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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 3 months

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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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gffa · 6 days

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I have a lot of thoughts about the Watcher move and I get why they did it. I've kind of half-suspected something like this would happen, because I don't think their current business model is growing enough to make it profitable for them to keep the staff they have, not with the kind of videos they put out and they've been clear that they want this to be their livelihood and a genuine production studio. But the big production videos like this just cannot survive on YouTube, unless you're like Mr. Beast or a very few other creators. And the reason big production companies like Mythical or Smosh can survive on YouTube is because they're putting out videos EVERY DAY pretty much, they keep the average costs down. And even Mythical has talked about how their views have plateaued, Rhett and Link have talked repeatedly about how they're constantly trying new things and can't really pursue them if they're not a massive hit because they're beholden to only having resources for things that won't lose them money. It took them twenty years to get to a place where they could finally say, "Fuck it, we're doing what we want, because we're secure enough to take the hit, if it comes to that." Watcher in contrast is making more high level production shows, a lot of research into a single episode (rather than something that can be used for multiple episodes), expensive location shoots, etc. And so I think they looked to Dropout as a business model that might work for them. But the thing is that I'm not sure they have a strong enough roster to pull it off. Puppet History and Ghost Files are both hits, but I'm not sure any shows that aren't centered on Ryan and Shane have ever really taken off? Maybe Worth It or Dish Granted? Meanwhile, Dropout has the whole D20 lineup and Game Changer is a huge hit (also possibly Make Some Noise?)(I'm judging by how many shows I see cross my dash, which may not be the best metric, tbf) but they have a huge cast to work with and their model relies heavily on how much of the D20 stuff they put out in volume. So, I get why Watcher did this, in some ways, I kind of agree that it might have been the only move for them if they wanted to do this long-term. And I think it's important to them that, the whole reason they left Buzzfeed was because they wanted to do their own stuff, their own passion projects, rather than just what Buzzfeed deemed a viral hit. And their YouTube shows do mean being beholden to advertisers and only focusing on what will be as big a hit as possible, which is exactly what they wanted to get away from. I'm just not sure it'll work because they can't put out enough content that enough people would want to pay for. I kinda wish they'd gone the Mythical route instead, where they put up the behind the scenes stuff and special series on their own site and had tiers of membership for people who wanted to access them, while keeping the main shows on YouTube. (But I guess that's basically what they were doing with the Patreon exclusive videos and it must not have been a big enough draw to keep going the way they did.) I think they probably felt like this was the only route forward for them long-term, that it was either this or they would have to dissolve the company, but I'm just not sure I believe that it can work. I love the shows, but I'm not getting a subscription service for a roster of shows where I watch like three of the shows.

#lumi.txt #watcher

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echobx · 11 days

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not my type - Rafe Cameron x plus size!fem!reader

summary: you meet Rafe at a bar and he starts flirting with you. little do you know that he's also the reason you are in the obx at all because you are taking care of a business deal for your dad

warnings: swearing, smut (p in v (protected), face sitting, dirty talk)

word count: 3k

author's note: for my wifey @notdxbya <3 also, I'm aware that Rafe is a little ooc here, that's because I pictured him after Ward is dead, and he has gotten clean and is healthy and taking care of business. that's all. this is my first time actually writing Rafe and I'm lowkey scared lol

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You are sitting at a bar and the guy a few seats over keeps looking at you. Usually when guys looked at you, they did it with a kind of disgust, but he looked more intrigued than anything. “What's your issue, asshat,” you scoff without looking at him, downing your drink. “Nothing, just looking,” he shrugs his shoulders, a smirk playing on his pink lips. “You're not my type,” you say, eyeing him carefully. The short light blonde hair, muscles covered by a flimsy linen button down, gold rings bejeweling his long fingers. “Shame. You aren't mine either,” he replies, but he licks his lips; his eyes darting down to your cleavage. Boobs pressed together in a red corset. “That why you keep looking?” you laugh and gesture at the bartender to get you another drink.

“Where are you from?” the guy asks while getting up and walking over to you, taking the seat next to yours. He’s tall, taller than any guy you'd ever been with. “Not from here,” you smile cheekily and take a sip from your drink. “I figured,” he laughs, and it sounds genuine. “I'm Rafe, by the way.” “Y/n,” you reply, taking his hand that he's holding out for you to shake. “So, what are you doing here?” he asks. “I don't know if I should share such information with a stranger,” you whisper. “Stranger? We're on a first name basis already, sugar.” “Sugar?” you lift an eyebrow, and he rubs his jaw, maybe to show defeat, but you're not sure. “Guess, I'm too cocky for you.” “No, I like it when guys know what they want. But as we've already established, we're not each other's type,” you remind him.

“And what is your type?” he asks, leaning against the bar and looking at you through his blue eyes. “I'm not into blonde guys,” you say and take another drink. “I know why I'm not your type, not even hard to figure that one out. It's always the same with guys like you.” “Guys like me?” He seems offended by your assumption, but you elaborate anyway. “Guys who live off daddy's money, who spent their whole days golfing or fucking; preferably a different skinny bitch every single day. Guys who think they are the epitome of humanity,” you say, not really paying as much attention to his wonder struck face as you should. “Guys like you would never go out with a girl like me, because social standards are the only thing you ever believed in.” “Interesting. Are you always this shallow or do I have to go dye my hair?” he jokes. “I speak from experience,” you look at him, and he purses his lips for a moment before emptying his glass. “Just a year earlier and you might've been spot on there, sugar.” “I'm rarely wrong,” you whisper. “What changed?” “My dad died.” “My condolences.” “It's okay, I'm over it by now,” he shakes his head lightly. “I see,” you look away and let the uncomfortable silence settle between the two of you.

“Are you gonna tell me where you're from?” he asks. “You can guess. Got a free pass on it after my half right assumptions,” you smile, and he reciprocates it, adding a little huff. “All right. You're on vacation, no boyfriend, and you're just looking for a little fun.” You laugh loudly. “You just described literally every girl in this bar. Try a little harder, darling.” “Okay, fine. You're from the city. You know what you want and are not afraid to take it.” “Warmer, but still not there,” you wink at him. “Okay, help me out here, sugar,” he sighs defeated. “Just give me one weirdly specific one, doesn't have to be correct, just try it,” you search his eyes for a second before looking away again. “You made a completely wrong assumption about a stranger based on your insecurities.” His words hit you hard and raw, but you didn't let it show. “Enlighten me, then,” you challenge him, and he leans in to whisper in your ear. “You don't think I think you're hot, when the opposite is the case.” Your heart starts pounding in your chest, and you feel the all too familiar heat rise in your cheeks and stomach. Clearing your throat, you down your drink, immediately asking for another one. “Didn't expect that one, did’ya,” he taunts. “Shame that you're not my type,” you flip your hair to the side, running your fingertips over the edge of the glass in front of you. “I could change your mind on that,” he suggests. “I'm not keeping you from trying,” you chuckle, and the next few hours are spent with shameless flirting and drinking.

The next day you get yourself ready for a meeting. You are supposed to meet with some rich asshole and work out a deal that will benefit both his and your dad's company. You get to the meeting early, making sure that your suit fits and checking your makeup in the restroom before letting the receptionist lead you to the conference room. “Mr. Cameron will be with you in a bit,” she tells you, eyeing you wearily before stepping away. You set up your laptop and the paperwork, but the man is late, something you have always hated. You walk to look out the window and onto the sea when you hear the door open and someone walks in. “Thank you for taking some time and waiting for me, there was an incident in the office that I needed to take care of,” he says and sits down without looking at you and not seeing the shocked expression on your face. Rafe looks even hotter in the suit than he had the night before, and you hate that you even think of him like that. “No problem,” you smile and walk behind him to your seat when his head perks up. “You-” the words seem to be stuck in his throat. “I'm supposed to take care of this deal since my father has an important appointment in New York that came in just yesterday,” you explain. “I see. We should get to it then,” he nods and after three hours of extensive discussion you have finally come to a mutual agreement that you know will be to your father's liking.

“Why didn't you mention any of this last night?” he asks. “If I had known your last name, I would've. But also, you should update your website. I was prepared to meet with someone else, your dead father, I presume.” “Yes, I should,” he mumbles. “Good,” you nod and pack your things together, wanting to leave and get back home as quickly as possible. “Do you like dinner?” he blurts out just as you are about to step out of the room. “Who doesn't?” you smirk. “Would you go out with me?” Rafe asks more directly, and you bite your cheek before nodding. “Good, I'll pick you up later. You're staying at the Country Club, right?” he asks and you nod again. “Perfect. 8pm, I won't be late,” he smiles, and you laugh a little while stepping out and walking.

The evening came quicker than you expected, and you found yourself sitting opposite Rafe at a fancy restaurant. “Are you always trying this hard for a hookup?” you ask bluntly, and he nearly chokes on his steak. “Excuse me?” “You heard me pretty well,” you say and take a bite of your food. “I usually don't, no,” he finally answers, nipping on his wine. “You're very direct.” “That something bad?” you cock an eyebrow and he shakes his head. “No. It's nice, like a fresh breath even. Dating is rather boring when you've lived in the same spot your whole life.” “Never had any issues with it to be honest, at least when it comes to the diversity of it.” “Hardly comparable, New York and Kildare,” he notes. “So, this is a date?” you question, and he smiles to hide the light blush that creeps on his cheeks. “Would your dad be okay with you dating a business partner?” “My dad isn't here, and we don't know if this is a date yet,” you counter, and he puts his hands up in defense. “I'm not about to ruin a good deal is all I'm saying.” “Well, you're still not my type, so it's probably better anyway.” “Right,” he mumbles and gets back to eating.

After some time you find back to a more easy-going manner, just like you had the night before. But the more he flirts with you, the less you can remember why you had initially not had any interest in him.

“I just have one question,” you say as you stand next to him in the elevator that leads you down to the garage where he had parked. “And?” “Have you ever even been with anyone like me?” you eye him wearily as he's towering next to you. “No, but there's always a first time round, right?” In a split second decision you pull him down by his collar and kiss him. His lips are soft and warm and his tongue is dancing with your own, his hands are grabbing your ass harshly. You would continue to make out with him if the elevator doors didn't open to let in a few more people. It was unnecessary to pretend like nothing had happened because he has your lipstick all over his face, and you put your hand in front of your mouth to hide your wide grin.

Rafe drives like a maniac, but you don't mind it while his hand is holding onto your thigh, squeezing harshly. “I don't think that's the right way,” you tell him, but he just smiles at you and keeps driving without saying anything. You come up to a mansion, and he parks out front and helps you out, like a true gentleman. “That your place?” you ask and he nods. “Thought you might want a little more privacy,” he says and leads you inside.

The marble floors are pretty but nothing compared to the ones in your apartment on the Upper East Side. “Cute,” you note. “Wanna show me around a little?” You are aware that he wants nothing more than to just drag you upstairs, but you like how desperate he looks, and you'd like to keep looking at it even if just for a few more minutes. “Uh, sure,” he sighs and leads you around, showing you the kitchen and living room before going upstairs. “That's the office and over there's the-” “Bedroom?” you interrupt him and he smirks. “Yes, unless you'd rather see the whole estate and the boats and-” You cut him off with a kiss, feeling him smile against your lips.

The two of you stumble backwards into the room, helping him take off his shirt before pushing him onto the bed. “I don't like selfish assholes,” you state firmly, slowly opening the buttons of your blouse. “Understood.” He props himself up on his elbows and admires you as you strip for him, leaving nothing but your lingerie on your body. “You still think you can handle this?” You straddle him in his seat and he gulps but nods. His hands rub over your body, over every single curve that you had once been insecure about. “God you're hot,” he hums and starts kissing your tits, sucking on the nipple while his hand is kneading the other. You start rutting against him, his dick twitching under you.

“Can I sit on your face, darling?” you ask a little unsure about his answer but the enthusiastic yes he gives you makes you even more aroused than you already were. You stand, and he pulls your slip down, starting to kiss your stomach and thighs. “Take your pants off, please,” you order and he does it before lying down.

You climb on top, and he harshly pulls you up to his face. Your weight rests on your thighs next to his head as you hover over him. “I’m not going to sit down completely if you don't want that. I'm not gonna be responsible for your death, darling.” “I'm gonna be all right, sugar,” he smirks and starts kissing your wet cunt. “God, you're wet for me, baby,” he moans desperately and pulls you down, thrusting his tongue into you and eating you out as if his life was dependent on it. With every lap of his tongue your orgasm grew closer, and you fell forward against the headboard, holding yourself up with your arms as you moaned and gasped. He sucks your clit into his mouth, making you scream with pleasure, and instinctively grind your pussy over his face as soon as he lets go again. He grabs your ass, practically forcing you to roll your hips into him and making his nose repeatedly nudge against your clit until you come undone on top of him. He keeps on eating you out until he has licked every last bit of your release from your sensitive cunt.

“Yeah, you're definitely not into blonde guys,” he laughs as you lie next to him, heavily panting. “Definitely.” You watch him grab a condom from the nightstand and a few moments later he's balls deep inside of you, filling you out like no one ever had.

“Jesus, fuck, you feel so good, sugar,” Rafe praises you. “Don't you fucking dare,” you moan as he hits your cervix, making you squirm under him. “Shit, you want me to be mean to you? I can do that,” he laughs and pulls out again, manhandling you onto your stomach and pulling your ass in the air. “That's the best ass in the fucking world, sugar,” he moans while pushing into you again. “Fuck, Rafe,” you scream because his thrusts hit even deeper in this position and his balls keep slapping against your clit. “You wanna act like a bitch, you gotta be able to take it,” he grunts, slapping your ass and making you whine. “More,” you beg, and he leans down to bite your waist. “Won't be able to wear anything revealing unless you want everyone to know how much of a slut you are being for me,” he growls and wraps your hair around his hand in a makeshift ponytail to pull your back flush to his chest. “What would your daddy say if he knew how we finalized his deal? If he knew that the only reason I went easy was because I wanted to rail his darling daughter. If he knew that I got to defile you.”

“Rafe,” you have tears in your eyes, but he’s nowhere close to stopping, and you really don't want him to ever stop. You love how full of him you feel. Rafe takes his hand and starts playing with your tits while the other comes down to rub your clit. “You wanna cum on my dick, sugar? Wanna make daddy proud?” You whine in response, and he stops touching you, pushing you back down and lying down on top of you. His thrusts are relentless and harsh while your make-up runs down your face. “Such a good slut for me. Might just keep you here as my personal sex slave. Would you like that, sugar?” His hot breath is on your ear, and you cry out as he goes to slap your thigh. “Answer me.” “Yes, Rafe. Am your slut. Only yours.” “Wasn't that hard, was it,” he groans and sits back up, pulling your ass back up with him.

He's still not stopping, and you don't know where he got that much stamina from because every time you try to crawl away from his dick he keeps pulling you back. "Tststs, don't you dare,” he admonishes and slaps you harsher each time. You're so close to cumming, but he won't let you, no matter how much you whine and beg. “I know you can take it. I'm not gonna let you cum until I'm done with you. A deal's a deal,” he laughs and fucks you even faster.

Your throat has gone sore from all the screaming and moaning when he finally starts playing with your clit again. “C’mon now, baby. Let go for me,” he hums and kisses your back softly and the band inside you snaps. You can't remember ever having had an orgasm like the one he had just given you and as soon as it was over you craved more. “God, you're tight, sugar,” Rafe groans, his hips stutter as he tried to keep fucking you through it but the grip your pussy has on him is too much, and he lets go too. His head falling to your back while he groans and cums.

“Solid 8.5,” you say just to tease him once he's lying next to you, the sheets pulled over his sweaty body. “Guess I'll have to try even better next time,” he smirks. “I'm not gonna be your sex slave, just to be clear on that.” “Shit, and I've already let the help prepare the dungeon,” he fakes a gasp. “Stop making me like you,” you laugh, and he looks at you, almost dreamy. “What?” you ask slowly, furrowing your brows. “Nothing, just- No, nothing at all,” he shakes his head. “Okay, weirdo,” you roll your eyes and go to stand up. searching for your slip and putting it back on. “What are you doing?” Rafe asks, watching you meticulously; how you pull your skirt up and tug your blouse into it after buttoning it up. You run your hand through your hair while pulling your heels back on. “I'm leaving. Have to catch my flight tomorrow morning and my shit is still at the hotel,” you remind him. “So, that's it? One night to remember?” “Yeah, wasn't that the plan all along?” you laugh, and he mirrors it slightly uncomfortable. “Yeah. Definitely.” “Besides, I'm responsible for this deal, and I'm not gonna let it go to shits, not even for a good fuck.” “A real businesswoman,” he mumbles. “Maybe you find your way to New York one day,” you smile at him before stepping out of the door, just to lean back and look back at him. “Oh, and you’re still not my type.”

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please don't copy and/or post my work onto other platforms! ~e©ho

taglist: @ijustwantttoread @spideysimpossiblegirl @redhead1180 @drwstarkeyy

part 2

#rafe cameron #obx #rafe cameron x reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fanfic #obx fanfiction #~fanfiction #smut #my writing

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minniesmutt · 1 month

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♱ ━━━━━━ 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋: 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓

♱ ━━━ CONTENT: ORAL [F. REC] FINGERING, MULTIPLE ORGASMS, OVERSTIM, PET NAMES, UNPROTECTED SEX, NIPPLE PLAY, CUM SHOT, CUM EATING/SHARING, AFTERCARE ♱ ━━━ WC: 1.9K ♱ ━━━ PAIRING: HAN X READER ♱ ━━━ 18+ work!! minors and ageless/blank blogs DNI! you will be blocked, put an indicator on your blog somewhere that you are 18+ before interacting with this work/blog ♱ ━━━ a repost from my old blog

After a short nap, Y/n took to unpacking the things she had brought. It was mostly clothing and a few photos but nothing else. Maybe if she asked, one of them would take her shopping.

She heard the elevator ding and peeked her head out of the bedroom. Chan walked out, hands in the pockets of his slacks. Y/n stepped out of the room and met him in the hallway

“How are you settling it?” Chan asked as he wrapped an arm around her

“Fine, the place is a bit bare though,” Y/n told him.

“I’ll have one of the guys take you out shopping tomorrow. I just came by to see how you were settling in and to go over something with you.”

“Oh?”

“Come on,” Chan pulled her into the kitchen. Sitting down at the table he had put in for her and pulling out a stack of paper

“What’s this?” Y/n asked skimming through the words

“Contract. Jist of it says what you’ll be doing as a front and you will be paid for the work you help us with,” Chan stated

“You guys are paying me but you’re also basically paying everything for me?”

“Think of it as fallback money. If something happens to us for any reason or another, for any amount of time, you’re not left with nothing to fall back on, financially that is.”

“How considerate.” Y/n smiled, “I’m assuming there’s another part that talks about sex.”

“Yeah. Every one of us has our own version of this contract. But you're welcome to update anything in it to your comfort level. Most of it goes over what we are into and that every single one of us is clean.” Chan explained

“Well, so am I, guess there really is no point in condoms,” Y/n smiled

“Only to prevent a pregnancy.”

“I’m on birth control. Don't worry about that.”

Chan explained a couple more things; everyone was made aware of using the traffic light system as a safeword— tapping them twice if she was able to talk for whatever reason as a fallback—, aftercare being important to all of them no matter what, promising her safety from anyone outside of them, etc. Y/n read through the papers as she listened to him, making a few adjustments here and there, but mostly agreeing with what everyone wanted. She signed her name where needed and turned the paper back to him. Chan checked everything and made a quick message about changes to the rest of the guys.

“We don’t expect you to memorize anything either. And it doesn't have to be one way, you can ask us for sex too.”

“Thanks, Chan,” Y/n smiled at him

“No need to thank me,” Chan smiled back

“Is there anything else I should know now that I live here?”

“Say goodbye to your privacy,” Chan chuckled

The two laughed for a moment before Chan got called away. Y/n saw him off before going into her living room. They had been kind enough to furnish the apartment for her so that was one thing she didn't have to worry about. She figured she’d do a little online shopping for a bit. Adding things she just thought were pretty to her cart, even if she didn't need them. She’ll find a use for them.

She heard the elevator again and ignored it after looking up for a second, one of the guys came in to see her, something she was quickly getting used to.

“Whatcha doing,” Jisung asked as he joined her on the couch, laying on top of her as she was laid back against the armrest

“Shopping,” Y/n answered as she peered down at him.

“For what?” He asked

“House decorations, clothes, random shit.”

“Doesn’t sound like fun.”

“Well, I was bored and that’s why I started. If you have better ideas, I’m all ears.” Y/n dropped her phone on her chest and looked down at him

“Just keep shopping,” Jisung smirked

Y/n shrugged and picked her phone back up. Scrolling through the website she was on. Jisung pushed her shirt up a bit then pulled her leggings off her legs. Y/n lifted her hips a bit to help him as he adjusted her legs to lay over his shoulders as he came face to face with her clothed cunt.

Y/n peeked down at him before he started kissing down and licking the cloth of her panties. Y/n let out a small moan as he continued teasing her over the fabric. Nonetheless, she kept shopping.

Eventually, he removed the fabric and softly kissed her clit, licking the bud to her entrance. Y/n smiled as she peered down at him. One hand removed itself from her phone and ran her fingers through his hair, gazing back at her screen. Jisung picked up his pace after a few moments until he was eating her like a starved man.

It wasn’t long till the phone and shopping were forgotten. Her hands tangled in his soft locks and her legs threatened to close around his head.

Han hummed against her clit as she gave him a particularly harsh tug. His eyes cast up her body as flicked the little bud. “Fuck Ji,” Y/n moaned

Jisung didn’t dare let up. Playing with her clit and entrance with his tongue. Enjoying the taste of her juices on his lips and dripping down his chin. He just gave a bit more pressure when he sucked on her clit which seemed to do it for her. Hips rutted against his mouth as he licked her clean from her orgasm.

“So fucking good,” He wasn’t letting up. He continued making out with her sensitive clit. Y/n closed her legs around his head as much as she could. Jisung groaned against her cunt, eyes rolling into the back of his head, just from her thighs suffocating him slightly.

He pushed her thighs up after a minute. Putting them to her chest as he kept going.

“Close,” Y/n whimpered as she grabbed the cushions.

“Give me ‘nother,” Ji mumbled against her clit. He pushed one leg over the back of the couch to free up a hand.

Soon he was pushing two fingers into her and matching his pace to the rate he was eating her out

“Fuck!” Y/n cried as her second orgasm hit her.

Ji kept going through her high. Fingers pumping in and out of her as he pulled his hips from her clit and sat up on his knees. “One more doll. Give one more and I’ll give you whatever you want,” Jisung begged as he pulled her other leg over his shoulder and kissed her ankle

“Need your cock,” Y/n whined, legs slightly shaking

“One more baby and I'll give it to ya’.” a third finger pushed into her

“Too much,” Y/n whined as she grabbed his wrist

“Color?”

“Green!” Y/n called as his fingers curled into just the right spot

“You can take it, doll,” Ji smiled

He pushed forward till he had her coming on his fingers. Her body convulsed under him as he pulled his fingers out, watching her juices flow out of her and soak the cushions.

“Good job doll,” Jisung smiled as he leaned down and kissed her forehead.

He gave her a moment to come down and rest. He took off his belt, setting it on the coffee table.

“Where the fuck did you learn to eat pussy that good?” Y/n asked after her mind out of its haze a bit more

“Now why would I tell you?” He smirked as he leaned over her.

“Secrets are hot. You know what's hotter?”

“What?”

“Your dick in me.”

Jisung didn’t waste another second pulling ever fully down onto the couch and unbuttoning his pants and pulling his hard dick out, far too eager to actually take his pants off. Y/n couldn’t help but giggle at his eagerness and worked on unbuttoning his top and pushing it off him as he pumped his cock. He took his hand off his cock to take the white shirt off his body. Her hand replaced his on his cock, pumping him and lining the tip up at her entrance.

Jisung tossed the fabric to the ground before grabbing her hips and pushing into her. Both moaned as they got quickly used to the feeling. Jisung pushed his pants and boxers down more as he let her adjust to him.

“Fuck, move Ji,” Y/n whined

Jisung pushed her t-shirt up over her breast and moved her legs around his waist. He laid his hand on the armrest above her head. He pulled out slowly and thrusted back in quickly. His eyes glanced back and forth from her tits bouncing with his thrusts to her cunt swallowing him.

Y/n was a mess of moans and whines from him going down on her and making her come three times. Her walls were already clenching around him.

“Fucking warm,” Jisung groaned as his hips snapped into her.

Y/n tightened her legs around his waist. One of his hands fell from the armrest to lay next to her body. He lowered himself a bit to kiss between her breasts then sucked on the skin. Y/n ran her hands through his hair as his lips latched onto her nipple. Y/n gripped his hair tighter, clenching it around him.

“Keep clenching around me doll and I’m gonna blow,” his words were muffled against her boob, shifting his ministrations over to the other nipple and giving it the same treatment he gave the other

“Give…me, please.” Y/n whined. Her legs hiked up higher on his waist as she got closer to her next high.

“Got you all dumb on my cock,” Jisung couldn’t help but chuckle at her.

His tip hit right up against her g-spot. She pulled at his hair as her orgasm hit her again. The man above her pulled away from her nipples and gave himself a few more thrusts before pulling out; coming on her lower stomach.

Jisung rested his head on her chest as they both caught their breath. It took a few minutes before Jisung lowered himself down and then looked up at her. Y/n caught his gaze as he licked his cum from her skin. Y/N shivered under the touch of his tongue before he pulled away, bringing his lips back up to hers. His tongue immediately darted into her mouth. Y/n melted as his cum transferred from his tongue to hers.

Ji pulled away after another moment of enjoying her lips. “You could’ve come inside,” Y/n told him

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” Jisung smiled.

He stood up from the couch and fully took his pants off. He scooped her up in his arms making her squeak in surprise. Her arms wrapped around his neck as he made his way to her bathroom.

Jisung sat her down before giving her a forehead kiss. He started a warm bath for the both of them before walking out of the room and grabbing their clothes. Y/n took care of herself by the time he came back and checked the water.

“How are you feeling,” Jisung asked as he helped her into the water after he got in.

“Tired,” Y/n sighed, leaning back against him.

Jisung wrapped his arms around her body and kissed her shoulder, “Go to sleep, I’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you, Ji.”

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colubrina · 3 months

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idk if you have a TikTok or if you keep up with the HP fandom over there; but apparently manacled by SenLinYu was posted on Amazon for purchase (not by the author). It’s since been removed but was up for more than a couple days. And there were individuals on TikTok that just didnt understand why others were getting so upset. Like let’s disregard the fact that someone other than the original author profiting off this work, but I actually saw people that were very firm in the belief that they could sell fanfic. Whether that be through book binds, cases like this, or commissions/Patreon. I’m an elder gen Z, and I remember coming into the fanfiction spaces pretty early on maybe like 07-08?? I think I was 9-10 reading HP fics on fanfiction.net and very vividly remember everyone being super specific about “this is not my sandbox, I’m just playing around” or “If you recognize anything, it doesn’t belong to me”. So I’m always surprised by people that really don’t see a problem with it. I’ve even seen people claim that it will either fall within the limits of fair use or that it would be a PR nightmare for someone to go after someone. I guess I was 1.) just wanting to rant about how shortsighted I think it was to someone that was around in fanfic space before 2015 and 2.) get thoughts from an author that I feel like has had several popular/successful fics in the fandom.

Yeah, I've got a TikTok. I never post anything, but I try to share anything people make that's nice about my old fics. I always have this half-assed feeling like I should make things but I don't. (https://www.tiktok.com/@colubrina_)

2. Congrats to Senlinyu on her book deal - very cool!

3. And yeah, I saw that people were doing that, and I wish I was surprised but I'm not. There's always been a not-insignificant part of the dramione fandom that sees the fics as 'belonging to the fandom.' They will post them on sites where the author doesn't want them. They will host PDFs online even when you directly ask them not to. They will rehost fics authors have taken down, orphaning them on AO3 so they can't be stopped. They don't see it as stealing because they see the fics as public property. It was probably just a matter of time before they started trying to host them on Amazon. It's frustrating for sure, but it does feel a bit like 'here we go again.' It certainly doesn't fall under fair use, and I think Manacled might be one of the very few fics that will have a legal department eager to keep it offline so the publisher can make their money from it, but other people will be less fortunate. Fic has become enough of a part of the ecosystem it's not at any kind of risk as an artform. But, yeah, it sucks. Be nice to your authors. Respect their wishes. Don't do this shit.

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strawberrymilk-sunshine · 1 year

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OK, one more. I'm on a secret admirer thing right now. How about some head-cannons about the yandere vice-dorm leaders as a secret admirer.

Thank you!

Yes yes yes I can do that!

ALSO WAS ANYBODY GOING TO TELL ME THAT RUGGIE ISN'T THE VICE DORM LEADER OF SAVANNACLAW?! LIKE, I WAS SURE HE WAS, BUT I GUESS I WAS WRONG. (I'm adding him to this out of spite)

Warning(s): drugging, kidnapping, implications of wanting to injure the reader, mind control, accidental(?) gaslighting, stalking, Lilia's part might not be great because I genuinely had no idea what to do

Trey Clover

Trey would send you hand-made baked goods every day!

Often along with a short letter signed by "your secret admirer"

Along with the letters and baked goods, he also sends you flowers!

Of course, Trey is the first person you expect when your secret admirer's calling card so to say is sending you baked goods and flowers

But, luckily for him, he's good at throwing you off his trail. He'll send a few things that make you believe it could be someone else...

To be fair, you don't know many other people who attend NRC, maybe it is someone other than Trey.

As the days go on, the letters get... more intense.

It's clear this person, your secret admirer, wants you now.

Tonight, Trey's putting something special in the pastry he's making you

After you eat it, he'll visit you and bring you home with him.

"Morning, (Y/N). Did you have a good sleep? Did the pastry taste good? You know, I used a sprecial family recipe for tha- Huh? What's with that face? You don't have any reason to be shocked, I'm sure you knew this was going to happen, those letters I sent you did have a few red flags..."

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie would be very good at hiding his identity from you

I mean, don't you think a man like him would be good at keeping secrets?

Ruggie doesn't send you baked goods or flowers, or anything like that... he instead sends you stuff he either stole or bought with Leona's money.

Candies, jewels, food... anything Ruggie can find, he'll send to you (and keep a bit for himself, obviously)

Day after day, you'll be given these gifts... and you appreciate it so much, you wish you knew who was giving them to you!

You'll even tell Ruggie about it. You'll tell him you have some kind of secret admirer, and how they've been giving you lots of gifts, and how badly you wish you knew who was sending them so you could thank that person directly!

Ruggie smirks to himself when you say that.

"Should I tell 'em...? Nah, not yet. I'll let things keep playing out until they give hints that they actually like me. Shishishi! Won't that be fun? (Y/N)'s gonna be real shocked when they find out it's me giving 'em those gifts! Grammy likes them, so marriage won't be a problem... I'm sure the rest o' the family will love 'em too!"

Jade Leech

Jade's love letters are... special.

The letters are very hastily written, like whoever wrote it's life depended on it.

They talk about hurting you, doing these horrible things to you... whoever your secret admirer is, they have a very messed up mind.

Jade makes you believe you can go to him for support.

"That sounds terrible, (Y/N). But you have no reason to worry, you can always turn to Octavinelle for protection."

You continue receiving these threatening letters... they get worse every day.

When you start to actually feel unsafe, you remember how Jade told you that you can always go to Octavinelle for protection, and while you don't exactly want to go to them for protection... what other option do you have?

The moment Floyd sees the letter, he tells you the truth.

"Oh yeah, Jade wrote that."

Huh. Jade Leech wrote these threatening letters to you? Jade Leech, vice housewarden of Octavinelle... the dorm you're currently in? Uh oh.

"Dear me, I wasn't intending on revealing myself this soon... though I suppose I have no choice now. I was intending on building your trust towards me and once things have progressed enough, reveal that I was the author, then breaking you entirely so you love only me, but... I guess I'll have to construct another plan. (Y/N), this will only hurt for a second."

Jamil Viper

Jamil, much like Trey, sends you home-made food.

You like the food so much! Who knew having a secret admirer could be this fun?

Jamil is good at keeping himself hidden from you, he's also a patient person. He'll keep himself hidden for as long as is necessary.

Kalim often invites you to the parties he throws... though, strangely enough, whenever you arrive, he seems not to recall inviting you.

"Oh well! The more the merrier, you know? I'm sure Jamil won't mind making a bit more food for you!"

But Jamil never has to make more food for you. Almost like he knew you were coming even though Kalim didn't.

One day, you receive a letter.

Come meet me in Scarabia dorm's lounge. I'll be waiting for you. - Your secret admirer

When you go there, you find Kalim. Kalim, standing there, empty.

"(Y/N)... he's waiting for you."

You hear a whisper in your ear, and then you forfeit all control of your body to Scarabia's vice housewarden.

"I'm glad everything worked out in the end."

Rook Hunt

Oh Rook, where to begin with Rook?

He sends you love letters every day in the form of poems signed by "ton admirateur secret"

Due to the ecessive use of French, you have your suspicions as to who's sending you these

Vil is close to Rook, so you ask him about it, but...

"No, it can't be Rook. He only has that kind of fascination with the inhuman students, like the beastmen, fae, and what little merfolk we have here. He wouldn't send that to a typical, not to mention magicless, human like you. It must be someone else."

Having no other evidence, you just assume Vil's right, and Rook isn't sending you letters...

It drives you crazy

You're determined to find out who is sending these, you begin staying up several nights in a row, just reading these letters over and over and over again...

You can only come to the conclusion that it was Rook.

So you ask him about it one day and...

"Oui. It was I sending those letters to you. I assume this is you coming to accept my confession?"

Well, even if you try to run, you can't escape from Rook. Even if you do, you two attend the same school so he'll just keep stalking you...

"Hm? What was that, mon amour? You do accept? Merveilleux! Let's talk to the Headmage sometime tomorrow! We'll discuss you transferring to my dorm so we can be even closer- Quel? You say you don't want that? Oh, mon amour, you have no idea what you truly want."

Lilia Vanrouge

Lilia is a very sweet secret admirer

He hides the fact that he is, to put it lightly, obssesed with you amazingly well (the others could learn a thing or two from him...)

It's just cute love letters! No stalking implications, no dubious baked goods, no talking about hurting you, nothing, just genuine confessions of love from a secret admirer!

Lilia can't help but watch over you

And then, well... dead bodies start turning up at the school

Of course, the Headmage only cares about what this will do to the overall public image of NRC...

Lilia takes care of you, from a distance

Lilia shows up directly at your door one day. He hands you a sewing needle, and then disappears into nothing.

A sewing needle? Why?

Well... spinning wheels aren't exactly that common nowadays.

As you examine the sewing needle, you accidentally prick your finger on it...

The next thing you know, you're in Lilia's arms

"Ah, you're finally awake, my dear. Did you enjoy your hundred-year-long dream? No no, there's no reason to cry! I know this is hard for you to understand... I know you're scared and confused, but everything will turn out ok. I only did this for your sake. To protect you."

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goodluckclove · 14 days

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I've been meaning to say something. (100 follower hot take)

Hey! Thanks for stopping by. I hope you've had a nice day. Why don't you rest with me for a while? I made some chocolate chip cookies - with shortening instead of butter, so they're very soft and very chocolatey. I made way too many and they aren't my wife's favorite, so I could use some help in eating them.

You're probably a writer, right? Or maybe you think about how you could be. Browse the tags here, or on other social media platforms. Maybe you used to write stories as a kid. I bet those were fun. Teachers might've thought they were impressive, or they dissected them line by line until the words didn't make sense in your head anymore. Either way, if you're here you're probably here for a reason.

(rant alert)

I dipped a toe in online writing communities on and off. My last attempt was forty-five minutes scrolling through the writing hashtag on Youtube Shorts (so TikTok, I guess? I don't know). I didn't like it. I really didn't. The thing that sticks out the strongest in my mind is one particular video where a woman claims that every story needs a second act plot twist.

Huh? Every story? All of them? Why? Since when? Who are you? What qualifications do you have to make a statement like that?

That's the common thread that makes a lot of writing spaces very uncomfortable for me. Successful writers are really only successful in their genre and for the given moment, so they don't have that much objective authority in the craft. And yet I see a lot of people deciding the things that you can't do in writing. Or the things you have to do, and how you have to do them. It was so much of Writeblr at first glance that I almost dipped out once again. I didn't, though, and I'm glad I didn't because now I get to watch some of the next great storytellers from across the world grow and examine and forge their way forward.

No one can teach you how to write. No, that's not true. Teachers teach literacy. Handwriting. Typing maybe - do schools still teach typing? Let me try saying it in a different way - no one, not one single person on this goddamned planet, has the right to tell you how to make a story.

I was supposed to get my MFA in creative writing before my first breakdown. My uncle stayed in the program I was meant to be in, and a few years after I dropped out he graduated. Recently I had the thought to look up his thesis novella, and as I searched I found myself regretting my decision to leave school. If I stayed and got to develop my writing in an actual class, with other writers and a knowledgeable professor, how much further along would I be than where I am right now?

It was bad. His novella was terrible. It was so bad I had a small existential crisis for, like, three days. He spent so much money on years and years of professional education and came out with a truly soulless story that read as if you prompted an AI to write the next Great American Novel. So if you think you need a writing degree to be a legitimate author, it could help connections-wise, but it ultimately won't be the thing that does the work for you.

Not all advice I see online on writing is bad. I find the people who are able to capture the "I" statements of therapy and phrase advice as things that have worked for them, or things that they personally enjoy, to be fine. Some writing advice can spark inspiration.

But if someone is the type of person to boil every story down to troupes and cliches, and then immediately say that every story that uses the trait they don't like is automatically bad for everyone? I'm dropping the kindness for a second - that's trash. That's a trash take and I see far too many writers use it as a reason to stop before they begin.

I don't like whump. I say my reasons in previous posts if you go back through my blog. But you will never hear me say that any story with whump in it is bad, because I don't know that. You might prove me wrong. I am an adult human being and I have the humility to admit that I can like something I didn't expect to. I genuinely enjoy the direction of The Human Centipede (only the first one) and if you cringed just now that probably means you haven't seen it.

There are so many types of books and movies and plays and comics out there. To enjoy a specific genre is fine, to ignore the existence of everything else is a really, really, really odd thing to do. Maybe someone will hate your story because they think everything should be Neil Gaiman, and therefore have no way to understand your epistolary high-Western. You are not the wrong end of that situation just for existing.

And at there is a definite threshold on how many writing tips you can gather before they stop being useful. If you find them interesting, that's one thing. That's fine. But if the culture of creativity online has made you feel like you need to educate yourself on every possible angle before you can write a story, you are actively harming yourself.

Imagine taking the level of structure you put on yourself in that way and putting it on children playing pretend in the backyard. Oh, Susie, don't you know that it's overdone for your Kitsune have dead parents? Xyler, shouldn't you ask someone else before you decide how Spiderman would react to this? It would make no sense and they do not need it. Kids will make a whole world out of nothing and it's the most fucked thing in my heart that at some point they get access to Reddit and dipshits start insisting that's wrong.

They aren't wrong and you aren't either. Your favorite creative influencer can't tell you your story, strangers on the internet can't tell you your story, your teachers and loved ones can't tell you your story. They can influence it, but they can't write it honestly the way you can.

You do that. That's the thing you do.

Man that makes me upset. I can't tell you how to make a story, either. If anyone sends me asks for writing advice the most I'll do is say what I've done before hopping into your DMs and starting a direct conversation. it's so personal to each individual artist, and I'd like to think that the people selling these classes and software and promoting these platforms haven't thought about that before. Otherwise it does feel manipulative. If you have a willingness to practice and imagine and really experiment with the possibilities, you are ready to write your story.

And if it doesn't work? Try again. That's what you do.

Stephen King has written roughly a thousand books and maybe five of them have decent endings. He is unimaginably successful.

I'm rambling now. I think I got that out of my system. I was really worried to say this out of fear of being too weird or somehow reverse-gatekeeping so hard that it circles back into also being a bad thing. I've just spoken to a lot of people who I still think of throughout my day, and I truly ache for them to get past the fear of creation. Because it's worth it. It's worth it and it's fun, even when it's messy and you're tired.

Let it Be just came on. Beatles. I haven't listened to The Beatles in a long time. Feels a little apropos.

I love you, reader. Reader, Writer, Colleague. Take care of yourself. Especially the little you, still sitting there in the backyard of your soul, bathing in the sun with their bare feet in the damp earth.

Consider joining them, maybe.

#writeblr #writing community #writers on tumblr #queer writers #authors of tumblr #on writing #writing #actually writing #writing resources #writing tips #writing help #writing advice #how to write #writing tips and tricks #writers supporting writers

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cirilla-fiona-riannon · 11 months

Text

Secret in your Heart

These translations are not intended as a replacement for the game. Please support Cybird by buying their stories.

Expect grammatical errors. Not 100% accurate. Not proofread.

I was in the infirmary, tending to a minor injury, when I heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

Jude: "*coughs* Tch. Hurry."

Roger: "You talk like you're ordering a beer at a pub. Being short-tempered won't do you any good, you know?"

Roger: "Hm? Hey, what's the matter, little lady? Are you hurt?"

Kate: "Yes. Sorry, I borrowed some of your ointment."

Roger took out a syringe and a drug, swiftly injecting it into Jude's arm.

Kate: "W-What's that for?"

I couldn't help but ask, noticing the oddity in the flow of events.

Jude: "An unapproved, dangerous drug that hasn't even been clinically tested."

Kate: ".........."

Roger: "That suspicious look of yours is nice. You're lucky to have someone worry about you, Jude."

Roger: "I've tried everything, and this is the one that worked best for his symptoms."

Kate: "What's wrong with him?"

Jude was so unresponsive that I thought he couldn't hear me.

Roger: "He's almost cured now, but he used to have weak lungs."

Jude: "Hey, you're blabbering patient information carelessly, you quack."

Jude: "Ah, damn it. I still feel dizzy. You probably got the dosage wrong."

Roger: "Even if I make a mistake, I still don't know what the right dosage is because I'm still collecting data."

Kate: "Wouldn't it be fatal to Jude if you injected a lethal dose?"

Roger: "Hahaha! Maybe."

(Maybe, you say?)

I couldn't help but be stunned at the sight of Jude, who looked so unconcerned.

A few days after that exchange, I found Jude smoking in the lounge.

(I think Roger mentioned something about him having respiratory problems.)

Kate: "Should you be smoking?"

Jude: ".........."

He briefly took his gaze from the complicated book he was reading, then completely ignored me.

(Worrying about him seems like a waste of time.)

Kate: "I heard it could be beneficial as a medicine in the past, but now I hear that it can actually be harmful."

Kate: "Maybe you should quit since Roger is taking the trouble to treat you."

Jude: "It's not a treatment but rather an experiment."

(I guess that's true.)

He was reading a book while puffing on a cloud of smoke.

Jude loved money and other people's misfortune and always had sarcastic remarks whenever he opened his mouth.

But for some reason, his usual arrogance was nowhere to be found, and he looked tired, which worried me a little.

Jude: "What's with all the gawking?"

I still felt like his words lacked energy, and he looked out of sorts.

Kate: "Are you that busy with work?"

Victor told me that he was running a trading company and was also dabbling in the financial business.

I also heard that he and Ellis occasionally go out to collect debts in person.

(He also has responsibilities in the Crown, so it's not surprising if he's exhausted.)

Jude: "It's none of yer business."

Kate: "Are you not getting enough sleep?"

Jude: "That's none of yer business, either."

His voice seemed to be slightly hoarse.

Kate: "I still think you should quit smoking."

Jude: "..........."

He pushed his cigarette into the ashtray and lifted my chin.

Jude: "If you're willing to kiss me, then why not?"

Kate: "Ha!?"

I stared at him up close, and he quickly let go as if he had grown tired of playing with a toy.

Jude: "Of course, it's a joke. Why are ya taking it so seriously?"

(And to think that I'm worried about you!)

Jude: "I can't die because of some shitty promise. And I can't do it without smoking cigarettes."

Kate: "Promise?"

Jude: "Tch."

His face contorted as if he had said something unnecessary.

Jude: "It's none of yer fucking business, so forget it."

(Promise to whom?)

(He can't die? Wait, is that what he's living for?)

As I stared at his profile, several questions popped into my head.

These questions lingered in my chest like cigarette smoke, creating a hazy uneasiness.

➟ Collection Event Masterlist

#ikemen villains #ikemen villain #jude jazza #ikevil jude #ikevil translations #ikevil jp

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the-fiction-witch · 13 days

Text

Criminals

Media The Artful Dodger

Character Jack Dawkins

Couple Jack X Reader

Rating CUTE

Warning For Hanging

I walked the hot dusty Port Victory streets kicking the dust along with my boots, my case in hand as I walked. The sun slowly set on the horizon as I walked I noticed a couple of ladies on their way home with parasols in hand. They of course began to giggle,

"Good evening doctor dawkins," They cooed,

"Evening Ladies," I smiled as they passed me and I moved my hand quickly with my nibble fingers managing to snag the bracelet of the lady closest to me slipping it into my pocket,

Once I arrived back at the little house I headed in setting my bag by the door and emptying my pockets of chains, necklaces, coins and various other things I had picked up from my day hiding them in the small draw in the cabinet as I kicked my shoes off and set them on the rack, at the end of the month I'd empty the draw and sort things out but for now I just hid everything there. I hung up my coat and my hat by the door and headed through the house finding it mostly empty, so I headed up to the bedroom and smiled as I saw her there.

Y/n stood in the bedroom looking at herself in the full-length mirror, dressed in her tall boots, stockings, bloomers, and black dress with very little petticoats honestly I wasn't convinced she was wearing a crinoline at all, her corset laced right and her black button dress over her, as she slowly braided her Y/H/C hair,

I smiled and went over wrapping my arms around her waist and peppering kisses up her pale neck,

"ohh... Hello Jack," She laughed,

"Hello, sugar," I smiled, "Don't you look beautiful,"

"Aww thank you, well you always look handsome," she cooed stroking my chin and bringing our lips together for a sweet and perfect kiss,

"You flatter me, you are far too sweet sugar," I told her rubbing my nose on hers,

"I do my best, how was work?"

"Fine, sneed being sneed, a few surgeries, got locked up in the morgue for a while so I'm sorry for being late home,"

"It's alright, dinner on the stove for you,"

"Oh? Ahhh I see." I nodded, "I should have guessed, So? where are you off to looking so beautiful?"

"Going to bridge with the girls,"

"Aww alright, you enjoy yourself, Y/n," I smiled kissing her cheek, "Maybe as you're going out I might pop out and play some cards for a bit,"

"Of course, you go enjoy yourself, Jack," she smiled as she finished with her hair, "Don't wait up,"

"You either," I told her,

She nodded and we shared another kiss before she headed out, I had myself some dinner and changed my shirt grabbing my lucky coin as well as some cash to go down the cat and bagpipes for the evening.

I headed through the dark woods the only light the gentle glow from the moon, my black cloak around my black dress to keep me and myself concealed. I reached my usual spot out by the graveyard and I opened up the small chest I hid under a tree I covered my face with the cloth inside and pulled up my hood to hide my Y/H/C hair, and I grabbed my pistol making sure it was loaded, I watched the horses pull the coach along through the darkness. So I made sure I was hidden before I out onto the road pointing my pistol at the driver. He panicked and pulled the carriage over, so I opened the door and pointed my pistol at the canoodling couple who both screamed.

"You're money. or your life," I told them putting on my rough voice,

"Ahh! Okay okay!" The man said handing me his money,

"And you madam," I demanded,

"I don't have any money- Please please- take my necklace!" She said handing it quickly over to me,

"Thank you kindly, you have a pleasant evening," I smirked taking it with me and disappearing back into the dark woods letting the coach go and waiting for the next one. This went on all night pulling over any carriage or horse that seemed worth my time once my bag was full of jewellery and cash I put my pistol back in hiding and headed home leaving my cloak by the door and hiding my bag of cash in my hat box. I headed inside and saw the kitchen was flickering with light so I headed in and saw Jack having some water,

"Awww Hello Jack," I smiled going and cuddling him,

"Awww Hi sugar, how was Bridge?"

"Lovely as always," I kissed him, "how were the cards?"

"Good, I made seventeen pounds,"

"Ooohh my clever boy,"

"Aww thank you, I would have made more but Darius was being a cunt,"

"I don't know why you play with him," I rolled my eyes,

"Cause he has money," he laughed, "But I'm just having a drink to keep the hangover off, Are you ready for bed?"

"Very ready for bed," I nodded, "I'll see you up there," I smiled kissing him before I headed up to the bedroom,

"You think I could get a cuddle before bed too?" He called,

"If you're fortunate Jack,

I headed home with a wide smile on my face, it had been an easy day at the hospital and my pockets were heavy with my cut from the recent heist of the governor's estate, I had a plan for the cash of course I'd finally get my lovely Y/n a pretty ring, it was only right after so long together. I always promised her I would, and honestly, I had been saving up for a while I wanted to get her something truly impressive. I arrived home and emptied my pockets as usual hanging my coat and hat by the door before heading up to see her in the bedroom once more fixing her hair from a bath.

"Awww there you are sugar," I smiled kissing her head, "Dressed up again?" I asked noticing her black dress,

"It's Tuesday,"

"Yes... of course Tuesday bridge. Silly me," I chuckled, "But... maybe tomorrow when we both get up maybe we could go out?"

"Ohh where? it's your day off don't you usually just want to become a little bed slug?"

"I know, but maybe... after a little while of bed slugging, did you wanna go out?"

"Aww, I'd love to Jack, where are you going to take me then?"

"I thought maybe... down to the jewellers?"

"...Wait... really!"

"Yeah really!"

"I'd love you!" She squealed hugging me tightly, "You mean it?"

"I do, I have plenty saved up to get you something lovely, and as you're off to bridge... I might even pop down the cat and bagpipes and see if I can worm my way into a few more pounds to get you a nice box for your ring too?"

"Well I can-"

"No. I told you. I'm paying for this I don't want you using your savings for us,"

"Fine, but I get you to buy our wedding rings,"

"That's a deal sugar," I cooed kissing her sweet lips, "So tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow, I can't wait." She smiled, "See you later,"

"Have fun,"

We shared another kiss before she headed off for her bridge game, I smirked and took my cash to get sorted for tomorrow.

I grabbed my pistol as I pulled my hood over my head watching the carriage get closer, I jumped out from the trees and forced the driver to pull over, then I forced open the door but I was taken back as I saw Captain Gains with guards all with their pistols on me,

"Shit-" I began trying to bolt but the guards rushed out and grabbed me disarming me and dragging me kicking and screaming at the Captain,

"Well, well, The shadow of port victory," he said as he pulled back my hood and cloth to see my face, "... not what I expected I admit. But your time of judgment has come young lady,"

"Fuck you!" I yelled,

"Take her away." He demanded,

I headed home with a wide smile my pockets heavy with cash after a good night at the cat and bagpipes almost doubling my money for tomorrow, I hid it away and headed upstairs expecting to see Y/n in bed already given how late I got back but... no. Hu... that's odd she's normally back by now? Maybe she got held up or something?

I got changed and got into bed wrapping myself up even if I did feel lonely without her here to cuddle, but I'm sure she'll be home soon.

I woke up very strangely mostly the alcohol I imagine sitting up in bed with a yawn, "Good Morning Sugar" I cooed as I stretched, but I looked over and saw the bed empty, "Y/n?" I asked, "Y/n?" I asked again but nothing I got up out of bed and wandered the small house checking every room and calling out to her but she wasn't here... where... where is she?

I sat angrily in a cell, I was so angry I was caught but I felt this horrible sadness in my stomach. Jack would wonder where I was, he would have no idea where I'd gone... it would probably break his heart, that we had planned to go out and buy our engagement ring and I suddenly ran off never to return, He'd think I left him. I wish I could just see him, just speak to him one more time to tell him how much I adore him... but I know I am going to the rope. I had tried asking for a doctor in the hope they'd send him but they always said they'd fetch Sneed and I didn't trust him to tell Jack, I wanted to ask for Jack to ask to see him but I was worried they would think he was involved with me and thus get him hung alongside me. Besides we were unmarried so I had no right to see him even if I begged to.

Soon enough Captain Gains came to me and stood outside my cell he began with the paperwork his pen scribbling along my papers,

"Any final confession?"

I spat in his face,

He wiped it away and glared at me before he called his guards, who opened the cell and forced me out, "A rainy day today, and as always we make sure to hang twice. Just to be sure." He smirked before they dragged me out.

I walked the rainy streets still looking for Y/n, I had been asking all over Port Victory but no one had seen her, I even checked at the hospital just in case something happened or if she'd gone there looking for me, I was so confused... why would Y/n just disappear like this? it's not like her, much less when we had such lovely plans. The thought... had crossed my mind that she might have... But she wouldn't! surely... surely she wouldn't. Even so, all her things were still at home, and her savings jar was still in the pantry. Nothing pointed to her leaving, so I was worried she had gotten hurt somehow. I heard a bunch of hangings going on but I didn't pay much attention still asking around the market if anyone had seen her, I found Charlie a young street boy who I'd saved his leg some months back, he was at the front watching the hangings.

"Hi, Charlie,"

"Hi doctor Dawkins," He nodded,

"You uhh you haven't happened to see Y/n have you?"

"Y/n? Your misses?"

"Yes, my misses," I chuckled,

"Isn't she up there?" he asked pointing to the gallows,

I looked up through the dark rainy clouds that gave the day a blue hue, on the wooden gallows I saw her... and my blood ran cold, she stood in her black dress, her Y/H/C hair a mess, her hands chained, and the noose around her neck. I was breathless and panicked, but before I could even open my mouth the floor dropped-

I couldn't look, I turned away unable to face watching that swan-like neck snap my eyes flooded with tears, I could barely face it but I looked up and saw her neck hadn't snapped, she was slowly struggling for breath.

But I wasn't going to let her die, I saw a guard so grabbed the bottle I keep on me at all times... just in case things go wrong, I doused a rag and sealed it over his nose and mouth forcing the pistol from his belt as he dropped to the floor, I lined it up and fired one shot breaking the rope she hung from causing the crowd to scream and panic. I bolted over and managed to catch her before she hit the ground,

"Hi sugar," I cooed,

"Hi Jack," She coughed as she got teary holding me tightly I gave her a tight squeeze back,

"Let's get out of here," I told her holding her hand and keeping the pistol as we bolted through the street together, "Why were they hanging you!"

"Long story!"

"Well now or never sugar!"

"Ughh well... you know those reports in town about a shadow highwayman?"

"what the stranger mugging coaches outside of town?"

"Yes."

"what about him?"

"I am him."

"... Ohh..."

"Yeah..."

"...Hu.... Well, if we are being honest, you know all the pickpocketing and thievery been going on?"

"yes?"

"yeah... me."

"Ohh... I was curious why you weren't concerned about that," She laughed,

"We are both criminals,"

"Hardly. you're a pickpocket, I'm a highway girl at most were... moral lacking,"

"They'll still hang us!"

"Good point," she laughed, "What's the plan?"

"Get home, get all the loot I've saved up. Hop on the next boat out of port victory."

"We can take mine too, get us stable and sorted," she nodded,

We quickly got home and immediately we packed up our things, the small trinkets we couldn't bare leave, some clothes and both of our stocks of loot all together we had more than another to get out of port victory, enough to find somewhere new and to start a new life happily.

We loaded ourselves up and we shared a sweet kiss,

"I love you so so much, Y/n,"

"I love you more Jack," She cooed "Let's get out of here,"

"Don't have to tell me twice," I smirked holding her hand as we quickly left before anyone could come after us giving her hand a good squeeze confident I was never letting her go again.

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crplpunkklavier · 1 year

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thoughts on vongole, and kristoph as a dog owner

DISCLAIMER: i am not a professional in dog care nor training. i have had and trained a dog for many years now, but he is not a retriever. i've studied up on other breeds out of curiosity (and due diligence tbh). if anything i say here is factually wrong and you know more, feel free to reach out!

Kristoph: Ah, yes, she's surprisingly delicate, you know. Requires careful tending. But, she is my "best friend", as they say. Phoenix: "Best"...? Come on, now I'm starting to feel bad for you. Kristoph: Oh? Of course, she's known to bite if handled roughly. Phoenix: Y-Your rose bites? Kristoph: ...... I was speaking of the photo next to the rose. My retriever, Vongole. Cute, but feisty.

this is all we ever learn about vongole. am i going crazy about it? maybe. (also, after this line, phoenix thinks to himself, "every dog has its thorn..." as if that means literally anything. i love him so)

vongole is one of my favorite mysteries about kristoph. she is not at all relevant in aa4, and if she was only ever going to be in this tiny bit of flavor text (so easily missable too!) why put her in at all? was she going to play a bigger role in a later game that shu takumi never got to bless us with? i guess it's possible. that would lift vongole on the same level as those pesky black psyche locks. but either way, we have her here, and that means i get to overanalyze her :)

or more accurately, i get to overanalyze kristoph gavin on the basis that he has a dog who

is a retriever

is "surprisingly delicate"

requires careful tending

is his best friend, as they say

bites if handled roughly

hey. what the fuck does any of that mean, kris?

lets start with the breed. i've mentioned in a post before that many of us seem to have collectively decided that vongole is a golden retriever, which seems fitting, since those are famous blondes, just like the other gavins. however, "retriever" doesn't automatically mean golden retriever! there are a few other retriever breeds. you're probably familiar with labrador retrievers, for instance. i have a curly-coated retriever in my neighborhood who, you guessed it, has a charming curly coat, pitch black, and is a trained service dog!

we often see retrievers as service dogs, because they're pretty fit for the job. the name retriever comes from hunting though. while my own dog is more engaged in actually running ahead and killing prey himself (no i don't let him do that.), retrievers have been bred to go and, well, retrieve prey for the hunters. this of course means that you can also teach them to retrieve other stuff for you fairly easily. like meds, socks, blankets -- stuff a service dog would be helpful for.

apart from that, retrievers are also known to be good family dogs, because they're friendly, affectionate, loyal, and quick to trust. they're also very active, and pretty smart! there are minor differences between the various retriever breeds, but this much goes for all of them to some extent.

why in the world does kristoph have a dog?

i... just..... does he seem like a dog person to you?? i just.... i mean, he doesn't seem like a cat person to me either. or a plant person. maybe he doesn't seem like a person to me. i just really stumble over this sometimes, because it seems wild to me to think that kristoph gavin got himself a retriever just because he.... wanted a retriever?

the guy works what's pretty much an office job. his salary shouldn't be very high, as a defense attorney? but, well, he's implied to like high-profile cases, and he had the money to employ an assistant, so i don't think he's poor. he needs time and space for a retriever, though. vongole isn't a little shih tzu who's happy to just hang out on your lap all day. again, REALLY active. this is a dog who wants AT LEAST an hour of outside time a day. kristoph gavin doesn't even look like he's ever seen the sun. but ok.

one frankly hilarious route i've considered is that he wanted a dog for protection. klavier says he's been "living in fear" ever since zak gramarye disappeared on him, and then he panicked enough to straight up beat him to death the minute he saw him again seven years later. he's paranoid, he's spying on everyone involved. i think kristoph really was very scared. so maybe at some point he figured he'd get himself a dog that would protect him from assailants.

i say this is hilarious because..... a retriever is not the dog you want, man. like, yeah, she'll be loyal to you if she likes you. the problem is she is also really quick to like you, or the intruder in your house, or the guy coming to your office to kill you. if kris got a retriever because he wanted a guard dog, that was a fantastic bit of stupidity, and i personally love it for him.

another angle i like, one that makes him a little less stupid and a little more horrifying, is appearances.

But, she is my "best friend", as they say.

this line really does something to my brain. kristoph gavin talks like a law text book at the best of times, so the somewhat awkward wording of it isn't really what's bothering me. it's the fact that he said it at all. it's that very last part. the "as they say." because, yeah, sure, people say that. yeah yeah, man's best friend, we've all seen it.

and it just... seems so very kristoph to latch onto a truism about human beings, to make himself look like one. look at him! he's got a suit, he's got a job. he's totally on speaking terms with his brother. when the bar association voted to disbar phoenix, he was the only one who voted against that (one more thing i'd love to make a big post about one day lol), he has regular dinner with his good friend phoenix wright, he has an assitant, he has a law office. he probably has a car, because it's LA. he has a savings account. that's not, like, canon, but he does. of course he also has a dog. he's just a regular human guy! he likes poetry and the arts. his best friend is a dog, and more than that, a breed which is known for its gentleness, and for how great they are with..... children :)

let's all sit back and let that chill go down our spine for a sec.

kristoph got a retriever to prove something. kristoph got a retriever for the same reason that he made friends with vera misham before he tried to kill her.

remember what his prison cell looks like? with the books, the arm chair, the violin? he keeps up appearances, even after his arrest. of course he'd put up a framed picture of his beloved dog. like any normal human person would.

but did he treat her well?

well...... well.

here's the thing.

i don't think kristoph gavin is an animal abuser. i don't think he treated her badly. but that's a sliding scale, with dogs, and with most pets, isn't it? if i'm never outright mean or violent to my dog, that's great, but if i never give him enrichment, if i never learn to read his body language, if i never give him what he fundamentally needs as a certain animal of a certain breed, i'm still not treating him well. i'm not treating him right, i'm just not overtly torturing him.

back to kristoph. in this vein, i often think about what we hear of his interactions with young vera. one thing that particularly sticks out to me is how drew misham says that kristoph was one of the very few people who ever made her smile.

kristoph clearly has a way with children, to an extent. he knows to get her that stamp -- he actually understands her childish fascination with magic a little too well and gets her a present that she likes so much it thwarts his whole plan. keep in mind that vera was 12 -- when kristoph's younger brother was 12, kristoph was 19 already, old enough to consciously learn things about the 12-year-old in his household. he knows kids, and he gets through to them.

but never fully, does he? klavier figured out something was off about the way his brother came to his office. and even vera, despite smiling at kristoph so earnestly, despite really loving that stamp, despite being only 12, even vera was so horrified by that little twitch of the devil's hand. there was always something uncanny about kristoph.

why am i bringing that up? i'm not saying everyone who's good with children will be good with dogs, or the other way around. but there is common ground. you're dealing with a living thing that's smaller than you, dependent on you, and you're building a relationship that'll take a lot of calmness, understanding, and reassurance. kids often can't express themselves in ways adults would immediately understand, and neither can dogs.

and i think kristoph got about as far with vongole as he did with vera. i think vongole liked him fine. again, retrievers are quick to like people. he was there, he fed her, he probably gave up trying not to let her up on the couch. sure she liked him. but did she listen to him?

before i ever had a dog, my mom used to tell me that she thought the concept of dog training (the german word is Hundeschule, so literally "dog school") was stupid, that she'd had a dog as a kid, and that dog didn't have to know any tricks, it wasn't a circus animal! well, my mom was also bad with every pet we've ever had, and with all three of her kids. so.

look, it's important that your dog listens to you. i'm just saying. no, it doesn't have to know "circus tricks," although depending on the breed, it might have fun learning them! and it definitely just. it needs the basics. your dog needs to understand what "no" means, and your dog should come when called -- i know we're all tired of alpha terminology and it's constantly used wrong, but, genuinely, your dog needs to know that you're the leader of the pack. your dog needs that, it's good for the dog. turns out i was also using it wrong! this reblog explains what i meant to say better than i could. my point was that you have got to give your dog something, some form of structure. for the dog's own cognitive development, for you to work as a union, and last but not least to make sure you don't bring harm to the outside world!

and, yeah, this is absolutely the part where i think kristoph failed. because no, i don't think he was ever violent with her or anything, but i also don't think he would ever have the patience it takes for solid dog training.

why else does he, unprompted, bring up that she is "surprisingly" delicate, and requires "careful" tending? kris, did you not know? why are you surprised by how delicate a literal living thing is? did you accidentally step on her paw and she acted like it's the end of the world? yeah, they do that. did you come home late from the office one night and there was a pile of poop on your overturned laundry basket? hmm. if only something could be done about that.

the "bite if handled roughly" part is the last one i wanna talk about, because that also gave me a lot of trouble.

i mean... dogs bite. they do! mine bites. especially puppies are happy to play-bite, often into hands, and it's important to get that under control while they're young. this also loops us all the way back around to vongole being a retriever. remember, they're bred to carry stuff in their mouths. it is in this dog's dna to use her mouth for stuff.

this means she might be bite-happy in a very specific way. i've actually read multiple times that retriever bites are "soft", because again, they're just supposed to retrieve game when hunting, not kill it themselves. it's already dead, and a dog actually biting into it would make it yucky for humans to eat. retrievers are good at moderating bite strength for that.

but.... it doesn't sound like that's what kristoph is talking about, is it? she's known to bite if handled roughly. that sounds like she really bites. and of course she does. if handled roughly. hey, what the fuck does that mean, handled roughly? who's handling her roughly?

again, this doesn't necessarily scream animal abuse. as @mlmschemes, out of professional experience, has brought up, there are certain things that need to be done during a vet visit that dogs don't always love, especially if they aren't used to it, like nail trims, to state the easiest one. you might have to hold a dog down for that. and if that dog is trained and socialized like ass, yeah, she'll bite if handled roughly.

but, hey, don't worry. she's just feisty. :) cute but feisty, he says.

just like every fucking dog owner i've ever met in the neighborhood who has a half-rabid untrained menace that would probably tear my face from my skull if not for its stupid retractable leash.

anyway.

kristoph wants to be a dog owner because it's a fun normal human thing to do and makes him look non-threatening, well-adjusted, and generally likeable. but he sucks at dog training. nobody has ever fully believed the guy--fucking, even apollo IMMEDIATELY deserts him in court. kristoph lives a superficial life and vongole probably has zero trouble becoming the best friend of whoever gets her next.

just to bring this already embarrassingly long post to a point and an end, here's some quick tips from me for portraying vongole, and by extension kristoph dealing with her:

retrievers are affectionate, so vongole is probably a cuddler

kristoph probably has fur fucking everywhere. he comes into the office with a briefcase thats just filled with lint rollers

vongole knows exactly zero commands. if you have food in your hand, she will sit down, because sometimes that gets her things, and she will try to use it at every possible opportunity

if sitting down doesn't work, she will become more and more annoying. if my dog felt like i wasn't giving him enough attention, he used to walk up to my desk and nudge my forearm with his nose so strongly that my grip on my computer mouse would slip and i would fuck up whatever i was working on.

kristoph loses patience with her. it'd be interesting to write, because he'd want to save face if it happens in public, too. he can't yell at his dog there, that'd look bad. i imagine a lot of insistent leash tugging, a lot of ill-advised grabbing/holding her (here's where he probably gets bitten too), and a lot of smiling and laughing and being like "ohh, haha, she's just so feisty today, what's going on ooo she's so nice normally haha"

i doubt he played much with her? she probably had toys, but for kristoph to interact with them a lot.... you can play fetch with retrievers pretty well, because, once again, they're retrievers. and that's a pretty classic "look at me i'm a normal dog owner" thing to do, so he probably has some like, tennis balls and stuff that he'd throw for her. but that's probably it.

if you write vongole changing owners to klavier and/or apollo, please please please let her do a full 180. if you're going by what i've theorized here vis à vis kristoph, that dog is DESPERATE to learn. dogs want jobs and she would be SOOO happy to be trained.

forget that thing about old dogs and new tricks. my dog is 8 years old and i'm currently teaching him a new command, for funsies. it's working and he loves it. you can write vongole becoming a model citizen at any age. i implore you to.

#😳#imco #im not copying this into openoffice to check the word count. its so much #i got carried away lol #ace attorney #kristoph gavin #vongole #ash i hope it was ok to @ you!! lmk if not then ill remove the url

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sigmaleph · 1 year

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the "sherlock holmes wasn't allowed to show emotions until yersterday" thing was never true except to the extent the meme of it made it true

by which i mean: sherlock holmes, the character, has been out of copyright for ages. some specific stories about him only came into the public domain in the past couple years, the last ones doing so in Public Domain Day 2023, i.e. yesterday, but the character has been in the public domain for much longer[1].

the doyle estate doesn't like this very much. they want to own the character of sherlock holmes and have everyone making a sherlock holmes adaptation pay them money for it, which many of them do[2]. so when someone doesn't pay them, they threaten to sue. presumably both for the money and because they don't want anyone else getting ideas.

there's two notable cases here. one is from 2013: someone writes some sherlock holmes stories without paying for licensing, the doyle estate says "nobody is going to sell your book because we work with all the big retailers to prevent unlicensed holmes stories from being sold", they go in front of a judge and say "hey can we get a declaratory judgement that they can't sue us over this because the character is in the public domain?"

the doyle estate's argument here is that the character isn't in the public domain. because there are later stories still under copyright, and those later stories continue to develop holmes' character, the whole thing is under copyright. judge says lol no. the later sherlock holmes stories are under copyright, the character itself is not. doyle estate appeals and loses.

the second notable case is the enola holmes one, the one from where 'sherlock holmes can't show emotions or respect women' comes from. someone writes a book series about sherlock holmes' kid sister called enola holmes, it gets popular, netflix makes a movie. doyle estate smells money in the water because they also didn't pay for licensing and they sue.

since the thing they tried last time didn't work, their new angle is: this sherlock holmes adaptation is using aspects of the character that only were developed in the later, still-under-copyright stories. like uh... [loud noises of scrambling to make up a justification] having... emotions...?

this is a terribly flimsy argument, it doesn't work either, and they lose[3]. again. it was never a real constraint unlicensed sherlock holmes adaptations had to work with. it never had any power, because it was nonsense. nothing changed yesterday regarding sherlock holmes' ability to show emotions.

but the doyle estate has been making money off people thinking being sued is a hassle for a while now. their real power is people thinking they need to ask permission, and it had been decisively proven that they don't. which, i guess is why the meme bothered me. by saying 'sherlock holmes isn't allowed to show emotions until the last stories enter the public domain' you give them power they want and don't really have.

yesterday, the last flimsy justifications the doyle estate was clinging onto for dear life finally vanished. you can even rewrite the adventure of the veiled lodger to have holmes and watson make out in between every sentence and nobody can stop you. they'll try something to continue to have a reason to exist, who knows what, but it'll have no legal force and hopefully everyone will know it. maybe they'll just keep the licensing page up and hope nobody actually checks that they don't need to pay, it's worked so far.

[1] this post will focus on the US law aspect of it, which matters most for various things (mostly: dealing with companies headquartered in the US to distribute your stuff). the laws in e.g. the UK are different and there even the last few stories have been in the public domain for over twenty years

[2] their licensing page proudly displays any number of recent holmes adaptations which didn't actually have to give them a cent, but, y'know, easier to just pay them than figure it out in court.

[3] suit is dismissed with prejudice by stipulation of both parties. there's no judge actually saying 'wow that is complete nonsense' but like. enola holmes didn't have to pay licensing, is the outcome.

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mariii1 · 1 year

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░▒▓█ 𝖒𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖋𝖚𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊 █▓▒░

1-2-3

4-5-6

Reupload since Tumblr wants to be a pos. I'm unfortunately going to be taking another break after uploading this but let me know what pac you want to see again.

DM me for paid readings

1 - you may be fighting with the people around you a lot or you might be somebody who's combative. You could have anger issues or you just don't know how to deal with anger as an emotion either from yourself or from other people. I see more conflict and a warning that if you dont deal with issues you have now with other people they will get much worse in the future. I see you potentially embarrassing yourself or coming off as irrational to others. I also see someone trying to stab you in the back or take something from you because it either gives them pleasure to see and know that they made you upset or they feel like it's easy to take things from you because they view you as crazy/don't take you seriously. If you're deciding whether or not you should cut someone off because they make you feel emotionally out of balance, do it. I'm getting it's a trauma response; this person knows how to manipulate you. They are a bully, this could be a family member.

2 - Something about a future partner. You'll be freeing yourself from a capitalistic mentality. If you believe in hustle culture, you'll learn the hard way that it's not gonna help you. I see some of you burning out real quick from that. You're not gonna care about money in the future. For a few of you, this obsession with work and money comes from being financially abused whether by a partner for most or by a family member/guardian. I see you not letting money or work ethic define you or be your entire personality for some. If you feel stuck now, it has to do with money. I was getting more rude messages but I feel this comes from people around (they might not be close to you either) who find your mindset annoying and/or they see right through it.

3 - if you have a partner you might break up worth them. You will realize that they were never that good to you. This reminds me of a tiktok where this girl was saying that (to people watching) "he's not special". "He" does normal things and you make it special when it's not. Its the basics of being human, it's how he should've treated you even if you weren't in a relationship. This could be a groomer or some sort of abuser romantically for a lot of you. This could also be someone you put on a pedestal romantically if you don't have a partner. Maybe your crush actually treats you like a piece of shit. This could also apply to those in talking stages in dating apps and such. You're gonna realize someone isn't shit and you only really put them on a pedestal bc you either didn't like yourself or you were bored.

4 - this is a warning for some and others know its gonna happen. There are a few of you planning this on purpose. You might be veryyyy stressed out and over worked in the future. This could result from you not listening to yourself especially if this relates to some sort of decision. If its life altering you will regret it a lot it's just gonna make things harder. Im getting this could have to do with education. There's something you really should have listened to yourself about and it might be too late. My best guess is that if you know what this is, you might even be trying to get out of it currently. This is specific for some people. If you don't get it, it's not for you. This is for people who have been actively trying to block their thoughts and opinions on something out.

5 - ok so you are stopping a cycle if not you will be. However, when you stop, you're going to be stagnant. For a lot of you it can feel like you're stopping the flow of type life in a way. I see you not making any new moves or decisions which will keep you in one place even though you have ended a cycle. It's like you won't find something new or move on to the next thing. I see you being scared of your old cycle repeating or something worse coming your way. I feel this has to do with career or education. It seems you might've felt heavily overworked and not compensated for your work or you didn't get the right outcome so now you just don't want to do anything. Hmm this would be interesting to do a paid reading on.

6 - you're going to give up on presenting as something. In particular, a certain personality. You might have internalizations you're working on, for some of you this has to do with gender transitioning (we're in this together 😭) I see for most that this has to do with again a workplace or just a hostile environment. Maybe in the past you thought that not saying anything and just ignoring ppl would help you, but you see that's not the case. A lot of you had this idea that you needed to be the bigger person or act like ppl weren't worth your time but it was just you not knowing how else to approach conflict. So i see you finally getting someone in trouble with some sort of plan or just speaking your mind in a way that brings action ig. Yeah you might've really hoped to get along with someone but you'll see its just not possible and they refuse to leave you alone.

#pick a card #pick a pile #tarot reading #paid tarot readings #love tarot reading

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moon-fics · 1 year

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Horror Night- TASM!Peter Parker

A/n: ok so the Rooster fic is gonna take a bit longer bc it's a series now 😭 Anyway enjoy Peter Parker! (Gif not mine)

Summary: Peter has spent the whole week convincing you to go to a Halloween horror night and you finally agree!

Warning: Swears, Spider!GN!Reader, mentions of fake blood, some slight angst but not enough to hurt!

"Pete, I'm not going to the horror night!" You grumble, sketching down lecture notes in your notebook. You have an exam coming up next week and need all the notes you can get. You've seen the photos Pete sent you from the advertising photo and it looks intense. "Why not? I promise it'll be fun!" He whispers, leaning away from his desk towards you. He's a fire hazard with how far he's leaning into the aisle. "Because we have to study! I don't want to fail this class!" You huff, noting that he doesn't even have a pencil out let alone his notebook. Peter isn't one to take notes during class if he understands the lesson, which is often. You hate how intelligent he is without even trying, but you are just as accomplished. "Y/n, you've been studying this whole week without any breaks! If you don't know the criteria by now I think you're doomed." He jokes, straightening back into his seat. "Plus, the event will be huge! We'd be doing the city a favor by showing up to keep people safe in case of an emergency!" He plays the logical card and his argument makes sense. A lot of people will be at the event and having two undercover superheroes there is better than none. ""Pete, I'm not going to the horror night!" You grumble, sketching down lecture notes in your notebook. You have an exam coming up next week and need all the notes you can get. You've seen the photos Pete sent you from the advertising photo and it looks intense. "Why not? I promise it'll be fun!" He whispers, leaning away from his desk towards you. He's a fire hazard with how far he's leaning into the aisle. "Because we have to study! I don't want to fail this class!" You huff, noting that he doesn't even have a pencil out let alone his notebook. Peter isn't one to take notes during class if he understands the lesson, which is often. You hate how intelligent he is without even trying, but you are just as accomplished. "Y/n, you've been studying this whole week without any breaks! If you don't know the criteria by now I think you're doomed." He jokes, straightening back into his seat. "Plus, the event will be huge! We'd be doing the city a favor by showing up to keep people safe in case of an emergency!" He plays the logical card and his argument makes sense. A lot of people will be at the event and having two undercover superheroes there is better than none. "Only if you pay for the food." You hum. You notice Peter's face light up with a bright smile. You were always going to agree to go, you just took the opportunity to get free food out of it.

----

You stare out the window of Peter's car, watching as the sun sets. You've been on the road for an hour due to traffic but you're finally almost at the entrance. You can see the searchlights and the large arch of the parking lot entrance. There are scare actors around the entrance spooking people who walk by.

Peter's excitement radiates off of him and you can't help but feel the same. He's been hyping tonight up all week and after the third mention of it during a lecture, you decided you'd agree to join him later. You enjoyed tormenting Peter with constant 'maybe's and 'I'll think about it'. You started saving up pretty fast, luckily you already had enough money to buy a ticket.

"Are you sure about this, Pete? Looks pretty scary." You tease as he drives through the entrance into the parking lot. You scan the taken spots noticing a few people in tears or obviously frightened. Either New York has many scaredy cats or this carnival is actually traumatizing. "Y/n when will you trust me with finding fun things to do? You always second-guess my plans!" He whines and you raise an eyebrow at him. "Oh, you mean the plans that usually end in us fighting crime?" You hum. Peter rolls his eyes, but he knows you're right. Every time Peter plans a fun day, he drags you to a fight against criminals. The last time you let him choose what to do you had ended up fighting half the mob. "Y/n, I promise this will be a great night! We won't even need our suits." He points to the duffle bag in the back seat. You decide to give him the benefit of the doubt.

----

The night has been going perfectly in your opinion. You found yourself actually enjoying the scares and screams surrounding you. You can't explain why the sight of fake murderers chasing visitors around relieves you, maybe because you can be chased by someone holding a chainsaw without the need to suit up. You felt normal and you assume Peter has the same feeling.

He has an awe-struck look on his face while passing through the park. He's always been a fan of spooky-related things and this place is horrifying. You're glad he got you to come with.

"Are you hungry?" Peter suddenly asks you, pointing towards a food stand. You notice the menu matches the theme of the carnival. The blood-covered corndog catches your eye along with swam water soda. "Yeah, I could grab a snack, you?" You're already walking towards the counter to order. Peter takes a moment to look over the menu, obviously loving the options. You place your order and quickly pay, stepping aside so Peter could do the same. He orders the haunted hotdog and slime smoothie. "We should go to the haunted forest section next!" You suggest. "Only if we go to the criminal cave! I heard they have The Lizard!" He chuckles. The cook places your food on the counter and you grab Peter's for him, handing it to him carefully. "Like the actual Lizard?" You ask, realizing how stupid of a question it is. "Oh yeah, Ryker's definitely handed over a mad scientist lizard man to a carnival with fake chains everywhere!" He smirks and you smack his free arm lightly. "Well excuse me for wanting to make sure leaving the suits in the car was a good idea!" You huff. You take a bit of your corndog, seeing that the 'blood' is just ketchup. The drink is just a regular soda which you're glad about because you doubt you'd enjoy actual swamp water.

You're about to take another bite when your spider senses go off. It's barely noticeable but the hair on your arms rises and your brain starts to figure out what's wrong. Peter notices your body tense up, your eyes darting around to see if there is trouble. Before either of you can say anything a scare actor pops out from behind the food cart with a menacing grin. He gets in your face for a split second before running off again. You didn't even flinch, you couldn't. Even when your senses have gone away you can't help but feel dread. You spent the whole night without using your powers and now you're reminded that after tonight you'll return to being a secret hero.

"Y/n? Are you good?" Peter waves his hand in front of your face catching your attention. You blink a few times to come back into reality. "Yeah, sorry." You lower your voice, looking down at your corndog, "This corndog was so good it sent me into another world!" You lie, trying to lighten the mood. Peter shakes his head, catching on quickly. "I felt it too." He assures you. Your heart skips a beat and your body relaxes. "But we're fine! The closest we'll get to danger here is someone scraping their leg while running away from an axe murderer!" He scarfs down his dog and tosses the wrapper in the trash. You finish your corndog as fast as you can and throw out your trash as well. "I know, it just reminded me I'm not like everyone else here." You sigh. You try to keep your voice as low as possible, knowing he can hear you through the loud music and screams. "Of course we are! We're two college students having the times of our lives!" He wraps an arm around you with a huge smile. Your face heats up at the contact but the lack of light won't make it noticeable.

----

Just as planned you and Peter head over to the haunted forest. You walk through the foggy path surrounded by trees. Every once in a while you'll see a blood-covered fairy or an animatronic wolf.

"This is so easy! A literal walk in the park!" You joke and Peter shakes his head. "If you say that the actors will target your ass!" He warns but you don't listen. You turn a corner and notice two paths in front of you. One is taken over by fog while the other is too dark to see into. You decide to play a trick on Peter. "Hey, Pete there's a fake Kingpin behind you!" You yell and Peter spins on his heel. "Holy shit I have to see that!" Right as his back is turned to you you take off through the foggy path, disappearing from his view. You know he'll eventually track you down with his senses but for now, you keep running. You hear your name being called faintly so you stop and decide to wait.

You glance around and see a bench near you, right next to a rotting tree. You plant yourself onto the bench and decide to wait for Peter just in case he can't find you.

A long time passes before you begin to worry. You've watched a few people pass by you but none were Peter. You sigh, knowing there's only one thing you have to do.

You cup your mouth and scream out his name as loud as possible. If he's looking for you he'll be able to hear you call him and come find you. You wait a few seconds before screaming again, knowing no one else would be able to hear you over the blasting music and sound effects.

Within a few minutes, your senses let you know he's nearby. You assume he'll run down the path, but instead, he drops down onto the ground before you. You're taken aback, looking up to see lines of web across various items.

"You swung over here?!" You shriek and Peter rolls his eyes. "Someone could have seen you!" "I wouldn't have had to if you didn't run off! You had me searching half the park to find you!" He grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. He's clearly out of breath and his fluffy hair is disheveled. Without thinking you start to fix it gently. "I didn't think you'd take so long to find me!" You finish fixing his hair and slowly pull away. Your eyes land on his face to see his lips slightly parted and his eyes locked on you. "I promise to stick by your side until the end of the night from now on!" You hold out your pinky for him to shake and he does so with a fake frown. "Can we go to the criminal cave now?" He whines. "Of course, lead the way!"

----

The criminal cave holds up to its name. You see the villains and bad guys you've put away over the years with Peter everywhere you look. You can't help but correct some of the actor's costumes and make fun of the props. For example, Electro's actor didn't have the correct color contacts, they were yellow instead of blue.

When you finally reach The Lizard you notice it's a really well-built animatronic. You couldn't pinpoint anything wrong with it and you were impressed.

"Looks way too real for me!" Peter shudders before walking away. You quickly follow him to the next villain. You can't help but think about the day you and Peter caught Conners. It took every ounce of energy between the two of you but you eventually caught him.

"He was way more scaley in person, I think he was shedding while fighting us!" You laugh, "Can you imagine the shed he would have left behind?" "I would rather not have that image in my head, thank you!" He groans.

----

The night was coming to a close and your feet were killing you. The longest you've been on your feet like this was during an all-night patrol. Peter, however, still looked energized and filled with pep.

You were walking to the car when your legs began to hurt too much to walk. You can only assume it's because you were on patrol the night before, you're out of energy completely. Without hesitation, Peter scoops you up and carries you to the car.

"My hero!" You fake swoon. Peter cackles while you bat your eyes at him with your cupped hands on the side of your face. You were pulling the best damsel-in-distress look you could. "We both you you could knock me out in a second if you wanted to." He quips. He's not wrong, you're extremely strong but right now you're too tired to even walk. "Now, why would I want to knock out such a cute man?" You poke his chest playfully. You instantly notice his heartbreak quickening and his body temperature increasing. You know this feeling, you've had it before, but you can't understand why. There's no way Peter could possibly be reacting to what you said. That is until you see his expression. It's soft, and content.

You carefully place a hand on his cheek, leaning up to place a kiss on it. He almost drops you from surprise but swiftly recovers. He's a stuttering mess now, his face bright red. He's trying to form a sentence probably to ask why you did that.

"Thank you for an amazing night, Spidey." You shut your eyes, leaning your head into his neck. You assume that's enough for him, he goes silent but his heart doesn't stop pounding. "For you, I'd do anything to see you smile like you did tonight."

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