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acourtofwhatthefuck · 8 months

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Practice On Me — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Young Azriel (twenty years old) in Windhaven. A deliciously cliche trope that’s always fun to write. You and Az are close friends, and that’s why he trusts you with a certain insecurity. And also why you come up with an interesting solution. Doesn’t mean it’s necessarily a good idea, though…

Word count: 4.5k.

Warnings: None.

These nights are cold and unforgiving.

The snow began hammering down in silent droves a couple of hours before. A thick layer of it now blankets the ground and paints the Windhaven camp a brutal white that makes you glance at the boots on your feet. Basic, brown boots that will be soaked and frozen by the time you reach your shoddy hovel of a house. You should have left at the sight of the first snowflake that kissed the ground.

But Rhysand’s mother’s cottage is warm and cosy in a way that yours isn’t. It lulls you to sit back rather than sit up, the fire crackling away in the corner and the smell of spilled ale tinging the air, Cassian’s clumsiness, of course. Your friends eyeball each other around the table, and this game of cards has been going on for too long, and you think your eyes might be growing heavy. If you don’t muster the energy to walk home now, you’ll regret it.

“I’m out.” You announce wisely, eyeing the pitiful deal of cards in your hands. You pile them atop of the table, stretching your arms above your head. The game continues around you.

Playing cards with Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel is always a little amusing — seeing them transform from boisterous, drunken fools to serious, suspicious competitors. They study each other across the top of their cards as if there are any real takings to be had by the winner — but Rhysand’s mother would have your heads if you actually gambled under her roof, so a pile of plastic buttons it is.

Certainly not an incentive to stay any longer.

You stand from your chair, earning curious looks from your three friends. To them, the night is young, at least while Rhys’s mother isn’t here to berate you about the late hour — two, three o’clock, perhaps — but to you, with an unpleasant journey across the camp still to be completed, the night is very much old and very much over.

“I’m heading home before the weather gets any worse.” You announce, plucking your jacket from the back of your chair. “Enjoy the rest of your game, ladies.”

Cassian snorts and Rhys studies his cards once more, ever the serious player, but it’s Azriel — Azriel, who places his dealt hand face-down on the table and also stands from his seat.

“I’ll walk with you.” He announces. Your other two friends don’t so much as bat an eyelash at the offer, because it’s a regular one, one you’ve heard a thousand times and one you know not to politely protest.

Azriel is your closest friend in this gods-forsaken place. And he will genuinely plunge a dagger into his heart before allowing you to brave your walk home alone.

So, you wait by the door as he shucks his jacket on, sliding warm gloves over his scarred hands. And then you’re opening the door, and a savage flurry of snow is pelting your face like it’s been waiting to attack.

“Fucking hell, close the door.” Cass grouses. “It’s glacial out there.”

As if, as Illyrians, the four of you aren’t used to the brutal temperatures. You roll your eyes at his whining and shove your hands into your pockets, before planting a boot into the thick layer of snow already on the ground. You grimace at how little protection your shoes afford you. Twenty years you’ve lived here. You should know better, be more prepared. Hopefully you can make it home before your feet turn to blocks of ice.

“Goodnight, assholes.” You call over your shoulder, and your friends momentarily break from their poker faces to return the sentiment. “Love you!”, Cassian calls, and “Keep warm!”, Rhysand reminds you, and then Azriel is following you out of the door.

“Cass is definitely losing that game.” The Shadowsinger immediately sidles close to you, his side pressed against yours. It doesn’t do much against the glowering cold, but it’s a comfort.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to hear it across the camp the moment he realises.” You breathe a laugh, curling in on yourself. Not only is the temperature simply unpleasant, but it also causes you pain — any extreme weather seems to make the ruined remains of your clipped wings twinge. You search for a subject to distract yourself from the sensation. “How come you didn’t invite Kaeda tonight?”

The name of Azriel’s recent interest has him angling himself towards you, snowflakes catching in his hair. He raises a dark eyebrow. “We’ve not moved past the casual stage yet. Certainly not enough to subject her to Cassian’s company.”

“Shame. It’d be nice to have another female around.” Rhysand’s cousin, Mor, sometimes comes to visit, and you have a few good female friends around the camp, but in your closest circle, you’re a little outnumbered.

Something that didn’t seem to matter so much when you were all younglings making mischief. But you’re adults now. Things are different. You are different.

Azriel presses his arm into yours. “If things progress, I’ll bring her to meet the three of you.”

That’d be nice, you think. To have another friend, and to see Azriel happy. See him appreciated. He deserves to be appreciated.

“And are they?” You press back. “Progressing?”

It’s then that there’s the slightest shift in his demeanour. Anyone else might not catch it — he’s the Shadowsinger, after all, and damn well guarded and cryptic and good at hiding what he’s thinking, feeling. But you’ve known him since you were mere, little runts, and you know every little mannerism.

Even in the freezing cold, Azriel blushes. Turns coy.

“What?” You urge, trying and failing to read him.

He gives a half-hearted shrug. “I want to kiss her.”

“Then why don’t you?

“I want to do it right. I don’t…I don’t want to fuck it up.”

The concern seems like a baseless one. You’re sure Azriel has kissed people before, although he’s always been considerably more reserved than Cassian and Rhys when it comes to females, and you’re not certain how far he’s ever gone. Of all the things you talk about, this isn’t usually one of them. You’re not sure why.

But you’ll help, if possible. You mull over his words as the two of you crunch through thick snow, more and more of it seeping into your useless shoes. The soles of them are worn, and you need a new pair, but you can ill afford it right now. Eventually, the cold starts to get painful, and you stop for a moment, leaning on Az’s arm as you swear quietly.

“There’s no way you’re making it home in those.” He’s totally right, of course. “I told you to get new ones.”

“And I told you, I can’t afford them.” Your toes are numb, now.

“I could fly you straight to your door—”

“Az, you know you can’t.” You sigh; the two of you have had this conversation countless times, because Az takes your safety very seriously indeed. “My father won’t like it.”

It’s not like your father isn’t aware that you’ve been friends with Az and the others since you were youngsters. But as you’ve gotten older, he’s only gotten more paranoid. The last person in the godsdamn universe he would want to think about you having relations with is any of your three closest friends. And if he so much as catches a whiff of them at your door, one of you is sure to pay for it.

Azriel knows you’re right, even if he doesn’t like it. He curses under his breath, and then his arms are snaking around you. “Alright. Hold on to me.”

“What are you…” You cling to him as much as your frozen fingers will allow. He’s always a little warmer than you are, and the feeling is pleasant. As pleasant as his scent is. So naturally, you press closer to him.

“We’ll go to the mead hall.” Azriel explains. “No one will be there now, but the hearths will still be warm. We can spend the night there, and I’ll fly you home in the morning when your father has left for the forge.”

The mead hall is where the Illyrian families across the camp congregate almost nightly to eat their dinner and learn of camp news. It mostly becomes an unpleasant atmosphere, with the males drinking too much and at least one fight certain to break out. You try to attend as little as possible, opting to eat your meals elsewhere, usually in the company of your friends, but your father sometimes insists that you accompany him and drag his drunken ass back home afterwards.

At this time of night, though, the brutes will have been long kicked out and sent home. The cooks will have followed soon after, and the only remaining presence in the long hall is the heat that filled the place. The mere thought of it is a mouthwatering one.

Unsurprisingly, it’s locked, and unsurprisingly, Azriel and his shadows get the door open as if it isn’t. He places you down in the entrance, and you’re immediately heading through to the mammoth dining hall, the warmth breathing out at you and thawing your frozen skin.

Az’s boots thud on the wooden floor after you, leaving little patches of melting snow in his wake. “I’ll get another fire going.”

You hop up onto one of the long wooden tables, first kicking off your sodden shoes and then stuffing your socks into them. You wiggle your toes, trying to generate some warmth into your pinkened feet.

You watch Azriel from across the room. The strands of his dark hair are damp and falling into his eyes, his skin cold-bitten. Sometimes, in moments like these, it stuns you how beautiful your closest friend is. You suppose it’s easy to forget, sometimes, when you’ve known somebody for so long; easy to become desensitised to their beauty. But looking at him like this, you’re sure he must have a whole line of suitors — both female and male — vying for his attention. Even if it’s something he never talks about.

To you, he’s just Az. And you can’t help snorting quietly as he so predictably scoops your shoes and socks up and places them by the fire he has lit.

A mother hen, truly.

“You should start to warm up any second.” He says, traipsing back over to where you’re sat. He slots himself between your legs, and his warmed hands cup your face. “I’m going to buy you a new pair of boots.”

“No you’re not.” You immediately quip, narrowing your eyes up at him. “I’ll buy them when my father chooses to pay me.”

You know it ticks him off — he, like the other adult males, gets a semi-decent wage for his commitment to the Illyrian army, the hours of training he puts in. You, on the other hand, might spend hours — days — helping out in your father’s forge, using the skills you’ve observed from him, and you’ll still only see the flash of a coin on a rare day that he decides he tolerates having a daughter, and that you’re not so bad, after all.

Hence why Azriel can afford a pair of boots, and you can’t. But you’ll not take his money.

So, you change the subject, relaxing into the pleasant sensation of his shadows tickling your skin, warming you. “Why would you fuck it up?”

Azriel’s face turns blank. “What?”

“You said you don’t want to fuck up kissing Kaeda. Why do you think you would?”

He stares back at you for a beat. And then his cheeks darken imperceptibly — nothing to do with the cold.

It surprises you. Az can be coy; shy, even. He’s the quietest of the three males in your circle. A pensive observer, never having much to say but certainly always having much to think about. And you know he has his insecurities, things that bother him, but he’s mostly sure of himself. Knows his power, his strength.

You’re not quite used to him balking from a subject. Becoming flustered by it.

“Has anyone complained about your technique before?” You cock an eyebrow, already knowing that no, they absolutely haven’t. Azriel has very full, kissable lips — something you’ve observed a couple of times before. In a totally platonic way, of course. Totally.

“I didn’t say that,” he lowers his gaze, “I—”

“Just go for it.” You reach up, pinching his flushed cheek between your fingers. “Jump right in and land one on Kaeda. Impress her with your kissing prowess—”

“You,” he tugs your hand away, “are so annoying—”

“The rest will naturally follow when you have your tongue in her mouth. Trust me. And then you’ll be wondering why you were worried in the first place—”

“Except that I’ve never kissed anybody before.”

Immediately, you fall still.

He may as well have shouted the words, from how loudly they seem to echo through the hall.

You stare up at your dear friend, and you blink. Wait for the punchline. Wait for a teasing grin to tug at the corner of his lips — something that very few people other than you get to witness — and for him to tell you that he’s jesting, and of course he’s kissed somebody before, and done a lot more stuff than that, too. All the stuff. Every bit of it. Over and over again—

“Let’s just drop it.” He murmurs, stepping away. You think you might have offended him with your silence, your surprise.

“Wait.” You blink, grasping hold of his arm. “Just…wait.”

He studies you. “Is it that much of a shock?”

Honestly? Yes, yes, it is. Because how did you not know this? You met Azriel when you were both eleven years old. Nine years ago. You faced puberty together and all the awkward things in between. And while you may not sit and discuss the ins and outs of your respective experiences, you simply assumed that his were progressing and evolving just as yours had. Cauldron, Rhys and Cassian stuck their cocks in different males and females every other week. You supposed you’d merely…grouped Azriel in with such things.

But when you think about it — really, truly think about it — Azriel is the only one of the three males who has never introduced another female to the group; no matter how short or fleeting their presence might be. You can’t pluck from your brain a single name he’s ever mentioned besides Kaeda — and that’s a very recent thing.

You’re still waiting a teeny, tiny, little bit for him to say he’s joking. But his cheeks are redder than ever.

“You’ve never kissed anyone.” You repeat, blinking at him.

He purses his lips. “I haven’t.”

“You’ve never pressed your lips to another person’s—”

“I think we’ve established that, Y/N.” He pivots, turning his back on you. “Just forget it.”

“No, wait, fuck, Az, you know I’m shit with words.” You reach for his hand. “Just…how come? Why have you never kissed anybody?”

His hand is tense in yours. You don’t like it. So many times, you’ve held his hand, felt his fingers fold around yours and your palms warm against each other’s. But he holds it limp, now, barely any weight to it. You give it a gentle squeeze.

He pauses. Then squeezes back.

And it’s then that you realise that’s where the problem lies — his hands. Scars.

“Az,” you sigh softly, tugging him closer to you. “Your hands are beautiful. A part of you, your story. Anyone worth knowing — worth kissing — will think the same.”

And gods, you mean the words with every tiny shred of your spirit and soul. There’s no one on the Mother’s green earth that you love more fiercely than the male in front of you. So kind, despite the hatred that’s been shown to him. So gentle, despite the brutality of your environment. He’s wiped your tears and kept you warm and shared his food and given you a place to sleep when your father has made your life particularly difficult. Platonic soulmates exist, and Azriel is yours.

He turns back to you and keeps hold of your hand. And he chews his bottom lip as he says, “I do know that. I know that not everybody is judgemental. But it’s not just the scars.”

You brush your thumb over the back of his palm. “What else is it?”

“I just simply don’t know…how. Fuck, theoretically, of course I know how kissing works. I’ve seen it more than enough. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be any good at it. I could be awful, for all I know.”

You highly, highly doubt that to be the case. “You just…practice. Until you know what you like. Until you know your technique.”

Hazel eyes study you curiously. “So…you have, then. Practiced.”

It’s rather strange, but a sudden, random slither of guilt presses down on your shoulders. Silly, because Azriel would never begrudge you your experiences — and you’ve had plenty of them, good and bad.

But in that moment, you want nothing more than to be able to tell him that you, too, have never kissed anybody. That you’ve never touched anybody or lain with anybody. That you’re just as inexperienced and clueless as he is.

But that would be a bare-faced lie. And you and Azriel do not lie to each other.

So perhaps it’s the guilt that causes you to blurt out, “Practice on me.”

Azriel blinks at you. His hand slackens in yours. “What?”

And fuck, you’ve said it now. You’re not sure whether or not you even meant to, but you think it’d be more awkward to retract the words than stand by them and ride them out. You square your shoulders. Try to seem sure, confident.

“Practice kissing with me.”

The poor male is completely dumbfounded. “You’re…my friend.”

“Yes, Azriel. That’s why I’m offering. Practice on me, refine your technique, and then you can apply that confidence to Kaeda.”

“Practice…on you…”

“I’m trying really hard not to be offended by the disgust that’s on your face right now.”

“Shit, no, that’s not—”

“You know what? Forget I said that. Dumb idea. Terrible idea. Forget I even mentioned it.”

Az stares at you. And you don’t want to balk from the eye contact, but you also totally want to throw yourself in the fire, because it would burn less than your embarrassment right now.

And then he says, “Is it a serious offer?”

You lift one shoulder into a shrug. “Why not?”

Oh, there are a million fucking reasons why not. The most pressing being that yours and Azriel’s friendship is, perhaps, the most stable thing in your life. Certainly the most precious and treasured. Rocking that is a very bad idea, indeed.

And you think, for a moment, that that’s precisely what Az is going to tell you. He has that look on his face that he usually gets when you’re about to do something stupid. The one where he chews the inside of his cheek and his eyes rove your face.

But then the word leaves him, quiet and a little breathless, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I accept your offer.”

He—damn. You didn’t think this far; suppose you didn’t expect him to actually agree. And yet here he is, agreeing.

Suddenly, you feel like you’ve never kissed anybody, either.

But you’re supposed to be guiding him here. So you sit up straight. Lift your chin. Azriel watches, eyeing you a little like you’re a creature he’s never seen before. The bewilderment on his face squeezes your heart a bit.

“Do you want to do it now?” You ask.

He swallows. And his eyes fall down to your lips before flicking back to meet yours. “I suppose there’s no time like the present.”

And there isn’t. The two of you are here alone, no background noise from Cassian or Rhysand to battle with. It’s just you and Azriel. Your eyes. Your mouths.

You realise you’re still holding his hand, and so you use it to pull him closer to you, slot him back between your legs. You’re certain he’s trembling, and you are, too.

“Just take your time.” You tell him. “Let your body lead. Do what feels natural.”

He gives a stiff nod. And pauses. “And you promise to be honest afterwards? About how it was?”

Your eyes soften. “Always, Az.”

He nods again, and then he’s sucking in a slow, steadying breath. You remain still, allowing him to make the first move, to do whatever he wants.

There’s a pause of heavy silence, and then he dips his head. Kisses you once.

It’s a quick, closed-mouth kiss. Sweet, if not a little stiff and awkward. But you know Azriel is testing the waters, deciding whether he truly wants to do this. If he surmises that he absolutely doesn’t, you’ll stop, say no more about it. You keep still and allow him to decide.

And when he pulls back to study you, you give him a reassuring smile. One that silently communicates, I’m fine, we’re fine, this is fine.

It seems to give him the little boost he needs.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Slowly, he slips his hand out of yours, and you allow him to. You watch as he inches even closer. Moves his hands up to rest at either side of your face.

When he’s cupping your cheeks, his eyes meet yours, and he whispers. “Is this okay?”

You squeeze his forearm once. “It’s fine, Az. Do whatever you feel you want to do. I’ll tell you if I don’t like anything.”

He nods, and his gaze drags down to your lips. You’re still, careful, not moving until he’s ready to. And maybe he’ll not feel ready. Maybe he’ll stop this and pull back and decide it’s a terrible idea—

No.

Azriel’s thumb sweeps over your cheek. And then he leans in and presses his mouth to yours a second time.

This time, it’s different — you can tell straight away.

It starts out slow, his lips exploring yours, moulding to the shape of them. The kiss is a caress on your mouth, and it’s a damn good start. You find yourself leaning into it. Kissing back.

For a split second, you feel Az pause. But then his hand is cupping your cheek firmer, the heat of his palm meeting the heat of your face and making you forget how cold you were only minutes ago. Az’s lips part, and so naturally, yours do the same. You kiss him gladly.

And he’s not bad at all. You’ve kissed far more experienced males with far worse technique. Azriel may be nervous and tentative, but there’s something there, lurking beneath the surface. Something that will grow with the right encouragement, the right amount of confidence.

You…you want to give him both.

But it’s important to remember why you’re doing this. For his sake. So he can comfortably kiss the female he’s interested in.

You part from him momentarily, his breath fanning your lips as you ask him, “Are you doing okay?”

“I am.” There’s a rasp to his voice. “Are you?”

“I’m doing great.”

And you are. The weight of Azriel’s hand on your cheek is surprisingly pleasant. This exploration is new, and it’s thrilling, and it’s nice. It feels…nice.

“Do you want to keep going?” You know what you want to do. “Or would you like to stop? Whatever you want, Az.”

He swallows again. “I want to keep going.”

You nod, and in gentle encouragement, you move your hands to rest at his waist. You must be imagining the slight tremor that wracks through Azriel’s body in that moment. Or perhaps it’s just a coincidence.

There’s no time to think, because he dips his head and catches your lips faster this time. He tilts your head up, applying a little bit of pressure to your mouth. Your lips part, and so do his.

Az’s tongue seems to tease the seam of your lips. And then he slides it into your mouth.

His taste invades you so suddenly, so thoroughly, that you gasp. It’s something rough and smoky. Rugged and pleasant. You can’t think of the exact words as his tongue meets yours, and nor do you care to. All you want to do is reciprocate. Kiss him.

You scoot forward on the table, lifting yourself up slightly to add a touch more fervour to the kiss. Your tongue rolls around Azriel’s, and it’s so damn good, so damn sinful, so damn unexpected.

You’re aware, somewhat, of Azriel’s hand slipping from your cheek and resting at the column of your neck. And he licks at the roof of your mouth, and at your tongue, and somehow at every part of you that has you wanting more. His lips work perfectly with yours, not faltering once.

In that moment, you might forget who you are and what your life story is, but you don’t think you’ll ever forget this — this kiss of pure, salacious, unguarded need. If this is what Azriel kisses like for the first time, you can’t imagine how he could possibly progress. How it could get better than this.

One of you makes a needy little noise — you think it might have come from him, but it lands in your mouth, anyway. And then you’re being yanked closer, and your hands are moving up to tangle within Azriel’s hair, and you’re tugging the strands and pulling him against you and kissing him so desperately that you’re sure you’re going to feel it days, weeks, months from now. Azriel’s fingers knead the back of your neck, and your legs snake around his waist, locking him in.

There’s movement. Natural, pleasant movement — you, him, both of you together, moving and shifting.

You don’t know at which point you’re lying back on the table, or which of you made it happen; but suddenly Azriel is hovering over you, his body flush to yours, too-hot parts of you meeting too-hot parts of him.

The kiss is burning, and needy, and you writhe beneath him, and he writhes on top of you, and he’s pressing against you, and you both groan.

And then Az breaks away.

He doesn’t move far — just rips his lips from yours.

You’re both panting, breathing so hard that your heaving chests touch with every breath. Azriel blinks down at you, and you blink up at him.

And in that moment, you become aware of just how far this has slipped. He’s basically lying on top of you, his body moving with yours. Your scents have changed and combined, and you both know what the earthier, deeper quality to them means.

That you got a little carried away. And this needs to stop — now.

Azriel stares down at you, panting against your mouth as your heart thunders in your ears.

“Fuck.” Is all he says.

azriel tags: @hanasakr @positivewitch @ruler-of-hades @brekkershadowsinger @nightscourtt @imperfect0angel @luna-1-3-5 @hyacinthoideshispanica @lucyysthings @lahoete @littlemoonash @blacksstarrynight @azriels-mate123 @ghostly-poetic @frieddesigninspiringquotesslime @a-frog-with-a-laptop @illyriansimp @morrie-rose @passingthroughfireandshadow @illyrian-dreamer @azrielsbabyg @96jnie @mich0731 @mulansaucey @truthtellerfanclub @acourtofbooksandmagic @insightsonmylife @basicbittywitty @curbside-cyanide @acourtofchaosandmess @123345566 @starrynights-frostbites @eos-princess @thesillyyogourt @ona-raising-07-l @acediahamartia @dontfollowmepleaseitsannoying @polli05927 @asdfjklbooks @azriel-luvr @amysangel @humanpersonlasttimeichecked @wildflowernightmere @audie-writes @aaronwarnerswifereal @starxqt @lulufairbank @laurzwrites @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @girlwith-thecinder-blockgarden

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necrolexic0n · 22 days

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heres my roots reversed ink, india! based on the india ink and some paint thinner

he’s a major tease, a total dickhead, and the only thing he runs on is gloss black heavy consistency inkwells

this pen is used to destroy and taint whatever he deems worthy of an “editor’s touch”, leaving the subject either unrecognizable or completely gone erased from existence

he’s disheveled and constantly drooling out ink from his mouth

his eyes dont change colors but they have few shape variants i’ll share later

india is the most ruthless and destructive of The Four Corners (which are the main guardians of the multiverse; Phantom, Nirvana, Stitch, and himself) who keep the balance more or less in a neverending battle of white, black, and grey

fun fact! his jacket fluff is an ever changing conceptual shape as if it almost doesn’t exist, just like his original form. all his sketchy parts aren’t for looks either, he’s very incomplete.

if you’re wondering about his soul, or lack thereof, well…that’s where it gets complicated, heh.

total drama noah is his voice claim so go nuts lol

#undertale #utmv #undertale au #utmv au #rootsreversedau #rootsreversed india #ink sans #inktale au

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gimmethatagustd · 3 months

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sweet dreams | ksj

Seokjin loves when you paint your nails pink.

○ Pairing: Dom!Seokjin x Sub!Reader

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: Established relationship, smut

○ 8 / 100 Drabble Challenge (Master/Dom)

○ Word Count: 1,182

○ Warnings: Free use kink, consensual somnophilia (kinks negotiated "off screen"), vaginal fingering, spit, unprotected vaginal sex, cunnilingus, cum eating, light bdsm themes, no pronouns or gendered language are used for the MC aside from pussy and tits

○ Notes: I think I'm going insane actually 😅 Please read the warnings and if you don't know what somnophilia is, please maybe do a little research before you read this, just in case it might be triggering to you. Also I didn't edit this and I'm too embarrassed by the filth to even proofread it so jhsdfkjs enter at your own risk, besties. Proceed with caution 😭

○ Post Date: February 10, 2024

○ Masterlist | AO3 Crosspost

○ What was Jai listening to? Do Me Right - GEMINI

For the past few months, work has been kicking Seokjin’s ass. As his company barrels toward a major project deadline, he’s found very little time to spend with you. It’s unfortunate because you are accustomed to having fun together, whether going on dates or having a casual night in.

You’ve been bitter about it, and Seokjin can’t blame you. His baby deserves better, to be cared for and spoiled, and deserves more attention than he has given you.

Coming home late, Seokjin sighs when he slips into the apartment and finds all the lights off. It’s just past midnight, long since you fell asleep. You used to stay up for him, but Seokjin begged you not to. It wasn’t fair for you to deny yourself sleep because of his job.

After taking off his shoes and removing his suit jacket and tie, Seokjin quietly makes his way down the hall to the bedroom you share.

You’re fast asleep in bed, sprawled out on your stomach with one knee hiked up, wearing nothing but a cropped tank top and flimsy panties, the kind with lace trim and a tiny bow because your ass is a present, or whatever that rap verse is that you’re always quoting.

Seokjin thinks you’re cute in anything.

He especially thinks you’re cute in pink – pink panties, pink tank tops, the remnants of pink eyeshadow because you forgot to wash your face before you fell asleep, and, his favorite, pink nail polish.

The little glass bottle sits on the nightstand beside your bed. You applied the polish shortly before bed, and Seokjin can smell the lingering chemical aroma in the air.

It started as a shy confession and an even more shy request – you admitting to Seokjin that you always wanted to try out a particular fantasy but had never found a partner you trusted with this level of kink exploration. Seokjin, though, you trust with your life. He has done his best to show you that he can and will listen to you, respect you, and love you.

So when you asked Seokjin to have his way with you whenever you wear your favorite pink nail polish, he took his role as your trusted caretaker very seriously.

Seokjin pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor along with his jeans. Keeping his briefs on, he kneels on the bed, one knee on either side of your leg that’s straightened out. He uses his knee to push your leg that’s bent, hiking it up to open your thighs even further. He’s slow as he does it, careful not to wake you up.

He runs his palms over your asscheeks, slipping his fingers beneath your underwear and squeezing just light enough to make them jiggle. Pulling your underwear to the side, he exposes your pussy, open wide for him from how he has pushed your leg up.

Leaning forward, Seokjin spits onto your pussy. He uses his thumb to push his spit through your folds, rubbing it over your clit and then dragging it down to your entrance to dib his thumb inside.

You let out a small whimper, and Seokjin pauses his movements. Only his heavy breathing and your little sounds echo in the room, but your eyes remain closed, and your breathing is slow.

Relaxing with the knowledge that you’re still asleep, Seokjin starts touching you again. He spends time circling your clit, alternating between pressing hard on the sensitive skin and maintaining light touches that serve more to spread your arousal around. His mouth waters from just playing with your clit, and he lets more spit soak your pussy. Seokjin always likes it wet and messy, especially when you’re so pliant while sleeping.

Your body reacts on its own, naturally shifting into his touch when he slides two fingers into your entrance. He fucks you slowly, easing his fingers in and out carefully so he doesn’t disturb you. Your ass jiggles slightly each time his fingers rock into you. Sometimes, he pushes deep in and stays there, fluttering and massaging your wet walls.

With his other hand, Seokjin reaches over to push up your shirt. Since it’s a crop top, it’s already barely covering your tits, making it easier for him to push it up. Licking his fingers, he tweaks your exposed nipple, swirling and pinching it until it grows hard.

Seokjin bites his bottom lip to stop himself from moaning as he eases his fingers out of you, smearing your arousal on the back of your thigh. You're so wet, and his cock is aching, hard, and dripping precum, a dark spot staining the front of his briefs.

"So beautiful..." Seokjin whispers to himself as he spreads your lips and spits directly into your pussy again. Arousal and spit dribbles down your lips and soaks the bed sheets.

Unable to take it, Seokjin takes his cock out and rubs the tip through your folds. When the ridge of his head catches against your clit, you let out a quiet whimper, your body aware of the pleasure even if your mind is still oblivious.

The little breathy sounds you make only spur Seokjin on more. He's impatient as he sinks his cock into you, your walls slippery and hot as you suck him in. He presses his hands into the bed on either side of your waist and thrusts deep and slow, careful not to wake you as he fucks into you.

Seokjin loves how easy it is to manipulate your body while you're sleeping, especially knowing that you like being a little fucktoy for him. You like it when he uses your body like the perfect cocksleeve, pleasuring him even when you're asleep.

You moan in your sleep, and Seokjin wonders if you're dreaming about him fucking you. You came in the past, writhing in your sleep and moaning so loudly that you woke yourself up. This time, you must be genuinely exhausted because your eyes barely flutter as Seokjin chases his pleasure.

It doesn't take long for him to cum. He does so with quiet grunts, pulling back just in time to watch his cum spurt over your lips, some of the hot liquid dripping back into your stretched-out entrance.

Not even bothering to tuck his cock back in his briefs, he slides down to bury his face in your pussy, lapping at the cum to clean you up. It's the final push you need to finally orgasm, your hips bucking and your body shaking as a moan rips through your throat.

"Jin," you gasp, reaching down to dig your fingers in his hair. You don't bother getting up; just let your body slump into the bed as your orgasm hurdles through you like electricity, shocking your system.

"Sorry, I woke you up," Seokjin murmurs against your pussy. He tries to pull away, but you push his head back down.

"Please," you whisper, sleepy eyes still closed. "More, please."

Humming in satisfaction, Seokjin gives you what you want. He's weak like that; even when you're pliant, he'll always be weak for you.

Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories.

All rights reserved © @gimmethatagustd - Do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my writing. Do not use my writing for any AI purposes whatsoever. Do not use my fics for anything aside from reading and commenting on them. My fics will only be posted on this Tumblr and on AO3 (gimmethatagustd & daddytaehyungie). Request an AO3 account here.

@jooniesxbby @seokteoksworld @taegeum @dprmoon @chimmisbae @yoonminkookk

#seokjin x reader #bts x reader #bts fanfic #seokjin fanfic #bts smut #seokjin smut #100 drabble challenge #sweet dreams #jai writes #gimmethatagustd

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jasmines-library · 2 months

Note

👀 'tis me, i loved the other one so much ❤️❤️❤️, and am back with this wAcky idea muahahaaa:

batboy (you choose) x villain!reader

they are supposed to hate each other because of circumstances (you choose) BUT they got caught in a fight and are working together. after that fight, batboy finds that reader is actually a HUGE softie, and has never really had relationships, and when batboy does find out, he teases reader to embarrassment. they end up falling in love they kiss and fluffy things, under the moonlight, but then reader goes spiraling. like- is it safe to do this? is it okay to show weakness like that? will they put batboy in danger? and they are on the verge of a panic attack. they run away from batboy, which breaks both of them 🥹. reader avoids batboy for months, not really coping with their feelings, having panic attacks every night and all. and then one night, batboy sees reader fighting in an alley. reader takes out the thugs quickly and batboy approaches, and he can see through reader's eyes a whirlwind of emotions and it breaks his heart... and then they somehow make up and a lot of fluff pleeasee <3 (omg it's not totally angst 🥹)

ilyyy muah! (platonic ofc 😘)

Bullet With Butterfly Wings

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Note: This is so cute! I love this idea and I hope you like it. I just wanted to make a side note and say that i am queer, and whilst I am very happy to write romantically for the batboys, It may not be super great (which is why most of my work is platonic tbh) so apologies in advance for that. I also chose to write for Jay so I hope that's okay!

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Minor injuries, self doubt, manipulative parent (bane) but only brief, swearing teasing, kissing but no smut (SFW)

Word Count: 5k (it took me 40 years but it was worth it)

⛧ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Jason Todd was your enemy.

That is what you have always been told. It had been ingrained in you since you were very young. Batman and his band of proteges were a nuisance. Bothers. Vermin that needed to be exterminated from Gotham. Your father had countless rivalries: and that had extended to you. Your whole life was dedicated to training to cause havoc and trying to remove Gothams vigilantes.

Jason Todd was your enemy. And you despised him. He despised you too. Not that you cared, he had every right to. Your father had broken his many times.

He had always been tricky. He slunk around the shadows and always put a stop to your fun. His brothers weren’t much better. So when he was killed… you should have been ecstatic. You should have clenched your fists in rage when he returned…but instead you felt…lost.

Jason Todd was your enemy. So why were you helping him…?

You had heard the commotion from nearly a block over. The cacophony of shattering glass, the ricochet of bullets followed by the screeching of the building's alarm: you were over there speedily, tugging your pistols from your holsters as you weaved towards the orange glow of the flickering lights.

The building was completely destroyed. The windows were smashed in, spidering where the bullets had passed through them or jagged where what looked like a brick had been lobbed into it. The frames of the windows were completely broken too, splintering under the brute force of the coloured bandits that had weasled their way inside. Dressed in unsubtle colours, they seemed to be searching for something; they overturned desks and sent an array of papers scattering to the ground. It was that or they were just looking to have fun. You smirked, taking a step closer to the building ready to join them but then you caught a flash of the triangular emblem they had haphazardly spray painted on the back of their jackets and cursed. Safe to say that they weren’t going to tolerate you being near them. Your father had royally pissed them off. More than once. But who were you to back down from a fight?

Shouldering your weapons, you stepped closer crouching to try and keep out of their sight. It was going to be much easier for you if you could take them by surprise. Much more entertaining for you too. Though it seemed that luck wasn’t on your side because one of them, a tall girl with blonde hair she had tied back in a braid, turned her head just before you could dash out of the way and with a cry of your alias, all heads turned to you.

There was no use hiding now your cover was blown so with your guns raised high you aimed and fired. They were quick to retaliate and with their the sheer number of them it was difficult to predict their movements and stay out of their line of fire despite all of your training. The whole ordeal was a mess, bullets and punches flew left, right and centre. The whole ordeal only got a fuck ton more complicated when he arrived. The knight in fucking black and red armour. He perched on top of the roof, teetering dangerously to the edge, before landing on his feet only a few metres away, no doubt with a smug grin hidden behind his red mask. It didn’t do him much good. You knew exactly who he was and it hadn’t taken you much to figure it out. But perhaps that was because you were much more perceptive than most. Perhaps it was because you spent far too much time thinking about him.

Red Hood stood towering over you, glaring at you through his brows. He tutted. “Y/N Bane. Should have known you would be here.”

“And miss the chance to beat your pretty face?” You mocked. “You should know better.”

Red Hood rolled his eyes, shifting his weight as he reached for his weapon. He looked as though he was going to say something; another jest or sly remark, but the moment was ruined when one of the bandits ran up behind him bearing a weapon he intended to plunge into the vigilantes side. However he was much quicker, twisting around to grab the boy by his wrists and flinging him over his shoulder. He landed with a grunt before trying to grab at Red Hood's legs. You beat him to it though, landing a harsh blow to his back and sending him slumping back to the ground.

That seemed to set the rest of them off and all of a sudden the pair of you were surrounded. The street quickly became a flurry of punches and rounds of bullets that lodged themselves in the crackstone bricks or ricocheted off of the metal pipes with a cloud clang. None of them found their mark. Strange for a group of people who wielded their weapons so confidently.

It seemed to be going well. Some sort of unseen rivalry seemed to bloom between you and Red Hood, trying to see who could take the most thugs down. Those that didn’t flee dropped like flies. But you were outnumbered. And even though the pair of you were twice as skilled as them combined, you began to find it difficult to push them back.

Darting into the building to shelter from their hail of bullets, you managed to take down the pair that were hurtling things at Hood. And then it all fell silent.

Exhaling heavily, you wiped the sweat from your brow and holstered your weapons after checking the coast was clear. Smirking, you slid out of the doorway ready to jest to the vigilante. But he seemed to be nowhere to be seen. You rolled your eyes. Coward.

“Given up already?” You jested. “Honestly for a man of your size it thought that you would last a lot longer than-”

Your stomach sank when you turned the corner and saw the vigilante hunched up against the wall, his one hand pressed firmly into the wall, the other pushing hard up against his right side. His breaths came in short, ragged gasps as he tried to catch his breath, his back still turned away from you. You furrowed your brow, taking a hesitant step toward him. It was then that you noticed the crimson that oozed between his fingers.

“Here to finish me off?” He spat, words laced with a thick and potent venom.

“I’m thinking about it.”

He turned toward you, his body jolting in agony as he twisted. From there you could see the two small but ragged circles that jutted out from his suit; one above his left hip and the other a few inches to the right of it. Only one of them seemed to have an exit wound.

“Get on with it then.” He grumbled trying to keep his composure. You could see the way his legs trembled as he tried to keep his composure. “They’re not coming any time soon.” He gestured to his coms. The screen was blank. Broken. “Comms are down.” his voice was torn up by a sickening cough. “But I'd get it over with quickly so you can leave before they catch your trail.”

Your fingers twitched as you reached for your pistol. Instinct. You should finish him off. It would make your father proud. It would end your years of resentment and it would bring you oh so much glorious fame. He was already practically cowering on the ground; an easy kill. Jason Todd was your enemy. You should have pulled the trigger. But instead, you found yourself darting forward as Jason as his body careened forwards.

When Jason awoke, he did so in a panic. His eyes were wide and his heart pounded in his chest. It was only when he tried to push himself up and was met by a sudden pinch in his side that everything came back to him. He didn’t recognise his surroundings. The walls were decorated in artwork that he didn’t recognise, and he was laying in a bed with streets that belonged to a stranger. He scrambled for his pistols only to realise that they weren’t there. And that his mask had been removed.

“Lay back down, you idiot.” You scolded from across the room. “Your wounds are still healing, And relax.” You gestured to his mask and the top half of his suit that you had folded up and laid on a chair. It was then that he realised that he was not wearing his shirt and that the eternity of his torso was wrapped securely in bandages. “I knew who you were.”

Jason had to do a double take. But he soon turned sour. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

You scoffed, placing the glass of water you had brought in on the bedside table. “A thank you would be nice.”

“I’m serious” he narrowed his eyes on you.

You faltered, eyeing him cautiously and pursing your lips. Truthfully, you had struggled to get him back to your apartment. You had to move fast with the amount of blood he had lost. You were glad that he lost consciousness when he did because although you should have left him there to rot… you couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him writhe beneath you as you dug a pair of tweezers under his skin to dig out the bullet.

The vigilante eyed you cautiously, still confused as to why you had decided to drag him all the way back here. It couldn’t have been easy for you. He watched as you dug around in one of the draws in your bedroom. He had never seen you properly without your suit on. And he could fully see your face now it wasn’t obscured by the black and white mask that sat comfortably around your eyes. Jason stared for a little too long and found his thoughts wandering a little too far for his liking. He was supposed to loathe you. He was supposed to think you were vile. But yet again…you were the furthest thing from what he had convinced himself to believe.

“You’re staring.” You could feel his eyes on you.

Jason’s cheeks flushed and he turned his gaze away. Rolling your eyes you tossed him a bottle of painkillers that you had pulled out of the mess of your draw. They rattled as they hit the side of the plastic container when he caught them.

“Take some of those. They should help with the ache.

He gave you an unamused look, hand hovering on the seal.

“Relax, bird boy. If I wanted you dead you would be.”

Jason popped two in his mouth hesitantly and swallowed them down with the water you had left on the side. A loud buzzing sounded from out of the room. You disappeared briefly out of the doorway. Not being able to see you made him nervous, but you returned soon with two items in your hand. The first, his phone and the source of the incessant buzzing, and the second his comlink which was no longer dark like it was before but instead was lit up around the crack on the screen. You handed the two to him.

“You might want to let them know that you’re alive. That damn thing’s been going off all night.” You told him.

“You fixed it.” Jason gawped, turning the small device over in his hands.

You shrugged. “Had to make sure the GPS was off. Besides, I had nothing better to do.”

After sending a quick message to reassure his family that he was alive, Jason frowned at you. “Why are you helping me?”

You faltered. Why were you helping him? It went completely against everything you had been taught. But you hadn’t really thought much about what you were doing. It was like your body was on autopilot, moving without thought of feeling and just following someone’s orders blindly. You shrugged at him. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

Jason practically laughed. “But doesn’t that go against your entire image?”

“There is a lot you don’t know about me, Todd.”

The vigilante smirked, the corners of his lips creeping upward. Snarky. He liked you. “Then perhaps I should get to know you more.”

No matter how hard he tried, Jason couldn’t take his mind off you. Even once he had long returned home, he couldn’t get the image of your face out of his thoughts. There was something about you that was just so enthralling to him. And that bothered him greatly. His hours passed by quickly as he thought of you. What you had done. And god he was so conflicted. But the part of him that seemed to want to inch closer to you won.

After struggling to pull on his hoodie, no thanks to the dull ache that still emimated from his wounds, he slipped on his shoes and trudged down the stairs. He was just about to slip out of the door when a voice stopped him.

“Jay?” Dick asked, scowling at his brother. “Where are you going?”

“Out?”

“Again? You’ve only just got back after completely wiping off the radar and now you’re sneaking off?”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

Dick cocked his brow.

The younger Wayne sighed and with a roll of his eyes told him defensively “It’s nothing, Grayson.”

Jason slipped out of the door.

Even though he had only been there once, Jason seemed to practically have the route to your apartment engraved in his mind. After all, he had walked in over and over again in his head as he thought about returning to see you. Although he was confident on how to get there, when he stood in front of the door with his fist poised to rap against the panel, a very rare occurrence happened to Jason. He was nervous. His stomach fluttered and churned underneath the bandages and then the door flew open.

And there you stood. You looked more awake than before. Perhaps because you had actually managed to get some sleep since he had left. It had been a well needed rest. The ache in your bones from the previous night had nearly vanished once you awoke. However, similarly to the vigilante, when you awoke you too had found your mind wandering back to the boy you had dragged back into your home.

There he was. Standing in your doorway.

“Todd?” You darkened your brow. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to get to know you.”

Gripping his wrist you pulled him inside and shut the door behind you.

You and Jason had grown close very quickly. After he had slunk up to your apartment, the pair of you exchanged numbers. This led to many rendezvous and you began to actually enjoy spending time with him. He was an intricate person. He had so many layers to him, each one more interesting than the next. He had also discovered that there was much more to you than your facade let on. You were kind, funny, and deeply compassionate despite your history. It was ironic really. But that made Jason love you even more. He loved the way you smiled with your eyes and the way they lit up when you saw something you adored. He loved the curves of your cheekbones, your nose, your jawline and your figure. He had grown to love your laugh and the way your voice softened when you were tired. He loved all of you. But he wasn’t sure if you so much as even liked him back.

It would be a complete lie to say didn’t. Slowly, the pair of you began to open up to each other. You knew little about his past and hearing him open up about it brought tears to your eyes. That was the first time that you had hugged him. Wrapping him up in your arms seemed to come almost naturally and despite the fact that Jason wasn’t a huge people person, he found himself leaning into your embrace. The two of you began to learn things about each other very quickly. You would tell him something and he would exchange the favour. Countless hours were spent as the two of you messaged back and forth or lounged around on your couch as you talked over the movies you tried to watch but failed because you couldn’t tear your eyes off of him. He was smart and he was kind and it was nice to have someone to really open up to. You had never really had that before Jason. Of course, when he found out about that and your lack of relationships, he couldn’t help but tease you. He thought it was adorable the way that your cheeks flushed and you shrunk into yourself.

Tonight, you were sitting on a hillside. It was a little far out of the city, but Jay had insisted that it was going to be worth it. Reluctantly, but with a little grin, you had followed him up the small hill.

The view was truly magnificent. From here, you had a view of the entire city. You could see all of the lights flickering throughout the skyscrapers and the neon lights of the signs as they reflected off of the dark windows. But what was even more magical were the stars. They twinkled above you brighter than a thousand diamonds all at once. It made your breath catch in your throat. With all of the light pollution in Gotham, it was hard to see the stars. But out here you could see them in all of their beauty. So as you lay back in the grass, basking in the moonlight while Jay pointed out the constellations, you twisted your body to sit face him. He returned the motion, looking at you with gentle eyes and a smile touching his lips.

“Thank you for bringing me here, Jay.” You told him. “It truly is beautiful here.”

He nodded, speaking softly. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I’ve never seen so many stars.” You said, inching yourself up so that you were sitting. “Though I suppose that’s because I’ve never really been out of Gotham.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. This was something new. “No?”

You shook your head as he too sat up. “Never. My father never let me.”

This surprised the vigilante somewhat, but he remained silence and let you continue.

“He’s… protective. And somewhat controlling.” you trailed off. “I know he just wants me to follow in his footsteps but for my entire life I’ve been following his command blindly. It’s always what he wants. He’s never once stopped and thought about what I want.”

Jason reached out a delicate hand to brush away a stray hair, tucking it back behind your ear. “And what is it that you want?”

“This.” You breathed out.

Tenderly, he leaned forward to interlock his lips with yours. They were soft and gentle and he kissed you with a gentle amorous touch. His hands brushed the back of your hair, tangling in your locks as you returned the kiss, leaning into his touch.

Being with Jason was more than you could ever have imagined. It was a different kind of love. Something you had never really experienced before. It was filled with gentle exchanges of touches, reassurances of your love for each other, gifts and small trinkets that you would buy for each other when it reminded you of them and so so much more. With Jay, you could just be yourself and he loved you for it. There was no more trying to keep up a facade that perhaps was much more of an act influenced by your father than you thought it was. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

You and Jay had been going out for a few months when it happened. You had returned home after a late night stroll with him to find your father sitting on your couch. He was angry, face contorting with dark lines when he narrowed his eyes at you.

“Dad?” You asked, trying to hide the evidence of your outing from him. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t play coy with me.” He spat standing to tower above you. “I know exactly that’s going on with you and that little bird.”

He took a step forward, intending to intimidate you but you held your ground.

“How long did you think you could keep that hidden?”

“I don’t see what that’s any of your business.” You grit your teeth.

“I am your father. I made you who you are. Without me you would be nothing.” His words dripped with venom as he backed you into the wall.

“That’s exactly the point! You've never once stopped to consider what I want!”

Bane's face hardened and he leaned forward to speak to you in a scarily hushed tone and he gripped your wrists so hard you were sure it was going to leave a bruise later. “Now you listen here you insolent little girl. Either you stop running around with Bruce Wayne’s little protege or I will end him and I will make you watch. You understand.”

You didn’t meet his eyes. Instead you found a spot on the carpet to burn your gaze onto.

“I said, do you understand?” He raised his voice and you could feel your heart pounding against your rib cage.

“Yes, Father.” You admitted with defeat. He released his firm grip.

“Good.” Bane moved back towards the door. “Because I mean it.”

Without another word he turned on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

You crumpled to the floor, your body wracked with sobs that forced their way out from your ragged gasps.

And then your phone buzzed. His name displayed brightly on the screen.

Jason: Hey baby. D’you get in okay?

It was one of his usual messages. He sent them often when he couldn’t walk you back to your door. Sometimes even when he had walked you back and made sure you got inside with a parting kiss. You couldn’t blame him for being cautious. You had seen eachother fretting for the other when you came home with injuries. It was normal for Jason. But now it felt so wrong.

Opening the message your fingers hesitated over the keypad as you thought about your fathers warning. Was he right? Were you putting Jay at risk. Would it just be better if you. No. You tried to clear the thought from your mind.

You: Fine. Sorry for keeping you waiting.

You replied, waiting for the small bubble to finish typing.

Jason: you sure you’re okay baby?

You: of course. Why wouldn’t I be?

Jason: No reason. I just had this feeling.

You: Oh? Well I’m fine I promise. Night Jay.

You were in fact, not fine.

The next time you saw Jason your heart was racing. And not in the good way. In the “I think I’m going to hurl” way.

You had been thinking about him nonstop. About how much joy he brought you. How you could never fathom leaving him. But Bane's words kept replaying in your head. Seeing him had brought a part of your old self back. The part that you had long since tried to move past. Was being with Jason making you weak? You had told him so much that it felt as if he knew you inside and out. Was it okay to show vulnerability to him like that? You had been thinking a million thoughts at once. But the one that stuck out most to you was ‘am I putting Jason in danger?’ Would your selfishness of wanting to be with him cost him his life. You had tried to tell yourself that you were being silly. That Jason could handle himself. He was the infamous Red Hood. But you knew Jay. And you knew Bane. So you knew that if he put his mind to it, Jason Todd would die.

And that was why you needed to leave.

When Jason arrived he greeted you with a bright grin that only made your stomach sink deeper into your abyss of guilt. You took a deep breath, trying to hide the tremble of your body and the tears in your eyes. You could not bring yourself to return his mannerisms.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” He frowned as he approached you.

“Jay…. I-I” your voice caught in your throat: a reminder of how little you wanted this to happen. But you had to. For his sake “I can’t do this anymore.”

Jason’s face dropped. “W-what?”

You honestly don’t think you had ever seen him look more hurt. Another wound to add to the collection.

“I can’t do this anymore.” You gestured between the two of you. “ I love you, Jason. But I can’t carry on being with you.”

You took a step back and Jason reached out to try and touch you but stopped, cutting himself off short. “Y/N what’s happened? Please tell me baby. What have I done wrong?”

“Nothing, Jay.” You shook your head, blinking away the tears that fell. “That’s the worst part. Nothing at all.”

You avoided Jason Todd like the plague after that. No matter how much you mourned his face and playful smile. His flurries of texts and calls went unanswered until they slowly thinned out. Never stopping, but as the summer turned to autumn, there were less and less of them.

You could tell it broke him as much as it broke you.

You hardly left the house after that fateful day. Everything seemed to remind you of him and his stupid voice. You didn’t want to run the risk of seeing him because you knew the second you did you would break down again completely.

Your father stopped by occasionally. He would tell you that he was proud of you but you knew he was just trying to manipulate you back into his little copy of himself. You swore to yourself that you wouldn’t go back there, but after a short while you grew desperate. Perhaps it was because you had grown bored of staring at the same blank spot in the wall and the empty space on your bed, or perhaps it was because you secretly hoped that you would catch a glimpse of that infamous red suit.

It seemed that your wishes do come true.

You heard the fighting from around the corner. The cacophony of fists finding their marks. When you rounded the corner you saw him. The red of his suit outlined by the dark of the black to contrast. Your first thought was to run. To bolt back down the alleyway. But you weren’t a coward. You had had enough of hiding. You longed to see him and this was your chance. Red Hood was loosing.

With one swift action, you leaped towards the thugs grabbing one and sending her careening towards the ground. Red Hood had to do a double take when he saw the flash of your suit in the light. But there was no doubt that it was you. After months you had appeared.

Motivated by you appearance it didn’t take long of the two of you to take out the thugs. And when the last one dropped to the ground. Your first thought was to run. But then he said your name and you were glued in place. God you had longed to hear that voice.

“Y/N? Y/N please look at me” you had never heard so much softness in Jason’s voice before. He too was scared.

He was right behind you. Close enough to touch. You could sense him. His hands itching to reach out and gather you up in his arms.

Slowly you turned around to face him and your gaze met his for the first time in months. And his heart wanted to break. Jason had always been good at reading people, but he could see the whirlwind of emotions swirling in your gaze.

“I'm sorry.” You blurted out.

Jay hummed. Although he would never admit how much he had hurt during your absence, he had a feeling that you weren’t not thinking properly and had likely been influenced by someone else. The fear in your eyes confirmed his suspicions. “I know.” Jason wanted to reach out and snatch you up to pull into his embrace. “I know it was your father.”

You felt as if the whole world had been lifted off of your chest when he breathed out those words.

“Truly, I didn’t want to do it, Jay. But he threatened to- I couldn’t let him hurt you.” Your voice broke and your lips trembled as your eye filled with tears. And that was the final straw for the vigilante. He took another step forward and wrapped you up in a tight hug. He had missed you so much.

“Shh.” He hushed. “I forgive you.”

You sniffled looking up at him. “Really?”

“Of course I do.” He nodded, tucking your head under his chin. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me too.” You muttered.

“So what do you say?” He asked. “You want to give this another go?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Oh darling, I would trade the world for one night with you.”

And with that, Jason Todd leaned down and kissed you once more.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

BATFAM TAGS:

@hearts4robs

@hell-o-kittys

@xxrougefangxx

@aestheticdasies

@mamapucket

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

side note in case it bothers anyone: I'm somewhat aware that Bane has a daughter canonically, which is sort of why I went with him. If you wanted to you could interpret this as the reader also being created in a lab, or being his biological daughter (how I imagined it) but it doesn't really matter. I also chose bane because I didn't want to go with the joker again, but this this also doesn't really matter as the reader kinda just becomes her own villain.

#batfam x reader #Jason Todd x Reader #dc #batfam #dc x reader #Batfamily x reader #enemies to lovers #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #red hood #red hood x reader

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andvys · 10 months

Text

Love of my life | E.M.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, slight angst, Eddie is a little mean for a second but he makes it up to reader right away, happy ending, grumpy!Eddie x sunshine!reader

Pairing: Eddie Munson x female reader

Summary: Eddie gives you the cold shoulder because he fears his feelings for you after you confront him and he realizes that he could lose you, he makes a confession. Based on this request, also combined it with this one.

Word count: 4.2k+

stranger things masterlist

Eddie had always been good at reading people, it always came easy to him to see right through someone else’s intentions. He knows when someone is trying to play with his feelings, he knows when someone pretends to be nice only to make fun of him later on, he knows when he gets asked out for a bet or just for the fun of it, he knows that the girls he sells weed to only play nice so they can get a discount– in reality, they hate him and think he is weird, he knows it, he knows everything.

It was always hard for him to trust people that tried coming into his life, knowing that they always wanted something from him.

Then, you came along.

Your family moved to Hawkins two years ago and you settled in pretty quickly. You joined the cheer squad, befriended the popular girls, went to every single party that you got invited to, hung out with King Steve and his then girlfriend Nancy Wheeler, you always wore fancy clothes, expensive boots and designer leather jackets, it was pretty clear that your parents had money.

But you weren’t– aren’t stuck up, rude and snotty like Jason Carver or his group of friends are. You don’t brag about the wealth your parents have, the house you live in, the car you drive or the clothes you wear. You don’t put others down, you don’t bully people, you don’t look down at the ones that have less than you do. No, you aren’t like the other rich kids in school, you are kind and sweet, you are helping, always cheerful and there to make everyone smile.

The popular girls are always feared, you aren’t.

He likes you but he struggles to show it, he struggles to let you in because despite knowing about the things he can clearly see, he struggles to read you, to see through you and your intentions.

He knows you aren’t like the others that came into his life to play with his feelings, to hurt him and take something from him, you aren’t like any of those hungry vampires that came just to suck the energy out of him. You are not like them. Yet, he struggles to give you a chance.

Despite being friends with girls from the cheer squad or guys like Steve Harrington, you always come back to him. Since your very first day in school, you have been trying to befriend Eddie. Why? He doesn’t know. As far as he knows, there isn’t much that you have in common.

Eddie lives in the trailer park, you live in a big house with a pool. Eddie drives an old van, you drive an expensive car, Eddie is hated, you are loved. Maybe it’s superficial of him to judge by these things. He doesn’t know much about you personally, he never even gave you a chance, he never gave himself the chance to get to know more about you. He was scared to do it. He was scared to let you in, to give you a part of him that no one ever gets, to be vulnerable and risk getting his heart broken, knowing that you would break his heart if he gave you the chance to.

He likes you, despite telling himself that he doesn’t. He likes the clothes you wear, he loves the leather jacket especially, he loves the cute dresses and the pretty skirts, the rings on your finger that remind him of the ones his mom would always wear, there is one on your middle finger, one with an emerald stone, it’s almost identical to the one he still has in his drawer, hidden in a little box that has her belongings. He loves the way your nails are always painted a new color every week. He loves your sweet perfume and the way it fills his senses when you walk past him, he loves the way you do your makeup and the way you always greet him with a smile even when he doesn’t give a proper one back.

But he hates the way his heart flutters when you sneak notes into his locker or into the pocket of his jacket during class– he keeps every single one of them, he hates the way his heart beats faster when your hand brushes his when he walks with you to your next class on a rare occasion, he hates the way butterflies fill his stomach when you wave at him from across the room despite sitting with the girls from the cheer squad, the ones that always glare at him and talk in hushed whispers when they pass by him in the hallways. He hates the way you keep trying to get to know more about him, he hates the way you get along with the guys from the Hellfire club, he hates the way Wayne asks about you after he only met you once when you brought over homework for Eddie after he missed a school day when he was sick. Eddie hates the way you always take over his mind, the way you are always there, even in his dreams, the way you sneaked your way into his heart.

You are everywhere. When he doesn’t see you in school, he runs into you at the record store, at the diner or even the hideout. One night when he was drunk on beer and high on weed, his filter was gone and he let his emotions out, he found the note you slipped into his locker, the one that had your number written on it with your nickname and a small heart, he called you– if he wasn’t so drunk, he would have heard how cheerful your voice had gotten when you realized that it was him. He invited you to watch him play and you agreed to come right away. Ever since then, you came every Tuesday to watch him play and cheer him on, his friends teased him for it, just like the Bartender who knew Eddie since he was seventeen. Eddie pretended to be annoyed but he secretly loved that you were there just for him.

He started warming up to you, the longer you stuck around, though he was still apprehensive and careful, still expecting you to reveal that your kindness towards him was only a part of a huge prank. Deep down he knew that it wasn’t the case, you have been there for longer than anyone else has, yet he was scared and continued to close himself off from you not realizing that he was hurting you.

You are always smiling, you are always cheerful and happy, sometimes it irritates him– not because he doesn’t like it but because it makes him feel guilty for being so grumpy when you are nothing but sweet to him.

The closer you both get, the more he becomes a part of your life. He finds out more about you and realizes that you have much more in common than he thought, he finds some cassettes of his favorite bands in your room, his favorite book on your bedside table, you both share a love for horror movies– especially Halloween. He finds out that you can play guitar and he swore, the moment he saw you play and heard your pretty voice, he fell in love.

But while you let him in closer, he still kept pushing you away and it was hurting you.

“Do you have any plans for spring break?”

Eddie shakes his head, leaning back in his seat, he places the empty milkshake glass on the table and looks around the diner before his eyes settle on you, “no, what about you?”

You shake your head, “not really,” you mumble.

Eddie doesn’t notice the sad look in your eyes, he is only focused on the smile on your face, the one he doesn’t realize is fake.

“Rich and popular girl has no plans for the summer?” He snorts.

You restrain yourself from rolling your eyes, you never minded his little jabs or snarky remarks but lately it’s been getting on your nerves. Why are you here? Why are you still sticking around when he clearly doesn’t want to spend time with you? He never wants you around, anyways. He only came to the diner because Gareth and Jeff canceled their plans with him and you were already here when he got here.

“I mean I’ve been asked on a date,” you shrug as you play with your straw, staring at the pink liquid in your glass, you don’t notice the way his face falls or the way he tenses up and swallows harshly.

“A-A date?” He asks.

You nod.

Eddie stares at your black nails, at your pretty makeup and your soft red lips that always look so kissable to him, your dress is new, he wonders if you put it on for someone or just for yourself.

“Who asked you out?” He asks, digging his nails into his palms.

“Mason,” you mumble as you finally look up at him, “you know, the guy from the school band?”

Eddie clenches his jaw, suddenly his chest tightens and an ugly feeling rushes through him. He doesn’t want you to go on a date with someone else, he doesn’t want to see you with someone else, you are meant to be here, with him.

“Yeah, I know him.” And he can’t even hate him, Mason is nice, not just to you but also to him and everyone else, his dad owns the record store downtown, the one Eddie always goes to, Mason works there after school and he always gives him discounts and even supports his band.

“S-So are you going?” Eddie asks, nervously.

As you look into Eddie’s eyes, you notice something that you haven’t seen there before. Possessiveness, jealousy and sadness. Maybe you should feel joyful to know that he hates the thought of you going on a date but it angers you and it makes you scoff in annoyance.

Eddie keeps giving you the cold shoulder, he keeps pushing you away, he keeps treating you with halfhearted kindness while you give him nothing but love and kindness.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like him like that.” Because you like someone else.

The tension leaves his body right away and he sighs in relief, his face visibly relaxes and he chuckles, “thought I’d lose my favorite girl.”

On a different occasion, it would have made your heart flutter and your smile would be big but not today. Today, you are overwhelmed by your emotions, the realization that you have fallen in love with him, laid heavy on your heart because you know that he doesn’t feel the same and that it will only end badly for you.

“Right,” you scoff as you tear your gaze away from him and reach for your purse, taking out your small wallet, you pick out the $20 bill and place it on the table, “like you would care.”

Your sudden outburst and the snappy tone in your voice catches him off guard a little, you have never snapped at him before, you have never glared at him, you have never rolled your eyes at him, you have never walked away from him.

But now, he frowns in confusion and watches you rush out of the diner with your purse and jacket in your hand, not even sparing a single glance at him before you push the door open and walk out.

“What the hell,” Eddie mumbles, jumping to his feet and running after you without a moment of hesitation. He rushes out of the diner, running through the parking lot before you can get into your car. Just as you open the door, he reaches for your arm and pulls you back, shutting the door before he pushes you up against your car and steps right in front of you.

Your eyes widen a little when you realize just how close he is to you, you have never been this close.

“What’s gotten into you?”

You put your hands on his chest and try to push him away but he won’t budge, he grabs your wrists and holds them tightly but gently.

“Let me go!”

“No, tell me what’s your problem, why are you acting so rude? You’ve been doing it all night.”

“Oh, I’m rude?” You scoff as you keep trying to push him away, “you are the rude one!”

He chuckles at your words and shakes his head, “you are the one who just stormed out for no reason.”

You furrow your brows as you look up at him. His eyes are filled with curiosity and his lips are pulled into a smirk, he irritates you. You’ve had enough of this, of him giving you the cold shoulder, of him teasing you, knowing damn well that you have feelings for him.

“I mean in general, Eddie! You are always cold towards me, you always act annoyed when you’re with me even when you are the one coming to me!” You say angrily, tears well up in your eyes.

Eddie’s smirk begins to fade when he sees the tears in your eyes.

“Whenever I’m at the hideout, I’m there just for you and you don’t even seem to want me there, not even when you were the one who asked me to come in the first place!”

For the first time, Eddie watches tears roll down your cheeks, the look in your eyes is one of anger and sadness but also longing. You are longing for him. You are longing for him to apologize to you, to pull you into his arms and tell you that he will do better but he can’t, not when he messed up so bad, not when you are crying because of him already.

The angel on his shoulder tells him to apologize but the devil tells him to push you away the way he should’ve done a long time ago, for your sake or his? He doesn’t know.

“A-At first, I didn’t even care that you were being s-so cold but now it just hurts. I wanna be your friend but you make it so damn hard,” you whisper as you try to blink your tears away, “you know everything about me but I don’t know anything about you–”

“Is that what you want?” Eddie asks, “to know things about me?”

His brown eyes flash with anger, his voice is laced with bitterness. He lets go of your hands and takes a step back.

“So you can make fun of me, right? You wanna know things about my family, about my dad? About what he did to my mom?” He snaps, “that’s what you wanna know? So you can run back to your asshole friends and tell them all about the trailer trash gossip?”

Your bottom lip quivers and your shoulder slump, a look of disappointment crosses your features. You would never do this, you don’t even consider those people your friends and he knows it, yet he can’t stop himself from spewing all those ugly words to you.

“That’s why you kept running after me and that’s why you stuck around for so long, right?” Eddie asks, “tell me, was it a bet? Did they set you up to this?”

You shake your head, the wind picks up a little, blowing through your hair and messing up your bangs a little, you don’t bother pushing them away, you keep staring at him through your blurry vision.

That’s what he thinks of you?

You have given him nothing but kindness, you dropped some of the people you used to call friends, because you realized how badly they treated him, because he is more important to you than anyone else.

You stare at him in disbelief, his eyes that usually give you comfort despite the coldness he only ever gives you, make you shudder in pain, his lips are set in a frown, his skin looks pale beneath the moonlight and you hate yourself for thinking that he is still the most beautiful person you have ever laid your eyes on. You hate yourself for still longing for him and you hate yourself for loving him when he clearly hates you so much.

“Why would you think that?” You whisper shakily as you clutch your purse tighter.

He blinks, he shifts a little, taking in the sight of your tear stained face, the hurt in your eyes and the quivering lip, your voice sounding so heartbroken.

He was wrong but he knew that already, he doesn’t know why he is ruining things for himself, why he is hurting you so much.

He hesitates, his hands itching to reach out to you and pull you into his arms, to hold you and hug you for the first time but he can’t.

“You’re my friend, I dropped them all because I realized how awful they all were, especially to you! You’re important to me, Eddie. And I would do anything for you, anything! I-I knew you never wanted me around but I tried because I wanted you so badly, I really really wanted you and I kept running after you like some lovesick fool but it was for nothing,” you whisper, watching the way his eyes widen at your words, he stares at you in disbelief.

Lovesick? He wishes he could speak now but all he does is stare at you in shock.

Your one sided friendship is over, you don’t have to keep any of those secrets that you thought would ruin this thing between you anymore.

“I love you, Eddie,” you whisper, biting back the sob that rises up in your throat.

His lips part in surprise and his heart leaps to his throat as tears well up in his eyes just the way they did in yours. You are telling the truth, you have always been telling the truth.

He built walls around him to defend himself from all the pain that you could cause him if you broke his heart but right now as he stands here in front of you and he looks into your soft eyes, he realizes just how big of a fool he always was.

You would never break his heart. You love him. Why? He doesn’t know. You are this sweet angel that waltzed into his life and chose to give all her love to the guy that didn’t even know how to accept it.

He doesn’t deserve you, at least that’s what he thinks.

Your sniffles break him out of his trance, his heart breaks at the sight of you. He made you cry, he broke your heart. The girl that has done nothing but bring joy into his life is now crying because he messed it up.

You wipe your tears and turn away from him, you open the door and throw your purse and your jacket into the car.

“Goodbye, Eddie,” you whisper.

Panic fills his chest and his eyes widen as he looks at you. You are leaving. You are leaving him. His heart screams at him to do something, to pull you into him, to wrap his arms around you, to kiss you and apologize over and over again, to make it up to you.

His heart starts beating faster, his hands begin to shake.

He can’t let you go, he can’t let his stupid fears control him, he can’t keep listening to the lies, his anxiety keeps telling him about you, he can’t keep doing this to you.

“I love you too!”

It was loud and probably a little dramatic but he doesn’t care, he finally said it. A huge weight falls off his shoulders and suddenly he feels free.

You freeze, shock ripples through you and you stare into blank space for a moment.

Eddie takes a step forward, staring at the back of your head with a soft look in his eyes, he reaches for your arm and he slowly turns you around so he can see your face again. When your eyes finally lock, you notice the adoration in them, one that you have never seen before because he always hid it from you.

“I love you, y/n,” he whispers softly as he tugs you closer, he raises his hands towards your face and cups your cheek slowly, touching you the way he never did before– he should have done it a long time ago, “please don’t leave me,” he whispers with a hint of fear in his voice.

You stare at him wide eyed.

“I know you wouldn’t do any of those things,” he whispers as he strokes your cheek, “I-I was just, fuck, sweetheart, I’m scared.”

“Of what, Eddie?”

“Of this,” he whispers, pointing between the two of you, “y-you’re so perfect and amazing, you do all these things for me. You support the band that no one gives a fuck about, for fucks sake! A-And I’m just a–” he pauses, sighing, “I’m the town freak!”

“Yeah and I freaking love you!”

His heart flutters in his chest, warmth fills his body, a kind he has never felt before.

“Why?” He asks softly.

You grab his wrists and step closer to him so your chest is pressed against his, “you are perfect, Eddie. You are so talented in so many ways, you are so good to the people around you, you protect your friends, you are always there when someone needs you and you always made me feel safe, even when you kind of acted like a dick. You are better than any of these people living in this shitty town, you are better than those assholes you called my friends! Y-You are just perfect to me, Eddie,” you pause, raising your hand towards his face, you brush away the curls from his face, “and you’re not a freak, by the way.”

A tear rolls down his cheek and you quickly wipe it away, letting your hand rest on his cheek, “and you’re so beautiful, Eddie.”

His heart soars at your words. He leans into your touch and closes his eyes for a moment. He could have had this for so long already but his fears have led him to push you away, to hurt you, to make you believe that you aren’t anything special to him. Like he didn’t create D&D characters based on you, like he didn’t have a bunch of drawings of you at home, like he didn’t spend every second thinking about you.

Like he isn’t utterly in love with you.

“Please forgive me for pushing you away, for saying all these horrible things to you, sweetheart,” he whispers as he opens his eyes again, “I-I know that I’m really fucking bad at showing this but, I’m so crazy about you, y/n.”

You smile at his words, blushing and biting back the excited giggle as your eyes shine with happiness again.

How could he ever be scared of you? You will never hurt him, you will never break his heart, you will never leave him. You will always be the one to stay, like he will be the one to stay with you.

“I’m crazy about you too, Eddie,” you whisper as you wrap your arms around him and place your head on his chest, hugging him the way you always craved to. He sighs at the feeling, this might be the best feeling in the world, feeling you in his arms. He spent so many moments thinking about this, finally, he gets to do it. He wraps his arms around you and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

It’s only the first time that you are in his arms, yet it feels so natural. You can feel his heart racing, it matches the beat of your own heart.

“This is so much better,” you murmur.

“Better than what?” He asks, squeezing your arms.

“Better than you being grumpy.”

“I’m sorry, sunshine,” he says as he pulls back so he can look at you again, cupping your cheeks again, he gives you a soft smile, “let me make it up to you?”

“I’d like that,” you whisper.

His eyes light up, he looks down at your lips and tucks your hair behind your ears, “you’re too good to me.”

You stand on your tippy toes and wrap your arms around his neck, “it’s what you deserve, Eddie, you deserve to be loved,” you whisper and lean in to kiss his cheek. His breath hitches in his throat, the feeling of your lips on his skin might make his knees weak, “so please, let me love you.”

He lets all his walls crumble, he lets the love in, your love. He smiles sweetly and whispers a desperate, ‘please’.

You kiss his other cheek and place your hand on his neck, “I’ll love you forever if you let me.”

“Only if you let me love you,” he says with hope in his eyes.

“It’s all I ever wanted,” you smile.

“Me too,” he admits, finally.

“I’ll love you forever, you’re gonna get sick of me,” Eddie says, making you giggle.

“I could never get sick of you, Eddie.”

“Good,” he smiles before he finally kisses you for the first time ever, letting himself fall into your arms completely, knowing that he and his heart will always be safe with you.

#Eddie #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson drabble #stranger things angst

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koifsssh · 10 months

Text

The Greaser Au!

(oh goodie! it's here!)

bwah, where to start?

long, long, long rambles below! (Beware!)

Wally! I'll start with Wally!

As you can imagine, Wally is the little leader of the group! Promptly dubbed after his last name, "The Darlings"! (how darling they are indeed!)

Wally had grown a fascination with the trend, though he didn't quite understand the need to act so tough and mean, so he decided to make his own group! (with the help of Barnaby!)

Motorcycles, catchy tunes, being free on the road is something everyone should enjoy! So who cares if you're big or small, or if you like the color pink? Anyone can be a greaser as long as they got a jacket and a bike to go along with it!

At least, that what he believes anyway!

Speaking of a certain beagle...

Barnaby!

Barnaby of course wanted to join in on the fun, and he very publicly advertised Wally's gang at his little comedy nights! (It did catch a certain blonde's attention!)

it did garner attention, with the way the beagle so affectionately told of Wally's endearingly comedic actions from their day to day life. Barnaby also helped Wally organize the entire set up, helping him get paint and base jackets for the painter to personalize! (He also suggested Poppy's diner as a hangout spot! He had it all thought out!)

Plus, it made his best friend happy! Who could ask for more? Well... maybe Barnaby would ask for a hotdog or two.

Julie!

Julie is a seasoned hair stylist! She owns her own hair salon! She's excellent at her job, however more often than not she gets a unpleasant customer.

Stress can pile up unfortunately, and when she attended a comedy show one evening she couldn't help but be ecstatic at such an idea of being free on the road. It felt like the perfect destresser!

Talking on the phone with Frank was great and all, but nothing compares to feeling the rush of wind in her hair... So she jumped at such an opportunity! And of course, Julie doesn't go anywhere without a certain frowny bookworm!

Frank!

Frank is an entomologist! (and a part-time librarian during the summertime!) A dream job really, but every dream comes with its hurdles! Similar to Julie, Frank found themself stressed. Usually books were able to decompress them, but lately they've been growing frustrated, the one thing they hate the most is incompetent writing!

It took a lot of convincing to get Frank to even consider the idea of being a greaser, let alone get on a motorcycle... but Julie can be very insistent when she wishes to be! Not even a week passed before they begged Julie to stop her nagging, but in exchange they had to at least go with her once on a motorcycle...

how mortifying.

However! the thrill of being on the open road at a high speed was something they never knew they needed! Needless to say, after that, they were hooked!

Sally!

Sally was the last member to join! and she took her spot quite quickly!

Sally had been in Poppy's diner when she saw The Darling's walk in, she was in awe! Colorful motorcycles? Matching jackets? They all looked marvelous! The star couldn't help herself when she walked up to them, simply starstruck at such a group!

They all looked to be having such fun... she wanted to take part!

When Sally asked if there was a spot left for her, Wally softly smiled at her and stated, "Anyone and everyone can join!"

She was content that day, and from then on, it really was the best group of friends she could ever ask for!

---

whew! im done!

(this is my second time typing this... i had lost it all the first time. bwah. but it's here!!!)

im quite happy how everything turned out! I think i'll use this as a master post of sorts, just so you don't have to dig through my stuff just to find anything specific!

I'll leave Poppy's & Howdy's explanations here! (Just know those designs are old! All the designs in this post are the ones i will be using!)

Poppy's Diner!

additionally! I will give you everyone's closeups!

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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 3 months

Text

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.

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

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pathologicalreid · 4 months

Text

clue | S.R.

in which penelope hosts a new year's eve party. with a murder mystery theme.

who? spencer reid x fem!journalist!reader

category: fluff, slice of life

content warnings: all of the characters are dressed as detectives. marriage, murder, mentions of blood, fireworks, slight descriptions of fake violence, reader wears a dress, this is very haphazardly proofread. very slightly suggestive in the beginning if you squint.

word count: 2.95k

a/n: happy new year's eve friends! this idea has been rotting in my brain since i read the prompt. i started with the idea that i wanted reader and kristy to win and a dream, and now here i am. it was genuinely so much fun to write. (and now i have spencer x journalist!reader brain rot) i always see people writing for these challenges but this is my first time participating!

i wrote this for @imagining-in-the-margins' office party challenge based on the prompt "Penelope planned a Murder Mystery party... with a bunch of criminal profilers. Great. (Bonus if a non-profiler wins)" thank you so much for this challenge!

“I have no idea why Penelope felt the need to rent an AirBnB for a New Year’s Eve party,” you whispered, getting out of the car along with Spencer. “Or why we had to dress in costume,” you said, pulling your shawl over your shoulders.

Gently reaching over, Spencer tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ears, “It’s a Penelope Garcia party, that means it’s a production. Additionally, this is the first New Year's Eve we’ve been in town in four years, which means there’s no need for an MHM.”

Grinning up at your fiancé, you responded, “There does seem to be a moratorium on violent crime this holiday season.” The best Christmas gift you received this year was finding Spencer sleeping in bed next to you when you woke up.

You watched him reach into the back of the car for his jacket. The costume description Garcia had given him was similar to what he wore on a normal day. You helped him pick out the brown sweater vest and matching tie, but he selected the rest of the ensemble. “Did I tell you that you look incredible?” He asked, pulling his jacket on.

“I believe those were the words that caused us to be fifteen minutes late, Dr. Reid,” you chided but smiled nonetheless when Spencer pulled you close and embraced you.

You felt him smile against your neck, “Worth it,” he whispered.

Dragging him by the arm, you stood on the porch and knocked on the door. Almost instantly, a familiar voice rang out, “You have to use the knocker!” Penelope called out.

Sighing, you rolled your eyes and took the bronze adornment in your hand and knocked it against the red-painted door. The heavy door swung open and you were greeted by Penelope Garcia, “Welcome Dr. Reid and Someday Mrs. Reid, to the New Year’s party that will, likely, be the New Year’s party to end all New Year’s parties.”

“I have no doubt, Pen,” you stepped forward and hugged her. “You look great, I love this color,” you told her, settling your hands on your shoulders. She wore a lime green button-down dress with an old-timey collar, and her blonde locks were pulled up into a French twist.

Spencer and Penelope greeted each other, and Garcia led the two of you to a sitting room, “Where did you find this house?” Spencer asked, walking in behind you.

She waved him off, “I am the master of all things Internet, I found it online and thought it was perfect.”

Your heels clicked as you followed the two of them. They were quicker, Penelope knew where she was going and Spencer naturally had a long stride, not to mention the restriction of your gown. “Perfect for what, exactly?” You inquired.

“A BAU Murder Mystery party!” She answered as if it was obvious.

A wolf whistle from the other side of the room caught your attention, you turned around to see Tara grinning at you, “Well how about you.”

Blushing, you spread the skirt of the red silk dress out and gave a fake curtsy, “Oh this? Just something I had lying around.” In reality, you borrowed the dress from a coworker. Its only fault was being just barely too long for you.

Once you observed Tara’s costume, an off-white button-up with brown suspenders and matching pants, the gears in your head clicked into place. “We’re dressed as characters from Clue?” You asked, looking at everyone’s costumes. It all suddenly made so much sense, you were Miss Scarlet, and Tara was meant to be Colonel Mustard.

“Well, there are only so many characters to choose from, so I needed some other detectives to choose from. I picked Nancy Drew, Spencer is Sherlock Holmes with Matt as his Watson, and Krystall is Jessica Fletcher from the renowned television show Murder She Wrote.” Penelope pointed at guests as she explained their outfits, “Kristy is Daphne of the differently renowned television show Scooby Doo, and Luke refused to dress up at Hercule Poirot.”

Your eyebrows raised up, “I didn’t know not dressing up was an option,” you admitted. Despite the weather being unseasonably warm, you were still cold in your dress.

Sending a pointed look in Luke’s direction, Penelope cleared her throat before responding, “It wasn’t.”

Putting a hand to his chest in mock hurt, Luke feigned shock, “I did dress up as a very famous detective. Matt Simmons of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“But does that really count as famous?” The man himself, Matt asked teasingly.

In response, Luke gestured around the room, “Everyone here has heard of him.”

You tuned the two of them out. When provided the time, the two of them could bicker for hours. You looked at everyone else’s costumes, the rest of the group was from the board game. Emily was Mrs. White, Rossi was Professor Plum, JJ was Mrs. Peacock, and Will was Mr. Green.

The BAU spent so much time sequestered solving crimes that it was a wonder to have the entire group here at the same time.

After effectively shushing Luke, Penelope made her way to the center of the room, “Okay, I know what you’re all thinking ‘Penelope, we spend all of our days solving murders, why would you plan a murder mystery party?’” She stood up straight, pushing her shoulders back, “Well, I’ll tell you, the idea for this party came to me when I had the flu last month.”

“Are you telling us this party was conceived from a fever dream?” Emily asked, she leaned forward in her all-white outfit, resting her elbows on her knees.

Pointing at Emily, Penelope grinned, “That is exactly what I am telling you, my dear. Now, let me set the stage for you.” She clapped and the lights went out, bringing everyone’s attention to a projector screen that had just lit up against the only bare wall in this room. “Our victim was a resident of this house. What’s her name? You might ask. Patricia Gomez, heiress to a large fortune and a company that makes socks.”

A quiet chuckle came from the other side of the room, “This is quite the fever dream.” You had to agree with Rossi, Patricia Gomez was an almost painfully uncreative name. Still, everyone went along with it.

“Save all questions until the end, please!” Penelope scolded, “I have folders made up for each of you, with information on where your characters all were at the time of the murder. Before attending this party, the killer was already notified of their status, they may try to fool you.”

You skimmed through the folder that the technical analyst had handed you, it looked like a real FBI folder, but you didn’t doubt that Garcia had resources to make realistic fake files. The body had been found, stabbed in the kitchen, the time of death set at noon.

Matt stood up first, reaching out his hand for Kristy to take, but they didn’t get far. “Oh no, no partnering with your partners,” Penelope said, laying down another rule for her party.

“What are you saying?” Spencer asked, looking between you and her. It was sweet knowing that he had wanted to team up with you, it reminded you of how you first met. The FBI profiler and the investigative journalist.

Garcia sighed, “If you are canoodling with someone, you may not investigate with them.”

You shrugged at Spencer and walked toward Kristy instead, “What do you say, Daphne? Shall we?”

“Oh, I think we shall,” Kristy responded, hooking her arm through yours.

“Hey,” Luke interrupted, “It’s not fair for the investigative journalist and the lawyer to be teamed up to solve a murder.”

Stopping in your tracks, you stared at him for a moment, “Luke, you work for the FBI. If anything, I think we’re at a disadvantage.”

Together, you and Kristy made your way to the kitchen, as you walked away you heard Luke ask Garcia to be his partner, the two of you laughed as she told him she wasn’t playing because, “Somebody has to keep things organized, Newbie!”

Looking around the kitchen, you found a chalk outline, but not much else. Of course, this wasn’t a real crime scene, there would be no blood, and for all you knew, Kristy was the killer.

“What are you thinking, Dave?” You asked Rossi, who had teamed up with JJ. Maybe a seasoned profiler would push you in the right direction.

He cocked his head like he was weighing his options, “Well, the folder says there were only four people in the building at the time of the murder, and only one of them was close enough to the kitchen to pull it off. Logically, the best option is Mrs. White.”

So, he thought Emily was responsible. You scrawled some notes down about the kitchen before you and Kristy decided to move to the bedroom, “It says Watson – Matt - was in the main bedroom at the time of the murder, Mrs. White – Emily - was in the pantry, Jessica Fletcher – Krystall – was in the basement, and Professor Plum – Rossi – was in the library,” you read from the file.

“Then Dave is right, Emily is the only one who was close enough to get to Patricia,” Kristy reasoned. There wouldn’t have been time for anyone else to commit the crime in between the time the body was found and the time of death. The timeline of events was very short.

You shrugged, “Then I guess we could probably go to the library until the timer runs out.” Picking up the skirt of your dress, the two of you left the bathroom and walked into the library. Leaning up against the shelves, you intertwined your fingers in front of you, “Do you have plans for the new year?” You asked Kristy, tilting your head.

She hummed, “A lot of our plans tend to change. You know, with Matt’s job and the kids, but we’d like to take some kind of vacation, even if it’s just a day trip.” She answered, brushing her long hair over her shoulder, “What about you?”

“Oh,” you said, “You know, getting married.” You answered, “Then we’re just planning on seeing where life takes us, I think. You’re right, it’s hard to plan around the job. I can’t imagine adding kids into the mix.” The thought gave you a whole new respect for Kristy – and Will, for that matter.

Kristy smiled, “Totally worth it, though.”

Laughing it off, you pushed yourself off of the shelving, “I think I’ll take your word for it,” you responded. “For now,” you added, looking around the library.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, following your gaze around the library.

Realizing this must be how the BAU feels all the time, you answered, “Something is bothering me about this case.” Kristy beckoned for you to go on, “They all solve crimes like this every day, so in order to make it fun for them, Penny would have to make it at least a little bit of a challenge, right?” You asked.

“You think it was too easy?” Kristy asked.

You started pacing around the library, along the front of the desk. “The answer being Emily is too easy. There has to be something more to it.”

“Well, the file says she had experienced a blow to the head shortly before her death. So, is it possible she was incapacitated somewhere else and then moved to the kitchen to be killed?” Kristy asked, flipping through the file, she was sat on top of the wooden desk.

Nodding, you looked at the generated picture of your fake victim. She wore a large ruby necklace, her hair was pinned up, but in the list of effects and evidence, a necklace was never mentioned. “Did you see a necklace in the kitchen?” You asked, flicking your eyes over in her direction.

Immediately, she shook her head you spun around to go back to the kitchen. Mid-spin the heel of your shoe hooked into the too-long fabric of your dress, causing you to tumble ungracefully to the floor. “Are you alright?” Kristy asked. Not for the first time tonight, you found yourself jealous of her shorter dress. Damned board game characters.

Groaning in response, you blinked in an attempt to reorient yourself. In your peripheral vision, something caught your eye: a necklace. “Kristy,” you whispered urgently, hoisting yourself up into a sitting position before reaching over to grab the gold chain. It was crusted with something red that you could only hope was ketchup. Unless Penelope was taking this game way too seriously.

You lifted the chain curiously. “That’s the necklace that Patricia was wearing when she died!” Kristy exclaimed, “But that means…”

“Rossi did it,” you said from the floor. “And he tried to fool us with his poker face.”

Setting the necklace on the desk, you reached down to take your heels off. Kristy spoke, “Do you think the necklace is enough evidence for us to make our case?”

Raising your eyebrows, you looked up at her, “I don’t know. You’re the lawyer, do you think it’s enough evidence?”

She nodded, “I think the evidence pointing to Emily is circumstantial, but this necklace has substance to it. And no one else has gone through the library, so at the very least we’ll have a unique answer.”

You grinned, “I like the way you think, Mrs. Simmons.” You reached out your hand and she helped you up, “Let’s go show these FBI agents how it’s done.” The two of you headed back to the sitting room.

The room was full when you got there, “Ah, I thought we were going to have to send out a search party for the two of you!” Penelope said, “Sit, sit, I’m sure we have some excellent conclusions to go through.” She handed the both of you glasses of wine before you sat down next to each other on the velvet chaise lounge.

Honestly, it reminded you of grade school. When your teacher would go through the answers on the homework, only for you to find that, somewhere, you had done something terribly wrong. By the time it got to you and Kristy, half of the people said it was Emily, almost half had said it was Matt, and one person said it was Kristy.

Nonetheless, the two of you stood up and announced your conclusion, “it was Rossi,” you said in unison.

“First, we met with David in the kitchen, and we asked him what he thought,” you said. “He could’ve said no, he could’ve said something else, but he told us how he thought Emily Prentiss was the killer.” You explained, “Now, as extremely professional detectives, we know that frequently, killers can’t help but insert themselves into the investigations.”

Lifting her hand in a waiting gesture, Kristy continued, “But we heard him out, and we trusted his conclusion. Until we didn’t, that is.” She said, “After some more expert investigation, we went to the library, where Rossi had claimed to have been at the time of the murder. It was there that my partner discovered the victim's necklace. It was broken as if it had been torn off of her neck, and there was blood on the chain.”

“This is combined with the report that the victim had experienced a blow to the head before she died, which could’ve easily been inflicted by the corner of the very desk I discovered the necklace beneath,” you resumed. “We propose that David Rossi, otherwise known as Professor Plum, incapacitated the victim in the library, before moving her to the kitchen so he could claim he had no part in her death.”

Rossi looked up at Penelope, who grinned and nodded, “I didn’t even realize I had done that in the kitchen earlier. Are you by chance looking for a new line of work?” He asked, getting a chorus of laughter in response.

“For my two winners,” Garcia said, her smile still bright as she draped two medals around your and Kristy’s necks. “Thank you, everyone, so much for playing this game. I know it’s hard to see it as a game when it all feels so real, but I appreciate you for separating fact and fiction for tonight.”

It was Luke who responded first, “Of course.”

“But maybe,” Rossi said, raising his wine glass in his hand, “Maybe next year we’ll just do a normal party.”

Tara raised her glass in response, “If you’re hosting, I’m attending.”

You nodded, concurring, “Far be it from me to miss a BAU party.”

Behind you, Spencer loosely wrapped his arm around your waist, “It’s almost the new year.”

“Aha!” Penelope said, “I have one last surprise for all of my favorite people! If you’ll just follow me out to the deck, we’ll be able to see the fireworks from here!”

Outside, the cool air bit at your bare skin. Ever the gentleman, Spencer draped his jacket over your shoulders. Grateful for the warmth, you pushed your arms through the sleeves and turned to face him, “You know, we’ve been together for years, but this will be our first New Year’s kiss.” You said, studying his face, every detail that you’ve come to know over the past few years.

Distantly, you heard the rest of the group counting down, but you were too focused on Spencer. “It won’t be our last, though,” he promised.

You grinned up at him, “As long as we get to go to the BAU party, Sherlock.”

“Of course,” he whispered, leaning down to press his lips to yours. “Happy New Year, Miss Scarlett.”

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