#even just seeing this from a distance the choice of clip and the timing is very auspicious

[homicidalbrunette]

It's giving I'm Baby/yes you sure are energy

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

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

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

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

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

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

***

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

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

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

Seems like the sort of place for him.

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

Or somethin’ along those lines. 

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

Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sigh. I ask him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

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

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

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

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

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

Asshole.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” I reply. 

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

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

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

He tilts his head away in dismissal. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

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

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

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

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

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

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

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

I want – my breath trembles with it.

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

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

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

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he contradicts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can feel you against my leg.” 

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

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

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

Give me strength. Give me strength. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

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

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

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

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

I can feel him swallow.

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

“Kiss me again, then.” 

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

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

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

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

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

A switch in his brain must flick on. 

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

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

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 

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

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

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

He kisses the hollow of my neck. 

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

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

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

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

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  

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

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

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

How unlike him. 

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

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

I sigh, try not to squirm. 

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

I nod. “Yeah.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 

My cunt flexes. 

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

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

“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 

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

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

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

“Can—?”

“Yes.” 

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

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

“Lie back.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” I reply. 

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

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

[mysterycitrus]

hihihi! tim drake in college real?

oog indeed mein freund

so ur tim drake, ur seventeen, and ur dad has just come back from the dead. u hollowed urself out until there’s nothing left and ur ribs are broken but you’ve never felt better. if u stop moving for more than a second the weight of the world hits u. there’s another kid wearing ur uniform and u have to watch as this new robin and bruce, the bruce u fought for, the bruce u left everything behind for, the bruce u nearly died for, debut as gothams dynamic duo. but it’s fine. u did what u had to do. u feel great, actually.

then ur brother who u love more than anything sits u down and tells u he’s enrolled u in college in california. ur so angry ur spitting. he trusts u and now he’s not even giving u the choice to stay. u want to kick and scream and hold on till ur hands are bloody, but he tells u that he’s worried. he’s been so scared for u since ur dad died. he thinks ur losing urself. he wants u to make choices for urself without bruce. he wants u to spend time with ur friends who are alive again and miss u. he wants u to take a chance to live ur life away from gotham, away from that burden.

he tells u: robin is never truly gone, alright? it’ll never leave. i need u to trust me that it’ll still be u no matter how many other kids wear the cape. i need u to trust that i love u more than what ur able to do in tights.

and he knows this better than anyone. he’s asking u to extricate tim drake from robin and batman and red robin. to remember what it felt like to choose. and after all these years u can’t say no, so u pack ur bags and leave for the west coast.

college is fine. u keep changing majors. u pick up photography as a joke, thinking about snapping photos of the boy wonder from a distance, to print in the basement dark room after school. it’s a laugh, and ur gonna drop it until donna troy finds out, and u spend a long time on the roof of the tower with her taking photos of the sunrise. it’s been a while since the sunrise was the start of ur day. it feels….. unfamiliar. she tells u about how ur brother became nightwing. she tells u about the heartbreak of having to move on. she tells u about choices.

kon’s right down the hall. he can hear u but u can’t hear him, so sometimes you’ll whisper a question for him to shout back. he obligingly poses for ur still life class. he and steph make fun of how u can’t decide what to study. it’s painful to become tim drake and nothing else again, but it happens in increments. u make friends with people in ur tutoriasl. ur less pale — u pinken under the sun easily, peeling flesh turning red and painful, but u look less like a corpse. ur hair is longer, and bart buys u a claw clip shaped like an avocado.

the new robin is growing up, and he explains colour theory to u for one of ur classes. he’s an asshole, but he’s trying. when asked politely, he draws character sheets for bart’s dnd group with minimal grumbling. red and yellow suit him, and looking at him in the costume feels less painful, and more nostalgic.

u brainstorm new ideas for urself, new roles, new ideas for the team, but there’s no rush. u have time. if u see bruce, u kno there’s someone else at his back, watching him through the night. dick texts u life updates, but they’re funny, not desperate. the world continues to spin. u, tim drake, are still alive.

[queer-n-here]

back at it again at krispy kreme

so to start off, this request is very wild and specific and out of nowhere and will most likely be the only of its kind. I would suggest watching season 1 and 2 recap videos of Girl From Nowhere. NOW TO THE REQUEST

with a yandere reader (who is basically like nanno from the show i mentioned earlier) who stalks character of your choice 24/7, constantly tormenting them and their friends (who keep killing reader but reader just keeps coming back) until the character is worn down to where they are stockholm syndromed by reader, and reader finally claims what is his ♡

~🕷

Okay y'all, this is actually 🕸️ annon, bro wrote 🕷️ on accident again.

Also, bruv, this bomb ASS request has been sitting in my inbox for a while, and I must say, I'm sorry I didn't do it sooner. I was kind of running away from it without realising I was.

Q: Why were you running away?

A: Because I didn't wanna ruin it in a hurry 😭 I wanted to do it justice. Now, I will! (Hopefully)

Contents: Chuuya x Yandere!Stalker!Reader

Warnings: No smut, but has mentions of masturbation, stalking, obsessive tendencies, mentions of murder, blood, and more, Stockholm Syndrome.

You had been watching him for the longest time.

Chuuya Nakahara.

He was so fucking beautiful, you never wanted to take your eyes off of him. So you followed him around, setting your lackeys everywhere around him to report to you with even the minutest details of his days.

You followed him around yourself, too. Only you were allowed to watch from his bathroom ventilator as he showered or changed. Only you were permitted to peek through that one window in his bedroom and watch as he pushed a lucky dildo deeper and deeper into his ass, cock throbbing and twitching with want. Oh, the things you'd do to be that bit of silicon that slid in and out of his asshole as he trembled on the bed, huffing and panting.

Fuck, you were obsessed with him.

And you knew full well.

You were starting to get desperate, too. Just sneaking into his house when he wasn't there to wrap his boxers around your cock and jerk off wasn't enough anymore. So after hiding in the dark for a while, you decided to leave behinds hints.

The first one ever was the splatter of cum you'd left on his bed sheets. It had been a mistake, but even as you raised a hand to pull the sheets off the bed and hide the evidence, you couldn't help but pause.

Chuuya should know how much you loved him. He should know who owned him.

Thus, you left the stains right as they were.

That night, Chuuya returned from a hefty mission, tired and ready to collapse into bed. The sight of the half-dried cum stopped him.

"What the fuck?!"

You, watching from behind the bushes next to his bedroom window, smirked. Fuck yes.

Later, you became more and more bold. You starting leaving behind more proof of your presence, leaving behind sappy messages on his walls with spray paint, dropping photos of him that you'd taken in secret. You watched him break down from his window.

You chased him into a corner, forcing him to ask Mori for help. Even the Port Mafia had nothing on you, though. You continued leaving behind dirty underwear, condoms filled with your cum and stuff like that around his house.

Chuuya changed places, and you followed. He couldn't get rid of you no matter how much he tried, only running pathetically around with you right at his heels.

It was fun, but only for a few months.

At one point, only watching him from a distance had been enough for you. Now, you wanted him to see you, know you, fear you, want you. You were growing more and more greedy, you knew. And yet you couldn't stop yourself.

So one day, you showed Chuuya your face. You left behind a video clip for him, a video of you jerking off to his photos. Chuuya decided, enough is enough.

He decided to put his pride down and asked for Dazai to help. The latter might be a big piece of shit and a pain in the ass, but he was smart when it came to stuff like this. And so Dazai was involved.

You knew it, and Dazai knew that you knew you knew. It was a fun game of pretending to hide while both of you knew of each other's presence.

It wasn't long before Dazai caught you, though. You were pleasantly surprised by his wit. You two fought, and Dazai managed to kill you. As he turned around, thinking about teasing Chuuya about owing him for the rest of his life, he saw you standing beside him instead. His eyed widened, and he stepped back slightly.

"...How?" Was the only thing Dazai, the smartest man in the Port Mafia, could say.

You chuckled. "Pity you won't be able to find out."

And before he'd known it, he was on the ground, knocked out. You couldn't help but tread on his hands as you passed him a little. He got to be around Chuuya everyday, and here you were, working so hard every time you so much as wanted to see his face. Wasn't it unfair?

Either way, after that day, the Port Mafia increased security around Chuuya. If it had been anyone else, Mori would've just kicked them out, but this was Chuuya, one half of Twin Dark.

From then on, you had to be slightly more careful. But you couldn't control your greed either. You couldn't stop wanting him to see you in person, not just in the photos and videos that you left behind.

And so, one evening Chuuya came back home to find all the guards dead on his porch steps. His eyes widened, and he took a small step back.

The front door was open.

He wanted to run away, wanted to go back to the Port Mafia headquarters and report to Mori, but he thought he saw a shadow flash past the door in the house. He hesitated.

Was it rational for him to not run away? No. It was perhaps the craziest decision he'd ever made in his entire life. But he couldn't help but think internally, Fuck it, if he wanted to harm me, I wouldn't have been alive all this while.

And so Chuuya stepped over the corpses that decorated his front door, pushed open the door more, and stepped in.

You were sitting right there, on his couch, wiping your bloody hands with a handkerchief. You looked up when he entered.

And gods, he was even more gorgeous up close like this. You were used to watching him from afar, or through the cameras that you'd placed in his house, but never face-to-face. Fuck, you almost pounced on him right then.

As for Chuuya, he didn't know what to do. His heart was pounding so fast against his ribcage he was scared it'd stop for good. His palms were sweaty even as he fisted his hands, and his breathing was slightly laboured.

You stood up from the couch, walking closer to him. Somehow, he did not back away.

"Chuuya,"

The way you said his name, gods, what were you? Some sort of a siren? But sirens were supposed to sing, not stand in his house covered in blood and smile at him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

"You're home." You raised a hand, caressing his cheek, leaving a smearing some of the blood on your hand against his pale skin. "Did you have dinner?"

"W-why are you doing this?" Chuuya managed to choke out, fuelled by his last dreg of rationality.

His eyes were red.

"Doing what, baby?" You cooed, smiling. "Chasing you? Because I love you, that's why."

Chuuya felt the back of his throat burning, and tried to fight back the tears that were already gathering in his eyes. "Why? Why, like this... Wha-"

He couldn't form coherent sentences, and stopped trying with a sniffle, tears starting to dribble down his face.

He looked pretty when crying, too.

You cupped his face with both your hands, tilting it upwards to make him look at you. "Because I can't help but want you so much, Chuuya. So much, that I'd have obliterated the Port Mafia if it hadn't been for the fact that you like those people."

Chuuya felt so tired, so exhausted. For almost half a year now he'd been running from you, running and running and running. He'd changed houses, gotten protection from the Mafia, even asked Dazai, for Christ's sake. And yet somehow you'd always gotten through it. He didn't want to run anymore. He wanted to sleep.

He wanted to rest.

He wanted to curl up and close his eyes and not have to worry about anything, not even the nightmares that had started because of you. He wanted to be carefree, the way he had been when he was a kid, poor but honest in the ugliest parts of Yokohama.

Chuuya didn't want to run anymore.

And so he collapsed, his knees buckling as more tears slid down his skin, onto his shirt. You caught him before he could hit the floor, and pulled him into an embrace. He was sobbing, his shoulders shaking and hands trembling.

"C'mere," You pushed his face into the crook of your neck.

Slowly, his hands rose, and for a moment you thought he would try to push you off. You braced for impact, preparing to restrain his hands if you had to. But then, all of a sudden, he wrapped his arms around your neck.

You froze for a moment, and then, a small smile climbed up your face. Chuuya was sobbing into your shoulder, clinging on to you as if for dear life. His fingers fisted in the material of your shirt as he muffled his whimpers against your skin.

He wouldn't run anymore.

That night, standing in the middle of Chuuya's eighth house that year, finally, you got what you wanted.

[creepy-friday]

May I request,,,,headcanons of the 3 proxies all sharing the fem proxy, please 👀👀

Poly relationship headcanons? 👀 yes

|Poly Relationship| Creepypasta Proxies x fem!Reader

Warnings: suggestive/NSFW themes,poly relationship

First and foremost,how did the three of them even agree to share the same lovely reader?How they managed to put their differences aside?

It was a silent agreement.All of them are possessive as fuck and considering the ways all of them live..it would be impossible to find a partner outside their "workplace" they would prolly kidnap them but I will go into yandere hcs other time

They just came to terms that it's easier this way.No disturbing the peace between their dynamics would be ideal to establish a somewhat safe work environment BETWEEN THEM of course

The relationship would start with you being closer to one particular creep of your choice from the main three,and slowly the other men would make themselves more present in your relationship

If you agree that you could be the one who would somewhat make their dynamic slightly better then you're good to enjoy their suffocating presence near you!

Oh boy.Masky's fiery temper would only assume your time should be spent with him for the most part,especially since he truly believes he's the leader while Toby thinks he's the closest you can get to a boyfriend so he competes with him A LOT

Hoodie is chill and laid back,his huge ego already thinks you prefer him since he's only suffocating from a safe distance whenever you don't feel like it

I also hc him either filming or jerking off while watching you get all down and dirty with his friend.The clips are kept for personal reasons~

Masky would prefer to share you with Hoodie, and it's extremely rare for him to be cool to stay with both yourself and Toby

Sex is especially messy when both Masky and Hoodie share you,and because of this Brian would be the one to take care of you in a special way during aftercare

"So" Brian starts,leaning back on the bed "who fucks you better?Honestly." he smirks,patting his tigh,slowly gesturing to the evident bulge in his pants

I still see Masky being a little shit to the youngest proxy and still manipulating him into thinking he's not good enough or that you fake your moans or something,that's what is making Toby be especially rough with you after those times

I see them growing a littleeee closer to eachother because of you

Do they still fight?Yeah,but now the MOST reasons of their fights are inclined to you

Whenever one would feel like you give more of your attention to the other one a fight based of a stupid random thing would erupt between Toby and Masky

Missions are still done the usual way,but now the three men are more possessive about you and actually gaf about your safety

Makeouts while covered in blood?You gave them a boner

During heated nights they would lose the ability to see past their subtle cold demeanour towards each other and would join to ravish you, most of them happen in the forest

ALSO,the tought of you-Slenderman's right hand and one of the strongest residents-being seen with them,AT THE SAME TIME,it's just..something primal that it makes them go over the edge

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Temptation Snapshot || DR3 {2}

Warnings: angst F1 Masterlist Story: One || Two || Three || Four || Five Snapshots One || Two || Three || Four || Five

The work Christmas party was not what you were expecting. It seemed like every official had decided to let their hair down with the season over and the FIA was looking to find a hefty bar tab by the time the night was over. It wasn’t just the FIA staff that had been invited but also the media personalities and their teams that worked closely on the front lines. That was the only reason your plus one had left your side momentarily, to chat to Martin Brundle.

“You look gorgeous,” Théo greeted you as he joined you on the balcony, his feet a little unsteady under the influence. “I’ll never understand how you ended up with Daniel.”

“Good thing you don’t need to,” you replied, pushing away from the glass railing you had been leaning on to watch the stars. “Have a good night.”

The marshal had only started working with you a few months ago but you had got along well, being about the same age. Now you felt uncomfortable in his vicinity and wished to find your way back into Daniel’s arms.

“Wait,” an arm blocked your exit and you looked down at it with a frown, “is it his money?”

“Excuse me?” You were shocked at the audacity.

“I don’t have money but I can take care of you in other ways. You should try a guy your own age.” Théo’s arm curled around you and pulled you against him, his nose brushing your hair as he inhaled your floral shampoo. “People talk, it’s weird how much older he is, but they wouldn’t talk if you were with me.”

You turned your head to quietly hiss at him. “Even if I wasn’t with him, I would never be with you. Now get your fucking hands off me.”

The balcony door closed loudly and Théo stepped back with a smirk as you spotted Daniel standing with his arms crossed, a murderous look on his face. “Am I interrupting?”

“Actually, yes.”

Your elbow jutted out and caught Théo in the ribs for the lie and you tore yourself away from him, knowing how close it had looked. “No, he was just giving some unsolicited advice, that’s all.”

You crossed the distance and buried your hands inside his suit jacket, feeling comfortable once more. It was only when his hands stayed at his side that you peeked up to see his jaw clenched, jealous rage rolling off him in waves.

“Hey,” you whispered as you cradled his face and pulled it away from the glare he was sending Thèo. “Ready to get out of here?”

“You looked pretty close, kitten,” he muttered. “Sure you want to leave?”

“It wasn’t by choice, he cornered me.”

“What?” The jealousy was stripped in an instant leaving blind rage in its place. Daniel’s hands gripped your waist, moving you aside so he could tuck you protectively behind his back.

You grabbed the back of Danny’s jacket as he took a step forward and if it wasn’t for the stumble as he towed you forward you weren’t sure he would have stopped. “Please, Danny, he’s not worth it.”

“Debatable.” The tone was clipped and you wrapped your arms around his middle.

“I’m yours,” you promised in his ear. “Just take me home.”

Click here for another snapshot.

[heartfullofleeches]

Yandere Male Naga x GN! Reader

3k words. Warning for light gore.

(An: Please don’t apologize for sending asks. You aren’t invading my inbox, I love each and every message I get no matter how many one person sends. Take care and I hope you enjoy it. ) 

Ever since you were young, you had a love for the slithery inhabitants of earth. Frogs to newts; the more you learned about reptiles and their amphibian family, the more fascinated you became. Now onto the later years of young adulthood, you were studying to become a herpetologist and live out childhood dreams. Unfortunately, outside of school there weren’t many people to talk to about your love of said animals and you had barely any friends outside that department on top of that. With very few choices of ways to make new ones, you opted for the easiest route of searching online.

You browsed various pet forums; most of your interactions being answering questions the curios folk had and commenting on pictures of cute pets. It was a nice way to past the time and you managed to make a couple acquaintances in the process. As much as you enjoyed each individually, none were quite like your longest chat partner.

With on a hike on a natural trail not far from your apartment, you spotted a snake slithering through a nearby creek. It was the beginning of the warmer months of the year, and at the point where they were starting to get more active. Keeping your distance, you snap a quick photo of it before continuing on you way. You honestly forgot about it, until you found it while scrolling through your camera roll the next day. You decide to post it online, just for the hell of it. A few replies thrown your way and you were content. You thought it’d even there – till you received a message in your inbox later that day.

“What a cute little guy. Is his friend as cute as he?~”

Another message comes your way the second you read the first.

“Ha, that was in poor taste of me. Please don’t block me.. I’ve seen you around this site and thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to send you a message.”

Though a bit of a flirt, you and the stranger got along quite well. You talked about reptiles and the like; most of your conversations ending on snakes, and your studies as well. Overtime, other aspects of life began to blend into your texts. Other interests, how living in your respective areas was, and just life in general. His name is Morgan, from what he claimed; your first real friend in a long while. 

Eventually, you both work up the courage to exchange pictures of each other. It was slightly difficult to see his face clearly, but you could make out the general shadow and his lips quirked in a mischievous grin. “If you think I’m a fake I’ll gladly send more.” He joked. He had deep brown eyes, hints of yellow bordering like off gems in the darkness of his room. Must be some kind of filter – you concluded. You send one back after, met with instant praise. 

“Ah, I knew you’d be stunning. You’re so cute I could just eat you up!” 

Time continues further and you continue speaking. You give him your number; his changing ever so often, buy you never went a day without a response. One night, as you getting ready for bed; you received a frantic message from him.

“Y/n! Are you awake?”

“Yea, I’m still up. Is everything ok?”

“Something attacked one of my cameras just now, but I was able to get the footage from it. Check it out.”

As told, he sends you a clip from a surveillance camera. It was pointed downwards towards a grass covered trail; footage grayscale. Morgan told you he lived near a forest, but this was far beyond than that. It was closer to a jungle; vegetation covered every area and trees dominating the landscape. He put cameras throughout it to capture footage of the wildlife within, and the instances like the one now on your screen.

In the distance, the camera recorded the end of something  slithering off the man-made path and into the trees; just barely catching its shadow. From the lack how far it was, it was hard to make anything out other than it was big. Just the corner of what you saw was nearly the width of a cow. You could vaguely detail a lighter shade of color on its underside, not much else to be seen.

Silence lingers as the footage remains still – then a crack. The tree holding camera topples over, somehow leaving it in tact and pointed at the sky. You hear the sound of something shuffling through the grass, a large shadow looming over view. It’s hard to tell what the thing is as its body coils around itself, you leaning in to try and determine what it is. It suddenly lungs at the camera, the last thing you see before it shuts off being what looks like a pair of fangs longer than any you’d ever seen. 

“What… was that?.”

“I know! I’ve wanted to tell you about it for so long, but I feared you wouldn’t believe me.”

“There’s a legend in my town about a beast in the forest. Larger than any man or animal; ten times stronger than the toughest of either species. Some say it’s even a hybrid of both. I think this is proof it exists!”

You start to believe it’s a prank. “Are you sure?”

“Positive! I wouldn’t bother you with this if I didn’t have more proof to show.”

He sends his proof; all rather damming – or the work of someone who knew their way around scene design.  A closer picture of trail the creature left showed just how massive it was; plowed through the earth like a bulldozer with a girth of around twelve yards. There were pieces of what looked like a snakes shedding shattered through the broken land, big enough for you to wrap yourself in twice over. The most chilling photo was that of the tree, a handprint wedged into the wood topped with thin claw marks. Upon a second look at the video, you swear the jaws holding the fangs seem too human like to be anything but. Hollow and cheeks stretched far beyond possible, but human nonetheless.

“This is crazy! Have you told anyone else about it?”

“I don’t trust a soul but you, my dear. Someone might alert the presses before its time. I need more proof if I want the world to believe me.”

“Is what you have already not enough?”

“The world is full of skeptics, Y/n. You can never have enough evidence! Plus someone might get better stuff than what I have if I wait. I plan on to taking a close up photo of it, but even I know it’s not wise to go alone.”

“Who will you go with?”

“That’s where you come in, love.”

“Me?.. What do you mean?”

“I want you to come! Think about it. You’ll be one of the first people to document a never before seen creature. That’s must mean something in your field.  Regardless of that, the thought alone must be exciting, no?”

You think over his offer, unsure as to what you should say. He did have a point on both accounts. Before you can reply, he sends yet another message.

“Plus… we can finally meet in person. It’s rather embarrassing, but I’ve wanted that for a while now”

“Alright. Alright. I’ll help you.”

“Yay! I look forward to it, my little mouse.” 

“Are you calling that because you plan to use me as bait?”

-

After discussing things further, you get the location of his town and make plans to meet  A quiet place with few towns folk keen on speaking with you..  Unfortunately, Morgan is unable to meet on the night you get in, but he promises to see you soon. As apology, - and because you spoke of it before, he gives you directions to where you’d stay for your visit. An RV on the outskirts of town; key tucked under the welcome mat just for you. A gift from a relative moving out of state – as he told. 

The interior was spacious; kept tidy and sectioned off between bedding and other activities. You knew Morgan had turned the van into a mini research lab, but you hasn’t expected all this much. Tables stacked with notebooks and books on animal behavior; a computer opened with various camera views of the forest beyond. A map was pinned to a board on the wall, thread connects to tacks spread across a makeshift drawing of the woods – detailing the creature’s travel patterns. 

Setting your belongings aside, you suppose he wouldn’t mind if you looked through what he had down. You pick up one of the journals, getting comfortable on the bed before you read. Opening the book at random, you note that some pages had been torn from the spine. 

“Day 1,

It’s my first night out here. The quietness of the forest is pretty relaxing. I tried asking around town to see of anyone could inform me about the stories more with no luck. I’ll head out first thing tomorrow.”

“Day 2,

No luck with my search. When I got back, I noticed tire tracks in the dirt. Not like the van had moved itself, but as if it were pushed to the side. There were strands of black hair by one of the tires. None of us have dark hair.”

“Day 13, 

I finally saw it. At least its tail. From appearance, it seems to be a speckled king snake, but the species isn’t native to the area, nor are they that huge. If I had to guess, it was longer than the van. 

“Day,

I found it’s cave. It was sleeping, so I was able to put a tracker on it, but it woke up. It saw me-"

You close the book, chills running through you. You understood the dangers of coming out here, but this was something else entirely. Who was this “us” he mentioned anyway? You place the book where it came from, focusing the rest of your energy on getting comfortable within the sheets. The trip so far had you pretty tired and you needed your rest. You send Morgan a final message before you shut your eyes  - the distance sound of a photos chime unheard by your ears.

-

You’re awoken by a powerful force slamming against the side of the RV, rattling its walls with you along with it. Startled by the distance, you sit up, looking around for the source. The night still hung high in the sky; the shadow of the moon raining over the window. Upon second glance, the shadow is not that of a celestial being but of a indescribable form pressed against the glass. It drags thin nails along the pale, webbing between its fingers translucent from the light of the moon. You stare in silent terror, mind blank except for trying to process what you just witnessed. It eventually remembers it has a body; you rushing for the door – safety the last thought in your head. 

The monster vanished as quickly as it arrived, leaving you dumbfounded in the doorway. The cold air slaps you in the face, waking you from your trance the creature had over you. You sit at the steps, body trembling from the encounter. Against the voice in your head's demands, you stay put. As terrified as you were, you just had to know more, but you’d have to wait.

-

You climb back in bed, unable to sleep for the rest of the night. By the time morning had crept in, you still hadn’t gotten a response from Morgan. You were starting to get antsy. Leaving without him was the only thing you didn’t want to do, but your patience was run thin. The mystery of the unknown had you completely entangled; a grip that refused to let go.

By the time noon rolled around, you finally gave in and decided to go without him. You carefully unlinked the map from the wall, tracing the thread's lines with a pen. As you gathered things for the journey, oddities began appearing. Some of the journals were written in a different handwriting. Clothes of various sizes tucked in corners. Had your brain not been hopped up on adrenaline, you would have taken the clears signs of warning and ran. Instead, you ignore and hike towards the groove of trees.

The trees block out the sun in an instance, the holes of which it’s ray poke through just barely enough for you to see. Map in hand, you navigate through the thick forest with relative easy. According to the map; marked with bold marker, the beast’s home was directly in the heart of the woods – damn near a straight path from where you were. You come across the tree from in the video, trunk split clean in half. The ration part of your brain makes you dig your heels into the dirt, but the determined part keeps you going.

Time treks on, and so do you – eventually finding the cave where the beast lie. Any warmth in the air was snuffed; dragged in by the abyss of its entrance. Water dampened the earth below like a miniature moat, your foot falling almost ankle deep as you step by. You pull out a flashlight from the bag you had taken; light reflecting on the shine of the cave's walls. Your footsteps echo no matter how quietly you attempt to walk, dread hitting like a hammer with each step.

As you reach the end of the cave, you somehow almost miss the sleeping mass in the corner. Gigantic; wide – blackish-brown scales blending with background of the cave. Yellow scales mixed and hid under the darker ones; leaving it identifiable as a king snake as the journal had foretold. A snake known for its deadly constriction. From the way it was collided around itself, you couldn’t see its face and that was probably for the better. If it woke up now, it had the capabilities to swallow you whole if it didn’t crush you to death first. 

You pull out your phone, snapping a few pictures of the creature while you could. The flashlight helps you get a clearer shot of it, but your phone was too small to catch its full size. You take a couple steps back for a better angle, tripping over an unseen force. It cracks under your heel, causing you to freeze. You had come very little debris in the cave, so you hadn’t bothered to check the further you went. You look down to see what it was, almost dropping your phone and light in the process. 

A human skull rests at your feet; completely stripped of muscle and skin. Its broken jaw lies under your shoe, panic rising up your leg. Looking around the cave, there’s more remains littered about; most by or crushed by the snake’s tail. As you become more aware of your surroundings your other senses kick in; a faint coppery scent masked by the smell of murky water. You needed to get out of here. Fast. You turn your flashlight back on the snake, heart squeezing in your chest as you do so. It was moving.

It had been from the start.

Small, twitching movements that now delved into the unraveling of its body as it stirred. Its upper torso begins to rise, scales declining into human skin the further it rose on its spine. Yellow freckles lined its shoulders, skin ashened. Clawed fingers wipe gore from its mouth as it turns to face you; forked tongue clearing blood from it extended fangs. It’s other arm cradles a broken corpse, bites of flesh torn from its neck and limbs bent an unnatural way. Familiar eyes smile warmly as you, the body collapsing to the floor unharmoniously as it spreads its arms towards you. The irises were thinner now; piercing. 

As if matters could get more terror inducing, it opens its mouth once more. Not to lash out at you, but it greet you with warmth; tongue fluent in human language.

“Y/n! What a surprise to see you, my love~ Had I known you were coming I would’ve cleaned up more.”

It laughs. A deep rumbling cackle that mocks the shocked look on your face. You can’t process it. You had seen the videos and pictures. You felt its presence last night. You had heard his voice before.

“M….morgan?” 

His face melts into a soft expression. “Yes, my beloved? I know this must all be a shock to you, but I assure you I am he.”

He pulls out a phone, the device looking like a child’s tool in his hands.

“The internet is a fantastic place, don’t you agree? I’ve never gotten this much food so quickly in all my years! As wonderful as that is, never did I think that I’d find my mate there as well.”

You shiver as he licks his lips. “Mate?”

“Yes darling.” He’s on you before you even blink, wrapping his tail around you only to keep you still. It’s only when you struggle that his hold tightens; not enough to hurt, but to render you motionless. An act of tough love. His hands snake around your upper body, face pressing against your neck. The slender muscle of his tongue kisses your skin; a cavernous purr leaving his lips as he takes in your scent.

“As you may know, snakes don’t mate for life, but I tend to stick our from the crowd. I’ve longed for another to hold for ages, and you’ve been the only perfect candidate. Such an adorable passion you have for your field of work, and a cute face on top of that. Oh, your scent alone soothes me greatly, my precious mouse.”

Morgan nozzles your cheek, sapping your warmth against his rough skin. Now that he had you, he’d never let go. You manage to wiggle one arm free, attempting to distance yourself much to his disappointment. 

“I’m… flattered, but there’s no way I can stay here. I have a life outside and there’s things I need to-"

He squeezes you to his chest, cutting off your sentence.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Y/n. I’ve done my research, I’ll take such good care of you you’ll never think of another again. I had that van fixed really well for you, did you not like it? Those researchers were so messy, but I made sure they did a good job before they expired.” 

You gulp, not enjoying his choice of words. You’re forced to look up at him; persistence and obsession swirling in his eyes.

“Do you need more? I can get rid of someone in town and you can have a nice home – the whole town if you so wish. Anything for you, so long as you be a good mate and stay by my side.” 

His fingers course up the end of your spine; voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve even studied human pleasure, if intimacy is what you truly crave.”

[spideystevie]

strike-outs

summary: rust colored dirt, old jerseys & game winning strike-outs

word count: 2.3k

a/n: this has been brewing in the depths of my drafts for a hot minute. college!au because i said so. this is my take on baseball!steve who lives and breathes in my head constantly and if you don’t agree then cry about it. just kidding. 

MARCH 1987 - GRAND RAPIDS, MI.

It’s an unusually warm day for Michigan in March. The sky’s a vibrant blue with picturesque cottony clouds scattered across. Sun rays warm your cheeks, a welcoming kiss after last week’s frigid cold. You roll up the sleeves of your university crewnecks to feel the sun on your arms. 

Music flows through the orange padding of your headphones, walkman clipped to the waist of your jeans. You walk past the baseball field, eyes focusing in on the lone figure standing on the pitcher’s mound. It’d be almost embarrassing to admit that you recognize it to be Steve Harrington almost immediately. 

Your feet stall, rooting you in place near the third base dugout as you watch him wind up and throw. The ball hits the ground and ricochets against the fence behind home plate. There’s a ringing of metal as the chain link fence reverberates. The ball rolls back towards home plate, stopping just a foot away from a worn pair of cleats, covered in a rust colored dust. 

Davenport might not have been Steve’s first choice but it was the one that put the most distance between him and his father and that was good enough for him. It was also the only school that took a chance on a small town kid with shit grades so Steve really couldn’t complain. 

Steve bends to pick the ball up and when he turns to walk back to the mound, he notices you. Your eyes meet just as Let’s Hear It For The Boy starts to play. A heat not induced by the sun creeps across your cheeks. It only worsens when a charming grin lifts his cheeks. 

The two of you stare for a beat too long before someone breaks the silence. 

“Hey,” he calls, walking towards the fence that separates the two of you. You step closer, pulling your headphones to rest around your neck. Steve catches a few notes of the song before you pause it. The toes of his cleats bump the bottom of the fence, the metal shaking briefly. 

Steve pulls his glove off, shoving the ball inside and tucking it under his left arm. His fingers curl around the holes in the fence. You take a step forward, one more and you’d hit the fence too. His smile softens around the edges this close up. 

“Hey,” he exhales. His gaze makes you feel warmer than the sun. Your smile is the slightest bit reserved, tucked away just slightly towards your chest. 

“Hi,” you say, crossing your arms across your chest. You wonder if you hold yourself tight enough if it’ll suffocate the butterflies swarming your heart. 

Things with Steve are new and covered in the sweetness of the early days. Everything is fresh and new, like a springtime blossom. The shock that sparks both your nerves when you’re around each other is not. 

You’d been partnered for a project together in sociology in the fall and when the semester ended, you didn’t think you’d see him again aside from passing occasionally on your commutes to class. 

And then you walked into your history course this spring and thought you were hallucinating when you spotted him. You thought you’d collapse when he waved you over to sit in the empty seat next to him. You nearly did when he asked you out a week later. 

It’d been a couple months of dating exclusively, not even a week since he asked you to be his. And yet, he still hadn’t kissed you. It’s not that he hasn’t tried, it’s that every time his lips brush against yours something has to interrupt the moment. Steve’s determined to change that today.

“Thought you didn’t have practice today,” you muse, blinking at Steve through the fence. 

“Coach wants to try me out as pitcher this season. Thought I’d start practicing now,” he shrugs and lets go of the fence, dropping his shoulder to lean against it. The fence bulges towards you. The sunlight catches on a curl of hair sneaking out of his hat. You have to grip your arm to resist reaching out to tuck it behind his ear. 

“Look at you, all star,” you tease. Steve’s cheeks flush a soft shade of pink, hardly discernible in the shade that covers his face from the brim of his hat. You shuffle forward until the toes of your converse bump the fence separating you. “You ever pitched before?”

“Little league,” he laughs. The way it bubbles out of him makes you giggle along, the shoulder opposite to his leaning against the fence. He shakes his head. “Once or twice in high school, too.”

You hum, smile still present but eyes rounding into something more serious. “You’ll do great.”

It’s a reassuring hug around Steve’s heart, one that constricts itself around the muscle until it skips a beat. He softens like butter in the sun and he lifts a hand to clutch the fence near your head.

There’s a tenderness in the way he looks at you, in the way his fingers try their best to wrap around yours when you lift your own hand to clutch the fence. You don’t think about all the logistics behind kissing between a hole in a chain link fence, the only things running through your head being finally and a mantra of SteveSteveSteve. 

Your chin juts out, tilted up for him to reach and Steve wishes he were on the other side of the fence so he could hold your face in the palm of his hand. He gets a hair's width away from your lips when the sprinkler system kicks on making you jolt back. He really wishes he were on the other side of the fence now.  

You try not to look too disappointed as you step back from the fence, though you’re sure you’re not alone in your emotions. Steve looks almost apologetic, his smile sheepish. 

“I’ll catch you later?” he offers, stepping back from the fence himself. You nod, reaching up to pull your headphones back over your ears. 

“You better, Harrington,” you say, clicking play again on your walkman as you turn on your heel and leave back to your dorm. Steve’s eyes follow you until you disappear from view. 

APRIL 1987 - HOME.

The glimpse of warmth you’d felt in March seems to have vanished into a haze. The weather had backpedaled to an early spring cold. If you focused hard enough, you could see wisps of your breath in front of your face when you’d exhale. First home game. Steve’s first game this season as a pitcher. 

The cold metal of the bleachers seeps through the denim of your jeans, your knee bouncing anxiously. It’d been a little over a week since your last almost kiss with Steve. With the flurry of late midterms and the opening of baseball season, you hadn’t seen much of Steve outside of your shared morning history class. 

He made sure he caught you yesterday. He waited outside the door of your Thursday literature class, already dressed for practice and cutting it close to being late, all just to ask you if you wanted to wear his jersey to the first game of the season. It was worth it when he saw your eyes light up, hands clutching the old jersey to your chest. He’d kissed your cheek before running off. 

Sitting in the stands, wearing his last name on your back, you think you can still feel the lingering warmth of his lips against your cheek while you watch him warm up. The slight wind is icy, biting at your nose and leaving it with a burning numbness. You tug the sleeves of your thick long sleeve you’d layered beneath the jersey over your fists. 

It’s easy to forget about the near frigid cold when you watch Steve play. It doesn’t hurt that his uniform pants hug him in the best way as he winds up his pitches and runs the bases. You’re not sure how much prouder you can get of Steve, watching him throw strike after strike. 

Your team sits at a tie with the visiting team as the ninth inning rolls around. With two outs and bases loaded, the nerves start to eat at you and you can’t begin to imagine the pressure on Steve. You clasp your hands in front of you, thumbs pressed to your lips. 

Steve closes his eyes and takes a breath before starting his wind up. He hauls a pitch down the line, exhales when it sinks into the catcher’s mitt and the umpire calls it a strike. He steps forward, glove extended to catch the ball when the catcher tosses it back. 

You squeeze your hands together, whispering encouragement under your breath as though he can hear it from your spot in the stands. He winds up and throws, sinking another strike in the catcher’s mitt. You exhale, watching Steve shake out his shoulders as he walks back towards the mound. 

“One more, baby, one more,” you mutter under your breath, not caring if the people sitting around you can hear you. Steve pauses at the top and looks towards the stands to find you. When your eyes meet you nod, releasing your clasped hands momentarily to give him a thumbs up. He bites back a smile, dipping his head down towards the ground as he gets ready to pitch. 

You feel like everything moves in slow motion the moment he starts his wind up. The ball leaves his fingertips and seems to float down the line. This time, the batter swings and you watch with bated breath as it swings just above the ball and misses it completely. Everything syncs back to normal with the final smack of the ball meeting the glove and the umpire calling the final strike. 

Steve’s shoulders visibly droop in relief, his teammates clapping him on the back and cheering as they head towards the dugout to prep for their final turn at bat. His eyes find you, standing in the stands with a grin on your face before he’s ushered into the dugout. 

It’s Steve who bats first at the bottom of the ninth, blowing a kiss to you before stepping up to bat. He swings at the first pitch, a satisfying crack sounding when his bat makes contact with the ball, sending it out into far left field. He slides safe into second, bouncing up onto his feet with a smile. 

Steve steals third after the first out, daring a glance at you in the stands to send a smile your way and crosses home plate with a grin, securing the first home game win of the season. He can’t even seem to care about the rest of the inning, his main thought being you standing in the crowd wearing his jersey and the proudest smile he’d ever seen. 

You wait outside the dugout when the game ends, a giddiness coursing through you. As the team starts to file off the field, you stretch on your toes to find Steve. He comes out last and his eyes immediately find you. He barely has time to drop his bag to the ground before you’re hurling yourself at him. 

His arms catch you around your waist while yours wrap around his neck. You press your nose against his neck, only minutely aware of how sweaty he is despite the chill in the air. 

“You were amazing out there, all star,” you grin as you settle onto your feet. Your hands rest against the front of his jersey but his hold around your waist stays tight. Steve’s smile is blinding. 

“You think so?” his voice is teasing and you roll your eyes but the smile hasn’t left your face. You push against his chest playfully and a laugh bubbles out of Steve.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, sincerity dripping off each word. Something inside Steve’s chest melts down into a thick honey, warming him from the inside out. He doesn’t even think twice before he’s cupping your face in his hands and slotting his lips against yours. 

Your eyes close with a muffled sigh, hands sliding up to rest against the sides of Steve’s neck. Your mind is racing with thoughts of  finally and SteveSteveSteve. He kisses you soft and tender, like he has all the time in the world. For once there’s no sprinklers, no pesky roommates or annoying teammates. There’s nothing else except the small bubble surrounding the two of you in the frigid cold of early spring. 

Steve pulls back for a breath and his lips part to say something. You don’t let him get the chance. 

“Shh, one more, I’ve been waiting to do this for weeks,” you pull him back into you, lips molding with his like they were carved from the same stone, missing puzzle pieces fitting back into place. His hands fall to your waist and pull you closer against him. You kiss him with a fervor until it’s more smile than kiss and you have to pull back. 

Your cheeks hurt from smiling. A slight gust of wind pushes past but you can’t feel the cold, not after the searing heat that’s covered your skin from the minute his lips touched yours. Steve kisses you once more, sweet and chaste before squeezing your waist and stepping away to grab his bag. 

“Celebratory dinner?” he offers, slinging his baseball bag over his shoulder and wrapping his free arm around your shoulders. He pulls his hat off his head and runs a hand through his hair as you walk. 

“Maybe after you shower, you’re all gross,” you scrunch your nose at him, mirth twinkles in your eyes. Steve shakes his head and shoves his hat onto yours. You grin, leaning into him as he squeezes your shoulders.

He wonders if it’s too early to be thinking he might be in love with you. 

[beautifulpersonpeach]

Hi BPP, i know that i probably shouldn’t be asking you this but right now you are the only blogger i know who might be able to explain this to me in a way that make sense.

So i’m kinda new to the fandom (January 2023) but i’ve been able to watch loads of clips and pretty much caught up to speed with alot of content. I’m not a shipper but i were to ship anyone, I’d probably ship Vmin because they are my favourite members and Jungkook comes right after the two of them on my scale of preference, but i have always thought Jk has an extremely special and sorta complicated relationship with Jimin. It really confuses me sometimes but i know that those two have a really beautiful bond. For Taekook, they have always been very easy for me to understand but while going through some blogs here on tumblr, i noticed that so many taekookers believe that taekook’s ITS talk was scripted. They think so because, apparently neither Jk or tae had ever looked or seemed distant or awkward around each other. They bring up examples of them napping together on ITS, still hanging around each other and even engaging in skinship. According to them, taekook wouldn’t do all these if they really were awkward and distant.

I personally think they are interpreting the whole thing wrong but a part of me wonders if they might have a point. I don’t see any reason why the company would make taekook act out something like that, which pretty much shows that they went through an awkward phase plus taekook seemed very genuine to me while they had the talk and ut didn’t seem like it was an act. So my question to you is, what are your thoughts about the ITS talk? Why do u think some pple continue to insist that it was scripted? I’m just trying to understand the whole thing cuz the different opinions i’ve read about it really confuses me. I don’t think there is anything going on with taekook ofcourse (it just wouldn’t make sense) but i think they are one of the closest pairs, and people tkkrs misinterpret their partners in crime dynamics for romance love. Pls i’d really appreciate it if u can let me know ur thoughts on this.

***

I could go into a rambling detailed breakdown of why Taekookers believe what they believe (their only option in this scenario is to believe the convo is scripted, their theories leave them no choice), or get into how taekook did drift apart and by how much, or talk about the inevitable angle of fan service, etc, but the truth is I really don't want to get into it.

I don't care enough about taekook or taekookers to dive into it, so I'll give you the abridged version.

The obvious counterpoint to their narrative is to ask why their villainization of Jimin skyrocketed in the years during which taekook supposedly 'didn't' drift apart. The times they hated him for jikook's Japan trip, the time they hated him for the fixed orbit situation jikook had in 2018, jikook in 2019 were a problem too. A huge problem for taekookers given they couldn't stop talking about how 'Jimin was working with the company to take Jungkook away from Taehyung while lying to Taehyung that it is to protect his relationship, so jikook + BTS + HYBE were fucking Taehyung over in his personal life and his career'. It riles me up just typing it out so imagine how insane these people are to believe this as a core creed 24/7. Anyhoo, they knew something was 'wrong' in a sense with taekook and that Jimin was involved somehow, and this is plainly evident in their well documented behaviour from 2016 - 2020. In my opinion. Do I think they're right and Jimin is the reason taekook were distant? No. I think whatever distance happened is due to taekook's own actions. But I also think it betrays an understanding in taekookers, that taekook had drifted apart.

What do I think about the ITS talk? I'm glad they had it. I like taekook and had missed seeing their dynamic. For anyone still not sure if they indeed drifted apart, if you can sense a general shift of more taekook content after that conversation than immediately before it, what does that tell you? The sort of rapport between them now is reminiscent of their closeness prior to 2016-ish, and in some ways better so that's good to see.

[jones-friend]

Lol. Lmao.

I started watching One Tree Hill bc what I saw through my now estranged sister was absurd, and bc of the John Oliver clip where a dog high on marijuana eats Dan Scott’s replacement heart. I first watched all the finales back to back to back then decided to give the whole thing a run through.

In one tree hill a number of souls are shackled within the purgatory of Tree Hill, a place that causes characters to stagnate professionally and emotionally while giving illusions of growth through platitudes and unearned emotional moments. You cannot escape Tree Hill. Death isn’t even enough to escape Tree Hill. You can fall onto the pitcher plant but you cannot climb out. You are one with Tree Hill.

This is a show with no less than three serial killer arcs, a show so hungry for drama it consumes every teen drama concept before the second season leaving it nowhere to go, a show with two near fatal bridge accidents, with real ghosts that help and haunt, where teenagers and small children talk like aged adults, where we get to see the progression of culture and technology from early 00’s flip phones to early 10’s smartphones and social media, and teenagers promising rebellion instead become the forces they were so much so against in early seasons as cycles are broken yet perpetuate. This is a show where a teenager can afford an apartment by working part time at a mall food court. Its also got an incredible reinforcement of heteronormative ideals.

In this show, Ball is Life.

The biggest issue with One Tree Hill working is there needs to be a source of drama caused by the main cast. The way this works out in writing is characters often backtrack their growth to cause more drama again.

I do have a few positives. After S4 there is a time skip of 4 years. I think this actually gives good weight to S4’s finale, letting it keep that weight. And they give new struggles to the cast that don’t trivialize their previous successes while giving us something to root for. The friendship between Nathan and Lucas has genuinely compelling moments as they learn about themselves and each other.

Dan Scott is also a source of great enjoyment for me. He makes the show work. You have plotlines like “Lucas and Brooke are having relationship issues”, “Nathan wants to play basketball more”, and “Dan uses a school shooting to kill his brother Keith bc Dan was convinced he was drugged and left to burn in his dealership when really it was-“ and its just absurd every time.

I will do a character rundown of the main 5 peeps:

Lucas is the original protagonist of the show. He is half brother to Nathan and the “underdog” of S1 where he plays the river court compared to Nathan playing varsity bball. He’s described to be the more emotionally driven one between Nathan and Lucas but as the show goes on he just becomes the dumber of the two. When it comes to relationships he can’t make up his mind and goes with whatever the girl he’s with wants. This leads him to cheat multiple times and as his gf gets mad at him he squints off into the middle distance like there’s something going on but we all know there’s nothing going on behind those eyes. After the timeskip he continues dwelling on the past writing a book that is both super successful and terrible at the same time and the show just kinda makes him a washed up writer before giving him and Peyton a fairy tale ending and saying goodbye S6.

Nathan Scott is the “rich boy” bball player who starts the show as an asshole until the show decides he isnt. Nathan is the only good person in One Tree Hill. He’s the only one who’s level and tries to make reasonable choices without flying off the handle. He does have a few hilarious moments with how seriously high school bball is taken where a mafia is pressuring him to shave points off games bc they bet a lot of money on him. The biggest letdown with Nathan is he continues to beat himself up over the unrestrained anxieties of his wife-

Haley is the worst character in the show. She accuses Nathan of cheating at least 5 times in the show despite nothing indicating that, the most egregious of which is when she snoops and finds Nathan’s valentines day gifts for her and accuses them of being for someone else. This is second to a rando accusing Nathan of sleeping with her after he becomes famous and after a few days she decides to believe the rando over her husband of 4-5 years. She just lets her anxieties get the better of her and it makes her mean to Nathan for 75% of their screentime.

Brooke! One of my least favorite characters of s1-4 and one of the stronger of 5-9. Brooke starts as a party girl who just kinda starts shit for the sake of starting shit. When the show needs drama they turn to her for it most times and it makes her later high school bits feel less genuine. After the timeskip shes in charge of a multi million dollar clothing company (if you’re noticing a trend the timeskip changes characters from relatable high schoolers to wildly successful in their field). She matures out of that shit starter mentality and slides into Lucas’s spot as protagonist (a loose term with so many characters). Her and Nathan undergo the most growth. I also did appreciate and resonate with her graduation arc in that she didn’t really feel the same drive as her classmates.

Shit with Peyton is wild. She has 3 sudden family member reveals: one is Laura Palmer who dies almost immediately, one is serial killer arc #1, and the last is one of the show’s rare black characters who’s a marine thats very quickly sent out to war (Bush era politics). She is a musician, artist, she dates the lead singer from Fallout Boy somewhat seriously (that’s canon, its not the lead singer as a character, in universe he’s also the lead singer of Fallout Boy. He comes by in a limo and goes on tours). Her and Lucas are supposed to be the will they won’t they but with three female leads and two male leads Brooke kind of gets left behind S4 in a smaller capacity. In the timeskip she goes on to become a producer instead of a musician which always felt odd, then after her and Lucas depart they beach ball her label around without knowing what to do with it. Also casting has an issue where they hire sameface women and Peyton was the only one I could reliably identify.

If youre interested in watching One Tree Hill it depends how much time youre willing to sink into it. S1-8 are 22ish episodes long each and each episode is 42mins. I don’t think every episode is worthwhile unless you come at it with the analytical mind of having watched good prestige TV so you can pick apart characters more than the show wants you to.

For those just looking for a casual good time watch S1E1 then watch all the finales back to back to back. Its wild, so much happens you just have to adjust for. Its actually great.

If you REALLY wanna get your hands dirty the entire show is a nostalgia trip into the 00’s complete with famous bands of the time, tech, and norms. This is good and bad as you’ll watch them try to handle a bisexual character in the early 00’s. Also watching Dan Scott dunk on literal high schoolers never gets old.

I DON’T WANNA BE ANYTHING OTHER THAN WHAT I’VE BEEN TRYIN BE LATELY

[e-the-village-cryptid]

Still thinking the way Bix’s character arc was cut short in a way that’s feeling less and less like a deliberate writing choice and more of a fall into misogynistic tropes and a willingness on the writers’ part to sacrifice her story to further Cassian’s. She was introduced to us as this strong mechanic figure who owns her own saleyard and has rebel connections, willing to take on a good bit of risk bribing officers and secretly contacting Luthen in order to sell the Rebellion stolen Imperial equipment. As the story develops, we learn she’s been selling parts to Luthen for two years, and the fact that Luthen was willing to meet with her after only one meeting with Paak probably indicates she already had some black market experience. We also learn more about who she is as a person— she cares deeply for her people and her community and would do anything to protect them. She is incapable of just standing by and doing nothing if she sees the slightest chance of attaining whatever her original goal was— she makes decisions that she knows are risky, to the point of almost being stupidly so, because she cannot make herself stand by and give up. And yet through all this, she’s still managing to hold together a fairly normal life, going about her days without the Rebellion taking over her life the way it’s taken over, say, Cinta’s or Vel’s or Luthen’s. Her connection to Cassian appears to be childhood friends and former young lovers before time and diverging paths tore them apart, but they still have a deep bond of trust and care despite all the distance between them. She’s his closest confidante; he trusts her with things he doesn’t even tell Maarva.

This all sets her up for a fascinating arc. And it was partially fulfilled! It makes sense that we would see the “part-time rebel” character gradually become unable to simply go about her normal life as the Empire tightens its hold— she is forced to make difficult choices, to either commit to the Rebellion more fully or take a step back, to take bigger risks. It makes sense that we would see her experience loss and grief and suffer in a more personal way as the Rebellion goes public and being casually involved is no longer possible. And it makes sense that her and Cassian’s history would become something that both creates tension between them and can draw them together. And we see all of this in the first 7-8 episodes.

But then we don’t see the rest. We don’t get to see a moment where she finally realizes it’s time to stop running and her only option is to fight back. We don’t get to watch her make a conscious decision to step into or back from the Rebellion. Even the plotline of getting captured by the Imperials could have been an amazing character-building arc if it had been allowed to be. How did she handle the interrogation? Did she resist? Did she lie? Did she try to carefully mislead them? Even if she ultimately cracked, what was her path to that point? We don’t even know, they never showed us. All we get is one off-handed line from Dedra, “the interrogation was thorough; we’ve no reason to believe anything was withheld,” but that’s a blatant lie as their later suspicion that Anto Kreegyr might be Axis shows that Bix never even gave them a basic description of Luthen’s appearance, one of the main things Dedra was after. Dedra has a strong motivation in that moment to lead the other Imperials to believe that Bix is cooperating fully, in order to paint herself as competent and give her a reason to continue holding Bix, but it’s clearly at least partially untrue. So what else did Bix withhold, how did she continue resisting them? We have no idea, we never see it.

And that’s it. They just leave her there. For the rest of the episode, all we see is a random 5-10 second cut to Bix looking defeated and miserable, and then we’re on to something else. She isn’t even in the next episode, and for the next episode and a half after that we mostly get little clips of her just shivering and suffering and looking completely helpless. And it honestly started to make me a bit angry. They had so little to say about this character that they have to show us basically the same sort of clip of her doing nothing over and over again just to remind us she still exists?? Her arc and her contribution to the overall story are that unimportant?? Bix, who previously made a run for it when completely surrounded by multiple armed solders twice, is now completely resigned to just waiting for Cassian to save her and is making no attempt whatsoever to escape or resist at all? Bix, who has previously seemed practically incapable of just letting go and giving up on anything she fought for, is now completely unable to find any hope or fighting spirit?

I understand the Watsonian, in-story explanation for why the torture she’s endured would have completely broken down her resilience, but the writers chose to do that, they chose to convert her into this helpless, damsel-in-distress character for the entire last third of the season. It just feels like this strong, complex, interesting character got reduced to just a tool to further Cassian’s story, a princess in a tower for him to come and rescue. And of course, as he dumps her on a ship and leaves again, all she expresses is undying faith in Cassian. What happened to the emotional depth of this character? What happened to her story? The writers have a massive debt to pay off to her character in season 2, and I really hope they do her justice. If in season 2, Bix gets a full, satisfying character arc that brings back that emotional complexity and handles her response to everything that happened to her with the depth her character deserves, and a recovery arc that doesn’t rely on a relationship with Cassian somehow ‘‘‘fixing’’’ her, I will eat my words, and I really really hope I do. But right now I feel disappointed and frustrated with the lack of payoff for her character.

[tikiloowho]

Familair laughter,

This is going to be a somber post. Usually I keep this sort of thing to myself but I don't really see any reason why I can't talk about what I want on my own blog.

My father is... sick.

He has dementia. It has progressed over these past few years and I haven't even been around to see the decline. I live miles away from my mom and dad and work these days to keep my meager apartment and my cat in comfort.

To keep myself preoccupied I play games. Its always been my choice method of escaping reality. These past years I have taken up playing final fantasy 14, I've met wonderful friends through it and have many memories from the story and music.

The game has different audio that plays depending on how congested an area is and when there are many people around the crowd ambiance plays. Within the mix of standard hustle and bustle there are a number of laughs that play.

Amongst these there is one that is a bit in the distance that sounds just like my dad. Or rather, how he used to laugh. I can't remember the last time I heard him give a hearty laugh like he used to. His laugh reminds me of summer grilling and fresh-cut grass. Music in the air and a tight hug that could leave you breathless.

I stand sometimes in game, doing nothing but waiting to hear that distant laugh. Of course I realize I can't possibly play all day so I've taken it upon myself to find that audio and save it. Maybe I can share his far away laugh with others too.

[violetmuses]

Play No Games - Rick Flag (18+ MINORS DNI)

TITLE: “Play No Games” (18+ MINORS DNI) || Rick Flag 

FANDOM: “Suicide Squad” Film Universe

CHARACTER: Rick Flag

PAIRING: Rick Flag + Female Reader 

MAIN STORYLINE: That one night actually meant so much more…. 

Author’s Note: Hey! This project has been written as a direct sequel to “Met Him Last Night.” As a warning, the One Shot includes SMUT content. (18+ Minors DNI) Adult themes, strong language, etc.

Met Him Last Night - 18+ MINORS DNI 🖤

Main Masterlist 💜

J Krew: @nerdysuperchick @a-reader-and-a-writer @babblydrabbly @lacontroller1991 @shadowkittybucky @loverhymeswith @justin-hammers @weallhaveadestiny @xoxabs88xox @katjnordstrom96   @mayhem24-7forever @fangirl0917 @skvatnavle @sociiallydiisoriiented @heresathreebee @alieninoklahoma @bewitchedignition @maddu-oliveira @reveluving @sugapapichulo @hodgepodge-of-rog @ijustthinkrickflagisprettyneat @ed-baldwin

__________

2021

Unfortunately, back in 2016, both of you swore that whatever “action” taking place in his office that night didn’t mean much. It was only a physical moment between strangers. Even on the following Saturday night, having dinner was just courteous. 

Once Mondays rolled back around, you resorted to being strangers for the sake of professionalism. You nod. He nodded back. You wave. He waved back. Nothing happened that night. Absolutely nothing. Both of you kept that secret since. 

Now, five years later, Colonel Rick Flag has resigned from ARGUS. One life-threatening Task Force mission that occurred in Corto Maltese had woken this man up. Waller acted ruthless for years, but Starro determined the final straw.

Rick turns off the radio mid-song and parks that truck. He’s only been sitting in the official ARGUS headquarters lot for just a few minutes and all around him, other vehicles crowd space. 

Before long, it doesn’t take much for Rick to be thankful that he’s hiding. For all he knows at this point, Amanda Waller herself could spot him and end up reinstating work. 

Ahead, that forsaken building looms in the distance, almost mocking Flag in silence. Even his access lanyard still rests in the glove compartment and credentials feel like a relic that he can't get rid of. There’s no other choice. Six years is a long-ass time. 

Before Rick can change his mind and leave this parking lot instead, his mind flashes to you out of nowhere. 

He scrambles out of that truck, grabs the old lanyard, running into this building quickly. 

His thoughts soon hope that everyone is crowded and busy inside to keep him hidden. Flag needs to stay in the shadows of this place until further notice. 

Last go round, he remembers that you don’t have your own office, sharing desks with other staffers. Still, while lurking between people in the building, Rick doesn’t see you working near those cubicles right away. Maybe you’re out for coffee or sick. 

Sighing, just before he glances towards his watch and plans to leave out for good, he looks up to finally see you walking down the hallway. 

If it wasn’t for his own quick thinking, you would definitely ignore Rick’s presence altogether. 

“Hey,” His Southern drawl almost whispers towards you and your own steps pause mid-stride as soon as you notice him. 

“Hi, what’s going on? I thought you quit.” You briefly smile toward Flag with respect and soon corner yourself to speak with him. Neither one of you want to disrupt other people, especially coworkers. 

“I did.” Flag clips the reply and crosses both arms while facing you. He’s sporting another windbreaker jacket now, but blondish hair sweeps to the side, rather than showing that military buzz cut. 

“Then what are you doing here, Flag? Ready for round 2?” You tease him, somehow keeping your words close to him. Meanwhile though, Rick slyly wants to kiss your fingers as soon as you form the number “two” with your hand. 

“Don’t do that.” Flag hitches that warning, intoxicated by the memory of thrusting inside of you. 

“All right.” You scoff, brushing off this moment, planning to walk away and swinging those gorgeous hips. God, your hips. 

Of course, Flag is still respectful enough not to slap your ass in public, too, but the temptation lingers. 

“Bye,” Rick starts waving goodbye towards you, but you turn around and catch his palm, holding hands. 

“Will you come back home with me?” You can’t lie to yourself anymore. At least Rick knows what’s really happening if he turns you down. 

“Yes.” He answers and ghosts his lips back towards you, fighting the strongest urge to kiss you in this hallway. 

_______

It’s not enough to hook up again in another office this time around. By nightfall, both of you agreed to meet at your home. 

As soon as Flag reaches this main bedroom, he shuts the door and grabs your face once more, whimpering into the kiss almost immediately. For the second time, you backpedal with him into the rear wall and keep going, desperate just like before. 

You squirm again, trying find another round of friction before Rick’s belt buckle loosens up. 

“Look at me.” His words are different now. He wants you to face him this time as he unfastens the belt. You whimper again, remembering the past already. You’ve thought about him every day since, no matter how unprofessional that night was. 

He cages you, breathing against your neck over and over again. You nearly melt after taking off your panties and realize just how slick you both are for each other. 

“Please.” You beg Flag as he kisses your neck, tasting the sweat that has already loomed on your own skin. As you look down  for a moment, his erection stand up, waiting for you. 

Flag is still respectful and hurries to slip on a condom before he could traction with you now. Even then, this man just might explode if he must wait any longer to be inside you again. 

Lining himself up with your entrance, he reaches out and holds the back of your head, prompting immediate eye contact. His hazels bore into your soul and you nearly want to sob. He’s so damn pretty. 

You cry out loud as soon as he fills your core, shutting both eyes in the name of pleasure. 

“Shit.” Rick furrows his brow, overwhelmed by this very concept of you returning to him. You still feel so deliciously tight, no matter the position. 

And yet, the way you look at him up close only makes tonight worse. Your eyes are lidded, taking his dangerous thrusts like a good girl once again. 

“Baby…” You forget his name, calling him anything out of desperation. Rick wants to cry, knowing that he never should’ve brushed you off five years ago. 

“Look at me, Darlin’. Fuck!” Holding the back of your head once more, Rick can’t hold eye contact with you much longer either, already moving closer and closer towards this proverbial edge. 

You spill first while that condom protects each of you. Rick then only ends up stuttering the pace of his own hips for this second time, giving you warmth. 

“Hi,” You greet him, cooling down. 

Once you decide to look at him, Rick smiles coyly and still runs capable his fingers through your hair. 

“Hey,” Flag repeats to you, just like down in the hallway back at ARGUS. Silence falls in your bedroom otherwise, but neither one of you feel uncomfortable. 

___________

That next day, sunlight beams from every window as Rick wakes up in bed with you. His famous kisses now move along your bare neck, open-mouthed and ready because he wants to make you smile again. 

“Mornin’, His finger gently pinch your chin and he leans inward to kiss your lips, forever yours without words. 

You smile against his lips once he stops and looks into those hazel eyes again, feeling grateful. 

No more games. It’s just you and him until the end of time. 

[vynegar]

luke personal story card 2, part six

maybe in the future...

same disclaimer and notes from part one.

youtube link to Sherry’s Gaming Notes video of the card story

links to other parts: one two three four five

more tot translations here

do not repost

[PART SIX]

[32:30] Vacation House Bathroom

MC: ... It's still so hot...

After taking my ring off and putting it away, I turned the water faucet on higher, continuously spraying the sink and mirror with tiny water droplets. I appeared a bit flushed in the dripping mirror, panting slightly. After a short break with Luke in the vacation house, we had gone out again to explore and only got back late at night.

Luke: MC? Are you showering yet?

MC: Luke! I was washing my face just now...

Luke: Okay! Call me when you're done, I want to take a shower. It's still so hot, even at night...

Choice: Tell Luke to come in OR Wash your face*

Outside the half-open bathroom door, Luke walked with pattering footsteps; he seemed to be adjusting the air conditioning.

MC: (He seems really hot, I should call him in for a shower soon.) Luke? Why don't you come in?

After the bathroom door was fully opened, Luke remained standing at the entrance, peering in to "observe" me.

Luke: But did you say you wanted to wash up first? Do you mean...

His gaze slid past me to land on the bathroom vanity. Next to the sink were different colored hair clips, as well as several types of haircutting scissors.

Luke: Oh... You actually wanted me to help you trim your hair?

MC: Yeah. It's way too hot... but it'll better after trimming it a bit, that shouldn't be too much trouble.

Luke: I know, I know. You think I don't know what you're asking?

He seemed to be in a pretty good mood. He hummed as he grabbed the apron, then efficiently fastened the hair clip on my head.

Luke: Preparation complete! This time I'll redeem myself –

MC: Oh right Luke, do I have to close my eyes this time?

Luke. No need. I'm just trimming the ends of your hair. And even if I told you to close your eyes, I'm guessing you would still secretly look at me. Since you're going to look either way, you might as well be open about it...

After I sat down on the chair, I felt the warmth of Luke's body approach from behind me.

Luke: Can I start with cutting this much?

MC: Yeah, everything's up to you.

The familiar rustling sounds began. Aside from that, there were also muffled explosions from outside the house. I wanted to look out the window to see what was happening, but my view was occupied by Luke's body. There were only the continuous, unending sounds of fireworks as the night deepened and surrounded us.

Luke: Can you hear it? They're lighting fireworks outside, just like back then. But this time I don't want you to look at those. Focus on me... don't look away.

Strands of hair gradually fell upon Luke's pitch-black apron. He carefully examined a small lock of hair, unconsciously leaning closer to me. There was only a small bit of distance between us, and honestly, I could have kissed him right there.

Luke: Should I keep cutting? Or stop right here?

But he seemed to be immersed in his work as a barber. I could only suppress my desire to kiss him, and pretend to be focused on giving him advice.

MC: ...You can cut a bit more.

Summer night. The sound of cicadas. The explosion of fireworks in the sky. Him and me alone together. After crossing over time, the feelings had finally become clear and surged upward uninterrupted, about to bubble and spill out into the rest of the room.

Luke: Oh right, MC... Did you know you have a strand of really curly hair?

MC: Huh, really? Where?

I momentarily forgot about all of nonsense I was thinking of and hurriedly touched my hair.

Luke: ...Just kidding. I was just thinking... one day, you really might end up changing your hairstyle on an impulse.

Luke gently twirled a small lock of hair that curled upwards, talking to himself.

Luke: Hm... Will you make your hair curly? Or straighten it... or cut it short? When it comes time, I want to be by your side too, seeing how your hair changes.

MC: Well of course. If you weren't there, I'd feel troubled.

Luke: ...

MC: Luke?

Luke: Don't get mad at me for saying this.

The scissors stopped. Among the unceasing sound of fireworks, Luke moved his lips against my ear. For a moment, I thought he was going to bend down and lovingly rest his chin on my shoulder.

Luke: Maybe in the distant future, there'll be... white strands in this hair.

But at the last moment, he didn't move, only speaking at my ear.

Luke: I want to see you like that too. I really, really want to...

MC: ...okay. Luke, if that time really does come, I'll still want you to cut my hair for me.

There was no more need for unnecessary words. I quietly nodded in response to him. The silent didn't last long when Luke laughed with a quiet huff.

Luke: ...Why does this feel so serious? It's like we're discussing a case.

MC: Then let's just consider this a case. Luke, have you forgotten something very important?

Luke: What?

MC: Compensation for the case, obviously. You accept prepayment, right?

Before Luke could react, I firmly turned around and looped my arms around his neck. No longer suppressed, my kisses surpassed countless words. Luke cooperated with me and opened his lips, his damp exhales suddenly flowing out. In an unnoticed corner, the scissors fell with a clatter back onto the sink. Two figures seemed to flash across the gleaming metal surface.

[END]

*I had trouble finding a video where someone picked the second option. Please let me know if you find a source, I’d like to edit it in later!

[couldyouspeakmyname]

Could you please do some headcannons for yandere shishigumi kidnapping a kind and cute lioness in her own apartment? (You can choose if this is gonna be individual for each lion or if the entire team is going at the same time).

You know I love me some yandere content

Yandere is a portmanteau of two Japanese words. The first is yanderu, which means “to be sick,” and the second is deredere, used here for “lovestruck.” A yandere is often sweet, caring, and innocent before switching into someone who displays an extreme, often violent or psychotic, level of devotion to a love interest.

Bonus Chief Lion

-Maeve

Ibuki

Ibuki isn't the kind to kidnap without provocation. Either you were moving to far for him to see daily, or you were in some sort of danger.

Ibuki has no problem kidnapping you. He plans in advance and has the inner Shishigumi help him.

He feels terrible about it honestly he does, but he cant being himself to let you leave him

He uses chloroform to keep you asleep, as he kidnaps you in the middle of the night.

It was one of the smoothest operations the Shishigumi have managed to pull off.

When you wake up your in a comfortable room, and it's already decorated to your tastes. The only thing is the door locks from the outside and there's bars on the window.

Ibuki walks through the door, looking sheepish.

"I'm so sorry for this, but I couldn't let you leave"

Free

It doesn't take much for Free to jump to kidnapping you.

It could be anything as minor as him having a suspicion you could be moving even a few blocks away. Any distance further from him is a distance he can't allow.

It could also be something as small as someone seeming a bit to friendly, and you looked like you didn't dislike it.

For Free, sometimes you just have to take what's yours. Well, you're his, so he has to get you

He does it on a whim, and breaks in during the middle of the night. He does it with limited help of the other Shishigumi. They mostly just are there for back up

Free wakes you up, throwing a bag at you. "Back what you need, we're going home"

If you try to protest, he'll use force. He wont hurt you, but he's stronger than he looks. Sure, you're a lion too, but few can match Free in a fight. He'll hold you at gunpoint if he has to.

Once you're in the Shishigumi's mansion, you're not leaving until Free know you'll come back

Dolph

Dolph doesn't jump the gun. He's willing to allow you to live your life as easily as possible.

He'd much rather have an organic meeting and grow to be your lover naturally

Dolph wouldn't kidnap you unless he perceived danger to you, or your 'relationship'

Dolph asks you to come with him, and only if you refuse does he actually kidnap you.

It's not scary, so to speak. While you're sleeping, he drugs and kidnaps you. You don't even realize that you've been kidnapped until you've woken up

"Welcome to the Shishigumi."

Agata

Agata hates the idea of uprooting your life, just for him.

He really wants it to be your own choice, but when he's between a rock and a hard place he'll act

Like the rest, you'd have to be moving further than him than he's comfortable with. As a young lion active on social media, you'd have to move more than a days trip away. Perhaps he even saw another male on your social media and that could have also triggered him

Agata doesn't plan as well as the others, and simply unlocks your door (he had a copy of your key) and asks you to pack up and come with him. If you refuse? He's going to apologize the whole time but he will drag you kicking and screaming.

The cops wont be there in time, and Dolph is his back up. You really didn't have a chance.

"I'm so, so, sorry...but I couldn't let you leave"

Chances is they paid off your neighbors, so no one calls the authorities to look for you.

We all know the major would turn a blind eye anyway.

Dope

Dope is the kind to move you before he actually moves you. Your bank account? He has the info and has transferred funds.

Your job? He put together voice clips and had "you" quit.

So by the time you find yourself passing out at home after drinking juice/milk/coffee (beverage of choice) he's already made it look like you were planning on leaving for weeks

No one really says anything when you vanish

You just wake up in the mansion.

"Your move wasn't needed. I can support you just fine"

Miguel

Has some serious reservations about kidnapping you. Someone so sweet doesn't deserve something so traumatic to happen to them

Like many of the Shishigumi, he'd have to be seriously pushed in order to kidnap you.

The likelihood is that he perceived a threat to yourself, or to your future romantic relationship

He snatches you in your apartment in the middle of the night. He really didn't want to have to do this, but it's for your own good.

He's the sort that will grab you himself, but he does apologize more than once

"I'm sorry, but I promise that this will be a good thing."

Jinma

Jinma is another one who doesn't jump to kidnap you.

He does it when he's finally pushed after finding out through the grape vine that you may be moving, and he can't have that

It's already hard to to he can't just talk to you, and the idea of you moving both terrifies and enrages him

Jinma has the more burly members of the Shishigumi do the kidnapping, while he waits for you in the car.

He tries to sooth your anxiety, don't worry, he's not going to hurt you

"Don't worry, I have everything under control"

Hino

Hino, surprisingly, jumps to kidnapping pretty quickly.

He introduces himself early on, so you'll know who he is, just not why he broke into your place in the middle of the night or why he's kidnapping you.

Hino has no qualms about it either, you're really better off with him. He'll treat you like a queen. It's only fitting, given he's the king of beasts.

The reason he kidnapped you is probably trivial, it could have been something like a store owner getting to friendly.

Hino doesn't share very well.

"Don't worry Darling, you'll be well taken care of"

Sabu

Sabu is a yandere that knows he's a yandere and that his feelings aren't normal. Unlike the rest of the Shishigumi, the only thing that would push him to kidnap you is if your life was actually in danger

Perhaps his enemies found you, and now there's no other choice.

He plans ahead, and has movers scheduled to come collect your things the morning after he kidnaps you.

He probably finds some way to drug you, to make you easier to manage and snatch.

When you come to, most of your favorite things are in your room. A candle is burning with your favorite scent. Sabu is waiting for you to awaken.

"Your life was in danger, I couldn't allow you to die"

Chief Lion

Doesn't kidnap you himself, but he is in the car waiting once they drag you in.

Chief has no qualms about kidnapping, and after you kept his interest for more than a few months, he just has the Shishigumi do it for him.

They wait until it's dark, and grab you while no one else is around or awake.

No one will dare come after you, not once word gets out who took you.

You're hands are ties and you can't struggle very much.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance officially. We're taking you to your new home"

Most likely to jump to kidnapping

Free > Hino > Chief Lion > Agata > Ibuki > Dope > Jinma > Miguel > Dolph > Sabu

[dearweirdme]

abel has the messiest way of doing things first he tried to draw attention to his and jns collab by starting beef w our fandom and now this is obviously an attempt to gain clout and attention because his show flopped hard. ironic her fans were tripping over excuses to hype up that song and now they’re naturally switching on him. i don’t think it’s true either but i do remember there being a blind item at the time of cannes that jn was a yacht girl so it’s not as if this rumor came from nowhere it’s been about since may. i’m going to be honest nothing good has come from her being associated with that show, on the one hand i’m like okay she must be having a hard time rn, and on the other i just saw a clip from dua lipa’s podcast where jn was singing praises to sam levinson and talking about how touched she was at him talking her through the role he wanted for her, because that tells me she willingly made a very poor choice as a woman. in the same podcast she talks about breaking boundaries, i do have to wonder what goes on in her head. also she is very good friends w simi and her sister, they were all together at her ck party the entire time. i had no idea abel and simi were even a thing if they are it does not read as them exclusive

Hi anon!

Abel is not without controversy in general. I totally think he has a purpose with this, I mean.. it’s obvious. I did see the Yacht-thing.. and it’s typical that this now came out. Bit maybe Abel also saw the Yacht-thing.. and got an idea out of it.

I think Jennie wants to go big, and that’s why she made certain decisions. Had the Idol actually been a good series.. it would’ve worked for her. Maybe she actually thought it would be a succes?

I’ve no idea yet whether she’s in on this or not. I almost hope she is, because that would mean she knew what she signed up for. If not this is really shitty for her. If she did know, maybe Tae knew as well and that’s why he seemed to distance himself from it.