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creepycrawliesanonymous · 3 months

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jealousy, jealousy! (rust cohle x reader)

a/n: hello! welcome to my first bout of writing! feedback is greatly appreciated and i hope you enjoy! there isn't much rust content on here so i figured i'd create it myself lmao

warnings: cursing, steamy scenes but nothing too crazy, sorta sexism, marty hart being himself, rust being pigheaded, mentions of sex, etc etc let me know if i missed anything (minors just don't bother interacting regardless thank you!)

word count: around 5.8k

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Never did you think that sitting in the passenger’s seat of Rustin Cohle’s red Ford pickup could have you seething as it did now. This wasn’t at all how your night was supposed to go and the culprit of said unsavory evening was sitting right next to you, cigarette pinched between tense fingers and eyes set hard on the dark highway ahead. The stubborn bastard had made no move to turn on the radio to save you both from the borderline unbearable silence. All you had was the humid Louisiana air from his rolled-down window flowing into the truck’s cabin and you couldn’t quite find it in you to be grateful for the fact he seemed to have kept in mind you detested the smell of that sour burning tobacco.

Just who the hell does he think he is?

The question that repeated itself a mile a minute in your Coors-addled brain as it fought to catch up with all that just occurred not even a mere hour prior. Rust, as you already well knew, did not bother himself much when it came to others unless it strictly involved the endless trials of his work. That was the line he drew on a daily basis. Nothing could be clearer than the fact that Rust had little to no capacity for getting truly personal with most who existed in his orbit.

It was something you dealt with a bit better than the likes of your other partner Marty day in and day out at the CID. Though he may be one mystery wrapped in a more or less fucked up enigma, Rust’s way of functioning stayed relatively consistent. You didn’t dig often given that he wasn’t up and ready to offer much in the first place. He was sharp and strong-minded. Possessing most qualities that make well for a good investigative partner. Lines didn’t get muddled. It was how you preferred it. Up until recently, that is.

You didn’t have much nerve or will to go down that route right about now.

Earlier in the day…

Your fingers were cramping at the end of typing the last dregs of the day’s reports. This recent case was starting to weigh heavier and heavier as an influx of countlessly cryptic details revealed themselves with each milestone of the investigative process. Something about this being darkly occultish as it was made it all the more daunting. There was a sense of underlying dread that this was something bigger than all of you. A sentiment you found yourself sharing with at least one of your partners: Rust. Marty on the other hand was still on the fence, not totally in the business of believing this was more than just some twisted piece of shit who had nothing better to do with his time. You wish you had half the mind to reduce it down to something so simple.

Strange things were not that of an irregular occurrence around these parts. Though said strange things didn’t have the habit of making it to the limelight as the Dora Lange case had. This wasn’t the type of case where one could be fine with just leaving it at work and picking it back up when they returned the next day as normal. Its disturbing details twisted themselves into every fiber of your daily life since that poor girl was found posed in Erath. It was better to eat, sleep, and breathe this case so that it may be solved all the more quickly.

A world with one less monster like the one capable of committing a murder such as this is was a world where you could maybe sleep a little more soundly.

Rolling your shoulders back, you twisted your aching neck side to side, resounding with an aching series of pops. God, I need a drink. You thought to yourself as you leaned back into the roller chair at your desk. The clock on your floor’s wall read 6:02. With all the work on your part done you figured you could slip out with much complaint. Stiffly rising from your spot, you started to pack away any necessary belongings into your well-loved messenger bag. Marty glanced up from his notes with a small quirk of his brow, “You headin’ out?”

Throwing your hair up to save yourself from the impending humidity from outside you replied, “Yeah. Need to wash the day off me and go grab a drink or somethin’. Bein’ out talkin’ to them church folk in the heat nearly all afternoon then witnessin’ Rust make that one boy shit himself was enough for the day.”

Marty snorted to himself at that while Rust made no move to acknowledge your statement from his spot as he analyzed his comically large ledger. The blonde sipped his evening coffee as you finished gathering your things, “Don’t get too crazy tonight now. Lots to do in the days to follow I reckon the more this case stays befuddlin’ as is.”

You scoffed lightly, “I don’t doubt that. I’ll probably just head to that Blue Gator joint off the highway. Grab a few beers. Maybe a dance should one be willin’. Need’ta let loose is all.”

“I’m sure any fella would be delighted to spin the night away with the likes of you, darlin’. Leave it at just dancin’ will ya?” Marty snickered a bit as you scowled and flipped him off idly. You notice in your peripheral Rust go still with a pen in hand but he didn’t make any move to look up or participate in the conversation.

Continuing, you fix Marty with a half-hard look, “I’m sure you have your extracurricular activities beyond the job so it ain’t a sin to have my own. Anways, this is hardly an appropriate conversation to have betwixt coworkers, Martin. Keep your nose outta it.”

Marty let out a surprised guffaw and placed an offended hand over his heart. Rust still hadn’t moved an inch from his position. When you let your gaze drift over towards the silent half of the duo you were met with that cold blue stare of his. The mere instance of contact left you feeling funnier than you’d prefer as of late. Things were starting to blossom into something a little different between you two after the few months of being in each other’s presence. He had been starting to open up in a manner he hadn’t bothered to when he first transferred to the CID here in Louisana. His presence had been quiet but no less intimidating, leaving you and Marty at a loss of what to do to prompt him out of his self-imposed shell.

Now, as this new case unfolded it seemed to trigger a sudden release of the deepest tidbits of his…intense opinions and values that went on within the inner workings of his mind. Marty often found himself wishing that Rust never bothered to open his mouth at all. Anything coming from the brooding Texan seemed to offend Hart on some deeper level one way or another.

For you, while it was not all that pleasant to constantly hear how fucked up we as a collective were and how life had little to no meaning, were intrigued nonetheless. You believed that Rust was just as human as everyone else despite him pushing himself as far away from that narrative as possible. He was just broken in a way that couldn’t ever be truly reversed. So while his infinitely dismal ramblings left you feeling more defeated about life than anything else at times, you couldn’t find it in you to really hold it against him.

When it came to your dynamic, he seemed to have more of an unspoken respect for you than most of your colleagues did within the department. It wasn’t some radical declaration made by him that clued you in on the matter. He mostly just treated you the same as everyone else. Not inherently negative nor too positively outgoing where others could accuse him of giving you some form of special treatment. He listened to you and took your input into genuine consideration which was more than you could ask for when it came to working alongside any of your other male counterparts. However, there were these little instances within the recent weeks that had your mind (and heart) taking another route when it came to how Rust Cohle just might regard you.

First, it started with fresh coffee materializing on your desk by the time you’d be strolling in at morning time. Two sugars with one cream and always in your favorite green mug ordained with hand-painted daisies. Very specific and not at all a detail that Marty ever bothered himself with remembering about you in the time you’d known each other. Not that you ever really cared. No one else here would ever think to offer you a damn thing unless it was maybe the lovely receptionist up at the front.

It wasn’t until one night you had forgotten your keys at your desk and made your way back inside the assumingly empty department only to find the Rust Cohle with sleeves pushed up to his elbows in the small office kitchen cleaning your daisy mug that you’d left haphazardly in the sink before leaving. You watched in silent awe as he had set it gently aside after drying it for what you assumed was for the next morning where he’d be the one who dutifully made your memorized coffee order in secret before your arrival. To him, the act was probably meaningless.

To you, the simple scene made your heart squeeze in a way you didn’t think was possible.

Next, it occurred when he started offering you rides to and fro after your car suffered a nasty rear-ending thus needing to have it sit in the shop for the time being. At first, it was a little nerve-wracking to be in close proximity without Marty present to break any drawn-out silences but after a while you’d found yourself in a rhythm you could call your own. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you’d sit and listen to whatever old country cassettes he had stowed away in his glove compartment. It was never dull to you.

Each car ride had you piecing together factoids that unfurled into the evergrowing idea that was your new(ish) partner. You still found yourself sharing more about your own life than he did more often than not but you were okay with that. Even if he wasn’t the most reactive of men, you knew he held on to every word. Anything he decided to sparingly share had you doing the same with a reverence you weren’t sure you carried for anyone else.

After getting your car back and no longer needing his chauffeur services a silent agreement had followed. Neither party was completely ready to let go of the pleasant thirty-three minutes permitted to be spent together outside of work. It was decided that he’d drive you home on nights you happened to leave late, deeming it too dangerous to be traveling home at odd hours in the night although you had already been doing so plenty before he manifested into your life.

Eventually, he even found himself at your house one day after having determined that your porch steps needed fixing…or that your gutters should be cleared…or that the lawn was looking a little too overgrown than what was acceptable. Small acts where you felt that maybe he wanted to be in your presence a bit longer than normally desired when it came to his usual limits of socialization.

Seeing him working around your property with that sweat-soiled wife beater of his and those lithe, god-given arms made that squeeze in your heart reach new heights and your tongue feel like lead. Who knew such pictures of domesticity could have this intense of a hold over you? You usually prided yourself in not being so easily affected by men. Though it wasn’t necessarily news that Rust was his own brand of a striking handsome that stood out against most men you’d come across. The sweet tea you’d supply for the dreadful heat when he’d carry out his projects ended up being more for your own benefit than his.

You caught yourself feeling greedy for more of his presence as he made himself an increasingly present fixture in your life. Which realistically…couldn’t lead to any sort of good.

Bringing yourself back to now, his gaze held an emotion you couldn’t quite place. Hell, most times it was hard enough to know exactly what he was thinking unless he outright declared it. Maybe it was disapproval? Judgement? It wasn’t likely that he wanted to hear about your potential escapades. You probably wouldn’t want to hear of his either (not that he ever does speak of it if he even engages in that sort of activity) but you’d be coming from a different place on that matter. He returns to the pages of his ledger after deciding to break the staring spell, “I don’t see what sorta grand company could be found at an establishment such as the Green Gator.”

His tone came out a bit too passive for your liking. Bordering the ugly lines of judgy which was something that rubbed you wrong entirely, “It’s the Blue Gator-”

“Oh hush up, Mr. High and Mighty. Not every man is as intellectually driven as you find yourself. Most men want fun and ain’t gonna pass it up when it’s in front of em’. They don’t need nearly as much as you do to get their rocks off.” Marty angles himself towards Rust in his chair, already willing to bat for you in his more than unhelpful way.

Rust just scoffed and shook his head slightly, “Wouldn’t expect a thing from anyone in this vast shithole…buncha ignorant shitheels with no sense of fuckin’…” He muttered the rest of his ramblings detailing the severe lack of intelligence that the people of Louisiana seemed to hold while bringing his attention back to his ledger.

His shoulders were set in a harder line than usual. Marty got a kick out of it all, reducing Rust’s distaste to not being able to participate in normalcy like anybody else in the world could.

On your end, it struck a nerve that he clearly found your plans more than dissatisfactory. It left an unpleasant taste in your mouth to be on the potential receiving end of Rust’s ruthless judgments.

“You forget him, y/n. You have yourself a good ol’ time with whatever strappin’ young man of your choosing should he be lucky. Don’t let grumpy guss piss on your parade.”

You find yourself grimacing at how much focus on you and the prospect of potentially getting laid has been put. You look back to Rust but he seemed to be no longer interested in your presence, back in his own world and on the case. Patting Marty on the shoulder you finally make your way to head out, “G’night. I’d love it if we never brought any of this up again. Page me if anythin’ comes up.”

“Y’got it, darlin’. You stay safe.” Marty points at you a bit more seriously and you nod in slight exasperation with a soft ‘got it’ before officially leaving. Rust hadn’t said another word which left you feeling all sorts of confused. Relieved he didn’t further insult your plans for a night out? Disappointed he didn’t put up much of a fight when it came to you maybe trying to avoid any of your current problems with the company of another man? You don’t know what you expected but you did know that you needed to get it together and just let this shit go even for just one night.

And what a night it would be indeed.

Night at the Blue Gator…

The night was proving to be a bit more than uneventful. Perhaps uneventful was just about the only thing your mind could handle at the given moment with everything else going on. The lingering feeling of Rust’s disapproval had also left you more affected than desired. With a few Coors in your system, you find your gaze a little hazy as it passes around the kitschy establishment.

Some George Strait song filters through the bar on top of the active chatter of the patrons taking up a surprising amount of space for a Wednesday night. The cute little black dress you managed to find in your closet and squeeze into was becoming less than ideal as you found yourself hearing the siren call of just calling it quits and crawling into bed back home. Clean sheets and reruns of something like The Golden Girls…absolute fucking heaven right about now.

Briefly pressing your perspiring bottle to your forehead, you soon enough were roped into a dance as some lively Brooks and Dunne tune came on. The fella who managed to drag you on the dancefloor was decent enough. A bit short and plenty bald… with maybe a tad too eager of hands for your tastes that left you feeling a bit removed from the experience as a few more songs went on. You weaseled yourself out of the crowd after ‘promising’ baldy (named Rex or Tex but who’s to really care) you’d make your return after grabbing a refreshment.

Making your way to the bar your legs come to a sudden halt at the sight of a familiar figure slouched on a stool. After your brief shock shifted into a brewing irritation, your feet found themselves mobile again as you sidle next to Rust and order yourself another drink. He put out his cigarette as soon as you were near his side but made no motion to speak so you find yourself shooting first.

“For a place you couldn’t bother gettin’ the name right of you can color me surprised to see you here.”

“A man ain’t allowed to drink after work?” Is his flat reply.

You put your hands up in mock defense, “No need for my permission. Just didn’t think you’d grace the simpletons ‘round here when you can have a drink for free and in peace in the comforts of your own home.”

Rust didn’t have anything to say to that, instead lifting his own drink to his lips, “That man sure had a grip on ya. Doesn’t seem the type you’d to give the time of day to. Less’ you’re that compelled to blow off steam.”

The thinly veiled nonchalance of his insult didn’t go past you. Instead, it caused you to bristle only in the way you could when you had a few drinks in you, a bit more sensitive and a helluva lot more confrontational. Who was he to judge how you spend your time? Let alone who the hell you spend it with? You set your new drink down with more force than necessary and felt your face starting to get hot.

“I can dance with just about anybody.”

“That’s been made clear.”

“And why in god’s name do you care exactly just who it is I dance with?”

“Don't remember ever givin' the implication that I quite cared.” Calculated blue flitted over you as if bored. But you knew better.

“I’m sorry, did you just come here to make me out to be some desperate whore for drinkin’ and dancin’ when I’m a grown-” That got his expression to fall with something closely resembling alarm.

“That ain’t-”

“Last I checked I can do whatever I so fuckin’ please. Do not go insertin’ yourself in the aspects of my life in which you are not fuckin’ concerned. Some of us are lonely and tired and can’t take comfort in stupid murder manuals or severe stretches of solitude. Call it my shitty programmin’ but that’s just how it is for most people. If I wanna drink and let a greaseball feel me up then that’s entirely up to me! Shit, it might be dumber than hell but it’s not like I’m gonna sit and wait around for you to make a move! That’s if you even feel a speck of the way I’m startin’ to towards you. Knowin’ you you’ve probably noticed and just like to see me embarrassed or somethin’.”

Everything was coming out like one big bout of word vomit. There was an even deeper change in Rust’s demeanor but you were too tipsy and too angry to pay much notice. The burning behind your eyes grew stronger as you threw up a finger to jab at his shoulder,

“It is not up to you to judge people for the shit they do that you deem is beneath you every chance you get. You’re not perfect yourself and I know you know it. But thanks anyway for making me feel like a fuckin’ stupid loser-” Your heated rant was interrupted by a fat mitt of a hand making its way around your waist.

“This fella botherin’ you, honey?” The hot whiskey-riddled breath of Tex or Lex or whoever the fuck immediately made your nose wrinkle in disgust. Your patience had run its due course for the night as you roughly shoved him off you,

“Oh come off it, Dex-”

“It’s Rex.”

“I don’t care no more I’m leavin’.” You threw a couple bills on the bar’s surface before making your move past both the offending men. Rex had different ideas and made the choice of gripping your arm tightly without much remorse despite your loud protest.

“You still owe me a dance, bitch. Where d’ya think you’re goin-”

“You best get your hands off her, boy.” Rust’s glare was off-putting even to you. Rex was either too stupid or too drunk to really care as he attempted to yank you back towards him. With your heart racing, all you could think to do was take your heel-adorned food and stomp on his booted one hard. The short bastard yelped as he let you go, giving you the room to skirt past him far enough just in time for Rust to take him by the collar and send him reeling with a swift punch.

Rex surprisingly regained momentum and took his chance to get a lick back at Rust but his opponent was already plenty steps ahead of him. Rust took Rex’s fist, twisting it behind the shithead’s back, and slammed his head into the bar countertop with a sick thud. A commotion had well enough formed by now and it was your obvious cue to start hustling your way out. Rust spit on the man who now had made a home on the sticky floorboards before turning to you. Your chest was heaving as you made way to open your mouth but he wouldn’t hear it as he grabbed your arm and started leading you out.

The bar doors slammed open and the persistently thick air of the South drove you further into rage. You yanked your arm a few times until finally freeing yourself from his clutches. He didn’t stop to acknowledge you, instead making his way toward his truck as if expecting you to faithfully trail behind.

“Where exactly do you get off?!” You demanded, struggling to keep up in your heels which then had you electing to nearly fall over yourself trying to rip them off.

No answer.

“I’m talkin’ to you! What the hell is wrong with you?” Your feet were finally free on the warm pavement of the parking lot. You still received no reply.

“RUSTIN.” Your throat nearly felt raw at the volume of your hollering. He stopped at his truck’s passenger door and opened it. The blood in your veins thrummed while your head and heart felt like they were going to burst out of their respective places.

“Get in the truck.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re drunk-”

“You ain't one to talk. Don’t think I ain’t seen those bottles of cough syrup in your car or them pill bottles you got! I’ll make it just fine-"

“Y/n.” His low baritone left no room for argument, nor did his hard stare. You felt like a petulant child staring back at him with your arms crossed.

Your will to break was unshakeable but you had the inclination that if you pushed him hard enough he’d have you in that passenger seat even if you came kicking and screaming. Huffing out a harsh breath you half stomped your way over and climbed in. Grabbing the handle for yourself you slammed the door before he had the chance to close it for you. You felt a lick of petty satisfaction when you saw his shoulders drop and a hand come up to squeeze the back of his neck. It wasn’t often you could catch Rust off-guard, let alone see him visibly exasperated.

After a moment or two, he rounded his way to the driver’s side and got inside with noticeably less ruckus than you did. He lit a cigarette as he pulled out of the parking lot, but not before rolling down the window in consideration of you. Bastard.

“My car better find its way back into my damn driveway come morning.”

He remained silent for the rest of the way.

Back to the present…

Pulling up to your house, the truck hadn’t even made a complete stop before you unbuckled and hastily hopped on out. You only stumbled a bit as the old Ford squeaked behind you in what was probably the harsh fashion in which Rust must’ve slammed on his brakes at your sudden escape. You heard the truck get thrown into park and a heavy slam of a door shutting as you quickened your pace up the pathway to your front porch. Your heaving breaths were drowned out by the frogs and nearby cicadas that created their own little symphony on your property. You knew Rust was following you but you naively hoped you’d make it up to shut the door in his face just in time.

'Fuck, I forgot my shoes.’ Was your narrow thought as you fumbled for your key ring in the endless depths of your purse. Rust’s footsteps grew closer causing you to whip around and shove him back with a clumsy force much to his surprise.

“Don’t you come followin’ me! I’ve had just about enough of you!”

“Listen-”

“No you listen! Never have I been more embarrassed than you’ve made me tonight. Never have I felt more stupid and small all because you decided today was the day I’d be on the shit end of your scathing criticisms! You can fuck right off with that mess. I’m goin’ to bed.” You turned to start your trek before he spoke up again,

“My intentions were not to come by and make you feel stupid.”

A near-jarring laugh clawed its way from your system, “Oh, so that’s your twisted way of makin’ a girl feel cared for. Is that it?”

He let out a frustrated sound, “What’d you mean by startin’ to feel a certain way towards me. Back at the bar.”

Your heart nearly dropped out of your ass just then. Did you really blab on about that somewhere in the middle of your tirade? God, you could just about go feed yourself to the gators right now. Work would no doubt be complete hell after this nightmare of an outing.

“Take it how you want it. I know with you being as perceptive as you are it shouldn’t come as a mystery what I might feel. You do plenty towards me that’s had me foolishly thinkin’ there could be a one in a million chance of somethin’ but no dice. So what I want to know is why did you follow me out. Why did you come all this way to ruin my night.”

The silence was biting as he offered up no explanation. He seemed to be trying to figure out that answer himself. Instead of the petty satisfaction you felt from seeing him at a loss earlier, he seemed well and truly bothered now which left a sinking feeling in your gut. The thought of the immovable force in front of you being this bothered when it came to matters involving you just made you all the more disoriented. There was only one other plausible explanation as to why he went through all this trouble to insert himself into the mix.

You could almost fall to your knees laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of your creeping realization. It couldn’t be. There was just no way. But given the miserable look of Rust’s obvious inner battle on what he should decide to say to you had you gawking.

The man was jealous. Rustin Cohle, feeler of nothing and believer of none, was jealous. A fit of giggles made their way out of you before you could help it. It might’ve been in poor taste during the seriousness of the moment between you both but you couldn’t stop. Rust seemed all the more distressed as if he’d been caught red-handed. Stripped bare in front of you despite no real accusation of his behavior being made quite yet.

“If I knew any better I’d say you were plain jealous, Rust. Can’t say I see you bein’ capable of actin’ so irrationally. I thought entertainin’ such primal notions was too beneath you. Especially should it involve lil ol’ me.”

But he was indeed more than susceptible to all the irrational factors of his so-called programming when it came to you. You were beautiful. Mind, body, and soul. Your presence brought things to the surface he didn’t believe he could ever have the experience of feeling again. It scared him shitless. Having to face what was making his old tired heart beat into a lively rhythm again after convincing himself things of that nature were abysmally futile. Even as you stood in front of him now, with eyes and hair looking something fiercely wild, feet bare and dirtied from your lack of shoes in that high-cut black ensemble you had on. He absolutely knew that he couldn’t bring himself to deny what his programming was demanding of him when it came to the unknowing hold you had over him. Flexing his shaking fingers as if to render them steady he took a slow approach to you.

This was a moment where you had neither the sense nor the imagination to anticipate what he’d do next. It was as if your heart had forgotten how to keep itself beating. This was the closest you had found yourself in his proximity. Being able to see every fine detail of the tragically beautiful man in front of you could have left you speechless for the rest of your days.

A large, calloused hand came to cup your jaw then the other followed. Both nearly took up the entire sides of your face, and their warmth made you feel as if you were on fire. His grip was firm… more so intenful if you were to put a name to it. Eyes searched each other in the most tortuously bated moment you’d ever found yourself being victim to. If you were to move an inch or look away the spell might be broken forever and you think you might just collapse if that were to happen. When had you gotten this dramatic?

Kiss me. God, kiss me. Just kiss me. You thought over and over as if willing it into his mind. Then, as if he heard you through some unspoken link, he did.

It was like being let in on one big universal secret that couldn’t be fathomed by most. Never had you thought a kiss could wield as much power as Rust’s did. For being such a hard and withdrawn individual, the feeling of his slightly chapped lips on your plush ones felt nothing short of soul-bearing and endlessly warm. Trailing your hands up his broad chest, the quick pitter-pattering of his heart didn’t go past you. Drawing your palms up further you reach to lace deft fingers into the sandy waves that you’d secretly been aching to touch for a while now. His breath faltered as you pulled back for a brief moment. It wasn’t long before the invisible magnet between you both had you returning for more.

The kiss turned more intense, bodies pressing and molding into each other as if you could become one entity. His tongue traced the seams of your lips and you had no qualms with letting him invade your senses further. The need for air was becoming harder to ignore but no force on earth could rip you away. The desire for him was something you’d not felt for another person in you’re not sure how long. If not ever. His breath held traces of the Lonestar he’d been cradling and the cigarette he’d deeply pulled on the way here and it had you absolutely hooked as it curled into your mouth. You didn’t know how long the pair of you stood on your porch necking like a bunch of desperate teenagers but by the time he pulled away you felt dizzy at the sight of his flushed complexion and swollen lips. Possessiveness gripped your being at the thought of being able to have such an effect on him. You. No one else.

Rust’s grip loosened on your heated face as he planted one last sweet kiss on you before stepping away entirely. It was a shock that you had any remaining strength to keep yourself upright. His expression seemed a bit more relaxed, a bit too casual for what just transpired. There was a brief pause.

“Don’t go out dancin’ anymore.”

With that, he turned and made his slow descent back to his truck. Snapping out of your daze once the words sunk into the crevices of your Rust-drunk brain you quirked a brow,

“If that’s your odd way of layin’ claim on me I think I’m gonna need to ask for a more straightforward redo, mister.”

You saw his shoulders shake slightly in amusement as the night found itself ending on a more playful albeit confusing note, “G’night, y/n.”

“I’m bein’ serious, Rust. You can’t just kiss a girl like that then waltz on out. I have questions.” You pointed.

“I’ll see ya tomorrow.” The cowboy gave a slight wave and then got into his truck. Oh, you could wipe that subtly growing smirk right off his stupid face. His dry sense of humor made its presence known at what you thought was the most inopportune of times. You stood there watching his truck disappear into the night, the ghost of him sticking to you like molasses. Your fingertips graced your buzzing lips and you could’ve started giggling again like some schoolgirl. How ridiculous indeed.

You were so not letting any of this go when you got into work tomorrow.

#YEAH BABY YEAH

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 4 months

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!!!!!!!!!!!!

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 7 months

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"I had the worst dream last night."

The season was beginning to turn. The leaves had turned into an ugly shade of brown and fell off their branches at least a month ago, and were growing soggy in the gutters. You were wearing the warmest jacket you owned, knowing that in the coming months going outside with only the thin layer of flannel would become nearly unbearable. For now, it did just fine.

"Tell me."

Your sandwich had been warm when you left the deli, but the chicken was starting to leave a stale and dry feeling in your mouth. Adam had abandoned his a while ago, wrapping it up to store in his shitty fridge.

"I was in my parents' house, but it was like, around Christmas time so everything was real festive and awful. You were there, but it was you when you had dyed your hair, but also like now? Like your face was how it is now. Scott was there too, but he didn't really do anything, he just sort of stood there."

Thinking about Scott made your skin crawl. The last time you had seen him he was trying to break down your door, screaming at you about some money you owed him. The bad blood between the two of you went way back to when he stabbed Adam with a rusty nail when you were children. He had tried to get you to fuck him in the bathroom at one of his band's gigs, around five years ago. You walked away with bruises on your arm from when he tried to drag you away from the bar, while he stumbled home with bloody nose and scratch marks on his face. He left several voicemails, blaming his actions on the beer, calling you a bitch and a prude and a slut, threatening legal action, and begging for forgiveness.

"Remember when your mom got you that psychiatrist voucher one year?"

Adam's mother had spent many years thinking there was something wrong with her son. For a long time he was too quiet, then he hit middle school and was suddenly too loud. The music he listened to was too loud and angry, and he started painting his nails black and got called slurs a lot at school. Then there was the chain smoking when he got to high school, and the endless stream of girlfriends that he only dated because he knew his parents would hate them and their septum piercings and vocal fry (and in some best case scenarios, they were communists, those were the ones you got on the best with). He was sucking dick on the side as well, but it wasn't like his mother knew that.

"I tried to leave the living room, but every time I walked out the door I would just go back to the place I started. Mom was playing some classical record, and I remembered it because it was the one she would always play when she was trying to lower her blood pressure. She gave me a present to open, but I couldn't find where the wrapping paper ended and she kept getting more and more mad at me for being ungrateful or something. She, like, grew claws and started ripping at the box and inside was a tiny version of me, like if I turned into an action figure. Then you picked me up and left the room. Thanks for that by the way, mom was thrilled."

Sometimes Adam made you want to scream. You had met when he poured a bottle of paint down your arm during kindergarten. You had reached up and grabbed a fistful of his hair, smearing paint on his face, making him howl and getting you both sent to the principal's office. In seventh grade, he had, albeit accidentally, set a piece of your hair on fire playing with a lighter. He sprayed you down with a garden hose, and in a fit of frustration and unresolved anger management issues you had tackled him and rubbed his face in the dirt. But he only got some grass stains on his forehead and the bridge of his nose, while you had to sport an ugly, jagged haircut for months. One time, the month before graduation, he tried to drop out. You two spent an evening yelling at each other, you that if he left now his parents would probably have him sent him to the military or a monastery and he was neither tough nor religious, and him spouting out some concerning things that in your adolescence you elected to ignore. When you had both calmed down, you fell asleep listening to The Pixies, his head on your shoulder, your nose buried in his hair.

"If I found a tiny version of you I would keep you in a jar and get you to run small errands for me. I would never have to sharpen a pencil ever again."

There was a thin layer of grime in the park you two had chosen to eat lunch in. The city was underfunded, so many of the trashcans were overflowing out the top and onto the street and the sidewalk. A stench permeated throughout the air, smelling of pollution and piss and dog shit. It seeped into you if you stayed around long enough. At this point you were blind to it, the stink nestled into your nostrils in a way much too permanent.

"The walls started to break down, and then I was in my apartment, and I think my mom had turned into a giant bird because she had started clawing at all my shit."

When the clouds parted, and the sun shone down just right, you could be fooled into thinking that Adam's eyes had some gold in them.

"What then?"

You took another bite out of your sandwich, your hunger winning out over your distaste for the dried out bread and the cold chicken.

"I woke up."

#adam stanheight x reader #saw 2004 #adam stanheight #reader insert #adam is one of the most characters in the history of characters #tw mentions of attempted sa #tw homophobic language #furthering the bisexual adam agenda

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 11 months

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To All The Boys I've Written About Before - Beige Flags

In my never-ending quest to make things that appeal only to me, here's a little exercise for all the boys in my arsenal.

Angel Torres will always help you out around the house, no question about that, but boy will he act like he's a hero for simply loading the dishwasher. I'm talking wiping his brow every time you walk into the kitchen, grunting when he puts a plate on the drying rack. You offer to help but he flat out refuses, and will probably say some shit like "My hands look like this [soapy] so yours can look like that [slightly dirty from repotting your plants]."

Jesse Pinkman will call you "dude" until the end of time. It doesn't matter what stage of your relationship you are currently in, you will always and forever be "dude" to him. "Yo dude, do you want to grab Wendy's on the way home?""Dude, you look pretty today." You could be at the alter and it would be a "Dude, I do." He also 100% buys in to the "glasses make you smarter" myth.

Lemon bought himself a label-maker, and that man LOVES makin' labels. All the drawers in your flat are labeled, so are the spices (even if they already have labels), he labels which food belongs to who, all the wires/cables have a label for what kind of wire/cable they are and what they're for. You told him that you could probably remember which clear jar holds the salt and which holds the ginger-snaps, so he made the label "fuck off" and stuck it to your forehead.

Tangerine refuses to call menu items by their proper names, especially if they're stupid. A matcha latte is "green foamy shit, you know." If the dish is named after someone, this chicken shop you frequent has an Ike's Famous Wings Bowl, he will call it "that bloke's chicken thing, the one with all the spices and shit on it." The worst was when he wanted to order the Foxx on the Roxx Boxx from TGI Fridays (yes that's the spelling, I looked it up), he straight up would not say its name, he just kept pointing at the menu and saying "fucking- this one."

Harvey SDV, sweet man that he is, will always sign off his text messages. It doesn't matter how long or short the message is. There's the standard "darling, I'm running a little bit late, would you like me to pick up something for dinner? Dr H" but there's also the "okay honey (: Dr H" or the "[insert picture of flower] Dr H". You've tried to explain to him that you know that it's him, that he doesn't need to sign off every time he messages you, but it's no use.

Andrew Neiman loves to collect random bits of niche trivia, but will straight up forget incredibly basic things. You two were out at a live music venue, sipping on your tasty little beverages, and he'll just bust out something about the similarities between jazz and Indian music, and while he's expanding on the influence of Ravi Shankar on Coltrane, he'll flip through the menu in front of him and ask you what margarine is.

Carmen Berzatto, common knowledge at this point, always keeps a book on him, which on its own is a very good thing. It keeps him from getting bored, you think it makes him look smart, it's a win by all accounts. But, save for when he's at work, he will whip that book out whenever there's any sort of lull in a conversation or if he's not physically doing something. You were talking to him about weekend plans, and he'll be listening intently because he's a good boyfriend who cares about your thoughts, but as soon as you go quiet to turn around to grab something he's flipping open his copy of The Reivers to quickly read a sentence.

Randal Graves loves to fake propose at restaurants for free shit. He makes a big thing out of it, will pull you aside before you enter Olive Garden and show you the tiny plastic ring he's used about three times already and whisper about the ruse he's about to pull, and all you can do is nod along with him. He's gotten more elaborate each time, from the basic garden-variety proposal, to putting it in your water, to asking to have it put in your Chipotle burrito (you had nearly swallowed it that time), managing to score a few free desserts and, at one point, a bottle of cheapo champagne that he got so incredibly slurshed on at home.

Warren Rojas has this game he likes to play whenever you two go to bars or nightclubs where he will pretend like you two don't know each other just so he can hit on you in the most cheesy ways known to man. Asking to buy you a drink, dumb pick-up lines, saying shit like "My name is Warren, but you can call me anytime." It's so incredibly dumb and he gets the biggest kick out of it. One time when you and Eddie were having a conversation at a party he totally pulled out the "Is this guy bothering you, babe?" He thinks he's so funny.

Jimmy Bartlett, whenever you two are cuddling, will set a timer so he knows when to switch from big spoon to little spoon. He'll bring up the egg timer from the kitchen and set it to 20 minutes before he joins you on his bed. You'll be half asleep after a long shift from work with his head buried in the back of your neck, and the next thing you know he's shuffling around while tiny beeps are sounding and he's somehow got your arms around him before you even realize what's happening, before drifting off again. He says it's only fair.

Miguel O'Hara is like a big dog with the temperament of a house cat; thinks he takes up less space than he does and always at least slightly grumpy. He'll get confused when he goes to put on a sweater that was originally yours (the communal wardrobe holds no prisoners) and finds it tight around his biceps. He knocks his forehead on low doorways constantly, you've taken to shouting 'duck' whenever you see him about to go through one. Watching movies on the couch with him, during a rare moment of peace, can be an ordeal because he always wants to lie down on top of you and you don't have the heart to tell him that he's crushing your lungs.

#angel torres x reader #jesse pinkman x reader #lemon x reader #tangerine x reader #harvey sdv x reader #andrew neiman x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #randal graves x reader #warren rojas x reader #jimmy bartlett x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #the gang's all here #multifandom preferences

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 11 months

Text

(S)CREAMING

a/n if anybody actually reads this dm me so i can set our wedding date

It was that awful time in Long Island in late fall where your sweaters suddenly became too thin for the frigid air, and you would quickly overheat the minute you put on a proper jacket. You could feel yourself getting snippier with people, like when your friend in your community choir asked how you were doing and you snapped out "I can't fucking do this right now." You were well aware you were being a bit cunty, but your cheeks were stinging and your hands were going numb.

Jimmy Bartlett conveniently chose this time of year to come home, something that was just so like him that you almost couldn't bring yourself to be annoyed at it. You were annoyed, but you almost weren't. You were annoyed with his stupid face and that dumb grin he always had on or the cigarettes seemingly always lodged between his idiot lips. Fuck him, you thought, I can't fucking do this right now. That was the only thought you could parse out as you lied face down on his childhood bed.

“I need a five letter word for a kind of bond in chemistry.”

“You do crosswords now?”

He nudged your leg with his foot and you pressed your face deeper into his pillow.

“Yeah, the army likes people who can spit out useless trivia at a moment’s notice.”

You hummed softly, staring intently at his Patton poster on the opposite wall. "It's 'ionic.'"

"See, was that so hard?"

"Y'know, most people would say 'thank you.'" Jimmy reached over and gently fiddled with a stray bit of hair that had fallen in your face. He swished over your nose before tucking it behind your ear.

"You warming up?" He brought his hand up to feel your cheek. Grumbling, you rolled over onto your back. His mother had caught you as you were walking up the driveway and, in an effort to be polite with the woman whose house you have been visiting for upwards of a decade, you had let her grill you about your life, your job, your siblings, and so on until you felt like the chill would never leave your bones, no matter how warm Jimmy's room was. Your face burned against his knuckles, and as if you couldn't be any more of a cliche, you shivered in spite of the warmness you felt behind your cheeks. This is so pathetic, you thought ruefully. You and Jim sat firmly in the 'too close to be friends' category of relationships, so it wasn't like he's never touched you like this before. Sure, to the general public you were childhood best friends, but they didn't have to know that when you both got tipsy you had a tendency to get a little handsy with each other, or that one night you two had hooked up in the confessional at his church (not that you particularly cared about being sacrilegious).

He let out a hyena laugh. "Guess not."

"Fuck you." You scrubbed your hand over your face. Still chilly.

"I'm gonna get a house with a wood stove," he returned to his crossword, "Y'know, when my tours are up and my bones are too fucking brittle for service."

You rolled over until your cheek was resting on his shoulder. "4 down is 'aloof'"

He penciled it in. "You'll be there, too."

"Will I, now?"

"Mhm."

"As what, your nurse?" You poked at his side. "Thinking of getting yourself blown up overseas just to keep me around?"

"Nah, I'm thinking of hauling you up to the alter myself. Forcing you to marry me." He didn't notice the way you tensed, too busy leaning down to kiss your neck. You knew he was just messing around, but your brain was too busy sending you flashes of you and Jimmy and the phrase 'domestic bliss.' It was all too fucking much. "Get you out of seven nights a week of your mother's fucking green bean casserole."

"I don't live with my mother." That gave him pause. "I'm an adult, I have a normal apartment where I live a normal life." The fucker bit into your neck, lightly but still. "You're gone for most of the year, and my world doesn't revolve around you and your shitty marriage proposals."

"It should."

"Fuck you." You shrugged him out of where he had burrowed into the crook of your neck. "One of us has got to fucking grow up sometime."

"I thought you liked me because of the, I don't know, fucking whimsy I bring into your life." You snorted. "I know you're an adult. Fuck it, you've been more adult than my fucking parents have been lately."

"If you're gonna get Oedipal with me I will fucking leave."

"No- fuck, that's not what I meant." He sat up, facing you. "I don't want to marry you."

"Good."

"I just... there's shit going on with my parents that is fucking me up, and I don't want you worrying about it because you're a fucking adult and I know you've got your own shit to deal with, and my brother is going through shit that's adding onto my pile of shit and-," he paused to rub the frustration out of the corner of his eye. "You know this."

"Of course I do."

"Of course you do." He huffed out a long sigh, as if he hadn't had the chance to breath for the past few minutes.

"Listen," you started, reaching out to brush your fingers along his forearm, "I'm not interested in... contorting myself into whatever I think you want me to be at the drop of a hat. I love you, but I can't do that anymore."

"I don't want you to." He took your hand in his, softly rubbing his thumb up and down the meat of your palm.

"I know. I just..." You paused. "For the longest time, it was you and me. That was a while ago, it's not like that anymore, I get it. That period of our lives ended after high school, and I don't blame you for enlisting, I'm so proud of you. But whatever we had back then, it's different now. You're not here most of the time, and I've got a job and hobbies and bills and problems that I deal with when you're not around. So, whatever we are... I'm okay with keeping it as it is. But if there's going to be anything more..."

Jimmy moved his head down to catch your eyes, not letting go of your hands. "More?"

Did you want more? You hadn't really considered it before. 'More' had always been holding hands while he shopped for Christmas presents, the way his hands shook when you drunkenly kissed him for the first time, the heavy breathing coming from the both of you during late nights that would swiftly be swept under the rug the next morning. Were you even allowed to ask for more than that? Jimmy had a way of making you feel greedy, downright gluttonous.

"I have to go to work." You slid your hands out of his firm grip, ignoring the pang you felt in your chest.

"Let me take you out to dinner tonight."

"I'm working a double."

"Breakfast tomorrow, then." You moved around the room, collecting your things, saying nothing. "You're right, things are different. You're always fucking right." You put your water bottle in your tote bag. "I want to see you tomorrow." You checked to make sure your keys were still in your bag's inside pocket. "I want you to want to see me."

You sighed. With your bag under your arm, you marched the couple yards of distance between you and Jimmy, grasping him by the sides of his face and mashing your lips onto his. He responded in kind, one hand on your waist and the other on the back of your neck, not enough to keep you in place but enough to remind you that he was there. He let you go when you pulled back.

"Breakfast."

"Uh huh."

"Tomorrow."

"Uh huh."

"You're picking me up, and don't you dare be late."

"Yes ma'am."

You turned out of his room, slipping on your gloves. "We'll figure this out."

"Don't freeze!"

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 11 months

Text

He never approached you for a reason. Reasons he conveniently forgot the moment he saw you.

There was this thing that you did when you had a moment to yourself, when you didn’t have to answer to roommates or managers or pushy customers, where you would take your book and sit at one of the outdoor tables near the fountain at Bryant Park. When Miguel was feeling particularly weak he would travel to one of these moments, and watch from a safe distance as you sipped your drink and flipped the pages of your latest read. If he didn’t know you so well, so dearly, he might have wondered how it would feel to sit across from you, to ask you about your book, maybe even to reach across the table and take your hand in his, to feel the warmth in his fingers and his chest that he hadn’t felt in so long. There was no greater tragedy in his life that he did know how it felt, he knew it so well that all he had to do in his loneliest moments was to close his eyes and there you would be.

Of course, you didn’t know. No matter his yearning, the truth was it was best if you never knew. How in more universes than one (he was ashamed of the true number), he sought you out, courted you in all the ways you deserved, fell so deeply in love in ways that were so different each time yet so painfully the same. How he would lose you each time; to villains, to random criminals, illness, freak accidents. And how each time he would lose it a little more, become more and more desperate to save you, to keep you protected, until he resigned himself to this. Watching. He had been told more times than he could count that he had no sense of humor, which why it was so ironic that his life felt like such a joke.

The universe you lived in seemed cruel to him, he remarked to himself as he watched as you took another sip of your beverage. He saw how overworked and unappreciated you were despite being so hardworking, or how you would desperately try to avoid drama with your roommates and would mediate whenever she would have another falling out with her boyfriend. He knew if only he could be with you, you would never have to deal with the sludge of life, he would make sure you were showered with love and appreciation, that you would never have to lift a finger as long as you allowed him to bask in the warmth that was you (although he would continue to do so even if you sent him away).

You flipped to the next page.

Soon he would go home, and busy himself with other things to keep him from thinking about this, about you, but for now he would allow himself to sit here, a safe distance from you, but a painful distance nonetheless.

#fanfic #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x reader #across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse x reader #this is short but I just rewatched it today and I felt some things and one thing led to another #anyways here you go

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 1 year

Text

a/n if anybody actually reads this dm me so i can set our wedding date

“I need a five letter word for a kind of bond in chemistry.”

“You do crosswords now?”

He nudged your leg with his foot and you pressed your face deeper into his pillow.

“Yeah, the army likes people who can spit out useless trivia at a moment’s notice.”

You hummed softly, staring intently at his Patton poster on the opposite wall. "It's 'ionic.'"

"See, was that so hard?"

"Y'know, most people would say 'thank you.'" Jimmy reached over and gently fiddled with a stray bit of hair that had fallen in your face. He swished over your nose before tucking it behind your ear.

He let out a hyena laugh. "Guess not."

"Fuck you." You scrubbed your hand over your face. Still chilly.

"I'm gonna get a house with a wood stove," he returned to his crossword, "Y'know, when my tours are up and my bones are too fucking brittle for service."

You rolled over until your cheek was resting on his shoulder. "4 down is 'aloof'"

He penciled it in. "You'll be there, too."

"Will I, now?"

"Mhm."

"As what, your nurse?" You poked at his side. "Thinking of getting yourself blown up overseas just to keep me around?"

"It should."

"Fuck you." You shrugged him out of where he had burrowed into the crook of your neck. "One of us has got to fucking grow up sometime."

"If you're gonna get Oedipal with me I will fucking leave."

"No- fuck, that's not what I meant." He sat up, facing you. "I don't want to marry you."

"Good."

"Of course I do."

"Of course you do." He huffed out a long sigh, as if he hadn't had the chance to breath for the past few minutes.

"I don't want you to." He took your hand in his, softly rubbing his thumb up and down the meat of your palm.

Jimmy moved his head down to catch your eyes, not letting go of your hands. "More?"

"I have to go to work." You slid your hands out of his firm grip, ignoring the pang you felt in your chest.

"Let me take you out to dinner tonight."

"I'm working a double."

"Breakfast."

"Uh huh."

"Tomorrow."

"Uh huh."

"You're picking me up, and don't you dare be late."

"Yes ma'am."

You turned out of his room, slipping on your gloves. "We'll figure this out."

"Don't freeze!"

#fanfiction #lymelife #jimmy bartlett #jimmy bartlett x reader #fanfic #this is for approximately nobody #this if for me and me alone

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 1 year

Note

what would’ve been stewy’s reaction to l to the og?

unbridled lust

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 1 year

Text

I’m in love with him and I’m being so serious

#brian tyree henry #met gala #met gala 2023

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 1 year

Note

your little blurb turned whole ass fic ??? AMAZING BEAUTIFUL LIFE CHANGING WRITING

I’m not even kidding I loved it so much and if you’re up for it , maybe a part 2 ?? idk I loved it though !!

ooh baby this has been sitting in my inbox collecting dust for far too long.

thank you so much for sending me this message, I had so much fun writing that piece so I'm overjoyed that people seem to be having as much fun reading it as I did creating it. it's truly my baby.

I definitely want to write a part two, and I've gotten a good handful of comments asking for one, so it will absolutely be happening. I'm currently in the throes of finals season (I've written two rather sizable papers just this week and I'm far from finished), and right after that I'm promptly shifting into "moving out of my dorm" mode. So part two is coming, but she's going to have to stew for a little while longer. Believe me, I wish I could cite fanfic writing as an excuse for an extension, but I doubt my profs would be pleased with me.

Side note: I also got my first request! It's also been sitting in my inbox for a whiiiiile, but I will get around to writing it. I am looking into creating a more robust requesting system; character lists, rules, etc. (I was waiting to hit 100 followers to do it but after my next week of hell I might just set it up anyways). So y'all have that to also look forward to!

#tldr part 2 will happen #just not right away #im trying to stave off the shutdown of my internal organs due to stress #asks #alpineandwhiskey

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 1 year

Text

Roman Roy Being Jealous Would Include...

Request: also. ALSOOOO here’s one for “succession” - how about jealous roman? hcs or fic, whatever you prefer

WHOO okay how we feeling after the last ep @seal-writes-stuff??? I am literally going insane!! :)

Also sorry if this is literally terrible, it’s been over a week since I’ve written anything and I’m just dusting off the cobwebs again!

Warning: mentions of childhood trauma/abuse, some death imagery and some swearing!

Positive feedback is much appreciated loves, thank you!! <3

(I do not own Succession or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @cinematicnomad.)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Oh Roman. How does it feel to be doomed by the narrative, no matter if you live or die? How does it feel to be a tragedy incarnate: so much like your father, while every last scrap of you is beaten and suffocated as soon as it dares to show its head?

So it begs the question: would Roman’s jealously be like him? Soft? Fraught? Solicitous, even its sadness and disappointment? Or has Logan wormed his way too maliciously into Roman’s way of thinking, warped him so completely that he will respond to it like a puppet on a string? Would he be crass? Irate? Dismissive?

Would he try to hide himself back in his cage, retreating to a safety he doesn’t understand, not understanding that his father is the one kicking quickly at his heels?

In all honest truth, sometimes Roman Roy wishes he was someone else. Don’t get him wrong, he didn’t detest being a Roy as sometimes his older brother seemed to, when he would come slogging out of his father’s quarters at the ripe old age of 15: bleary eyed, not really seeing Roman as he peeked round the pillar by the door, waiting for Kendall to come back out. He might pat him on the head, or sometimes just briskly brush past him, floating down the dim corridor as if he were a child treading water; a man already dead.

No, he didn’t quite hate being a Roy. Sure, he may have hated, or perhaps just not understood why his father tried to change Kendall so much, but any puzzled questions offered up to the patriarch had always ended in a smack across the face, or a thwack with his shoe, or a paperweight thrown at his head, and so Roman had just accepted the fact that Kendall was different. That he was the special child: allowed to see his father’s true colours. The only one really trusted by him. The only one trying to help him become the man he knew one day he should be.

He had been cultivated to be proud of his name, but he still wasn’t used to the baggage, or the certain expectations trying to bring said people into said family brought. It didn’t matter that Roman had loved you since you were both five years old, or that you spent many the summer holidays hiding out with Roman in his room, or running out into the Roy’s nearby orchard so the two of you could swing across trees and roll in mud and play pirates like real children should.

But the two of you always had to come back to reality at some point. No matter how many times they met you, it was always brisk and informal. It was the raised eyebrows as soon as you enter Logan’s apartment; Roman didn’t miss the way Gerri and Frank looked at each other incredulously before turning their backs. They chatter silently with heads bowed, but their words whip over the edge of their whiskey glasses like bullets and pierce Roman with each step from the elevator.

You weren’t part of the business, and thus an outsider.

It was the way Shiv raises an unenthusiastic eyebrow as you came up to greet the woman you had been aware of since childhood, placing a faux half-kiss against your cheek. Her cheeks warm, and she squints at her husband, obviously irate, when he at least tries to seem cheerful and shake your hand. She had always seen you as a kind of ‘ingrown toenail’, as she had bluntly told Roman many years ago. Another part of him: the childish part, dragging him down and making the company look ridiculous. Only Kendall seemed to appreciate the way you intimately knew Roman, and he was thankful deep down inside his heavy heart that he had some kind of safety weight: some kind of way to stay anchored to himself. To stay happy. To not become like him.

You weren’t a Roy, not part of the family, and thus an outsider. Dangerous. Too intricately entwined with the life of Roman Roy for a whole apartment complex of bootlickers and backstabbers to trust you: too bright, too normal for a room full of damaged and manipulated and lost children parading as business people to understand you.

Keep reading

#don’t do this to me

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creepycrawliesanonymous · 1 year

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a/n this is way too long, it started as a blurb and then the spirit of the reader-insert goddess possessed me and this is what I have to show for it, totally could've been longer but I restrained myself, so if the masses want a part two just shoot the message my way

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had a feeling most people your age would be more excited about the prospect of sharing a house with an up-and-coming rock band in Los Angeles. Perhaps you yourself were more excited leading up to your move, packing up your bare essentials and your typewriter, sipping a cocktail in the smoking section of the plane, listening to David Bowie in the taxi over to the house. And what a house it was! You were given the run-down over the phone by the woman who put the listing out, Camila Something (never great with the last names, you were), not put off by the alleged haunted-ness of the house. If anything, the various ghosts and ghouls would serve as inspiration for your screenplay. There was not much that could dampen your spirits at this point, lugging your bags towards the front door and rapping your knuckles on the wood.

Except, of course, the obvious.

Moving from your parents' house to a college dorm had been, as you recall, a bit of a shock to the system. If that was the case then, it was nothing compared to moving into the closet-like space that was the remaining bedroom. You had gotten an apologetic smile from Camila... Alv- shit, Alvaro? It was leaving your head already. You felt bad, she had been nice enough to welcome you into the house and shown you to your shoebox of a living space.

"None of the boys wanted this room, so you should be left alone most of the time. Warren swears it's the epicenter for all the ghosts...," she nervously chuckled, "and whatnot." You took a nibble of the chocolate-chip cookie she gave you. "So just, take all the time you need to settle in, the group is out rehearsing for a gig tonight so you'll be on your own for dinner." She paused. "Unless you'd like to come see them, which would be more than fine! They're all so excited to meet you, especially Karen I think. She's been dying for some more estrogen in the house, me as well."

You swallowed. "I think I'll just stay in tonight, thank you." You cringed at yourself as she visibly faltered.

"No problem, uh, there's some leftover beer and pizza in the fridge if you get hungry, just help yourself to whatever you need." She was a saint, you thought, taking whatever awkwardness you possessed in stride. She even helped carry in your bag, setting it carefully on your twin bed. You insisted on taking in your typewriter yourself. It now lived on one of the cardboard boxes in the corner of your room, presumably left over from the group's initial move. "I'll get Billy to move those."

"It's fine." You had no desk. This was actually preferable to writing on the floor.

Camila gave you one last warm smile before returning back to the living room. You waited until she was out of earshot, stood up, and closed the door behind her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were on your own late into the night, into the small hours of the morning. Camila had left the house at around 8:30, after which you snuck out of your room to rummage through the fridge. True to her word, there was a box of pizza within the fridge, with two slices remaining. Considering you were now sharing a place with four boys, this seemed like a small miracle to you. You ate both of them cold, sitting at the dining room table. While you ate, you took the time to take in your surroundings.

The kitchen, frankly, was not in the best shape. Pots and dishes piled up in the sink and the counters looked like they needed a serious scrubbing. The living room had beer bottles littering the floor, and the couch looked distinctly tread on.

You took another bite of your frozen pizza. This would do just nicely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tired from your day of travel (and the handful of plane cocktails you had ingested) you retired to your bed relatively early. It would seem in this house, early meant any time before 2 a.m., and on-time would be closer to 4, which was around the time you were startled awake by a car pulling up and a small crowd of people piling through the backdoor into the kitchen.

"I swear there was pizza left over this morning."

"Eddie, we have a new roommate." That was Camila. "She needs to eat, too."

"Yeah, where is she?" A British voice piped up, moving from the kitchen roughly towards the living room. "Don't tell me she's in bed already."

"Just because you rock-and-rollers like to stay up doesn't mean everybody does," Camila laughed out. "Speaking of which, I'm beat. I'll see you all tomorrow."

"Right behind you." A deeper voice sounded, and two sets of footsteps walked off presumably to their bedroom. You suspected that was Billy.

"Should we go find her?" You felt as if your spine had been doused in cold water.

"Don't be stupid." British again. Someone moved around the living room, a record needle scratched and the quiet sounds of Credence Clearwater Revival started playing throughout the room.

The house started to mellow out after that; you expected the rest of them went to bed, and the ones that stayed out were smoking. It was at that moment that your bladder started to call for your attention in earnest. Weighing your options, you decided venturing out of your bedroom would be less treacherous than pissing your bed on your first night.

The journey to the bathroom you managed to avoid other people, it was the journey back that you slipped up. There was only one person in the living room, and there was only one of you in the hallway, so there was no mistaking that when he was waving, he was waving at you. To make matters worse, he was strikingly handsome, and you were deeply sleepy. Before you could stop yourself, you waved back. He held up the joint he was smoking in your direction. You shook your head. He gave you an exaggerated pout, wiping an invisible tear off his cheek. Not totally convinced that what was happening to you was real, you quietly slunk off back to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a small window in your room, the sill lined with small potted plants. The morning sun beamed through that window, casting a glowing light onto your bed. You reached your hand around looking for your pillow to throw over your head, prying your eyes open to see it lying on the floor next to your headboard. Groaning, you sat up, resigning yourself to the morning.

The house was quiet. 9 a.m. was evidently too early for anybody except you to be awake. You tiptoed your way into the kitchen, searching for a loaf of bread or an oatmeal pack. What didn't escape your notice, was the man sleeping soundly on the coach in the living room. The same man, you saw, that your had encountered last night. In the morning light you were able to get a better look at him. You were right to see that he was handsome, with his curly brown hair and his strong nose. Taking a bite of your buttered bread, you let yourself stare at him for just a few moments. Too many moments, in fact. You realized this when suddenly the boy on the couch was staring back at you.

"You didn't come smoke with me last night."

At that moment, you felt more empathy for deers in headlights than any other living soul on the planet.

"Good morning."

"Is it?" He looked over to the windows streaming in light. He beamed. "It is."

You hurried back to your room, the piece of bread squished within your clenched fist.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your first few weeks you spent writing. It was very clear that you kept a very different schedule from everyone else in the house, except for maybe Camila. By virtue of being the only two in the house for long stretches of the day, she was the one in the house that you became the closest to the fastest. In the afternoons she would encourage you to bring your typewriter out into the dining room to keep her company while she poured over photographs from the night before. You would both slip into a comfortable silence, save for the clacking of your keys.

When you weren't writing you were watching TV. Camila had gotten Billy to drive you downtown along with a list of groceries, where you purchased for yourself the smallest television set you could find. While Billy and you said the equivalent of about three sentences to each other that trip, he had carried it into the house for you and even helped set it up in your room. The tiny screen sat in the corner on top of one of the cardboard boxes, consistently tuned to CBS so you could watch re-runs of Scooby Doo.

There was another television set in the living room. It was slightly bigger than yours, too. Maybe it even got more channels. You didn't use it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Camila greatly appreciated your company. She adored the band that she lived with, and she loved Billy with all her heart, but she couldn't deny that uprooting herself from Pittsburgh and moving across the country wasn’t an easy change. Putting out ads looking for a roommate, while being somewhat financially motivated (only so much pocket toast could be eaten by one household), was, perhaps subconsciously, a yearning for companionship, for a friend to fill the hours where the house would otherwise be empty.

And she adored you. You may have been a tough nut to crack, she slowly but surely got you to open up, got you talking about films coming out that you wanted to see, your childhood dog that would puke all over your room, your favorite classes in high school. The little things that were once guarded under layers of uncertainty and self-isolation. She would ask for your opinions on the photos she took, and you would ask her about your word choice. Before heading out for the night, she would always ask you if you wanted to come with, and she was sure she was getting closer and closer to the day you would say yes.

She was also pretty sure you had a thing for Warren. Like, 99.8% sure.

You never brought him up. She started dropping his name in your daily conversation, and would watch as your fingers would still on the keys of your typewriter. You would stutter for a few seconds before taking a breath and composing yourself, nervously glancing over at her to make sure she didn't notice. She never gave you any indication that she did, but of course she noticed.

She also noticed how Warren would scan the audience every night from behind his drum kit, and how his face would subtly fall when he couldn't spot you. Or how he started nagging the group to go home earlier than usual, and would drag his feet a little more in the early afternoons before leaving for rehearsals. The final straw on the camel's back came when he had bought a tiny ceramic kitten and asked her to give it to you.

"She likes cats, right?" It was close to three in the morning when he had cornered her in the kitchen, holding up the small black cat in the light of the oven lamp. "It seemed like something she'd like."

"You know, you can be asking her these questions yourself."

"I don't wanna spook her." He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Playing the long game, huh?"

"I've got time." He froze, eyes slowly widening. "I mean, I don't know what you're talking about."

She plucked the cat from his hands, patting him on the shoulder. "Go to bed, Rojas."

She slid the cat over to you the next morning while you were eating your cereal.

"What is this?" You gingerly picked it up.

"It's from Warren." You quickly set it back down. "It's for you."

You don't think your face has ever been hotter than it was that day. The cat lived on you windowsill, next to the potted plants. Every time you watered you felt a warmness blooming in your chest, running a finger delicately over its head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hey, you know what channel M*A*S*H airs on, right?"

On a rare day off, the band had settled in around the television in the living room; Camila and Billy sharing the chair in the corner, Graham and Karen lying over each other on the floor, with Eddie perched on the stool in front of the set, his hand on the dial. Warren had spread himself out on the couch, lying down comfortably smoking a joint.

"Uh, yeah." You paused in the doorway. "Yeah, sorry, uh, it's on CBS."

"Great, thanks." Eddie fiddled around with the set before standing up. "Are you gonna join us? I mean, you can join us if you want to."

"Oh, um," you're eyes wildly scanned the room for any hint of disapproval. They landed on Warren, who was hazily looking at you with an easy smile on his face. "Yeah, sure."

"Warren, move your legs," Camila spoke from across the room. Still looking at you, Warren lifted his legs off the couch, inviting you to sit down. As you took your seat, he lowered his legs back down on your lap. He held out the joint, in a movement reminiscent of your first encounter. Never not one for consistency, you shook your head. He shrugged and stuck the joint back between his lips, turning his attention to Alan Alda on the TV. Unsure of what to do with your hands, you tentatively rested them on his calves. You didn't notice, but right next to you the corners of Warren's mouth ever so subtly turned upwards.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

M*A*S*H, as groundbreaking of a show as it was, was not enough to hold the attention of 7 adults for an extended amount of time. Camila left the group first, but not before dropping you a wink as she left the room. Slowly but surely, the rest of the group left to go putter around in their respective corners of the house, before it was just you and Warren, who had finished his joint and transitioned to laying his head in your lap. His face was looking up towards you, but his eyes were closed, looking so relaxed he reminded you of a cat showing their belly. Not fully aware of yourself, you had rested one of your hands on the side of his waist, while the other was running through his hair. The scene was so intimate you were practically choking on it.

"Will you come to our show this weekend?"

Your hand stilled.

"Hmm?"

"I'd like you to, if you want to." He reached his hand up to yours, nudging it to get you to resume your petting. "I'll buy you dinner afterwards."

"You don't need to do that."

He cracked open his eyes, his face splitting into a grin.

"Girlie, I'll take you to dinner any night that you let me."

You barked out a laugh despite yourself. You felt like you were dreaming. He started giggling, too.

"I will!" His thumb was rubbing the meat of your forearm, drawing small circles on your skin. "I'll get you another little cat, too. My finances aren't robust but I'll find a way." The heart eyes he was sending your way were overwhelming.

"I- okay!"

"Really?" Warren sat up, eyes scanning your face, grinning wildly. Not trusting your voice, you nodded emphatically. Looking slightly awestruck, he reached over and cupped your face. "You won't regret this, honey. I'm gonna treat you so well." Someone called him from another room, and reluctantly he let go of you. Subconsciously you started reaching for him. As he stood up, he leaned over and took your hands in his, kissing your knuckles.

"I'm gonna name a boat after you!"

After he left the room, you breathed out a holy cow, and then another quiet chuckle.

Warren Rojas was gonna be the death of you, and you were counting on it.

#warren rojas #warren rojas x reader #djats x reader #if this gets one note i will write the date fic #i will like this myself if i have to

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