#wild golf shirts

[ruskatuskapuskasapuska]

A lil mysta(-shitpost)-dump cuz wääääähhh (you can't just get me into vtube-hell and just leave me like that, what the fuck dude?? /j)

Also here's mystakes with mouths that I quickly drew on phone and sketch/lineart of that colored one:

[tkingfisher]

Right! Apropos another post, let’s talk about lawn crayfish aka The Lobsters Beneath Our Feet!

This is Craw-Bob. He’s about three and a half inches long.

Long ago, when I had only gardened in the Southeast for a year or two, I saw an interesting hole in a flowerbed. It was rather deep and had a muddy front porch. I gazed into this hole, thinking “Ooh! Is it a rodent? A snake? A toad?”

And then I saw…the Claw.

It was unmistakably a crustacean claw. And it was in a hole in my yard. My terrestrial yard! Why was there a crustacean in my flowerbed?!

I could not have been more astounded if an octopus tentacle had come flopping out. I ran screaming for my husband and the internet, both of whom said “Yeah, that’s a lawn crayfish, they do that.”

And yes. There are about 400 species of crayfish* in North America, and a not inconsiderable number of them are burrowing species. The devil crayfish, which builds little mud towers, ranges from the Rockies to the Atlantic and as far north as Ontario. There are a number of other species as well. Some are limited to stream banks, but many burrow in lawns, flowerbeds, and other places with consistently damp soil, which means that there is a non-zero chance that when you wander around the grass, a tiny lobster is lurking somewhere beneath your feet.

You would think that more people would know this, but at no point in my life had anyone ever mentioned it to me.

Being me, I immediately set out to determine if other people knew about lawn crayfish and I had just somehow missed it. I took an informal poll—by which I mean I accosted random strangers at the farmer’s market, the coffee shop, and my doctor’s office—and discovered a stark divide. Half the people looked at me like I was telling them I’d seen a lawn chupacabra and the other half looked at me like I’d asked if they’d ever heard of squirrels.

It was not divided by social class or education. The farmer with the heirloom breed hogs knew about them, his wife did not. My nurse practitioner first thought I was hallucinating, then went out into the clinic, and began demanding to know if her co-workers had heard of this. My barista was like “Yeah, mudbugs,” but he’s from Florida, so may not count.

My theory is that if you know they’re there, it’s just a fact of life so obvious that you don’t bother to comment on it, and if you don’t—well, why would you ever assume that any given hole in the ground comes from a goddamn MINI LOBSTER? And since they mostly just hang out underground during the day and don’t really hurt anything, it just doesn’t come up very often, until one day you’re at the farmer’s market, just trying to sell some organic tomatoes, and a wild-eyed woman with a Studio Ghibli T-shirt descends on you yelling “Are you aware of lawn crayfish?!”

(Yes, they’re edible, but it’s a lot of work popping them individually out of their burrows.)

During torrential rains, they will often leave their burrows and wander around, which is how I got the photos of Craw-Bob. My hound spotted him in the garden and poked him with her nose, whereupon Craw-Bob poked back. Hound, not sure what was happening but that it was probably bad, began doing her “release the humans!” alarm bark, and I came out to find her toe to toe with a crustacean who was waving its claws and presumably screaming “Come on if you think you’re hard enough!” in Lobster.

Despite their willingness to fight everything, they’re pretty harmless. The most they do is move soil from underground to a little pile above. I’m sure golf courses hate them. Our local county extension office suggests “These nonprolific creatures should be appreciated like an interesting bird or turtle living on the property.” Some, like the Greensboro burrowing crayfish, are so rare they were thought to be extinct until somebody found one in the backyard.

So. Lawn crayfish. They exist! And could be lurking underfoot as we speak!

*or crawfish, depending on where you’re from.

[merakidoll]

nanami the hard working ceo who spent his off days at the county club playing golf with the ironed khaki’s, polo shirt, and glasses. a cigar in his unoccupied hand, and a nice glass of dark liquor waiting for him in his cart. he was the wealthiest man at the country club and always got the best perks due to it, but there was only one actual perk he wanted.

“such a pretty doll” his thumb held your mouth open watching as you went wild on his cock. you breast were naked, bouncing when you slammed down on him hard screaming out into the vacant golf course atmosphere. your cart with drinks, snack, and ice was parked next to him, the large tip nanami had given you just before you got so lost from his cock plugging into your wet hole, making cream fall down to his ball and to the khaki shorts, was in the see through pink fannypack watching everything that took place.

“cum doll. show daddy how grateful you are for the good. fucking. tip” if you weren’t being fucked so dumb you would have laughed at the joke but all you could do was bite down on his thumb, the cool wind blowing against your brown nipples and squirt dripping down to his carts floor.

you. your were the whole reason nanami always found himself at the country club

[respectthepetty]

I'm here to report on the colors in episode four of Wandee Goodday, but first a few stray thoughts like I have another image to add to my collection of Yak looking at Dee crazy,

yet still going along with whatever Dee wants.

Also, Yak being bothered that Dee didn't immediately think of him as a friend was a good beat in establishing the "friend" portion of their benefits. They are friends who share their lives with each other and scheme together, and I'm glad the show is explicitly stating that.

Because the way the conversation began paralleled the way Yak wants to approach Taem about their relationship - What are we? "Are we datin'? Are we fuckin'? Are we best friends? Are we somethin' in between that?"

But also the nurse stating Yak must care a lot for his lover to get the vaccine and Yak looking immediately at Dee was perfection because 1) safe sex isn't just about you but about the people you are sleeping with,

2) you shouldn't be ashamed of caring about sexual health, so even if you hide behind queer pamphlets, drink water, get the shot, wear the condoms, and use the lube. Also, PrEP isn't just for men just like HPV vaccinations aren't just for women, and

3) it showed that Yak does care enough about DEE, his lover, to take their sexual health seriously -> Yak is on that Bed Friend's King level of sexy, and I'd go through the entire Kama Sutra with them both once all our test results came back clear.

Translations are always iffy but Ter mentioning that Dee wasn't thinking about his professional persona while Yak reminded Dee to not include his face in the pictures and Yei mentioned his brother being fine with Cher when they first started dating gives me hope that this show is going to lean more into the layers of being out because even though that "666" told me Ter was el diablo, he continues to make comments like that and Golf's other show, The Eclipse (which has been featured often in this show) was very much about (not) passing and levels of outness.

Yei and Yak's dad was a world champion boxer, yet he wasn't mentioned in this mom-focused episode and the mom is the one who opened the gym, so is the space that Cher and Yei are giving Yak to figure his feelings out something they weren't given by the father? Because Cher was worried about the pressure Yei was putting on Yak to move up a class.

And if the gym was the mom's, with all of its yellow, is Yak really like his mom as Dee assumed?

Because putting the opening scenes in black and white is an easy flashback technique, but in this particular story, where Yak and his mom are bright yellow, it was a painfully good choice to take the color and brightness out of the scene.

And it was an even better choice to parallel Dee comforting Yak in the same way Yak comforted him with a warmer (yellow) light than his normal purple one.

Because Dee is already in his feelings about Yak without realizing how deep he was, which is why he is wearing a soft yellow while Yak is wearing Dee's fake blue.

When they practiced what Yak would say to Taem, Dee thought about all their moments together, so he is falling quickly, while the signs are pointing out that Yak isn't there yet.

But I wouldn't be there either if I was still daydreaming about this beautiful goddess who always rescues Yak with her brilliance, sassy personality, singular focus, and yellow folders, but that sounds a lot like someone else.

A Purple Prince who is also brilliant and focused on winning but wild and sassy. Good to know Yak has a type. (Sidenote: the music choices swinging between romantic to tension-filled as the scene flipped between Taem and Dee was another great choice)

Because Taem is taken, even if not officially. She matches her guy. She had on a dark brown and black shirt, so he had on a dark brown cardigan with a black tie.

And she had on a brown-striped shirt with a black star, and he had on a brown jacket with black writing and a black tie.

Then again, Dee is no consolation prize. Not looking like that at least.

No wonder Yak is conflicted about what he feels when he looks at Dee because he most certainly is sexually attracted to him because *duh* who wouldn't be attracted to Dee (TER!), but as they sit in Yak's black and yellow room, it becomes more apparent that whatever he is feeling isn't just sexual desire.

And when Dee scratches his back just like his mom used to while tutoring him, it starts to become clearer that Dee, wearing his necklace, and in orange which is sooooo close to yellow fits easily into his life. (Sidenote: Together with Me taught me that in Thai, being itchy is slang for being horny, so good for this show and its layers)

Dee works so well in Yak's life that Yak is willing to get three shots to continue to have sex with him which can take anywhere from eight months to over a year to complete because each dose is spaced out by at least two-to-six months. Basically, Yak committed to a long-term plan . . . with Dee, who is chilling in his yellow-striped shirt.

So it's not surprising that Yak is wearing a deeper blue next week as he holds Dee on the couch since he is far more invested in this fake relationship than he originally intended.

I could write 5,000 more posts about them and this episode which I probably will.

But know that even though the blue Yak is wearing is getting deeper, I will not be satisfied until it turns into purple.

That's when I'll know they are both in love.

[im-just-a-boy-guys]

absolutely loved your minotaur breeding story <3

part two? 👀

FEM! AFAB READER ON MINOTAUR BREEDING FARM. MILKING/BREEDING/DRUGGING!

PT 2 (Any side characters unless more than once will have a purple text <)

(AS always feel free to send in writing asks and even Suggest. Things for the current stories!)

Everything is color coded. Scroll down to the main section of green text to skip to the porn! / horny stuff!

You bathed and collapsed into your bed, in your bathrobe. It had been a wild night, and you found yourself still horny and reeling from getting your guts brutally re-arranged.

You knew you needed to eat something and decided to order in some subway, praying the delivery guy would be able to make his way through the campus like set up of the farm.

You ordered your food, and after 45 minutes, thankfully, it arrived, and the doorbell to your apartment rang. You loosely tied the robe around yourself, though your large chest was still very prominent, and your cleavage shown just at the top of the relatively short robe.

You answered the door and smiled at the driver. It was a younger man, just some younger, possibly 19-year-old boy with blonde hair, brown eyes, and freckles that lightly dusted his face.

"Hello, is this (y/n)? I have a deli-", He paused, and his pale face flushed red as he saw your chest.

After today, you felt slightly turned on by the staring, and instead of covering yourself, you just smiled at him and held your hands out.

"Yes, that's me." You took the food, and he nodded, walking back down the stairs and to his car.

You brought the food inside and ate, contemplating how often you should do that just to see people's reactions outside of what you enjoy looking at you.

After you ate, you plopped back onto your mattress and fell asleep in your robe.

The next morning, you woke to an alarm you had set for every weekday on your phone and peeled yourself out of your robe. You decided that since your clothes were going to be removed anyway, you might as well wear something easy access, slipping on the bra you were given, an old tee shirt, and a pare of short shorts that hugged your thighs.

You wet and brushed your hair, doing your hair care and lathering yourself in your 'Whisky and Coffee' lotion.

You hoped that if you smelled better that they might pick it up with their sensitive noses. You'd love to be made fun of for seemingly wanting it more - wanting to drive them crazy.

After the lotion, you tossed your hair up into a ponytail, pulling a couple of strands out in the front.

Once you grabbed your things, you left your apartment to see a woman dressed in uniform waiting in a golf cart.

"Hello (Y/N), I'll be your driver! There and back. The Dr will still be the one giving you your injection if you end up needing it. But for the drives, it'll be me.", The slender, darker-skinned woman smiled brightly at you. She looked like she'd been kissed by the sun, and her hair coiled so beautifully. Once she saw you up close, she couldn't help but smile. You sat next to her in the golf cart and said quietly.

"You're very beautiful."

She blushed all the way up to her ears and laughed softly. "Oh you don't mean that. I could never be as beautiful as all of the women here- they and you are so amazing looking.", she scoffed and then seemed to realize she'd included you individually.

You smiled at this endearingly, and she sputtered.

"I'm sorry- was that to foward- I'm new to this and don't want to make you uncomfortable. "

You giggled and placed your hand reassuringly on her thigh,

"Nono, it's ok. I know what you meant. And thank you. I think you could actually do this if you wanted. If there were any spaces available, of course. Daniel? I think I'd like the managers name. He seems super sweet and understanding. Maybe speak to him about it if you think about it."

She looked taken aback by the suggestion but nodded politely. You really didn't want to overstep but hoped she'd take it as a compliment. She was however, too busy thinking about being suffocated by your breasts and thighs to really have been offended.

"I think I'd like to stay your driver. You seem nice!"

She pulled up next to the stables and stopped the golf cart.

"Alright, ma'am! Here we are! I'll see you when you get off work."

You smiled and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek before hopping out of the cart and making your way into the stable. On your way in, you see Dr Sylvia in your stall waiting for you. She looks you up and down.

"Do you need help getting undressed?" You thought about it and couldn't help but want her hands on you.

"Please." You smiled and lifted your arms for her to help you out of your shirt, and she lifted it off for you, setting the discarded clothing on a stool to the side. She helped unclip your bra and helped you shimmy out of your shorts.

She couldn't help but gawk at your thong. You smiled proudly but did your best to hide it as she slipped them off of you.

"Alright, for now I'm just going to run a couple of general physical tests to make sure you're fit to work today."

She gently took one of your breasts into her hands and massaged it roughly.

"Does this hurt any?"

She kept a straight face but was clearly enjoying groping you. You shook your head, trying to keep a dumb look off your face. She swapped breasts and squeezed once more.

"What about this one?"

You shook your head again and kept up your smile. It took everything not to beg her to keep touching you. You'd love it if she put you in that machine and had her way with you.

"Good. Do you want your shot today or no?"

Your face flushed. "I think I'd like it every time - you can refrain from asking next time-" you mumbled lightly.

"I kind of liked not knowing I was being drugged-",

She smiled mockingly and raised an eyebrow.

"Not a problem. Whatever makes the experience more enjoyable for you, sweetheart."

Your soul melted at the probably frequently used nickname. You knew she more than likely called all of her patients various nick names and treats them the same way, but some part of you daydreamed that your body was her favorite.

She gently guided you and strapped you down by the wrists and ankles as you straddled the adjustable bench. She elevated the back. Putting you at a slight incline before injecting the serum.

She walked in front of you, holding your face for a moment as she stood there. The woman made you look up at her and smiled down at you almost mockingly.

The way her red hair sat in her messy bun drove you insane. She was so gorgeous, and the way her eyes showed when she looked at you like you were nothing - ugh.

She slipped her thumb over your lips before slipping out of the stall.

"Have fun, doll."

Your pussy ached, and you couldn't help but let out a soft whine as the drugs started to take effect.

A familiar buzzing sounded, and you heard the metal doors creak open. You were waiting on the sound of praise from your beloved bulls from yesterday but were met with two entirely different voices. One rumbling lowly, almost scarily close to a gruff growl.

"She seems new- she's super fucking hot though. What do you think about this one, Jake?"

A large figure passed you, seemingly larger than even the bulls you'd met yesterday and a heavy blush covered your face as you were met face-to-face with his giant cock. You drooled almost instantly.

"Her tits are huge - he looks like she'll be lots of fun."

They looked at you like meat, and you were so into it. The drugs made your head feel hot and swimming thoughts as your head flooded with all of the things they might do to you.

The one who was apparently named Jake pulled a leaver under your head, and the headrest folded back, causing your head to fall limp back over it. He pressed his tip to your mouth and smiled.

"Start sucking."

You didn't know how you felt about his tone, but it seemed to make you even wetter. You opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out. He smirked down at you and grabbed your throat, then without warning or prep, shoved himself down your throat.

"God- damn it that's so good-",

The other followed suit by pressing his tip to your needy hole, he teased himself by tip fucking you for a few minutes, every time you felt you were getting close, he'd pull out.

After a few times of that, he shoved his full length into you, pressing himself against your cervix.

He pressed down on your lower stomach/ bladder while he moved inside of you, just to see the imprint of his length through you.

you moaned as they began to move faster, slamming their hips into you, Jake groaned as your moans vibrated your throat against his cock.

"Fuck~ just like that-", Jake groaned and huffed,

the other bull moaned out, "I wanna fuck her ass, it looks even tighter than her pussy-"

You blushed as your mind swam. You'd never done anal before and heard it was quite painful, but all you could think about was the two creatures using you.

"You know- we might be able to break the cuffs and have some fun. We'll just clamp them back after. What do you say, Liam?"

"I say what are we waitting for?," The smaller bull smirked and gripped the ankle cuffs, prying them open one at a time with a great deal of effort, being the cuffs were assumedly made to prevent this exact scenario.

Jake did the same to the arm cuffs. You tried to get up, to struggle, to move, anything. You found that you couldn't move. You'd never noticed before because you were tied down and couldn't move anyway, but now you could feel the active numbness in your skin.

"Awe, I think she's trying to get away~" Liam cooed at you as Jake took you into his arms. He wrapped your legs around him, holding you up far enough to drop you down onto his throbbing cock, you moaned out and he kept one arm around your waist and shoved one of his huge fingers into your mouth.

Liam walked up behind you and held your ass up, gently pressing his tip against your ass hole, he probed for a moment, pushing in just enough to open you up.

Your body felt so limp that you could feel your own weight, pulling you down against their lengths. you couldn't hold your head up, so you rested against Luke's chest.

you felt a sharp pain and cried out weakly as the smaller bull forced himself into you, his warm chest against your back. You could feel his breath in your ear, his grunting causing your pussy to leak cum down your thighs.

His cock seemed to rub in all the right places and you couldn't help but drool. As the drugs reached their full effect, you felt like you couldn't possibly take it or be more full, you thought they were going to rip you in half from both ends, and you were hungry for it.

Once you were filled by both of them, they both held onto your hips and helped each other pump into you. They moaned and cursed into your ears.

They occasionally praised you, fondly licking at your cheeks as they used you. Luke leaned down and put your neck roughly, just barely keeping himself from drawing blood.

"Careful Jake- I'm going to fucking kill you if we lose another week's worth of privileges-", Liam spat at the other as he thrusted into you.

You could feel their knots pressing against your holes, begging for entry. They were both in your guts, their cocks rubbing against eachother through the thin layer of skin between your entrances.

You managed to muster a quiet sentence, almost not heard over your money and whimpers.

"Please cum in me~", you begged them,

"You hear that? The pretty cow wants our cum- how bout we fill her up and swap. We should spend all of our time wisely."

He chuckled mockingly into your ear as they both made an effort to thrust faster, occasionally lifting you higher to tease their tips.

"Fuck- fuck I'm so close- take my knot bitch-"

This caused your pussy to clench roughly around the bigger bulls cock as you squirted, covering his stomach and strong thighs.

As you came, your asshole checked around Liams length, he moaned lewdly before thrusting his knot violently into you, spewing his cum into your virgin hole.

His cum was so hot and thick, you could almost feel it in your stomach, you didn't think you could be any more full.

Until Jake pushed his knot unto your dropling cunt, you screamed as their knots rubbed together inside of you, milking themselves. Their grunts were enough to make you cum again as if their knots didn't.

He jammed his head against your cervix, using that to further milk himself as your guts rubbed his sensitive tip just right.

His cum seemed to be even warmer, it was so think and filled you so well that it leaked down over his cock and down your thighs.

They panted softly, and Jake lifted you off of them, allowing Liam to lay down on the bench you had been clamped down to.

The bigger bull gently layed you onto of the other, your tits resting softly against his face. Liam groped them roughly, causing milk to sport out softly against his face. He snickered,

"Oh yeah, I forgot that we were breeding a milk cow - she's one of the special ones."

Liam took both of your sensitive nipples into his mouth and sucked aggressively, groaning happily as your milk filled his mouth.

You could feel his head prodding at your entrance and leaning back against it, helping him enter you.

Jake came up behind you and thrusted into your now comfortably stretched hole, still rubbing against all of your sensitive spots. As he moved, Liam began to pump gently into you.

He moved casually, just enjoying the sensation of you as he drank your milk, and you only squirmed lightly as he groped and massaged your breasts.

"I think the drugs are wearing off. But she's behaving so well- think we should pick up the pace for her? She's doing so good and looks like she could really use our loads-"

Jake smirked as his hands slipped to your hips, his big hands gripping them roughly.

The smaller bull nodded half-heartedlyas he teased your nipples with his tongue and began to move faster into you, their cocks once again rubbing against eachother with only your thin walls to separate them.

Your tongue hung out of your mouth like a desperate dog and you could still feel their cum on your thighs and leaking out of you like a creame filled donut.

You whimpered and whined as they moved, and the feeling of Liams tongue on your nipples sent a signal to your sloppy cynt that you couldn't describe, a pulsing in your clit-

You reached down between your legs and rubbed desperately, the sensations driving you insane.

The smaller bull let go of your breasts and grabbed your hands roughly. He held them together over his shoulder, which caused you to elongate yourself, your back arching further against Jake.

He took happily to this, smiling dazedly as your ass pressed against his length, causing him to go even deeper.

Without the extra cum in you you imagined he'd split you in half, you almost wanted another dose of the drugs, you imagined the warm dazed feeling flooding your head like the few times you'd had to many drinks.

"Fuck I love how she sounds- she makes so many cute noises when she's getting her guts peniteated."

Liam cooed this into your ear, and he grabbed your throat. This was almost better than the drugs, the static flooded from your neck where his strong hand gripped, moving up to your already foggy brain.

Your vision flooded in and out as he let go right before you felt like you were going to pass out. You could feel their cocks throbbing against your walls, and their knots had grown back to their full size, slamming against your entrances.

Liam huffed and used both hands to use your throat as his leverage, pounding mercilessly into you.

You squeezed in excitement as you felt yourself getting close to your own climax once more.

Jake chuckled and pushed the back of your head into Liams chest. Your tongue still hung out of your mouth, Liam mocked,

"I think our milk cow might be part mutt-", He looked down at you and gripped your throat as tight as he could with both hands before pushing his knot as hard as he could unto you, Jake following suit.

Their cum flooded your guts and at the same time, you whimpered and whined loudly, screaming out as you squirted against Jake's thighs, the cum running down your own thighs onto Liams legs.

They both rested inside of you as their cum spewed against your walls, once again bursting out of you and around their cocks.

When they pulled out, another stream of cum sprayed on your back and stomach. They panted and gently lifted you and placed you back onto the chair face down, clamping the cuffs back around your limbs.

They both came around to your face and licked at your cheeks softly.

"We had a lot of fun, pretty cow. Hope we get to see you again."

Jake winked and walked away to the back door of the stall.

"Hopefully, well, see you later, Mutt."

Liam granted you a small head scratch before walking away with the other.

Soon after, Dr Sylvia walked into your pen and to your little bench. She examined the bars and groaned.

"I swear - these two do this every time. Did they take you out of your restraints?"

You nodded softly and tried to speak and managed to weakly,

"Yes, but I had fun.."

She shook her head softly and pressed the button to unclasped your cuffs.

"Yes, but what if they do this to someone who doesn't? It also just generally isn't safe for the cuffs to be all bent uo like this. Don't you worry though, sweetie. I'll get this all sorted out. Now let's see if we can get some of that milk out of you, huh?"

Her velvety voice slipped through your ears, and you smiled, pressing your chest out slightly, hoping to make it easier for her as she lowered the breast holding arm.

"Thank you, darling."

She cooed and gently attached the pumps to your nipples. A decent amount of milk still cane out, but only half of the container was filled compared to last time.

She clicked her tongue.

"And they took most of your milk - unbelievable. Next time, I'll give you double the dose."

She shook her head and smiled at you, kissed your forehead, and helped you get off of the table.

She helped you into your robe and handed you your clothes, and carried the milk pump to the golf cart. Sylvia offered your arm to assist you as you stepped into the seat, and your assigned driver looked over at you and blushed.

You looked an absolute mess and she couldn't help but stair as the cum that coated the top of your cleavage.

"See you tomorrow!"

The Dr waved goodbye to you and smiled.

Your driver kept quiet most of the ride, which seemed to be nice considering the shift you'd had.

Once she pulled up to your apparent, she helped you up the stairs and into your apartment.

"You haven't set up your bed yet?"

You shook your head and fell onto your mattress. She pouted softly and pulled out her phone.

"I'm going to have the staff come and help you set up. It's not too late, so I'm going to have them come help. Do you have a couch?"

You nodded lightly and gestured to the living room.

"Come on then. You can lay there until they help you with the bed. Where's your bedding?"

You pointed at the closet,

"it's in a clear bag, the one it came in."

She nodded and helped you to your couch, which was drowning in boxes in your living room. She stepped to the side once you'd laid down and made a couple of calls. You could barely make out what she was saying before you fell into a light sleep.

You woke up to the woman gently shaking you awake. Most of the boxes were moved out of the way to make a path to the different rooms and open up some floor space. She helped you to your room, and you saw your bed frame set up and your bedding laid out.

This made you smile, and you thanked her. You walked into your bathroom, and your driver saw herself out, locking the door from the inside before closing it.

You bathed and slipped happily into your soft sheets and cozy, fluffy duvet; dreaming about your wonderful night.

[bambiilooza]

“Down on my knees for ya” from horse and the infant is like…dayum Ody…you really desperate to keep that baby ain’t you.

In Just a man, I think instead of throwing the baby off the wall he should’ve just slid him under his shirt and said “it appears my wife had gotten me pregnant.” They gonna believe him. They ain’t smart.

At some point during Full speed ahead I know Ody just wanted to go “stop copying me already!”

In open arms, Polities told Odysseus to, ya know, greet the world with open arms, but he didn’t tell Odysseus that open legs wasn’t an option. Hehehehe

Tbh, at first I thought warrior of the mind was like some sorta Disney song, like how there’s a Hercules movie? I thought this was also some movie like that.

In Polyphemus Ody saying “I’m so glad we see eye to eye” is wild considering he’s a short king(literally) and Polyphemus was like three times his height? You ain’t eye to eye? Bro has to be laying on the ground and even then Off might need to be on a stepstool or something.

For survive, the first time I heard it was where someone took the “600 lives at stake” and the “600 lives ill take” at the same time…in a cookie run kingdom edit…so…yeah.

Remember them, imagine saying “I’m your darkest moment” to someone you just blinded? And then their farther steals your “remember me” and said “I am your darkest moment” lines.

My goodbye is crazy, Ody really pulled out the:

….on Athena. He was must’ve been tripping or something.

Maybe I’ll do The ocean and Circe saga later 🤷

tbh I don’t know what I was doing I just started ranting. I haven’t slept. Actually I had heard survive before, my friend said “LISTEN TO THIS, A CYCLOPS IS HITTING PEOPLE WITH A CLUB LIKE HES PLAYING GOLF”

good bye.

plz do ocean and circe saga later i love reading ppl's rants on epic. no matter how nonsensical

also this fandom will never let pregnant odysseus go, will it? penelope got him pregnant after 10 years of no contact cuz she is a QUEEN.

i like all these lines a lot too

but can i just add about the 'you're alone' thing? athena wanted him to be ruthless with the cyclops and not show mercy. odysseus saw that mindset as the reason she's alone.

by thunder saga, he has become the monster. he is ruthless. and by the end..he's alone.

rip

shameless advertising for this post cuz i think it's funny

[bussyslayer333]

2. say you feel the way that i feel

summary: jake finally gets a moment alone with you.

pairing: best friend’s brother!jake seresin x fem!reader

word count: 2.0k

warnings: swearing, smut (oral), allusions to smut at the end, jake being down bad tbh

previous part • drive me wild

Jake Seresin didn’t believe in luck. He never had to. It was hard work and skill that got him to the top of his Top Gun class. It was even more hard work and skill that made him stay on top.

Right now however, he was thanking his lucky stars.

Both his sisters are back at their respective houses for the day, his dad is out golfing, his mom is at book club, and Addy is at lunch with her high school friends.

That’s leaves him and you in the house. Alone.

Jake notices you from where he’s stood near the kitchen window. It’s hot out today, and you’re sat on one of the recliners near the pool reading a book in what could probably be described as the worlds tiniest bikini. It’s white and has little cherries on it. Jake thinks he might spontaneously combust. Before he can do so, you turn in your seat to catch sight of Jake in the window, wiggling your fingers at him in a greeting.

Jake takes this as a sign to actually make a move, when had he even been the guy to pass up on something he wanted? He starts towards the patio doors, but not before shedding himself of his shirt and checking himself out in the reflection.

“Hey sugar,” he drawls, slipping into the seat next to you, “don’t you just look extra sweet today?”

You can feel Jake’s eyes rake over your frame, paying specific attention to the flimsy ties of your bikini. You place your bookmark in and put the book down beside you.

“Hey, Jakey,” your voice comes out in a teasing lilt.

Usually he hates when people call him that, but he decides in that moment it’s probably the best thing he’s ever heard.

“Whatcha reading?”

Your smirk slightly and Jake realises whatever you’re bound to say is about to be amusing.

“Lolita.”

Jake scoffs playfully, “you’re funny sugar.”

“I’d like to think so,” you shrug with a smile.

Jake rolls his eyes and settles back into the recliner, the sun feels so good beating down onto his tense muscles. He thinks he could probably drift off until your voice rings through the air.

“Jake?” you question.

“Mhm?”

“Could you do me a favour?” you ask, voice dripping with honey, “pretty please?”

Jake opens his eyes and looks over to your pouting lips.

“Well since you asked so nicely…”

You hand Jake the bottle of sun lotion that had been resting on the small table between the recliners and roll over onto your stomach.

“Do my back?”

You let out a giggle as Jake audibly groans, unashamed of how you affect him. He watches with hooded eyes as you let the ties at the back of your bikini top loose, your modesty only being saved now by your position.

“I hate tan lines,” you offer.

Jake nods his head vigorously, “‘me too, can’t stand ‘em, great idea.”

His enthusiasm skyrockets your ego, you jut your hips up lightly and look to where he’s standing above you.

“You gonna sit?”

“Oh yeah, right.” Jake mumbles, disoriented.

He hovers over you awkwardly, a leg on either side of your waist. You look back to him again and giggle.

“It’s okay, y’know?”

Jake shakes his head as if to clear it and sits down finally. He tries not to think about how you feel beneath him and instead gets to work squirting the lotion onto his hands.

His strong hands are cool on your back, massaging into your skin. You cant help but whimper slightly as his hands massage lower.

“Feels good, Jakey,” you moan out.

Jake can’t wipe the smirk off of his face as he continues his movements until he’s satiated, grabbing languidly at the soft flesh of your back. After he’s decided he’s finished, Jake moves back to sit at the edge of your chair,

“All done, sugar?” He taps at your ass lightly.

You hum and push yourself upwards, turning to face Jake. His mouth goes dry as he catches sight of your bikini top laying lonely on the chair.

“Help me with the front?” You pout, something glimmering in your eye that Jake can’t quite decipher.

You reach over and take Jake’s hands in your own, they’re soft and still sticky with residue from the sun lotion, and guide them up towards your breasts. He can’t get enough of the way you feel beneath him, soft skin arching up towards his touch. When he swipes the pads of his thumbs over your nipples you gasp quietly and Jake chuckles.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mumbles more to himself than you.

You whine, “I need you to touch me Jake.”

“I am touching you sugar,” Jake teases.

He knows what you want, but he just wants to hear you say it. You whine once again, it’s music to his ears.

“Touch me properly,” you huff.

Jake sighs and removes his hands from your breasts. His hands go to your thighs as he lies down on his front of the chair and pulls you abruptly towards his face. You squeal at the unexpected movement, widening your legs to accommodate Jake.

He reaches a hand up to the ties of your bikini, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before speaking.

“As cute as this is sugar, I think I’d prefer what’s underneath even more.”

Jake’s words bring a further flush to your cheeks rather than the hot sun in the sky, you nod down at him to give confirmation for what he was about to do.

He pulls slowly at the string on your right hip, watching as it comes undone, the side already falling to expose more of your skin. Moving to the next one, Jake pulls just as tantalisingly slowly. Once it’s undone, he pulls the glorified scrap of fabric away from you and drops it to the floor.

“Fuck.” Jake breathes out.

He’s so close to your center that you can feel his breath on you, making you squirm.

“If that ain’t the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen,” he smirks.

You make a sound that mixes between a whine and a whimper and jut your hips up towards Jake’s face. He gets the hint, tongue darting out to lick a fat stripe from your entrance to your clit.

“Shit, Jake,” you breathe out, hands coming down to grab at his blonde locks.

Jake takes this as encouragement and immediately gets to work, tongue lapping at your clit languidly. Your hips jerk slightly at every flick, prompting Jake to place an arm over you as an attempt at stilling your movements.

The wet noises coming from where Jake’s mouth meets your center should be embarrassing, but it just serves as fuel for him to carry on. His tongue dips down to your hole for a moment as he laps at the wetness, groaning into you at the taste. Jake’s free hand wanders up your thigh to to play with your clit, middle and ring fingers drawing circles into the bundle of nerves.

You’re wary of your surroundings, but it’d be pointless to try and hold in your moans. They come out in squeaks and guttural sounds that please Jake to no end. He’s almost as vocal as you are, mumbles and groans sending delicious vibrations through you.

“I’m close, Jake,” you whimper out after a particularly salacious swirl of his tongue.

He looks up at you from his position between your legs and continues his motions, sending you over the edge with a high pitched whine. Jake coaches you through your high, legs spasming around his head from the pleasure.

He pulls back after a few moment to allow you to catch your breath, legs still shaking. You can see some of your arousal glistening on his chin, bringing heat to your cheeks.

“That good, sugar?” Jake drawls.

You roll your eyes. He knows it was. Instead, you wrap a small hand around the back of his neck and guide his lips towards yours. They’re soft, and you can still taste yourself on him which makes your shiver in excitement. Jake’s lips move in tandem with yours perfectly as you allow his tongue entrance, and something foreign twinges within him that he’s not felt before. Your hand is still at the back of his neck, fingers fussing with his slightly longer hair than usual.

You’re the one to break the kiss first, pulling back just to peck at his lips a few more times. Before Jake can speak, your phone is pinging on the table beside the two of you, stealing your attention from him.

“It’s Addy,” you smile apologetically, “she’s gonna be back soon.”

At the mention of his sister’s name, Jake is reminded of his somewhat unfortunate predicament; sat with her naked best friend in his lap.

“Yeah, of course,” Jake shrugs.

You move to stand from him, not before pecking at his lips once again, and bending down to pick up your discarded bikini. Jake smirks at the sight, alleviating his dulling mood by reaching a hand out to smack lightly at your behind. You snap back up with a gasp and point an accusatory finger. Jake raises his hands in mock surrender and defends,

“you’re the one flaunting that thing sugar!”

You scoff, trying to mask your smile, “creep.”

Jake laughs and goes to reach for you again as you slip away with a giggle. He watches your retreating form with a sigh falling from his lips. He should probably take care of his raging boner before his mom got back from book club.

Jake can’t sleep again. This time, his internal debate has been on whether or not he should try and sneak into your room. The noises you make, the way you taste, and the way you look when you’re so consumed with pleasure is all Jake can think about. You’re infuriating in the best way possible.

Once everyone had returned shortly after your garden escapade, you had descended the stairs in a little ditsy sundress that had Jake reeling. His older sisters and family had joined for dinner as well, Jake was blatantly ignoring every look that Josie was trying to send his way. She was the little moral compass angel on his shoulder, trying to steer him clear from anymore damage he could make. It was annoying because he knew she was right, she always was, and the way she eyeing him down after his gaze often lingered too long on you meant that she was well aware that something had already happened.

You were worth it he had decided at dinner, and he reiterated that as finally removed himself from his bed in lieu of finding you. He opened his door quickly and jumped a little in surprise when he looked down and saw you already there, looking up at him with the same amount of shock. He wonders how long you’d been out here, debating whether to knock on his door or not. Jake figures it’s best not to think about it too much in fear of falling any deeper into what was already becoming much too complicated feelings for you.

Instead, he takes in your attire, you’re clad in a large sleep t-shirt which ends at around your mid thigh and what Jake hopes is nothing else.

“I was just-” you begin.

“God, come here.” Jake sighs, scooping you into his arms.

You oblige happily, jumping into his embrace.

“Gonna make it worth my while, cowboy?” You tease.

Jake plops you down onto his mattress and towers over you for a moment.

“Is that what you want sugar?” Jake questions.

You reach a hand out to palm at the already growing bulge in Jake’s boxers, and smirk,

“more than anything.”

next part

a/n: ahhhhh here’s ch2!! i hope it’s up to standard 😭

thinking perhaps jake is in a tad over his head atm hehehe

i would love to hear everyone’s feedback and what u want to happen next so comment, reblog or send me an ask, i love to hear from u guys!!

tysm for reading :))

- honey <333

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[bouncingbluebeast]

Dad bod Logan - yee or nay?

((Walks up to the microphone with a pile of flashcards. I straighten my cards and adjust my shirt collar before tapping the microphone and leaning in:

Yes.

You look at this 19th century Alberta-born bastard-son redneck-noble subsisting off beer, cigarettes, potatoes, syrup, pancakes, wild game and jerky - and Marvel has the audacity to give him a six-pack? That in our modern day of processed and manufactured foods that he wouldn't even be slightly affected??

(At best I can see a three-pack still visible in that image, ayyyyyy)

Marvel, you look at this caked-up manlet and tell me there is less than 10% body fat on his entire person?

You're telling me, with the bone density of ada-fucking-mantium, that this Calgary Stampede Shortstack has no additional bulk on his muscle from powerlifting his own skeleton every time he walks? That there are no stores of body fat habituated by his body to prepare for the metric ton of bodily harm he'll have to repair in the matter of a week? Not a single lovehandle or cellulite to be seen?

The only "shredded" I will accept as an adjective for Wolverine is a descriptor of his victims or his clothes (an oxymoron, but I digress).

Like, what is this...?

You're going to fight a bear built like THAT???

You're gonna have that dorito-chest snapped at that pencil waist after he bats away those noodle-ass arms.

And then on the other end...

PFFFFFTHAHAHA! What??? He could get his head knocked off like a teed-up golf ball that fell on a barbershop floor...

The artists I respect the most when they are drawing Wolverine are those that remember that this is a 5'3" frontier man from 1800s Canada who has to deal with the fact that everyone after the 1930s is taller than him.

This man has the complex to be the toughest and biggest guy in the room, even when he's always the shortest. He talks big, eats big, fights big as his show of that Wolverine scrappiness.

So to reiterate: yes, Wolverine has a dad bod - because I'm not a coward.))

[conspicuous-clown-car]

small fnaf sb drabble

wrote this at like 3 am after imagining chica like one of those photos you see of cats where their eyes glow in the dark menacingly, then it slowly turned into...this lol

point of view is of my fnaf sb self insert, chica eats trash and feels bad, moon is a bastard but just wants to hang out with his friend.

i'm not a writer so keep that in mind, i just really wanted to get this idea out, and it would take too long in comic form

You walk down the second level hallway between Monty Golf and Kids Cove, heading towards Chica's Bakery. You fidget with the lanyard you're wearing, twisting the security badge around in your hand idly.

Hearing a suspicious sound of crunching in the distance, you pause, letting the badge fall against your shirt.

Your eyes dart around, and you slowly make your way towards whatever the noise is, attempting to keep yourself hidden. Right as you’re about to walk out from behind a food cart, the lights go out. ah, right. hourly recharge. 

You quickly peek your head out, trying to find what’s causing the noise, eyes straining as they get used to the dark. Your eyes widen seeing a figure that looks like Chica, hunched over a knocked over garbage bin……eating trash……

god, not again.

You stand up straight, and carefully walk closer, making sure not to trip on anything in the dim lighting. You do your best to make as little noise as possible with your footsteps, thankful that the carpet muffles most of it.

Finally, standing a good 5 feet behind her as she shovels garbage into her mouth, you just, pause. Contemplating why she’s still doing this after supposedly being “fixed” weeks ago. When and how did this behavior start? Why did they give her the need to eat in the first place? Why has management been ignoring this problem for so long?

and why……….why do you keep watching, this is disgusting.

You decide you’ve had enough of watching and listening to her shoving trash down her gullet, and move your hand past your jacket to silently unclip your flashlight from your belt.

Flashlight in your hold, you click it on and shine the light directly on her, informing her of your presence.

“Chica!”

The animatronic's head spins a whole 180 degrees towards you, body still facing away. You wince at the sight. She looks like a wild animal, her eyes reflecting the light of your flashlight, her mouth stuffed with trash from the garbage bin that she was clearly just eating out from. She looks sort of…aggressive? Like a pet getting caught eating something it knows it's not supposed to be eating.

You two stare at each other for a long awkward moment. 

When she finally relaxes a bit her eyes dart back and forth on you, surveying you

“Uh-“

Some chewed up mix of garbage falls out of her beak as her jaw moves

“…..Yes?”

You try not to laugh at that, stifling a smile and managing to keep a straight face. You lower the flashlight so that it's pointing to the floor, closing your eyes, you take in a deep breath. Your shoulders slack and you let out a long sigh, then look at her

“you know you’re supposed to be charging right now, right?”

She comically blinks out of synch, processing the information

“…Oh…oh!”

Chica jolts, and looks around as if she’s just now noticed the darkness the pizzaplex has been engulfed in

“Oh my gosh, you’re right!! Sorry! I just uh…..” 

She glances to the toppled over garbage bin, then back to you. Shrugging sheepishly, she lets out an embarrassed giggle

“……Got distracted?”

You huff and manage a smile, not really that upset with her eating habits, just a little concerned for her. You scratch at your face absentmindedly.

“it’s alright, just... get to the nearest charging station asap, yeah?”

She straightens up, her body rotating to face you. Her mood lifts a bit and she smiles, relieved that you aren’t reprimanding her for her strange habit. Despite that she still seems tense

“Yeah! Of course!”

She struts towards you, eyes lighting up the dark and casting a purple glow over you. Abruptly stopping herself from patting your shoulder, she frowns when realizing how much gunk is on her hands. You look up at her with a soft expression on your face.

"...hey, i'll help you clean up after my patrols if you want, okay?

Chica stays silent, lost in thought as she stares at her messy hand. Her eyes quickly dart between you and her hand for a moment. Then, catching up to the present, her eyes settle on you, and she smiles gratefully.

"...I would, really appreciate that, thank you"

You give her a small smile, and pat her clean arm wordlessly, an attempt to comfort her. It seems to lift her up, as she swiftly regains her peppy composure and remembers her current task

“Right! Charging! Sorry again, see you later, Krissy!”

she gestures a peace sign as she starts walking past you

“mhm, see ya”

You nod your head at the chicken, watching as she hurries towards what is hopefully a charging station, leaving you in the dark. But as she walks further in the distance, you see her form slouch a bit, as if in shame. It tugs at your heartstrings, and you wonder if this is starting to get a little out of control, this eating problem of hers. It’s clearly taking a toll on her, you can tell, no matter how much she tries to hide behind her enthusiastic nature.

You look over at the garbage bin on its side, ultimately deciding to let a staff bot handle it. There's no way you were touching garbage without gloves, and you cringe at the thought.

As your mind wanders you turn around and continue walking to your original destination, Chica’s Bakery. Knowing the path, you turn the flashlight off, keeping it in your hold just in case. You quite enjoy the darkness, along with the bright colors of the neon lights on the ceilings and walls, it's very peaceful. Lost in your thoughts as you continue making your way towards the bakery, only the muffled sound of your footsteps can be heard in the quiet empty pizzaplex.

That and the faint sound of bells.

You immediately freeze right outside the shutter doors, hair standing on edge at the noise. Your ears strain to listen for anything else as you stand completely still. The darkness around you is slowly lit with a red hue, and right behind you, you hear the sounds of something…mechanical.

You spin around and, not expecting Moons face to be inches from yours, you jump and flail backwards, cursing. You lose hold of your flashlight and it thuds on the carpet. How you didn’t feel him so close to you, you had no clue. His body is slouched low to the ground as he snickers at you. Your face feels warm, embarrassed by your reaction

“c'mon moon! the hell?”

You glare at him and ball your hands into fists at your sides, only slightly irritated at his amusement

His chuckling slows and quiets to a stop and he tilts his head, the action causing a creaking sound as he looks at you. god you gotta fix that.

“taking my job?”

His voice filled with mirth, and maybe a bit of mock irritation too. 

You lean over to grab your flashlight off the floor, keeping your eyes on him. Standing up straight attempting to regain your composure, you fail to process what he said

“huh?”

“Chica.”

He says plainly, casually taking a step towards you, still slouched. You don't understand where he's going with this, as he's purposely acting mysterious

“oh”

you say dumbly

“right, she was uh, just kinda there so i….sent her on her way?”

You shrugged awkwardly, thumb fidgeting with the grooves on the flashlight. You can't really tell if he's taking this conversation seriously or not.

Glowing red eyes seem to brighten as he stares at you, his body rigid as he shakes his head creepily.

“didn’t do it correctly.”

You squint at him, tilting your head in confusion.

“…didn’t-…..what do you mean?”

He glares, abruptly walking towards you, and you manage not to flinch. Yet your grip on the flashlight tightens.

“didn’t escort her to a charging station.”

He starts slowly circling around you, like a predator, keeping his gaze locked on you. You turn towards him, making sure to keep your eyes on him. You're really not in the mood for what you think he's planning.

“didn’t make sure she actually got to one.”

His hands twitch a bit, and you glance at them for a brief moment, trying to figure out if he's actually upset or not.

“well, isn’t that your job?”

you instantly regret the quick retort, mentally yelling at yourself for saying it ruder than you meant. wow! way to de-escalate the situation!

Moon stops walking, and just stares at you, alarmingly still. All you can do is look back into his red eyes as you attempt to control your breathing and keep your face emotionless.

Another moment goes by of staring at each other, then a reedy giggle bursts out of his voice box with a glitch. He covers his mouth with a hand -as if that would muffle it- and grips his stomach, his body shaking as if he’s actually laughing. You just stare at him as he laughs at you, wondering what's so funny.

He finally stops laughing and lets out a quiet sigh, mimicking wiping a tear from his eye while holding a hand to his chest. His faceplate quickly tilts toward you.

He lifts his hand, and calmly motions for you to come closer, holding it out as if he wants you to take it.

“c'mere.” 

You grip your flashlight to your chest with both hands, confused at the quick change, not fully trusting his intentions. You purse your lips and squint your eyes at him suspiciously.

“….why?”

He slowly moves a bit closer, crouching to your eye level, trying to appear less intimidating.

“come on...” 

His voice is softer, as if he genuinely means no harm. It could still be a trick though, you've fallen for this before. Stretching his arm towards you he motions again for you to take his hand.

You look down at his hand, then at him, then back at his hand, and think for a moment. You trust him, right?

You let out a sigh through your nose and cautiously lift your right hand.

Moon quickly shakes his head and waves his hand, and you ignore the fact that it slightly startled you. He then points to your left hand, the one that has the fazwatch on it. oh.

He holds out his hand again, and -after switching your hold of the flashlight to your right to make sure he doesn't take it- you carefully place your left hand on his, watching him to see if he'll try anything.

Smoothly shifting closer to you, he gently grabs your arm and gets up into your personal space. He brings your wrist and fazwatch close to his face, and starts fiddling with it. You relax a bit, relieved that he was just messing with you before.

Curious, you try to see what he’s doing as he taps his fingers on the screen, but his huge faceplate is blocking your view

“….what’re you…?”

“shhh...”

He quickly shushes you, faceplate spinning once, and the bell on the end of his hat hits your chest.

"hey!"

You scoff, feigning annoyance, despite it not hurting that much.

Moon hisses in response.

He stops tapping and stares at the screen for a second, then guides your arm up to your face with both hands so you could see what’s on the fazwatch. You wince at the bright screen, your eyes adjusted to the dark. Oh, it’s the useless map of the building you stopped using weeks ago, with...dots on it. Four to be exact, one red, one purple, one green, and one pink. The pink one was further away from the rest, not moving.

You quickly put together that these were the glamrocks in their green rooms, all charging. Except for Chica, who was still loitering in the atrium…ugh.

Moon points to the pink dot, his finger getting too close to your eyes for comfort.

“Chica.”

You bring your arm down to look at him, simultaneously getting his hand further away from your face.

“yea, she’s still not in a charging station...”

You sigh and look at the ceiling, dragging your right hand down the side of your face tiredly. You really were a babysitter to these four. At least now you'll always be able to see their locations on your fazwatch, that's helpful.

You realize Moon still has a hold on your arm as his hands start curling around it, and he gently tugs you closer, getting your attention back on him.

“come with me.”

You look at him for a moment, then turn your head toward the shutter door that separates you from the bakery. You had your own personal reasons for going there besides having to patrol…but...

One of his hands moves from your arm to your other shoulder and he pulls you even closer. He stand a little taller, so that his face is right in front of yours

“could be funny...”

You lift your eyebrows in interest, eyes darting to him for a second but you keep facing towards the shutter. Hmmm, knowing Moon, it could be funny…

“help me do my job?”

He requests, calling back your previous statement. Man he really wants you to come with him, huh?

“…hmmmmmmmmm....”

You draw out a long hum, and turn towards him somewhat, still not looking at him. You wait for whatever he’ll do to try and convince you to go with him.

Moon's hands squeeze you, he tilts his head to the side, and your eyes are immediately drawn to him.

“pretty please?”

ah shit, you can't say no to that

“....hmmmmmmm okaaay…”

You huff, reluctantly agreeing to accompany him.

You hear a mechanical rumbling noise coming from his chest, and he straightens his posture, looking pleased. His hand engulfs yours as he quickly grabs it, clearly thrilled to be able to spend time with you.

You roll your eyes and fail to hide a smile as he happily drags you through the dark building, away from Chica's Bakery.

[daryltwdixon]

The Promise of Us: Chapter 37

notes: this chapter is pretty by the book in terms of the episode of Beth & daryl at the country club ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ not much to change here! next chapter being uploaded right away :)

They arrive at an open field, the remnants of a golf course spread out before them—trimmed grass gone wild, faded flags fluttering in the breeze.

“Golfers like booze, right?” Beth asks, turning to him.

Daryl doesn’t answer, his eyes locked on a small group of walkers that have noticed them from across the course. When they reach the building, Daryl searches the downed walker by the door for any keys but finds nothing useful. He grabs the golf club in its hand and motions for Beth to follow him around to the back. They slip inside through a glass door, and Daryl gestures for her to stay quiet.

Inside, the stench hits them immediately—rotting corpses and decay. Walkers hang from the ceiling, the familiar sight of people who had "opted out" in this twisted world. They snarl and snap as Daryl picks up a flashlight, the faint beam cutting through the gloom. He hears Beth clinking around, searching for her bottle of booze, as he methodically moves through the room. He kneels by a bag filled with wads of money, the sight oddly nostalgic. For a brief moment, he’s reminded of who he used to be—the version of himself that would’ve cared about something like this. Without thinking, he shoves the money into a bag, as if muscle memory has taken over.

“Why you keepin’ all that stuff?” Beth asks, her voice cutting through the quiet. Before he can answer, there’s a loud banging on the door outside—the walkers have caught up.

Daryl moves quickly, slamming the next set of doors shut before they can get in. They rush through the old kitchen, the smell of rotten food thick in the air. Flashlights bob through the darkness, throwing jagged shadows as they search through the debris.

Suddenly, there’s a growl, and Beth’s voice echoes through the room—gasping, grunting, glass shattering. Daryl tenses, his crossbow ready, but before he can reach her, the growl turns to a gurgle, and Beth plunges his knife into the walker’s head.

She turns, catching his gaze from the shadows. “Thanks for the help,” she says, sarcasm laced in her tone.

Daryl grunts in response. “Ya said you could take care of yourself. Ya did.”

They move further into the building, making their way downstairs into what was once a pro shop. Daryl grabs what he can—supplies, clothing, anything useful. He looks up to see Beth, now dressed in a preppy yellow polo and a white sweater, like she’s stepped straight out of the world they’d lost. This place was so otherworldly to him, never once stepping inside a country club in his life. But she could fit right in.

She approaches a grotesque sight: half a walker, strapped to a mannequin, with “Rich Bitch” scrawled across her chest. Beth tries to close the walker’s shirt, her face crumpling with discomfort.

“Help me take her down,” she whispers.

Daryl doesn’t move, the toothpick in his mouth shifting. “It don’t matter,” he mutters. “She’s dead.”

“It does matter,” Beth insists, her voice barely audible. So Daryl goes and finds a neatly folded blanket the pro shop was probably trying to sell for triple the price the ratty thing was worth, and throws it over the dead woman.

“There,” he says finally, and Beth sighs, but makes no move to argue.

They continue through the country club, the clock ringing out loudly to mark the hour, making them jump out of their skin. As they turn a corner into a dimly lit trophy room, growling walkers shuffle toward them, their decaying forms highlighted by slivers of light filtering through the broken windows.

“Move,” Daryl urges quietly, pushing Beth forward with a firm hand. She takes off up the stairs, but as Daryl gets halfway through the room, he pauses. The light here is enough for him to see clearly, and he decides to take down the walkers now rather than risk being followed.

He spins around, releasing an arrow into the skull of the nearest walker. The second one lunges at him, but he shoves it back forcefully, following up with a hard swing of his golf club that connects with a sickening crack. The third walker stumbles forward, and Daryl drives the club’s handle into its head, the blow so strong it lodges into the bone. He yanks it free, the walker collapsing to the floor.

More walkers shuffle into the room—a fourth and a fifth. Daryl kicks one back, buying himself enough time to pull out his knife. He steps forward, plunging the blade into the skull of the downed walker. The last one lurches closer, its ragged breaths rasping in the confined space. Daryl grips the golf club tightly, swinging it repeatedly, until the walker’s skull splits open under the force. Blood sprays across the room, some splattering onto Beth’s freshly changed clothes as she watches from the doorway.

He locks eyes with her, his expression wary, but Beth doesn’t flinch. Without a word, she steps past him, her boots crunching over the remnants of the dead as she makes her way down the hall, discarding her bloodied cardigan.

“We made it,” Beth says, her eyes locked on the bar up ahead. She turns to Daryl, her voice raw and defiant. “I know you think this is stupid, and it probably is. But I don’t care.” Her eyes are wide, shining with a mix of frustration and fierce determination. “All I wanted to do today was lay down and cry, but we don’t get to do that. So beat up on walkers if that makes you feel better… I need to do this.”

Her voice cracks, vulnerability slipping through her tough front, but Daryl remains silent, his face unreadable. He stands there, closed off, his emotions buried beneath layers of exhaustion and grief. Beth turns toward the bar, moving with purpose, and he lets her take the lead.

While Beth begins searching behind the bar, Daryl moves slowly around the room, eyes scanning the mess. He’s careful not to disturb the silence too much, but as he finds an old, framed certificate on the wall, he breaks the glass, pulling the paper from inside.

“Did’ja have to break the glass?” Beth calls from across the room, her voice tinged with mild annoyance.

“No,” Daryl replies gruffly, not bothering to explain. His voice is rough, heavy with fatigue. “You have your drink yet?”

“No,” Beth mimics, her tone echoing his bluntness. She holds up a dusty bottle. “But I found this… Peach Schnapps… is it any good?”

Daryl doesn’t even look up, his answer immediate. “No.” The word falls from his lips, carrying the faint memory of the syrupy, sickly stuff that used to pass for liquor.

“Well, it’s the only thing left,” Beth mutters, quieter now. She pours herself a glass, cleaning out the least dirty container she can find with the hem of her sweater.

Daryl moves over to the dartboard across the way, grabbing a few darts. But instead of aiming at the board, he hurls the first dart at an old portrait of a man framed above the bar, the dart landing squarely in the figure’s forehead. He glances back at Beth. She’s still standing there, her hand resting on top of the bottle, her eyes fixed on it.

He throws another dart, watching her as she falters, her face beginning to crumble. Her lips press together tightly, but it’s no use—her chin trembles, and tears start to spill down her cheeks. She holds the bottle loosely, her sobs barely restrained.

Daryl’s jaw tightens, unsure of what to do. He feels a strange mix of helplessness and irritation, his instinct to fix things clashing with the awkwardness of the moment.

After a moment’s hesitation, he throws the last dart with more force than necessary, then strides toward her. He grabs the bottle from her hand and, with a sudden burst of anger, smashes it against the ground, glass shattering at their feet.

“Ain’t gonna have your first drink be no damned Peach Schnapps,” he growls, his voice harsh. “Come on.”

He picks up his crossbow, heading toward the back door. Beth’s sobs are still soft behind him, but she follows, her steps heavy. He holds the door open, waiting for her to pass through.

[enkelimagnus]

Don't Feed It (It Will Come Back)

Read on AO3

True Detective Season 1, Rust/Marty, Rated E

Summary: Follow-up to Something Stuck In Your Teeth

They've fucked. They've gone back to normal, or whatever poses as normal for these two. Except Rust's not one man you own and Marty's not gotten that memo. So when Rust sleeps with a friend of Maggie's, Marty gets possessive. And Rust doesn't like this at all.

Warnings: The usual warnings that come with Canon True Detective, Period-Typical Homophobia, Anal Sex, Slurs, Bad Crash Stuff, French-bashing (self-inflicted)

Full text below the cut

His thumb caresses the grip of his gun where it rests against his belt, runs his fingerprint all over the hard, cold polymer casing and he wonders when they’ll catch him out. 

Quesada knows he’s not listening to a word he’s saying but he’s not snapping at him to get his head out of his ass and pay attention. His tolerance for Rust’s never-ending anti-authority attitude lowers every day they get closer to the weekend and today’s friday.

He’s letting Marty be the spokesman for the both of them, lets him deal with the politics of men like Quesada who only care as long as their superiors do, as long as it will shorten their afternoons lazing around a golf green pretending to play that limpdick excuse for a sport.

Quesada must have been a good cop once upon a time, or at least that’s what Marty’s desperate to believe. Rust only knows he must not have been that good, else he’d know the sort of creature sitting across from him now, and he would know he belongs somewhere the sun don’t ever shine. The least he would do was get that state-issued gun away from him and force him to fend for himself in the firearm department. 

When they walk out of there, Rust is still a free man and Marty’s hand rests onto his shoulder, onto that very spot on his trapezius where, under the shirt, half covered by his undershirt is the crescent moon scar of Marty’s own teeth. He’s gotten the habit of it, of letting his hand fall onto that mark from time to time, a claim or a warning or a threat, or perhaps all three at once. He knows it’s there still, he saw it in the locker room, saw how it was scarring, a bit red still underneath the brown of the scab.

Others have seen it too, men he can’t help but see at work when they grab showers or take a leak by the lockers or grab something from the jacket of their civilian garb. A woman’s seen it too, a blonde little thing with a genuinely fantastic ass Maggie had introduced him to over sweet tea and some help with the plumbing of the house. One thing with being raised by a mad man in a cabin in the middle of Alaska, you learn how to take care of a home, and if Marty felt emasculated by it, Rust couldn’t care less. If he had decided to help out his woman, she wouldn’t be calling him up to help with her fucking pipes.

She calls him sometimes, in the evenings or on days he and Marty both have off and Rust can’t help but wonder if Marty knows that his wife is calling for no real reason but to talk, like he’s one of the girls from her book club. It’s nice though, he likes her like a little sister. She can see through enough of his shit to give a fuck but not enough to run away screaming, and Marty might be annoyed by it at the end of the day, but he’s the one who opened the door first, the one who let his wife feed Rust like a wild animal at their doorway, plying him with coffee and letting him think he could trust them. You don’t feed a stray unless you want it to come back. 

That day though, it had only been a trap to get him in his wifebeater and a flannel over at the house while Suzie was there as well for entirely unrelated reason. He’d taken her on a date the next day, mostly because Maggie had been staring at him with eyes promising divine retribution if he didn’t make a move. She had a nice smile but Rust wasn’t a fan of blondes, and the entire evening, he’d kept seeing Dora Lange superimposed over her like a 1910s film’s archaic special effects. They’d still fucked though, at his place on his mattress in the living room and she hadn’t said anything about that. She’d asked about the bite mark. He’d kissed her to shut her up and it had worked. He had been thinking of Marty anyway. 

The days after that perfect storm are empty of threats and insults; they’ve pierced the abscess and let the pus out and it’s going to need some time to build back up. They know it’ll build back up. The sort of festering wound they have doesn’t ever heal fully. 

Rust’s got a lot of those. Most days he feels like a torn open carcass laying in a patch of sunlight, just awaiting to be shredded further in the claws of some great carrion bird. Vultures are essential to the health of an ecosystem, he knows as much, but he can feel the talons digging into his flesh, three points of pain on his left side, right where the bullets found their way. 

The first one he’d seen, a great big thing, half majestic and half ungainly, was on a field trip his pop had not been able to pull him out of. The wildlife center had a wing – more like a spare room, but they’d been trying to get money out of the state to keep their operation flowing and “wing” had sounded like they deserved the aid more – for the sort of animals that were not supposed to be as far up north as the likes of Ennis. 

They’d only managed to get at the vulture because it had, in its despair to feed and keep itself warm from the otherworldly cold of north Alaska, attempted to steal away some of their critters out of their goddamn dens. 

The vulture had stared into his eyes then, and Crash had once told this story to Ginger, just filed off the specifics and replaced it with another man’s details, and added that the bird must have known what he’d become. Crash had felt like a big carrion bird, but that was before he’d met Louisiana CID Homicide detective Rustin Cohle. Nah, that fucker, the one whose skin he now wears, whose suits he puts on every morning, whose apartment he lives in, that fucker’s the vulture.

So they go back to work, he goes back to making his living off of dead bodies, and they don’t talk about what happened off Highway 10. They settle down into the routine of biting words and eye rolls, into the monotony of the cases that come across their desks. They fail to capture Rust’s attention for too long.

He knows that what happened with Dora Lange shouldn’t be replicated. He knows the obsession, the nights spent drinking coffee like water, staying awake through the sheer force of his will, staying on his feet going through files in the archives, he knows those are not healthy. He also knows that was the most alive he’d felt in a really, really long time.

Even before he opened that big red box, even before he got into that absolutely grandiose cocaine in the evidence locker, the thrill of the chase had lit him up from the inside and it had been what he’d been aching for since he’d joined Homicide. And he’s aching for it now, needs it like you need to scratch an itch, and that stolen stop in the heat of summer, damp and tense and electric in every way had scratched it and for a short, blessed moment, he’d been breathing free. 

He’s always been obsessive, always stared at every tree for a bit too long, always spent nights laying in the middle of the woods staring at the stars and trying to remember what he’d learned from the physics and astronomy intro books he’d absolutely not accidentally forgotten to give back to the school library before spring break. He looked at the space between the stars and wondered if a black hole would ever come to swallow him whole. He’d stared at the constellations and felt ancient and so very new at the same time, a sight held by so many eyes and understood fully by none at all. 

He remembers losing the night every year for two months, and how it felt like losing shelter, losing safety. How losing the day felt like he’d dug himself too deep into the earth to run from the world and he’d gotten stuck in a maze of caverns, every stalagmite the shadow of a person he knew, uncanny and unhinged. He remembers men like Riley Marshall whose words became more and more slurred with every minute of sunlight lost to the night, until he spent those two months barely understandable, only to spring back up with the sun, as if alcoholism was seasonal. 

Louisiana is incredibly steady in comparison, comfortably warm even in the dead of winter, with that golden sun bearing down onto the bayou and the insects buzzing around your ears, steadfast companions. 

So Rust finds other ways to feed the prowling beast in his mind. He reads and throws himself into work and spends his weekends sitting in his convent cell of a house with his head a smear of robitussin or a haze of quaaludes that still smell like the cheap perfume of the women he bought them from. There’s nothing like being high off your fucking rocker and hallucinating dead people staring at you with empty eye sockets and blood bubbling out of their mouths, staining the carpet from where they stand awkwardly in the corner, nothing like feeling the weight of a dead child in your arms and the stench of cocaine sweats on your skin, while you’re neck deep in Thus Spoke Zarathustra. 

Death is a given of life, but it’s been feeling like death is a moth to whatever bayou bonfire Rust seems to be made of. He’s always known the smell of it, the color of it, the weight of it pulling at his feet like gravity, keeping him on the ground, keeping him in the world. He cannot remember knowing anyone who didn’t have a personal, intimate relationship with death. Claire had been an anomaly for four years, until she hadn’t.

There are a few places where Crash and Rust intersected, places that made it easier to blend himself and disappear into another man’s skin. They recommend it when you go undercover, to find a cover that has a few things in common, so that lying will be easier. Death had been the main one. Rust had shot a deer down by the time he’d gone into middle school and Crash had grown up listening to the rattling of rifles in the dark in a damp corner of a Texas ghetto. 

Both of them had taken naturally to holding guns, both taken to killing like a duck to water, and the murkier the pond, the better. Dead moms and absentee dads and authority issues and the substantial skill of being able to recognize stronger than you, of being able to follow the rules of the strongest. More than all of that, all the seams shared between those two costumes, what had allowed him to disappear inside of the chitinous armor of that particular monster had been death. Without death, he wouldn’t have been quite as willing to shoot himself full of unspoken substances and spend four years in a haze of chemicals. It’s what made it so easy to throw away a sanity that hadn’t been precious to him in months.

He’s given up on recovering that. He’s given up on getting clean too. That ship sailed a really long time ago. He can do sober, though, most of the time, because the downers help and the work busies his mind enough that he’s not completely trying to drown himself in an ocean of liquor.

He locked the Jameson back into the red box with Crash’s jacket and his boots, and the personal dose of coke he’d grabbed out of that bag for himself, with the rifles and the fake IDs and the markers of Crash. He doubts he can ever go back now, cause Ginger was with him and now he’s locked up, but… it’s in there. It’s in a closet in his house, a skeleton of electricity and leather and whiskey. It stinks up that corner so he never goes there. He locked the door with a padlock so it would be hard to get into. His neighborhood is quiet, no record of home invasion, but there are closer demons than the nameless thieves in the night.

When he’s laying on his mattress with Suzie by his side, quiet now that they’ve fucked a second time, and he’s staring at the ceiling and the light fixture is bloodshot and blinking at him – The eye was in the tomb and was watching Cain. – he can feel Crash in the closet, banging at the door to get out, he can smell the stench of him, of gunpowder and bad trips and murder. 

Marty wore that jacket with the full patch on the back and he must have known what it meant, he’d been in the force for too long not to know, even if bike clubs like the Iron Crusaders didn’t often make it up to him. Their murders were clear and motivated, rarely investigated the way they should, used as fodder to thicken the files that would take down men like Miles. 

He accepted it, though. He didn’t speak on it, didn’t judge it. Marty Hart, the great cowboy of Louisiana Homicide, let that wretched creature run free and didn’t come down on it afterwards. He let Rust put the box back in the closet and he still touched him like he wasn’t afraid of him, still fucked him like he wasn’t in danger. He liked being handled like he wasn’t a bomb waiting to go off. Or perhaps he liked that Marty didn’t care in that moment, that he might go off and kill the both of them at once, splattering red over the beige tiles in grotesque perversions of the shapes of their bodies. His mind supplied the image readily enough.

Marty lets go of him, lets that hand fall from the back of his neck as they reach their desks. Rust’s is clean and tidy, not a single sheet of paper out of place, not a hint of an open case, because there isn’t any. They’ve just finished one, the trail has ended with cuffs dug into a man’s skin and the wide, terrified eyes of cattle before execution. A commonplace crime, a commonplace horror, once again nothing sophisticated. Rust didn’t believe that homicide would be particularly rife with the sort of crimes you read in sensationally-titled books, but he’d thought there would be… more. He can get more intellectually stimulating shit from those dish rags they call gossip magazines, brightly colored like birds trying to attract mates, when he goes to buy his cigarettes at the shop next door to the station.

Marty threw him a comment about getting him one of those 3000-piece puzzles, threw it like a ball at football practice, and Rust let it fall down to the side and watched Marty’s eyes roll and his face show that look of ‘what else should I expect’ that he’s come to favor around Rust.

There’s a piece of wood and a knot of twine left over from those devil traps resting in the upper right corner of his desk, next to a neat stack of some procedure manuals he’s supposed to pass onto the next newbie to come in. There’s been one already, three weeks ago, but when Rust had made it in that morning, the kid’d been halfway down his first coffee, surrounded on all sides by Geraci’s little band of bootlickers and Rust hadn't even bothered with introductions.  

He can see him now, on his way out of the door with the brazen pep in his fucking step that comes with being fresh out the academy. He used to be that way too, before Paul and Ruddy had kicked some sense into him. 

Rust sits down and reaches for the pack of camels, and Marty reaches for his forgotten cup of coffee. It’s most likely cold by now but Marty has the uncanny ability to swallow down coffee no matter how long it has been sitting or how burnt it has become and Rust might just respect that quality in him more than any other. That’s a feat of herculanean strength if he’s ever seen one. 

They’ve got a rare empty workload, after months of back to back, open-simultaneously murders of jealous rage and covetous greed and insatiable lust, their own backwater Dante’s Inferno. 

The afternoon’s almost over. If they were any other men, they would walk out now, enjoy the early night with a beer and a conversation, but Rust doesn’t do beer and company, or early calls, and he’s managed to silently shame Marty into giving some of those habits up as well. They’re now staring at each other wondering who will make the first move and ask for additional work.

There’s politics to this sort of act. You can’t just shame your fellow officers by asking if they got anything they should be working on, no, you gotta beg for it, gotta add mumbles about not wanting to get home to the wife. That line only Marty can carry. He’s been back in Maggie’s good graces for two months now. 

Rust can beg. He can do it pretty too, can go with his hand outstretched like they’re giving him charity, like he’d owe them for it. Those are favors they’ll cash in when they need confessions and they see him idling in the station. They realized some time ago he’s good at those. He just enjoys the puzzles, and he enjoys watching human beings stripped down to their bare essential needs. He imagines he’d be entirely the same, pinned there and dissected, a rare butterfly in an entomologist's lab. 

Suffice to say, he’d rather Marty do it. At least he doesn’t have to flay himself open for it.

So they stare at each other and have this silent conversation, until they’ve reached an impasse and Rust just decides to wait it out. His eyes fall on the wood and the twine. They feel grotesque in this setting so devoid of anything natural, like broken off fingers of some greater entity, stolen in the night. 

They were called devil traps and Rust has been tangled up in them since he first saw them in that field on January 3rd. Did the one who made them know what it would mean to him? A child’s belief that evil could be warded off, left sarcastically to guard the corpse of a woman, of someone’s own child grown up to become disillusioned by the reality of life? 

Sophia wasn’t blonde, she had dark hair like her mother, a crow’s nest on the days they rushed out of the door late to drop her off at daycare. Still she’d haunted him that day, haunted the scenes of those crimes, all until Ledoux’s… bunker. He’d been too strung out for too long to remember her, until they’d had to move those bodies. It had been her hands pushing Marty out of the way to get the little girl. It had been her weight in Rust’s arms on the way out. 

Marty stands up with a long-suffering, exaggerated sigh, a smoke signal to all that he’s lost whatever silent battle he was fighting against his peculiar partner. That’s another way Marty can ask for work without shaming the others, by pretending Rust is pushing him to do unreasonable things. All Rust wants is for them to do their job, so he doesn’t have to go home early.

Rust stares at the back of Marty, the strong lines of shoulders and back, the way he stands with his feet apart, planted there like great oak trees to give himself balance. His hair is a little messy in the back, where he’s run his hand through it a number of times while they were talking to Quesada. He has one of his hands buried in one of his pockets, the other reaching forward, probably in the middle of asking for a file and it’s one hell of a picture, this all-American aged quarterback, begging for something under his breath. 

He’s never liked seeing that kicked-puppy look on Marty, the one he had when looking at Lisa at the Longhorn, when he wasn’t seething with rage. It feels obscene on a man like Marty, trying to make himself look innocent and victimized, trying to look small so someone will pity him. Rust finds it deeply unattractive, more so than the jealousy and the anger and the possessiveness, and all those biting, growling, snarling emotions that make a man into a beast, that make a man something to be scared of. 

Rust reaches up to grasp over the bitemark. He hides it with a roll of his right shoulder, like he’s working out a kink. 

They end up getting saddled with half the station’s paperwork, or something that feels like it at least, and Rust would care more that Marty is glaring daggers at him if he wasn’t cursing himself the whole time. He should have just accepted defeat and let Marty go home, while he went and hid in the archives somewhere in a cobwebbed corner until it felt safe to come out. It never felt safe to come out, but someone did eventually kick him out if he couldn’t justify his presence. 

“Maggie’s gonna kill me.”

“Just tell her you had to work late,” Rust mutters through his cigarette. Marty’s got one too, stolen from his pack as usual. It’s half burnt and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with it sometimes, it just hangs from his fingers uselessly. He could use a pen just as well and not waste the smokes. 

“That ain’t gonna work. Used it too many times for her to believe me now.”

“Man who cried work,” Rust shrugs. He doesn’t pity him. 

He tunes back into the file in his hands, reading through the confession scrawled with a pencil that needs sharpening like a drunk needs whiskey, handwriting like chicken scratches on a yellow block of paper. 

“That does make me think…” Marty starts and trails off.

The confession, where he can read it, is from a man killing his wife, nothing new under the fucking sun and typing it up into a proper format is going to be hell. He guesses that’s what he deserves for asking for extra work. 

Marty still hasn’t spoken again so Rust sighs and looks up from the slice of human stupidity and cupidity smeared in goose poop colors in front of him.

The man looks at him in a way that makes Rust believe he’s had whatever he’s going to say on his mind for much longer than that ‘that makes me think’ lets on. He’s staring him down in a way, with those blue eyes like at the first sky of spring. 

Rust raises an eyebrow. They’re almost alone in the department now, everyone’s gone and left the kind of on time that feels early now that they’ve unloaded their paperwork on them. Whatever Marty wants to talk to him about now, pretending to be casual about it, as casual as a bullet to the gut can be, it’s something he doesn’t mind talking about here. But he does mind talking about it in the presence of the other detectives. 

“Maggie’s been asking me if you had a good time with Suzie.”

Rust frowns. He’s been expecting Marty to talk about something all day. It’s been hanging around, curdling the air, moving around them and tangled in their legs. But he was not expecting Suzie. 

“I…. Sure. She was a nice girl.” 

He doesn’t do this sort of conversation. Especially with Marty, who doesn’t usually mind boasting about his conquests around the others. Rust would think it’s because of what happened off Highway 10, if he had been more talkative before.  

“Hmm mmm.” Marty hums under his breath. “I told her we don’t talk like that, you and I. We don’t have that sort of a rapport.”

“Right.” Maggie would rather not know what kind of rapport Marty and him entertain. 

Rust turns away, towards the typewriter, and he starts to type out that shitstain of a confession. It would make him angry if he wasn’t so used to it now. Men hurt women everyday, those are not news stories. 

“So… Suzie?”

Rust looks back and Marty’s not moved, with that cigarette in his finger burning off almost unattended. That makes him roll his eyes more than the question, more than anything else. He should buy his own fucking smokes if he’s gonna waste them. 

“Friend of Maggie’s. She called me up to fix a pipe problem ten days ago.” He watches Marty tense across their desks. “Her pipes were fine, of course. 'Twas some great elaborate scheme to get me in my civvies at your place while her friend was there.”

Marty’s still eyeing him suspiciously, like he can’t quite believe he wasn’t trying to make a move on his wife. It’s fucking ridiculous, this peacocking of his, this fucking… pissing on the fence to mark it as his. Rust has no intentions whatsoever towards Maggie Hart. 

“So I show up. And Maggie’s busy but she says I should come in, and that the toolbox or whatever is in the kitchen. So I walk into the kitchen and sitting there with a glass of sweet tea half full, is this… Suzie.”

There’s nothing he dislikes more than this stupid sort of show and tell men do. But Marty’s got a look to him and he can’t tell exactly where it is going. He has no desire to get into a fight tonight. 

“Blonde,” he provides. “Nice girl.” He stops for a moment. “Good ass.”

He can see a look of recognition in Marty’s eyes at that. Fucker. Of course that’s what makes it click.

“Susan Cornell,” Marty explains. “From church.”

Rust chuckles and shakes his head. He thinks of the crucifix nailed into the wall above his bed, above where Suzie and him fucked, twice. When he was looking at blinking eyes in ceiling fixtures, she must have been looking at her lord and savior. 

“Well. We didn’t do that much talking, all things considered.”

“So. I guess you like yourself a blonde.”

It’s thrown at him for him to catch, and he can tell Marty’s mad underneath it all. He can’t really figure out why. Suzie was nice and they spent an enjoyable night and he drove her home in the morning because Claire force-fed him manners before their daughter was born. He can’t see where it could have gone wrong.

So he just shrugs and finishes his cigarette. “I actually don’t. Most of the time.”

Marty finally releases that cigarette from the throes of agony. He brings it to his lips and sucks in whatever pitiful amount remains, one deep drag that hollows his cheeks and makes him look angrier than before. Rust leans back against his chair and crosses his arms. Something’s coming, gathering over Marty like a cloud, wreathing his head in lightning and curses. It sparkles minty hot in between them and burns into Rust’s gums. 

“Well,” Marty finally starts after a moment. “Color me surprised. Thought you didn’t like women all that much.”

This one Rust expected. After Highway 10, after that half-earnest conversation where they’d danced around the topic like angels on the head of a pin, he’d gathered Marty thought the insults and slurs were at least backed by lived experience. That was a truly black and white view of human sexuality that Rust had always encountered particularly in those smoke-filled, misery-reeking liminal spaces they called police departments and community churches. 

He licks his lips. There’s a meal to be made of the discomfort Marty Hart will soon be squirming with. 

“You do realize I was married,” Rust starts, slow and lazy like he’s not even trying to explain himself. “For three years. With a daughter.” The simplicity of that equation is plain to see. Even Bobby’s math skills could withstand that examination. 

“Right. You wouldn’t be the first person to get married despite being unsuited to it.” 

This one blooms unexpectedly in Rust’s skull bringing back with it the taste of overfilled forgotten garbage bins and Claire’s voice, too calm and too emotionless telling him she was leaving. The aftertaste is corrosive, burns like acid into the soft, empty crevice underneath his tongue and Ginger’s voice is in his ear, his hand is in his hair, muttering that he’s not normal, he’s not made for normal life, for kids and wives and 9 to 5s, and Crash in him agrees wholeheartedly and shifts ever so closer, hunting for clammy skin under leather.

“I may not be very suited for it these days,” he admits. There’s no use in arguing with the truth of that. “But it isn’t for lack of liking women, Marty. Not that that’s any of your business.”

A phone rings, shrill and demanding attention and one of the secretaries rushes to get to it from the break room, a new one Rust hasn’t managed to catch the name of, something like Annamarie or Annie or Jackie, with ‘a’s and ‘ie’s like twinkling lights over a ferris wheel.

Marty waits until she’s gone to reply. He feels orange again, tense and rough like barbed wire, waiting for him to explode is like walking through the pretend minefields his father set up around the cabin in late spring.

“Well, I’d reckon it is.”

Rust laughs at that, one sharp bark of laughter like a creaking door. From the look on Marty’s face, disbelief and anger at once, he wasn’t expecting that.

“Why? Wanna be my boyfriend?”

The face Marty makes at that word tells him all he needs to know. There’s disgust there, shame and fear so bright, ice cold as the sea up there, sharp as the wind in the dead of winter. Marty makes him think too often of Alaska.

“Thought so.”

He doesn’t love the concept either: boyfriend feels like too sweet chocolate cakes and baby pink shirts and old ladies looking at them with a mix of fascination and pity, like leopard patterns and strawberry lube and calling each other pet names that made people want to commit hate crimes. 

That, the reminder of what people could think of him if they knew, how Geraci would have his balls cut and framed for all to see, that seems to quiet Marty down enough they can finish work.

By the time Rust makes it home that night, his saliva tastes like the yellow confession paper and he walks past Crash’s closet begging himself to give in and open the box and find the pocket sized Jameson intact in there. He doesn’t. 

There’s no bravery, no glory to the act of refusing himself alcohol. He just does, because he knows a single sip becomes a bottle in the blink of an eye, a taste becomes a torrent he cannot fight against. If he gives in, he might as well be on the Titanic in 1912, might as well sink and drown in ice cold memories of death blurred away by cheap whiskey. 

His house is damp with fall heat, with Louisiana mosquitoes and sweat and he finds himself falling into the beat up sofa chair he found himself a few days prior, tipped over on the side of the road by an empty house like a forgotten toy. It’s not too dirty, not clean either, but he couldn’t find bed bugs, just the beat-down of life. So he loaded it in the back of his pick up and brought it home.

Time passes like coffee in a slow drip. He kicks off his shoes and socks and takes off his shirt and tie, throws what’s in need of a wash in the lonesome basket in the laundry room and walks back, barefoot on the carpet into the main room. He was halfway through Camus’s The Stranger when he fell asleep last night and it sits face down, splayed open like a dead bird by the right side of the bed. He doesn’t mind the French when he can read them instead of having to hear them talk. 

He picks the book up carefully and throws a glance at the page he’d been on. Four bullets shot into a dead body. Barely enough emotion to fill one of the espresso cups of those French cafés where you drank at the bar in the morning, throwing back a shot of coffee and a cigarette in the same smooth motion. The portrait of a man so detached from the world that nothing, neither the death of his mother nor a murder committed by his own hand, seemed to shake him too hard. Rust hadn’t fallen asleep because of the book. It had been the pills. 

There is nothing to do here, no case to work, no mystery to uncover, nothing to sink his teeth into. He can’t go out fishing for it either, not if he doesn’t want to end up a fish hooked at the end of a line, mouth opening on nothing, drinking down alcohol instead of water but still trying to fucking breathe. There’s one thing left that’s not drinking. He’s gonna have to go on a run. 

If the inside of his house is a damp armpit in the fall heat, the back of it, the little garden patch with the shed that leads back onto a thin strip of water running down the back of the lot like a piss streak on the end of a sidewalk in the morning, is a Southerner’s deranged rendition of those Alaskan saunas. 

Rust starts jogging down there and feels immediately ridiculous, a puppet whose strings have been cut, left to flail around purposelessly. He knows that this is useful, that this keeps him fast and strong and allows him to handle himself better in the field, that it’s only because he kept up the fucking training that he made it out of that powderkeg with Ginger alive. The price of it is this, the sweat and the repeated motions that feel more awkward than anything else, that make him ache for a cigarette, that make him curse the day his father and mother fucked. 

The worst part is of course that he’s doing it to himself. 

It takes about fifteen minutes for his brain to start shutting up for the most part, no longer rattling on about punishments and self-flagellation but rather showing him perfect images of the terrible things that haunt his dreams, whenever he has them. Broken bodies on concrete and the crown of antlers he’s never, ever going to forget. Those devil traps that didn’t catch anything but Rust in their triangular cages. 

Those he thinks about most. He has half a mind to make one himself and tie it up somewhere, not too far from the crucifix, so that he has something else to meditate about. God and the Devil, allowing your crucifixion and allowing children to believe you can be stopped, two sides of the same fucked up coin the Christian church has tossed over and over, landing in every corner of the known world like a never-ending sickness. 

He can’t say that to Marty. He can’t say that to anyone. He does not actually want to die, though it would be one hell of a way to kill himself. If he can’t do it himself, might as well delegate. 

It takes him an additional forty-five minutes to realize the sun has set and he should go back. He’s coughing and sweaty and hungry like a wolf in winter when he comes back to the nunnery cell he calls home, but there’s a heaviness to his limbs that promises a semblance of rest for the night. It’s not going to come for free, no, there will be a price, some vision of some kind – nightmare-ish, dead kids or dead women or dead somethings, or worse, a good one, of happiness and smiles and the sand of the beach they used to go to by Corpus Christi those first two summers. It’ll come though. Perhaps even unmedicated. 

He opens the back door and walks in, guard all the way down, so of course he gets caught with his pants down like a fucking rookie. He didn’t lock the door when he left. He never does when he goes running, there is nothing worse in the world than the noise of jingling keys in his pocket, it’s loud and metallic and too round on the edges, and it’s not in the right rhythm, always a bit after his feet hit the ground. 

So when Rust comes home and sees Marty there, sitting in his chair with his tie askew and his eyes gleaming with something viscous, something ugly, he’s aware it is entirely his fault. If he was less of a priss about fucking keys, a wild animal wouldn’t have found its way in. 

“So what? You take her back to this dump? Fuck her on that stupid mattress you got like a fucking college student?”

Whiskey slurs his words and Rust rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he might actually strain something. It’s about Suzie, it’s about Rust fucking a woman and it’s about Marty being a big tough guy and getting jealous like a teenage girl with a crush on an upperclassman that maybe said hi to her twice. He’s met enough teenage girls to know they get as murderous as gangbangers on a good day.

“I thought we had thoroughly established I don’t kiss and tell, Marty.”

It’s half of a threat underneath his heavy breathing and the sweat rolling down his back like the first drops of a rainstorm, heavy and slow and predicting something else. 

“It ain’t the same and you know it.” 

It’s not. He’s right. Suzie’s a woman and Marty’s a man and in this world, in this job, in Louisiana, it’s very different. No matter the truth of it, that deep down it’s all skin and bones and blood and Suzie’s teeth wouldn’t have hurt him differently than Marty’s did, and his blood wouldn’t have tasted different in either of their mouths. One day, he’ll be done pretending otherwise. Life is easier to live for now if it’s not made into hell by the men that think they know better than him what right is. 

The truth is, he hates them as much as they hate him.

“What do you want, Marty?” 

He’s hoping that this can be done before the heaviness in his limbs disappears, before the exhaustion falls under the neverending assault of his fucked up brain’s neon lights of thoughts. 

Marty growls under his breath as he stands up, an ugly sort of sound, wet with the alcohol and whatever anger he came in carrying and that sustained him sitting there in this chair for god knows how long. It’s not going to be done soon. It’s never going to fucking end. 

“You planning on seeing her again?” 

He’s stuck on Suzie, a skipping record on a turntable, one spiraling thought, that ugly green-eyed monster with teeth shaped like the scar on Rust’s shoulder. He should have known better than to think Marty would be done after that little interrogation at the station. He never is. He’s a rabid dog, foaming at the mouth with jealousy. 

“What I’m planning to do or not, is none of your business.” He’ll repeat it over and over again, but he’s not going to be happy about it.

Rust reaches for the camels on the kitchen counter, slides one out of the packet one-handed and brings it to his lips. Marty is glaring with that rage-filled intensity that makes his jaw lock into a hard, rectangular shape. A shiver runs down Rust’s spine, sharp and sudden like a lick of a lover’s tongue. 

“You gonna make her fuck you at one point? Tell her you like it like a queer?” 

Rust lights his cigarette and he swears he sees the flash of the flame reflected in the glassiness of Marty’s eyes. Jesus fuck, he’s drunk. 

“Are you gonna fucking stop with the childish insults and tell me what you mean or will I have to beat it out of you? I can treat you like a suspect, Marty, but you ain’t gonna like it.” 

He didn’t mean to get angry but he can feel it rising, the annoyance coursing through his veins like wildfire. He’s good at keeping his cool, at keeping his control, years of living with the strangest present father in the coldest part of the world, years of being someone else’s bitch to survive to the next day, of swallowing down his own vomit when seeing a man’s face without skin, choking to death and thinking this should be him, this will be him. He’s so fucking good at keeping his emotions buried deep inside that half the time he forgets they’re there. Marty’s somehow, within days of meeting him, managed to find the trigger to release them and he won’t fucking stop playing with it. 

Marty snarls now, raising his arms like he’s gearing for a fight because for all that fucking bravado and that attitude and the growling and snarling and acting like a big predator, he won’t talk about his fucking feelings. 

“That’s what I fucking thought,” Rust huffs and pulls on his cigarette, hard and long. He feels the smoke fill the empty cavity inside of his body, fill the space there and the space not there, the void where his heart beats hard and strong. It’s gray and red like blood, harsh as chemicals and natural as a forest fire. Marty’s staring at his mouth like he can’t believe it and Rust just sucks longer, until he runs out of oxygen and has to fucking let go. 

The smoke released rises like it’s signaling his position to someone, like it’s trying to warn others he’s in here. There’s no one to call. All there is is Marty there, that Rust can see through the screen of smoke he’s just created, big and strong and angry and almost ridiculous with it. He doesn’t know what to fucking do with himself. 

“I ain’t planning to see her again. I’m not tryna find a girlfriend, Marty. I just humor your wife ‘cause she doesn’t treat me like a lunatic half the time.” 

“Don’t fucking bring her up,” Marty points at him with his big hands, shaking almost from the anger and the tension and Rust shifts. There’s something different here than the game they’ve been playing. 

“We fucked, twice, on this mattress, and then she slept over and I drove her home. I’m a good little choir boy, Marty, I got manners.” Tame. 

He’s giving into Marty’s questioning because he doesn’t know what it is about anymore. Earlier he thought this was the game. But Marty’s actually mad, actually red with it, with the anger and the jealousy and the shaking need to grab at him and take him and get revenge for him… straying? Oh absolutely the fuck not. 

“If anything, if we’re going purely by numbers, she’s got more of a claim on me than you do, and you don’t see her parading around here acting like a kid whose favorite toy got stolen, now, do you?” 

There’s a flash of something on Marty’s face, something that Rust can’t recognize. Marty looks, briefly, like he’s been punched in the guts, but without the rage that comes with it, just the soft-tissue hurt of bones and organs getting unnaturally close. It’s gone within a blink. 

Sweat is drying on him now, a sticky and humid shell around his skin that makes the slowly gathering night outside feel almost cool. It’s a trick, he knows it. You can never trust sweat, it means too many things at once, it’s a pretty lie the body tells so you don’t believe you’re dying. He licks his lips and his tongue tastes salt. Tears or sweat, it all tastes the same. Another lie.

“You son of a bitch,” Marty spits out. “You fucking emotionless robot fuck,” he hisses at him, pointing a finger like an Old Testament God. “Fuck a woman, doesn’t give a fuck. Fuck a man, doesn’t give a fuck. Fuck me, no wonder your wife left you if you’re that big of a fucking…. Black hole of decency.” 

Rust puts down his cigarette, shoves it down into the ashtray in one smooth, hard motion. It’s getting out of hand. Marty’s ranting, and the things he’s saying… Claire’s staring at him in the corner with blood on her hands calling him a psychopath. How can you not care? Did you even love her? 

“They should lock you up, you know? Holes in the brain, shouldn’t get to go around with a gun. Shouldn’t get to go around with shit. Can’t act like a normal person for a fucking second, man.” 

He means it too, at this moment, Rust can tell. He means it, and he’s fucking right on every fucking count. 

“Marty, you should go,” he says with every bit of restraint he can pull out of his own scarred bone bag he calls a body. He might puke. He might bash his head in. There’s red and metal behind his tongue, blooming with every beat of his heart. “Before you say something you might regret.” 

“Right, cause none of this fucking touches you. Psychopathic fa–”

Rust’s on him before he can finish the sentence, grabbing his tie and pulling hard. Psycho. 

Marty chokes out some aborted noise of surprise and pain and tries to fight back but he’s stupidly drunk and Rust’s sober and hot and filled with so much fucking blood right now. It’s inside of him, bubbling and boiling, getting darker by the second. Next time Marty bites him, it’ll come out black and thick as tar. Marty can’t bite shit right now. 

He’s got his face slammed against the counter and his arm twisted behind his back and Rust’s full weight, with the years of training and knowing and skill, bearing down on him, hurting him. 

“Let GO of me, Rust!” Marty sputters, but it sounds scared, squeaking in Rust’s mind like a rat caught in a trap and it’s one of the most jubilatory feelings he's felt in a while. He’s not a violent man by nature. He just has an appreciation for violence.

Claire’s voice rings in his head. Psycho. Basket case. Why can’t you cry? Why can’t you be as sad as me? She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get the empty hole where his heart used to be, and how that’s taking in all the water. He has a waterfall inside, nothing can escape. 

“Listen to me very carefully now, Marty,” Rust hisses down into his ear, slow and threatening and with every part of him bubbling up with unshakeable anger. How fucking dare he call him that? Walking into his fucking house drunk and out of his mind because Rust dared to fuck someone else? “You’re gonna need to stop this shit.”

Marty bucks against him like a bronco, tries to shove him off but this time Rust isn’t moving. His whole weight is bearing down on him, his arm twisting Marty’s behind him so he can hear the menacing creak of the shoulder like music to his ears, like nails on a chalkboard equally. He can see Marty’s red face pressed into the white of the counter, can feel his body under his, a mass of muscle and fat and nerves and animalistic fear. He has one leg between Marty’s. A plume of smoke still rises from the ashtray.

“Don’t fucking believe for a single second that this?” He grinds his hips into Marty’s ass, slow and dirty and hard and the noise that escapes his partner is a shameful mix of emotions that bloom maroon into his mind and taste like sour candies. “Means you get a say in what the fuck I do with my life. I will let you bitch about my behavior at work but anything regarding the personal sphere is none of your fucking business.”

He wishes he could bite him now, sink his teeth into his neck and tear at the flesh with his own mouth but it would leave a mark. They can’t afford marks that cannot be covered by fabric. 

“I know this is your usual little…. Pathetic trumped up drama you do with the girls you fuck,” he continues and he does let his teeth graze the lobe of Marty’s right ear where he’s speaking, a threat and a promise. “I’m not one of your girls, Marty. You don’t own me. What happened off of Highway 10? I let happen cause I wanted a good time, and don’t you ever fucking forget that I let you fuck me.”

It’s the ‘let’ that makes Marty freeze in his tracks. Rust can almost hear his mind going, the gears shifting as he tries to make sense of what has just been said. Was he still deluded in thinking he made Rust do something he wasn’t entirely interested in? Had he still been living in the fantasy that the little exercise in domination was one Rust wasn’t entirely consenting to, that his folding had been coerced? 

Rust immediately lets go of him, the ugliness of that feeling burning under his hands. The ugliness and the ridiculousness. He takes a step back and watches Marty squirm his way back to being upright, raise his arms to cover his face, something wild and unbalanced in his eyes. 

He can’t help but drag his hands down against his undershirt, feel the sweat getting caught there and the feeling of Marty’s skin, hot and damp and desperate, hopefully letting it smear on the fabric. 

Marty stares at him, in utter disbelief. Even in the depths of Crash, Rust didn’t touch him like that. Oh, he wanted to, he wanted to to the point of getting hard at the very thought, but he didn’t. He had better things to do, Ginger to deal with, the memories and the cocaine to eat through.

Laughter bubbles out of Rust’s chest, tar-like, weighed down by cigarettes and the absolute ridicule of this, of them, watching each other like they’re about to pounce, two large predators stuck in one small room, except Rust’s not playing submission anymore and neither of them really knows what to do with that. 

So he laughs, laughs without smiling, with the jerks of it shaking his body, shaking his shoulders and the reminder of what Marty did that time, the healed scar that will never fucking go away. His laughter echoes in this white, empty room, bounces against the wall and comes back like a punch into their ears and he can’t stop himself, even as he sees Marty brace himself to be enraged again. 

“What’s funny?” Marty spits out but a lot of the bite is gone. He can’t recognize where they stand either. He just stands there, rumpled and a bit less drunk now that adrenaline has burnt through his veins with every rabbit-scared beat of his big beefy Southern heart. He’s getting hard in his pants too and there’s acid red victory in the back of Rust’s molars and in the depths of his guts. 

“You think…” Rust chuckles and shakes his head like it’s the best job he’s heard all year. It might be. “I was gonna fold for you?” The idea is sending zaps of hysterical joy through his confused brain and he can swear the smoke of the ashtray is shaped like a great big bird in flight. A vulture maybe, or Jesus Christ, or Superman, or Dora Lange. A Rorschach test, homemade and addict-approved.

“You… you came here. And you thought… What?” He continues, and he can feel his mouth pulling into a smile, or what would have been a smile on anyone but him. On him, it’s a clown’s forced rictus, it’s the pull of lip over fang, it’s ugly and vicious and cold as the tools a dentist shoves into your mouth and to replace everything where it’s supposed to be. It tastes like metal and bleach. “I was gonna be a good bitch and not say shit when you treat me like you got ownership papers?”

Marty’s eyes are saucer-wide. He’s never seen him smile, he realizes. He’s never seen him do more than a vague smirk and an eyebrow raise and that’s for the better because smiling feels wrong. His cheeks hurt with the ache of unused muscle. There is no happiness there. 

“Bitch,” he calls out, and Marty gets angry again, because that’s not a word you use on a man like him, no. “I didn’t fold for the fucking bike guys I was sucking off with a gun to the head for years, you think Imma fold for your over-inflated rat ego?”

He hasn’t said it to anyone before: not the shrinks, not the doctors, not his handlers. It’s not in any file, redacted or not, it’s not in the notes the shrinks took in Northshore, or in rehab, it’s nowhere but in his mind. And in Marty’s now. 

Regret hits him like a tsunami and he buckles underneath the weight of it, he can see it in Marty’s eyes, the widening, the realization of what it all means, the painful context he’s just imposed onto their relationship and onto what happened off of Highway 10. He wants to recall it immediately, to take it back, but he can’t.

A fly has been trapped since he came in, flying around the room in a frenzy to get out. He wonders, briefly and senselessly, if it knows the swamp of tension it just flew into and is now regretting ever heading in behind him. 

There’s too much Crash in him. The vocabulary and the admission, that’s Crash’s addled brain and his need to prove his toughness, it’s the anger at being thought of as weak. Rust’s not much better than him in that department but Crash is a mess of vulnerability sometimes: he was designed that way. That soft underbelly gets a bike guy like Ginger all hot and bothered, they can smell the bitch they can make out of him and that means an in. And once you have an in, you toughen up, learn to hide the soft behind armor, and show you can play as tough as everyone else, but the guy that got you in, like Ginger for Crash, knows the soft is there. It’s power and hierarchies and jungle law. 

Marty has no way of knowing all this shit. All he sees is Rust laughing like a maniac and throwing him a truth shaped like one of the bones that he must have imagined this whole time and buried deep with the rest of the queer shit he feels and sees in his dreams. A predator realizing his prey is rabid. 

“Jesus Christ, Rust.” 

Rust flinches. It’s a whole body thing, a pulse of electricity shot through him. The crucifix on the wall stares at them with unseeing undead eyes. It’s the same sort of ‘jesus christ’ that Marty says in front of a gored up body, in front of a godless crime, where he feels compelled to bring in his higher power of choice as back up. That’s how he’s reacting to Rust telling him he gave head at gunpoint. 

It’s an entirely appropriate reaction. Rust wants to wash his mouth of the taste of his pity; burned building and overripe cranberries. 

He’s on Marty like wildfire, sudden and unforeseen and he can taste whiskey now, a cheap one too, and beer as well, and cigarettes, terrible ones, not Camels. Marty smokes Camels because he steals them from Rust. The new smell on his clothes and taste in his mouth is disgusting. It’s still better than cranberries. 

Marty takes forever to kiss back, as if he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s not the one on the offensive, as if he wasn’t expecting this at all. He probably wasn’t. Two minutes ago, his cheek was hard against the counter and he was trying to get away from the wave of violence coming his way. Three minutes ago, he was shouting slurs at him. 

He grabs onto Marty’s head with both hands, a tight grip to keep him there but Marty’s not fighting him right now. He’s still reeling from the shock of it. Which shock? He’s not gonna ask, it’s not worth the taste. So he bites him. Hard, hard enough to bleed and there’s a beauty there, in the taste of iron and death that fills his mouth, a mirror to the beige-tiled memories. 

“The fuck!” Marty tries to exclaim, to project the word like a weapon but he’s got Rust’s lips against his and the offense dies there, muffled. 

There’s scratchy hair grown in uneven spots around Marty’s mouth, thin lips stained with the whiskey, the blood pearling over the torn skin, Rust half loses his mind over the textures of it all, the zings of electricity the whiskers send up into his brain with every brush. He’s not a great kisser, he’s been told, he uses too much teeth and is either too intense or too soft with it. He kisses like speaking a foreign tongue, mouth clumsy with positions it is not used to taking. 

Marty doesn’t get to complain. Like Rust didn’t get to complain about sitting in strange positions for a day or two. You can’t complain about things that don't happen. 

When he pulls back, Marty is staring at him with the blood on his lips and the liquor in his eyes and he seems utterly gobsmacked by it all. This is the sort of moment in time where Rust could step back and choose something else. His mind is clear after all, the pills have been out of his system for hours, he’s sober and as clean as he’ll let himself be, he’s just fresh from a run, he’s as close to the picture of fucking health that he can get. He can choose not to thread the needle deeper in. 

They’re partners. They’re coworkers. They’re men who cannot afford to be found out. Marty’s drunk and hard and angry, Rust knows exactly what to do with it. All that misplaced, desperate masculinity has a home, and he can fix it, for just a moment, he can take it into himself and eat it up, and use it to fuel his own dumpster fire body. Whatever that ends up doing to Marty, sending him into the sort of tailspin a man like him doesn’t recover from, that’s fine. That will keep him from staring too hard at Rust’s mouth and imagining things.

Rust is an addict. He’s always been, in some way, with an addictive personality and chasms where reserves of feelings should have been built by his parents. He drank early, smoked earlier, got hooked on adrenaline bow hunting caribou, then stealing bikes, then stealing books. He’s an addict. And Marty’s bright like cocaine, green like absinthe, hard and needy and alive and kicking like a bull in his hands right now. He’s gotta feed the habit. 

His hands drop from face to belt, start undoing it in frantic motions, but they’re steady. These are Rust’s hands, not Crash’s. This is Marty, this isn’t Ginger. It’s barely night, he’s home. He knows who he is, what today is, he knows who the president is. Clinton, September 15th ‘95, Rustin Spencer Cohle. 

Marty’s fingers are on his arm, tracing the edges of the old black bird with some kind of junkie’s fascination. From where Rust is, he can taste the questions on the other man’s tongue. When did you get this? Why? What does it mean? The truth is ugly and Rust will have to do much more than fuck Marty to get him to forget those answers, so he doesn’t leave him time to ask. 

He shoves his hand down the front of Marty’s pants and grabs his cock. Marty’s breath stutters and he makes a noise that only makes Rust tighten his grip. He watches pleasure and pain and everclear need bloom over Marty’s features, his head tilting back until he’s stuck against a wall and breathing out with the feelings of it. He can see it like a cloud exhaled from that open mouth. It’s incredibly vulnerable. Is this what the women get to see? Anyone but Maggie? 

There’s nothing like watching a man get high from his touch, even as small as this. Soon, with more touching, with more skin touching and sweat dripping, he’ll see the heart of him, chest splayed open, ripe for the taking. He cannot wait. 

“What are we doing?” Marty asks, breathless, needy, confused to his very core. Rust pulls out his hand for a second, just to spit on it, and pushes it back into the open fault of his slacks.

“I’m jerking you off,” Rust replies without missing a beat, and he sees Marty’s mouth open, sees the questions pressing there, the feelings he has about it, and decides to shut it down. “Stop talking.”

And though it bothers him, though Rust can see the anger rising into him like a dark cloud of storm over the prairie, he does shut the fuck up. There’s a second where all there is is the uncomfortable noise of almost dry skin rubbing together and a slightly labored breath. They’re so close now, there’s nowhere to look but Marty’s face, or the wall. And he’d stare at Marty for hours if he could, probably, if only it meant Marty wasn’t looking back at him more and more disturbed. 

So the wall works. It’s white and from here he can see the texture of the paint. He can feel his eyes darting towards Marty, pulled by some sort of magnetic field to the wet saliva on his open lips, to the half glazed eyes. He watches, from the corner of his eye, the expanding and contracting of the barrel of his chest, ragged and almost forced in between the little groans of pleasure. This is a position Rust’s familiar with, a hand down someone’s pants and the wall as horizon, as anchor. His head isn’t swimming in substances, but he feels a little unsteady all the same, deep down. Like his core ain’t working right anymore, something’s got shaken loose and he’s teetering at the edge of passing out. 

He leans closer, lets his weight rest against Marty’s shoulder, let his face tuck into the crook of his neck and mouths there, teeth grazing sweaty red skin, hand moving in lazy, dry motions. He can’t help but take it slow now. 

If they were other men, Rust might be on his knees right now, with his mouth full of the hot, heavy cock that Marty’s thrusting into his hand. But that’s not a position he’s willing to take today. Not with Marty. Not when sober. There are limits to how much he’ll debase himself with a man who can’t look him in the eyes when he’s giving him a handjob but doesn’t mind breaking into his house to berate him for fucking a random woman. 

For a moment there, it’s almost nice. It’s a little slow, a little sweet, Rust’s mouth is sucking marks in Marty’s skin that might threaten the fragile state of his marriage, but Marty says nothing, just moans, just bucks into his hand with primal, needy focus. 

It’s not what he wants. He cannot, under any circumstance, do sweet. And neither can Marty. He might not know it but sweet would shatter the thin veneer of straight masculinity he still coats over every interaction they have, the one so many men before him have used before, Rust shamelessly standing in that particular line up. He’ll admit to himself it would be harder to deal with Marty if he was the one that made him queer. It’s mostly for his own personal convenience that he goes through the roster of insults and taunts his mind readily provides. 

He doesn’t have to settle on one of those venomous, taunting spikes, Marty’s hand is on his, uncomfortable, firm, moist, holding his hand that’s holding his dick, nails digging in, hard. He’s maybe just realized this too; that he needs the harshness as the shield for his comfort, and there’s a relief there, Rust finds, in not having the responsibility of Marty’s sense of self rest entirely on his shoulders. 

The angle is worse suddenly, pulling at Rust’s shoulder unnaturally, but it’s easier psychologically. The motions of his hand are harsh, stunted, mechanical now, no longer sweet and languorous, no longer about pleasure. It’s power, again. It’s impersonal, like they’re not the men they are anymore, but still holding too hard onto their roles to let themselves do the exact things they’d like to do. Archetypal. 

Is it part of that pantomime when Marty shoves him back and Rust lets him, back towards the mattress on the ground and its white sheets, clean and fresh because he didn’t want to sleep in fucked-in sheets? Is it part of the play, the sharp sliver of a whine, an injury all the same, when Rust’s hand slips from Marty’s pants as he lets himself settle horizontally? 

He can read the spine of a book on his left, at the corner of his vision, ‘Sex Crimes’ written in obscene bright letters on black background, chemical, loud. It’s a title that screams at you, that demands fascination and horror, that tastes like bile from vomiting on an empty stomach, that feels like that too, eyes bulging, chest heaving, desperate to expel something unnatural and threatening.

Rust looks up at Marty towering over him, at the open pans and the ruffled shirt and the alcohol glaze over it all. He runs his tongue over his teeth, seeks out the sweet sweet taste of the pleasure, of the blood, of the whiskey. Marty stands there long enough for Rust to think of ancient Greeks and circular, traditional violence again, of heroin in his veins and Jameson in his mouth, of relief, of caramel. 

Marty hesitates but he can’t stop watching him, eyes like highway beams over him, staring at the sprawl of his form, the bulge in his sweatpants, the parting of his lips. He can’t look away and that terrifies him, that disgusts him, and Rust is about to pounce and pull him down himself when he finally moves. 

Whatever choice he made there, behind blue eyes where alcohol decreases and fear rises to take its place, that’s gonna come back to bite Rust in the ass one of these days, but he can’t bring himself to fucking care. Adrenaline, need, hunger thin out his blood and his heart is pumping hard, fast, down into his dick. He hasn’t felt this good in a while. He hasn’t felt this hot in a while either.

In this moment, in this choice posited behind normalcy and sin, he’s a succubi for Marty Hart, and there is a delicious irony to it. Marty Hart and his girlfriends and pieces of ass, standing at the door to Hell staring at a fully clothed but hard as rock carcass of a man. 

Marty takes off his clothes like he’s being processed at Avoyelles. Rust kicks off his trainers and the sweat-soaked, uncomfortable warmth of his sweats and there is relief at being naked. 

The bed is too narrow for the both of them, two grown men and the width of Marty, a problem Rust didn’t have with Suzie. Marty runs a hand up Rust’s leg, there’s almost a naive confusion to the way he feels him up, catching nails in hair, lean muscle where fat usually is. Rust doesn’t think he’ll ever be soft, age will dry him up, hollow him out, before it ever happens for him.

Rust lets him do it, touch and prod and grab what he wants. He reaches for lube and condoms by the pile of books to his right (next to Truman Capote's In Cold Blood), pops open the cap and slicks his fingers and there’s a look and a sigh of relief from Marty. Rust huffs, rolls his eyes, gets to work.

He’s fast and he’s thorough and doesn’t care for comfort as much as he should. There's a wince of pain, a sharp tang of acidity behind his teeth and he’s not even trying to make it part of the event for him. It has never really been about that. Foreplay is a luxury for women like Susan Cornell from church. 

The speed is to accommodate his own racing need, the heartbeat in his veins, the heat in his belly, the aching hardness of his cock, but it’s also to keep Marty from running away before they can both get something out of this, to keep him from achieving clarity of thought and running away like he probably should.

Three fingers in, tight, barely wet enough, electricity zinging up his spine with every shift of his hips, a spasm there but he’s almost done. Marty’s staring at his fingers with barely contained fascination, like he’s never fucked someone up the ass before, like he’s never fucked Rust up the ass before. 

Done, finally. Marty reaches for him when he finally finds himself ready, reaching for his hip and starting to pull at him, to get him into whatever position he seems to want him in. There’s another hand reaching for a pillow so Rust guesses he’d rather he be on his front, eyes looking away. Easier, more anonymous, less of a torturous memory, less shameful to put in his spank bank for later. 

Rust’s hand wraps around Marty’s wrist and tightens, hard, over the tendons on the sides, forcing him to let go of his grip. Marty’s cursing and calling out Jesus, telling him to let go but he doesn’t, not until he’s shoved him on his back, sprawled there in all his fucking glory. 

“What are you-”

Words die in his mouth. Rust sinks down on his cock with a hiss. Too hasty with the prep, but it’s fine, there will be no damage from this, just the blankness washing over his mind in the path of the hurt. 

Marty’s eyes are wide. Blue, like a summer sky. Red with lust, intense with pleasure and hunger. Church windows. Bells ringing. Rust can feel him inside, hard and thick and perfect, just fucking perfect. He’s wrenched control away and the truth is Marty’s in heaven right now from it, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, hands fluttering uselessly to the side. He wants to touch him, Rust can tell that much. He doesn’t know how to. 

Power. 

Rust starts moving. It’s a slow, heavy drag at first, in those first seconds where he gains his footing. His thighs start aching within seconds. He’s not ridden anyone in years, and definitely not on this mattress, in this apartment. His body’s not used to this anymore but muscle memory is a long lived creature, and there is nothing it known how to do better than fucking. 

“Ain’t gonna do all the work, Marty,” he warns when his thighs start complaining and somehow; that does it.

Marty’s hands snap to his hips to hold, fingers wrapped around the hard ridge of bone under the skin, hard, tight. It’s like he’s remembered he knows how to fuck someone like this, that he’s done this before. It’s so much better then onwards. 

Rust grinds his teeth and doesn’t say a fucking word, just moves, and takes and fucks himself on Marty’s dick and lets the crashing waves of feeling: pleasure, pain, sweat rolling down his back, nails digging in his hips, ache in his thighs, take him away. It’s so fucking easy, it comes naturally, like breathing air, like dancing to music, like running away.

He keeps his moans to himself, keeps his words behind lock and key, stares at the fucking ceiling now. He can’t see it, not really, he’s just chasing it, the pleasure running down the notches his spine, the heat that burns through him, and it’s not as good as heroin, it can never be, but for half a second, he pretends he’s not falling back into a habit. 

Marty’s hand sneaks from hip to stomach, to the three points of scar tissue on his chest. There’s a fascination under the groans, under the words he says that Rust is absolutely not listening to. He’s chasing something he’s not finding, desperate for the high of it, wishing they were against a wall, wishing for blood, for hurt, for electricity and leather. He misses Crash for half a second, Crash and the recklessness with which he fucked. Mindless, animal, painful. 

And then, and then. Marty’s hand wraps around his dick, tight, sudden, and Rust wasn’t looking where that second hand went, he wasn’t paying attention and he groans, high and surprised and ripped out of his throat with tooth and nail. Marty’s bitten the bullet, must have decided that if he was fucking him, he might as well fucking touch him too, right? He’s staring at his dick in his hand like he’s never seen a penis before and it’s hilarious, and sad at the same time.

Retaliation for taking him off guard. Rust shifts his weight back, leans a bit differently and suddenly the angle is just right and he feels pleasure, white hot and blinding, rushing through his bones, through his veins. He stops there for a second, grinds, slow and hard and dirty, muscles tightening around Marty. 

“Rust, goddamn it,” Marty hisses, choking with pleasure, grip around his dick not letting up, which is starting to hurt, which is perfect. 

Fuel, fire. Marty says his name like a curse, like something dirty and wrong and wretched. Rust bites his own lip until he tastes blood, hot, red, violent and metallic. A crowbar in the legs, a bullet ripped through his chest, broken bones, cocaine, a kiss from an ugly, dirty mouth, yellowed teeth and animalistic greed. 

Marty comes first. He barely has time to warn, barely has time to say a thing, he’s wrecked when Rust looks down at him finally from the haze of blood and pleasure. There’s sweat shining on him, redness everywhere, strain in the muscles of his chest, of his groin. He’s desperate. He needs an orgasm like a junkie needs a fix. Rust recognizes it. And he’s always been generous when it came to bringing people down with him.

Fingers tighten around him, stopping to jerk him off, grabbing at his hip to keep him down, keep him from moving away from long enough to fill the condom. He can feel the force there, feel how Marty wouldn’t stand him to wrench himself away so he doesn’t move, gives him at least that. 

The noise Marty makes when Rust starts moving again, squeezing around him to finish getting himself off: wrecked, small, wounded. That’s what makes him come. He wants to laugh with it, but all he does, once the white, blinding light is gone, once the rubber band has snapped, once pleasure has washed through him, cleansing fire, salt in wounds, all he does is smile. 

They’re panting. Both of them. Loud, bovine breathing in the silence. Rust lets himself get off that ride, lets himself fall, boneless, exhausted, high for a moment. He stretches himself out on the part of the mattress Marty isn’t occupying, watching from the corner of his eyes the rising and falling of Marty’s chest. His eyes are wide open, staring at the wall, at the crucifix. At Jesus Christ, lord and savior, and witness, sole witness of the blood pearling on Rust’s lips, of the splash of white semen on Marty’s stomach.

The laugh is wrenched from Rust’s chest without him having time to stop it. It’s maniacal, rusted, with those edges of contempt and pity. Pity for whom? Marty, who keeps straying further and further away from propriety, from normalcy, from sanity? Himself, who just fucked his partner, the one and only person who can stand to be in the same room as him for longer than five minutes, to satisfy the burning itch of addiction? 

Rust finds cigarettes and a lighter to his right, takes out two. His lip hurts, sharp and bright and tangy when it stretches as he puts one in his mouth. He lights it first, takes one long inhale of it. He holds it out to Marty, with his blood on it, and that’s unhygienic at best, dangerous at worst, and disgusting no matter what, but Marty – father of two, cowboy of Louisiana State – Hart takes it and starts smoking.

He lights the second and keeps it. His body is loose, relaxed for the first time in forever, sated. Pain and pleasure as self actualisation. 

He glances over at Marty, at the frown on his brow: deep in thought, hardness in his eyes, cogs turning in the background, so hard Rust can basically hear them. It’s even hotter than the blind pleasure and death of shame he just witnessed. 

“He ain’t gonna come to life cause you keep staring at him, you know? Jesus is dead.” 

Marty’s eyes dart to him, sharp and furious for a second and familiar. Rust’s teeth ache with it, with the knowledge he has of this look. He’s missed knowing people, he has to admit. He’s missed reading the shifts in body posture, the licking of lips, the popping of veins on foreheads, the darkening or lightening of eyes. Knowing Marty like this, even outside of the biblical nature of what they’ve just done, it’s good. 

“Don’t. Don’t bring this up right now.” 

It’s a warning, there’s a bite under it, and that’s surprising. Rust knows Marty’s as loose and tired as he is, probably even more with the alcohol he had before, and the anger burning energy. He still wants to fight him though. Doesn’t go soft and gentle on him. Good. Easier this way. Much more comfortable.

Silence falls again, just the sounds of cigarette smoke, the weight of it like swamp water in the room. Sweat cools, his lip stops bleeding. He doesn’t know how long time passes. 

“You should go. Maggie’s gonna wonder where you are.”

Marty moves. He shifts over, on his knees, cigarette in his mouth, hand landing on Rust’s throat and gripping. It’s violent and it’s sudden and there’s ash falling down barely an inch from his fucking face and the anger…. Oh the anger. Marty is glaring down at him but he’s not pressing down, he’s not hurting him. It’s a threat. It’s incredible.

“I just fucked you and you’re gonna say her fucking name? You’re a disturbed motherfucker.” 

Rust blinks at him, lazy, slow, unimpressed. They’ve just fucked, and he’s just come but this… It’s a treat. Ice cream after dessert. Indulgent. Minty. 

“World doesn’t stop turning just cause you came, Marty. Your stolen pleasures never actually belonged to anyone but you, it’s your time you’re using. No one else’s. You still got a wife.”

And oh, he hates it right now, he hates that Rust isn’t afraid and flinching away. That he’s got his hand on his throat and the weight of a former quarterback and current cop thrown over him, ready to crush, and he’s not fighting back. He keeps hoping Rust will forget he’s been threatened by scarier men before. He keeps hoping he’ll be the tougher one this time. 

“Get off of me, Marty,” Rust continues, calm. That Crash tire fire from earlier is gone, quieted down by an orgasm and a release. He’s taken control back and so the leather and the baseball bat and the barbed wire has been put away for a second. Get off of me, Marty, or I will break your arm getting you off myself. 

Marty doesn’t lean back. He leans forward. He kisses him.

Rust has to admit, this one was unexpected. This one doesn’t make sense in the framework he’s been working with, where Marty hates himself and is too much of a coward to touch a man in any way that isn’t violent. This one takes half of his breath away, coupled with the hand on his throat that finally does press in just a bit, it steals one terrible sound of yearning and pleasure from Rust. 

And the second that sound resounds around them, he’s pushing back. Puts his cigarette into the ashtray he could reach with his eyes gouged out, and grabs Marty’s hair. Blonde, and soft and sweaty from sex. He pulls hard, ugly, and Marty hisses in pain and bites his lip before he’s wrenched away.

Blood, and pain again. Rust pulls him away from him, tearing him off, and only lets go when he’s back on his knees too, no longer slow and lazy and warm. 

“Bitch,” Marty spits out, but it’s foreign to his mouth and he doesn’t mean it, not really. 

Rust reaches for the still burning cigarette and shoves it back into his mouth and winces, properly winces. He didn’t fucking miss him with those teeth. It’s gonna be worse this time than the last, he’s gonna have to explain the split. 

“I’m not your bitch, Marty,” he replies. “Never gonna be. I ain’t scared of you.” 

He watches it ripple over Marty’s face, the knowledge, the realization, curtains of delusion and denial parting. They’re afraid of him, the women he calls bitch, the women he gets jealous over. He uses his badge and his dick like weapons. Unfortunately for him, Rust also has both of those. 

Marty stumbles to his feet and Rust watches him put on his clothes again, using Rust’s discarded shirt to clean himself off of the fluids splashed over his stomach. Hiding away all the evidence. It’s not the triumphant relaxation of last time. It’s ugly and mean between them now. Unpleasant, and a little worrying.

Camaraderie might be gone forever now. Marty broke the treaty first, he attacked first, came into Rust’s house guns blazing but he’s never going to see it that way. He never does. He’s always betrayed, forever Abel, never throwing the first stone. 

He runs from Rust’s house, from the evidence of it. Rust lays back on his bed, lazy and tired. Deep down, somewhere, he’s hoping the fragile partnership they have hasn’t broken irreparably. It would be a shame. 

The eye was in the tomb and watching him. 

---------

*"The eye was in the tomb and was watching Cain" is the last line from La Conscience/The Counsciousness by Victor Hugo, one of my favorite poems of all time.

Throughtout the whole poem, Cain attempts to run away from the eye of God that won't stop staring at him after he's killed Abel. He runs to other countries, his children build cities where people cannot enter without forsaking God, but nothing works. So he asks them to build him an underground chamber, a sepulchre where he will be alone. They do. He goes sit down in that dark chamber, they close the door and he stays alone in the dark. And in the darkness of the walls. The eye was in the tomb and was watching Cain.

[stardustbarbarians]

Kneel Down Ye Sinners

A Samuel Kiszka / Daniel Wagner fic

Summary: Daniel has a bad round of golf... and Sam is bored.

Tags: spanking, oral, unprotected sex, literally just smut idk what else to say... so MDNI!

Words: 2.3 k

A/N: This has been written in my drafts for over a year and I just got around to polishing it up. Anyway, as usual, this is dedicated to @ofthecaravel because when is it not. (Also pspspspspsps @runwayblues) Title taken from Wild Side by Motley Crue (I swear I don't listen to them that much). Anyway, and as always, enjoy!!

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"God, that was awful!" Daniel yelled as he stormed into the house, throwing his baseball hat into the wall and kicking off his slides. They made a subdued smack as they landed onto the floor near the entrance. 

"How was golf?" Sam called out for his spot in the living room, flipping through channels mindlessly. He was bored out of his skull, having already finished all the chores he wanted to do this weekend and really not all in the mood to play any of his instruments. 

"I shot in the 90s! I haven't gotten a score like that since high school!!" The golfer raged, now pacing in front of the couch Sam was on. He had to admit, Daniel was hot when he was mad. He'd get this set in his jaw that defined it more and this look in his eyes that reminded Sam of all the times he was pinned underneath Daniel. 

Oh, thought Sam, now there’s an idea 

"Oh, baby, that's rough," Sam patronized, his voice dripping in manufactured sympathy. He threw the remote down, not needing the tv anymore. His entertainment had arrived.

Though, he felt his heart skip a beat when that rage fueled gaze was cast onto him. His skin began to prickle with goosebumps as Daniel stopped in his tracks, one of Danny's eyebrows cocking up. He felt his blood simultaneously freeze and boil beneath his skin at that look. 

"You think you can do better, Samuel?" His tone was even and dangerous, a low grumble in his chest. 

Sam had to suppress a shiver at the words. He was diving head-first into the deep end and he knew the risks. 

"No… but you should've" Sam retorted, his bratty streak always strong. He knew he was in trouble the moment Daniel crossed his arms over his chest, his muscles very visible under the pliant fabric of his golf shirt. 

"You've got quite the mouth on you. Don't you, princess?"

At the pet name, Sam visibly shivered, unable to suppress this one. That name was reserved for the moments when it was about to get nasty. And the way Daniel was glaring at Sam? It was about to get very, very nasty. 

"And what about it, big loser?" The bassist really hammered the last nail in the coffin with the smirk and raised eyebrow he sent Danny’s way. 

That's what finally set Daniel off.

His arms dropped to his sides, hands balling into fist. Sam watched it happen in rapt fascination, feeling just the tiniest twinge of fear in his heart. However, it was drowned out by the excitement flooding his veins at knowing just how much he had successfully riled up Daniel. 

"On your knees.”

Sam was not expecting that of all things for Danny to say. He felt his eyes get big as he swallowed thickly. That fear had turned into surprise, his heart fluttering inside his ribs. He knew where this was going, however he still dumbly asked: "W-what?"

"Get on your knees. Right now, princess," Daniel growled, his teeth clenched as he spoke. 

Doing as he was told, Sam slipped off the couch and stood on his knees, his eyes gazing up at Daniel. This was far from the first time Sam had viewed Daniel from this vantage point; it certainly would not be the last, either. At least, not if Sam had any say in it.

"What have I told you about that mouth of yours, princess?" Daniel approached Sam, only a few inches away from him. Danny leaned down just enough so that Sam didn’t strain his optic nerve to look at him, but Daniel still loomed above him. Sam was suddenly reminded of devotees gazing up at their gods on bended knee, feeling a sense of understanding of their blind devotion at that moment. 

"That it's only useful wrapped around your cock," Samuel answered, stealing a glance down at the other man's crotch directly in front of him. He felt a rush of saliva at the mere memory of the weight of it on his tongue, having to swallow it down so that he wouldn’t drool. 

Daniel hummed in approval, his hand coming to pet Sam's hair. Sam is only mildly ashamed to admit he leaned into it like a cat. 

"That's right, pretty boy," Danny used his other hand to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants, leaving them on and only freeing his cock, "now put it to good use."

Knowing when to obey, Sam immediately wrapped his lips around the tip of Danny's dick. The growl that slipped past the golfer's lips made Sam's own dick twitch inside his jeans, a whimper escaping his lips.

Sam wasted no time bobbing his head up and down the length of Daniel's cock, hollowing out his cheeks and laying his tongue flat. The long, drawn out moan that escaped from the back of Danny’s throat was music to Sam’s ears. When he looked up at Danny through his lashes, he’d noticed that the drummer’s head had tipped back, his eyes pinched closed as he basked in the pleasure Sam was imparting onto him. 

It wasn't long before Daniel grabbed the top of Sam's hair and began setting his own pace, Sam gagging as the other man's cock hit the back of his throat particularly aggressively. But Sammy took it all in stride, only mildly disgusted when the extra spit that flooded his mouth began dripping down his chin. At least Danny would find it hot that Sam now looked all ruined. 

Tears fell from his eyes right before Daniel pulled Sam off of him, a string of saliva connecting them as he looked at Daniel with the most lust filled gaze. His eyes half lidded as he panted in order to catch his breath, barely able to breathe around Danny’s girth.  

"Take off your clothes, whore," Daniel commanded, his voice rough but still authoritative. He had tilted his head forward in order to look down at Sam. 

"Awww, Danny boy's a wreck 'cause of little ol' me," Sam taunted, his voice even more of a mess than Danny's. 

Daniel cocked his eyebrow once again, Sam's smirk growing at the reaction he was able to pull from Daniel. However, it quickly fell from his face at what the drummer stated next. 

"Clothes off. Get on the coffee table. On your hands and knees.”

Sam's breath caught in this throat, finding himself obeying the commands at the deep, rumbling tone Daniel employed. Once he was stark naked, Sam climbed up onto the wooden coffee table and rested on his hands and knees just as he was told. A twinge of embarrassment made his face pink, overly aware of the heavy staring from Daniel. 

"I told you to only use that pretty mouth of yours for sucking, princess. Now it's gotten you into deep trouble," Danny told Sam, his voice deep and guttural. 

Sam looked over his shoulder to see Daniel sliding his belt out of his pant loops, gathering the white leather in his hand; the appendage bulging with veins underneath tanned, practiced, and calloused skin. 

The bassist involuntarily whined as he put together what was about to happen. Yeah, he was in deep trouble. Like, the deepest fucking layer of trouble he could possibly be in- well… maybe not. There was one time that Sam had continued to mouth off even after this stage and… well… Sam was pretty sure they’d have to move this little shindig to their bedroom to get the rope if he pushed his luck any further. 

Sam gripped the edge of the table in his hands as a sharp snap of leather came down onto his ass, a yelp leaving his throat. He didn’t hurt. Far from it, in fact. The noise was one of surprise, more than anything else. 

He felt a warm, calloused hand smooth over the spot that was just struck before it remained planted on the opposite cheek. Another blow came, the sound just as loud as the belt made contact with Sam's skin. This time, however, instead of a yelp in surprise Sam let out a needy whine as the pleasure overruled the pain. 

Daniel kept going, raining down blow after blow. His fingers dug into the skin of Sam's ass as his moans became needier and needier. Samuel was certain his ass was becoming bright red. But he wanted Danny to keep going, to allow the belt and his digging fingers to leave bruises that would stain the skin there for days; to serve as a reminder for who he belonged to and who belonged to him.

With another snap of the belt, Sam became a waterfall of incoherent pleas. "Oh, please, please, PLEASE, Daniel! I need more fuck- FUCK! I need more,  you don't understand how much I need- oh my god please FUCK!"

A pleased hum sounded from the drummer. "Look who finally learned how to run their mouth properly.” 

Without any warning, Daniel flipped Sam so his back was pressed against the coffee table. Sam's brow was knit as he pleaded up at Daniel, his lips pouting slightly. 

"God, fuck! You don't know how easy you are to fucking need with a face like that!" Daniel lost his composure momentarily after gazing upon the visage of Samuel fully exposed and begging him for anything Danny was willing to give him. It was enough to break any man, even one perceived as a god. 

Throwing the belt to the side with a loud clatter, Daniel pressed his lips into Sam's; sudden and aggressively. Sammy's hands immediately grabbed at Danny's shirt, trying his best to rip it off. He was eventually successful as the fabric tore underneath his hands with a clamorous noise. Daniel was surprised, to say the least; marveling at what Sam had just accomplished. 

"You're gonna pay for that, princess." And just like that, Daniel was back. Though, there was no missing the awe hidden just beneath that authoritative growl. 

"Hurry up and give me my punishment, Danny. I've been waiting for it this whole damn time,” Sam impatiently demanded, also falling back into his role within the blink of an eye. He wouldn't be tamed so easily. It was more fun for both of them that way. 

Opening the drawer next to Sam’s head and popping open the bottle of lube with his thumb, Daniel glared down at Sam. "Watch your fucking mouth."

Before Sam could even say anything, Daniel was plunging his  lube covered fingers into him. With an unfettered scream, Sam's eyes rolled into the back of his head as his back arched up off the table. Danny played Sam like a violin, using his fingers to cause Sam to make all the noises he wanted him to. 

Just as quickly as they had been shoved into Sam, Daniel pulled them out much to the bassist's dissatisfaction. He made his disapproval known, huffing out loudly. "That wasn't even close to being enough."

Kicking his boxers off, Danny's hand came down hard onto the side of Sam's right thigh.

"I think your next lesson will be one of patience, princess," Daniel threatened before squirting lube onto both of his hands before tossing the bottle back into the drawer. 

Using his left hand, Daniel stroked his own cock. His right hand came to wrap around Sam's aching dick, a pathetic wail ripping out of his throat at the contact. He'd never been so thankful over the fact that Daniel was ambidextrous in his entire life. Truly, he’d have to write him a card or something for him when this was all said and done. 

Daniel's hand never left Sam's dick as he plunged his cock into Sam, all eight, well endowed inches into Sam. All of the other noises Sammy had made up to this point had been absolutely nothing compared to the toe-curling scream he let out as

Daniel pushed himself in. Sam's vision was beginning to white out in pure pleasure, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

His hands gripped the sides of the table for dear life as his back arched, his toes curling involuntarily as the feeling of Danny throbbing inside of him. It was driving him insane, the feeling of it being too much, yet not enough all at once. 

It wasn't until Daniel started thrusting that Sam really lost control of himself. He became a mess of pleading and screaming out Daniel's name like a satanic and perverted prayer. 

"Daddy please - fuck, please!!"

Sam cried out after Danny managed to nail his prostate, his vision fully whiting out.

Daniel, knowing exactly what he had just accomplished, shifted his thrusting to focus all his attention there. Samuel's brain short circuited, his mouth permanently hanging open as he remained silent, all brain function stopping. 

Sam gave no warning before cum began spurting out of his cock, a final pathetic cry ripping out of him as he painted himself in white. It was a surprise to even Sam. But, hitting your g-spot over and over to the point of abusing it would surprise anyone, he guessed. 

Daniel was soon to follow, pulling out and pumping his cock before he also covered Sam's chest in cum. They were both out of breath, sweat covering every inch of their skin. Danny had bent over at the waist, his arms catching his fall and planting on either side of Sam’s head. Looming above Sam once more, the bassist had never felt more comfortable in his life. He’d happily perish in this spot if it meant he got to spend his final heartbeats  between Daniel’s arms. 

"You should play bad rounds of golf more often," Sam finally posited, a stupid smile on his face as he gazed up at Daniel. 

The drummer laughed, caught by surprise. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, princess?"

Samuel gulped at the pet name usage. However, that previous edge had vanished from his voice. 

Impossibly, he felt his dick twitch at the combination of seeing Daniel covered in sweat and cum while panting heavily. And when he looked back into those hazel brown and green eyes and saw nothing but amusement, adoration, and satisfaction, Sam knew that it was, in fact, he was where he belonged. 

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Tag List:

@doodle417 @sammykiszkasunusedshoes @jmks-housewife @ageoferin @alwayssotiredbutneverofyou @etoilesnoor @ascendingtostardust @godlygreta @s0livagant @gretavanflowerpower @morganic-goods @dannythedog @baguettejuliette @fan-girl-97 @gaby-gvf @age-of-nyahh @mzbrightside @myownparadise96 @xserenax-13 @sammysvanfeet @loofypoofy @chalametpwk @seventieswhore @razorbladekiszka @capturethechaos @unfortunatelykristin @welightthefire @gretavanfleas @sammiejane22 @satanplayshisfluteforhim @starsasone @writingcold @tearsofbri @gretasmokerising @streamofstardust @lunaindigoraven @jakeydoesit @tripthelightfandomtastic @sunfl0wer-power @wingedgardener2000 @gretavanbitches @teddiie @gardensGateDaisy @sparrowofthedawnsworld @angelbabyyy99 @sammysprincess @whollyfreeamongststars @gretaswhore28 @l0rdoffli3s @kay-jordan @lightmyloverry @kenzie18 @gotavansleep @roosterbbradley @freckled-wonder @flower-power-anthem @Gabyvanfleet @Sarakay-gvf @Mamalikes-gvf @josh-iamyour-mama @st4rdust-ch0rds @pr41sethemoon @fallonfatality @earthlysorrows @jessicafg03 @rossy1080 @hippievanfleet @spark-my-nature @hayley1623 @schleeble @gretavanflipflop

[somecallmekay]

A Date at the Ball

@wonderwyrm and I prepare for the ball, 700 words, Blue Moon Ball

Evenings in spring usually tended to be on the warmer side, and tonight was no exception. The gentle heat of the setting sun slowly withdrew as the cool air kept everyone at a comfortable temperature, which was certainly aided to some extent by the magics enchanted. 

The sky was awash with colours of the setting sun, painting a diorama of hues accented by champagne pink clouds, carefully guiding the observers gaze towards the marble pillars which served as the main entrance to the hall, which was bustling with life. 

Wizards, witches, dragons, angels, wolfkin, everyone showed up dressed in their best. The Blue Moon Ball was certainly an event not to miss, and everything has been going smoothly, much thanks to the host.

Most people showed up slightly ahead of time, and we're socialising outside, save for one figure. 

Wyrm was dressed in a brilliant white dress, sparkling in the evening sun, reflecting the setting sun, yet underlit with a menagerie of colours, matching his wizard's hat and shoes. Bright and shiny, yet far from gauche, they razzled and dazzled in the crowd like fresh snow. 

Suddenly, the floor beneath them darkened, darkened, and darkened until it became a pool of pitch black. The shade, while still attached to their feet, moved slightly to the side, then something started rising out of it. Dark tendrils of darkness reached up into the sky, then coalesced into a singular form, stitching themselves into a humanoid body. 

She chuckled,and extended her hand towards the shape. “You're so dramatic, Kay.”

The body accepted his hand, the shadows fracturing to reveal their date for the ball, who turned the hand over and kissed the back, far too dramatically. “What can I say, it is the day to go all out. What'd you think?” they said, and slowly turned around, showing their outfit. 

A black suit, black shirt, they wore no tie, their neck adorned with a silver necklace in the shape of a small hammer, and an onyx pendant. They wore several black and silver bracelets, and a silver ring on their right middle finger. Their head was completely black and only reflecting some light, as if made out of ink. The outfits were completely different, yet instead of clashing, they accentuated each other beautifully. 

“Sharp,”came the answer, “but a little too black, don't you think?” The question was, of course, a joke, and immediately met with a response from his date. “I mean, I'm a living shadow, might as well lean into it. Anyways, damn, is this place nice or what?”

And like that, hands in pockets, all the theatricalities gone, just two friends hanging out dressed pretty. 

“Yeah, Lurien really went all out for this.” Wyrm responded cheerfully. “You can really see how much work he put in.”

“Same could be said for yourself, you look beautiful.”

“Aww, thank you! Took me a moment to get the enchantment exactly right, but it really paid off I think. Check this out!” he exclaimed and did a quick twirl. 

The lights of the dress went wild. Lights enchanted their glow, temporarily capturing the gaze of everyone around, and a round of polite applause followed. 

Kay was clapping the loudest, which wasn't saying much since golf claps aren't for noise, but regardless. 

“Bravo, beautiful. If they ever make a card game out of this ball, you're getting a holographic card just for that.”

“That might be the weirdest compliment I've gotten.”

“Gotten so far, the night is still young. Besides, the ball hasn't even sta-”

The massive doors into the building rumbled, and slowly opened, and a chime echoed through the grounds, signalling the ball had officially started. 

The shadow wytch paused. “huh. Colour me wrong I guess.”

Wyrm laughed, then offered his hand for their date to wrap their arm around. “Shall we then? My date?”

The teasing in her words was lightheaded, and instantly, she found a dark arm locked with hers. “After the Shadow Lillies and chocolates? Absolutely, darling.”

“Well, I did get a visit from someone who knew you'd like them. Tall, shadowy, black clothing.”

“I couldn't possibly imagine someone like that. Seriously, does their wardrobe have like, only one colour?”

They shared a laugh, just as they stepped into the halls. Oh yes, tonight was definitely a good night to go all out.

[instructionsnotincluded]

Wild Winds

Chapter V

Excerpt:

Logan ran the back of her wrist along her forehead, the midday humidity starting to make her shift feel like it was taking place in a swamp. The sun shone brightly overhead, a Top 40 station playing, launching the pool area in a vacation-esque feel. “I feel like I’ve sweated off at least ten pounds.” Amy Lyons dabbed at her sweaty neck and chest, tugging on her uniform polo to try to get some air inside her shirt, “And don’t get me started on the boob sweat. Why aren’t the misters working?”

“Damaged in the hurricane,” Logan tried not to think about how nice it would feel to dunk her head in the ice bucket as she gathered the ingredients for a smoothie, “and they can’t get the parts to fix it until next week.”

“Fuck me.” Amy shook her head, “This is worse than the bev cart. At least out on the golf course you get the breeze off the ocean…”

“You can thank Ryan for the honor of working in someone’s armpit.” Logan said, “Next time you see him, of course.”

[emo-gremlin]

Hey, you're cool! *hands you more MFN as memes/vines*

🎬

Lenard: what's cooler than being cool?

Gordon: financial stability

🎬

Lilianna: an octopus is just a wet spider

Ricky: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE

🎬

Lenard: SOMEBODY ONCE TOLD ME THE WORLD WAS GONNA-

George: end on December 21, 2012. I bought all this fucking pasta as a way to celebrate the end of the world and now I'm $10,000 in debt, my taxi got towed and I have wet pasta everywhere in my house

Lenard: ...I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed

🎬

Ricky: swear words are illegal now, say one and you'll be fined

Handy: heck

Ricky: you're on thin fucking ice

Ricky: oh no

🎬

Lenard: what if mayonnaise came in cans?

Lilianna: that would suck because you can't microwave metal...

Noir: *walking by drinking coffee* good morning to everyone except you people

🎬

Noir: anyone wanna get into an argument with me?

Ricky: ok cream cheese isn't that good

Noir: I was kidding but you know what fuck you for real

🎬

Unfriendly Lenard: I hate being high, why I hear footsteps?

Craig: are you walking?

Unfriendly Lenard: oh shit

🎬

Junebug: vanilla soy latte is just 3 bean soup

Gordon: why must you do this at 5am

🎬

George: a haiku for the bus drive who deliberately cut me off

George: *clears throat*

George: I swear to God bruh, let me catch you in the streets, bruh I swear to God

🎬

Unfriendly Lilianna: I find the fact I will never experience a sword fight in my entire life terribly tragic

🎬

Lenard: sorry, liberals, there's only 0 genders

Junebug: there's one gender ad we have to share

Craig: Gordon said its my turn on the gender

🎬

Norman: I wanna jump off a building and not die. Just relieve stress by slamming into the sidewalk and then get up and go get a slurpee or something

Ricky: Norman are you ok

Norman: no ❤️

🎬

Norman: *screams into jar* everything is fine :)

🎬

Gordon: I saw your last report card

Noir: *not even looking up from his phone* congrats you can see

Gordon: oh so you wanna be smart?

Noir: that's why I go to school

🎬

Gordon: hey Junebug how are you today?

Junebug: I swallowed a golf ball!

Gordon: uh- are you ok?

Junebug: I can't poop! :D

🎬

Ricky: hey Lillianna

Lillianna: can you get in the oven and clean it?

Ricky: bye Lillianna

🎬

Junebug: if it weren't illegal I would eat cereal for every meal of the day

Gordon: I have some wonderful news for you

🎬

Gordon: Noir asked everyone at dinner what color Norman's new shirt was. After we all said grey, he turned to him and said, "Now tell them what color you think it is." And Norman just quietly replied, "Dark white."

🎬

Lilianna: Lasagna is just spaghetti flavored cake

Fritz: I will pay you money to never speak again

🎬

George: fellas is it gay to fall in love with another man and spend your life with him

Gordon: that is the literal definition of gay

George: :0

🎬

Gordon: *texting the puppets* At airport! Bye guys! Love ya to the moon and back, you're the best! Bust a nut!

Noir: I'm not sure Gordon knows what that means

Tax: I Physically cannot breathe

🎬

Lilianna: God released me into the wild and now he's hunting me for sport

🎬

Fritz: where can I order a pretty face

George: from your mirror

Tax: WHEN DID EVERYONE IN THIS HELL STUDIO BECOME SMOOTH AF

Lenard: 2023: the year the Neighborhood learned how to flirt

Norman: oh my

🎬

Noir: 1 universe, 9 planets, 7 seas, 7 continents, 809 islands, 204 countries, and I had the unfortunate luck of meeting you

Tax: THERE ARE 8 PLANETS YOU UNCULTURED SWINE

Noir: VIVA LA PLUTO FUCK YOU

Gordon: I'm pretty sure 'viva la Pluto fuck you' is the best sentence I've ever heard

🎬

Craig, Fritz and UF Fritz belong to: @gayfraggle

[billthedrake]

(This is a story I started a while ago but put to the back burner before getting very far. We'll see if I pick it up again.)

FIFTY SHADES OF DADBOD

PART ONE: THE PROTOTYPE

Sexual attraction's a mystery. At least it is to me. I just know what turns me on and it's deep seated. Yeah, my tastes are particular, weird even. It took me years to own up to them completely.

I don't know if Mr. Carson was responsible for my love of dad bods. Maybe he tapped into something already there, deeper in me. But I had an important milestone watching him mow the lawn, shirtless in the summer heat. Puberty had hit me like a hormonal train and I was spending the summer days with a boner, rubbing it, enjoying the new sensations. I was doing it a lot, too, particularly since I had the free time of my summer days. I don't even think I fully registered that I was attracted to men and men only.

But that day I realized. I looked out my window and watched my neighbor. I got excited and had the naughty urge to rub myself to the vision of the guy, so I unzipped and pulled out my boner.

Jeff Carson was about as typical, even stereotypical a suburban man you could picture. Early 30s, married with a kid, had a corporate job similar to my dad's. Handsome looks, receding blond hair, masculine in that laid-back ex-frat way. Had about 5, maybe 10 extra pounds clinging to his mid section.

I watched that fateful day as the sweat trickled down his back and into the waistband of his beat-up Nantucket red chino shorts. Then as he turned the mower and walked toward my house, that beautiful torso came into view. Strong but not huge pecs, a dusting of golden hair, then just a hint of a gut.

I felt an unfamiliar sensation. Pleasure, but mostly sensations that surprised me. Like I was going to piss. I was having my first orgasm. I cleaned up, ashamed, but about fifteen minutes later I was back in the same spot, doing the same thing as Mr. Carson did his last turns around the lawn. I was hooked.

Mr. Carson wasn't my only JO fodder for my teen years but he was always the biggest star in my fantasies. He fit my ideal of a perfect man and even defined it. To this day, guys measure up to him.

The crazy thing was he got even hotter for me. Around sophomore year, the Carsons had a second baby, and I saw work and domestic life put more padding on his body. Almost all of it went to his midsection. For a good year straight, I observed how the love handles and incipient beer belly filled out Mr. C's dress shirts and polos, as well as the casual T-shirts he'd sometimes wear on the weekend.

And then there were his golf shirts. My dad bod attraction may have been already there, but I'll credit Mr. C for turning me onto golf attire. He was an avid golfer and the way that poly-knit fabric would hug his body would send me wild. Besides the amazing gentle girth of his stomach, the man had perfect tits. Nice thick nipples with a pointy tip that would show through in his golf shirts or polo shirts, even his dress shirts. I developed a real fetish for shirts and the men who filled them out well.

I even knicked a couple of my dad's old ones from a pile he'd set aside for Goodwill. No, I don't perv on the old man, but I perved on those shirts. Big time. Load after load, pumping them out after school as I slipped on a polo shirt and JO-ed in front of my bedroom mirror. The shirts were big on me, of course. I wasn't an athletic teenager and still had a very slender frame. But I'd stroke my dick and imagine what I'd look like bigger, grown up. I imagined being about to fuck a man wearing his golf or polo shirt. One day I even snuck a pair of dad's golf shoes and put them on for my session. Was the biggest cum I'd had.

If Jeff Carson was hot in a snug shirt, it was a different kind of pleasure seeing him shirtless in his backyard when the warmer weather came. Unaware that he was showing off his new-daddy weight to me. I took a ton of pictures which still don't fail to get me off. And eventually, the man took up jogging to lose some of his excess pounds. I wanted to tell him he was fucking perfect and he shouldn't ever change, but I did enjoy the glimpses of him running down the street, the modest swell of his belly jiggling with each stride. Fuck, I shot so much spunk to that mental image.

I worried I was forming an unhealthy obsession, but Mr. C opened me to a new world of men. I started noticing teachers and coaches and men around town who fit the type. These were men I'd never see in a porn video, except for a few of the amateur vids I was curating into a personal collection. Though I didn't have a term yet for their body types, I began to appreciate the sheer variety of dadbods.

It felt bittersweet moving off to college. On one hand I was itching for the freedom to discover myself and to come out. On the other hand I was losing my regular sightings of my neighbor. Not only did I lust after him in a big way, I was growing a little crush on Mr. C.

PART TWO: THE EX-JOCK

It was second semester of college before I discovered the gym. I learned the basics for weight lifting from whatever internet sources I could find and hit it hard.

I made a workout buddy who saw I didn't really know proper form lifting and offered me some tips. Sam was a total bro type, but like me had a leaner genetic build. I think we got along so well because we were serious about lifting but weren't meatheads like a lot of other guys in the gym. We had a standing gym session together four times a week. We didn't hang out too much otherwise, but we spent so much time together we became good friends.

Sam didn't seemed too fazed when I told him I was gay, but he did act a little weird for a while, making nervous jokes about his ass being off limits after I watched his set of squats. Finally, I just said, "Dude you're not my fucking type so don't worry."

That seemed to clear the air. "Sorry man I guess I was being a dick." He racked an extra 20 on for my set. "I bet you go for those pretty boys." It was a small liberal arts college and the few visible gay gays on campus fit a certain type.

I got into place. "Nah," I admitted. "I like older dudes."

He laughed and had a smirk still when I finished my set.

"What?" I asked.

"Me, too," he said. "I don't mean dudes, but I prefer older women. My buddies make fun of me sometimes... I don't think I've lived down the Cougar Boy nickname," he laughed.

"Fuck 'em," I said. "Life's too short not to go after what you want."

Me and Sam were solid after that day.

Thing was, I could talk a big game, but I still hadn't had much sexual experience. Some fumbling hookups with some guys on campus, but I was craving an older man to have sex with. A man like Jeff Carson.

I didn't find him. At least not at first and not exactly. But I set up a profile on an app and after a bit of nervousness added, "looking for older guys. Masculine preferred, don't need a perfect body."

I got a few hits. Some guys were fun to chat with but didn't push my buttons physically. Others looked hot but seemed rude and short. Maybe I was too hesitant and was feeling them out too much.

Finally, I was horny one Saturday night and set something up. The guy I didn't think was that attractive but he offered to suck me off, no recip, and that sounded pretty good to me right then. I went to his place, and yeah, he wasn't better looking in person. But he had a nice head of salt and pepper hair that I looked down on as he shucked my shorts and started to lick my dick, getting it firmed up to hardness. And when he took me in his mouth, I realized what I'd been missing out on. This was a great blow job. Not rushed but definitely working me up to greater and greater pleasure. After a couple of minutes I blurted out that I was going to cum if he kept it up. He did, and I shot. Afterwards, the man was grateful, and I was in a good mood.

It was later that week when I hit the jackpot. The man's profile read 49, 6'2" (two inches taller than me), 220 pounds. We had some flirtatious chat and he unlocked his pics for me... a very handsome, almost ruggedly handsome face, with brown eyes, medium-short dark hair showing a lot of gray... and a nice thick-ish cock the pubic hair trimmed but not too much. Best of all was his body. Strong, bulky, a little padding around the middle. A true ex-jock build.

He seemed into what I was offering, too. Lean, six pack, nice round ass, a bit of muscle that I'd put on in the last year.

"It's gotta be discreet," he wrote.

"That's cool," I replied. "Don't have any one I could tell," I wrote. I was out and had gay friends, but none that I'd confessed my attraction to older men to.

He offered to pick me up on campus. I was nervous about that idea, but some gut instinct told me I could trust him. I'm glad I did. The man was even hotter in person and the smile he greeted me with as I got into his car told me he was pleased with me as well.

"Jason...? good to meet you," he said, offering his thick mitt of a hand.

"You, too, Pat," I smiled back, my heart beating. This guy was so frickin' hot. Thick-set muscle and just big, you know. I knew he was a coach from the get go. I didn't know where or what he coached, but I knew it was possible he was a coach at my college.

"You OK going back to my place?" he asked, checking in.

"Oh yeah," I said.

There's a cliche that younger guys often hold to about older men. That they're all experienced and great lovers. Sometimes that's just not true. I've come to learn that an older guy can be lousy in the sack, or maybe just not click with you for some reason.

But Pat lived up to the fantasy I had. Dude was an amazing kisser. He took his time, making out with me on the couch, talking some between the kisses. Not too much, but feeling me out, letting me talking about my desires, and complimenting me in the process. He didn't rush things, and he'd actually slow me down when I tried to. It was a simple correction, but it made the kissing feel so good. Him teaching me how to enjoy being with a man.

He ran his hand underneath the hem of my T-shirt, tracing along the ridges of my abs. "Nice," he purred, gnawing at the spot under my ear.

"OK if I undo your shirt?" I asked. He was wearing a button down, almost preppy looking. It was silly to ask I suppose, but I'd felt silently admonished for rushing things earlier.

Pat grinned. "Have at it, buddy."

Excitedly I reached up and undid his next to top button, then another. I stopped there, wanting to take my time. I eased my fingers beneath the opening and felt the warm hairy chest, firm and muscular but in a middle-aged kind of way. "So hot," I growled. "Perfect."

Pat's hand wandered up higher on my belly, sending goosebumps along my flesh. He knew what he was doing and he made it seem effortless. "Just so you know, I'm getting out of a messy divorce. So just looking for a little fun. Is that OK with you buddy?"

I nodded. I guess he could read my intense attraction and was concerned I was going to crush out on him. "Um, yeah," I replied. We kissed softly. He had a grin on his face. "This feels amazing," I said.

"It's not your first time is it?"

"No," I replied deciding to undo another button. His stomach was hairier than his chest, which excited me. "But you make the other guys seem like amateurs."

Pat liked that response, a lot. "Arms up, buddy," he ordered and I did so he could peel my T-shirt off. I quickly undid the rest of his buttons, watching excitedly as the shirt flaps opened to show off his mid-section padding. He had a fuller stomach than his online picture and I was very excited by the rounder girth. His muscle was solid, for sure, but his advertised 220 was probably closer to 230, with that extra 10 forming a nice combination of soft-firm beneath my touch as I explored his midsection.

"God you're perfect," I repeated. I finally removed my hand from his furry gut as he started to lean forward.

Pat removed his shoes and socks and undid his belt. "Mind if I get more comfortable?" he asked.

"I'd be upset if you didn't," I breathed. I was feeling nervous but weirdly confident too, if that makes sense. Being with an older man, particularly one with a body like Pat's, made me feel like I was truly having sex for the first time.

I watched excitedly as the jeans and then the briefs came down. Pat's genitals were exactly as advertised, and the pictures didn't lie. The man wasn't hung very long, but his cock was thick, thicker than average and the chunky tool just somehow looked right on his ex-jock frame. The prick stood up rigid like a railroad spike. The divorced man was turned on.

I followed suit and though I felt my body paled in comparison to his, I got off on the way he looked at me. I don't know if Pat had a thing for college guys or just younger guys in general, but I felt a wave of confidence as I stood before him naked and erect and stepped up to meet him in a kiss. His hard muscle and softer bulk both felt amazing against my trimmer body as we made out and rubbed cocks.

With a grin, Pat broke the kiss and started walking me backward. "Why don't we take this to the bedroom, buddy?" he asked.

I nodded excitedly.

Pat had a nice place, but it had a new, not-yet-lived in feel of a house of a divorced guy. But his king bed felt incredibly soft and comfortable compared to my dorm mattress, and it was a thrill to be in this coach's bedroom as he climbed onto the bed after me and climbed right on top of my reclining body.

That next kiss felt even more electric than the ones before. I didn't even know Pat's last name or really anything about him, but his body and masculine presence on top of me excited me beyond belief. Whether he was the romantic type or not, he seemed to love kissing and making out and taking the slow approach to sex. That worked for me, only his slow writhing against my body was starting to get me off, far too quickly.

I tried to stop my orgasm, but as I clenched Pat's hips urgently to signal him to stop thrusting against me, the man took that as a signal of desire and he writhed more steadily against me. That did it. I came. My fooling-around handjobs and BJs up to that point didn't compare to the incredible cum I had, spurting my warm seed between our naked bodies.

It took Pat by surprise and he broke the kiss suddenly and leaned up, looking down at me. "Whoa... you must have been pretty worked up, buddy," he said.

I felt embarrassed to have no self-control around this man. "Yeah, sorry Pat," I muttered feeling even younger and more inexperienced than I was.

The ex-jock kind of rolled off to the side so he could examine my sperm. It coated both of our stomachs, and I loved seeing how the white liquid matted down his belly fur, but the brunt of my load was on my body.

Pat took in the sight and then leaned down and started licking off my cum with long wide swipes of his tongue. He muttered excitedly at my flavor then it was my turn to moan as Pat came up and kissed me deeply, sharing my sperm as our tongues passed back and forth. It was an incredibly hot experience.

Pat thought so too and was now getting worked up. He looked up at me as he started stroking his dick. "I gotta get off too, Jase..." he announced.

I touched his forearm, not stopping his stroking but signaling him to pause. "I can go again," I said. "I'm pretty turned on right now." It was true, my erection hadn't gone down in the slightest and I felt like I could go again, only without that out-of-control urgency as before.

He liked that response. His expression curled into a smile. "Yeah, buddy? I forget what it's like to be 19," he chuckled. I watched his magnificent bulky body twist as he reached back to grab some lube. Pat popped the cap and squirted a good deal on his fingers.

He met me in another kiss just as his hand reached down to start applying the liquid to my hole. He'd mentioned in our chat that he loved fucking, and while I'd replied "that's hot," we hadn't discussed the specifics of how our hookup was going to go down. I had a pretty good idea now.

I was cherry when it came to anal, but very eager for that to change. Pat seemed appreciative of my tight hole as he worked it open with one, two, and then three fingers as we made out. He damn well knew what he was doing. Those fingers prodding me slowly and steadily, working me open.... it felt intense but in a wonderful way.

Finally he knelt up and got into place, putting my legs on his strong shoulders. Looking up I remarked how from the sternum up his muscle was big and well-defined, a total ex-jock build. I was starting to think football, he was that big and strong, and my guess was that Pat was a college football player who'd kept up dedicated time in the gym in the 25 plus years since graduation.

Below his chest, Pat had the gut of a man who'd let himself go to seed, or at least let his body do what men's bodies naturally want to do with age. And I was completely turned on by the result. Just looking down at that ex-jock belly made my virgin hole open up and allowed Pat's thick, wet prick to push in.

I was getting my cherry popped in a big way. Maybe it wasn't Jeff Carson doing the honors, but in every other way Pat, whose last name I didn't know, was my fantasy first. He bored in ever so slowly and about two inches in, I winced, feeling my innards tightening up.

The man paused, concerned. "You've done this before right?"

I shook my head no.

"But you said..." He'd misunderstood me before.

"I've had sex a few times, but you're the first to fuck me," I explained.

He looked down a little contrite and ran his hands up and down my smoother body. "We don't gotta buddy."

I held on to his midsection. "I want this," I said. "Bad. Just go slow."

He nodded. "You got it," he smiled. "Only I may fire off any time. Your ass is so tight." And with that he leaned down and met me in a soft kiss that made my body come alive.

If Pat was skilled before, he got even better. Patient in working me open as we made out and I felt up his bigger body. Then, something clicked and I just wanted him. I wanted every fat inch of that magnificent coach cock. I didn't have to wait. As my ass unclenched, Pat fed it to me, in a slow, steady push. Right all the way in, balls deep.

He grunted into my mouth, then broke the kiss.

"Popped your cherry, kid," he growled with a grin.

"Oh fuck!" I hissed, from both the physical sensation and the emotional intensity.

"You like that?" the man grinned, turned on by how excited I was. He gave a slow, shallow pump into me, then again. Not a hard fuck, but I felt it.

"Yes... fuck me Pat," I grunted, feeling all the pleasurable sensations in my body focused in my asshole. His hips pulled out more with each stroke now, and my prostate was singing. "Jesus... this feels so incredible," I said. My hands were back at his body now, every inch I could touch and feel as this man delivered an incredible virgin-busting fuck.

He nodded. "Your ass is incredible too, Jase... tightest I've ever been in."

His words made my hole clench and flutter against his pistoning dick. I wasn't even trying to do anything special, it was just my body's involuntary response. But it egged the coach on.

"Oh FUCK yeah! Milk my cock, buddy... just like that!" He humped more urgently into me, carried away by the sensations on his dick and given the green light now.

For the next minute, I lay there and took it. A master cocking that was fast and hard. I thought of touching my dick, but I didn't want to fire out too soon again. Pat deserved to get off in my ass, and I wasn't going to cut off his opportunity.

Turns out, I didn't have to worry. As the man leaned forward and claimed another deep kiss, the shift in angle mashed my dick right against his heaving thickset belly. That began to trigger my orgasm, right in synch with Pat's own deep cum. Together, on his king sized bed, we gave it up, spurting our loads.

The gruff man had a goofy grin as he dismounted and our bodies parted. He looked down at his spent, slick cock and the renewed frothy wetness on his stomach. "I was gonna ask if it was OK for you, but I guess I got my answer already," he said.

I lay back, feeling fully and completely satisfied and smiled up at him. "My only worry is that you spoiled me for other men. That was incredible," I said.

That gave him a proud, almost cocky expression. He gave my hip a gentle, affectionate pat and then got off the bed. "Here.... let's clean up." He grabbed my hand and helped pull me to my feet as well.

We showered together and Pat was especially affectionate as we slowly soaped each other's body and made out underneath the warm spray.

I did see a slightly concerned look as we toweled off.

"Don't worry," I said. "I know you're not looking to date. I'm just happy we did that. It's made my year."

That seemed to relax the big man, who took my towel from my and started drying me off. It was a simple, affectionate, yet very sexy action and gave me another boner.

"I can't believe you're getting hard again," Pat laughed.

"Can't help it," I said. "You're the sexiest man ever."

Pat grinned and gave me another peck. "Listen... you're right, I'm not looking to date. But if you want to stay over... maybe we can have a repeat when I recover a little."

"Sounds awesome," I said, taking my towel and using it to rub his body dry. I could never get enough of seeing the way the beefy mass looked against the white terry cloth.

My action made Pat smile. "You really were cherry just now, weren't you?"

That caught me by surprise. "Do guys lie about that?"

"You'd be surprised," Pat replied. "But you're the real deal... it was very hot breaking you in."

"It was hot for me, too," I assured him. "I couldn't have asked for a better first time." It was true. I later talked to some of my gay friends, who had very different first time experiences. I was lucky.

Pat and I snuggled in his bed and watched some dumb TV and talked some and eventually I felt his hardon come back to life as we made out. The man mounted me for a second time and while it lacked the sheer intensity of the first, we both relished the additional staying power that allowed for a solid 15 minute fuck. I'd be sore the next day for sure, but then I never wanted this to end.

After Pat dropped me off the next morning - after a mutual BJ session and some well-earned breakfast - I logged on immediately and tracked down the webpage for the football team.

Sure enough, Pat was the linebacker assistant coach at my college.