#[thanks for the question apple!!]
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camrynlawl · 4 months ago
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people need to talk about them more i think
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 6 months ago
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Hi! Sorry to bother, but could you please tell me why you refer to Little Apple as her? When I looked up the wiki page, they used the it pronoun, and novel translations into my native tongue all use male pronoun. Is it audio-drama exclusive or something? P.S. I really love your art and appreciate you sharing it here! <3
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Never ask a donkey her pronouns.
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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 11 months ago
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The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.
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PART 1 ★ PART 2
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.
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sskk-manifesto · 5 months ago
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Bungou Stray Dogs: Dead Apple and how “ability users” (opposite to “normal people”) learning to accept themselves through the acceptance of their own abilities is a queer metaphor of acceptance of own's sexual orientation and gender: an essay by me
#bsd#bungou stray dogs#About: Dead Apple. Watched this a while ago with a friend and it was a lot of fun!!!#If you're reading this: thank you so much for hanging out with me I had such a good time (ㅅ´ ˘ )♡#Next to general considerations: wow they were right that Bungou Stray Dogs movie sure can Bungou Stray Dogs#It's always nice to see the detailed animation and elaborate backgrounds of movies. The animation quality compared to the manga is–#definitely noticeable and it's nice to see. That said... I still like the season 2 art style more? And I'm speaking strictly of art style.#The s2 one looks more soft and smooth while the da one is so much more rough.#The plot is... Very bsd-esque I don't think there's anything to add.#In my opinion Kyouka's arc is the one that turned out best tbh. I really like her narrative development and personal growth in this movie.#I like the complexity of her state of mind. how full of contradiction she is. I especially appreciate the recurring small changes of–#expression that indicate how she thinks differently from Atsushi even if she doesn't voice them. The fight between her cynicism and her–#kind nature. It's all very interesting.#Atsushi's development is interesting too. Although all the open questions about his ability we still have kind of leave me frustrated#I don't feel very strongly about Akutagawa in this movie? I mean‚ he's there. The ss/kk scenes are always great and in character and a joy–#to witness no matter what they do. He just doesn't shine particularly? Or at least personally I dont find the “proving my strength against–#myself” narrative arc to be particularly interesting. Imo it was a lot better flashed out in the da stage play! With the complexity that–#the dialogues with Chuuya added to the character. Dazai attacking him. And especially Aktgw understanding that Rashomon wasn't testing Aktg#but rather only expressing that unstoppable rage that is also Aktgw's own. About that I checked out the play and I really liked it!!#I only watched highlights (aka: ss/kk and chuu/aku scenes) but there's some stuff I really like. I like the conflict between Aktgw and–#Chuuya and how Chuuya messes up with Aktgw at first maliciously and then amiably. It's interesting how Atsushi himself observes that Kyouka#and Akutagawa get along. And especially the sskk almost-handholding and Atsushi saying Akutagawa has a nice profile were cute akjdhbsawhjb#Next. Da really is shipping paradise (╥﹏╥) Sorry but... It is. oda/zai. daz/atsu. ss/kk. s/kk. fuku/mori. chuu/aku. It really has everythin#and the moments are so good!!!! What else. Wish we'd see more of Tsujimura. And Christie. And women in general tbh.#Also‚‚‚‚‚ Atsushi's tiger form in this movie is ATROCIOUS. I've said it before but it's crazy how a franchises that relies so heavily on–#fanservice came up with something this hideous. Man the movie overall was pretty but Atsushi sure wasn't. Firmly stand by the belief–#that only Akutagawa would find that form attractive.#Oh last note. honestly if we're ready to accept a movie where an antidote has effect AFTER the person has effectively died then we really–#can't complain about any kind of insanity the manga brings up#random rambles
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yesornopolls · 4 months ago
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Can you see images in your mind? Like when someone tells you to picture an apple, do you SEE an apple in your head?
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losingchipmunk · 10 months ago
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I love the anatomy class- they're so great
Oh, we're blending into a college? OK! Time to pick very real human names :)
Okay, the nice professor taught us that we shaped something wrong, let's fix it real quick :)
Oh! We spilled blood everywhere?? Let's clean that up before he notices- wouldnt want to be a bother :))
Huh? We've been dropped into another dimension and are unable to communicate with our now warped god? Welp- time to blend in! Maybe we'll try a college again- we're really good at that :)
It's for a good cause ! :))
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miniscule-meow · 8 days ago
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If your characters left hate comments what kind of gate comments would they leave?
This is so funny, anon 🤣 great question
Marcus, while verbally he's a "says the first thing he thinks" sort of person, his whole thing is that he's a writer. If he's sending hate, it means that it is something that is WELL thought out. It will be longer than it needs to be, and it will be poetically scathing.
Zeke is an expert at really hitting 'em where it hurts. He's just so blunt and dry. If he's sending hate, it will be incredibly direct, and probably hit too close to home.
I can not imagine Isabell sending hate. She might give a "I'm sorry, this is horrible." Sort of vibe, but she is really non-confrontational.
Felix has such a short fuse I don't know that he would sit down and send hate. But he loves a fight. With sending hate it would be very simple and very angry. He also, if bored, might start fights in the comments on purpose? I wouldn't put it past him.
Charlie is a master of staying unbothered and in her own lane. That being said, she isn't afraid of confrontation or sticking up for herself. So, she would have to have been specifically wronged to send hate. Otherwise she's just a don't like, don't read type of gal.
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ahhhh-118 · 7 months ago
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Would Mari Apple (ponified Marianne) get along with Apple Jack? Lol
:D !!❤️
Well I think regular-Maríanne and Apple Jack would get along. Maríanne appreciates kind, honest, and hardworking people. Would see Apple Jack as a voice of reason.
But Marí Apple….
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Nah. There’s a reason they don’t talk about her.
She’d be good friends with Discord tho 😭
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remythologise · 6 months ago
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You win as always I just started watching IWTV hope it won’t disappoint but I trust you completely after Black Sails.
Do you have the list of the things you would force people to watch if you could?
This is such a delightful ask thank you so much!! I look forward to hearing your thoughts when you finish season 2!!!
It’s definitely a harder question because I do force people to watch it based on their tastes (i.e. I have forced my Tumblr besties to watch at least three different movies released in 2011 for gay subtext as the main recommendation factor but would not do this to my work colleagues)… HOWEVER!!! Based on broad factors of what I HAVE in the past forced my friends/loved ones to watch these are the winners…
ROMANCE/ROM-COM Crash Landing on You This is the best rom com ever made.* Nothing has ever brought my mom AND dad to laughter, tears, and had them BOTH proclaim ‘5 stars’. I cannot recommend this show strongly enough to anyone who has remotely liked a single rom com, ever.**
COMEDY Galavant Niche audience of people who love fantasy and musicals includes ME motherfucker!
Honourable mention: Deadloch, Utopia (AU), Derry Girls This is really just a series of non-American comedies I would recommend to people if they hadn’t seen it. Deadloch specifically I am SHOCKED and APPALLED more people on Tumblr are not on top of and AM continually threatening my friends with a gun to watch it, or else!!
HORROR Hannibal and IWTV Both absolutely all-time must watches but only for people that would be into that sort of thing (sickos with taste) and not look at me weirdly afterwards for recommending it.
CRIME/THRILLERS The Devil Judge and Beyond Evil Crazy how these two shows came out at like, the same time, were both so similar in terms of the Wildly Gay Subtextual Leads Dynamic and so good. And they (were) both on Netflix!! Beyond Evil is definitely more refined BUT The Devil Judge is also so good and wild and such camp fun… you couldn’t go wrong with either if you enjoy having a fun gay time, particularly not if you like shows just to the left of Hannibal/IWTV.
FANTASY  Word of Honour and The Untamed These are not all-timers because they are ‘objectively well-made’ they are all timers because I shake my friends by the shoulders and yell "I had the absolute most fun gay fantasy romance time watching them and you will too!"
HISTORICAL Spartacus and Black Sails Everyone talks about Black Sails on this website but not enough people talk about how Spartacus walked so Black Sails could run. Much more extreme R-rated and/or triggering content in Spartacus though so I do understand. Nevertheless something I do end up recommending to my male friends a lot (and they love it!!).
SCI-FI  Dark REALLY tough category and I didn’t love the ending of this show but decided to pick based on what I'd recommend to the most people on balance. Don't look up spoilers!
For All Mankind Ok I haven’t even finished season 3 of this show so I can’t properly endorse it in full confidence and I’m also biased because I’m currently watching it, but. I simply love to see the BSG showrunner do what he does best: make television. About People, Politics and Situations In Space!
Honourable mention: The OA, In the Flesh and Sense8 These are my ‘wish they weren’t cancelled’*** and I don’t know if I would inflict on people while incomplete. However I just think what they were aiming for was so so unique and good that maybe they’re worth watching anyway!! (***I know Sense8 had the consolation prize movie but it was so rushed and nothing that like. To Me. It doesn't count.)
ANIME Shin Sekai Yori This is definitely the all-time anime I recommend to absolutely everyone. Ignore the middling animation and don’t look up spoilers, the end has one of the most existential ‘reframes the narrative’ plot twists of all time.
Yuri on Ice Speaking of plot twists that reframe the narrative… YOI is an obvious answer but it’s also correct!!! IT WAS BORN TO MAKE HISTORY!!!
FILMS The Handmaiden Limiting myself to ONE film to keep things a little briefer (sorry about the long post!) it was still an easy choice and literally do force my friends to watch it the second I know they haven’t seen it. No spoilers but it’s the IWTV of cinema to me.
*When Harry Met Sally Is of course also the best rom com ever made for its medium and I would be remiss not to include that here as well!
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nanowatzophina · 1 year ago
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OC Questionnaire! (Warden Edition as well)
Thanks to @dungeons-and-dragon-age for tagging me! I'm gonna do my Wardens as well since... like her, I don't wanna go on too long and... I really would go on too long if I did anything besides my wardens...
Even with just my wardens it's going to go for a while... so I apologize
This is my second time typing this all out-- so bear with me...
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NAME: Rosal Surana
NICKNAME: Rose/Rosie? Not a lot of people actually use nicknames for her but those are an option.
GENDER: Female (she/they)
STAR SIGN: ((I don't know enough about Star Signs or Tarot cards so-- I'm just not going to answer these ones)
HEIGHT: Average for an elf
ORIENTATION: Biromantic Asexual
NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: Ferelden! Born in Denerim to be specific but her mother was a Dalish elf.
FAVORITE FRUIT: Peaches
FAVORITE SEASON: Fall! When the air becomes crisp.
FAVORITE FLOWER: Lilies and Lilacs
FAVORITE SCENT: Floral scents remind her of her mother, Firewood, Old parchment, new books, charcoal
COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE: Hot Chocolate or Chai with honey
AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: Depends on if she has a new book she's trying to read... But usually like... 5? 5 hours sounds right...
DOGS OR CATS: Both!
DREAM TRIP: A historical trip around different places she's read about!
NUMBER OF BLANKETS: One really thick and fuzzy one.
RANDOM FACT: She can not do healing magic to save her life and yet that won't stop her from trying. That's how she got those scars, trying to heal herself in the fight going up the Tower of Ishal but just making it scar over really badly. But hey, at least it stopped bleeding.
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NAME: Lannaris Mahariel
NICKNAME: Lan or Lanna
GENDER: Female (she/her)
HEIGHT: On the shorter side for an elf which makes her pretty short compared to humans.
ORIENTATION: Gay. Lesbian. Women.
NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: Dalish!
FAVORITE FRUIT: Plums or Blackberries
FAVORITE SEASON: Spring or Summer (before it gets to hot)
FAVORITE FLOWER: Geranium
FAVORITE SCENT: Woodsy, right after rain,
COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE: Herbal tea
AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: 6. Schedules are important to her.
DOGS OR CATS: Cats, she's actually scared of dogs (which is why she never went to the kennel in Ostagar's camp)
DREAM TRIP: The Arbor Wilds, just to see the trees...
NUMBER OF BLANKETS: 1-2
RANDOM FACT: Her dream house would be a really cool treehouse. She'd love to live there with Leliana 3 cats and 6 nugs far away from other people... Just them and the forest.
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NAME: Fen'nas Mahariel
NICKNAME: Fen!
GENDER: Male (he/they)
HEIGHT: Tall for an elf, around Morrigan's height
ORIENTATION: Bisexual
NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: Dalish! Was born in the Hinterlands
FAVORITE FRUIT: Berries! Favorite is probably blueberries or raspberries.
FAVORITE SEASON: Spring! He loves the flowers
FAVORITE FLOWER: He loves them all! Though loves Honeysuckle.
FAVORITE SCENT: Floral, Cedar and stronger scented herbs like rosemary and basil.
COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE: Chai for sure.
AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: You guys count? (probably like... 8-9, honestly he probably sleeps in a lot later than he should and stays up later than he should too)
DOGS OR CATS: Either! Doesn't have too much of opinion.
DREAM TRIP: Anywhere with Morrigan <3
NUMBER OF BLANKETS: 1
RANDOM FACT: He loves halla. He was really hoping that he'd one day get to be a caretaker for them. He loved to feed them and brush them whenever he wasn't off hunting or patrolling for the clan.
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NAME: Alana Cousland
NICKNAME: Pup (her father is the only one allowed to call her that though) Rose (Alistair only)
GENDER: Female (she/her)
HEIGHT: Average?
ORIENTATION: Demi
NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: Ferelden!
FAVORITE FRUIT: Oranges and Pears (not together... just... depending on her mood??? or what's in season?)
FAVORITE SEASON: Summer
FAVORITE FLOWER: Doesn't think much of flowers, honestly.
FAVORITE SCENT: Stables and gardens. Which I guess is to say manure but that doesn't sound like a good scent even though that's what it is... Earthy smells like that.
COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE: Coffee... with a lot of sugar and cream.
AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: 6
DOGS OR CATS: Dogs. 100% Man's best friend.
DREAM TRIP: Adventure off somewhere, anywhere. It doesn't matter... just away from Ferelden.
NUMBER OF BLANKETS: 3-4
RANDOM FACT: She would actively scare away suitors, much to her Mother's chagrin... She would be purposefully blunt and rude in social situations and tease people relentlessly until they left her alone. She used to see being married off as the most torturous future possible. She also dislikes dresses. And probably wears pants around the castle to everyone's horror.
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NAME: Solan Aeducan
NICKNAME: Sol, Nug
GENDER: Female (they/she)
HEIGHT: Short? Considering she's a dwarf? But probably a normal height for them.
ORIENTATION: LESBIAN.
NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: Orzammarian
FAVORITE FRUIT: Strawberries
FAVORITE SEASON: Any of them but Winter. She HATES the cold.
FAVORITE FLOWER: Orchid, though she's come to love most flowers, she didn't know there was quite so many of them just growing everywhere you looked.
FAVORITE SCENT: Steel, Fire, the smell of home, but also the smell of a clear night, and the expensive perfumes Leliana wears
COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE: Coffee. Black.
AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: 5 but she doesn't need that much.
DOGS OR CATS: Dogs
DREAM TRIP: The Deep Roads, she always dreamed of going deep and finding a new Thaig, finding long forgotten treasures and gold and being an adventurer finding lost places down in the deep.
NUMBER OF BLANKETS: All of them. Why is it so sodding cold on the surface??
RANDOM FACT: She loves the stars. It took a little bit to adjust but the stars were likely the first things she found truly beautiful about the surface after being cast out of her home. She loves finding constellations and learning the stories of them. She feels more connected to them than she ever did the Stone, though she would never admit it... except to Leli
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NAME: Iris Tabris
NICKNAME: Petal, Little Flower
GENDER: Female (she/her) ((look at all this variety I have right?))
HEIGHT: Tall for an elf, average for a human
ORIENTATION: Asexual
NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: Ferelden Alienage elf!
FAVORITE FRUIT: Grapes, sweet ones
FAVORITE SEASON: Spring
FAVORITE FLOWER: Iris, it was her mother's favorite, which is why she was named after it.
FAVORITE SCENT: Floral scents, smell of fresh baked bread, cinnamon
COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE: Hot Chocolate with lots of whipped cream
AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: 7-8. Sleep is important.
DOGS OR CATS: Cats, generally dislikes dogs though her mabari hound is a very strong exception.
DREAM TRIP: To big cities in other countries, like in Orlais or Antiva... She would love to see what their architecture looks like.
NUMBER OF BLANKETS: 1, but only if it's very soft.
RANDOM FACT: Iris is really sensitive to textures and physical touch. It makes finding outfits a little difficult for her, considering Ferelden (probably) doesn't have a lot of great options in the way of textures, but because of that she got pretty good at making alterations to outfits. She is generally touch averse, though with permission, which Alistair is sure to always ask for, she's usually fine.
-----
blank meme:
NAME:
NICKNAME:
GENDER:
STAR SIGN: 
HEIGHT:
ORIENTATION:
NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY:
FAVORITE FRUIT:
FAVORITE SEASON:
FAVORITE FLOWER:
FAVORITE SCENT:
COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE:
AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP:
DOGS OR CATS:
DREAM TRIP:
NUMBER OF BLANKETS:
RANDOM FACT:
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saturnplaza · 5 months ago
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Hi why is the veil being pierced
Good question -- me personally I believe it wanted to express itself in an edgy way.
(what am I even saying?)
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mcbride · 2 months ago
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i just wanna say i love your tumblr and i hope youre having a great day ok bye
hey there!!! i see ya. thank you so much for taking the time to drop such a positive message. just know it's very encouraging! i hope you're having an amazing day too and a great week ahead. 🤍🤍🤍
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caffeiiine · 1 year ago
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one more thing thats been rotating around my head:
my school anime club hosts an anime con in the spring and i am genuinely so excited bc club members are staff amnd we are hsoting it! and i can host a panel!!!
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orcelito · 8 months ago
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I think ITNL is one of the only Trigun fics I’ve read where adult Vash actually loves his wings. Him testing them out is one of my favorite chapters! And as much as I do love Vash angst involving his views on his own inhumanity, this was such a refreshing take! Was it a mindset you had settled on right from the start, or did you workshop it a bit to see what would fit the story better?
HI HELLO THANK U FOR UR QUESTION
honestly, the idea initially comes from the thought of like. well, a lot of fandom has him hating his inhumanity, but we don't exactly see that in canon? he hates what he's capable of, thinks someone with his power shouldn't exist, but in and of himself, we never see him actually hating being a plant. it just kind of Is. and so ive taken that into account for my fic, + the fact that in latter trimax we see him get so much more comfortable using his powers. in earlier manga they scare him a lot, but after everything he goes through, he sees his powers as the tool they are.
and with All That In Mind. then comes my own personal bias for flying lol. i've long loved the concept of flying, adored games that give me that ability (the game Gravity Rush was a lot of the inspiration for how i wrote Vash flying), & can in fact fly in just about every dream of mine (if i remember that i can). it's about the Freedom, the ability to fall without fear of hitting the ground, and the release from the bounds of gravity. ADDING IN the fact that Vash naturally has wings. this is just part of his Nature. he's scared of himself, but just like a bird knows in its core that it should fly, so does Vash.
so. the freedom of flight, something as natural as a bird in the air, and it's at Vash's fingertips. (or Wingtips, if you will lol)
of course, it's not as simple as Just loving them. as we see in that part of the chapter, right before he starts to fly,
Clambering to his feet again, Vash stood at the very edge of a nearly 500 foot drop. He spread both wings out as far as they could reach, just for the experience of stretching them.  They were long, maybe 20 feet each. When spread, his wingspan must have been around 40 feet wide.  He felt powerful.  He felt like something that should not exist. 
it's the Majesty of the wings!!! the feeling of how NATURAL they are!!! and a little bit of the revelry in his own power, then guilt that he would ever feel grateful for any part of it. this is the sort of power that caused so many deaths, that has haunted him for basically his entire life... and it allows him to fly, something that feels so natural and RIGHT...
and. yeah. ultimately, ITNL has been an exploration of how Vash would interact in that early manga stuff, but with the experiences from the later manga. so i think i always have had this kind of thing in mind. he's still scared of himself and his power, but it's a useful tool and is simply a part of his nature. he stopped denying that 2/3rds or so through trimax, and that is the vash that we have Now.
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inkykeiji · 2 years ago
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What bsd authors would you like to read some of their original work??
omg anon such a good question!!! well i mentioned not too long ago that i’ve read both rashoumon + in a grove by the real akutagawa, and i’ve begun crime and punishment by the real dostoevsky, and i really really really want to finish naomi by the real tanizaki (i’m only like two pages in HAHA). i’m super interested in tanizaki’s work in general based off of the themes i’ve heard it contains.
i would love to read no longer human by the real dazai, and all of his other work as well, but i’m just not currently in the right headspace to handle it. i will read it one day, when i’m feeling more stable mentally and there’s less risk of it triggering me. but anyway! these are the main four i’m currently interested in exploring c:
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faerune · 2 years ago
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1, 8, 19 and 37 for claire & joel? 💖
How do they fall asleep? Wake up? Any daily rituals? This ship is All About The Domesticity. As for falling asleep, Joel usually showers first and then reads in bed while Claire has hers. They read, they cuddle, and spooning is usually their go to for falling asleep!! Claire wakes up first and lets Ace out, starts to make coffee while Joel gets ready for the day. They're not usually on a super tight schedule except for patrol days and days where Claire is leaving for a hunting trip so they meander awake around 8 or 9 when everyone else in Jackson gets up. Daily rituals: always a kiss in the morning and before bed!!!, showers get shared quite a bit (they're very conscientious of the water supply ;)) and/or morning sex...
What do the like best about their partner? They both like that the other understands what they've been through. Sure, everyone has gone through loss in this kind of a world but in some ways Joel and Claire fractured in the same places or are at times two sides of the same coin. Joel is fierce about who he loves, will do anything for them, kill maim whatever to defend against the horrible grief of losing again. Claire is the opposite. She runs, hides, avoids. More than once she has admitted being a coward in her own defense.
They never shame the other for the ways they deal with it, admiring what the other has done to survive in some ways. Not only that I just think they feel safe with each other. It's right. It's that quiet kind of love that's like: "Oh, there you are. It makes sense now."
I think Joel likes Claire's kindness, the kind she keeps in her back pocket and how it brings a surprised smile to his face. She's quiet and solid and sturdy no matter how much she has chipped herself down to the bare minimum to survive he can see that warmth at her core.
Claire can see the same for Joel. She's always been attracted to stability and protectiveness and a partner she can stand behind or beside.
What do they fight about? What are their arguments like? How do they make up? Most of the time pretty typical couple bickering: you didn't put the seat down, why's there hair in the drains, etc. etc. They never fight about risks or protective stuff. They're both capable people and know that as well as trusting/respecting that. Claire tends to clam up and isolate when they fight while Joel sometimes lets his anger in the moment get the best of him and he wants to have it out there so he has to learn to let her have her time to get her thoughts together. Once they cool down, they usually just talk it out though Joel can be a bit stubborn sometimes.
How much would they be willing to sacrifice for the other? Any lines they refuse to cross? Everything. No lines they wouldn't cross for each other except Joel puts Ellie first above himself and Claire and Claire understands, loves, and respects that about him. She grows to feel the same about Ellie, if partly because she's so, so important to Joel. Claire cares for her and perhaps Ellie might see a mother in her even if I don't think it goes as far as Ellie labeling Claire as her mother like she does with Joel being her dad.
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