletico and are asked in an interview about Joao’s goal against your team, you playfully answer and receive a notification afterwards.

genre: fluff

pairing: Joao Felix x Y/N

————

So, Y/N, we’re coming to the end of our interview but before that, I see here in my cards that you’re a die hard Atletico fan. Is it true?” Jim, the interviewer asked. You giggled.

“It’s true Jim, growing up, my dad was a football man. We spent every weekend watching games in the stadium or at home and I still do, just not going to games because of my crazy schedule, just watching them with my Griezmann shirt at home. We’re all big fans.” you answered truthfully. You loved watching the games but sometimes it was hard to catch up.

“So, did you watch the game they played against Barcelona?” he asked, intrigued.

“I did, actually. It was heartbreaking.” you said.

“Oh yeah yeah. Felix scoring the goal.”

“Yeah, it was hard to watch because I always knew he was a good player, seeing him score against us was hard.” you answered hoping that nobody would get upset because as much as it was true, you knew you had to make interviews professionally. Especially the live ones.

Soon after, the interview was done and you were in the backstage grabbing your items to head out. It was an off-day and you had planned on going home and not do anything.

When you went into the house, your dog, Biscuit was waiting for you at the door. You played with her for a few minutes and then grabbed some treats from the kitchen and a blanket to make yourself cozy and watch some TV but your phone vibrating like crazy meant the interview was up and everyone had seen it. You weren’t a big time celebrity but your recent role in a Netflix series has gained you tons of attention.

You were going through your message requests seeing the good and the bad things people said until one name caught your eye.

Joao Felix

Sorry to break your heart 💔 he said. You stared at the message for what felt like an eternity.

Maybe one or two footballers slid in your dm’s in the past months but none had any effect on you but Joao’s single sentence made your tummy flip. Was he mad? How could you respond to this, if you were to respond of course because you shouldn’t. Right?

It’s a little late for that, what’s done is done, you wrote but deleted right after, was it too harsh. You always had a weird sense of humor and enjoyed banter in flirting but you didn’t even know if this was flirty.

Well, you could always make up for it, you wrote then but feared it might be too forward, what if he was just apologizing genuinely to a fan? Oh god that would be embarrassing.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s just your job” you wrote and sent. This is the most appropriate, you thought. And maybe, he wouldn’t even respond after this.

You were wrong, he replied back in a minute.

“What can I do to make it up to you?”

Okay, this wasn’t about all fans, you thought. Because he specifically asked what could he do for you. Breathe Y/N, breathe.

Before replying, you quickly went onto his page, he was an amazing looking athlete there’s no denying and you’re single so you shouldn’t feel bad about the butterflies in your stomach.

“You could start with a dinner.” you replied and threw the phone on the couch scared of his response. Oh god, you hope you didn’t misread the interaction.

After a few minutes you decided this was stupid and picked the phone up.

“My pleasure. Tonight at 8?” he wrote and you nearly screamed, this gorgeous man was taking you out tonight and you were already shaking.

You quickly said ok and decided to have a long shower and get ready since it’s already 5. He also asked for your location to pick you up at 8.

After the shower you went into your closet trying to decide on what to wear and ended up with a navy dress and did your makeup. Just as you were putting on earrings, you heard the door knock. You tried calming yourself and opened the door and saw the most handsome man you’ve ever laid eyes on with a big smile and a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

“Hi.” he said sheepishly.

“Hi.” you replied equally giddy.

“Are you ready?” he asked, eyeing you up and down.

“Yes, here just let me take those of your hands and we can go.” you said, blushing because he was looking at you with no shame.

He drove you to a fancy restaurant which you’d once been with your manager as a celebration but he reserved a secluded table for the two of you.

At first, you were a little nervous about being on a date with him but that quickly went away as you talked about anything and everything. You quickly realized he was the most down to earth guy and wasn’t full of himself. He listened and gave you compliments as you described your life and you listened about his career. Before you knew it, it was nearly midnight and you were having the time of your life. You didn’t have to put on a facade with him and say whatever.

When the bill came, you of course offered but he wouldn’t budge and paid for the night and helped you walk to the exit with his hand on the small of your back. You got goosebumps just from a simple touch.

You went in the car and he started driving so you put on the radio and singing along the song when he joined you. You giggled.

“What, do you not like my voice?” he asked offended.

“No, I actually do.” you said. It felt like you knew him for years.

“I had fun tonight.” he said while walking you to your door.

“Me too, thank you for everything.” you said as you walked up the stairs to your door.

You stood just looking at each other’s eyes, lost in the moment.

“I sho-“

“Do you want to come inside?” you cut him off before he could finish his sentence.

“Yeah.” he smiled as you walked in the door.

He started looking at your home, analyzing details and when he saw the pictures of your family, he smiled.

“Did I also break your dad’s heart?” he asked.

“Why, are you going to buy him dinner too?”

“No, that was all for you.” he said as he walked over and held your waist looking at you intensely.

You looked up at him and smiled. He leaned in and stopped, as a way of making sure this was okay and you gave him the permission by pressing your lips against his. He smiled into the kiss and started moving his lips immediately. You lost yourself at his touch and placed your hands behind his head, playing with his hair. His hands roamed over your body trying to hold you closer.

“Y/N, I think I like you.” he said after you broke the kiss to breathe.

“I think I like you too Joao.” you said smiling widely.

“Now take me upstairs.” you said in a quiet tone, needing more of him.

He nodded immediately telling you to jump and wrap your legs around his torso. He carried you upstairs and you strengthened the connection you found today, until the sun came up.

You opened your eyes slowly, feeling a presence next to you and it was Joao. He was still sleeping. After you went to sleep, your mind wandered if this was just for one night but seeing him next to you happily snoring made that feeling go away. You carefully escaped his arms holding you at place to wash your face and go down to the kitchen. Just as you were passing the living room, you saw the flowers he brought last night. Smiling to yourself, you picked them up to put in a vase when you noticed a card sitting in between pink tulips.

You opened it up to see what was inside and found a note from him and smiled even wider if it’s possible.

“I hope this is the beginning of a great story”

————

Ahh, this was sooo sweet even when I was writing I was smiling, hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is always appreciated luvs 🌷

#joao felix #joao felix imagine #joao felix barcelona #joao felix atletico madrid #football #football imagine #football oneshot #football x reader #joao felix x reader #joao felix x y/n #football x y/n #football fluff

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zeroseuniverse · 5 days ago

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Lights, Camera, Action!

Word Count:725 Summary:“Relax, it’s just acting. It’s not like we’re actually in love.” “Right! Exactly!” she said, maybe a little too quickly. Pairing: Yuta X Fem Reader A/N: Posting this early because I adore him so much

Navigation

If someone had told her years ago that she’d one day be stuck in a romantic drama with Yuta Nakamoto, she would’ve laughed in their face.

Not because Yuta was a bad co-star—he was one of the most charismatic actors she knew. And definitely not because she hated the idea of being in a romance with him. No, the real reason was far more ridiculous.

People already thought they were in love.

She and Yuta had been best friends since they both debuted as rookie actors, climbing their way through the industry together. They had the kind of friendship that was full of playful insults, dramatic threats, and way too much time spent in each other’s personal space.

If she had a press event, Yuta was there hyping her up in the comments section. If Yuta was seen with any female co-star, she was the first to start fake crying about being “betrayed” in their group chat. Fans adored their chaotic dynamic.

Which is why, when they were cast as the lead couple in Love at First Overtime, the entire internet collectively lost its mind.

—

“I cannot believe this,” she groaned, sprawled across the couch in Yuta’s dressing room. “They did this on purpose.”

Yuta grinned from his spot across the room. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“The producers. The casting directors. The universe.”

“Oh, definitely the universe.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Or maybe it’s just fate.”

She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him. “Shut up, Nakamoto.”

He caught it easily, laughing. “Relax, it’s just acting. It’s not like we’re actually in love.”

“Right! Exactly!” she said, maybe a little too quickly.

Yuta’s gaze lingered on her for a second too long before he shrugged. “Guess we’ll just have to make it really convincing, huh?”

—

Everything was fine until the kiss scene rehearsal.

She had kissed people on-screen before. So had Yuta. They were professionals. This was nothing.

Except, it was something.

The moment Yuta stepped closer, something inside her brain short-circuited.

His scent—clean, musky, familiar. His eyes—watching her like he was waiting for something. His hands—resting on her waist with a touch so light it sent shivers up her spine.

Her heart wasn’t supposed to be doing this.

Yuta hesitated, brows furrowing slightly. “Why are you holding your breath?”

“I’M NOT,” she blurted out, shoving him away. “I just—I just remembered I left my stove on at home!”

Yuta stared at her. “You don’t cook.”

“…Maybe I started today.”

The director sighed. “Alright, take five.”

Yuta followed her backstage, arms crossed. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

“Nothing!”

“You literally ran away from me. Twice.”

She groaned, rubbing her temples. “I don’t know, okay? Maybe it’s just weird! We’ve been best friends forever, and now we have to pretend to be in love—”

“Pretend?” Yuta cut in, raising an eyebrow.

She froze. “Uh. Yes?”

He took a step closer. “You sure?”

Her stomach flipped.

“I—Of course I’m sure!” she snapped, feeling a little too warm under his gaze.

Yuta smirked. “So you wouldn’t mind if we kissed right now?”

She let out a choked laugh. “What kind of question is that?!”

“Just checking.”

She turned away, completely ignoring the way her cheeks were burning.

—

Later that night, She found herself scrolling through clips of their past interviews.

“Yuta, do you have an ideal type?” The MC asked, the camera shifting to watch a sweet smile form on Yuta's face.

“Mmm. Not really. I think I already have the perfect girl in my life.” He answered.

“You and Yuta seem really close! Have you ever thought about dating him?” The MC asked, shifting the focus towards her swiftly.

“Hah! No way. We’d probably end up murdering each other.”

“You wound me.” uta added from the background his hand clutching his chest in faux hurt.

She stared at her screen.

OH.

OH NO.

Had he…? Had she…?

No. There was no way.

Right?

—

The next day, the kiss scene went way too smoothly.

Their lips met.

It was soft. Warm. Lingered just a second too long.

The director shouted, “Cut!”

They didn’t move.

Yuta pulled back slightly, eyes flickering down to her lips before smirking. “So… still method acting?”

She groaned. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

And just like that, the two biggest idiots in the world finally figured it out.

(Their fans? Lost their minds.)

#yuta nakamoto x reader #yuta imagines #yuta x reader #nakamoto yuta #yuta nakamoto #nakamoto yuta x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 imagines #nct u x reader #nct u imagines #nct fluff #nct fanfic #nct imagines

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yuellii · 1 year ago

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baby, we’re the new romantics !

𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 some born-rich, noisy man falls for a completely normal ( maybe struggling ) woman

feat. childe, referred to as ajax

wc. 2.7k

note. gn reader, modern au, references a scene from I Love Yoo, this is a little birthday fic for one of my very best friends in the whole wide world : @vivinens !!

To put it bluntly, it sucked working at McDonald’s.

Other than the fast-paced environment and the tough remarks from rude customers, what arguably sucked the most was that he worked in the building just across the street. Literally just a few steps and you’d be at risk of seeing him.

It wasn’t that you hated Ajax ( okay, maybe you did a little ); he was a fun way to wind down in-between classes sometimes at university because of his loud personality. And, he was attractive to stand next to, you’ll give him that in addition to being a very understanding friend. But seeing him in the workplace is quite possibly the last thing you could ever want to ask for.

What made matters even worse was during your desperate job search last month, when you got a recruitment offer at the place he worked at. You thought it’d be some small thing like where generic college students worked, not some big multi-million firm in this massive building with workers walking around in suits and pencil skirts galore. And of course, when you met with the mean recruiting lady named Rosalyne for your interview, it was impossible not to spot Ajax at the corner of your eyes with a goofy smile on his face.

And when Ms. Rosalyne went back to scold him after your interview, it was more than obvious you were only here because he pushed your application.

How embarrassing.

“You can try again!” he said to you in good spirits in the university courtyard one week after. The two of you were sitting together as the sun was setting on campus, having both finished all your classes for the day. “They’re opening another clerical position soon since our current one is leaving, apply then!” And to you, he was acting all completely normal in his normal young-adult way, meanwhile you were trying to erase the image of him in a suit from your head.

You sighed, “I don’t think the high-class life of business is for me yet, Ajax.”

The roll of your eyes caused him to visibly deflate. Just how obsessed was he with the idea of you getting hired? “But I want you to work with you so baddd…!” he groaned, dramatically shoving his hands onto his face.Then he leaned back forward, slumping until his forehead came down to rest on your shoulder. Such an attention-grabbing act of depression—you almost came to entertain the idea, too.

“I don’t even have office clothes,” you scoffed, bumping him off your shoulder.

He yelped from the force of your push for a moment before he grabbed your arm, pulling it so harshly with such a force that had you clashing right onto his chest ( Yeah, friends, or something like that ). And even as you began to punch on his chest in protest, he just hugged you tight and whined, “I can buy you some! You’ll fit right in—and I get to see you every day at school and at work!”

Seeing him every day sounded like hell, you were so sure this man was insane.

“You are not buying me office clothes!” you denied, still trying to push yourself away.

“I can totally afford it, though!” he pouted. After he relaxed his grip around your body, you still found it too tough to escape his weird embrace. That’s your karma for being friends with the guy who goes to the gym in-between classes, you suppose. And after more struggling to set yourself free, you eventually gave up as the sunset reduced to silence.

That was when he squeezed you tight once more for a last makeshift hug, then planted an ambiguously-friendly kiss on your cheek as he said, “Let’s go get dinner now? I’ll drive.”

“Yeah, sure. Can we get chicken nuggets?”

He lifted both of your bodies up to your feet, watching as you collected your things off the seat before he led you by the hand to his car. “Pff, you always want nuggets,” he teased. “But yeah, I’m down—there’s a McDonald’s right next to my work, let’s go there while I try to convince you to apply at my job!”

And now you work at said McDonald’s.

You didn’t tell him, of course. Only that you “finally got a job,” so that he could finally stop trying to get you hired at his stuffy building space.

It was pretty busy in the morning when people in office attire would come in for a quick, cheap coffee. Lunch and dinner time was also busy as expected—it was one of the things that made you happy to be a cashier and not one of the cooks or drive-through people.

And the best part about this was that you never saw the uptight Ms. Recruiter Rosalyne here, nor Ajax himself. You knew for a fact that Ajax only went to McDonald’s when it was with you, as he preferred other fast foods, so even if his work was just right there, you really didn’t have to worry about accidentally seeing him. If you did… Well, that would probably be really embarrassing, wouldn’t it?

It was one o’clock in the afternoon, lunch rush.

People were rude, your coworkers were irritable, customers were in a rush—horrible, really, but also a normal day for you. Just smile and put on that customer service voice and it will soon be over. Plus, you got free chicken nuggets for your own lunch break before this.

It was not until you felt your phone vibrate in the pocket of your jeans. Well. It was not that common to get a text like that. Your family should know you’re at work; your friends, too. Just one peak—only one, just while the customer in front of you is still holding up the line while he decides what to order. Propping your phone up behind the register, you open it to check your lockscreen.

orange fuckwad: heyyy you want some mcds nuggets?!?!? ;)

Holy shit. Absolutely not.

“Can I order the uhhh…” Oh good lord you have to turn off your phone now. “Can I order the uhhh McLobster?”

“Sorry sir, the McLobster was discontinued five years ago.” You were about to blow your brains out.

“No I swear I just ordered it last week?”

Your eyes kept shifting to the door. And there, finally, in all his glory making your heart absolutely drop in fear, was Ajax coming through the door. And for you, too—to buy you a box of chicken nuggets. In any other case, you’d find it endearing ( and it still was! ) but in this instance you really wanted to die right now.

The customer suddenly raised an eyebrow at you when you shifted your body to the side, trying to use his body as a shield from the eyes of your friend. There was a second cashier next to you—hopefully Ajax will line up on their line instead of yours. And hopefully, you could use this crusty McDonald’s hat to hide your face.

“Hey!” your coworker suddenly called out to you. You looked towards their empty cashier line with a glimmer of hope for good news. “I’m going on my lunch!” Your face dropped. “I’ll see you in 30, yeah?”

No! Not yeah! But you couldn’t do anything but plead with your facial expression as they left to the backroom, leaving Ajax with no choice but to join your line. If you could blow up this whole building right now, God, you would.

Five customers until him, four customers until him, three, two, one—

“Woah!” The surprise on his face felt insulting. Actually, you still used the hat to hide your face as best as you could. It was failing at hiding your identity from him as expected, but at least it helped you obscure the view of his… physique. Him, with his… um, his black slacks and white collared shirt that was just a little too tight on him, and his grey blazer that was thrown over his shoulder. One button at the top unfastened, almost as if he loosened it just to breathe during his lunch break.

And his hair, if you didn’t want to meet his eyes then you were honestly staring there. Whose hair was usually messy and tousled, now slicked perfectly for once with gel, all in a proper yet still very Ajax-way. The sides were in place, meanwhile strands over his eyes and at the top of his hair remained loose in that messy way that still characterized him. God, you might just die from embarrassment and awkwardness right now.

“This is where you work?” he asked, incredulously.

“Good afternoon, sir. What can I get for you today?” you smiled. Please, please just go with it.

He looked surprised at your voice, especially since it was so fabricated and one he had not heard before. You just hoped he wouldn’t be a dumb prick to you today, just this once. “Oh, um…” Please, please. “One ten-piece chicken nugget, please.” Thank God.

“Would you like a drink with that?”

“Yes, one large soda, if that’s okay?”

“Will that be all?”

“Uh.” He looked confused. You just stared at him. “Yeah… Yeah, I think so.”

Then he swiped his card, you directed him to the side, and he left the line. With a lingering gaze, of course. He looked like a lost ( and maybe even a little hurt ) puppy after his order, and as much as this made you feel sad for him, you were just glad to get through with him as a customer without any complications. He’ll definitely be bothering you after this, anyways.

He pretty much watched you the entire time he waited for his food, eyeing you with a look of concern that did not belong on his usual expression. But you ignored him for your own betterment—you’d really just rather get through this rush hour of customers. And when his order number was finally called, he held the small bag with nuggets and his large soda with confusion. Oh, right. That food was probably bought for you.

You sent him a look and a head tilt that notioned ‘Just eat it’, and surprisingly, he got it. Ajax, with his pristine proper suit and blazer over his shoulder, sat down at a dirty barstool and ate his ten-piece chicken nuggets. He was still watching you, though; he glanced at you every few seconds while he was chewing. Minutes that felt so long passed, and you just hoped his lunch break would end soon so he could get back to his building.

“Hello again!” You almost jumped in place when you found him in front of you again, having finished his nuggets.

“Ajax,” you grumbled, trying to speak quietly. There was another customer coming to line up behind him. “I can’t talk during my shift.”

“Oh!” He looked at you in innocent surprise for a second, definitely not as depressed as earlier. “No, I was just gonna order.”

You wanted to die. “Didn’t you already…” Clearing your throat, you remembered there was another customer lined up behind him. Thank heavens the lunch rush was over already. Time to put on the customer service voice for him again. “What can I get for you?”

“A box of ten-piece chicken nuggets, please!” he smiled. “And a large soda!”

If you didn’t feel like killing him before, well you certainly did now. And guess what, he ate this order, too! Was he doing this out of spite now? Ordering nuggets and then eating them right in front of you? Because honestly, it was making you less hungry and more confused, if anything. This was definitely not what you expected—but then again, you fully anticipated he’d hold up the line just to talk to you. But no, suddenly he was a McDonald’s nugget fan?

The moment you get out of here, you’re going to twist his ear. Time passes again where you purposely avoid his gaze. So, so much time. Either his lunch break was just incredibly long, or time was just going so slow because he was here. You bet it was the latter.

And then, once again, you find him at the front of your line.

“Hello!” he smiled. He looks happy just to see you. “Can I get a ten-piece box of chicken nuggets?”

“And a large soda with that?” you asked, almost with a sigh.

He looks uneasy, standing to the tips of his toes for a moment. “No,” he drags out with hesitance. “Side of large fries, actually.”

Ooo, how different! It’s the most entertainment you could wish for in a day. And when you shoo him to the side this time, he has the biggest smile on his face. How unusual—in this situation, at least. Then when his order comes, he actually turns to leave this time. He walked to the glass doors with an innocent grin and a large McDonald’s bag in his hand, happily waving to you goodbye. Finally.

“You never told me you work at the McDonald’s right by me!”

He was there waiting for you when you walked out of your shift, packed up, ready to go home, and definitely smelling like grease. “Well aren’t you out early…” you sighed at him. “It’s only three in the afternoon.”

“I asked if I could leave so I could come see you sooner,” he frowned. Endearing, once again. And your heart may have skipped just a bit when he lifted up the last brown bag he bought. “I saved these for you. They’re not warm anymore but there’s fries, a soda, and fifteen nuggets… I, uh, couldn’t finish the second order.”

You nearly laughed out. “Why in the world did you order so much anyways?”

“So I could see you again,” he pouted.

He was still wearing his office attire, top button unfastened once again and blazer under his arm once you took the fast food bad again. You might’ve just had nuggets during your lunch break, and this food may be cold and soggy by now, but the thought of him buying it for you made it the best meal in the world. And, it was also the fact he left his own shift early just to see you. He could be nice at times; so nice, it almost comforted the fact he made you want to die earlier.

“You embarrassed me,” you tiredly sighed. The both of you were walking together to his car—how he knew you were dropped off here was beyond you.

“Sorry!” he sheepishly smiled. “I really didn’t think I’d see you there…” Which was understandable, sure, but did he really have to order that many McNuggets just to see you at the cashier stand? “But now that I know you work right next to me…”

“Ajax, no.”

“Oh come on!” He pouted with a considerably loud whine while the both of you crossed the street to his building. You figured he was likely parked behind it, wherever the employee parking was. It still felt a little weird to be in your McDonald’s uniform walking next to a big business building. “I get to see you every lunch break—doesn’t that sound so fun?”

“No not really.”

He groaned even louder again, slumping his shoulders as if he was not dressed like he was going to an office party right now. But then, in some sort of comforting silence, he aligned his arm over your shoulders. It was cute, honestly—how he would still do this despite the fact you smelled like pure grease right now ( and the fact you were trying to ignore the feeling of his arm muscles that were practically bursting through his sleeves ).

He eyed you a few times during this silent walk, watching as you stuffed your face with nuggets and fries. Holy God this tasted so good for some reason…?! You totally deserved this after your shift of rude customers and embarrassing moments—then your good friend Ajax brings you nuggets and fries right after. How romantic.

And speaking of your ‘friend’, he pulled you closer against him, arm practically swallowing your entire being over your shoulders. Not that you were complaining, though; you found his weird obsession with being near you all the time just a little bit cute. And besides, he drove you places, and he bought you chicken nuggets.

Who could not love a man that buys you chicken nuggets?

#childe x reader #ajax x reader #tartaglia x reader #childe x you #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #genshin x gender neutral reader #childe x gender neutral reader

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