#like. nothings happening. all the interactions are surface level at best.

[roseworth]

what the fuck was that. i literally looked back through the issue and counted the pages because that story ended so fast i couldnt believe there were actually 22 pages

[xenodile]

"Shuro loves Falin for the same reasons he hates Laios" Completely and utterly wrong, could not be further off base.

I get the impression a lot of people watching Dungeon Meshi as it airs, or are a bit removed from its original manga run, have forgotten that Laios and Falin being monster freaks wasn't actually apparent until the events of the story. The only person that knew Falin loved monsters as much as Laios was Marcille because they were best friends at school.

Once Laios and Falin were in an adventuring party together, they both had public facing personas because they had both learned through their separate upbringings that being super interested in monsters and dungeons wasn't normal. Laios is the blunt but well meaning, outspoken and opinionated guy we all know, but Falin was way more withdrawn and soft-spoken, non-confrontational, easy to get along with. Everyone that interacted with Falin would say she's a sweet, gentle girl that everyone likes. Because she was, frankly, kind of a doormat.

The whole thing with Toshiro's infatuation with Falin is he doesn't actually know her. She is outwardly very polite and reserved, and that appeals to Toshiro because it meshes with his cultural sensibilities and how he was taught people are supposed to behave. Then he sees her marveling at a caterpillar in a private moment and decides on the spot that she's the ideal woman and proposes without actually talking to or getting to know her.

And his lack of understanding of Falin as a person is brought to the forefront in every action he takes after she gets eaten. He leaves the party and makes no attempt to contact the two people that Falin loves the most. Whether it's a matter of him just not knowing how much Falin cares about her brother and Marcille, or actively avoiding Laios to rescue Falin himself, he's demonstrating that he doesn't actually know what's important to her or understand how she feels.

Then when he meets Laios's party on the lower floors and they go over what happened, it's made even more blatant that Toshiro's affection is shallow and half-baked. He came into the dungeon a week too late and neglected his health the whole way down, so he was in no state to actually try and save Falin when he got there. When Laios talks about eating monsters, something Falin was thrilled about, Toshiro is disgusted. He threatens to kill Laios and turn Marcille in, which would never fly with Falin. His anger at the use of black magic is entirely based in his selfish idea of Falin being tainted and blaming Laios and Marcille for "ruining" his attempt to rescue her, as Kabru points out that Toshiro would have done the exact same thing in their shoes and that he's being a hypocrite. To say nothing of how he'd rather kill Falin after she's been transformed and "put her to rest" rather than put any effort into saving her, because that would require further involvement from Laios and Marcille and methods that Toshiro doesn't approve of.

And there's the fight he has with Laios, and Toshiro's subsequent confession that he had hoped to just take Falin home with him. He at no point gives consideration to what Falin feels or what she might want, only what he has decided about her based on the most surface level observation. Just like how his problem with Laios arises from his refusal to just talk to him about his boundaries, he has no actual connection with the woman he claims to love because he just wouldn't actually talk to her.

Like it's not a coincidence that every time his attraction to Falin is brought up, another character goes "yeah he's being weird about it".

[tieronecrush]

secret santa

dbf!joel miller x f!reader

summary: your parents throw a christmas party every year, and this is your first time in the “adult” secret santa exchange. the last few times home, you’ve found joel, your dad’s friend, staring a bit too long, flicking away when he’s caught. for the game, of course, you get joel’s name. and you’re going to make sure it’s the best gift he’s ever received.

rating: E

wc: 5.6k

warnings: daddy kink, age gap (sorry folks but i did want to try my hand at dbf!joel lol i pictured him around 50, reader around mid-late 20s), alcohol consumption, mentions of food, distant relationship with parents, party, christmas, gift giving, secret santa game, bit of deception on reader's part just to get joel alone, lingerie, body worship, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, restraints (using clothes/undergarments), daddy!joel, soft!dom joel, praise, a few instances of degradation, dirty talk (as always)

a/n: (images in moodboard do not convey what reader looks like, only the vibe! no descriptions of reader) my first dbf!joel…milestone moment lol <3 hope y’all enjoy my take on the dbf trope! and tysm to my babies for beta-ing @northernbluess and @kiwisbell love you both 😚

dividers by @saradika

Twenty years. This same godforsaken party has been happening every December for the last twenty years of your life, full of overserved middle aged parents, and never has it been less enjoyable than since you’ve been an “adult”. An adult still treated as a child, chastised, fawned over, always told to follow the golden rule. No, not treat others as they wish to be treated. Your family’s golden rule was speak only when spoken to.

And your father was the enforcer. Always required you home for the party, even away, out of state for college, away for the semester studying abroad halfway across the world. You were flown home and called upon to do the heavy lifting — groceries, liquor runs, cleaning the house, decorating to make it all feel magically festive.

At times, it felt like Cinderella had nothing on you. At least she had a prince.

The only time that this party has ever been remotely improved was when Joel Miller moved into the neighborhood. He’d snuck in under your radar due to the fact that it happened the few months you were living abroad, but coming back for the party and Christmas break, you were quickly introduced to him by your father. His new “best friend”. One among many. Each serving a unique purpose to get your dad ahead.

Upon meeting Joel, you were drawn to him immediately. Skeptical over the fact he found company with your dad, but much to your surprise, he was different. Maybe lonely and looking for a friend; you’d found he was living alone, his adult daughter, Sarah, in her final years at the University of Chicago — a choice that was hers but Joel admittedly feared, you learned. He only encouraged her, regardless of the fact he was anxious about losing his kiddo.

Not the same sentiments your dad had when dropping you off to school in the farthest, cheapest corner of the country you could find. He was nearly jumping up and kicking his feet together in glee to get you out of the house.

Joel, though, Joel was kind hearted and patient. He was curious and caring, asking you about school, work, your life every time he saw you over the years. Warmth radiated from him despite his more shy demeanor. Comfortable. You felt so comfortable with him.

Which is what made the smallest of lingering glances or the slightest of smiles turned smirks that much more exhilarating.

Maybe you were being naive or projecting your burning desire for him onto every interaction, but as you stitched yourself tighter into Joel’s life over the years, you haven’t been able to help but notice him checking you out at times or slipping a subtle flirty comment into conversations between the two of you. You would give it right back, and that would usually pump the breaks, bringing things back to surface level.

There was one time this past summer, after a neighborhood barbecue that your parents left early from, that you and Joel really had a moment. It was loud, music drowning out the back and forth you were having to the point where you couldn’t quite make out every word, and Joel must have felt the same because he made sure you heard his next words clearly — “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

Agreeing immediately, he pressed his large hand into the midpoint of your back, guiding you out of the confines of the party and to the open air of the street. He led you to his place and around back, pulling two lounge chairs next to his pool closer to each other.

That night, thanks to the alcohol buzzing in your system, you confessed more about your home life and your feelings around it. Joel was surprised, given the picture-perfect image your father paints for everyone, but he was comforting as always. Even as far as offering you his spare room if you ever needed a break.

That’s when you knew you were done for. Never in your life had you wanted to just kiss someone that badly. Let alone all of the thoughts that came along with it.

Harboring this crush for your dad’s friend, fifty plus and a father himself, you attempted to keep things growing closer when you came back. Friendly, polite, reciprocating any amount of flirty banter he threw your way. Even initiating it yourself.

You were so incredibly into Joel Miller. And returning home this time, you decided it was high time you acted on those feelings.

The noise of the bustling party dies down enough for your dad to introduce the game, as if the attendees haven’t been participating for nearly as long as you’ve been alive. But your dad loves the attention on him, cracking jokes that make you roll your eyes while everyone else gives him a laugh. Always so focused on himself. How everyone else sees him. Image obsessed enough to forget to assign anyone as a Secret Santa to his own daughter but not forgetting to give her someone to gift to.

Granted, you weren’t that upset about who you’d drawn.

Watching from afar, you see Joel survey the empty space under the tree, only the deep cherry red skirt laid out on the hardwood. Nothing for him. Everyone opens their presents, laughter and excitement bubbling across the room as the point of the game begins. Partygoers start to guess their gifters, hoping to nail down their Secret Santa in one go. Conversations are struck up as people meet their pair, ‘thank you’s exchanged along with the gifts. Joel observes from his spot with a few of your neighbors, also friends with your dad, and the sight of him shifting his weight on his feet is enough to draw up the courage to approach him.

Crossing the room, flashes of him checking you out, lingering in conversations with you about work and your new apartment in the city, seeking you out each time you visit home flood your mind, reassuring your choices the closer you get to him. The closer you get to completely jumping into the deep end, the last few steps teetering you at the edge.

Slowing to a stop next to him, a finger of yours gingerly taps his strong shoulder a few times, pulling his attention away completely. Joel turns his body to face you, away from others to solely focus on you in front of him. The subtle sign of his attraction to you has your nerves tingling, clearing your throat when he speaks up in greeting.

“Hey there, sweetheart. Y’alright?” he asks, eyebrow raised. Always so goddamn sweet.

You sigh, a tinge dramatic but attempting to sell the dismay and toying with the flute glass in your hand. “Lame surprise, but I’m your Secret Santa and I stupidly left your gift upstairs. It’s a bit obnoxious to bring down so d’you mind coming up to open it and you can grab it at the end of the night?”

Joel agrees with a jolt of nervous excitement down his spine. Shuddering out the feeling subtly, he clears his throat and nods, awaiting your lead. He thinks he catches the slightest drag of your eyes up and down his body, lingering at the expanse of his shoulders and the sliver of his chest that is exposed from the two undone buttons of his red flannel.

When no one’s paying attention, you bring Joel upstairs into your old room that you’re staying in while you’re back in town for the holidays. He stands around a bit awkwardly, sticking out like a sore thumb with his broad shoulders stretching his red flannel, thick thighs straining deliciously against the perfectly worn material of his Levi’s. Stark against the frilly softness of your room, with its bright white furnishings, and feminine touches. He’s all man. Nothing like the guys your age who think they’re like him.

Joel glances about the room before he asks, “So, what was so difficult to get under the tree, sweetheart? You didn’t have to get me anything so major.”

“I wanted to. I mean, noticed you eyeing what I got you for a while so figured the least I could do was give it to you…” Joel’s face twists up in confusion, perplexed by the riddled clue before you’re standing in front of him, reaching to the side of your plaid skirt and dragging down the zipper. Joel stutters out nonsense at your actions, lifting his hands in surrender.

“Doll, I think—you don’t—” His mumblings die in his throat when you drop the material to your ankles, revealing red satin panties. When you turn around, a bow sits at the top of your ass, tying up the material to stay on your hips while elasticated bands run along the outline of your cheeks to connect to the crotch. Very little of your bum is covered, showing off the supple flesh to Joel. He’s rendered speechless, averting his gaze after a second too long of staring, the mumblings starting up again.

“S’not a good idea, shouldn’t be up here right now…” Joel looks around, looking over his shoulder toward the door. One of your hands reaches up to gingerly cup his chin, turning his flushed face to yours again. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darkened with desire. Your own gaze flicks down between the two of you, smirking at the bulge growing at the crotch of his jeans. So desperately trying to fight against what he really wants. Even when you’re serving it up in a pretty little package.

He makes no movement toward the door, which you take as a sign of letting go of at least some of his apprehension. Fingers grip the hem of your sweater, pulling it up and over your head, discarding it on your carpet along with your skirt.

Matching red satin material, the bra you’re wearing has a similar structure to your panties. Held up with straps and the usual clasps at the back, the front is a large gift bow, pulled tight when you tied it earlier this evening to push up the flesh of your breasts. One tug at the tail end of both the ribbons, the one at your chest and at your ass, would fully expose you to Joel. Something you’re desperate to propose to him.

“Aren’t you gonna unwrap your present, Joel?” Picking up each of his hands in yours, you guide one to your lower back and one to your chest, coaxing his fingers to wrap around the ends of the bows. “Or do you not like your gift? I thought you wanted this…”

“No, no, no. I like it. I really fucking like it, sweetheart, I just…Everybody’s downstairs and—”

“I can be quiet. I’m a good girl, Joel.”

That flips a switch in him, hearing those words from you. His eyes darken further, pink tongue poking out to wet his lips. A burning stare combs over you, head to toe, alighting flames in your gut that lick against your insides. Heat crawls across the back of your neck, pooling in your collarbone, and craving oozes between your ribs and between each of your vertebrae. Joel’s right hand lifts from his side, skating up the length of your left arm and leaving goosebumps rising in its wake. Fingertips ghost over the strap of your bra, down to the center of your collarbone, and sitting there. That lasts only a second before his long, thick fingers wrap around the base of your throat, raising his loose grip to settle underneath your jaw.

The silence is heavy, airy breaths the only sounds passed between the two of you. His hand at your neck coaxes your head to tip back, staring up at him looking down at you. A flicker to your lips. A low, curious hum. Arousal pools in between your thighs as you wait with bated breath for something, anything to happen.

“You’re dangerous, doll.” His whisper is coated in lust, his gaze greedy as it drinks you in once again.

“I’m a gift,” you correct sweetly, feigning innocence as a smirk grows on your face at his dark chuckle.

“A gift that keeps on giving?” he questions. His hand twists to allow his thumb to find your bottom lip, dragging across its glossy, cherry surface.

“I guess you’ll have to find out…” Your mouth stays open after speaking, tongue slipping out to lick the tip of Joel’s thumb. He presses his finger further, pushing between your lips as you welcome it, sucking gently. Joel sighs, shoulders relaxing while his eyes flash with need.

“Christ…” he hisses under his breath, shaking his head subtly before clearing his throat. Speaking sternly, unwavering, he says, “Can I unwrap my present, babydoll?”

His thumb leaves your mouth with a quiet pop, hand finding its place again at the slack of the bow at your chest, other arm wrapping around to find the bow at your ass. A gentle tug moves the satiny smooth material a few centimeters, not enough to pull it fully undone.

“All yours, Joel. Picked out ‘specially for you.” Joel smirks at your candied reply, eager to give him exactly what he’s been wishing for. What you’ve caught him staring at the last few times you’ve come back home. What you have been wanting for just as long, if not longer.

“Such a sweet girl. Beautiful girl.”

The words send a tingle down your spine, stoking the flames inside of you. Your eyes stay trained on Joel’s face while his fingers draw the bow at your chest undone, the lengths of material hanging at your sides and exposing your breasts. He licks his lips at the sight of your pebbled nipples, rolling out a stifled groan from his chest.

“Fuck, baby…S’pretty.”

Joel’s hands fan across your lower back, holding your hips against his, pressing his bulge into your covered mound. His broad frame folds forward, draping you backwards in his arms as his mouth attaches to your chest. Humid, open-mouthed kisses are littered across your skin, nips taken at the tender flesh of your breasts. Closing his lips around one of your nipples, he sucks strongly, pulling a whimper from your throat.

“Thought you could be quiet, doll?” he rasps, raising an eyebrow as he looks up at you from your sternum.

Nodding furiously, you pout your lower lip out, whispering back, “I can be, I will be. I promise.”

“You promise? Don’t make promises you can’t keep, baby.” Joel stands up straight, pulling you with him to press against his torso. Catching your lips in a deep kiss, Joel breathes a sigh into your mouth, melting his tongue against yours and drinking in the taste of you.

Dripping with saccharine sugar. Coated with syrupy goodness, plump and succulent like a maraschino cherry. A toothache, or maybe even a heartache waiting to happen.

He’s fucking screwed, but damn if it doesn’t feel good as he nails himself to his own persecution from whoever may find out about this.

Handfuls of your undulating curves fill his palms as he kisses you, groaning into your mouth as he grabs at the swell of your ass. Silky satin brushes against his hand, reminding him of the other part of his present to unwrap. Pulling away from your mouth with one last lick of your candied taste, he has the mind to imagine what the rest of your flavors all across your body might be.

Joel turns you in his arms, back flush to his chest as he grinds his bulge against the lustrous fabric, smirking to himself as you whimper quietly, so hushed he can barely hear it over his heartbeat thudding in his ears. Lips coast over the shell of your ear, nibbling your lobe before pressing a kiss right below.

“Can I undo your other pretty bow, babygirl? Unwrap the rest of my present?” Joel nips again when you breathe out consent. He walks you closer to the bed, hitting your knees against the frame before he takes one step back, touch still lingering on your skin. From behind you, he sighs appreciatively as he drinks in your form, licking his lips as his eyes devour you.

Pinching the ribbon between his thick fingers, he flicks it against your skin, satisfied with the way you react with goosebumps raised. One gentle tug unravels it all, exposing your cheeks to him fully and with the drop of the material from between his fingertips, your panties fall to the floor. One hand wrapping around your thigh, Joel coaxes you to step out to the side with it, kicking the fabric from your ankle.

He kneels behind you, pressing his lips against the swell of your ass. Flooded with the scent of your skin, vanilla and cinnamon, the smell of Christmas. Nose smashed into the supple flesh, teeth sinking into the curve, a gentle bite stealing another taste of you. A curse is mumbled against you, a sweet kiss pressed on the tiny birthmark on your ass, tongue tracing into the fading bite mark.

“Joel…” you whine above him, hand reaching back and nimble fingers tangling into his messy, gray curls.

“I know, doll. Got lost there for a second. You’re so perfect…”

He sighs again, standing up with a quiet crack in his joints. A blatant reminder of the difference between you two. Young versus old. Sprightly versus verging on doddering. Even if he is eager, there’s no denying the difference.

There’s no doubt in your mind that Joel’s about to be more of a gift to you than you are to him. The way he’s touching you, delicate worship before he’s even gotten to what he truly wants, taking his time despite the pressure of the party downstairs. Serves as a reassurance that he wants this as much as you do, wants to take his sweet time if this is going to be his only chance.

You pray to god it isn’t. Even before you’ve even laid eyes on his cock, you just know. He’s going to fuck you senseless. Ruin every other man for you.

In a blur, he guides you to fall forward onto the mattress, hooking fingers to remove your panties from your other ankle while you scoot toward the center. He finds solace between your legs, propping your hips up into a kneeling position to give him easier leverage. 

“Think this might be my favorite present I’ve been given, doll. So fucking gorgeous. Looking delectable…Can I have a taste, darling? You as sweet as you seem?”

Your head is turned sideways, laying against the plush comforter, opening your mouth to whisper to him in the same moment he swipes his tongue through your folds, groaning into your inner thigh before he dives back in, working to devour you like a man starved, quenching his thirst on your arousal. Flicking his tongue against your pearl, coated in your translucence, suckling at it with pure need. Turning to press the front of your face into your bedding, it muffles your moans and whines, raising in pitch as he fucks your tight cunt with his strong tongue, lapping at you with the same fervor he’d lick the color from a candy cane.

“Fuck, Joel, fuck fuck fuck!” you shout in a scouring voice, scratching your vocal chords together with a strain. Curling your fingers into the softened, washed fabric, you gasp when one of his solid fingers slips into your walls. He groans, holding back his louder reaction to your gripping walls, hypnotized by the way you even stretch around his fingers when he adds another.

Head against your thigh, he studies the way you take his middle and ring fingers, the velvety slick of your pussy, and the spongy spot he finds, curling his digits to press into it and watch you squirm helplessly from the sensitive pleasure.

“Talkin’ all well mannered and pretty. So quiet and polite all the time. With your ‘yes’sir’s and ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s. You think about saying those to me while you’re under me like this?”

“Yes, yes’sir. All the fucking time. Every time I—I looked at you, felt myself…felt myself gettin’ so fucking wet. Was always dripping around you, waiting for something to happen. For you to take me so I can be a good girl for you, sir,” you confess, obedience and need sitting every word so prettily into his ears. “M’so—Fuck m’gonna come, Joel.”

He nods slowly, taking last looks at your cunt before he moves his fingers in and out quicker, dipping his chin down for his mouth to find your clit against, lapping at your dripping wetness and sucking hard. At the next press of his fingers against that spot inside of you, your vision grows blurred, white haze painting everything with a dreamlike filter. You bite into the linen fabric of your comforter, gagging yourself to keep quiet as you come, digging the balls of your feet to the mattress to push yourself away from Joel who continues to work you through it. He grabs at you, tugging you back to get his fill until you sob, overstimulation drawing tears up to the corners of your eyes.

“All kept and composed and ladylike. Been taught to behave, haven’t you? Bet you fucking love to be such a little slut. Anybody ever let you? Such a dirty girl, aren’t you, babydoll?” Joel’s voice sounds distanced at first, senses falling back into place in your body as you come down completely. His work-worn hands coast over your body, roughening against your soft skin like sandpaper moving with the grain. Little resistance but catching in places it favors.

“Just—Just for you, Daddy.” It slips out smoothly from your mouth, the weight of the title heavy against your tongue in the same way you imagine his cock would feel. Filling. Satisfying.

Joel rises slowly from where he’s bent behind you, letting one leg fall behind him as he stands, the other propped on the bed. His eyes narrow in on yours, lips parted and tongue darting out as he replays what you said.

Daddy.

First, you’re already on his mind and years younger, yet he couldn’t stop picturing you in this exact position. Next, you’re the one to make the first move, dragging him away from this Christmas party and presenting him with a Secret Santa gift that feels way out of the budget. You’re priceless. And now, you’re laid out for him, already nearly at the level of fucked out from him only using his mouth and fingers, and you’re fucking calling him Daddy.

Best Christmas of his goddamn life.

“Now, darlin’, were you saving that to be the cherry on top of the cake? ‘Cause that’s just about the sweetest thing. My pretty lil’ babydoll saying she’s Daddy’s dirty girl,” he scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head while his fingers work his button open on his jeans, dragging the zipper down against his throbbing bulge. “Gonna have to be quiet, yeah? Gotta keep your sweet mouth closed while Daddy fucks you, doll.”

“I’ll be quiet, promise. Please, Daddy.” Your pleas widen Joel’s smirk, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips once again. He pushes his denim down with his cotton boxers in their wake, sighing softly when his hard cock is fully freed. His tip is aching and red, leaking precum and leaving a wet spot on his underwear. With one hand, he starts to slowly stroke himself, holding in a moan enough that it leaves his lips as a soft exhale.

“Good girl…” he mumbles, studying your form. “Move back toward me, babygirl. Hands behind your back.”

Complying with his direction, you inch back until Joel places a hand on your lower back. At that, you lay forward again, the side of your face pressing against the duvet as Joel steps back from the bed and searches the floor. A dribble of drool drips from the corner of your lips as you watch him, one large hand around his cock, spreading his precum along his length. Part of you has the mind to beg for him in your mouth, to completely disregard the need pulsating your cunt at the moment, and to feel his warm spend coating your throat as he finishes fucking it.

But you’re fucking selfish. This is also a gift for you, so win-win.

Pressing your wrists together at your lower back, you observe as Joel locates what he is looking for, standing up with a devilish smirk. Your panties.

He towers over you again when he steps back to you, one hand coasting over the curve of your ass, a gentle smack delivered that makes a quiet yelp escape from your lips. The same hand skims back up your skin, easily grabbing both of your wrists in his long fingers and holding them closer while he slips the silky material behind. In a quick motion, he has your arms tied together with a bow, a content smile on his face as he makes eye contact with you.

“Wrapped all up again, babydoll. Such a pretty gift for me.”

“Well you’ve got a pretty package, Daddy,” you reply with a mischievous giggle, earning a breathy chuckle from Joel behind you. He grips the knot of your makeshift restraint, tugging taut to arch your back and pull your hips closer. His other hand wraps around the base of himself, dragging the head of him through your drenched folds, circling your clit, and chuckling again at the jump of your thighs.

“Please, Daddy, I need—” you start pleading, muffled into linen before you’re cut off by the stretch of Joel’s cock filling your tight hole, a gasp escaping your lungs with a punch. Your mouth is stuffed with the duvet from your bite down, nursing your tongue against the material as he slowly presses into you, inch by inch. There’s an ever-so-slight pain candy-coating the pleasure, melting away to get to the gooey, oozing center that spreads over your entire body.

Pausing when he reaches the hilt of himself, Joel sighs, rolling his head back as he internally thanks whatever Christmas magic must be out there for this moment.

“So fucking tight, baby.” 

Your dampened whine shoots a wave of intense need throughout him, growling low as he holds your restraint tighter, dragging his hips back before he starts a punishing pace. Control escapes him, desire taking over his actions as he starts to properly fuck you. His cock teaching you how to take every single inch of it.

Messes of his name and your moans are stifled and stuttered into the comforter gagging you, chest hovering over the mattress as Joel holds tight to the knot in your panties.

“Can’t hold back any longer, baby, jus’—fuck—jus’ gonna take Daddy’s cock like a good girl, aren’t ya?” The only precision remains in the soft cracks of skin on skin, not loud enough to draw any attention from the party downstairs. Poppy carols play faintly in the background, the only other soundtrack being the vulgar mumbles slipping from Joel’s lips.

Drawing you closer and closer, the edge is tasted on your tongue, so close but barely in reach as the man behind you rocks his hips, the tip of his hard cock brushing that same spongy spot inside of you that he managed to reach with his fingers, bruising into your cervix with each snap.

At the next drag-out, Joel pulls away from you completely. When you whine with protest, he’s tugging you to stand up on your knees, whispering in your ear amid his quick movements, “Need to see your face when I make you come all over my cock…”

Before you can be left with any thoughts to a response, he’s flipping you onto your back, hands tied still, and tugging you near again. He steals a pillow from the top of your bed, shoving it under your hips to lift your pelvis, gifting himself the perfect angle to thrust into you again from the height he stands at.

The new angle punches out moans from your chest, Joel’s name littering the empty room as you try so hard to remain quiet.

“Shh, I know, doll, I know. Feels so fucking good, doesn’t it? Y’love bein’ Daddy’s little slut.” Nodding furiously, another louder moan leaves your mouth, brows knit together with worry as you hurtle closer and closer to the edge.

A large palm moves to cover your mouth, shaking his head slowly to remind you of your promise to be his good girl, his quiet girl. 

“Pleasepleaseplease, Daddy…” He feels the vibrations of your voice against his hand, the words muddled into slight nonsense from pleasure clouding your brain. Joel holds onto one of your legs, pulling it up to hook onto his shoulder and press forward to get deeper inside of you. The switch has you screaming into his palm, eyes squeezing shut as you squirm under him.

“Eyes on me, babygirl. Keep your eyes on Daddy.”

Joel’s hips pound into you, chasing his own climax. Your eyes snap open at his instruction, mouthing at his hand and moaning loudly behind it, nodding your head furiously. Your tight walls squeeze around his hard cock, his grunts held back to keep quiet despite the noise of the party downstairs growing in volume.

“Come on, doll. Come on my cock…Fuck, you gonna let Daddy fill up your pretty little cunt?” The quick, speechless nods answers his question, both of you toeing the edge.

There’s a moment when both of you seize up, muscles tense and eyes burning into each other’s. It only lasts a split second before it explodes with a pop, at the same second a champagne bottle pops downstairs. Joel breathes out your name, over and over, mingling with your whimpers of his name and Daddy switching back and forth in your mind. Interchangeable to you.

Pleasure fizzes over your bodies like bubbles in the flutes being filled, the bubbling aerations trickling up up up to your head, making you feel lighter than air as pure bliss overwhelms you. Tingles aftershock across your nerves, a shiver sent down your spine as Joel pulls out.

Quietly, he groans as he watches his excess spend drip out of you, mixing with your come and glistening against your folds. One thick finger swipes at the spot, pushing the swirl of you back inside of your walls.

A soft whimper slips from your lips and Joel’s eyes meet yours in a flash, a gentle smile stretching across your face. He coaxes you to sit up and unties your hands behind your back, slowly massaging your wrists with his thumbs and kissing where the skin rubbed against the fabric. The tender touches accompany the soothing, comfortable silence.

Redressing you, Joel attempts to tie the bows of your bra and panties, huffing softly in frustration. You giggle when he’s working on your bra, taking his chin gingerly between your fingers and turning his head to look at you. Leaning in, his lips catch yours in a sweet, sugary gumdrop kiss. 

It’s another moment before both of you are fully dressed again. You study yourself in the mirror above your dresser, smoothing your hair down. Joel steps up behind you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and kissing your shoulder through the knit sweater. He turns you around to face him again, grinning shyly as his eyes comb over your face.

The two of you share another kiss, his calloused hand cradling your cheek when he pulls away.

“You gonna be under my tree again on Christmas day, doll?”

“Depends…Were you naughty or nice this year?” you counter, earning a quiet laugh from Joel as he shakes his head.

“Think what just happened has put me on the naughty list for a long time, babygirl. And you, too.” He shoots you a cheeky wink and you laugh, shaking your head as you lock your fingers together in front of you.

“I did actually get you something though…” you admit shyly, rocking back and forth on the heels of your feet.

Joel grins, eyes flicking down to your anxious hands. His thumb brushes against the skin of your cheek, eyes meeting yours again as he replies, “You have another gift for me? Didn’t need to do that, doll.”

“I mean…Kinda needed a backup plan if this whole thing didn’t work out.” A chuckle is shared between both of you before you continue, “Sorry for spoiling the whole guessing game of Secret Santa.”

“Darlin’, you could spoil any games for me if it ends up with this kinda surprise.” Joel smirks before stealing another quick kiss, pulling away when you step back to fish out the small, meticulously wrapped giftbox from the top right drawer of your dresser.

Handing over the square package, Joel’s eyes glitter with boyish excitement. The corner of his mouth pulls up to one side while his thick fingers slip under the creases of the paper to rip the tape, undoing the festive wrapping to reveal the lidded giftbox that he opens quickly. Inside, Joel studies the contents. Small triangles with rounded corners made from thin nylon plastic. A deep emerald green, all sitting like precious gemstones. His initials are branded into one side with gold paint, the flip side emblemed with the silhouette of an owl.

“Sweetheart…Thank you. These are real nice…” he speaks softly while he picks one up between his index and thumb, turning it between the tips of his fingers. “They’re perfect. Gonna be sad if I end up losing one of these like all my other picks.”

You smile sweetly, stepping closer again and resting your hands on his biceps, “Guess you’ll have to take good care of ‘em.”

As he looks at you, he mirrors your smile, sharing one more gentle kiss before whispering against your lips, “Can think of another something I have to take good care of.”

taglist: @atinylittlepain @swiftispunk @joelsversion @mrsmando @ilovepedro @lovers-liability @deathwife @undrthelights @atticrissfinch @casa-boiardi @wannab-urs @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @fishingforpike @msjarvis @walkintotheriveranddisappear @sugadolly @yazsos @peppesgirl @pastawench @addictedtotlou @brittmb115 @anoverwhelmingdin @spishsstuff @wolfbook87 @mswarriorbabe80 @harriedandharassed @decemberdolly @laiisleitte @fierce-bab @vickie5446 @pertinentpostmortem @livingdeadmaria @sullyosully @bitchwitch1981 @its-nebuleuse @marini03 @piercethevic03 @joeandpedrosimp @planet-marz1 @txtattoostark @jrosie25 @thereaperisabitch @tbniarq @vee-bees-blog @spidermanfrog @belliezz @joelsflannel @cartoon-garbage04 @bianqueee04 @nostalxgic @xyzstar @cumberpegg @b00klvrs @burningnerdchild

[chunksworld]

Double Fantasy

NewJeans Minji x Male Reader | (Tags: Smut)

A/N: Apologies for the long hiatus, ya boi was busy with life. Also, thank you @kaedespicelatte as always for beta reading. ————————

“My room. I’m giving you 15 minutes or we’re never doing this again.”

Kim Minji be damned.

You hate how every ounce of self-respect you have flies out of the window when it comes to her, as if you’re nothing but an outlet for her carnal desires (as she was to you). And perhaps you are—maybe it was just part of your delusion to think that she perceives you differently than the hundreds of men that shamelessly ogle her. That she views you more than just that guy that fucks her so good she struggles to keep that mouth of hers shut. But who are you to complain? Every encounter with her leaves you starstruck, wanting for more, tongue tied—as if she commands an unquantifiable amount of gravity that leaves you speechless literally and figuratively. As much as your brain is telling you that she’s dangerous, that everything that’s happening between the two of you can jeopardize everything you’ve worked so hard for, it’s the thrill that keeps you coming back time and time again.

I mean who would’ve thought that the two top students on campus would be engaging in such unholy acts? Not when everyone (your professors included) think of you two as the embodiment of the values that this very institution was established upon. The beacons of hope that would serve as inspirations for the rest of your peers, that through hard work they can attain the level of success that you two have. That couldn’t be any more farther than the truth however. Certainly your after school hookups with her inside empty classrooms, behind the bleachers, and inside the gym showers would beg to differ. But it’s not like you have any morals, that disappeared eons ago when you found yourself down this treacherous path of self-destruction in an attempt to alleviate the stress that comes with such expectations and responsibilities.

On the surface their perception of you two is true; students that constantly receive top marks in every subject and find themselves involved in as many activities and clubs as possible. Racking up awards was just second nature, as you would always receive the highest recognition much like she did over the years. It was only natural for a rivalry to spark between you and her; a byproduct of your competitiveness and your desire to come out on top. It was friendly at first, you would congratulate each other and encourage the other to do better next time. But it soon became ugly, the once wholesome banter turning into horrifying insults that you wouldn’t even think to come out of your mouth—needless to say you both became jealous of each other, of how successful the other one became.

You could say it was a petty affair, one that was exacerbated by the fact that everyone was pressuring you two to continuously be the best—a mental strain that proved to be too much. It was something that only happened behind closed doors though, everyone still thought you had an amicable relationship with her when everything was actually already falling apart. Yelling and screaming and arguing, truly an ugly sight. You would often talk about how you couldn’t stand how condescending she was towards you every time you made a mistake and she in turn would talk about how much she hates your ego. But it also involved even the smallest of things including how you thought her boyfriend was a dick because she would rarely see him (she claimed he was busy all the time but you knew better).

And with two extremely combustible elements in constant interaction with one another, an explosion was bound to occur. After months and months of arguing, it finally happened. It was midterms week and you two were extremely stressed (it didn’t help that you were only getting on average two to three hours of sleep and consuming an unhealthy amount of energy drinks). Oh, and that dick of a boyfriend she had broke up with her. She was inconsolable to say the least— but when you brought up how much you didn’t like him and blamed her for dating him in the first place like the asshole you were, that's when things took a turn. You know you fucked up, that it was a line crossed and that such words should have never been uttered. But instead of receiving a resounding slap on the face, you found yourself kissing her. 

Or rather, Minji kissing you. And any sane person would react by trying to pull away in shock but you couldn’t find yourself doing it. Perhaps this was something that was bound to happen. All of those arguing and bickering, maybe it was just a ruse. The urgency, the passion, the look of desperation in her eyes; they told the story. Maybe it was the caffeine, maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was something more. Whatever it is, she needed you as much as you needed her. She was coming off a terrible breakup and you, well—you would be lying to yourself if you said that you didn’t find her attractive because who didn’t? There’s a reason why she’s rejected at least half of the male students, and you definitely don’t miss the way some of them would glare at you because of how suspiciously close you were to her. 

In that aspect, a part of you considers this a small victory; especially when she grabs you by the collar and pulls you in deeper, as if the thought of letting you go would be the end of her. It was intense and as much as your senses were firing from all cylinders, your brain was telling you that this wasn’t right. You were supposed to hate her, she was your mortal enemy. What would everyone think? That the two top students were hooking up with—close the fucking door before I change my mind. Right. Every rationale you may have had was gone in an instant. The prospect of a classmate, a member of the maintenance crew, or worse—a staff potentially catching the two of you never crossed your mind. Not when you had her bent over the desk at one point screaming you’re fucking me so good and don’t stop while you rearrange her guts. Or when you had her pinned against the wall and pumped her so full of cum that she finally gave you her number after because she wanted you two to do it all over again.

Did the room reek of sex? Sure. That’s why she’s made it a habit to bring a bottle of air freshener to mask the scent during your subsequent “study sessions.” And were people starting to notice how you two would frequently stay up late despite not always having a busy workload? Definitely. But you could care less. In fact, nothing else matters. You were addicted to her in more ways than one, not romantically however. That was something she made abundantly clear the day after—clearly she was one to establish boundaries which you respected. Yet here you are, frantically putting on some nice clothes and making yourself smell nice with that twenty dollar bottle of perfume that she hates. Fuck it, why even bother? Your clothes will be thrown to God knows where the moment you enter her place anyways. At least put on a face mask, especially since you’ll be sneaking your way to her dorm once again and you don’t want another close encounter with the security guard.

Fortunately there wasn’t any problem, your disguise actually worked this time around but you still have to be cautious. It’s a quick elevator ride yet it takes forever, maybe it’s because you two haven’t had sex in the past two weeks and you’re just dying to get a taste of her again, to feel her irresistible body against yours. Look around before knocking on the door three times and fortunately you didn’t have to wait any longer. Minji hastily pulls you inside and grabs you by your hoodie for a kiss—immediately you get a taste of her favorite cinnamon lip balm. Her strength (which still surprises you to this day) forces you to move backwards and you find your back pressed against her door. Hands roam each other’s bodies and you groan as you feel her fingers cup your bulge. Fuck, why are you so hard already? 

You’re not one to just let her do what she wants so you avoid her chasing lips to plant yours on her neck, biting and nipping on her smooth skin while your own fingers creep underneath her shirt. “D-Don’t fucking mark me. I—shit—I’ve got a presentation tomorrow.” Minji finally speaks and you would’ve gladly granted her wish but with the way she’s leaning her head back, it didn’t seem like her words were matching her actions. Much more so when you grab on the hem of that same shirt and pull it up and she willfully raises her arms so you can remove it. And before you even get the opportunity to appreciate her body, your sweatpants are already being pulled down. Help her out by kicking that obstructive garment away; in fact you end up removing your hoodie as well which only leaves you with your boxers on and it barely conceals your raging desire for her. 

“This is your fault. Your fault for making me wait so damn long.” You don’t miss the way she bites her lips at the sight of your bulge, even as you make your way further down with your mouth and proceed to mark her collarbones and her cleavage. Her deft fingers continue to distract you however, pulling your boxers down and wrapping her cold digits around your throbbing and pulsating cock. The effect on you is immediate as you can do nothing but lean your head back and groan shamelessly. Minji smirks, especially because this is one of the only few times she has the upper hand on you; when you’re just putty in her arms and rendered breathless by her actions. It gets even worse when she slowly begins to pump you, drawing more precum out of your tip with how badly you just want to ravage her. 

“You poor thing.” You can feel her hot breath against your ear, sending more shivers down your spine as she’s decided that it’s now her turn to leave marks on you. It’s apparent that Kim Minji is just as possessive as you, even though neither one of you wants to reveal your dirty little secret to everyone. “Guess you couldn’t last that long without me, huh? Were those pictures I sent not enough?” Of course they weren’t, no amount of thirst pics of her in her underwear can satiate your endless lust towards her. Nothing can replace her hands, the way she can just work you to submission and make you so impatient. “I can’t blame you.” Her teeth sink into your jugular like a vampire. “I’ve been thinking about how much I want you to rail me into the bed, to make me moan so fucking load, to make me choke on your cock. Will you do all of that for me?”

You’re ashamed by how much that turned you on, as if a switch has been flipped inside you. You don’t miss a beat and lift her up by her waist which makes her squeal; her legs wrap around you while you carry her towards her bed. No more foreplay, you almost throw her onto the bed before yanking her shorts and her panties in the process. They’re discarded along with the rest of your clothing somewhere in the room. Her bra follows suit as well—you can’t believe she’s had it on for this long. “Fuck, you don’t know how much I want to put a load in you. Until you’re filled with so much cum that all you can think about is my cock.” You spread her long legs open and it’s clear that everything she said is true; her clit is puffed and her inner thighs are already drenched with her juices. 

Kneel in front of her and carefully position your length inside her. “Gonna fuck you now.” Through gritted teeth, Minji nods; her fingers gripping your biceps while her legs are already pulling you in. You sink into her further and further, drinking her moans and whispered curses until you bottom out inside her. She still feels so good, so  tight, so warm. You have to silence her mouth with a kiss because her moans are increasing in volume as you gradually increase her pace. “So, so fucking good. You’re gonna drain me dry.” Feel her nails digging into your shoulders and back, you’re definitely going to feel the sting of the scratches she’s leaving tomorrow morning but that’s not your concern for now. A bite of your bottom lip further confirms that she’s in an equal state of euphoria and you respond by continuing to fuck her with the same pace and intensity.

You’re careful not to make the bed creak but that’s fortunately an art that you’ve already mastered given the circumstances. But even with her luscious thighs wrapped around you, it’s not enough to have her drunk on your cock, you want her to beg for it like her life depends on it. You pause for a brief moment much to her verbal disappointment before pressing her legs against her chest to effectively fuck her in mating press. You know it’s her favorite position because an uncharacteristically loud moan escapes her mouth the moment you resume your fucking, your fingers gripping the bedsheet for support. “F-Fuck! Please, keep fucking me. So—damn—big!” You’re going to have to kiss her again because she’s slowly losing her grip on her surroundings, only focused on how much you’re pounding her into the bed.

“This is what you wanted, right? I bet not even your toys can fuck you this deep.” Minji doesn’t answer but her body responds for her; a particularly deep thrust has her clinging on to you for dear life. Her breasts pressing up against you and followed by the rest of her body. Bury your face on the crook of her neck, inhaling her addicting scent as you can feel her tightening ever so slightly around your cock. It’s becoming more of an effort to thrust inside her now, especially when you’re fucking her balls deep with every motion of your hips. Only broken sentences and curses are leaving her mouth at this very moment, along with shameless moans of your name as if she’s not afraid to reveal to everyone just how much the model student is getting dicked down by her fellow model student.

Maybe she isn’t. Maybe that’s part of the thrill after all, the aspect of getting caught. But that’s not your worry at this moment; not when that said model student is beginning to tighten even more and her breathing is becoming more hurried. You pull away to look at her facial expression and it’s painted with nothing but lust. The way her face is misted with sweat, her eyes closed, and her mouth open. It’s clear that her orgasm is just right around the corner. “C-Coming! I’m so fucking close, don’t you dare fucking stop.” You don’t care that your abs are burning, that’s what those 7 AM workouts in the gym are for. It’s for moments like these, when her nails are damn near close to breaking your skin and tears are starting to well on her eyes. It then becomes your goal to break her, like you always do during these sessions.

And it’s during another particularly deep thrust that her orgasm hits her like lightning, her pussy becoming unimaginably tight as if she wants you to join her in her euphoria as well. She’s almost crying, her body twitching uncontrollably as you pin her down to the bed. Tears eventually do fall due to the overwhelming pleasure, that makeup that you’re only noticing now is completely destroyed. Her juices begin to soak your length and the sheets underneath. She’s biting her lips so hard that it’s starting to bleed, get rid of the blood by giving her open-mouthed kisses. But you’re so focused on helping her come down from her high that you don’t realize that you’re about to explode as well, Perhaps you might, because you’re starting to throb madly as you continue to fuck her through her powerful orgasm. 

You spread her legs as far as you can, pistoning into her with no abandon. More of her juices stream out and you’re almost apologetic because of the mess that she’s going to have to clean up. But it’s really hard to focus on anything else when her pussy is still pulsating, continuing to urge you to join her in her orgasm. “Need your cum inside me, don’t you dare pull out.” It’s not like you had any intentions to in the first place, not when her suffocating warmth is begging to drain your balls for everything it has. The tension is building, rising, culminating—one animalistic growl after you bottom out and you’re pumping ropes and ropes of semen deep inside her. It floods her walls, it overflows, and you just can’t stop pushing it as deep inside her as possible. To make sure that her womb is completely filled with your cum and nothing else. It’s downright euphoric, the way her name leaves your lips like it’s a mantra. The way all of it triggers a smaller, second orgasm from her—truly wringing you dry.

It takes minutes for your movement to come to a halt, and by then your orgasm has completely subsided and so has hers. You feel her arms pull you in for a kiss, a much slower and passionate one compared to earlier. As if she’s saying thanks, because her voice is probably already gone. Or perhaps she’s just preserving her energy because if there’s anything you know about Minji, it’s that one round is not enough for her. If that’s the case then you better get a quick rest. Pull out of her and watch your excess semen drip out of her and down to her thighs. It’s truly a sight that you’ll never get tired of time and time again. Even more so when she takes a finger and takes a sample of your combined juices. It doesn’t take too long for your cock to become fully erect once again despite your orgasm just mere minutes ago.

There’s no time to contemplate though as Minji saves you the trouble because the next thing you know her perfectly shaped ass is raised and facing you, her arms bracing herself on the bed as she clearly shows you what she wants. “Need you to cum in me again, can you do that for me?” There’s no more time to waste, take a glance at the bedside clock and it’s already way past midnight—any noise at this hour would further alert people. You quickly kneel behind her, positioning your cock once again inside her pussy but this time in a much swifter manner. But despite all of the lubrication she’s so much tighter in this position. Grab on her ass for support and leverage as you begin to thrust, it’s a sight to behold that is her curves and back covered with sweat and her hair becoming a disheveled mess. 

She’s much more silent this time, thanks to the fact that her moans are being muffled by the pillows. This slow tempo also gives you time to recover, though it’s clear that she wants you to be rough with her once again with the way she’s moving her hips in a back and forth motion. Fine, if that’s what she wants then that’s what she gets. Just thirty seconds is all you need to recover, especially when you’ve got that heavenly view in front of you. You grab her by the arms and pull her upright until her back is pressed against your chest, your hands palming her breasts as you suddenly increase your pace. It’s your favorite position because not only is her body pressed against yours but you can view everything about her up close—her ruined mascara, her swollen lip, the dried tears on her face. 

Your fingers slowly creep up to her neck as you fuck her with all of your remaining strength, quieting her with more kisses—also because you just love kissing the hell out of her due to how irresistible and soft her lips are. She might’ve had another orgasm already but you’re too far gone, too caught up in chasing your own that you don’t notice. Either way, it only takes ten minutes this time for you to unload whatever remaining load you had (which is surprisingly a lot considering that when you pull out, a copious amount of semen is dripping out of her now swollen pussy once again). Now you’re truly spent, crashing on her twin sized bed that can barely fit the two of you so you always end up cuddling post sex. And as crazy as it sounds, this is the part of this whole ordeal that you’re oh-so-afraid of. Will she hear how quickly your heart beats when her head is resting on it? Will she find out that you’re slowly starting to wish that there was more between you two? Despite the fact that it’s an incredibly terrible idea that could have major implications in your future?

“Take me out to dinner first.” Minji is the first one to break the silence and the words that come out of her mouth completely terrifies you—it almost makes you jump out of the bed.

“What?”

“I’m not stupid.” Minji looks up to you, then places a gentle kiss on the hickey she left on your neck. “We’ve been hooking up for five months and you’re telling me there’s no way you haven’t fallen in love with me yet?”

Maybe you have.

Then you remember how angry you felt when her boyfriend broke up with her and you couldn’t do anything about it; you just wanted to barge inside her room and hold her in your arms and apologize for being such a dick and you couldn’t. You wanted to tell her that she deserves better because she truly does, but whether it was you that deserved to take that place in her heart you didn’t know. You were mortified at the thought of your relationship only remaining at such a stage—even though she made it crystal clear that she didn’t want anything to develop between you two. But it’s all in the past now—which begs the question: have you truly fallen in love with her? It only takes one look at those eyes and the way her lips curl upwards and how she fits so perfectly in your arms and how you wish you could be with her forever and how it all completely fucks up your equilibrium.

Yeah.

Of course you have.

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

My heart is a bloodhound!

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: It happens again, when the year festers into August again and leaves the two of you raw and vulnerable like open wounds.

Word count: 15K… 🤓

Warnings: canon-typical mentions of death, violence and injury (there is mention of like eating people but idk); grief; misogyny; Rust's personality; semi-public SMUTT T-T (MINORS DNI); same level of pretentiousness, maybe a little more, as the first part.

A/N: Holy fuck this sucked the soul out of me (wish Rust Cohle would suck the soul out of I MEAN WHAT), i am super proud of this though!! Went through many iterations and this was the least shit! 🎀🎀🎀 This is technically part two to The idler wheel but can be read by itself too. May or may not write other things for this guy but for the time being, I need a cleanse 😭 BUT please please enjoy and please please interact, i love reading comments and so many lovely people commented on the first part, im gonna do my best to respond to any/all this time 🤘MWAH MWAH

***

It’s difficult to differentiate between the thrill of being left alone here with him and the slow-sinking dread of the implications of that.

With the return of the musk of the summer, those three ruthless, windless, unrelenting months that would seem to drag on for several lifetimes when I was a kid, the memory of where I was last year—and the year before that, and the one before that—hangs brightly in my mind. Stale, not quite dead – so bright. Crawling with mildew.

Stepping into the bar had felt like entering another dimension. Maybe it was the suits that gave it away – every single God-haunted patron—the truckers, the farmers, even the old dog lying at a man’s feet—had turned, sensing foreigners as acutely as the immune system registers a bodily threat. I knew Johansson felt it: that dark pull over the back of the neck. But under Marty’s overconfident, swaggering lead, that winning smile, we soon assimilated. Skin swallowing a bullet.

God forbid you ever leave the town you grew up in. Shame on you if you don’t, though. How sanctimonious of me to change my mind and return after earning a spot amongst the lucky few escapees.

Something in this place still irks me.

At least, in Brooklyn, there was always noise: cries of a baby in the apartment over, the discord of traffic bursting through the streets below, the rush of a crowd, the overlap and slur of private conversations. At least the badness would stare you right in the face; at least people were evil to be evil. At least there were corners where things could hide, where it made sense for shadows to exist: all to explain the paranoia that stalked me.

But here?—it seems so open. Like, if a rare, hot wind would blow through a Louisiana town, it could do so in one straight path, through walls, through people, without ever getting disrupted. Everything is so light in the blazing sun, you can practically hear it: the hum of rays passing over every surface. Nothing should be able to hide. And, at night, with no sun, no rays, there is no noise. Maybe a dog. And ghosts. But perhaps it’s just the area in which I live. 

When Marty started drinking, flirting with the twenty-one-year-old barkeep, Johansson’s face had stiffened. He himself had never even touched a bottle of beer – devil stuff. We shared a look once the blond detective started gabbin’ like an idiot.

“Know what Maggie thinks?” he had laughed, slumping over the sticky table of the booth, big, sweaty palm choking out his drink. “She thinks you might be pissed at me.”

Johansson blinked hard to keep his nose from wrinkling, but, even then, he couldn’t keep from physically cringing away. “Who?” he asked, confused by those hazy, unfocused eyes.

Marty cracked a toothy grin – there was that slight gap between those front two, which had been charming at first and only managed to thoroughly disgust me now in moments like these – and pointed his finger right at me, accusing. “You.”

My stomach churned dangerously at the sight of him.

“Marty,” his partner had drawled, a low warning.

Waved away like a fly.

“Naw, it’s like—you’re on your high fuckin’ horse or somethin’.”

The words were spoken through a laugh, but I knew there was meat behind that so-called good mood. He was one of those people that tended to overcompensate. A mistake, an ill feeling. He liked to point out how I was alone, and often, too, poorly disguised as a passing joke, complete with one of those shit-eating grins that seemed to come so easy to him.

Shouldn’t he have been happy? Not only had he gotten our case, by then, but we’d handed it over with smiles on our damn faces. Nice enough to walk them through the original crime scene, introduce them to the key witnesses. Complicated. We didn’t have to do shit for ‘em, but we did. Hell, even that beer he was clutching to his chest was paid for out of the goodness of my own fuckin’ heart. Who was he to moan about the situation? He was the one who insisted on staying in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, brushing off any and all pointed questions on whether his family would be missing him at dinner.

“You know, I’d rather you were pissed,” he continued, where, really, I should have just smothered him into silence.

Rust was staring into the side of his flushed face, iron-grey eyes like a drill, like he was thinking the same thing.

“Look, you’re smilin’ at me now, but I sure as hell don’t trust it, buck. You wanna bite my head off, don’t ye?”

Like I ever could have done that.

Though the familiar weight of rage curdled in my chest, I would never admit it to the likes of Martin Hart. When he got like this—jealous, insecure, whiny—I wondered whether it was just a temporary lapse, or if this him, this true him, just lay under the surface all the time.

It wasn’t that fucking hard to plaster on a smile and take what you fucking got – I did it all the time. He could dream of a different life, but this was the one we were dealt. Fact that his grown ass hadn’t accepted that by now twisted violently in my gut. Between the two of us, I was the one that knew this – so why did he get myfucking case?

In my head, I’d let Salter have it, too. How could I ever admit I had an ego? How could I ever admit I had a mind to wrench the teeth out of the sheriff’s fucking gums? 

But I have plenty of practice acting like things don’t bother me, which is why it was so easy to plaster on my amiable smile and laugh, “C’mon, man, you know it’s only ‘cause o’ the workload.” Not that you could comprehend that, lazy fuck. To Marty, my kind’s natural state was amiable—anything otherwise would be a defect—so I’d expected to convince him. “You’ll do right by it, ‘m sure.” 

If he were sober, I know he would’ve bought it – he could convince himself that the way of the world was right and I was only being sweet to be sweet, because he deserved it. 

But Marty was drunk. Piss-drunk, loud drunk. His mind was clumsier than usual, unable to muster the energy to jump points, ignore the evidence, like he did daily. I hoped I had the power—if I had to let the case go, I wanted to at least retain an into its goings-on—but there was only one way to really have power over men like Marty when they were drunk, and I had had no interest in being one of his girls. 

My partner twitched beside me, picking at some spongy, yellow fluff protruding from a thin split in the chocolate-brown fake leather of the booth. He was just as furious as I was beneath his fort of calm.

Marty took a swig of his beer. “She wants you over soon. Maggie. Barbecue or some shit.”

“Maybe you should go home,” Johansson interjected, sharper than intended. If I were him, with his body, with his life, I’d have hit the fucker—long time ago, too. I couldn’t, but Johansson wouldn’t. He didn’t lack the temperament for brutality—I’m not sure anybody does—but, rather, couldn’t justify it to a necessary degree in his head. “I’m going home,” he’d reasoned kindly – he made it sound so easy. “Just let me take you. It’s on my way.”

Itching to leave, to return to the comfort of his wife and his little daughter. Marty had always found Johansson’s fondness of them disingenuous, had disliked my partner as long as they’d worked in the same office. He complained to me once that none of his stories seemed complete. When I asked him what he meant by that, he couldn’t answer—but I knew.

Breath short in my chest, I had half-expected Marty to lunge over the table, scratch Johansson’s eyes out. Only, Rust leaned over, dipping his head down to mutter something quietly into his partner’s ear, which was all flushed red. 

And then he went willingly into Johansson’s car, stumbling through the still, open night into the backseat.

My partner had squeezed my shoulder goodbye – I’m not sure why I didn’t leave with him. Now, I was doomed to leave with Rust. 

There, he sits across from me, smearing the ashy tar of his half-smoked, flaking cigarette over the mottled glass ashtray dragged over to his side of the table, little circles, waves, absent-minded art. Has me transfixed, some hypnotist.

If I look down like this, if I sacrifice the opportunity to look at him, I earn his careful attention: this sits in the back of my idle mind. I’ve been taking advantage of it more and more since summer broke through the sweetness of spring, which has since curdled like milk, sour. His stare drags over my face like fingers – I can almost feel his touch pressing into the softness of my cheek, dragging over the ridge of the orbital bone. 

“You’re okay?” he asks after a couple slowed heartbeats, pulling me out of the honey-pit of my thoughts.

I dart my eyes up, breaking the spell – his observation retreats, clouds, and drifts away to fix on the broken clock on the wall, the one that reads one forty-five at eleven o’ clock.

Primarily, his question irritates me. Nobody asks “are you alright?” imploringly, not unless it concerns themselves and their own wants. Salter had asked me that, right after telling me he was pulling me from my case, and, then, I had thought about crying, just to unsettle him. But what good would that have done? He’d only asked “are you alright?” to test the waters, to see if there was a future possibility of letting him pull the rug out from under me with zero consequences. Again. I couldn’t win. 

But Rust doesn’t want much from me. He doesn’t even want the case, really, which just twists the knife even further. 

“You—you know I’m good in there, right? In the box.” I carve a jagged thumbnail into this message in the table, twisting the characters wider, or taller, risking splinters.

Why should I have to give it up? And to a fucking idiot? Marty wasn’t the one who stayed all those late nights alone at the office, wasn’t the one scoured over heaps of files under low light, wasn’t the one who took the fucking beating when the suspect fought against arrest. Marty was not the one who conducted an interview like that.

My mouth thins into a hard line, but I know the words will come out whether I let them voluntarily or not. Around Rust, it’s that way. I should’ve left when I could. 

“It’s just that—it was so weird,” I continue, my head pulsing with the unwanted memory of that cabin. Marty didn’t have to experience it, Rust didn’t have to experience it—but I did. “Not jus’ wrong, or sad. Makes me feel strange, thinking about it.” 

Often, the suspects underestimate me. Johansson’s broad shoulders and tough-set jaw come off as offensive—nothing like my voice, low and gentle, and my eyes, sympathetic and warm. I’m the mother who will never judge, who is spilling over with unconditional love.

Beneath this, though, I am good at the maths of the job, the connections. Though all detectives technically develop the same constituent skills—close attention to body language tells and other biological betrayals—I ain’t sure most understand the sensitivity and strength required to confront shit like this head-on. To not avert your eyes at the mutilated woman on the bed. To inspect her eunuched boyfriend’s severed appendage, to have steady hands when photographing the scene—with flash, of course, to highlight every detail with sufficient clarity—for evidence, which must be returned to and examined again and again, each time with greater fervour still. 

I could name a few who’d joke about a thing like that, to ease the burn of that image in their heads, to sleep better at night, to leave behind the uninvited, vicarious sensation of a knife teasing over the meat of their dick. 

But the boyfriend’s corpse, we eventually located separately in a cabin in the woods, laid into the basement freezer, so peaceful, such a brutal image. Pretty parts of him preserved for mauling.

And Salter has the fucking audacity to take it away. He wasn’t the one to see something like that, to feel sick to his very stomach, to gag and have to turn away, to cringe and writhe like his skin suddenly wasn’t his, like he ought to pick himself out. I’ve been reeling with that image for weeks, living with motion sickness, and have been denied the relief of vomiting. 

“So, you need me to get that confession.”

Rust comes back into focus, perfectly still.

I nod, the back of my neck prickling with mean goosebumps. “Campbell, his DNA was all over the bodies. He was proud of it, even.” My ribs still glow with the phantom-sensation of his brutal kick there when we located him. Stomach clenching, I struggle to remain level. “But there ain’t no way in hell she wasn’t involved. He denies it, but the house is registered under her name. Maiden name, Phelps.”

“I read,” he confirms. 

I tremble in frustration – I almost wish he hadn’t. 

“It’s just—this lady’s tough.”

Eyes darting over to the dim-lit bar, scouring the scuffed hardwood floor, I can feel my face growing hot with indignation. Christ, it sounds pathetic, like a whiny kid insisting on continuing a task all wrong in order to protect their damaged pride. 

“You know Johansson: once she starts with the tears, he can’t see past ‘em. Southern manners ‘n’ all: a crying woman is a delicate thing not for a man to understand but to comfort. But, with me, it ain’t the same. She doesn’t respect me.”

“What d’you mean ‘respect ’? Don’t need respect in this game.”

I scoff, which would’ve been a dire mistake with anyone else. “Y’wouldn’t know what I’m on about,” I tease through an easy smile, though I’m not feeling so funny at the moment.

He inclines his head down to me, an invitation to elaborate.

My boot feverishly taps against the floor, thrumming light like a jackrabbit on the run. 

I sigh, mouth twisting. “She keeps asking me if I’ve slept,” I confess. “Says I look like her daughter.”

For all my mothering, here comes a perp who’s desperate to play me at my own game.

I can see how intelligent she is: some hollow glint in her eyes with nothing behind; past that gleaming screen of kindness, something black, like a cherry pit.

Sitting across from her, it felt like looking into a mirror. Not just physically—though her skin is a similar shade to mine, her nails bitten and splitting like mine, and she looks close to what I imagine my own mother could’ve grown into. It was in the way that, when I smiled, she smiled. When I took a sip of my coffee, she would drink some tea. At times, it would even seem like she would speak in my voice: the pitch, the intonations, the phrasing all far too similar. I was reluctant to tell her my name. It reminded me of this folk tale, of these tall, dark creatures who only required your name to speak like you, to look like you, to replace you in your own life. Its victim would die—in some way or another. Wander the woods, eaten alive.

A harrowing feeling had crept over me, winter pressing against the two-way mirror – I was sure Johansson, on the other side, would pick up on it. Only, when I confessed my worries to him, he’d given me this doubtful look, and I really wasalone then.

“She’s playin’ you,” Rust states simply, tracing his fingers over his mouth like some pseudo-cigarette. 

“Yeah.” I grind my teeth together. Under the table, where he cannot see, my fingers curl into a tight fist, trembling with my secret violence. “And now Salter wants Marty to have it? Bull.” 

I should’ve socked him right in his dumb, slack fuckin’ jaw. One day, I will. 

“He don’t want Marty to have it,” Rust retorts smartly, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are warm in the dark – I should’ve taken my chances, raced to meet ‘em, but I’m too late. “He wants me to have it.” 

Yeah, well, I wish what was mine would stay mine.

Even if I’m inclined to be pissed off at Rust by proxy, I just can’t be. The difference between him and Marty is that he actually pays attention, real attention, not the selfish kind. Just by watching, I can tell he knows exactly what he could say, how he could act, in order to appeal to somebody—which is why I find it so odd that he chooses not to. I sacrifice my damn dignity to keep myself palatable. He does not. As a result, he is not well-liked at the office – people tend to feel caught out by him; they don’t like to feel observed, known.

When did being seen become a threat? I thought it was intimate. Though, I suppose, a piece of shit never wants to believe they’re a piece of shit.

Everyone’s the hero of their own story. 

Rust slides Marty’s half-empty beer across the table to me, which I receive with a crooked smile and a quick hand.

“Sure I won’t catch whatever he had?” 

He shrugs. “Y’ain’t as deadbeat as the rest of ’em. Oughta drag you down to their level.” 

I snort. “What, you don’t think you’re deadbeat?”

He huffs. “I’m worse.” 

Bitter, the beer washes over my tongue, leaves that funny aftertaste I never really liked, not the first time, not the last. I don’t suppose I’ll ever turn one down though, not if it was offered to me: I’d accept it if only to win points with whoever it was, points I could spend at a later date. 

“Maybe,” I start, “if you were a little more deadbeat, you’d be popular. Go out with the boys.”

When he meets my eyes momentarily, smirking, I have to grip my hand over my knee, fingertips digging into bone, and consciously remind myself via mantra not to let my face freeze. He hums, voice smooth and low like liquor, “What, like youdo?”

I should be pissed off, really. Maybe I will be. Instead, though, I choke on the smart retort I had meticulously configured in my head, some quip that would’ve maybe interested him based on what caught him before. 

I don’t know whether it would have been worse pretending like it never happened. That’s my strong point: pretending. It’s his, too, when he wants it to be. Maybe we could’ve outlasted it – all we needed was stamina.

But, instead, it’s this. Looking across at each other and knowing exactly what’s going on in the other’s head. I can see exactly how he thinks of me, what he wants to do. When he tilts his head ever so slightly, my neck glows with a promise, like the movement was mine in the first place. When I would bite at the pendant of my necklace, he used to narrow his eyes, like he ought to yank the chain off my neck. But now, he looks on softly, so unlike him, his own fingers at his own lips. I know what it feels like – I’ve kissed him there, too. 

“Don’t give me that. At least Geraci would stop shit-talkin’ ye,” I manage, tearing myself away. “Swear he’s stuck at sixteen or somethin’. But—you don’t mind it, do you?”

He shakes his head. “‘f he was smarter, maybe I would. Jus’ likes the sound of his own voice.” 

The clock has replaced me as his focal point – I can’t help but feel jealous. 

“S’why I like you,” I mumble from behind my beer. “First time I met you, I thought you’d make me feel stupid.

That seems to get him. 

He blinks, a barely noticeable twitch. “Do I? I don’t mean to.”

Can I spin this? I’m sure, if I were a little more awake, I’d be able to spin this. 

Some evil part of me hopes to make him feel guilty, to trick him into feeling tenderness for me, though I know the pursuit of that would be in vain. The type of men I know how to work—creatures of habit that take the exact path you want them to, to believe that they’re the real seducers—Rust seems entirely separate from that. He can sniff out rehearsal and practice, that robotism, like a dog – he sees it enough in criminals, doesn’t he? That’s why he’s called in for favours across state police departments.

When I met him the first time, I shook his hand, smiled, friendly-like, only to be met with rigidity and stoicism. No trouble, of course: some people just are that way. Wild horses on the highway. But his quietness?—now, that had set alarm bells off in my head. Boys at the precinct were loud – you couldn’t pay ‘em to shut up about their weekends, their football, their college years, their fuckin’ yards. When I was first exposed to it, I thought I’d gain a lot of friends. But then I realised they weren’t so much talking with me as they were talking at me. It’s why they’re so easy to read: they just tell you everything you want to know right off the bat. Even their secrets are bursting at the seams of their fat mouths, begging to be released. 

But Rust?—doesn’t talk until he finds it necessary. It’s impressive. Before that, though, the trait was enviable. I had—have—no comparable method. Even though, at first, it can seem blunt, even cold, his eloquence is refreshing. Never running in circles – only determinedly forward. So intimidating, almost like a freight train – I have to consciously keep myself from jerking back and out of the way. 

How low he must really think of me then, to see me like this. And I know he does: he sees. Everything I might have done to prevent it perhaps even had the opposite effect. I hate, I burn, I curse: it’s ugly. I cry over cases I would’ve left behind in two months tops, anyways, onto the next. I obsess over just another woman in the box. I think about him almost constantly. 

“You don’t,” I mumble, wondering if I ought to be wishing myself far away. “Make me feel dumb, that is. Not me. Others, I can’t speak for.”

We’ll have to leave soon – no doubt, this local bar is used to slow days and early nights, a blissful routine rudely disrupted by two outsiders who haven’t even really shown them good business. I glance over at the barkeep, slumped over the scuffed wooden counter and flatly watching the football up on the boxy TV set, and I recall my first job. Then, too, I’d let men twice my age buy me drinks, flirted with them. Was worth the tip money. 

Rust hums, though I really wish he wouldn’t speak at all. “Don’t pay mind to what Marty said.”

My neck prickles. 

He’s not trying to console me, is he? No, that’s not like him. Besides, it’s not like any amount of coddling could reverse the merciless truths I’m constantly reminded of in this line of work – if I’ve learned anything about sympathy, it’s that it doesn’t fix shit. If anything, it’s just another complication. It can seem beautiful, but, really, it isn’t. I can miss it, miss its warmth, miss the kind, sweet nothings my husband would whisper into my hair on the hardest nights, but it never changed the fact that I would have to get up in the morning and do it again. Rust knows this, has maybe lived this, so he’s not trying to console me. 

Maybe he’s trying to defend Marty.

Sharp and sure, that anger comes lurching up in my throat, slashing and snarling. 

The sensible part of me—what I hope is the larger part of me—knows this is not possible. Rust understands Marty’s faults better than anyone, even himself, even his wife. 

“Thing is,” I mumble bitterly, “he really means it, don’t he? He just don’t show it.” I trace the warm, smooth rim of the bottle with a light finger, though my mind is currently toying with the idea of jamming it violently down the opening. “Maybe it means more that he does keep it hidden – at least some part of him knows it’s wrong.”

Placid in the periphery of my vision, Rust shrugs. “‘s what separates us from our killers. Feelin’ it ain’t the problem. Resistance is where strength is tested.” 

“Ego,” I chuckle darkly. 

He hums. “Fragile ego.”

Underneath my smile lies an uneasiness stirred by his criticism.

Rust is not gentle with his opinions – I don’t suppose that’ll ever change. Resistance is a losing game – not even he is immune to the impermanence of these things. I’m sure he said that to me once, on a night like this. 

I’ve never been very good at refraining from things. Even from an early age, I just couldn’t say no. Teenage years: alcohol, drugs, sex. If it was tossed my way, I’d take it, anything I could get, hungry to experience something. 

Ha!—maybe I actually am more like Marty Hart than I’d like to admit. He’s trying to be an adult, albeit really, really poorly. As long as he believes he’s a good, family man, then his reality is protected. But I know I’m rotten, really. One of the boys at the precinct will call me pretty—in that sick way somewhere between the unchecked lust of a man and his paternal right to claim—but, below, I know I’ve got sickness swimming through my veins. Not blood. Something accumulated over the years, maybe from pretending all the time. 

I feel like I want to cut things, break them. Told myself to hang on until I retire, but I don’t see that happening any time soon. I’ll break. What will Rust think of me then? 

Maybe I was his low point: that fault in resistance. 

Some awful, gnawing feeling collects at the pit of my stomach, like black tar. Must be all those cigarettes. 

“Wha’s in that head?” he probes suddenly, stealing razor-sharp, fleeting glances.

I shrug, swallowing down a bout of nausea. “I dunno.” And I really don’t. Behind the surface tension, I don’t know what I feel, only that I do, and it’s so, so much. “It kinda—makes me happy to see him like that: jealous. ‘Cause he knows I’m good, and he’s wondering why he’s finishing what I started. He knows he don’t deserve it. Not like I do.” 

My confession lingers in the air like smoke – I have mind to reach a hand up and wave it all away, or suck it down, deep, erasing reality. Fuck. I’ve always been a little off when reading into Rust’s quiet – with that tightrope he seems to have mastered, I know I should avoid any step at all—it could just as easily miss its mark—but I can never seem to help myself. 

I stare at him—and I think it makes him uncomfortable, though there’s nothing there, not any normal human reaction, in his face for me to draw from. That’s fine. In my gut, I’m pretty sure I’ve got it down.

“You want to be seen as competent,” he finally says, a simple-enough statement. 

I scrunch my nose up distastefully. “No, I want to be competent.”

“Well, what good is bein’ somethin’ if there’s no-one there to witness it?” 

Unable to press down an exasperated sigh, I close my eyes, roll them with all the subtlety I can manage.

Foul words push under my tongue, like vomit. 

I don’t know if I’m in the mood for this tonight: smart conversation. What feels like debate. Maybe if he hadn’t been given my case, I’d take him up on the challenge, but I’ve already lost. 

I eye him, try to figure out his game. 

“I dunno, Rust,” I tell him flatly. “I think that’s called having an identity issue.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Most people do.”

My chest burns. “This isn’t a go at me, is it?”

Slow, he draws the ashtray towards him from across the table, as if the grind of the glass against the wood is a noise that ought to be savoured. 

I could be deaf, but reading his lips would be easy: “And how’d this be about you exactly?” 

I’m able to fight off the initial instinct to wince, the way in which he delivers the words, calm and deliberate, stinging like a slap to the face. What’s worse is the growing impression that he’s as bored of me as I am. 

With a furrowed brow, I watch him, heartbeat thrumming in my ears. 

“I ain’t out to get you, s’you can quit lookin’ at me like I kicked you or somethin’.”

Frowning shallowly and trying to pretend like I’m not, I glance away and commit to rearranging my face—but at the glimpse of that twitch at the corner of his mouth in my periphery, I know I’m only digging a deeper grave for myself. The noticeable heat of my embarrassment must please him.

Playing with the food. 

And I’ve got nothing to say to him—not a single word or phrase up to par, nothing to measure up to Rust’s clinical detachment, let alone destabilise him. He might’ve been reciting the coroner’s report. There’s nothing I can say to scathe him—and fuck, I want to leave a mark, prove to him that I can. I scan him for weakness, but either I’m still too stunned to see it or there is none. I have no plan of attack and no line of defence. 

Rust seems to soften in the knowledge of this. 

“I mean,” he begins, knowing now that I’m really listening, “identity ain’t fixed – it’s not permanent. I don’t scrutinise my appearance. I don’t mind my body, and my body don’t mind me. My personality hardly feels under my control – ‘s just somethin’ that is and will be—‘n’, I guess, will change, but only against my will, never because of it. Feels pointless to feel insecure about that.”

Is this supposed to be some fucked-up attempt at advice?

My priorities changed, but this place never has, never does, never will. So, it’s all dumb and the people are dumb and this bar is dumb and the boys at the precinct are dumb and, fuck, I wish Rust were dumb, too. I feel pathetic, and he does not alleviate that feeling at all. If he were dumb, I could laugh at him and make myself feel better. I could laugh at myself for sleeping with a dumb man. Instead, I think of him religiously and crave his approval. Afflicted with the knowledge that he needs to be corrupted to want me, that I’m awful enough to want it enough to corrupt him again. Tainted waters. It would be so much more comfortable if I could look down on him.

My skin writhes and ripples, and I know the only thing that would soothe it is if he touched me. Jesus and the sick man—or some polluted version of that.

My world swings under a bout of nausea as it begins to spiral – the beer does not help. 

Maybe he’s waiting it out, like I’m trying to. Forgetting is the wisest decision anyone could make, the most fortunate outcome. Though, my efforts are paradoxical: I think so, so much about not thinking about it all. 

“Sure seems like y’think about yourself a good deal, too, s’don’t you criticise me,” I mumble, clumsy. It’s a mistake to even open my mouth again – he’ll use it all against me eventually. 

Rust hums again, low, some muscle twitching in his jaw, like his body has no clue what to do when not blindly occupied with a cigarette. “Never said I don’t think about myself,” he rectifies, staring at the sweaty palms I’m wringing together tightly against the lip of the table. 

I allow my mouth to pool with saliva, trying to combat the increasing dryness of my mouth. 

“Guess the thinkin’ part is where insecurity comes from in the first place,” I add after swallowing.

When my eyes dart up to look at him, his are on my throat.

Immediately, I look away.

Maybe this is the bad kind of intimacy.

The intensity of his attention is looming, sifting through my thoughts like sand.

Sometimes, I think he has me figured out but just couldn’t care less about what he’s found. He’s feeling the power of my burning desire for him – maybe it amuses him. Maybe he’s waiting to mechanise it, letting me sit idle while a use for me finds him (if ever). Maybe I know things. Maybe I can break things open. Maybe he can take my cases from me. Maybe I can tire him out, put him to sleep. 

It’s almost worse that he hasn’t put me to work yet. 

Maybe it really was just something in the water. Maybe all I need is to visit somebody close to me. 

“Ever heard o’ that theory? ‘bout internal monologue?” Rust asks softly, leaning in and tipping his head down like only I’m worthy of hearing this here. 

My leg jerks and I can’t place why. I nod, face hot. 

“I think ‘s bullshit—‘bout some not having one. Think everybody’s got that voice in their heads.” He pauses, squints. “Mm, maybe that’s a little generous.” 

I laugh – I hope it makes him feel good. In truth, I know he couldn’t care less. 

“What d’you think it’d be like? No voice.”

The world seems so close right now, wrapping its fuzzy arms tight around us, buzzing in my ears, shadows fur-soft over my face. What does he want me to say? I wish he’d tell me, offer me respite. 

I shrug, and it’s honest, my resignation. “No voice don’t mean no thought.”

“Alrigh’. Then, what about no thought?”

I shrug again. “I like thinking.”

He huffs, angling himself back away from me. Have I disappointed him? Somewhere deep in the pit of my tummy, there’s that fleck of worry, something that tastes an awful lot like vomit. 

I expect him to finally stop talking. 

But “I get tired of it,” is what he says instead. “In between cases, or these—moments where I feel like I could burn a hole through myself ‘f I spent ’nough thought on it. ‘s heavy, like they weigh me down.” He pushes the ashtray away, his fingers the only part of him moving. 

Swept up in the rising tide of your own life, hurting around you in some never-ending circle or spiral of which you happen to be the centre. Swimming with black-eyed angels. I know how he feels – I used to feel that way. Maybe I still do, sometimes. Clinging on to the tenderness my husband used to have for me like it could save me from the guilt I would feel when I moved on. No-one would pull me out: that much was true enough. That memory of stability, of the good times, only depressed me, moving from Brooklyn back to Louisiana. Feeling small in my own life, like a piece on a chessboard, with no semblance of control, only duty, chasing this idea of who I used to be. Hunting down the bad men, wondering what upper hand is driving them across the squares, contemplating the carpenter that fashioned the pieces. Too big of a big picture can be detrimental. The fact that I know this to be true doesn’t make me an exception. 

“I think you’re tired of the things you think about,” I muse, a headache beginning to expand between my temples – perhaps the heat has finally gotten to my head. “Space better occupied by other shit.” 

I’m careful not to pay attention to Rust’s reaction, if there even is one, since the weight of his interest is pressing over my face where I really wish his lips would.

“Like what?” he challenges. 

His eyes glint with curiosity, a blade’s sharp edge. 

I bite my tongue. 

“You think you know me?” It’s more a statement than a question.

I shrug. “You think you know me, don’t ye?”

Though, he kinda does. I think he’s proud that he can read me, but maybe that’s me overcomplicating things. Maybe I’m just another person to him. I wonder if he thinks I’m predictable. Boring, negligible, painfully average. Good for one thing, and that one thing was a mistake, anyway. 

Look at him, now: his eyes have dropped to elsewhere, but there’s a soft smirk that curls up on his face, the hint of a pink tongue that traces lightly over his teeth. 

Geraci always talks shit about that look whenever Rust closes yet another case, securing a tough confession. “So fuckin’ up ‘imself, ain’t he? Jesus.” Sure, he pisses me off—for different reasons. I’ve long since come to the conclusion that he’s worthy of admiration. 

He smiles to himself – I don’t trust it. “You’re calling me arrogant.”

“Are you?” I press, gnawing at the inside of my cheek. I’m surprised at the tepidity of my voice, considering how I’m covered in boils and burns in my head. 

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, only hums in response, seemingly amused. 

“Doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” I murmur. “People are scared of bein’ known, so nobody really tries no more.”

“I don’t observe people for intimacy purposes.”

Then why does he fucking look at me like that? 

A year ago, I’d have put it down to my own desires warping my perception of reality. Really, he wasn’t interested; he was only paying me my due amount of scrutiny in order to keep his mental file of me up to date. Really, he didn’t want to touch me; really, he was just someone who fiddled with his own hands, maybe to remind himself that he could be his own from time to time. Lust is such a dangerous thing – any deeper than surface level, and it has the very strong potential to kill you. If you want something against your better judgement, do you really even want it? The haze of having Rust come so close to me is dampened by such doubts.

But at this point, he either wants me, or I’m crazy. Shit, maybe I’d rather be just that. I’ve seen his eyes like this—dark and bottomless—when hands were unzipping my skirt, or dragging over my skin. To deny intimacy? Now that’s arrogance. Anddelusion. Shit, and I thought he was so above all that stuff. Does he think I can’t figure him out?

Surely his opinion of me can’t be that poor. 

My hand cramps up as I punch down the instinct to pinch the bridge of my nose. 

“Sure you do,” I press. And I’m right. I hope I’m right. 

His stare thickens into something different, what I think might be a black, molten form of gratification. Then, it hardens, cools in a split second into these tough, jaw-breaker pellets. I’d say it was confrontational, but then his eyes flutter just as he happens to swallow thickly. Is that his pulse in his throat? 

I rub at my puffy eyes with a stiff set of fingers.

Rust drops his eyes, brushes his hand over the side of his blazer where his cigarettes are sitting warm and ready beneath. 

“What, you—lonely again or some shit?” he asks. 

I almost recoil at the sudden bitterness of his tone. 

I snort good-heartedly, but, really, the comment stings just right—he knows where to press—all the breath knocked out of my chest. “O-kay, Rust. That an accusation?”

“No. ’S an observation. Thought you jus’ loved those,” he combats flatly.

Chest burning, I have to save myself, jump ship, and look away. My mouth tastes like grainy bile. 

“You were lonely last summer. That’s why you came to me.”

The dim light above us flickers, his face phasing in and out of shadow before me like a candle in the wind. 

I roll my jaw. 

Does he look back on it with disdain? 

“No,” I snap instinctively, instantly burned by the satisfaction that crosses his eyes. 

My breath hitches plaintively. Every fibre of my body trembles and burns to defend myself. There’s not a single word that could repair his opinion of me.

“Or—yeah.” Shut up. 

I rub at my temple, desperate for relief – do they have pills for this shit? – which does not come. If he feels any pity for me, it certainly doesn’t show. 

The harsh line of my mouth trembles. “I just thought you understood me. Or made an attempt to, at least, but maybe that part was self-projection. ‘Cause nobody ‘round here’s like you. I know you think that’s stupid and I was being naïve or—” I swallow though my throat is dry as ever, “—or dumb, or somethin’, but that’s what I felt. At the time.”

His gaze is fixed on my neck.

“At the time,” he echoes. It’s a question, I realise after a couple moments.

“Yeah. Fuck y'want me to say, asshole? 'm not—I’m not gonna embarrass myself with you, Rust. That what you want me to do? Show you just how dumb I can get—?”

“Sure like to speak for me, hm?” he bites back quietly, making it so damn easy to run right over him, to feverishly stamp out that insufferable fucking softness to his voice. Shit, I wish he’d just raise it and yell at me already.

“—Yeah, whatever. You like this shit, don’t you? Y’think you deserve a fight?—well, I’ll give you one. That what you want? ‘Cause what?—what, you get to ignore me, pretend I don’t exist, act like you’re above fuckin’ me—” his eyes flit away, bringing my roiling frustration to a crest, “—No, don’t you fuckin’ look away,” I scold, a bite, jutting a crooked finger into his space. 

He obeys, but that look in his pale eyes is so hollow, it almost makes me feel bad for saying anything at all. Almost. 

I try to press down my anger, but it’s spilling over, now, far beyond things so trivial as control. I clasp my hands together in a prayer that they will finally listen to me and not move again. 

“Fact that you feel anything at all makes you feel like shit, huh?”

His expression has glazed over, cool and smooth.

Half-expecting him to walk out and rightfully abandon me here, I stare hard at him, like I might chip into that exterior. If I managed it, I’d slip it in my pockets as proof. Silently, I beg him to prove me right. 

“Sorry,” I snap. No, I’m not. I hope it cuts at him. “You do what you want, I don’t fuckin’ care. But, please, do not patronise me like that again, Rust.” 

God offers no help with the silent plea I send Him. He does not care, so I shouldn’t care, and that’s the end of things. I’ve survived worse natural disasters than him. He’s just a man, and this is just what happens with them. Still, the disappointment floods like poison under my skin. I’m a stupid girl, really. 

“I understand if you regret things, but you don’t have to say it out loud. It’s mean. But, fuck, I dunno, maybe you mean to be.” 

I take a moment to untangle the knot in my throat. He watches it all, quiet again, his eyeline sitting heavy over where the skin shifts and stretches over my neck. 

I adjust the collar of my shirt, fiddle with the gold necklace that sits hot over the contour of bone. Rust stares as I wedge the small pendant tightly in the vice of my thumb and forefinger. 

“Feels like you don’t even fuckin’ like me half the time. All the time.”

Christ, I should’ve left with Johansson. 

My heart is racing like a wild mustang – it’s a surprise, really, that that old hunting dog lying over by the bar hasn’t noticed, singled me out as something to chase, to kill. My belly’s exposed, soft and ripe and asking for it. I forget, sometimes, that there are things out there that kill things that kill, too. 

He doesn’t plan on giving me a break; I wouldn’t deserve it, anyway. “Wha's it matter to you if I like you or not?”

My cheeks burn furiously. 

I stare at that bone-bird tattoo that fledges from the nest of his sleeve. With the way my head’s spinning, it almost looks like its skeleton wings are actually moving, unfurling and ready for pilgrimage. 

“It don’t.” It’s a disgrace to myself to answer that god-awful question, but what’s more pathetic is the way I shrink into myself when Rust’s attention crowds in over my face. “I jus’ thought you knew me almost as well as I did.” 

“And currently?” he asks.

The moment hangs. 

“Just answer. I already know – just wanna see if you’ll lie again.” 

I close my eyes a second—mistake—and breathe, breathe in and then breathe out, shaky but slow. It’s no use. 

“Same.”

He nods. “Not better?”

I shake my head. “No, never better.”

Furrowing his brow, Rust tilts his head down slightly, a soft curl falling gentle over his tense forehead. “But you wanted intimacy.”

So it is intimacy to him? 

Maybe this should count as a win for me, but it certainly don’t feel like it. This isn’t the slow slip and slide of last summer’s end – though the heat had swallowed whole everything from here to the other side of the Mississippi, there was something so clipped about the words that left me, left him. I’m sure I was more drunk then than now, but, even so, my mind had been so level, like I’d done it all in my sleep. Now, here, I have done it in my sleep. I’ve revisited him a hundred times in my daydreams, but all that practice has left me for dead. I would’ve killed for an opportunity like this a month ago – it’s like he’s taunting me. It should be easy. 

Rust is smart enough to make me wonder if he wants me to feel this way. 

Intimacy is planned and eventual, whether that’s due to his power or some cosmic fate. Everyone knows the decision they’re going to make, somewhere in their brains, deep inside. People only ask for advice to condone their decisions, to spread out the responsibility, which, at the end of the day, still remains solely with them. Shit, he’s rubbing off on me: I sound like a fuckin’ asshole. 

No, all this thinking won’t save him from the sensation of human feeling, emotions. No amount of planning prepares you for skin-to-skin touch. No time spent evaluating can undo it either, and I’ve tried so hard. His way doesn’t work. 

“Everyone wants intimacy,” I end up rambling, voice thin and dry and brittle. “Even folks that don’t want intimacy want intimacy. ’s not love or sex, really, I don’t think, though those are good, too. It’s not a way to find yourself. It’s jus’ trust. Or companionship—”

“And that’s what you want?”

Carefully, I rake my eyes over his face. Does he ever flush from the heat? 

Hopeless and too muddled to bother with concealing it, I try to assess whether he’s displeased with me. I try to memorise this moment, so I’ll be able to turn it over in my head later, just another one of my crime scene photographs. 

“Dunno yet,” I confess quietly. “I’ve had partners. And partners. When I was younger, I thought I’d have this life packed chock full of amazing relationships, and these—connections.”

The soft, disappointed eyes of my husband come to mind, which haunt all my relationships. I’m so hungry for another body, for connection. Why does it seem so easy for other people? 

“Truth is, it don’t happen all that much. To me, at least. You?”

Surly and bone-tired, Rust shakes his head. “Didn’t have much hope for it growin’ up,” he admits. 

“But you wanted it,” I press, clumsy and clinging to the sag of his voice. Of course, he’ll pick up on the trace of hopeful, aimless, false victory that undercuts my words; he’s the only one who ever could. 

For a moment, though, I second-guess myself. 

It’s pathetic, really: I’d give almost anything to walk as him for a day, though, even then, I’m not sure I’d understand him any better.

Sometimes, my imagination runs away from me: in my dreams, I do. I wake under the impression that we’re one and the same, that, just maybe, he, similarly, is dreaming as me. It’s a pulsing obsession, difficult to conceal. Whenever a moment becomes still, I think about it: at night, he is transported; in his dreams, he touches with my hands, sighs with my voice, tastes with my mouth. Then, at least, that would explain these funny sensations I get in the morning: so weathered and worn, a strange ache in my muscles, like I’ve been sleepwalking.

How else could he know me so well? 

Or maybe I’ve really fucking lost it. Somewhere along the way – maybe after seeing that half-eaten body swaddled in thin cotton in its freezer cradle – I think something else took the wheel. Why that thing is racing towards him, I have no idea. It’s laughable, really.

Rust blinks calmly down at his hands. “Reckon the deniers are dumb?” he murmurs. 

Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I do my best to press back against the foul memory of dismembered limbs. Whoever had eaten the man—who was now beyond recognition—did they feel satisfied? Comforted with how forever close he was to them now? When I was small, I used to think sex was crawling into another person's body, like a cave, and letting all of their insides warm you, love you, wrap you tight. 

I swallow thickly. 

“Your words, not mine,” I reply through a tight smile. “Reckon it’s easy to find a distraction.”

"Have you given up?" he asks. “Finding a distraction?”

I don’t entertain him with a proper answer to that – I merely shrug and scratch at my scalp, tucking loose strands of sweaty hair back into the loops of my braid. Rust must be frustrated with me. To want a companion, to want the good life. Rivalling Marty in my delusion. 

He slides his hands into his lap, continuing: “Distraction is the way to peace?”

I shrug again – I think it’s starting to piss him off. “For a time, I guess.” 

“So, ‘s that how you’re takin’ quittin’? Think about other stuff whenever you want a smoke? Occupy yourself?”

Once I realise my leg is going dead, fuzzy from sitting still so long in this dark booth, I flex my thigh, flex my hands under the table, wide-open and then tight-shut, processing the blank slate of his gaunt face. I press my fingers into the sticky vinyl, delight in the interrupted drag of them up, up, up as they curl to fists, my shoulders up to my ears. 

When he says things like that, it makes it so hard to dislike him. I almost wish he’d ignore me, like he did the first couple weeks before it became clear to the both of us that it couldn’t be undone: his back constantly to me, sending messages only through Marty, refusing to look in my direction, like I might tempt him again into being a version of him he hated. At least, before, his coldness hadn’t been directed at me specifically. Then, it was a retaliation, a wall meant to keep me out. Where were his books on philosophy then?—to tell him that attachment leads to desire leads to suffering? That kind of suffering would be better than this kind. 

This is worse. This is so much worse. I’d rather not have something at all than have it toy with me like this. 

It takes a considerable amount of co-ordination to fabricate the apathy in my posture, my eyes, my expression, to compensate for the unease that pulses like a new artery in my throat – though, at the silvery glint that flickers in his eyes, I know it’s all for nothing. He’s already seen the hurt that, really, I can’t pin on anyone but myself. He’s raking his eyes slowly over my face. It’s fucking mean. Do me the favour of a mercy-killing, God.

I never even told him I was trying to quit.

“What,” I begin, concentrating very hard on keeping myself from stammering and from slurring, from crying and from grasping at his hand, “like that association thing?” 

I’ve heard of it, obviously. I know every trick at this point: old wives’ tales to the latest research papers at the state university library. It’s psychological: whenever you want something, instead, think of awful, gross, repulsive things, and make yourself hate it. I’ve tried it before, but it doesn’t always work. How can you convince yourself that one thing is disgusting when it’s undeniable how good it really was?

Rust nods.

“I mean, I tried it,” I tell him lowly. 

Overstatement: I tried it for approximately three days and two nights before I caved, unlocking the drawer in my study with shaky, desperate hands, hungry.

“But I’m always thinkin’ about it.”

Shit. He seems to have regained a nerve: Rust stares calmly ahead at me—not through me or just past me; at me. This is what I wanted, isn’t it?

He leans his weight over his forearms upon the table, on offence. Is this how he works his suspects? Well, shit, I’ve studied his methods from the privacy of the other side of the false mirror enough times to be able to answer that, actually: this is how he works his suspects. Initially, at least, to gauge their personality, their wants, their fears, what they need him to be. 

Thing is, I can’t pin down his intention with me. Is it just the satisfaction of the kill? Or maybe revenge for what I did to him last August. I broke down his walls: an unforgivable sin. I condemned him to the effort of building them back up, of shoving me out—if I ever managed to intrude in the first place. Maybe I deserve this. 

With his sleeves folded back, the dark lines of Rust’s tattoo jut out, growing along his tawny, leather-tan skin like lichen. I try not to stare.

His eyes complete a pre-emptive scan of my face, and, really, I know I should not let him see any change there in my expression, though my mouth twitches to frown. I try to gather my forces. I try to prepare myself for it, for that inevitable intrusion.

“‘f you’re so desperate for it, why’re you fightin’ back?” he asks, unblinking and cruel. 

My mouth twists, and I let it fall into the frown it wants. “‘Cause I wanted to feel better.”

It sounds dumb because it is dumb, even though it’s true. 

Low, he hums. He straightens, softens, and finally leans away. It’s like the vacuum around me leaves with him, and, there, now, it’s easier to breathe. 

He must note the way my chest rises and falls so stiffly, like there’s a weight resting over my heart. 

“Withdrawal’s a breeze, ain’t it?”

“You’re not fuckin’ funny,” I scoff, digging my nails punishingly into my palm. He smokes and drinks like he welcomes cancer, or hopes for it, so I don’t think we’re on a level playing field.

He quirks his head. “Well, do you?”

“Do I what, Rusty?” 

Amused, he rolls his jaw. Good – I hope I’ve provoked him. 

“Do you feel better?” 

I run my tongue over my teeth. “Sometimes,” I reply truthfully. “Not right now.”

He searches my face. 

“I can give you a ride home,” he offers. 

Fuck, and what will that be like? Ten times worse than this. I’ll come away the husk of a woman, worn down by his disapproval. My own fault for wanting anything from him in the first place, really. 

Teeth gritted together, I shake my head, ready to pull a muscle in my damn neck. “Didn’t mean anythin’ by it. Sorry.” 

No, I’m not. I ought to slap him, and then run away, back home, or back to my house, or to a brand new city. Or he could finally cuss me out, save me the wondering. Then, I could lick my wounds and they would finally stop reopening. 

I scratch at my scalp. 

Rust eyes my hand like he’d like to rip the bad habit away from my body. For a moment, I think he will—the tendons in his hand flex and writhe under the skin—but, no, he only brushes a thumb against the valley between his nose and cheek, and he holds his tongue for once. 

“Wasn’t offended,” he corrects firmly. “I’ll take you home.”  

Flashing with annoyance, my eyes dart up viciously to penalise him. “And what?” I hiss. 

He sits back, doesn’t answer the question.  

Jaw clenched, I wait to see if he’ll look away, but he doesn’t. 

My irritation soon fizzles through, condenses to a low, simmering understanding, steadily tended to by the intensity of his steadfast gaze. 

Oh. 

My eyes soften. 

Oh – I have him, don’t I?

He shows no signs of the tentativeness he had displayed last time—if Rust could ever be tentative. His eyes do not shift and scuttle around me; they meet mine, challenging my comfort. He does not tuck himself into a corner; he remains leaned over the table, just like that. How could I have known? 

I stare back, brow pinched in confusion. 

In the heat of last August, I’d peeled away from him knowing exactly how I’d convinced him he wanted me. Maybe I was evil for it – a good person wouldn’t use somebody’s faults against them, would they? And maybe that’s what it was: selfish. If he hates me, he’d be right to. 

Which is why I’m so puzzled that he doesn’t. Or rather, indifference was the baseline. Hell. And this? I don’t know. 

Swelling dangerously with the well-loved memory of his delirious mouthings over my skin, I grow rigid.

My temples throb and ache, the threat of tears still very real.

“Mind?” he asks – I watch, wide-eyed, as he pulls a pack of Camels from his pocket. 

Trembling slightly, I shake my head, though saliva is already pooling over the pit of my tongue, warm and soft, just like my desire. Luckily, he’s too preoccupied with his lighter to see it: how my body ripples at the scrape of his voice. 

The promise of nicotine dances like a phantom in the mouth, just from watching him place a cigarette between his lips. When he flicks open his Zippo, the sharp, shuddering candle of it taunts me, and I finally understand what they say about moths and flames.

I watch him take a long drag.

That all-consuming hunger lurches up in me again, and I swallow the warm spit that’s steadily been filling my mouth. 

Oh, Christ. This can’t be real. Desire shouldn’t be this bloody. Desire shouldn’t be the thing with teeth and claws, the ugly thing that tips into violence. Or obsession. With how often my thoughts return to us in the summer, I’ve wondered obsession as a possibility. The difference between myself and those who commit crimes of passion is control. Rust is dangerous for me. What is he thinking? What’s in his head? I ache to pry it open and explore, to swim close to him, for my skin to melt into his, to consume and be consumed. Not a moment’s peace, and that’s what I’m chasing, isn’t it? Peace and quiet?

I don’t have to say anything – he can read it all, mulling over the fine changes in my expression, the softening of my body, some pre-emptive instinct. Will he touch me tonight? 

With a cautious hand, ready to jolt back if met with teeth, I reach out to him and remove the cigarette from his pinched fingers—which he allows—then bringing it to my mouth, taking a drag myself, nice and slow, good and deep, a sigh, like home.

He watches me.  

“Don’t say anything.”  

And he doesn’t. He just watches, watches, watches as I take another drag. He shivers, and I feel it reverberate through my bones.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” I ask him softly, pressing down a quivering breath, smoking his cigarette. I’ve never mustered the courage to ask before.  

For once, though, I really don’t have to: I know exactly where his head is. Where else? He’s back in that room, infected by the drowse and drunken fever of August, with me, living it again. Where I’d coaxed him into the temptation, wicked as the snake in the garden. He should’ve pushed me to leave with Johansson and Marty – of course, I would’ve stayed. I’m a rotten thing, and my heart is a bloodhound. He’s the better of the two of us. I’ll take whatever of him I can get – anything. 

He meets my eyes directly, so hopeless, so raw. Is he asking? He shouldn’t be. 

But what will he have me do? I’m at his disposal, really.

“And?” I ask, throat dry. 

When he moves to speak, the words that leave him are low and slow: “You did something to me,” he manages. 

I scoff. 

“S’that a good or bad thing?” I ask.

Rust huffs like what I said was funny. More likely, though, it’s the way my eyes are so wide, the way my hand is pressed between my thighs, that amuses him. “Can’t decide.”

My mouth trembles as my eyes scrape over his neck, which I know, I remember, to be hot and alive, thick with it over the pulse. I was so high off of it: his warmth, his weight, his press. 

I indulge in one last drag, using the last scraps of my energy to conjure the pungent stench of rotting flesh in the cruel sunshine, the pick of eager flies and their cacophonous buzzing, the churn of vomit in the stomach. I look at Rust and try to do the same: the months of silence, his back decidedly turned to me, him accepting my case, and his arrogance and his apathy and his severity. He is a harrowing connection that I should rather not have made.

The technique doesn’t work. I don’t know why I thought, even for a minute, that this time would be different from the last. 

With him staring calmly at me, like I deserve it—the trap, the squirming sensation over my spine, the hopeless, unavoidable heat that claims my face—it’s just another arrow pointing to the same conclusion. Maybe we should just let August have its way with us again. Twin plagues.

Trembling ever so slightly, blood so warm, so thick, I flick ashes out into the tray between us. 

“I should put this out,” I mumble, though my hand yearns to return it to my mouth. 

“’s my cigarette,” Rust mutters.

“Sorry.” I offer my hand to him. “Want it back?”

I know what I must look like to him, pupils dark, the size of the moon, like a plate. Here, in the darkest part of the dark bar, I open myself to him, warm, molten, inviting. And God, this must be a dream—because I know what he wants, and I know that he’ll accept me. How we got here doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe he’s thought about it for some time, and only now, in a moment of stillness with him, have I even noticed. Too caught up in the fine details of a painting to think of the artist’s intention, which is always more important.

Silent, stare inexorable, he accepts the cigarette, only touching my fingers quick, like I’d burn him. Maybe I will. Serves him right: he was always going to haunt me either way. I ought to get mine while I still can.

The hunger laps at me.

I want to coax him open-wide. I want to peel away his demeanour and wrap myself close to him. Body heat is the best way to keep warm, isn’t it? I’m sure I read about that somewhere. It’s still fresh in my mind, like a cut. I can’t manage a day without playing it over at least once. I want it again: I want to breathe him in and let him sit in my chest and seep into every cell and let him be part of me that way, at least until the next breath.

He can see it in my eyes: the freneticism of my thoughts, racing like a storm, desires like bullets like rain.

“You ever think about what you want?” I try asking him, voice strained tight over my heart in my throat. 

“People only ever think about what they want,” he parries, batting away any trace of diffidence. He secures his cigarette between his lips, shifting. “Let’s leave.”

At his first movement, I slide out of the booth. 

Sometime during our conversation, the place emptied out. It must have been around when I finished Marty’s leftover beer that the weight of the locals’ beady stares—which had already faded to the back of my mind, in the same way that a dark alleyway can still make you uneasy though you know nothing would ever happen to you there—finally left me. There are no witnesses left to see me following after Rust like a dog, my body thrumming like the lone bug zapper out on the porch, which cracks! just as we exit. 

The broken clock reads three o’clock when we leave, but I know that, really, it’s only midnight.

Fortunately, the heat has cracked for once, like old, beat-up, splitting leather. Stepping out onto that night path, the breeze is warm and fragrant, dancing over my cheeks, playing gently with the loose threads of my hair. It’s a clear, blue, never-ending night – the dirt road which accompanies us is a long, winding, indigo river that spills unseen over the far, far horizon. The neighbouring fields—one a rolling stretch of grass; the other of wheat—are alive in the wind, flung one way on exhale, drawn the other upon inhale. 

Thank God for the noise of it: their rustling whispers, in a language we can’t understand; the soft whistle of a passing gust of air; the firm, crisp crunch of dry mud and dust under my boots. Thank God for the sway of things: the cradle of humidity; the press of my arm to Rust’s, which he permits only for a second, with his face angled away. Then, he slows, coming to walk just behind me, still parallel.

Flickering strands of long-grass brush my knuckles – I grab onto one, pull the seeds off it in an easy swipe, and scatter them as we go, one by one. 

Briefly, I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, his eyes are fixed on me, on my every movement, like he’s making sure I’m actually real. The corner of my mouth twitches up into a smile. 

Rust’s cigarette flares between his lips. 

I scratch gently at my wrist, reminded of the flowing of my blood just beneath the skin, hot and thick.

You get nowhere in life just hoping things will fall into your lap like this—and, anyway, what good is getting something that you didn’t work for? Where’s the gratification? It’s artificial, feeble as plastic. Christ, it was even a struggle to get my head around Johansson and his propensity to dole out favours. I understood a write-up – won’t pretend I’m above ass-kissing – but tidying up the office kitchen and keeping quiet about it? I thought it was stupid: letting people reap the rewards of your own effort, and for what?

So, the buzz of earning Rust’s touch that first time?—shit, nothing compared. No drug, no high; nothing. I really thought I did something. Satisfied some secret ambition I didn’t know I held. To have him like that. To be able to replay that night, swallow it like a pill. To look at him and know what was underneath his clothes and his skin, and perhaps further inside, too. Shit, I took so much from him, but the mental gymnastics of the effort justified it, right? And, now, he’s going to give it all up again. Wants it, even.

Haven’t I played this out a thousand times in my head? I’ve seen the future—a number of futures—where I’m able to argue for his affection. Fight for your love – that’s what my daddy used to tell me whenever he was feeling sentimental after yelling.

I’ve had endless conversations with him in my head, edited accordingly as time passed, as he changed, as I changed, as the air between us changed. Possible flirtation seemed silly, futile, after a week. Sex appeal would go unnoticed by him – wasn’t like he looked, anyway. Not the type to chase tail. I found myself longing for him to please linger uncomfortably in doorways to rooms I was in, to leave things near me and come and collect them just after I was gone so that, maybe, he’d still feel the warmth of my presence and understand it was only ever warm that way for him. The idea of genuine confession always sprung up during the quiet nights alone together in the bullpen, but I was always able to talk myself out of it when he wouldn’t so much as glance at me after two, three hours.

It must be a million threads of conversation up in my head, which is why I guess it’s so hard to untangle the great knot and retrieve just one, because, now, there are no words that come to mind when it matters. Or maybe it doesn’t matter: I don’t think he needs convincing at all.

“What you so quiet for?” he asks faintly. 

When I look back, he’s stark against the brooding sky like some shadow-man. His outline hums like he’s pulling away into his own silhouette. 

I can’t seem to smile. “Nothin’.” 

He won’t push—at least, not on this—and I’m glad for it. 

Rust’s beat-up semi is all lonely sat in a dip up in the road, waiting for us. Same semi he’d driven me home in from work this one week I was getting my car fixed up, in which a series of slow, mutual interrogations would take place along the light-streaked highway. In the office, you were lucky to drag a full sentence out of Rust, but, alone, it wasn’t so hard to get him to talk at all.

Maybe I had just wanted to be better than him, to learn how he worked, how he was such a good interrogator, and bleed him dry. That was why I couldn’t look away: every choice in his demeanour could help me surpass him.

Even then, I learned to be careful with my looks. I had the feeling he’d morph into something else if I stared long enough, the way the shadow in the corner of your bedroom changes shape when you’re bone-tired. Sometimes, he would. And on the Thursday night of that week, when he had pulled over and thrown up, shaking, into the dark thrush, I hadn’t uttered a word as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. But, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, I’d stared at him with the filmy eyes of a hungry nocturnal animal.

Then, at least, the curiosity wasn’t a burden. Not like it became when I drove myself home come that morning after.

I could tell it was different the moment I shifted awake, feigning a sleep for just a couple more minutes.

Dressed again and putting on a pot of coffee, his back was to me. I had shuffled up, pulled on my clothes, and I knew the stupor of the night had faded. So, really, when I stepped past him and he closed the door behind me without a word, I shouldn’t have been upset. 

When I reach the pick-up first, I twist to look at him. 

Rust has slowed to finish his cigarette at a safe distance, eyeing me warily.

He crushes the stub into the dirt, then glancing out into the long night. 

“Straight home?” he asks. 

I shake my head, and the rigid line of him gives just a little. It’s so dangerous to be seduced by your own influence, but the realisation that I’ve had any at all is fuel enough to the plea in my wide eyes.

Rust advances haltingly. If I move, I’m sure he’ll flinch and bolt. So, I test the theory: better to weed out what’s already decayed.

I angle myself towards him, open like a door. He tosses his jacket into the bed of his pickup, stepping through.

The heat seeps back between us, slow and thick like a flood of molasses, and it becomes very clear, suddenly, that we never should’ve tried to barricade ourselves. Pretty sure Rust’s known this a while, anyways: he’s the one who leans in for me, kisses me slow.

This time, his hands are quick to curl around my body, where the tension in that tight cord all down his spine has snapped. Or just eased up on him—but that’s unlikely. And unimportant. With his firm touch petting up my spine, climbing each rung, it’s all unimportant.

A pulse of arousal strikes me like an electric current as Rust pulls the blouse out of my skirt, his face close to me.

His tongue pushes into my mouth again, and I hum over the husk of nicotine. It’s a haze in the brain, one I’ve missed. My skin tingles and my thoughts warp in this leer, like a nic rush, only I haven’t had one of those in years and years.

I can’t exactly call what I’m feeling satisfaction. There’s no win to this. My teeth sunk into him so sweet last time, and the thrill of getting him, of tripping him up with his own desire, was almost as good as the actual feeling of him inside me. But it’s different now: so obvious, it’s funny. Though my first instinct is to doubt and pry apart, maybe want is the most trustworthy thing a person can feel. It’s animal and instinctive, and it’s inevitable, so it’s always true. Ugly, sometimes, but always there. There’s no room to question his want, because I can taste it on his tongue, I can feel it pressing over my stomach, I can hear it in the way he hums at the sear of my skin. 

It must be a favour to me: the blatancy of it all. For however direct he may be, I’ve always felt that Rust has these plans within plans. Nothing is as it is on the surface: you have to dig to get to the good stuff. It’s disorienting, having it all laid out for me. And I’ll take anything he gives me.

I don’t want to leave any room for doubt in his mind either. 

So, I clutch at him hungrily, so drunk on his warmth, and thump my back against the door he opens for me to close it again.

I don’t ask, and I’m glad that he doesn’t make me, only presses my body flush against the cool surface of his side-door, until the only part of me free to move are the fingers that curl over his arms, as if they could sink through the fabric and then the flesh underneath. There’s only dogs and ghosts out at this hour, anyway; eyes in the long-grass. No-one but them and him to see my hips jerk against the precise hand under my skirt. 

He hadn’t looked at me this much before. Even when my eyes go glassy and I have to blink hard to try and regain my smarts, to not finish too quickly, I know he’s staring at me like a scientist.

When the next needy noise is drawn from me, I bury my face into his neck to save myself the embarrassment of being seen like this, even though it’s pointless. His fingers are dragging aside the damp fabric of my underwear anyway, sliding through my silky desire. When his knee shoves between my legs to keep apart, he changes the pressure of his hand, circles tightly over where shame does not apply. Restraint is a man-made practice that never prevails over biology. I should know this. Still, though, my face is hot as I whine into his shoulder. 

Rust doesn’t ask me to look at him, not yet, and I’m so grateful for it. I bite into the meat of him at the push of one finger, then keen all the way to my toes at the hook of two, rocking against his palm thoughtlessly as he fucks the both of them in deep.

The clink of his belt buckle barely processes through the smoke of sticky eyes and open mouths and the press of his body. But the absence of his hand from my hip, of it working between us?—that’s what ushers normal sensation back into me. I recover from the limp slump against him, but not quickly enough to understand or resist him guiding my hand to wrap around his swollen cock, coated with spit. 

He grunts as he tightens my grip around him, coaxes my hand how he wants it. In the back of my mind, though, of course I remember. Only, his fingers are so far inside that my head is spinning, teetering on the precipice of another thought I know I’ll lose, one that dissolves at the slight scrape of nail, one that would never matter as much as the soft then firm press of him against my cervix. My eyes water, and there licking at me is only a faint, abstract impression of embarrassment when Rust grips over my jaw, calloused heel of his palm heavy on my neck, and hauls me away from the hiding spaces of his body’s crevices.

“What, you fuckin’ shy now? You wanted it, so look,” he mumbles, digging his fingers into the soft parts of my face a little more, like there’s some hidden button beneath the surface that can make my droopy eyes fly back open. There must be because, somehow, it works. He angles my face by the scruff of my neck.

I can only stand to look between us for a few jumpy heartbeats before my eyes settle on the comfort of his even face, which he seems to accept readily, breath hitching. He does not blink. The intensity of his observations hounds me, lights me up like points on a star, even when my vision smears and melts at the dizzying curl of his fingers. Lucky for my weak knees he’s got his hand over the nape of my neck, his thighs pinning my own. I shake against him, some pathetic thing, and tremble when he keeps massaging there deep inside.

“Don’t go dumb on me, girl,” Rust scolds quietly when my hand loosens around him, his own having to leave the heat of my neck and come down to correct the pressure, the pull. My head lolls without the support of his hand. “Ain’t gon’ say nothin’?” 

Words spill uselessly into a pool before me, slipping through my fingers. My pulse slams in my throat, lower, too, against his touch, each beat meeting him as he works me over again. 

What I manage is a choked noise, all clogged up inside. I have little to do with it: just a body, a heartbeat and a compulsion to be near, nearer, nearest to him. Half a mind that’s lagging worse than the computers at work, that realises far too late that the body is curling into itself again, so tight, so wet, and fuck, fuck. 

He removes his fingers, that slow drag, and tells me to turn. When I don’t—completely without, dull and aching—Rust twists and shoves me against the window, which goes cloudy at the breathy moan pushed up from my slack stomach. 

Slow-like, a cold hand snakes under my shirt, smooths up my burning spine, all the way up, all the way down, hooking in the waistband of my skirt, knuckles burrowing into the soft dimples in my back. My whole body shivers as he slides his palm over the back of my neck—a comfort for which I’m desperate to become familiar—and squeezes gently. If I keep my eyes open, all I can see of him is that black silhouette in the window, a reflection. A homogenous mass, humming at the edges, devoid of the detail of things: can’t see the way he drags his thumb up along the line of my spine, traces where it meets the skull; nor the way he steps forward, teases the air out of my lungs, enjoys it, tugs my hips closer to him by the gusset of the underwear webbed between my thighs; nor the way the cool metal buckle presses red lines into flesh. 

The sight of Rust doesn’t matter so much as the understanding that it’s him behind me, that it’s his truck my cheek is being pressed into, that it’s his—fuck—that it’s him sliding through the heat of me, so close. The tip notches and makes it all the easier for my eyes to flutter shut. It helps with the vertigo that follows the rough push of him inside. 

My fingers grasp for the little ridges in the door. Best place for them ends up to be under my mouth, though, to keep my head on my shoulders, to muffle the noises I was sure only animals made. My knee jerks sharply against the truck at the first white-hot pulse of pleasure – I hiss, smearing the drool at the edge of my mouth with the back of my hand, so glad he isn’t in clear enough line of sight to chastise me with his tendency to notice and never forget. 

But he knows—he must fucking know by now—because the heavy hand clasped over my scruff curls around my face, and Rust forces two fingers into my parted mouth, presses over my soft tongue. 

He pulls himself out just to feel the total length of me taking him again, so painfully slow. Feel the initial resistance, the spongy give, the sweet slip, the drag, all of it. So full, I feel sick with it. Overindulgence. Knocks me weak, doesn’t mind it when I bite down on his fingers to take most of the weight out of my sob. What I take from him, he takes from me—we’re even that way—so Rust, already with his nose flirting with the crook of my sweaty neck, nips over my erratic pulse, pushes his tongue over where I’m sure he can see the skin throbbing with the violence of it. Vampire. He could draw blood and I wouldn’t mind: he knows I need bloodletting. 

So fucking dumb to think for a second it could be sated by just one time. I needed it again before it even ended – I knew it in the split second he touched me. The grief of closure was as adamant as a shadow. Stupid. He must think it, too, because, shit, the snap of his hips is mean. Punishment: you should’ve known. 

“We ought’a be in your bed. I should be fuckin’ you through your bed,” he complains gruffly, his mouth dragging over hinge of my jaw.

I moan around the fingers in my mouth, which hook together with his thumb to pinch the fleshy inside of my cheek, challenging my lost focus. No matter. There’s nothing we can do now. 

The seize of my body doesn’t take him by surprise at all, not that I expected it to, and the words that follow are easy, like he’s been thinkin’ of them as loud and clear as day as it would be to speak ‘em: “Shit, that feels good, sweet girl, huh? Tha’s it, just take it. That’s good.” And he lets the warmth gush out before stuffing it back in. “You’ll take one more.”

I stare at the endless field to the side of us, melted over the curve of his door, shivering despite the humidity that always finds you around here. I choke more on my own tongue than his fingers as Rust fucks me slow, like I deserve it.

“Need it s’bad, huh?” he drawls into the shell of my ear. “Why you gone all quiet on me, baby?—thought y’wanted it.” 

He drags his fingers out of my mouth, daring me to speak. He slides his hand between my stomach and the side-door, gliding down between the thighs, smearing my dripping arousal over the skin. 

My toes curl tight again as he pushes deeper than before, sits there like he knows my mind will do the rest of the work. The grate of his zipper as he shifts draws a mangled sound from the pit of me, not hidden by the brace of my trembling arm. 

He zeros in on my clit, all sticky, and circles tight. I shudder. 

“Give in,” he says to me in a voice so low and soft that it barely reaches me above the high frequency splitting through my skull. He rolls that bright pearl between his finger and thumb. “You feel it?” 

Mindless and eyes all milky, I still manage a nod, grateful for the mean pin of his knees against my shaking thighs. 

He hums. “So give in.” 

Fuck, this is absurd. The mind can just about string two and two together when Rust lends a forearm beside my head for me to rest on, to grip over: so he’s pictured this, wanted this, for how long? I knew the stagnancy was a front, swallowed something else, but—my mouth goes wet and slack over his forearm at the languid roll of his hips—but it wasn’t realistic to imagine it was this. Rust struck me as someone incapable of reconciling himself with his wants. Shame over acceptance because he thinks it’s atonement. Should’ve known better than to think Rust believed in redemption. 

The silhouette in the window is looking over the empty road, scanning for cars that won’t ever come—but his hand is warm under the tent of my shirt, easing over my waist, slow, as everything clamps up, trembling, again. Body and a heartbeat, he tugs my hips back to him, again and again, until he’s a hot, shuddering line all through me, face in my neck, crushing the fight out of my lungs. 

His nose presses over my cheek, and his breath is coarse there, too, panting, when he lifts his heavy head. My throat goes so loose and open, greedily drinking in the sweet-sticky scent of him. 

“C’mon, now,” he says to me once he’s pulled my underwear back up, dragging the cool, damp gusset against the mess of me for good measure. He pinches my hip, then over my thigh, like that might get me to quit shuddering. “Time to go.” 

When I don’t move, he smooths a hand gently over my hair. Tucks a loose chunk of it back into the mess of my braid before deciding it’s best if he lets it loose completely. 

Rust winds down the window as he holds open the door for me to clamber onto the bench.

“Y’can sleep ‘f you want,” he mumbles once he’s got me curled up on the seat, leaning through the frame. He tilts his head – the shadows have always hidden his eyes, but I like how the pinch in his brow has melted away at least.

If I had half a mind, I’d use it to shove his face out my goddamn way. Instead, I settle for the narrowing of my eyes and a decided huff. “Won’t.”

Lie. I fall asleep like anything, mellowed by the sweet rush of wind over marshland, the spirit of it weaving inside, and the weight of Rust’s hand tucked in the tight bend of my knee.

[marvel-starwarsfangirl]

Kung Fu Panda 4 Review

Ok, I saw the movie yesterday and I have some thoughts. I think the film is good, but no where near the level of the first two. It's more like the third tonally. But tbf, nothing can top the second film in my opinion. KFP 2 really stepped up in its depth both in terms of its villain and message. The fourth film is very much the opposite. It's also very predictable and you can easily figure out what was gonna happen pretty early on.

What I liked: the animation is still gorgeous. Seriously, there were some very visually pleasing shots. The character models all looked great and I thought it was cool how the villain still has scales when she transforms. The music is also really nice and fun to listen to. The voice acting was also good and I thought Awkafina did a good job (major step up from Scuttle).

Po's dads were also really fun when on screen. It's nice to see them bond over Po and they do work well off of each other. They were the best part of the film, animation aside. The villain is also pretty cool with her abilities. We will talk about her more in a bit. And I did like Zhen and I'm looking forward to see what they do with her in the future. She's energetic and I did like her design.

What I didn't like: too. much. comedy. Ok look, I know this is an animated film for kids, but what made the first three films (particularly the second one) so good is that the balanced the jokes with depth. This film does have some messages, but it's intercut with so many jokes during dialogue that it takes away from it. They really needed to let this film breathe and have more serious moments to just talk and let things sink in. The villain brought back the old villains and stole their abilities (this was in trailer so not really spoiler). Why don't they do more with that? There is so much untapped potential here.

And that's my other big issue with the film: so much potential. Some of the ideas in this film are really, really good, but they only scratch the surface with it. I wanted to know more about the villain. I wanted to see our fave villains interact more. I wanted to see the villain use her powers more. But we don't get that; we only get the bare minimum. In simpler terms, there's no big "wow!" moment that the other films had.

Spoilers below (tread carefully)

Why did they bring the villains back if they were going to do almost nothing with them? The climax of the film was the Chameleon stealing the villains' abilities and fighting Po but we pretty much saw that in the trailer. Tai Lung gets to do some stuff, but I wanted more. Half of his lines were jokes anyway and I didn't vibe with it. Why did they bring him back if he was just gonna comment on things? I don't remember our favorite snow leopard being this comical. He did quip, but there was still a hardened edge to him. Idk. Maybe he got therapy in the spirit realm. Shen and Kai get crumbs, but again, they could've done so much more. And wasn't Kai destroyed completely?

With Shen and Tai Lung, I would've wanted to see more. I'm glad Tai Lung did finally come to respect Po and it does make sense. But Shen? The last time we saw him he rejected Po's help. Unless he too got the same spirit realm therapy Tai Lung did, him bowing to Po does feel very OOC. Nitpicking further, why was Shen brought back anyway? The Chameleon presumably doesn't know who Po is and Shen isn't a kung fu master. With the exception of the fanservice route, this choice only makes sense if the Chameleon was aware of Shen's actions in Gongmen and thought his level of evil would fit her vibe.

Nitpicking aside, there was so much opportunity for Po to confront his villains again and have a deep, serious moment with them. Whether either side likes it or not, they're reunited for a short amount of time. Why not capitalize on this great opportunity?

Speaking of the villain, so much untapped potential. Her design is great, her abilities are really cool, and Viola Davis does a good job voicing her. So why doesn't she get to do more? Imagine a really cool fight sequence where Po confronts her, but she shifts so much that it begins to mess with his head. Or she transforms into the older villains and Po is caught off guard? Instead, we get half the climax spoiled for us in the trailer. What was really cool about the other three was that we got multiple fight scenes with them to showcase their abilities. Thus, the final battle dialed it up to an 11 and we got a truly epic finale. Here, it feels like there should've been more, but there wasn't. Even her backstory feels lacking. It's there... but only surface level. Even Shen, arguably the cruelest of them all, had nuance and depth.

Also, why couldn't we get more of the Furious Five outside of a glorified cameo? Tigress and Po friendship is truly amazing.

As much as the jokes miss, there are some good bits. Shifu trying to deal with Po's shenanigans always crack me up. I also like the bit where Po tries to meditate and his thoughts get in the way. Because hey guess what, that's what my head is like and it's really freaking hard to quiet it down. So, there's that. I just wish the writers didn't feel like they had to insert jokes in almost every line of dialogue, you know? Li and Ping dad adventures are great except half the lines are jokes about how worried they are for Po or how not tough they are. Why not have a deeper conversation? I think it would make everything feel more natural.

I also wish Po himself was a tad more mature. I'm not expecting Shifu or Tigress levels of seriousness, but I felt that he kinda was a bit too childish. Po is one of those characters who loves to have fun, but knows when he has to be serious. However, he also likes to lighten things up with comedy. In this movie, it felt like he only really leaned into the comedy side of things. He had his moments, but I'll be honest, I really missed the "the only thing that matters is what you choose to be now" levels of dialogue. The proverb joke got old real fast, ok?

Grace Randolph from Beyond the Trailer described this movie as episodic and I can see it. The story bits are very segmented between the villain, heroes, and Po's dads. The flow and pacing of this film really needed to be upgraded.

Ok, that's all I got for now. I'm sure I'll think of something else to say (aside from encouraging everyone to rewatch KFP 2 because I'll never get enough of that film).

[summerofofelia]

15 day BL challenge time!

OG here 🧡

Day 8 - The trope you hate except when it’s “this series”.

Throughout the course of my twenties, due to a combination of working with incredibly difficult people (never work in Australian media y’all) and navigating personal drama, I have learned that the best way to interact with people is through direct, honest communication. I have learned how to be gently confrontational, I am comfortable being uncomfortable and saying to someone, “hey, can we sit down and have a chat?” And as a result, I find myself huffing impatiently when miscommunication rears its ugly head.

Looking at you buddy

Ah yes, miscommunication. My arch nemesis. Miscommunication is the rotten toenail of tropes. So often it feels like a cheap way to manufacture drama because the writer was too lazy to come up with something more original.

If the central conflict of your story stems from a miscommunication that could be resolved if the characters had a two minute conversation, but instead you stretch this petty misunderstanding out for an infuriatingly long amount of time… ya boring. Go back to the drawing board. Think of how else you can create tension and obstacles that compel the audience to care.

So which show is my only exception?

BL: My Personal Weatherman.

My Personal Weatherman, for those unfamiliar, is essentially a story about two emotionally constipated dumbasses that are desperately in love with each other.

And I adore it.

So what makes their miscommunication different?

This is not a surface level miscommunication that can be solved with a simple conversation. It requires serious introspection, recognition of fears, voicing insecurities and allowing vulnerability. These are not things that happen overnight.

Yoh has incredibly low self esteem and believes he has nothing to offer Segasaki. He constantly downplays his abilities, despite the fact that throughout the series we see him being Segasaki’s safe space.

He can’t bring himself to be honest about his feelings to Segasaki (except when he’s drunk). He is confused by Segasaki’s actions and finds himself becoming resentful, finding reasons to hate Segasaki because he thinks his heart is the only one that races when they’re together.

Segasaki, on the other hand, wears a mask around others, feeling like Yoh is the only one that understands him. He can pretend with everyone else, but with Yoh he is utterly defenseless. Since day one he has been captivated by this man that sees right through him to his very core.

Segasaki desperately needs Yoh to be by his side, he craves him, and yet it takes seven episodes for him to finally break and say, I can’t breathe without you. Even after this declaration we see him tying Yoh up in an attempt to keep him from leaving, begging telling Yoh to be his and his alone, his insecurity palpable (also, he never actually tells Yoh about his insecurities, he just tortures himself in private). This moment of vulnerability is a turning point in their relationship.

And all this is externalised through a lack of communication, and not just that, but a lack of understanding about different communication styles. Segasaki is taken aback when he finds Yoh drunk and sullen, proclaiming that he will earn enough money to move out because Segasaki only sees him as a slave. Meanwhile Segasaki is like, wow, okay, first of all rude to say that to your husband.

But after this, Segasaki specifically takes Yoh out and they experience all these cute little date moments. It’s super sweet and everything is going well, until Yoh says, “hey, if you want to do something without me you can”, leading Segasaki to walk away despondently (and lie about having other plans) because he clearly thought they were on the same page (however, he still uses this time to buy Yoh a jumper while Yoh goes off to buy more sheets so they can fuck be intimate more often (because they’re both dumbasses who haven’t heard of a dryer)).

Through Segasaki’s actions, he thought he was clearly saying, “hey, I like you.” And yet, the lack of literal vocal communication meant these gestures went completely over Yoh’s head (literally at one point he says, this guy really needs to use more words!!). His low self esteem has created a barrier in their relationship. He doesn’t understand that Segasaki actually wants to be with him. How could this amazing man ever actually want him? And it’s understandable that he’s struggling, because Segasaki can be quite ambiguous with his words.

Now could all of this be resolved in one conversation? Not exactly, no. It’s more complicated than that. Which is why it works. Because there is something far deeper going on.

In order for these two to find each other, they have to overcome their own insecurities. They are each fighting an internal battle and don’t actually understand how to vocalise their needs and fears to each other.

It’s hard, but they get there eventually.

Dumbasses (affectionate).

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for inviting my cousin to an LGBT meet up?

Cw: mentions of suicide and transphobia

I (18M) am a trans man and my cousin N (21F) is a lesbian who is very masc presenting. We're the only queer cousins in the family (at least in our generation) so weve always been good friends and shes been one of the biggest supporters of my transition, defended me from bigoted family members and always corrected family when they used my deadname/old pronouns. I lowkey hoped she would come out as a trans man or nonbinary as well. We dress in the same style which makes it so when were hanging out together one of us is gonna get misgendered since people asume both of us are trans men or masc girls. When N is the one being misgendered she doesnt bother fighting it since its more trouble than its worth but looking back i think it really annoyed her.

Earlier this year N was severely struggling with her mental health. I apologize for the wording i may have since i dont know the proper terminology for this stuff or any specific disorder diagnosis she may have (other than autism). She was having some sort of manic or depressive episode. She was dead set on pushing people away and making them hate her so she could take her own life without regrets.

I visited N once to give her my support during a struggling time but i stupidly told her there was nothing she could say that would push me away. She told me not to test her but i kept pushing it and i admit what happened next was my fault. She told me in a very cold voice that she was a terf, though that she didnt want me dead but that "we" (im guessing she meant trans ppl) made it so much harder for her to exist(???????). I didnt let her keep talking just and left her room, said my goodbyes to her family and just cried while driving home.

Im still not sure if she meant it or if it was part of her mental episode and just a way for her to hurt me and push me away. On one hand ig it explains some of her behavior? N sometimes complained when she got asked for her pronouns or being misgendered like I mentioned before. On the other hand, I gen do not believe she has been a terf all along esp with how supportive shes been of me. If she was a terf youd think she would try to subtly talk me out of it, but that has never happened. My friends have nicknamed her schrodinger's terf lol

Anyway, i went no contact with N for a few months for my own wellbeing. During this time i heard that she tried to kill herself a few times, which got her into a mental hospital. She was given higher doses of meds and seems to be doing way better.

We had a family reunion this week and i decided to approach her. N seemed a little hesitant to talk to me but stayed polite. I tried testing her and talked about the effects T has been having on me but she acted like she always had and congratulated me and even complimented me on how deep my voice has gotten. I wasnt satisfied cause i wanted an apology for what she had said to me so i pushed it more. She did end up apologzing but it was a very surface level apology. At this point i didnt want to keep pushing in case it set her off again so i just took her apology (plus i wanted my best cousin back) and spent the rest of the day hanging out with her.

On the way home my mom said she was happy me and N had made up and that i should invite her to the lgbt club meetings Ive been going to this year. It seemed like a good idea to me, she lost a few friends during her episode and she could make more queer friends here. If N is trans and just in denial it could help her get the resources she needs to feel comfortable coning out. If N IS a terf maybe having more positive interactions with trans ppl could change her mind on it. Overall i thought it would be a win for her.

I brought it up to my friends and some of them blew up at me. Their argument was that itd be exposing the other trans ppl in the group to a terf and putting them in danger. I truly hadnt considered this angle so im kinda conflicted now. She had never felt like an unsafe person before and now that her episode is over she feels normal again. Even if she is a terf i dont think she could actually cause harm? I want N to get better but i dont want to put my trans friends at risk.

So tumblr, WIBTA for inviting N to my lgbt meet up?

What are these acronyms?

[sphylor]

(okay so the thoughts ended up focusing more on Mountain's asexuality but i hc Dew as greyace so like they bonded over that too even if its not mentioned fhshbd)

Warnings for: internalised misconceptions about sex, internalised acephobia, self imposed pressure and expectations in regards to sex, negative self talk (nothing nsfw happens in this and it all ends pretty nicely dont worry but i still feel like the warnings are important)

incredibly rambly ace mountaindew below the cut :3

Mountain always feeling like he was broken due to his asexuality. especially considering hes meant to be a lust filled demon just like every other ghoul hes known. just feeling so out of place with his packmates, scared they'd find out he was damaged. imperfect. so he keeps his distance, both physically and emotionally. when hes forced to step out of the greenhouse and interact with his fellow ghouls, he keeps conversation surface level. he's polite but oh so distant. Mountain's a quiet ghoul by nature but he makes himself go days without speaking to anyone. but he tells himself its for the best. if they got too close they would see the dropped stitches and splintered edges of his being. that doesnt mean he's free of yearning though. his soul still craves for closeness from his pack. especially from one particular ghoul. Dewdrop. the most beautiful being Mountain had ever laid eyes on, with hair like a silver waterfall and a soul that sung like a siren, luring him in closer, breaking down his boundaries and convincing him that he was safe. he found himself smiling at the water ghoul's words, laughing, even. he started doing more work by the edge of the lake, any excuse to be closer to the ghoul with the eyes of ice that somehow warmed his heart whenever they looked his way. Mountain eventually allowed himself the closeness which he had denied for so long, not just with Dew but the rest of the pack too. but he cant deny he felt the closest to Dew. and it was Dew who was the first ghoul to look deep into his eyes and tell him that he was not broken. there was nothing broken about him. Mountain had accepted that Dew would never love him unless he put his own feelings and needs aside even if the thought made his skin crawl and his eyes water. Dew had been there to reassure him that he didnt have to do anything he didnt want to do. that he loves him. that he didnt and shouldnt think any less of him. that hes perfect just the way he is. and Mountain cries. he sits in Dew's lap and cries as he finally begins to come to terms with and accept himself, he finds the flowers that had bloomed in spaces he thought were empty inside. Dew tells him that hes beautiful. Mountain might just believe it. 

(@everybodyshusband @jimothybarnes)

[spandexinspace]

Thoughts, ideas, binks.

__________________________________________

In the days after his return he tries to ignore it, tries to calcify the edges of his mind to keep it out. He’s always considered himself excellent at deciding what gets to reside in his brain—some recent developments notwithstanding—and keeping this… sensation, out shouldn’t be any different. Yet he can’t help but feel it when he wakes up in the morning, his restless mind not yet fully under his conscious control, or when his thoughts start to wander during long meetings, slowly expanding outwards like a thin web of exposed nerves blanketing every surface in the vicinity, perfectly contorted along their forms. It’s a map, much like sheet music is a taste. And he can’t help but hate it.

There are some surface level comparisons to be made to the SleepNET. Connecting to it feels like falling down into a deep shaft, whatever opening you fell through at the top becoming smaller and smaller with every second until the world explodes into digital myriad, assaulting your every sense in the way only something that doesn’t exist can. It too tricks one’s brain into perceiving it as a real just like the net that does not exist does. They’re constructs beyond any sense, yet seem wholly real when perceived.

Perhaps more worrying than the actual sensation, senseless and revolting as it is, is the manner in which it interacts with animate objects. It takes everything in his power to not give in to nausea the first time he feels something trample across those finely carpeted nerves, pushing against this new sensation like someone pushing their fingers into half-hardened silicone. He whips around in time to see Tinya rise through the floor exactly where it feels like the sensation that prods at the back of his brain should correlate to. That he can translate the sensation to physical location makes him bite into his lip until he tastes copper, and only then does he regain enough of his senses to chew her out, words about sensitive equipment and ruined experiments rattling off his tongue like a well-practiced chant. Whatever she actually wanted to say dies with her enthused expression and she instead disappears the same way she came, sending another jolt through his being and making him grab at the edge of the table until his knuckles turn white. The pounding in his ears drowns out the wailing of his forgotten lab equipment.

Though it’s not her, but Invisible Kid that demonstrates the full extent of this sensation. He is, for some reason probably related to the uncontrolled and unscientific conception of his own powers, prone to simply exist in a state of invisibility even when it without a doubt is unnecessary. Even at the best of times the habit gets onto his nerves, but after what had occurred it proves to be nothing short of torture facilitated by the other’s frequent coming and goings. No one needs to leave the lab a dozen times a day, yet there he is, doing exactly that. Every pass as painful as the last. At some point he starts to suspect the human of doing it intentionally, as some kind of sick scheme to create a comparison that’d uphold him as the more favourable party to their unwitting colleagues. But he already held most of their their favour, his bright smile and even brighter words far more convenient than his own pragmatic demeanour. Except he knows enough about him to know that if he wanted him gone it wouldn’t be the smiles and words that removed him, rendering his suspicions just as warranted, but perhaps less likely to come true.

But it’s the insufferable, bright-smiling idiot who proves that it’s not the presence itself that’s the issue, but the presence and lack of awareness. Seeing him enter the lab does nothing. Hearing him enter the lab does nothing. Suddenly almost falling to his knees with unbridled sensation only happens when all his other senses fail and the wraith of human unreliability makes his way inside his lab without being detected.

This knowledge does little to comfort him and eventually he has to bitterly admit to himself that trying, and constantly failing, to keep it out won’t either. As he draws the first vial of thick, verdant blood he resolves to untangle the web he’s been caught in. He will, as he has done so many times before, unravel whatever mystery his body has become.

His blood is normal.

His organs are normal.

His dermis is normal.

His bones are normal.

His cerebrum is normal.

The months slip through his fingers and he is as he ever was. Except for the knowledge he isn’t.

__________________________________________

It’s not magic, it’s science we’ve yet to master. And it will continue to be so if we leave it the sprock alone.

__________________________________________

He gets used to it. As the world falls apart around him—twice—it almost becomes a comfort. For all he doesn’t know what to make of the world any more, he knows that there’s a familiar unknown nestled alongside that which is unfamiliar. There are still times when it takes him by surprise and forces him to hold onto something to keep from losing his footing or dignity, but they’ve become scarce. The insufferable wraith in particular is almost as familiar a form as his own limbs, as close to set dressing as something so chatty can be. He still senses him, but it’s not what it used to be.

More than that, it proves far more useful than it ever was in its original form. Where he used to only be able to protect himself he can now move and manipulate it with a mere thought, expanding and contracting it to fit his need. Like the web of nerves it radiates out from his body in a spherical form, a perhaps even for his liking slightly too on the nose personal sphere, but there appear to be few limits beyond its overall shape. Few, but not non.

He’s done his best to not pathologies it. He prides himself on being a man of science, of always asking the questions that must be asked. But he’s asked those questions over and over again and the answers have done nothing but elude him. Hours that have been spent scanning through documents and even ancient sprocking books, so covered in dust and degraded biomass he feels like he might contract something worse from them and the musty archives they reside in, yield nothing. Dedicating his life to this was never an option, so devoid of other options he must bury it, live with it like he lives with the other mutations of his life. He has unknowable powers, as he has an unknowable brain, as he has an unknowable face. All familiar in their strangeness, as this too is becoming.

Perhaps a little too familiar, from the wide-eyed manner Invisible Kid stares at him when during one mission he tells him to hurry up and get to cover before he starts bleeding. Thankfully he heeds his orders before he heeds whatever mass of questions have surely bubbled up in his own mind, one he never gave quite as much credit as he should. The questions come later, asked brazenly with another sense of familiarity that has only grown stronger and more permissive in the last months. Years. “What do you mean bleed? How long has this been going on? Are you OK? Do you need help? Can you explain it?” Despite—perhaps because of—the torrent of questions there’s an unmistakable hunger in his voice, the biochemist inside him craving answers just as much as the human craves assurance. He’d know that tone of voice anywhere, even when it doesn’t come from his own tongue.

He explains. About the strains, the limits, about knowing it needs some kind of power and what power is there inside of him but him. The inquisitive wraith counters, then grabs his face with a calloused, short hand and a gentle grip, runs his thumb over the faint, dry trail from the corner of his eye. Whatever answers stumble forth from his mouth become meaningless breaths as he listens to the lecture, watches those dull ember eyes narrow in equal parts thought and displeasure. That part of him that does not see or hear or feel tells him they’re one and the same. There is no one else there, the silicone a smooth surface around them both.

The world falls apart one final time and then there is nothing. The nerve endings freeze and contract as the world shrinks into nothingness around them, as it becomes them and nothing else. Sometimes the back of his brain burns for lack of touch, for reaching out into the nothing and finding nothing. They struggle, they do what they need to do. And if he needs to behold this strange sense, if he needs to let the sense that should not exist envelope and protect them, if he needs to pay with his self, then so be it.

[spiralinghours]

“Fading Out” (continuation/installment of “Filth”)

Fandom/media: Saw franchise

Rating: R/18+

Pairing: Mark Hoffman x Peter Strahm

Tags/content/warnings: humiliation/degradation, teasing, name-calling, feeding kink, weight gain… a lot of the same from the previous fic

Summary: A canon-divergent continuation where Strahm is alive and well (and didn’t get put in the cube), but does know Hoffman’s identity. Hoffman, meanwhile, is done with the Jigsaw business, too confused by whatever he has going on with Strahm. Low key teasing continues to happen during work hours, which culminates in Mark experimenting on his own at home.

Author’s note: I was gonna add more to this, but it felt long enough and I got impatient haha. I’m not great at long form/chapters because I get bored by the idea, so there’s no set length, but just know this installment is a filler before I churn out the next part.

Enjoy. Or don’t. Make your choice.

So things hadn’t gone as planned, but they seemed to work out. For the time being.

Strahm had strolled—intently stamped, more like—his way out of the meat plant on the night of those simultaneous games, looking the victor, as he gave the exact story he promised he would (blah blah, came in alone, everyone dead but Hoffman, helped him out of the trap, blah blah blah) and reported that Jigsaw, finally, was dead. That was that.

Jigsaw was dead, in more ways than one. Mark had anticipated carrying out the last couple games as John’s dying wish, taking out anyone who put even a slightly inconvenient kink in the grand scheme of it all. But, the blunt truth was John was gone. Amanda was gone. Jill, while probably wanting to respect John’s will, did not have the heart to play murder games. (And this Logan fella… he was never coming back. He had a whole life. Who cared?) Mark didn’t want to associate with anyone left alive in John’s legacy—his fucked up family.

And with Peter knowing the whole smoking truth of it all with some sick fixation and the potential for blackmail, there was no point for Mark to dig his hole deeper. He would tie up the loose ends and move on.

On a formal, procedural, surface level, tying loose ends also entailed wrapping things up with the feds. It was a whole parade of paperwork, exchanging identical manila folders, making the same public statements to major media outlets, and staying caffeinated into the ungodly hours of the morning to make sure all the stories on record were solid.

It meant Peter was still around, digging through the inner sanctum of the precinct like a mite. He was always lurking, and actually focused on his job, to be sure. But at moments when Mark thought he’d look up and make eye contact, or see him walk through his office door, there was nothing.

It was jarring, in fact, how removed Strahm seemed, given the immense tension and lingering promise of their last interaction. Perhaps it was best left that way. But if anything, despite all else—the wet dreams and fleeting, empty want—Hoffman felt the need to confirm some kind of arrangement given what Strahm knew of his identity.

Yeah, that was all it was. Just business, in that sense.

In a completely random occurrence, in the middle of one of the many days hazing into the next, Mark spotted Peter, alone in what was his and Lindsey’s makeshift office watching something on the old TV. It was the tape from when Mark originally interrogated Jill from however long ago—the one Rigg wracked his brain on, watching it on repeat.

Mark could only assume Peter was looping it for completely different reasons, but he let his crass curiosity get the better of him.

“Hard at work?” Mark sort of muttered as he entered the space, cringing at how stupid and generic it came out.

“Yeah,” Peter replied, not even turning to look. It was as bland an answer as if he’d been offered a cup of coffee.

“My tape with Jill have something we missed?” Mark probed on, tilting his head at how Peter rewound the part where he passed in front of the camera, backside in full view. (‘Jesus, I look like that back there?’)

“Just enjoying the view,” Peter replied, tone unchanged.

What a stone cold prick.

He made an obvious point of pausing the spot where Mark had twisted his torso just enough as he leaned over the table, showing at just the right angle the way his belly hung over his belt, past his generous chest. The blue hue of the tape made even his fuzzy visage look very shapely.

“You’re a sick fuck.” Mark was going for a threatening, undercutting slant to his words, but it fell short into something on edge.

“I’m not doing anything sick, stupid,” Peter finally turned around, looking annoyed for barely any reason.

“Enjoying the view? Yeah?” Mark mocked. “You’re a creep, lookin’ at me like that.”

“Who said I was looking at you? Ms. Tuck is pretty gorgeous.”

Mark was well aware that one of the many skills he possessed was passively getting on people’s nerves until he got something out of the situation. But Peter had out-obnoxioused him somehow. Mark shook his head, lips fixing into a dumb pucker, and started to turn away.

“You look fucking fat in this tape.” Peter’s cold voice trailed behind Mark, smacking him and reeling him back in.

“Excuse me? Fuck you.”

Strahm stood up abruptly and got into Hoffman’s face, his eyes drifting momentarily to the open door to make sure Lindsey or Erickson or even some subordinate didn’t pass by. “Why are you taking that as an insult? Looks good on you, big boy. Say ‘thank you’ when you’re complimented.” A rare, menacing smile cracked across his face. “I like having something to hold onto.” He swatted at Mark’s lower belly, just out there, pushing prominently over his belt buckle and badge.

The TV clicked off and Strahm exited the room without another word. He was frequent with sudden, callous departures like that. It left Hoffman standing there, gears visibly turning behind his eyes and a hand reflexively cupping his stomach where he was just touched.

What the fuck?

—

For the most part, Mark had little awareness of his own body and his overall perception. Outside of his hair and his face, he didn’t pay mind to much. He was just there, just a guy. And, over time, he cared less, living a lifestyle where there was so much stimulation, too much to focus on, too much worry, death and dying at every corner…

He never stopped and realized that people looked at him and just saw a “big guy”, let alone found it attractive. That was the part that alluded him. Like the general public, he assumed the stereotypical thing people wanted to rub their hands over were rock-hard abs and sharp jawlines or whatever. All that to say, Mark felt like Strahm was ogling him for the weirdest reasons.

Late into the night, hours after the little tiff about the tape, Mark was still mulling over what had been said. He knew he was thinking too much on it, but that type of interaction was just too specific and new.

He breathed a bored, unfocused sigh and traced around his house, debating on if he was hungry or just frazzled enough to go to sleep. But a weird impulse seeped into his mind as he leaned towards the former.

In a bit of an autopilot state, lightheaded with a tingle up his back, Mark trudged from one side of the kitchen to the next, alternating between grabbing items from the fridge and the two cabinets. Each “dish” (if the senseless piles could even be called that) merited another garnish or more to add to the taste profile. The remaining four slices of pizza needed more protein, so the egg and sausage leftover from the morning were topped on. But then it needed a dipping sauce, so he had to throw a little ranch in there. But all that became too salty-savory, so Mark made a side salad (which ended up being a mixing bowl’s worth) stacked with croutons, cheese shreds, and chips (because they were spicy, and the whole deal could use a little spice). But then after that, a little sweetness made sense to cut through all the cheese, meat, and sauce, so ice cream came next. But it was too frostbitten to dig a spoon in, so he microwaved the pint… maybe a bit too long, as it ended up mostly melted. But hey, that was just a milkshake, right? So into a glass it went, with some extra milk to thin it out.

He was incredibly hungry, sure—more than he realized—but there was a ping, some kind of creeping inspirational spark that kept him going. There was the idea of Strahm watching him eat this way, maybe even pushing him through it with nasty little remarks the whole time. The condescending “Oink oink” Peter demanded of him from that night in the plant echoed in his head, like an obsession, over and over, unfurling a blackout sort of feeling.

It was over as quickly as it started, leaving Mark in a haze, a little confused at what he just put himself through. He didn’t come—didn’t touch himself or get off or even get super hard—but it felt like he was experiencing “post nut clarity” all the same. There was a hint of shame to it, as Mark recognized how secret and foul gorging himself felt, and how it would be a struggle to hide the results if it kept happening, shifting around slowly with a likely angry and wobbling gut fighting against his pants button.

Peter would be around, and he would see. Would he? Hoffman was curious to know what he would say, how his sharp, dour expression would shift. What catty comments would Peter let burrow into Mark’s dumb, eager brain?

As itch-inducing as the mental image was, Mark’s energy would be reserved for that at a later time. Down for the night, he had slumped into the corner of his small burgundy couch, hyper aware of the way his white undershirt stretched and smoothed out across the expanse of his belly, creasing only at his sides, above his love handles. Every breath was a chore, the shallowest inhales and exhales making him slosh, which eventually set off a chain of hiccups that made his gut bounce uncomfortably.

Letting a hand creep under the tight fabric, Mark ended the night absentmindedly scratching the side if his stomach while some previously-aired episodes of The Girls Next Door droned on his meager TV.

“Guess I’m a pervert too,” Mark mumbled to no one in particular.

[igottayellsomewhere]

From Episode 5

"sometimes when I try to look ahead, all I see is back"

back where sanji

like, you could think about this line on a surface-ish level and say back to germa and all that angst ect, sure, but then what is back? what could there possibly be to go back to that he'd want to go to?? and that begs the question, what is forward?

so, at this point in opla they show that he's getting increasingly frustrated with zeff and that is the conflict thats set up to be a push forward, but it also really feels like the characters could have been at this crossroads before. Like, this is a repeating pattern but it always ends the same, sanji is frustrated then zeff let's him back into the kitchen then creativity and the need to be Free strikes and theyre at it again. And because sanji has decided to dedicate himself to zeff and repaying a kindness he could never imagine *there's nothing to look back or forward to*. This is the best scenario. He needs to fulfill zeffs dream before he can think about his own and There's No Other Option. So what is back?

Back is repaying zeff. A debt he can *never* repay

And though they do share the same dream and sanji still wants, yearns, for the All Blue, he can never give himself permission to do so. So forward is Here, at the Baratie, and he daren't dream because it's impossible to wrap his head around why zeff would do anything for a person like sanji, scratch that *just* sanji.

And then you gotta take into account that zeff is purposely squashing sanjis potential at the Baratie cause zeff wants sanji to realize that that's Not the path for sanji. If zeff gave sanji the responsibility he craves that would be like zeff putting the final blow on both their dreams. Zeff is begging sanji to want more but for sanji thats unfathomable; again, This is the Best Case Scenario and he can't bring himself to believe there's more.

So thinking forward or backward is just a moot point, which is why it's so jarring for Luffy to come in and say both that he doesn't do regrets or 'complicated' cause that's what sanji's dream is. When presented with the idea that it could be so simple, when Luffy says join us, there's a long pause. The idea has sprouted but the roots must be crushed. Like always.

I guess here would be a good time to compare the live action and the anime, like, zoro's dream having a big part in the anime/manga, ect. It's true that the only interaction opla zoro had with opla sanji before joining the crew officially was the dinner scene but I don't think the influence of zoros dream on sanji is as lost as some might say.

Opla sanji sees the aftermath of The Fight clearly, sees how many lengths Zoro would go to. He sees Luffy defend Zoro's dream vehemently, when Nami asks why Luffy didn't stop Zoro. In this moment it's reiterated that a person's dreams are Important and that Zoro was *right* to go after them, was *right* to be selfish and try to take something he wanted. Nami's was the dialogue sanji has been telling himself all his life, keep those you care for safe no matter what, no matter if it hurts to do it. Luffy's was a dialogue of I will not keep people from doing what they want, no matter what. No matter how much is "owed" to someone, a dream is Worthy, even if it makes those you're close to disappointed and sad. Which. Is one of many things sanji has been trying desperately to avoid. There's the tiniest crack of light trying to shine through, that maybe one can follow their dreams and have people care about you.

If this moment between the crew had not happened I'm not sure opla sanji would have joined the straw hats.

In this moment, sanji sees someone (zoro) who is willing to go forward, no matter what, and witnessing there are still people that care for that person even in that decision (Luffy, Nami, Ussop). The last time sanji Left there was a severance and no one to help him. He was on his own. Mustering up that courage Again would be... well, it'd be impossibly difficult. Seeing that there were people *for* the fool who followed their dreams was just as important as seeing someone follow their dreams, but Zoro needed to have a dream in the first place. Not one that could be squashed down, but one he was willing to and nearly died for. Someone could do anything for a dream and still be, well, worthy.

So he sees this crew, sees a chance, sees a worldview he's never dared hope for. And it's kind of the perfect opportunity but he darent hope quite yet. All he can do for now is feed and take care of these incredibly kind people and appreciate who they are while theyre here. So he does.

And then the Fishman show up. Sanji is Needed and he Can't abandon his home he needs to be there, end of story. Then Luffy offers to help and the world shifts. Again, sanji is facing a kindness he can't fathom deserving and the guy offers it enthusiastically, without hesitation. Sanji allows this kindness cause maybe its a way to be even, to allow someone to be kind is a kindness kinda thing. But either way he's gotta Go so let's not think on this too much and help zeff.

In the restaurant, sanji keeps his promise. He fights for zeff without hesitation. But then he gets thrown into a table (ouch) and can barely move. What now??? It's probably Panic City but then Luffy is there. Luffy is *defending zeff's dream*. Sanji takes a moment to recover and then we don't see him until he dives into the water after Luffy. But can you imagine????

This random boy is going head to head for zeff's dream. The thing Sanji *has* to protect. The other two fishmen are standing watch at the baratie entrance but as soon as they're gone sanjis out there, and what is out there? This random boy getting thrown to his death. And this random boy has a dream. And if he can save this random boy's dream, maybe sanji can have a dream too. But not now, later. Now we gotta help zeff rebuild.

And so sanji faces a final Forward. Zeff can see how much sanji cares and knows he has to break this boy's heart. There's no other way. We don't explicitly see zeff hearing that luffy offered sanji a place on his crew but a bit ago luffy got right in zeffs face and defended sanji, told him outright sanji is the type of person zeff hoped he would be. If this is gonna be the final push zeff can push him to somewhere he knows sanji will be valued. So he does, in the only way he knows sanji can accept.

This makes their final farewell even more heartbreaking. We can see there's a moment where both parties consider not saying anything. Theres Too Much but also Not Enough. And then they do, they say "take care", sanji says thank you, "thank you for putting up with my shit" and "I owe you my life". There's a thank you for the Past and a thank you for the Forward. Thank you for what is about to be.

"sometimes when I try to look ahead, all I see is back"

And now there's Both. A past to fondly remember and grow from and a future to look forward to.

back where sanji? What is back now?? Forward. Ahead. Back to a life of adventure on his terms.

[chloecherrysip]

Now that I've had a few hours of sleep and am marginally a human being again, let's talk about the mario movie some more! SPOILERS ALL THROUGHOUT THIS POST UNDER THE CUT (if you want to see my non-spoilery thoughts and the first part of my spoiler talk as well, here's that post from last night! Be warned that it's pretty all over the place because it was 4:30 in the morning and I was really tired lolol)

After thinking about it more, I truly do have some PROBLEMS with this movie (will talk more about some of that below and I covered a lot of the issues in my first post too) and I do wish it was better overall and not so painfully surface-level with all the character interactions - I can understand why some people REALLY don't like it while others love it! It's joyful and energetic and BEAUTIFUL but if you spent months and months theorizing and speculating about deep character interactions and a very emotional story, it does really sting to finally see how there is virtually NONE of that and the plot feels kinda empty as a result. :(

But! I'm definitely not upset or anything like that, and I'm still gonna see it two more times in theaters with a smile on my face! TRUTHFULLY (and if you've seen my blog before, you know this about me) what I cared about most in this movie was getting to see Mario and Luigi be adorable onscreen and have a good, healthy, loving relationship, and you do get that to some degree, even if it's nowhere near enough. I can make my peace (and write a lot of fanfic, LOL) regarding the rest. :)

Here is a list of moments between Mario & Luigi that made me happy:

FIRST OF ALL, SOMETHING THAT I'M NOT ACTUALLY SURE I LIKED BUT WAS CERTAINLY A CHOICE: Mario's nickname for Luigi is Lu????? He calls him that 3-4 times and at big moments, too. It started to be cute to me, even if I wish they'd gone with "Weegie" or something similar, but it's a little jarring at the beginning for sure.

In general, they are just very physically affectionate with each other! There are one or two quick hugs in the beginning scenes before we even get to the reunion. Also, I can't remember the specifics but the very last scene is them basically teasing/poking each other before running off into the day together and it's cute. :)

Mario is SO protective of Luigi in the Brooklyn scenes and let me tell you, as someone who cares DEEPLY about that, i was LIVING. He gets mad at Spike and tries to pick a fight only when he insults Luigi, and there is also a silly scene with an angry dog and Mario just instinctively puts his arm up in front of Luigi when things get a little scary/focuses on making sure he doesn't get hurt, and I was just having the BEST time. Honestly, I loved the Brooklyn stuff so much that I sincerely wanted the whole movie to just be about that, and things took a downhill turn for sure when the separation happened. :(

Someone definitely predicted this before the movie but Mario hates mushrooms as a food and Luigi likes them. During a dinner scene, Mario is slyly separating mushrooms from his food and putting them onto Luigi's plate in a way that suggests he's done that a LOT. Such a quick shot but I just liked the detail!

THE RUNNING THROUGH THE CONSTRUCTION SITE AND MARIO DOING RIDICULOUS PARKOUR BUT ALSO STOPPING TWICE TO MAKE SURE TO TURN BACK AND OPEN THE GATES SO LUIGI COULD COME THROUGH NORMALLY. There was just something SO funny and sweet about [crazy jumping and leaping] [quiet, thoughtful pause to open the gate] [MORE CRAZY JUMPING AND LEAPING, WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING, SIR] [another quiet, thoughtful pause to open the 2nd gate], I loveeeeee

Once again, just gotta be obnoxious about being right that the dialogue in the warp zone was "nothing can hurt us as long as we're together!" I HEARD THE LINE AS THIS IN THAT PREVIEW FOOTAGE AND EVERYONE CONVINCED ME IT WAS DIFFERENT BUT LOOK WHO'S LAUGHING NOW (i'm sorry, just let me have this win haha)

There is a sad moment where Mario and Luigi's dad clearly doesn't believe in their business and he even says to Mario something like "the worst part is that you're dragging your brother down with you" which is clearly upsetting to Mario so he leaves the dinner table - but then Luigi leaves the table too to come and sit with him and reassures him that he's not dragging him down and it's just a sweet, comfortable moment between them that I very much wish went on a little longer (the theme of the whole movie lol)

(Also, Mario and Luigi still live with their parents and share a room, they're clearly pretty young and are treated like the "babies" of the family. I wish we had seen more of their room other than a very extremely brief shots!!)

Luigi DOES immediately sell out Mario when Bowser goes for the serious mustache damage, LOL, but the way it's done is honestly so cute and once again, just reemphasizes how much Luigi loves Mario XD He's basically like "YES, I know him, he's my brother Mario and he's the best guy ever!" (And then Bowser, who is preoccupied with Mario = romantic rival for Peach's affections, is like "would a princess find him attractive???" and Luigi is like "if she has any common sense, she should!" (lol, that line could be TOTALLY wrong, I don't remember, but that's the gist of it, I promise) or something like that - just hyping Mario up when he's not even there, LOL

in Mario and DK's "darkest moment" scene where things seem hopeless and they're arguing, Mario says something like "well, at least your brother's not going to die because of you!" and noooo, bb, it's not your fault ;; (this scene could have been done SO MUCH BETTER with a few tweaks, btw, but I will get into that)

Luigi bringing coffee for Mario at the end of the movie in their respective cups :) :) :) So simple but I am a very simple person who just wanted to see little moments like this :) :) :)

I have GRIPES with the final battle scene but seeing Mario and Luigi work together and take care of Bowser as a duo was still good!!! Nothing can hurt them when they're together!!!

Also, already talked about this at length in my first post, but one more time: Mario saving Luigi from falling into the lava and their reunion hug is just my favorite moment of the movie, no contest, it goes by so fast and I wish it was longer but I can be happy with that alone and I can't wait for the screenshots/gifsets where I can see all the details of it more clearly and don't have to rely on my awful memory. Literally just going to think about that split-second of Mario holding Luigi's face with both hands in an unbearably sweet, gentle way forever. These brothers love each other very much, your honor ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

ALSO ALMOST FORGOT: FLASHBACK TO THEM BEING BABIES (AND THEY LOOK SO FAITHFUL TO THE ORIGINAL DESIGNS TOO!) AND MARIO PROTECTING LUIGI FROM A BULLY (lol I very much wish it was a longer and/or more creative flashback, but STILL sweet)

AND NOW THAT I AM DONE WITH BEING POSITIVE ABOUT MY FAVORITE BOYS, LET'S ~*~COMPLAIN~*~

First of all, still CANNOT BELIEVE that "I'm not afraid! I'll do anything for my brother" didn't make it into the movie, are you SERIOUS, it would have been perfect in SO MANY PARTS, they recorded it and everything, why???? IS THERE A DELETED SCENE??? ARE THERE SEVERAL DELETED SCENES??? I DEMAND JUSTICE FOR THAT PERFECT LINE, I WILL MOURN IT FOREVER

The editing in general is a little odd sometimes and it really DOES feel like a lot of scenes should be there that are missing. Another VERY weird cut is in the scene where Peach, Toad, and Mario are crossing the bridge with the Cheep-Cheeps and they just immediately cut the scene when one latches onto Mario's face and don't even include the cute stuff from the trailer with Peach trying to help him??? Like, WHY???? WHY DID THOSE FEW SECONDS NEED TO BE CUT??? I DON'T UNDERSTAND

I think one of the most painful things about this movie is that, as a writer/creative person, I can see SO many small opportunities throughout the movie where a couple of extra minutes and some tweaks in the writing would have made SO much difference. An unbelievable amount of difference! The overall structure of the story and the plot is good! The story of Mario wanting to reunite with his brother and Peach wanting to protect her kingdom (that took her in and cared for her when she was all alone in the world) is solid! But they never give the EMOTIONS surrounding these things ANY space to breathe beyond one line here or there, and that is SUCH a mistake and I can't believe no one thought to do something differently here.

FOR INSTANCE: The "darkest moment" scene with DK and Mario! It goes by so fast, but there is some good stuff there that, if the movie took a MOMENT and really let their pain/fear for their loved ones and their shared complex of unsupportive fathers BREATHE, would work SO MUCH BETTER. Like, I can easily imagine a rewritten version of that scene with very similar dialogue but just MORE of it (more pauses, more emotion, more reactions to one another's problems, more recognition of their similarities, etc) would have made it like a DAGGER in the heart. SUCH a missed opportunity. I am itching to rewrite it, LOL. (I am itching to rewrite a LOT of scenes!)

ALSO: Luigi is my LOVE and he is adorable throughout this, but I'm gonna be the first to admit that his scrap of an arc in this movie (if you can even call it that) is so lackluster and his heroic moment at the end genuinely doesn't feel that earned! AND ONCE AGAIN, WITH A LITTLE EXTRA WRITING/ROOM IN THE RUNTIME, IT'S A VERY SOLVABLE PROBLEM

And the solution is: build out the prison scenes and have Luigi actually talking to someone else who is locked up!!!!! Other than a couple of lines and jokes, the prisoners don't TALK TO EACH OTHER and Luigi just spends a lot of time looking sad. We don't get ANYTHING about his thought processes while he's captured other than he is thinking of Mario and hoping his brother comes to save him like he's always done.

WHEN CRANKY KONG AND THE OTHER KONGS SHOW UP, HAVE THEM SHARE INFO ABOUT MARIO'S APPARENT DEMISE WITH LUIGI!!! HAVE LUIGI TALK TO HIM (OR THE PENGUIN KING, OR SOMEONE) ABOUT HOW HIS BROTHER'S ALWAYS LOOKED OUT FOR HIM BUT MAYBE SOMETIMES, HIS BROTHER MIGHT NEED SOME SUPPORT TOO AND HE'S GOTTA BE STRONG FOR HIM TOO

It doesn't have to be a long or especially deep conversation, but some lines of dialogue like this would make that moment where Luigi realizes that Mario is right, nothing CAN hurt them if they're together and he's gotta be strong for his older brother too and he jumps in to protect him from Bowser hit SO much harder. That's all it would take!!!

I HAVE ACTUAL WORK TO DO TODAY AND CANNOT GO ON AND ON ABOUT THE MARIO MOVIE FOREVER BUT LAST THOUGHT FOR NOW: the more I think about the final battle, the more I'm conflicted, haha. The twist of everyone from the Mushroom Kingdom ending up in Brooklyn is definitely SHOCKING in the moment and pretty creative but I don't know, I had my heart set on a more classic version of Mario VS Bowser. It just doesn't hit as hard as it could in the end because of how silly the setting is. :( (But the Mario and Luigi teamup with the power star is great, and the music IS fire) (Also LOL at myself for thinking "Luigi won't fight at the end, that wouldn't make sense since Mario had to train" - he just knows how to fight, the movie goes with what's cool over what's logical and that's fair XD)

Also, the end of the movie is a tad confusing and has some pretty huge repercussions for this version of canon? ARE THE MUSHROOM KINGDOM AND THE REAL WORLD PERMANENTLY MERGED TOGETHER BECAUSE OF WHAT HAPPENED??? That's definitely what it seems to imply with Mario and Luigi waking up in their Brooklyn room and then walking out straight into the Mushroom Kingdom! It's pretty bizarre! (Honestly, what I was expecting was that the Bill would destroy the warp pipes and Mario and Luigi wouldn't be able to go home, which I might have preferred, as sad as that would be.)

That's all I got for now! I'm sure I will have more thoughts in the future, haha.

[reepiblog]

Chat GPT couldn’t write My Immortal

So the fun thing about Chat GPT is that is the worst writer I have ever interacted with, but it is bad in a special unique way that a full decade of over-involvement on a bad fanfic forum could not have prepared me for.  I legitimately think My Immortal is better written in most ways (except technically obvs).  Maybe I just hate the feeling of getting thru several paragraphs and realizing I’ve read basically nothing, idk, but at least My Immortal is interesting and sometimes things happen in it.  I can’t even prompt Chat GPT into giving me outfit descriptions that are as good as Tara’s!  I’ve tried! So for shits and giggles I prompted Chat GPT to write like Tara.  The best part was I phrased it like a question so it responded with “OMG!!111 I can totally do that for you!”  But overall  it did a pretty shitty job. I thought I would share anyway.

Part I

First I tried to get it to describe a character’s outfit, as mentioned.  It started okish but without and of the characteristic bad grammar and spelling errors:

So, like, his outfit was, like, so edgy and gothic, it was like a total masterpiece of dark fashion. His go-to look was a black turtleneck, which hugged his rock-hard bod in all the right ways,

Chat GPT loves to just fixate on one aspect of the prompt you give it, so it couldn’t help but regurgitate a phrase I used in the most awkward way it could:

And OMG, let's talk about his pants, or should I say "pant-adjacent abomination"? LOL!

But eventually it became less Tara and more like a parody of gen Z:

The fabric, in all its darkness, flowed and draped in this super cool way, embracing the curves and angles of his legs. It was like fashion magic, I tell you!

But the best part? The lower part of the pants had all these intricate pleats and folds. They, like, embraced his leg structure and gave his outfit this rebellious and avant-garde vibe.

It was a fashion statement that screamed, "I'm unique, I'm fierce, and I'm ready to kick some serious ass!

The fabric had this rad texture, adding that extra touch of awesomeness to his ensemble. It was a fusion of practicality and personal style, showing the world that Gargoyle was not just a badass protector but a fashion icon in his own right.

As if Tara would ever use the word “avant-garde”.  Or “vibe” for that matter.

It did end with my favorite touch tho:

It was a style statement that only a true goth queen like him could pull off with such dark grace.

OK Chat GPT, you got me there.  It’s still wrong, but I like it.

Part II

Next I gave it a completely different prompt from something I’ve been working on.  This one is like one of those Korean webtoons where people die and get reincarnated as their younger selves but Chat GPT took a couple creative liberties (surprisingly rare, but always a delight):

Wretch woke up, feeling soooo goffik and angsty. He sat up in his bed, his long, black hair cascading around his pale face. He looked around the room, which was still a dark and brooding place, just like he left it. But something was off. He felt strange, like he was trapped in a bad fanfiction crossover. He touched his long, silky hair, shocked to find it was no longer jet black but now a shimmering shade of silver. "What the hell?" he muttered to himself, his voice deep and mysterious.

He got out of bed and stood in front of the mirror, his black eyeliner perfectly applied. He gasped when he saw his reflection. Staring back at him was a much younger version of himself, no older than 10 years old. His face was chubby and innocent, so different from his usual brooding and menacing appearance. "How the f*** did this happen?" he mumbled, running his fingers through his hair, which was no longer slicked back but loose and flowing.

I’m not sure why getting younger changed his hair color, but ok.  The My Immortal-ness of it is so obviously surface level tho.  IDK if it is as clear when you ask it to pretend to be Stephan King or whatever, but here is it pretty clear it’s only picking up on a couple key traits.  

The weird thing about this one is it must be getting some of its information about how to write this from parodies because the meta “jokes” don’t stop coming:

Was this some kind of twisted nightmare or a poorly written plot twist?

The realization hit him like a poorly spelled Avada Kedavra.

Umm, excuse me, but Tara would never.   One thing I will give it tho, its extremely awkward use of swears, especially from adult figures, is very good:

Valorous turned to face Wretch, a look of confusion on his face. "Wretch? What's going on? Why do you look like a f***ing child?

Wretch scowled at Valorous, his dark eyes narrowing. "I don't know what the f*** is happening, but Verity's here, and I need to find her. This could be our chance to finally end this endless war and... maybe even find love or some s***," he said, his voice laced with a hint of doubt.

This also ends on a pretty good note:

But seriously, what the

Yeah, I agree.

[dainesanddaffodils]

(I realize, half-way through Heavensward, that I still have this in drafts so I'm going to post it now)

Finishing A Realm Reborn, I've decided to make a post about my warrior of light's relationships with the scions/major NPCs, which I'll then recreate at the end of each expansion as a fun way to track how she and these characters grow and change.

Without further ado - Cimorene Geneq's POST-ARR Relationship Vibes

Minfilia - her boss! a very nice boss, don't get her wrong, but her boss nonetheless. Would love to get to know her better but there's never a good time plus she feels like Minfilia is probably the type to be like 'you have to be at least a level 5 friend to unlock my tragic backstory' and Cimorene is like level 3 at best. still likes her though.

Alphinaud - the younger cousin that's closest to you in age that everyone groups you with at the family functions. She would kill anyone who looked sideways at him - and got very very worried about him when the Bloody Banquet went down - but also oooof did she want some space from him sometimes.

Y'shtola - at first incredibly intimidated by her, but that's faded and now she's probably the only scion she would call a Friend. still in like the work-friend sense but like, she would get a drink with her and listen to her talk shit any day of the week.

Thancred - an instant infatuation that faded just as quickly once she realized his charm was mostly surface level lmao Is a little unsure how to interact with him post-lahabrea nonsense as, more than anything, it drove home that she really didn't know him that well beforehand and, like with Minifillia, she feels like there's a barrier keeping her from knowing him better.

Tataru - I, Tangy the player, had a Boring Office Job for a while where the highlight was the very sweet receptionist who also knew all the fun gossip. This is what Tataru is for Cimorene. absolute joy to talk to, want nothing but good things for her.

Yda - a little too high energy to be a work-friend like Y'shtola or even Tataru, but similarly wants nothing but good things for her. will take her side when Papalymo gets on her for anything - in part just because it's kinda funny to watch his reaction when she does.

Papalymo: I, Tangy the player, adore him and therefor so does Cimorene. he and Yda were her first scion allies and she will always have a soft spot in her heart for that.

Urianger - he gives her the heebie-jeebies. he has nothing else to give.

Moenbryda - too good for this world. Cimorene is sad about her death but is also sad about the fact that everyone else is obviously SADDER about it. It's not the first time she feels somewhat isolated from the other Scions, but it does kinda push her to want to change that. (Then the Bloody Banquet happens lmao)

(outside the Scions)

Kan-E - similar feels-like-my-boss energy as Minfillia, except Kan-E isn't even Cimorene's boss. Respectful professional distance and happy to keep it that way.

Merlwyb - Cimorene loves the sea so she chose to join the Maelstrom for that alone. That being said, she does like and respect Merlwyb a lot and doesn't think she'll ever regret her choice.

Raubahn - Didn't know what to think of him early on, and already didn't like Ul-Dah BEFORE shit went down there. Regrets not getting to know him better earlier now that she knows he's a Real One (tm). Cares about him a lot by the end of... you know. Everything.

Nanamo - Man, Tangy the player doesn't know how to describe the relationship between you and someone you, once again, had a respectful but mostly distant relationship who then winds up getting poisoned in front of you, completely altering the trajectory of your life. And neither does Cimorene.

Haurchefant - Love At First Sight, genuinely. I've talked about this so much before but I cannot stress enough how much it took me, Tangy the player, by surprise. she knows he feels the same because as we all know he is Not Subtle about it, but she'd also still really like to have a moment of privacy where they can actually say - or do - something about it.

Aymeric - right now she considers him the Ishgard equivalent of the other city state leaders and, in spite his best efforts she knows, she remains somewhat intimidated by him. he's kind but just. Very Formal. in that very Ishgard way that she doesn't know how to respond to (which is in part why she is so taken with Haurchefant)

-

that's really the main ARR players that Cimorene has any real strong feelings towards so that's where I'll leave it.

We'll see what happens through Heavensward and I'll post again lol

[opal-owl-flight]

You can lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to magic.

Hooh! Okay! Ive been fleshing out how magic works in my interp of things, and golly gee does it work so well with how (my) Mags has developed through the arcs.

In short: the practice of magic relies on understanding (the universe and the self), Will (which is stronger than belief), and the power of oaths.

If you are someone who’s known as a liar (to others and yourself), a cheat, and an oathbreaker, what does that make you as a magic practitioner?

All this is inspired from the thoughts of @cauli-flawa and the magic system of the Young Wizards series!

(More details under the readmore!)

The practice of magic is, at the most basic level, the manipulation of energy flows. The movement of particles. It is the song and dance of the universe. To be good at it, one must know It’s movement, one must be willing to join the melody. One must understand It, and their part in all of existence. An understanding of magic tends to lead to an understanding of the self.

And all this and more is interacted with by Heart Matter, which is the strength of will and intent from the magic practitioner.

Anyone can pick up the practice, as it is a science as well as an art, but magic does not dwell in the unwilling heart.

Meaning, if one denies its existence, or its effects, magic will not make itself known to them.

Furthermore, if a caster has doubt in their heart regarding what the spell will do, the spell tends to either fail or backfire. They must go beyond believing it will work, for doubt is found at the very bottom of belief. They must know — truly know — that the spell will work. The best practitioners go beyond knowledge, and Will things to happen. It is like breathing. A thought, and simple spells take form. More complicated ones involve diagrams, but even these are easily executed by these practitioners, assuming they have done their calculations.

Which leads me to the next important bit about magic: oaths.

Oaths can be as simple as the Law of Equivalent exchange, where one must promise to pay the price asked by a spell. Its energy manipulation. One must have the energy to actually make the spell work!

But they can also go beyond that — contracts and deals that can change a caster’s life. Or take said life. A caster can swear to give their time doing a certain task, or help someone else with another spell of theirs. Nova knows what will happen if you break one of these oaths…

Now. If youre someone whos known for being a cheat and breaking oaths, how does that affect you?

The Halcandra Mags grew up in has denied the effects of magic for ages, chalking it up to coincidence and rejecting the notion of Heart Matter/Will making things happen. When the mage was starting out, he didnt quite believe that the spells he was doing was actually happening. He doubted magic, and so, it was unreliable; spells sometimes didnt work at all. He is, what I can basically say, book-smart about it. He follows all the rules, knows how the law of equivalent exchange works, but without proper belief, without proper understanding beyond the surface level, nothing works as well as hed want to. Mages of the past can do magic without much thought. To him, its a conscious effort. Not only that, hes putting way too much thought into it… magic was so exhausting for him because he kept doubting it. He kept trying to come up with failsafes, which, while useful in modifying/inventing new spells, is not the best mindset to have when magic is needed in a pinch.

Come the fall of Halcandra, hes forced to rely on magic to survive. Its difficult, with all the terrible things hes witnessed. Thoughts swirl in his head and its hard to focus. Hard to believe in magic…and here, he had no choice but to believe in it. Tech has failed, and is actively hunting him down. Getting better with it is the only way he will make it out alive.

So he did! He started to doubt it less and less. His Heart Matter grew stronger. Soon enough, he heard a voice whispering to him…

He only wanted to be safe again. He only wanted to have a home.

Termina. The Voidborn can see through the very depths of one’s soul. And in that darkness, It saw, the young mage’s aching desire to have things be the way they used to be. A rejection of the present (and by extension, this future). A wish to return to bygone days. And if one must use brute force to get to this, so be it. Mags was willing to do anything to get this wish…and maybe, perhaps, do a little more…

Mags was aware of the Crown’s power. He was aware of how much it can do. He had anger in his heart for the cards hes been dealt with. He must strike back somehow, and then have his perfect paradise.

Termina is a force that can share It’s power. However, It will only do so with those who agree with It’s intentions to destroy the universe.

A contract.

For It’s power, the mage must be willing to do what It wants him to do. Thats easy, hes already so angry at the universe for letting all this happen. If its so good, if its so protective of life, how could it let this happen? Its not fair! All It has to do is to make him fully lean into that rage. Make him forget his other desires. Make him change his beliefs — make him believe that the Voidborn is the answer to everything.

It is, in a way, a sort of possession, except the victim is manipulated into giving up their free will voluntarily, in the illusion of a collaboration.

And in that hellscape, Magolor makes the deal with the devil.

He knows magic has its cost…so he planned to break this contract as soon as he spots a loophole. He wants to have this power all for his own. He does not want to share.

Heres the thing — he can actually zip through a loophole, but that would mean becoming just like Termina. A being full of anger fueled by despair, bent on destroying the universe. (The Bastard au is basically him managing to worm through that loophole.) And Mags? Well. Hes still kind of an ass with magic. Doubt still slept in his heart. And for once, maybe that was a good thing…in the universal scale, I mean.

While in the rtdl fight, in the first phase…the reason why hes somewhat better with magic here is due to the power he felt flowing through him. The power gave him confidence, banished that doubt in magic. (Hes only using simple spells, though, just juiced up. Hes basically brute forcing everything while drunk with power)

But it shook another kind of confidence. Made another kind of doubt blossom within.

Is this what he really wanted?

He, at this point, experienced Popstar. Friendship. Verdance. Plenty. In his mind, he thought of owning it all. His desires have changed from destruction to overruling everything. But even that is only surface. A compromise, between his rage and self-proclaimed greatness, and his true desire to have a home. To feel safe.

Termina saw that doubt. A broken oath.

With the oath broken, It acts. Wresting control from Mags, turning a delicate dance between equals into a full possession. (Despite all It’s power, It cannot really do much without a body. This is the reason It preys on mortals.)

And we all know what happened…

———————

Hooh! Okay. That was really fuckin long.

To live a life with only the desire to destroy, to have a void in one’s heart that anger or full control can never fill, or to be possessed and most likely killed when you have any thought of going against that plan. Some choice!

And thats not all of it! What about Mags currently?

Hes become truly great, after several arcs. The Nova Incident, where he attempted to build a Nova but failed to (bc the construction required power that can only be acquired by sacrificing Marx, and he wasnt going to do that) is the first big step. In that arc, he learns about the way the universe ticks. Saw a glimpse of Infinity. Saw that he was only a drop in an infinite ocean, that everything is connected. The practice of magic is closely intertwined with the Infinite — and the self’s part in it.

Mags learns, starting here, that the rules of magic can also apply to every day living — why else do they work? Magic is the way of the universe! It is the understanding of its flows! It is everywhere, so much so that even non-magic practitioners unwittingly follow its principles of oaths and Will! They know to keep their promises. They know that for something to happen, for something to change, one must fully believe, fully know, fully will it to be!

Tldr: he got better in practicing magic bc the magic system supports character growth. The more he understood himself and life around him, the better he got; for he knows now what his heart really desires. For he truly knows now that magic exists and flows through him.