#when I own my own house I'm painting my kitchen yellow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 10 months ago

Text

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

738 notes · View notes

bobfloydsbabe · 1 year ago

Text

the holiday truce | eccentric professor!bob floyd x oc | sneak peek

a gold rush fic

SUMMARY: Bob and Imogen call a truce and spend the holidays together.

WARNINGS: academia au, enemies to lovers, age gap (mid 20s/late 30s), power imbalance, smut (not in sneak peek), christmas. strictly 18+/minors dni.

A/N: inspired by a conversation with @joaquinwhorres. bob and imogen celebrate christmas, but i've done my best to limit the references to it. i'm aiming to post sometime in december, but i hope this sneak peek will get you excited for it. let me know what you want to see in this fic. enjoy!

ADD YOURSELF TO THE TAGLIST

She stands on the street, looking up at the Boston brownstone. Around her, thick fluffy snowflakes fall to the ground. Not enough to cover the sidewalk in a blanket of white, at least not yet. One falls against her cheek and melts on contact, and she’s sure her hair’s littered with them.

She feels a bit like a pig at the entrance to a slaughterhouse. Certain doom on the other side of that front door in the shape of Dr. Robert Floyd. Known to friends as Bob, apparently. She didn’t know he had friends, and certainly not that they call him anything other than Robert until she overheard Dr. Kazansky talking about him.

Drawing in a deep breath and releasing it into a misty cloud, she squares her shoulders and walks up the steps to the front door. The black paint is peeling off and the knocker could use a good clean, but Imogen knows the professor well enough to know he won’t prioritize it. She’s seen his office, and it’s not a pretty sight.

The door swings open, letting warm yellow light spill into the street. Silhouetted by the glow, Dr. Floyd looks as if he’s wearing a halo, like an angel descended from heaven.

“Miss Van Doren,” he says, and as her eyes adjust to the sudden light, she notices a faint smile on his face. “Glad you could make it.”

He steps aside, hand still on the doorknob, allowing her to walk past him and inside the entrance hall. She catches a whiff of his cologne as he closes the door behind her. Spices and ink. Him.

A coat rack hangs on the wall with three coats evenly spaced out. Underneath it is a small bench and next to it are the professor’s shoes. The classic brown oxfords he wears to work and a pair of sensible winter boots. Both are spotless.

Unlike his office, the house appears perfectly tidy. Her mouth hangs open as she takes in the elaborate light fixtures, wood paneling, framed artwork on the opposite wall to the coat rack depicting a nye of pheasants. Not the type of art she expected, but it feels like him somehow.

She can feel his eyes trained on her as he steps up behind her. “Let me take your coat,” he says, voice deep and gravelly. She nods, slipping her purse off her shoulder and placing it on the bench.

His fingertips graze her neck, sending a shiver down her spine when he grasps the collar and slides the wool off her shoulders and down her arms. Stepping around her, he puts the coat on the rack for her.

“Come on,” he says once she’s toed her boots off and placed them haphazardly next to his own. “Dinner’s almost done.”

Imogen frowns, grabbing her purse and following him down the narrow entryway and into the open-plan kitchen. “You cook?”

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, she catches the smile on his handsome features. “I do,” he tells her, rounding the large island and reaching for an empty wine glass. “Red or white?”

She blinks at him, not sure how to feel about him being nice and personable. They may have agreed to bury the hatchet for a few days, but this is beyond unsettling. His light blue shirt has the top buttons undone, giving her a view of his collarbones and a thin silver chain around his neck.

“Red,” she says finally, trying to shake off the weird sensation of being in his home and watching him do normal things like pour a glass of wine.

He hands her the glass, raising his own and clinks them together. “Happy holidays, miss Van Doren.”

“Imogen,” she corrects him and takes a long sip, tasting the tannins on her tongue. “Is there anything I can help with?”

He trains his blue eyes on her. They appear darker than usual, maybe from the wine in his system or the tension cackling between them. His lips turn up at the corner. “Now you want to be helpful?”

Heart pounding in her chest, her cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze. She wants to say something back, a witty remark, a counterpoint, a quip, but she can’t think of anything. Instead, she nods dumbly.

He smirks, the crinkles around his eyes deepening. “No,” he says at last, coming up in front of her, leaning down until his lips are a hair’s breadth away from her earlobe. “But you can sit that pretty little ass down and look sexy for me.”

TAGLIST: @roosterforme, @bradshawsbaby, @kmc1989, @cherrycola27, @yanna-banana, @bluezraven, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @hangmandruigandmav, @keyrani, @just-in-case-iloveyou, @solo-pitstop-vibes, @sweetwhispersofchaos, @attapullman, @bcarolinablr, @lewmagoo, @floydsmuse, @lyn-js, @briseisgone, @ryebecca, @auroralightsthesky

#bob floyd #bob floyd smut #bob floyd fic #bob floyd x oc #robert bob floyd #robert floyd #robert bob floyd fic #top gun maverick #tgm #tgm fic #lewis pullman #otp: bob x imogen #fic: gold rush #oc: imogen van doren #bob floyd fanfic #bob floyd fanfiction

104 notes · View notes

carionto · 1 year ago

Text

Geronimo!

Space suits have come a long way - near 1 to 1 articulation and haptic feedback, intuitive zero-g booster based movement, nano-clamps for spiderman-like grip in low/no gravity, and of course dozens of micro layers of protection against all know space radiation and other hazards. Plus a centimeter thick composite armor against sentient threats, with a "cocoon" mode to fully cover all joints and other normally more exposed parts, that renders the Human inside near impervious to most small arms, and even some heavier impacts.

To fully test the limits of protection you don't actually need to have a person inside, just plenty of sensors and a good understanding Human physiology and anatomy. The military, of course, does things a bit differently, as their suits are even tougher. They do have this half-half mode where you are mostly armor, but can still move, but more like the Terminator. Given it also boasts a powered exoskeleton between the armor and hazardous protection layers, soldiers can wield weapons other militaries typically mount on vehicles, so the metaphor is almost just a straight factual comparison.

Some, however, are still not satisfied, and are always seeking to extend the durability of their suits to beyond the extremes.

____________________________

Hilda Lavre was standing on the edge of the ship in low orbit. One hand gripping an outer handle while engaged in final diagnostics.

"Alright, Hilda, everything looks green on our end, how 'bout you?"

"Same green green. I'm good."

"Whenever you're ready then. There's some clouds in the way of the predicted path, might slow you down a bit. Wanna wait?"

"Nah, nah. I'll wing it."

After a seconds pause, Hilda let go of the handle and gently kicked off the side of the ship. She was now on a direct collision course with the Atlantic Ocean.

(Thermals should start going up soon. I'm gonna turn on the external mic just a tad. There's just something about how the heat sounds scraping against the metal.

Oh, there it goes. Yellow, slowly getting to orange. Good.

Yea, that's a nice screech - burn that paint!

Halfway to red, altitude check. Already this close? Guess it'll be just shy of 80% tolerance.

Hehehehe, that means we can go for a bit faster next time. Cool.

Eh... wind without the heat just doesn't sound right, I'll turn it down to just barely audible. Something to keep me company.

Aaaand three.

Two.

One.)

SPLASH

(It's dark. But I guess it was dark before...

before what though?

Well, that's okay.

This feels like a new kind of dark though.

There's the dark when you're alone in your room at night, all the lights are out.

Another kind is when you decide to get inside your brothers closet to scare him when he comes back from the kitchen. That's a fun kind of dark. (it's getting cold)

There's also the dark of being in an underground bunker during a storm. Then the power gets cut and all the exits are sealed. That's a... lonely kind of dark.

One time I was wandering the woods, and before I knew it, it was the middle of a moonless night, overcast too. Hiding out in an abandoned shed, without even the wind or animal sounds to let you know anything is out there. I didn't like that kind of dark at all. (It's really cold)

This dark though... I dunno. It's like I'm hiding out in my own closet. My shoulder is up against my winter jacket, feet are grazing those old sandals I swore to throw out two summers ago. But also, it's not my room. Or even my house. Why am I in my closet? How did it get here? Where even is here?

I feel sleepy.

"Hey, hey! Hilda! Wake up!"

*grunting* "Ugh... shut, shut up Barry..."

"Gods, don't freak us out like that. You okay?"

"Depends. How high did it go go?"

*laughter* "Okay, [She's fine everyone] yeah, you're fine. 87 meters, new record."

"Hmm, I was aiming to to break 90."

"Well, those clouds nudged you a little off, you hit it at a 83 degree angle. Still, those other readings are nice. I'm pretty sure we can do a boosted fall next time."

"Yeah, I I think so too. I feel a little little cold, did something break on hit hit?"

"Not break, but the impact did jolt the subsystems a bit. Activated one of the sedative shots. I manually made your suit give you a wake up shot right as I noticed. You should be feeling the effects right about now."

"Mmhhmmm, oh yea. I'm feeling the kick kick now. We need to improve the kinetic tic dampeners. No good if if it puts you to sleep upon any hard enough nough impact."

"Yup. We're suspending any other jumps for the week until we get that fixed and implement some minor tweaks based on your jump once we analyze the telemetry further.

Okay, everyone! Good job today! Let's meet up next weekend and test these bad boys out. Let's aim for a 100 meter splash by the end of the year!"

*cheers and yeahs as Barry opens a mini fridge and everyone cracks open a cold one*

#humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #humans are deathworlders #humanity fuck yeah #carionto #sky diving #more like space diving #but whatever #also #don't know how I feel about giving her that... stutter?#I just randomly felt like trying out a speech impediment #hope I don't offend anyone with the way I presented it #I don't think I've seen how a stuttering character talks in text format #well #trying out new things

138 notes · View notes

soft-for-them · 2 years ago

Text

Hidden away - Týr x plus size reader

Summary: Whilst searching for a suitable breakfast you happen to come across the old god of war and justice hidden away.

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated and help more people read my works.

A/N: This gif does not match with the story but there isn't many God of War Ragnarök gifs out there (understandable because the game just came out) and for some reason I don't like using still images. ALSO I haven't finished the game (someone has already spoiled it for me which is annoying) so don't spoil even more for me or anyone else thank you. I'm already thinking of a part two if people want it.

“Sindri!” you grumble as you finally come out your cocoon that is you little bedroom.

You’ve hastily put on a blue overdress, the same one you were wearing all day yesterday, with a fresh long sleeved underdress on of course. The big golden broaches that hold up the straps of the dress, one made by each of your brothers (you were adopted well after they were born but they still insist you are apart of their family) with the Huldra symbol moulded into each of the shiny metal rounds are the only clean part of your outfit, your dress covered in powdered paint and glue now dried clear.

Need to say you really need to give your dress a good scrub.

Bare feet hit the shallow steps that were really made only for your brother’s short stature lead down to the open planed ground floor, your bones clicking as you smooth down your clothes over your curves, not bothering to do your hair quite yet.

“Sindri!” you call again this time a bit louder as you head to the kitchen area.

The last you saw of your bother he had quickly popped into your bedroom, which is also your workroom where you paint your murals. He had excuse himself for he was going to go help young Atreus and his father. He said something about Tyr and Brok but really half of it went in one ear and out the other for you were painting and not paying attention to your non blue brother.

You lazily look around for some food to eat whilst also seeing who’s around, Sindri did say he’d be back with Brok, Atreus and Kronos but the tree house is awfully quiet without the bickering of your dwarven brothers along with the clinking of metal tools.

For a moment you stop and look around, you debate calling out again but you don’t.

Instead you find an apple to eat, a bruised one but an apple all the same. You don’t want to be cooking, it’s too early and you’re not the best at it (seem it runs in the family), so you take a big bite out the red and yellow fruit frowning at the chalky texture.

“Where are the porridge oats?” you wonder out loud as you rummage around for the food.

Porridge may not be the first or second thing you’d want to eat in the morning for its awfully bland on its own (and you still want to do as little as possible because you’re tired and in need to finish your painting) but you search for it anyway.

Mediocre apple half eaten you wonder over to the doors leading to what you assume is a pantry, well you thought it was.

You see this isn’t your home, well it is now that the end of times is coming but you didn’t live here before fimblewinter.

Before you lived out in a remote cabin in the middle of the woods living off the land and painting your artwork in peace. Now you cramped in your brother’s spare room for he insisted you move in with him when a group of raiders attacked you home.

“Brok?” you call out. Brok always shouts at you back, he’s your older brother and he loves you but he finds you and your shouting annoying. Sindri would say that you’re just as bad as each other with all the shouting and swearing, two peas in a pod but Brok insists you aren't.

You hear no shouting of your blue brother so you push open the door of what you think is a pantry the thing only open just a bit enough to squish you plush body through. It takes another budge from your shoulder to push the door inwards more, the something that once blocked the door moving away.

Either you’ve become very strong or whatever was blocking the door walked itself backwards.

“What the?” you whisper to yourself as you peak down around the door not see a random box or a weapon that Brok has left around, no, you see a big foot.

Eyes gone wide you slowly look up to see a man, a giant man, a man you have never seen in your entire life before waking up from his make sift bed in the small storage room.

Long dark hair drapes over his face that’s very sleepy looking, his glowing eyes barley open with little bits of sleepy in the corners as he peers up to you.

You want to act on instinct, grab the nearest blunt heavy object and throw it at him followed by running away but his eyes pool with confusion like a animal who has encountered a lost human in the middle of the woods only to run away themselves.

You assume you’ve just woke him up by barging in, his foot obviously being the object you though you moved to open the door just a bit.

You hope you haven’t hurt him in anyway.

“Who are you?” you ask in a stern but quiet voice, not wanting to scare away the giant man who now sits up from his slump.

“I could ask the same thing.” his voice makes you shiver, a warmth travels up your neck.

“I live here thank you very much.”

Already your eyes look the man up and down, his height sitting up taller than your brothers at full height, he must be a giant or part giant you think. The only part giant you’ve met is Atreus and well, Thor as well but you do not like to talk about that.

“Are you a giant?” you ask as you step a bit closer, your body now over the door frame, you now fully into the small room.

“Giant, do you mean Jötnar?” his voice, though laced with a sleepy croak one has when you’ve just awoken, sounds almost playful but also wise.

“I’m sorry, Jötnar, I’ve been around Brok and Sindri too long to remember the proper names for everything-“ you’re babbling but you do so to justify you slip up of calling him a giant, “I’m a human but technically I’m a Midgardian, I do not mean any offence.”

“I don’t take any-“ he talks with his hands, he moves them in a certain motion urging you to give him your name.

“(Y/n). Sister of Brok and Sindri.”

Holding out your hand and despite him sitting down he easily returns the greeting. His large hand wraps around your forearm, his digits squishing your soft skin lightly, his touch light as a feather like he doesn’t want to hurt anyone. You wrap your own hand around his forearm, your own fingers aching as they stretch around the wide width of his arm.

He goes to part from your greeting but you grip on his arm pulling on it like you intend to pull him up off the floor. You know you can’t, you’re not that strong, but it’s a kind gesture to say 'here, I can help you up' to the tall man.

When you were little and smaller than your brothers you’d try pulling them up despite not being able too, they’d get up just fine but they were always thankful for the so called ‘help’. Maybe it’s a childish thing to do, especially to a stranger, but the part Jötnar man looks so tired, so in himself like he doesn’t know who he is.

He pulls himself up just fine, your hand still lingering on his arm. He does not mind, he actually likes the feeling.

“Sister?” he asks.

“Adopted.” You say back with a smile.

“Ah. I see.” He looks down at you with his glowing eyes, not a bad emotion crossing his eyes as he looks at you, “I’m Tyr by the way.”

You mind runs wild.

Atreus and Kronos succeeded in freeing him!

“Well Tyr, would you like some breakfast-“ you raise you other hand that still hold the half eaten apple, “- I was looking for something more substantial to eat than this apple.”

“I would be grateful for one, I-I haven’t had a good breakfast in quite a while.”

#god of war #god of war ragnorak #god of war x reader #tyr god of war #tyr god of war x reader #tyr x reader #x plus size reader #plus size reader #x chubby reader #chubby reader

510 notes · View notes

trashbag-baby666 · 2 years ago

Text

Between Tridents and Knives-Finnick Odair

Chapter Three

Chapter Summary: As training starts they bicker over who they want as ally’s and earning Katniss and Peetas trust.

WC: 2,944

C/W: Mentions of Snow selling their bodies and implied smut.

Series Masterlist!

Fawn sat at the table eating breakfast, accompanied by Librae, Nava, and Finnick. She slowly took bites of the District Four bread that sat in a basket on the table.

They tasted of home to her, to look over and see Finnicks green eyes.

It made her imagine sitting in Finnicks kitchen, well now theirs. Fawn had her own house in the victors village but they had both lived in Finnicks. He had lived there for a few years prior. The house was lived in and had more personality than Fawns.

Sitting in the light blue painted kitchen with big windows looking over the beach and ocean next to their house. The sound of the water crashing into the rocks and sand. The salty water air floats through the house from the open windows.

The taste of the bread Finnick had made in the morning.

But that was far from the truth. They sat in the apartment floors only used once a year to hold two teenagers for a few weeks before they got slaughtered.

"Should we take any guidance going in today?" Finnick broke the silence looking over at the other male victor from 4 acting as the mentor.

"Figure out your guy's pick for allies. I believe Haymitch Abernathy wanted to speak with you two?" Librae wouldn't look at them. Fawna and Finnick weren't close with him but it was still a reminder of home for them.

"Great advice," Fawn rolled her eyes as she finished off her piece of bread.

"Do you two really need my help with combat training and advice?" Librae picked up his head and looked at her. She had a scowl on her face, her golden brown bangs hanging in her face.

"No we don't, right Fawn?" Finnick looked over at his lover.

"We don't, but ally suggestions would help." Fawn hummed looking over at Finnick.

"Here, let's get ready for training." Finick took a swig of his water glass standing up, taking Fawns hand and leading her back to the bedroom.

On the bed the training uniforms sat folded with the black shoes resting on top for them.

Fawn picked hers up holding the black tank top with the silver straps then the black capri pants with the metallic at the bottom.

"Could be worse," Fawn sighed, changing from her sleep wear. Finnick watched but stepped over touching Fawns bare waist as she clipped the black bra on that the tank covered.

"Maybe we have time for something quick?" Finnick whispered in her ear pressing his body against hers.

"No, not right now." Fawn sighed, stepping away from his grip to finish sliding on her capri pants. The both had an odd relationship when it came to intimacy and sometimes physical touch.

After Snow began selling Fawns body after she won and the victory tour things became harder.

She would pretty much have no choice but to just shut up and have sex with the men and women who paid Snow.

She would try to avoid Finnicks touches sometimes when she couldn't handle the touches.

It would send her back to some dimmed over the top capitol house bedroom. A soft yellow glow on her body as she faked her orgasms and pretended she gave two shits about the people.

So when Finnick and Fawn had their occasional scheduled sexual intimacy night it wasn't the same. Fawn began ignoring the feelings attached to it. Kind of just leaving it to part of the going through the motions part of her day.

It took Finnick about a month to notice that Fawn was just stiff. The way she would lay back on the bed, her eyes clamped shut. She didn't even moan as Finnick thrusted his pelvis in and out.

That's when her tears began, she couldn't feel anything but sad and humiliated. Finnick stopped immediately pulling out of her. He laid next to her and began hushing her, brushing her hair from her face.

"I'm sorry," Fawn sobbed, not even opening her eyes and just rubbing away the tears. She cuddled into his bare chest as he held her.

"There's no reason to be sorry, Fawn." Finnicks voice was quiet as he held her small, muscular body. She was shaking as she curled in on herself, relaxing more into him as her tears tired her out, "I'm here love."

Fawn stayed quiet, her eyes shut as she fell asleep, her head on Finnick's chest. She looked peaceful, her chest rising and falling, her eyelashes delicately resting on her cheeks, her soft pink lips pulled into a straight line.

Fawn stood in the elevator heading down to the training center. They weren't completely sure why but maybe it was about the unspoken elephant in the room.

The rebellion.

There had been uprisings in four ever since the victory tour for Katniss and Peeta.

The door opened to the elevator and Haymitch stood against the wall facing the elevator looking at the pair.

He motioned for them to follow him, Finnick took Fawns hand and they followed him down a long hallway. Going somewhere secluded, something needed to be said to the two. They rounded a corner and into a dark room, Haymitch shut the door and stood in front of it.

"So why're we here? Are we just going to be killed now?" Fawn copped an attitude losing a bit of patience.

"No, we actually need you two alive." Haymitch stood close his voice barely a whisper, "District 13 is still a place. Plutarch is behind it all. We've had a plan working for years and this quell was set up to get the victors out of the arena and take you to 13. But we need Katniss, she's what sparked the rebellion, she's the symbol of hope." Haymitch explained, "We need to keep her alive but I also made a deal with her that I'd keep Peeta alive. So now the mentors are setting up an alliance. You two, Wiress and Beetee, and Johanna and Blight. Others know of it but you guys are the main key to it. To keep Katniss from turning on you guys you need to protect Peeta."

"This sounds like a terrible plan." Fawn began.

"Fawn, just listen, this is plausible." Finnick squeezed her hand.

After they made their deal with Haymitch they walked into the training center. Not even all the tributes were here. The morphlings sat at the painting station painting pink swirls on each other's faces, Beetee and Wiress were trying to start a fire, Katniss and Peeta at the knot tying station, and Johanna was on a training platform working with an axe. Fawn swallowed hard. Was she really going to let Finnick die for Katniss? She knew she had to protect Finnick coming into this game, she didn't trust Katniss there was just something about her.

"Where do we wanna start," Finnick asked, putting his arm around the small of her back.

"I'm going to freshen up on my knife skills." Fawn stepped away from Finnick and walked over to the table of throwing knives. She picked one up tossing it around in her hand. She walked over to the small screen selecting hologram targets. She stood on the sensor grabbing a handful of knives in her left hand.

The first orange hologram ran towards her and Fawn sent a knife barreling into the chest. The next one appeared moving behind other hologram targets, Fawn watched for a moment before picking the right time and sent a knife into the head of the hologram.

She threw a few more before two holograms came running. Fawn watched as they intersected and sent one knife going through both of them.

She sighed, setting the rest of the knives on the table and walking over to where Finnick was at the knot tying station.

"Wanting to show off already, hun?" Finnick didn't miss a beat as he tied a few knots that could create a net.

"I said I'm just freshening up on my skills." Fawn rolled her eyes.

"Let me show you the best knot to know in the arena." Finnick smirked, grabbing another rope off the wall. Fawn didn't work with ropes much at home really that was more Finnicks job.

Fawn crossed her arms watching him as he began tying a noose.

"For once don't look at me, look at the knot." Finnick chuckled, wrapping the rope around itself.

"Fin," Fawn went to grab his wrist but he slipped it around his neck and tightened it.

"You know, then just." He pretended to hang himself.

"Wow, you're so funny I'm laughing so hard." Fawn stood there with a straight face shifting her weight.

"Do you wanna take me for a walk?" Finnick held the rope out to Fawn. She smirked and grabbed it as she began prancing around the training area. A shit eating grin ran across her face as the other victors looked at her as she dragged around Finnick. He also had a smile across his face. Cashmere and Gloss stood in a corner by the spears glaring at them.

"Can I pet your dog?" Johanna walked over to the two of them as Fawn walked in front of where all the game makers watched them.

"He bites," Fawn giggled.

"Only bites you," Finnick took the noose off his neck and leaned into Fawn.

"Shut up," Fawn shoved Finnick.

Later on Fawn sat with Wiress and Beetee as they talked about the force field in front of the game makers.

"Katniss shot an arrow at them last year," Fawn looked at the two. But everyone came over to watch Katniss shoot as she was in one of the interactive areas.

"Damn," Johanna walked over to where Finnick and Fawn stood.

"Didn't know she was that good," Fawn breathed out.

"She did manage to pull an 11 last year for a training score," Finnick looked down at her. As she finished, Wiress began clapping and Katniss turned to see everyone watching her.

"So, Fawn and Finnick, who do you guys want as allies?"Lysis asked. Of course Nava, Atala, and Lysis were oblivious to what was really going on.

"Beetee, Wiress, and Johanna." Fawn didn't miss a beat as she took another bite of the rice and gravy that they served for dinner.

"What about Katniss and Peeta?" Nava asked.

"I want them but Fawn isn't sure yet," Finnick smiled at the two stylists. Fawn sometimes got impatient with them and their pure ignorance and almost capitol stupidity. But she also valued them as people too her were just looking out for her best self interest.

"I think it would be wonderful, the capital's star crossed couples allied together." Atala smiled, taking some fruit from a plate in the center of the table.

"Yeah something like that," Fawn huffed. Finnick gently squeezed her thigh, in the end once the gong would go off to start the games. It didn't matter because they were going to protect Katniss and Peeta and get out of the damned arena and this damned country.

The second day of training they'd decided would be for talking with others to build a foundation for their plan.

Finnick put an arm around Fawns waist as they rode down the elevator to go to the training center. The doors opened and they stepped out walking down the hall to the training center.

"Let's play nice today," Finnick smirked looking down at Fawn as they came in the doors to the training center.

"Shut up," she shoved him gently around everyone that was there yesterday.

"Why don't you go talk to Katniss?" Finnick smirked looking at Fawn.

"Why? Can't you go talk to her and I'll talk to Peeta?" Fawn crossed her arms tilting her head slightly looking at him. She wasn't really good at girl talk. She tried her best, being surrounded by capitol people made it easier for her.

"Because you can do girl talk, I can't." Finnick turned on his heels and walked over to Peeta at the painting station leaving Fawn standing alone in the middle of the training area.

She rolled her eyes as she reluctantly walked over to where Katniss was shooting targets with her bow. To Fawn she hadn't yet realized if she couldn't get Katniss to trust her before the games she could turn around and kill Fawn and Finnick.

"Girl on fire," Fawn came up behind her, Fawns voice riddled with enthusiasm.

"Mrs. Odair," Katniss set her bow down and turned looking at Fawn. The nickname Katniss just used, of course to taunt her. Made butterflies flap through Fawns stomach, they wanted to marry so badly. They were getting around to finally getting engaged and doing it in District Four. Then the Quarter Quell was announced, Fawn was hoping if they made it to District 13 they could marry there.

"Can I offer you some tips with a knife? Knowing your way around one can do you some good? Maybe you can show me how to set a snare, I saw the ones you set in the last games." Fawn crossed her arms looking up at the taller girl.

"Sure," Katniss grabbed a few knives from the wrack of weapons. Fawn grabbed a few and Katniss stepped out of the way. Fawn positioned herself in the middle, as she decided to use the targets like they were others coming at her. She threw about five knives before stepping away. Katniss knew how successful Clove had been with throwing knives last year, now this was Fawns speciality.

"Here it's your turn," Fawn stepped away and let Katniss step up, "Square your shoulders to your target, there's a few ways you can hold your knife, the way I hold it is like this." Fawn stood next to Katniss and grabbed a knife grabbing it by the handle and like you would a hammer. She then sent it flying into a target's chest.

"Why don't you give it a shot?" Fawn tried to offer a smile to Katniss but it faltered. Katniss stood like how Fawn did and gripped the knife and threw it, sending it into a target's leg.

"Well that's a good start you'd at least injure them?" Fawn shrugged as she continued helping Katniss. After about half an hour Katniss was showing her how to set snares.

"Fawn come here," Finnick waved Fawn over as she practiced starting a fire with two sticks. Fawn rolled her eyes, she got up and walked over to Finnick. He grabbed a trident off a wrack and handed another to Fawn.

"I know my way around one of these," Fawn looked at the glorified spear. She had worked with these at home spearing fish and Finnick had shown her some things with one.

"Oh do you now?" Finnick smirked, moving impossibly closer to her, his breath running over her cheek and he winked kissing her cheek, "Fine then show me."

"Fuck you Finnick." Fawn rolled her eyes as he got off the small platform in the training area. Fawn readied herself with one and stabbed into the air spinning herself around; she couldn't imagine how silly she may be looked stabbing things that aren't there.

"So you know your way down but your form was wrong honey." Finnick got up onto the platform.

"I'll kill you right here," Fawn chuckled dryly as she set the trident back on the rack, "I can use one if I need Finnick, I'm not an expert like you."

Fawn walked over back to the fire starting area where Beetee and Wiress sat trying to start a fire.

"Hello my dear," Beetee smiled at her. Beetee was always more than happy to talk with Fawn at victor events. He was somewhat a father figure t0 her, she was a younger victor and he took it upon himself to be there for her.

"Hey," Fawn sat down by them, Wiress ran a gentle hand over her honey brown hair, "Yeah I needed a bit of a length change." Last victor event Fawn had longer hair that she would wear in low space buns usually.

"I like it," Wiress nodded.

"Thank you," Fawn smiled, "Here Beetee if you move your hands down more and faster you should have more luck starting a fire."

"A little brute forth," Wiress smiled.

"Is always helpful," Beetee chuckled, "Thank you darling."

"By the corner of the table." Wiress looked up at where the game makers sat. Fawn had learned how Wiress functioned, after her games she had gone a little mentally unstable. But she was so smart and always found a way to get her point across.

"Plutarch?" Fawn looked over at the two. Beetee lifted his glasses up looking at what Wiress was saying.

"No next to him," Wiress pointed.

"Force field," Beetee smirked. It stunned Fawn how smart they were. How smart most people from district three were. She remembers how shocked she was last year when the boy from district three was able to wire the tribute platforms back into bombs.

"How can you tell?" Fawn furrowed her eyebrows.

"It's shimmering on the top left hand side." Beetee gently moved Fawns head to where she could better see it.

"Do you see it now?" Fawn nodded looking at it.

"It's like glass." She observed.

"A barrier between us and them." Wiress hummed.

"Katniss shot an arrow at them last year during her training." Fawn bit her lip re telling the story she had heard multiple times.

"It's electro magnetic." Beetee said, setting his glasses back on after staring it down, "There's always a flaw in the system."

#finnick odair x oc #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair #haymitch abernathy #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #johanna mason #beetee latier #wiress #the hunger games #catching fire

165 notes · View notes

ebongawk · 1 year ago

Text

part one | part two

He fucked up. He fucked up so bad.

Bad enough that when he'd told Wayne how he'd fucked up, Wayne had let out a long, slow sigh, wrapped a comforting hand around his shoulder and squeezed, and then smacked the back of his head like he did when Eddie was acting foolish as a child.

"Jesus, kid," Wayne grumbled as he led Eddie downstairs. "You really like the taste of your own feet, huh?"

"What?"

"Because you keep putting your damn foot in your damn mouth," Wayne shot, smacking him in the head again. Eddie didn't even voice his complaint at the pain. "Didn't I raise you with a modicum of sense?"

"At least one," Eddie sighed, sitting heavily on the kitchen chair – and only then noticing that it, too, was different. Same chairs they'd picked up at a flea market, but obviously refurbished and restained in a way lighter color. The gaudy orange cushions had been replaced with a way mellower off-white that was run through with patterns of ivy. Chrissy had taken down the wallpaper in here, too, and repainted it in a soft chick-feather yellow. And all of the walls were decorated with paintings of sunflowers, bringing her design together so fucking fantastically.

Eddie'd been so up in his own fucking head that he didn't see any of the signs Chrissy had cast up in neon shapes for his arrival. Now that he noticed, he was suddenly seeing dozens of little touches she'd put through the house. Some new furniture to add and replace the secondhand shit they'd scrounged together before he left; new paint on practically every wall; rugs across the wood floors that definitely hadn't been there before; photos and art hung up in practically every room.

Normally, the gross feelings in Eddie's gut were vindicated. People almost always proved to be the goddamn worst.

But Chrissy had never done anything in the entire eighteen months they'd been together to give Eddie a reason to doubt her. He was just... He was just so goddamn used to being disappointed that he'd braced himself for impact without giving her a chance to prove him wrong.

And wrong he fucking was.

So wrong, in fact, that he was convinced he'd ruined the life they had been building together and she was going to leave him.

He didn't even know if he had the strength to stop her.

All of this was voiced to Wayne, who sat across from him at the kitchen table and gave a weary sigh as Eddie wrapped up his pity party.

"Really?" his uncle asked. "One misunderstanding and you're gonna throw in the towel?"

"I accused her of cheating––"

"Yeah, and that was stupid as hell," Wayne interrupted. "But that girl's been with you for well over a year now. I'm sure she expects stupid as hell from you at this point."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Not my fault you've unscrewed a few too many up top," Wayne shrugged. "And I know you've been cheated on––"

"I didn't give a shit about any of that when it happened," Eddie grumbled, waving his hand through the air like he could dismiss Wayne's rumblings.

His uncle blinked at him, head tilted to one side and a strange look on his face.

"Kid, I know you got some shit to work through, but are you honestly trying to convince me you didn't care when Regina messed around behind your back? Or when Leslie did?"

"Pops––"

"You ain't made o' steel, Ed," Wayne finished before Eddie could disagree again. "No matter how you try and convince the world. Anyone with a heart tender as yours would be wounded by that kinda bullshit, alright? But it wasn't you. It was them. And now you've got a girl that wants to go to Hell and back for you. So you better not let her get away."

Wayne stood then before Eddie could compose any sort of retort. Leaving Eddie alone to stew in his own idiocy.

Prior to Chrissy, Eddie didn't really do relationships. He'd had all of a half dozen rushed bar bathroom trysts before the band moved to Cali, and the girls he met in the scene while Corroded Coffin struggled to make a name for themselves weren't all that into being tied down. Which Eddie was fine with. His only stipulation was that they be exclusive so he could avoid catching anything.

They'd both agreed. And they'd both broken that stipulation. He and Leslie had only been seeing each other for a couple months, but Regina was an entire year of his life down the goddamn drain.

It wasn't like he was expecting her to suddenly want to commit. But, fuck, dude, she could've just left when she wasn't feeling it anymore instead of trying to lie. Trying to pretend like she wasn't waiting for the band to make it big so she could snatch him up, then and getting frustrated when it kept not happening. So she fucked other guys to make up for Eddie's extended list of shortcomings, which she presented to him when he confronted her about cheating.

Which was fine. Because he re-met Chrissy a month later and everything worked out for the best.

Except the part where Eddie fucked it all up again.

Scrubbing his hands through his hair, Eddie stood up from the kitchen chair in hopes of tracking Chrissy down. He needed to explain shit to her, tell her that it wasn't her fault. That he assumed the worst because he was the worst.

He checked the small back patio first, but she wasn't there. Nowhere else on the first floor, either. Upstairs, Wayne and Jonathan were putting up the finishing touches on his recording studio, but Nancy was nowhere to be found.

"Can't imagine you'd be willing to tell me where your fiancée wandered off to?" Eddie asked as Jonathan carefully placed Eddie's acoustic This Guitar Slays Dragons on the wall.

"And find myself in the doghouse?" Jonathan asked with a quirked brow. "I don't have a death wish, Munson. Sorry."

That was fair. Nancy could be utterly terrifying.

Not as terrifying as Chrissy. But close.

The third guest bed – which had also seen some changes, and which was very obviously being occupied by his uncle during his stay – was also empty, so Eddie made his way back into their bedroom, praying she hadn't already made an exit somehow.

She was there, throwing a few things into an overnight bag.

"Chrissy––"

"Not right now," she said, her eyes trained resolutely on her task. The joy of his unexpected arrival turned to ash on his tongue as she avoided him completely. As she packed away a small portion of his life so she could leave him, however temporarily.

Temporary could become permanent so quickly.

"Please, can we talk?" he tried again, his voice cracking on the question. Splintering like cracked ice that would shatter completely if he put any more weight on it, plunging him into the frigid depths of her absence.

"Talk about what?" Chrissy asked, her voice hard. Like if she didn't keep it level, it would crash into the depths with him. "About how I was cheating?"

"Chrissy––"

"You didn't come home early to surprise me," she said, stilling the movements of her hands but still refusing to look at him, "did you?"

All Eddie wanted was to see that anger. That betrayal on her face. Because at least, if she looked at him, he'd have the opportunity to gauge whether he could fix this.

"No," he admitted, voice half caught in his throat.

Even from across the room, he could hear the ragged intake of her breath.

"I'm, um." She paused, taking another wavering breath. Shoving the last of her belongings into the bag and zipping it shut. "I'm going to stay at Nancy's tonight."

"Chrissy––"

"I'll let you know when I'm ready to talk." She pushed past him, into the hallway and down the stairs before Eddie could breathe.

And he just... watched her go. Staring after the bouncing of her hair until it disappeared.

When the front door slammed shut, Eddie dropped to his knees, staring after the space she'd occupied like he could will her to come back.

Everything in him was rioting. Screaming. Warring with him to go after her, to fix his stupid mistakes, to get her to understand that she was it for him. That he was an idiot, but fuck, he was an idiot who loved her.

Everything, that was, except his heart.

He wondered, distantly, over the roaring of blood in his ears, whether or not she even realized she packed it before she left.

(to be continued)

#hellcheer #eddissy #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #stranger things #eddie x chrissy #chrissy x eddie #hellcheer drabble #angst #hurt/comfort #but i'm still only giving hurt lmao

57 notes · View notes

watcherwingedcat · 1 month ago

Text

When I'm an adult, I'm gonna decorate my house however the fuck I want. I'm gonna paint my walls like a forest. I'm gonna have a nest. One of the rooms is going to have fake grass because why not

My kitchen is going to be yellow. My living room is going to have a BIG TV. And a Wii because why not. I'm going to have a room just for my pet cat, they are going to have their own room. I want a green bathroom, with a bathtub. With plants on the walls, like a mossy wall. And a big fake tree in the middle of the house

#therian #otherkin #thecatchirps #alterhuman #non human #winged cat therian #nonhuman #otherhearted #winged cat otherkin #from the queue

13 notes · View notes

thatsgoodsquishy0 · 9 months ago

Text

I haven't done one of these in a while. With the flood and various fuckery going on, there's really been no time for Tumblr. I mean, no proper time. No sit down, blog, and write time. But here, I suppose there is. I was asked to share if I had something, so here is something I'm re-working on since my hiatus. A snippet from Chapter 3 of my Young! Ranger Sam Coe x Reader fic --- soon to be renamed.

summary: just a father and son catching up + Sam remembering his momma

tagging: anybody who sees this and hasn't participated yet (since I've seen most already)

Sam pushed the door open, leading with his palm against the wood as he welcomed himself inside. Six years. Nothing new. Dust swirled in the dim-light of the living room. Photographs of happier times sat on shelves caked in thin layers of grime. His mother’s vine plants -- Baby Tears --- cascaded down like spotted green waterfalls from the ceiling into the walls of the dining area.

The trance of memory overwhelmed him. His breathing slowed.

His mother stepped out of the house and his father busied himself in his office, leaving Sam practically home alone. He was about as tall as the counter tops in the kitchen and he liked to grab anything he could, just because he could. Little rebel. He'd grabbed some rocks off a book stand. Played pretend on the floor of his bedroom, when a voice echoed faintly, like the call of a ghost. Sam paid no mind. The voice boomed louder than before.

Sam. Sammy!

His heart leapt. He knew that voice. It traveled from the deck into his room, into his ears, once more. Abandoning his geo-rocks right then and there, he rushed to her. Curiosity and eagerness carried his little legs across the living room as he tumbled outside. The sunlight blinded him immediately, but painted his mother in a golden shadow. Her hand was smooth and warm, like beach sand, as she gently took his own and shared her pride, pointing to the potted plants. He remembers peering up at her. His little eyes wide in awe as she spoke their names. He could hear her now. How the words rolled off perfectly, as if she'd practiced over and over on her way home. Pilea Depressa, she told him. Otherwise known as, Baby Tears, from Old Earth.

As far as Sam was concerned, the planet and the Coe Estate were one in the same. Both lived with color. With life. Once.

Black coffee and eggs permeated his nostrils. Some routines never died. Sam’s nose scrunched as he shut the door.

“Hello?” His voice rang out.

A figure dressed in official’s wear emerged from the kitchen holding a bowl of yellow bits. The man’s eyes were wide, as if he’d been up for hours, expectant. “Sam Coe,” He paused. A sudden chill whipped through the room. “You didn’t knock?”

“I did. No answer.” He traversed towards the table without so much as a glance to the other and settled Cora into her high chair. From out of the corner of his eye, Jacob loomed. Weren’t his eggs getting cold just standing there?

“Keeping your boots on?”

Sam bobbed his head, sternly. “Can’t stay long,” he added, “They’re clean. I ain’t gonna mud up your floors.”

“Rangers more important than having breakfast with your family, huh? Don’t gotta tell me twice.” Jacob disappeared into the kitchen. leaving Sam in an air that was clogged and stuffy. He felt as though he were on the cusp of a cold.

God damn. It was too early.

#wip wednesday #starfield fanfiction #sam coe x reader #coemancer #coemancer crew #Jacob Coe needs to chill #but Sam should also stop making deals with criminals LMAO #spoilers? possibly #squish writes #am I sad about Sam and his mom? yes

19 notes · View notes

thegirlinblueblog · 2 months ago

Text

I love digging into the past of words. They hold monumental history even if they seem few-lettered and plain. Just like us human beings. A thousand stories are hidden beneath a blank stare. I'm in my car now, on the way to my father's first routine check-up after the attack. To keep my anxiety at bay, I decide to read up on the history of Henna.

The word is derived from the Arabic word حناء, pronounced "ḥinnāʾ". Hinna is derived from the Proto-Semitic root Ḥ-N-N, Ha - noon - noon. I love the Arabic language. I've been trying to learn it for years now. It's so mystical and profound. The depth of it is deeper than the biggest oceans. It's boundless like the sky. Quite literally. The word اِسْم, pronounced 'ism', which is commonly known as "noun" in Qur'anic Arabic grammar, means "name". It has the root letters alif-seen-meem. Ism is known to be a word that is not associated with time; it has no past, present, or future tense, it simply exists, just like any noun. After learning this, my mind instantly drew a picture of the sky. The sky is boundless. Not associated with time and just simply exists. Interestingly, another word derived from the root letters alif-seen-meem is the word "samaa", which means "the sky". Aasmaan. Rings a bell? The urdu "aasmaan" was borrowed from the Persian آسمان (āsmān), but like most words in the world right now, the root is Arabic.

Anyways, I'm deviating from the main topic. Let's get back to henna. Hinna also connotes "beauty" or "grace." Another word from the Arabic root Ḥ-N-N is "ḥanān" (حنان), which means "affection" or "tenderness". Another word, "ḥanīn" (حنين), denotes a sense of "longing" or "yearning", often with a compassionate undertone. Beautiful, isn't it? A combination of three letters can equate to an endless array of words and limitless meanings. Boundless and beautiful, just like the sky and the people residing under it.

Henna/mehendi/mehndi art or use has been around for over 5000 years in places like Southeast Asia, Africa, and the Middle East. People used it because it helped them cool down under the harsh rays of the sun in hot desert areas. You must have seen pictures of henna-stained full red palms of indigenous women in desert areas. They do it for a reason. It's an ancient practice of making henna paste and putting it on the entire surface of the palms and feet. This staining method kept their hands and feet cool.

We had a henna tree (plant?! Idk) in our 4 taalar and 5 taalar chhad. Any celebration in our childhood comprised henna stains. It was almost a mandatory prerequisite. A mini celebration before the main one. My cousins, fuppira, and moi used to ask the khaalas (house helps) to make paste by plucking the leaves. The paste was made in those traditional sheel paata. The smell of henna wafted through the entire building once the paste was made. Large bowls were filled before it arrived at the station. The station used to be a big open balcony, then four small steps that led to our prized rooftop. This rooftop was an important part of our childhood. All the members of the family had their halud celebrations on it. Some even got married there. We used to paint the stairs and the rooftop with colourful aalpona when a wedding in our gushti took place. We even designed and made the backdrops and stage ourselves from scratch. The daala decorations were a festival on its own. A busy house full of people. Laces, ribbons, fabrics and glitters scattered all around. The air in the entire 4 taala heavily impregnated with the smell of dudh cha that's brewing in the kitchen in a big dekcchi.

Our rooftop was lined with trees all around it. Mango trees, red guava trees, lemon plants, tomato shrubs, and so many more. There were many flowering plants as well, cosmos, petunia, periwinkle, roses, pinks, dahlias, and one of my favorites, yellow alamandas. People ask me where I learned about flowers; when I look back now, I realize the seed was sowed in me at a very young age at home through the passion of my father and his brothers. Everyone in Narayanganj knows them for the people they are, and for their passion for greens and animals.

Anyways, I keep losing track of my thoughts. All girls and ladies along with the house helps used to sit in many different circles on the balcony and sometimes on the rooftop. We sat on a shitol paati, sang old songs, and took turns applying henna on each other's hands. Our applicators were sticks we broke from the sholar jharu we used to sweep our beds. The designs we made were always pretty much the same. One large circle in the middle and many small dots surrounding it. The tips of the fingers were stained too.

There's a funny story about henna stains. There's this belief (superstition) in this subcontinent, which we got to know from the women of the family, that henna stains indicate the strength of love for us from our loved ones. By loved ones, they insinuated each other's spouses or fiancés. My cousins and I, the little rascals, used to tease the chacchi fuppis and the soon to be wedded cousins once their hands were stained. We used to rub mustard oil and wait with great anticipation. How deep will the stain be? When we asked them what our stain implied, being the youngest of the lot, they said it's an indication of the power of the love and affection we are yet to receive. What a funny superstition. It makes me smile when I think about it. If only life were as simple as they portrayed it to be. Now all of us are in different parts of the world. I often think if we can ever sit in circles again and stain each other's hands, while singing the same old songs that'll probably bring a tear or two to our eyes.

In the desert, women used to stain their hands to cool their palms and feet. We stained ours to cool our hearts. Now, when I stain my hand, I am drowned in deep nostalgia, longing for the time I left behind long ago. A time of affection, compassion, and innocence. So far behind that it feels like a dream I dreamt on a daal-drunk, sweet summer afternoon slumber. This brings me back to the isms and the combination of Ha-Noon-Noon. Words, people, the eyes of our loved ones, a familiar hum, a flower, a color or two, the rain, the sky, our life, and even the stain of the henna—all seem plain and simple, but there's an entire world of stories hidden within. Hidden in plain sight.

#thegirlinblue #arabic #language #spilled words #words words words #etymology #henna #flowers for you

1 note · View note

vampiricgf · 2 months ago

Note

How about chia, sage, and nutmeg for the ask game, if they aint already been asked?

chia - what's an inside joke you have with someone else?

my bf and I did a whole naruto watch through during lockdown and latched onto this one random throw away line where guy is talking about his magic chinese medicine balls because it just struck me as so funny that china exists in this fantasy world, like no other irl nation is ever mentioned by name outside that so now when he says he's picking up like ibuprofen or something I'll always say oh yea time to get your magical chinese medicine balls or if I'm running to the pharmacy he calls my birth control my magic chinese medicine balls

sage - what 'medium' of art (poetry, music, fiction, paintings, statues etc.) is the most touching to you? why do you think that is?

so I find sculpture extremely impactful (not just because im related to three famous sculptors but that definitely plays a part in it lol) I just really admire the skill and level of patience required to form something with your own hands like that, to really be sitting down and giving life to a vision in your head in such a multidimensional way is astounding to me

nutmeg - how's your room/home decorated? do you have a specific theme or style going on?

so my kitchen is lemon themed because I fell in love with the 70s style yellow countertops the house has, it also has these hand painted tiles in the kitchen walls that feature sketches of different herbs so I try to play into both of those with the decor. the living rooms (there's two which was a crazy choice by the previous owners but whatever) are decorated with artworks collected by my relatives from all over the world (I also steal something from my relatives house in ny every time im invited for holidays which is also how I've amassed so many pieces ajskahsk we don't get along but whatever) but my great grandfather was really fond of going to east asian countries for inspiration and collected a massive amount of east asian pottery and sculpture in the process of his many visits so those are really the focal points. My bedroom has all the horror memorabilia crammed in it lol lots of horror movie posters, various little kitschy things ive picked up that are from different horror movie killers, lots of plushies all over the place too

#i hope you're having a good day jelly!!! also i always call you jelly in my head because of your username so i hope that okay! <3 #ask games

1 note · View note

slasher-lovers-blog · 2 years ago

Text

The grabber x reader

~Hidden Heart ~

Warning: violence, kidnapping, angst, fluff (?), blood, knife, cursing, abusive dad

Characters: Max, Albert Shawn aka the grabber, the reader.

•••

You were getting ready go get home, working in the grocery store was hard as it was summer and 30°. Your body felt like it was in a oven as you panted, taking your bag. You said goodbye to your coworkers and went outside; the sun welcoming you outside as no clouds were in the sky. As you walked your normal route to your house, you regretted the parasol that your mother offered. You were 20 and still lived at home, unable to pay for your own house. You had taken this job to earn enough, to move out and have a great life but nothing could prepare what happened later.

Headphones on as you trotted in a calm pace to home, to distracted to notice a black van following you. Everywhere was posters hanging of missing kids. No one knew who this person was or why he did it. Everyone feared to be the next. You sighed as you saw your familiar house, the old oak tree hanging over as leaves were green, the swings standing under it. Your dad builded it when you were 7, it was your birthday present. But now you barely used it as work was more important and going out. It would be weird to swing as a 20 year old, right?

She opened the small gate and closed it behind her as she took her headphones off, putting the MPlayer off. "Y/n!!" Her little sister screamed as she towards her big sister as she entered. "Hey kid" she grinned. Her sister giggled and hugged y/n's legs. "How was school?" Y/n asked. "Great!" The younger yelled before running back to the tv to watch her favorite show. Y/n sighed and headed to the kitchen, dropping her bag on a chair. Mother wasn't at home as dad was working late. 'I'm grocery shopping' was written on a yellow paper. She sighed as she spilled herself some orange juice before heading to her room.

9:00 pm.

Your father came home, in a bad mood. He started to argue about any small thing your mother did, trying to make a fight. Your mother looked tired and tried to ignore him. Your dad slapped her across the face. Y/n and her little sister sat at in her room, listening with scared eyes. Y/n tried to comfort her little sister; distracting her by playing with her dollhouse. It worked untill she went to bed. Y/n headed to her bedroom before hearing her father storm upstairs. "What the fuck you think you going?!" He barked at her. She flinched and sighed. It was no use arguing back.

The next morning, Y/N headed to work earlier than usual, not wanting to hear the whole scene of her father. He always act like he regretted it but he would always do it again. As she headed through the street, a van followed her untill it stopped infront of her. She stopped, wondering why this dude parked awfully. She noticed a man get out, dressed odd. The man wore a hat in the summer, wearing sunglasses and black clothes. His face was painted white or was it makeup? She couldn't tell. "Hello dear, sorry of my awfully parking but I'm in quite a hurry" the man spoke with a kind smile. Y/n blinked before nodding. "Where do you need to be?" She asked. The man chuckled as he told her the place. She explained it as best she could, obviously suspicious of this stranger. Y/n never noticed him before or seen him.

He must have noticed the questionable look on her face as he laughed. "I'm sorry, I'm part magician and this kinda is my outfit for the show, understand?" He explained. Y/N nodded and smiled, reliefed. 'He wasn't the grabber' she thought, oh how wrong she was. Y/N noticed the black balloons in the back of the van. "Oh, are those black balloons? I never seen those before" she said curious. His eyes fell on the balloons and smiled. "Yeah, wanna take a closer look?" He asked her.

First part of the new series!! Hope you like it so far. I just wanted to give the reader a small backstory 😊

#fyp #fypage #slasher fandom #the black phone #ethan hawke #the grabber x reader #the grabber #albert shaw #fypシ #slashers

200 notes · View notes

stuffedanimaleyes · 2 years ago

Text

Stu Macher x Reader:When the Red Dahlias Bloom

T/W: cussing, mention of stalking

Chapter 1:Welcoming Woodsboro

Word Count: 3.2k

Song: You are my Destiny-Paul Anka 1958

For @jokenotfunny

August 1st, 1995

I set a beige box down. It was heavy, full of memories put into it. I thought maybe moving to a new town might be easy—well, easier. The last place my family had lived was a small quiet suburb just outside of Mississippi. I had a hard time standing out but also just as hard as fitting in. I had lived in Mississippi all my life but even now as I'm away from it I had no desire to go back to my old town and old ‘friends’.

My life in Mississippi was awful to say the least. No one liked me there and it was bliss that we had to move for my Mother‘s work. It took a day and a few hours to get to Woodsboro California but it was sure worth it. Every second. The minute I stepped foot out of the car and onto the grass of my new house I knew that this was the best decision ever. Now here I was—unboxing the last few boxes of furniture for my new room.

The house was spacious and very welcoming. A two story house excluding the attic outside of the main town. The exterior was a light off-white with a mid grey roof. Dark grey shutters had framed the windows and the door was a dark wooded auburn with a dark handle to the door. The last home owners had said the house was built in the seventies, yet it still had a modern look. Pillars lined outside of the house onto the porch where there was a wooden porch swing. a garden grew on the outside of the house creating a beautiful natural remedy to the house. Instead of fences outlining the backyard it was trees and forest, the place was… magical.

The interior was magical as well but nothing could compare to the outside. Stairs were what you saw as you went in but if you turned your head to either side there was a dining room to the left and living room to the right. Connecting both of the two was the kitchen and the door to the backyard. Paintings littered the wall of the first floor. Under the stair however was an empty bookcase connected to the stairs and a door to a tiny bathroom was placed conveniently in the middle of it all. The bathroom was small, and the tiles of the floor were cool, but the white paint of the room made it seem bigger than what it really was.

The second floor contained the bedrooms and two more bathrooms. As you went up the stairs you were met with a closet which hung coats and held old paintings and the such. A little table which held a vase of Red Dahlias and pictures of our family was right next to them. Right of the closet and table however was my parents room. My parents room was connected to their own bathroom. A queen sized bed was on the side of the room next to the window. The carpet upstairs was a soft dark grey and the bed matched the carpet perfectly. Drawers and a closet were near each other. Outside of their room and near the closet was a bathroom which I would now use most of the time. The bathroom had dark paint on the walls and a painting hung behind the toilet as a shower right next to it as well.

At the end of the hallway to the left was my own room. It had plenty of space. The walls were a light grey and a fan was on the ceiling which also held light. Turning the switch on the room was light and yellow. My desk which I had sat in a corner near my drawer. My window had white curtains. My bed is on the opposite side of my drawer and desk. Right next to my door however is my closet which had stairs to the attic inside of it.

Boxes had still riddled throughout the house however as we were not super human and could get unpacking done after a day of driving. I was let outside of the house however when I got most of my unpacking done. The remaining of my items were in a few boxes inside of my room waiting to be placed somewhere. Riding my bike into town as I didn’t have enough money to buy my own car and my parents didn’t trust me enough with their car all by myself I was stuck riding a bike to town from the middle of nowhere. It had also turned out that the neighbours were miles away from the house, the Becker family. I greeted them and told them I was their new neighbour. They seemed delighted to see a new face so I left the couple alone after saying goodbye.

As soon as I got into town I had listed every store I saw. K-mart, an ice cream parlour, a few shopping stores around the places… I’d say the town was pretty nice and had a lot of options. I had slid off my bike and saw a place I could chain my bike up. I ran up, chained it, and made note of where I had put it so I didn’t lose it. I had noticed a lot of people outside of their houses, mostly teenagers, but still, it was a friendly surprise.

I had been walking for a couple minutes before I had seen something that had caught my eye. At first I thought it was a few noisy teenagers but then I saw that it was a news crew. Cameras were set everywhere and the person who was the main focus was a woman in a green and spiky outfit. I quickly walked towards the crew and overheard them talking about a death which happened earlier in the year somewhere around town square. Maybe even further away. I heard the reporter's name. Her name was Gale Weathers and she had commented on how the person who was accounted as guilty was framed, and she had a book on him and such.

Then suddenly she turned to people in the crowd and asked them how they felt about living in a town with a murderer on the loose and such. Multiple types of responses had surfaced and suddenly I was pulled into the camera's view and asked a series of questions.

“What do you feel about Cotton Weary being falsely accused of murder?”Gale Weathers said in a monotone reporter-like voice.

“Uhhh—I don’t—I’m not—I’m new into town, I just moved here, I really don’t know who Cotton Weary is, Ma’am..,”I had stumbled out.

“Hmm, are you aware of the murder of Mrs.Prescott?”She had questioned

“No I’m not, sorry, I don’t think I’m exactly the type of person you’re looking for,” I chuckled out.

She puzzled to herself and pushed me away looking for once again, another person to interview on the accusations. I was alright with that happening however as I could hear about what had occurred and other things. After getting bored shortly after I walked around a fountain nearby I strolled along to a diner feeling quite famished after my adventures around town. Songs were being played in the 50-60s based diner. It smelt of savoury foods and meat. Food to make your mouth salivate. I went up to a stool near a cash register and turned to my wallet seeing how much money I had. I only had enough for a milkshake and maybe fries.

“Hey sweetheart, ready to order?” A soothing voice had rolled out in front of me, catching me off guard.

My mouth was a bit agape looking up to see a handsome man with mid-length dark brown hair and even darker brown eyes,”uh—uhm, I am actually. Can I get a vanilla milkshake?”Snapping out of my gaze.

“You’ve got it sweetie, but are you sure you don’t want the chocolate?”he grinned looking towards me

“Now looking at you more clearly, are you from around here? I haven’t seen you around school. Maybe it’s because it's summer, huh?” He snickered.

“You’ve got me,” you say, putting your hands up defenseless, “I just moved here from a town right outside of Mississippi. I’m Y/N,” you go out to shake his hand, his rough hand grips yours tightly.

“Also, vanilla is the cheapest option so no, I don’t think I’ll get the chocolate,” you grinned with a cheeky smile.

“Alright Y/N, coming right up. Names Billy,” he said as he let go of your hand.

You kicked your feet as you pulled a magazine out of your bag to read it as you waited for your milkshake. Skimming through the thin pages you read a mini comic put on the side of the magazine. I was far too invested in the comic. I hadn't even noticed my milkshake had arrived and the waiter, Billy, had been scrolling the page from upside down.

“You seriously like that thing? It’s so stupid,”he smirked out.

You jumped not expecting someone’s voice.

“..yeah, it’s a good comic. I love Garfield. I read it in almost every newspaper ever! It is so not stupid!”you spat out but as soon as you said it you realized how childish you had sounded and immediately looked back down to read more of the adventures the orange cat has yet to go on. You felt your cheeks burn up.

Grabbing your vanilla milkshake you drank it hurriedly. Famin immediately leaves your body as it fills your empty insides. The flavour of icecream and vanilla flooded your mouth. Although your body still has yet to get solid foods the milkshake you had gotten would’ve subsided the hunger pains you would’ve definitely gotten if you hadn’t gotten the milkshake.

“No need to be in a hurry,” Billy had said, making you look up towards his eyes.

“Oh you have no idea, I’ve been needing some nutrition in my body all day,” flailing your body dramatically.

You both laughed and chatted for up to an hour. Just as it hit 5:00pm you got your wallet out and had paid for your milkshake as well as tipped Bill Loomis Humorously. He had also gotten your new house number in return.

Strutting out of the small diner it had hit golden hour. The trees outside Gad golden flakes scattered around the leaves. The hot sun heated your face and you felt as like everything that has ever happened in your life lifted. You never sinned, you’ve never done any bad thing in your life. You strolled down the now quieter town and the fresh air filled your lungs. Life was peaceful. You went to get your keys from your bag for your bike but once you got to where you had chained your bike it was nowhere to be seen. Your heart started to race from its once calm and collected nature. You immediately went into the place near where you had chained your bike up.

Going up to the counter of the store you rang the bell numerous times.

“Hello-o-o?”you questioned loudly and frantically.

A boy with spiky dirty blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes hurriedly opened the door, almost falling in the process. I was almost too mesmerized by his dashing looks. I forgot about my missing bike. He was better looking than Bill, and his worried look made it even better.

“Yes? Yes? I was on break but I guess not anymore, what do you need?”he asked in a bit of a serious tone although it seemed like he could be more of a goofy laid back kind of guy.

Remembering how my bike got stolen or was mistaken or just missing I stammered the words out to the god like being in front of me,”I think my bike got stolen from outside this store, did you see who took it? Please say you have! Please!”I begged. I could almost see something in him turn but it was unreadable. He looked at me pitifully.

“No, sorry, I haven’t. I'm sure if you need a ride I could get you one depending on how close we are. What’s your address?”

“Oh thank you so much, I have no way of going home except from my bike. I’m so grateful for you, you have no idea. My address is 1810 Calistoga Road,” I say, almost rambling from the sheer amount of adrenaline still filled in my body. He put his hands on my shoulders and made me realize I was practically vibrating.

“Calm down now, huh? Don’t need you to go exploding in my car. My shift ends in a few hours. Hopefully you can withstand that,” he chuckled to himself, seemingly getting relaxed,”That house, doesn’t it belong to the Georges’? Are you their granddaughter or something?” He expressed also through his hands in a gleeful tone.

“Oh, no, my parents and I just moved in from Mississippi. The Georges’ moved out of town. I’m not sure where to but hopefully somewhere sunny like Cali,” you started to smile again. Going around the counter to sit in the back with him,”My names Y/N by the way, you saved my ass,”

“Well Y/N, my name is Stuart Macher, but you can call me Stu little lady. You really scared the hell out of me back there when you started screaming,”he laughed lowly as he leaned against the counter and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, sorry about that, I just got really freaked out by the whole ordeal. Hopefully you can forgive me for that—please don’t hold a grudge against me until I die a painful and sufferable death, please-e-e,” you prolonged with a goofiness in your voice, as well as putting your hands together in a pleading way.

“Don’t worry about it, I can live without a grudge knowing you die a painfully slow suffering death now that you’ve said it!” You both laugh, tears welled up in your eyes as he made a few more comments about the situation at hand.

At around 7:00pm he walked towards the door, turning the once opened sign to a closed sign and locking the door.

“So this whole job is just a summer job?”you ask.

“Yeah-h-h, my folks wanted me to be more responsible and turns out I’m not the only one with a summer job! My friend Billy got a job across town at a diner. So I’m not the only one who has to suffer this painful ass job thing,”he complains, making a few jokes here and there.

After locking up the back door he—we headed for the car. I had no idea which one was his so I just beelined straight behind him.

“Are you going to sit on my lap or something? Go on the other side!” He howled laughing at my antics. Heat rose to my face as I laughed alongside him at myself.

Going to the other side of the car I heard the click of the lock and opened up the door and plopped myself into the small vehicle. I bounced up and down on the couchy seat and grabbed the seat belt and buckled myself in.

“Let’s go, my trusty steed!”I yelled victoriously. The car roared in response and then we were off. The car zipped through town but instead of the route to my house we went to the diner.

“I forgot to mention but my friend Billy also gets a ride from me—so! He’ll just have to sit in the back,” He winked at me. He raised his hand up and ferociously slammed it onto the horn. A loud ‘BEEEEP’ could be heard all throughout town. The back door of the diner was immediately opened and banged against the wall of the diner. Stuart rolled down the window.

“Sorry baby, you have to sit in the back this time, we have company,” Stuart said before doing an erratic shaking of his hands.

“God damnit Stu,”Bill had said, annoyed but as he looked through the window and saw me I waved my hand at him.

“Oh, it’s just Y/N, never mind,”Bill said and rested his face and opened the car door.

“You know Billy?”

“Course I know him! I went to the diner earlier today to get a milkshake,”

“Oh-h-h, alright,” he said with a goofy grin.

The ride back home was loud and the boy bickered as if I wasn’t in the car. Although I joined in the arguments at times I could help but laugh at them. Bil was dropped off first. The car was comfortably silent until I said something which seemed to stiffen Stuart up.

“Thanks a lot Stuart, you doing this means a lot. Maybe we can hang out some time? I’ll leave my number with you if you want,”

“Really it’s no problem Y/N, you and your pretty face can ask for a car ride anytime, though I would take that ‘hang out’ thing anytime darlin’,” he snickered

I smiled at him and leaned back looking out the window and listening to the music currently playing on the radio. I hummed along with the song as trees passed and animals ran across the sides. This town was peaceful.. maybe I can actually have a good life here..?

As the car pulled up at the driveway I said thank you once again as I left, leaving my number with him. Running up to the auburn door I knocked three times very firmly. I looked down towards my watch and noticed that the time was already 9:17pm! I had missed dinner and practically every important meal today but I was too tired to care, hopefully my parents would feel the same. If they didn’t… I would just say I got a meal out in the town at the diner. No need to stress out about food. My parents took too long to open the door so I summed it up to them already being asleep and grabbed the spare key under the mat and unlocked the door. I didn’t realize Stuart was still here so I waved him off and said goodbye and goodnight once again this night.

Going in I took off my shoes near the door and placed them out of the way. Going to the kitchen I got some water, drinking cup after cup. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until this moment but I just kept on drinking and refilling my cup. Finally once I was full and hydrated I hurriedly went up the stairs, did my nightly routine in the bathroom and smashed myself into my bed. I immediately passed out. I felt so.. happy. Today was a great beginning. I wouldn’t think that for much longer though. I could feel something or someone staring at me through the window as I fell asleep but I paid no mind as it could’ve easily just been a stray dog or raccoon.

Still, you couldn’t help but wonder… what if?

#stu macher x reader #stu macher #scream #scream 1996 #ghostface #x reader #slow burn #y/n #yandere #yandere x reader #reader

44 notes · View notes

beels-burger-babe · 3 years ago

Text

All is Fair in Dice and War

***Soooo, @bagelsinatoaster I love this request. However, you didn't specify which board game and as I am a huge nerd I decided to take some creative liberties and combine this with another idea I've been meaning to write which is: MC introducing the demon bros to Dungeons and Dragons. I certainly had fun with this and I hope you like it!*** Summary: Leviathan's world is flipped upside down when MC tells him there is a game that basically allows him to be the Lord of Shadows in real life!! He demands that his brothers join him as MC introduces them all to the chaotic shit show that is Dungeons & Dragons. For once, it was a peaceful day in the House of Lamentation. Lucifer was lounging in the living room with a cursed record playing softly in the background. For once, Satan had willingly joined him and was sitting by the fireplace, thumbing through a book on the human world. Belphie had been passed out on the couch when he arrived and was still laying there with an impressive puddle of drool collecting near his mouth. Even Asmodeus and Beel had joined in, with Asmodeus gently humming to himself as he painted his nails and Beelzebub happily munching on a snack as he enjoyed the sight of his family getting along. Yes. It was perfectly quiet and peaceful, and Lucifer didn't even have any traces of his regular migraine. But of course, nothing good lasts forever. Everyone jumped as the door slammed open and a wide-eyed Leviathan dragged you into the room. The two you very closely followed by Mammon loudly complaining. "Oi! You're gonna hurt them! Cut it out, Levi!" Lucifer sighed and closed his eyes, momentarily mourning the peace that he had just barely begun to enjoy, and closed his book. "Leviathan, let MC go. What are you freaking out about this time?" Lucifer regretted asking the moment the words left his mouth. Levi looked at it with the expression he only ever got when his limited edition Ruri-Chan merch arrived; his eyes were wide and glittering with excitement while his face bore a grin so large that Lucifer was surprised it didn't rip his skin. The third-born was practically vibrating as he let go of your wrist and pushed you forward. "Tell them! Tell them about the game!"

You laughed at Levi's excitement and casually rubbed your wrist. "I was just telling Leviathan about a game that we play in the human world called Dungeons and Dragons-" "You get to make a fantasy world that everyone plays in, and everyone makes characters. You can be a wizard and cast spells against a huge monster! Or a war hero fighter that has been betrayed by his brother! Or a noble knight who is looking for his lost kingdom! And the best part is that it's real!" Levi interrupted, nearly jumping in place as stars danced in his eyes. You put your hands out towards him to try and calm him a bit. "Well, not entirely real. It is played in person, but it's a role play tabletop game, meaning it mostly relies on the players' imagination. That is unless you have thousands of dollars to spend on 3D maps and figurines of your characters." Levi's eyes grew even wider, if possible, as he started shaking his hands up and down. "I CAN HAVE A FIGURINE OF A CHARACTER THAT I MADE?! GAAAAAAAAAHH!" A pillow flew across the room and hit Levi square in the face as a now awake Belphegor glared at him. "Will. You. Shut. Up?" the Avatar of Sloth hissed as a dark dangerous aura grew around him. Beel gently patted his twin's head in hopes of calming him. Leviathan pouted as he noticed no one else seemed to be getting excited about it. "C-Come on guys! This isn't even a video game! It's a thing that we can all do together and personalize it to be something that everyone will like. It'll be fun! Right MC?" You nodded as you gently tossed Belphie's pillow back over to him. "Yeah. I love D&D. I played it all the time in the human world. There's action, suspense, and even romance if you really wanted it," a couple of the brothers perked up at that. "I could put together a one-shot for you guys to try it out if you'd like? I'll help you make your characters, and we can all get together for an evening and play it sometime in a couple weeks." The room went quiet as everyone thought it over. Most of them had no interest in the game itself, but if it was organized by you... "I'm in," Beel decided with a nod. "I think it will be fun. All of us trying something new; it could be neat." Satan casually flipped a page in his book, "The creative aspect of it is definitely appealing. We'd be the masters of our own fate, and that most certainly piques my interest." Asmodeus smirked as he put the cap on his nail polish. "And you said it could be whatever we want? My, one might say that this game could help our wildest fantasies come true~" he made sure to wink at you as he giggled. Belphie, who had only just got back his pillow, scrunched up his face in disgust and launched it at Asmo. "Don't make this weird Asmo," he looked over at you and shrugged, "So long as you do all the work in putting together the character thing, sure. Why not?" Mammon looked over at you from the corner of his eye. "Ya mean to tell me, that you can make it so I'm some awesome, rich, and powerful prince?" Asmo scoffed as he pushed the pillow off his lap. "Please Mammon, even the world of make-believe has its limitations." Mammon blushed as he growled at his brother. You just chuckled and teasingly elbowed his side. "Don't listen to him, Mammon. There is a set amount of how much money you start out with depending on your class and background, but I'm sure we can find something that will make you happy." The second-born blushed even more as he grumbled quietly under his breath. Lucifer tilted his head in thought. "I suppose that if everyone else is playing, naturally I must as well," he stood and began to make his way to his office. "I look forward to seeing what you come up with MC." The next two weeks were spent planning and carefully figuring out the details of the one-shot and the characters that everyone was going to play. Levi was, of course, the first one who came to you to build his character. The two of you spent hours going through the Player's Handbook and sourcebooks to find the perfect build to recreate the Lord of Shadows. In the end, you put

together a human fighter that you gave a couple magic items to make Levi's vision really come to life. It seemed basic, but for the Lord of Shadows, it was perfect. The moment the two of you finished, Levi dove to his computer and ordered a custom-made mini that looked exactly like his character. Satan was genuinely interested in the game, especially after he learned about all the lore and rules behind the different classes and races. You had just been chilling in your room one day when the door burst open. Satan stood there with wide eyes holding a copy of Volo's Guide to Monsters. "MC, why didn't you tell me there are cat people?!" You chuckled, knowing exactly where this was going. "They're called tabaxi, but yeah, they're basically cat people. Would you like to play as one?" He scoffed and snapped the book shut. "Is that even a question? Of course, I'm playing as one." After some discussion and bouncing back and forth between classes a couple of times, Satan settled on a tabaxi druid; that way he not only looked like a cat, but he could speak to them as well. After a few days of you spending time with his brothers focusing on getting their characters ready, Mammon came to you wanting the coolest, most epic character ever. At first, it was clear that he wasn't fully invested in the process, but as he saw the customizable options and all the cool stuff that his character could have, you got his attention. You ended up designing a golden teifling rogue (you tried to tell Mammon that teifling usually wasn't yellow, but he gave you such a sad look that you couldn't say no) that was decked out with piercings and gems all over its horns and tail. He tried to act like he wasn't that excited about it, but one day during class you caught him doodling what looked like a stick figure version of the character on his sheet with a big smile on his face. Asmodeus came in shortly after Mammon finished,

insisting on having the most charming and beautiful character there was. You tapped your chin at the request. "I mean, stereotypically bards are extremely charming and...well seductive...almost too seductive. But that's only thei-" Asmo had hearts in his eyes before you could even finish. "That's what I want to be!" You sighed and made a mental note not to include any dragons in the session as you marked Asmo down to be an elven bard and helped him create his character sheet. You hadn't heard anything from Lucifer for nearly that entire first week, until one day as you were lounging in the living room, he walked in holding a stack of resource books. "Ah, MC. I've been looking for you. I wanted to inform you that I will be playing a half-elf multiclassing as a paladin and hex-blade warlock." You blinked at him as he put all the books down in front of you. "O-Oh. Would you like help putting together your character sheet?" He just grinned and began to make his way out of the room once more. "I've already done it. I must admit that this was quite a bit more interesting than I thought it would be," and with that he was gone, leaving you to try and figure out what had just happened. With only a few days left until the one-shot, you had to go find the twins and get them to make their characters. Beel apologized like crazy for you having to track him in down in order to get his character made. The poor guy was in the middle of peak Fangol season and had completely forgotten. Once the two of you sat down in the kitchen with an empty character sheet in one hand and snacks in the other, Beel gave you his full attention. He put a lot of thought in his character and wanted to make it really good since he appreciated that you were doing something that they could all do as a family. He bashfully decided to play a halfling. Not only did the little creatures share his love for food, but he thought it would be neat to try being small for once. His class was also a surprise. After carefully flipping through all of the class options, he had eventually settled on a cleric. "They're the healers, right? This way I can help the others if someone gets hurt." You gave him a huge hug then and there. Belphegore, on the other hand, was not so easy to work with. "Belphie, come on. Just flip through the book and choose something!" He groaned into his pillow and rolled onto his side to glare at you. "I told you I would play if you did all the work for me. Me flipping through a book is work. It's not happening." After an entire hour of trying to get him to cooperate, you gave up. In retaliation you made his character a goblin barbarian, just to drive in the fact of how much of a brat he was acting like.

Finally, the day came for you all to play the one-shot, and much like you expected, it was complete and utter chaos. You had tried to maintain some structure and keep everyone on track, but it was hopeless. Levi and Satan were taking the game seriously and, Diavolo bless them, were the only reason their party was making any progress. Mammon was trying to pick-pocket every non-player character that they met while Asmo distracted them by flirting. This worked great for them until Mammon got caught and would've died from the resulting injuries if it wasn't for Beel. Speaking of Beel, the poor fella was trying his best to do well in the game but kept getting confused by all the rules and different stats and modifiers. Belphegor spent most of his time, trying to explain it to his twin, but in the end, Beel accidentally ate his dice and Belphie passed out on his shoulder. And then there was Lucifer. He had been mostly quiet the entire game. Surprisingly, he let Levi and Satan take the charge in any investigations and puzzle-based interactions, but he did so with a smirk. You had a funny feeling in your stomach that he was up to something, and you were right. It was the final boss. Satan and Levi were on the edge of their seats, having worked so hard to get the party to this point. You smiled, knowing that one of the best parts of D&D was finally taking down the big bad. In this case, you had prepared a beholder for them to fight. It would be no easy task. The fight should have required them to work together in an epic battle of wits, magic and melee attacks. Only, when everyone rolled initiative, Lucifer went first. The eldest smiled as his eyes sparked menacingly. "For my bonus action, I'd like to use my hex blade's curse on it, which allows me to add my plus four proficiency bonus to all damage, and makes any rolls of nineteen or twenty critical hits. I will then use my long sword with divine smite at third level to attack him and attack him again using my extra attack," barely giving you time to process what he said, Lucifer rolled his dice twice. "And that would be a nineteen and a natural twenty, meaning they're both criticals due to the curse. That should hit, yes?" "Wha-" You could only watch as Lucifer, now with twice the amount of damage due to his critical rolls pulled out a disgusting number of dice and rolled them all. And of course, with his luck, they all rolled high. "So that's 90 points of damage plus the extra damage from the curse and the bonus from my duelist ability per attack, brings this 102 points," he smugly perched his chin on top of his hands as the table gaped at him. You gulped and looked down at the beholder's character sheet, "Y-You just took o-over half of his hit points in one round..." His grin widened at the information, "What, like it's hard?" You never got the chance to finish the game, as Satan burst into his demon form and pounced on Lucifer, the eldest laughing like a mad man, while Levi tore up his character sheet in a fit of jealous rage. Levi never asked to play with everyone again after that. ***This was just so self-indulgent and I just- I loved it. It combined two of my favourite things and I have never been happier. This was more crack than fluff, but either way, it was fun and I hope you nerds out there enjoyed it 🥰 Thanks again for the request @bagelsinatoaster!*** Taglist: @mimik248 @roseytoesy @ester-is-here

547 notes · View notes