#this got REAL philosophical lmao

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre. 

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp. 

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?” 

Or somethin’ along those lines. 

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark. 

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in. 

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice. 

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor. 

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, ���No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned. 

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone. 

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice. 

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up. 

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick. 

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression. 

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly. 

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain. 

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread. 

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me. 

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose. 

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it. 

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be. 

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.  

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.  

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”  

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.  

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.   

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it. 

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile. 

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him. 

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else. 

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me. 

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?” 

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply. 

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.” 

He tilts his head away in dismissal. 

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.  

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest. 

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight. 

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too. 

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits. 

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!” 

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.  

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.  

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”  

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices. 

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.  

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate. 

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow. 

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me. 

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down. 

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .  

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work. 

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.  

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause. 

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought. 

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen;   Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night. 

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes. 

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter. 

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger. 

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.  

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.  

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”  

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it. 

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.  

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face. 

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin. 

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.  

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.  

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.” 

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing. 

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently. 

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving. 

Give me strength. Give me strength. 

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe. 

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly. 

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me. 

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact. 

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive. 

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation. 

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?” 

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace. 

“Kiss me again, then.” 

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth. 

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second. 

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid. 

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own. 

A switch in his brain must flick on. 

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt. 

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable. 

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return. 

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?” 

He kisses the hollow of my neck. 

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter. 

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this. 

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me. 

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.” 

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him. 

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.” 

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton. 

I sigh, try not to squirm. 

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing. 

I nod. “Yeah.” 

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering. 

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips. 

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back. 

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world. 

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine. 

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra. 

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut. 

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip. 

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead. 

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl. 

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point. 

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else. 

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 

My cunt flexes. 

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.” 

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager. 

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter. 

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.” 

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.  

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.   

“Lie back.”  

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth. 

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger. 

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit.  My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse. 

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers. 

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here. 

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away. 

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see. 

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him. 

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders. 

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him. 

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside. 

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound. 

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out. 

“It’s okay,” I reply. 

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver. 

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

[hermanoga]

I never knew I would be so passionate to say shit about link click ☠️🤣 I mean, it's so angst, life philosophy, metaphor, symbolism shit that I almost forgot to sit and enjoy but NOW when the ' meticulous construction of plot, intertwined parallel narratives and themes and intense philosophical symbolisms' are away, I CAN FINALLY BASH IT BWAHHAAAHAHAHAHA to my heart's content.

so, @whispersoflullaby and I decided to watch THAT godforsaken special episode and we have been inventing creative slurs in our mother tongue since then

Cheng Xiaoshi dives into the body of someone called Sanren laoshi who(via qiao ling) hands them a very...questionable photo.

I SWEAR TO GOD I AM NOT HOMOPHOBIC (maa kaalir dibbi) but that masked person/the very obvious sexual partner of the host is a...MAN?!

they do not seem to be an AFAB person. and also, for some reason that person's voice felt like lu guang's?????????? (I played it repeatedly but that 'look, look, look!' felt very much in lu guang's voice!)

idk is there any sober explanation to this or what the fuck 😭😭😭😭😭

the case is (head to toe) weird. it felt very weird and doesn't feel to have any significant connection to the main story. how is this canon?! I mean whatever special episode...Lan studio produced it, right? it has proper OP and ED... that made it look extra funny 🤣

I didn't question my life choices watching this episode! Not for one sec I felt the urge to cry, stupid things were happening in the most stupid and corny anime way possible. They failed their mission (100% cheng xiaoshi's fault) and the lines are so fucking hilarious

"during summer vacation people either

1. sleep to their heart's content

or

2. focus on their hobbies

or

3. post shoddy videos (a man taking pictures of a girl in blue underwear standing in a pool)

what should I do during summer?"

the host's request was to rectify the fuck up and say

"I really like games more than the sea!"

😭🤣🤣 so stupid everything was. And also the underwear thing...HUGE focus on hosts'....

'flexible' and 'cute'?

and ofc

" look, look, look, look, look! you have been staring at me for a while, what? falling in love?" ☠️ broski...sex is over now fuck off and pls kindly wear your trousers or somebody weird will pounce on you like this.

Cheng Xiaoshi's inner eiden was threatening to dominate when he said "oh? Sanren laoshi is not single then?" the zesty voice 🤣☠️ PLZZZ

☠️ why the episode was so weird, horny and hilarious lmao. don't mind grammer I just can't comprehend what I watched. hianime comment section 😭 some are saying wtf but others going like

"samajh nahi aya par link click hain to pura dekha aur accha laga" ☠️

"not quite sure what I watched but this show is peak and I watched it whole-"

noooo you should join us ☠️, link click has made me cry like a pathetic fox howling and all, now it's a slacking episode, I'm gonna call it names ☠️😭🤣 it feels SOOO good to not to intellectualise link click and cry with every fibre of your being

but a few serious things........

1. they wear those summer clothes...the happy visions/memories shown in 'The Eye' are the same

2. Lu Guang really feels...NON TRAUMATIZED? at least I got this feeling. he is just a chill guy, and extra silly, more expressive (I FELT THAT) can it be that it was...in the og timeline? IT FEELS LIKE ONE

this is the actual 'dumb time traveller photo faggots doing silly things together ' in a real sense (the misconception most of us had before we started watching link click???) it's silly through and through trust me

before watching this my brain was so hacked by profound depression (caused by nothing other than link click, surprise!) but I feel 🤣🤣🤣 so good now. had a good night's sleep. I passed out writing the half of the post and now I am writing at 4:30 am ☠️

anyways, I have never seen anyone discussing this episode before so I did it 😭 I am in love with the silly things actually! man I love this head emptu no thot vibe, and those questionable frames ☠️ and that masked man! hsjsjkkakekrisjznfkk why was all of these needed at all! but I loved that 🤣

[spacedykensfw3]

Sending horny out of the room for a bit here. Just checking in. It’s been a rough 24 hours and I know I am not the only one having a less than stellar time. This is a horny side blog so it hasn’t really been a hotspot for political discourse (but apparently philosophical discourse about the what and why of various kinks lmao) but in case it wasn’t clear, we hate fascists here!

That said, (and I may be speaking a little too early, everything is still very fresh,) things might get a little bit lighter around here, at least for a while, because the specter of transphobic/homophobic/misogynistic violence just got a hell of a lot more real (not that they weren’t real before, but… you get the point, I think; you follow me, after all.)

I don’t have a whole lot of words of comfort or advice, but I do know these things: Plan B has a shelf life of 4 years, you can get 3 months of the over the counter birth control pill Opill for $45 on Amazon (or 4 months for about $50 at Costco), and there are still a lot of doctors out there who will do informed consent sterilizations. Hang in there.

[musicalmoritz]

If Sakumei stay together and go further. What will their date and relationship belike? Family dynamics even (if they adopted kids)?

More on SakuMei! Alrighty so if they got back together I see them being much more mature and ready for a relationship than the first time around. It starts out very slow, they’re hesitant to get back together after what happened the first time. But since they’ve been friends for so long, they fall into a natural comfortability with one another

They enter a honeymoon phase, being the happiest they’ve ever been together. Their friends are happy to see them happy, although there’s some slight jealousy on Natsuhiko’s end. Mei is leaving the art room more and actually trying to enjoy her “life.” Sakura helps her work through her existential problems and figure out who and what she is. Mei helps Sakura make sense of their own feelings and learn how to express them. Instead of focusing so much on their own wants for a relationship, they focus on helping each other. And through that help, they both become comfortable expressing when they’re unhappy with something or want something in the relationship to change. Real healthy shit, we have left their toxic yuri days behind

As for the type of dates they go on, I think they’re very lowkey. They drink tea and read books in the broadcasting room, or in Sakura’s boundary. Due to the open space, their dates often turn into group hangouts, so if they want privacy it’s best to go to the art room or the library. The art room isn’t always safe as Nene and Tsukasa will barge in whenever they feel like it. But the library can get crowded too so really, this school is hell for these two introverts. They make it work though, once the students have cleared out it’s pretty vacant

If you haven’t noticed I’m a big filmbro and like to include movies in just about every fic I write. This is more of a Sakura/Natsuhiko thing but I apply it to other ships with them, I think Sakura would be rly into creepy/gory movies. They have tackled the Disturbing Movie Iceberg (I’m only two tiers down, I’m too sensitive to watch all that shit lmao) and like to make ppl watch gross movies with them. To Natsuhiko it’s a form of torture but Mei doesn’t care for fiction so she’s more indifferent (Ik a lot of the movies on the Iceberg are documentaries/home videos but shhhh we’re ignoring that for this). She complains but she doesn’t get scared or grossed out the way Natsuhiko does, it’s more that she’ll point out how unrealistic the special effects are and make fun of the bad writing. Bad movies are Sakura’s favorite though so they laugh along, that way they end up bonding over their judgemental natures. By the end, Mei might end up falling asleep on Sakura’s shoulder

Most of their dates involve them just sitting around and talking. They don’t always have to say something, but they can keep a conversation going very easily. Neither of them are that talkative in crowds but one-on-one they could yap for hours. Because of this they know each other super well, they’re able to keep up with each other’s interests and viewpoints. They get into deep, philosophical discussions often, which leads Sakura to lighten the mood with tea

Now let’s imagine them in another life where they’re both human and get to grow old together. OG Mei and No.4 Mei are twin sisters here bcuz I said so. I don’t see No.4 Mei doing art full time but she keeps it up as a hobby for whenever she’s stressed, partially because it’s something that connects her to Shijima. She would have an art room in her house full of paintings of Sakura and her family (credit to you for that hc lol). OG Mei absolutely becomes an art teacher tho. I could actually see No.4 Mei going into the medical field and becoming a doctor, since art isn’t really her thing I think she’d be more of a science person. There’s also more personal reasons for it, she wants to help kids that are going through what her sister went through

For Sakura it’s hard to say. I think they’d own some sort of gothic tea room. They sell tea there as well to make some extra income. Not that they need it with their rich doctor wife, but it’s a nice bonus. To commit to the bit they wear black vintage gowns to work every day. And their house is an old manor, funded mainly by the aforementioned doctor wife. One thing abt Sakura is they’re going to commit to an aesthetic. They host a lot of events at the tea room like murder mysteries/scavenger hunts, especially around Fall. Mei stops by each one to support her partner, and when she does she’s always the one to solve the mystery

They have a son, one of those cursed little Victorian boys. They also own an unreasonable amount of cats, all with very formal names. They’re very weird parents, but good ones. I’m getting Addams Family vibes. Mei also goes butch in the future so she can be the Gomez, trust. They encourage their son to learn healthy communication skills and take up hobbies so he can explore his interests and make friends. They’re also very loving towards one another, a very romantic couple. They end up having a wonderful life together, along with their son and many friends who crash the manor. Natsuhiko and Shijima pop in most often, along with Tsukasa and Aoi/Nene. On occasion Mitsuba will drag Kou up to visit but he always gets creeped out by the place. This would make a great family sitcom

Thank you for the ask mootie, I love talking abt SakuMei!!

[moonshynecybin]

thinking about that ranch visit again…. obvs marc rocking up with honda mechanics is such a major part of it. like i think that was a big factor in vale shifting marc in his brain from friend :) to—> sort of friend who is a ruthless competitor to—-> snake trying to sabatoge me to—> evilest motorcycle racer who ever lived.

idk vale cultivates the ranch as such a place of community and fun that is crucially far away from the press and like. the ruthless professional circus of the paddock. like marc is visiting his private little area here, and he kind of encroaches on the fundamental philosophical idea of it by bringing his mechanics. it becomes a professional arena of competition then, in a way it wasn’t entirely before. like to valentino i think marc is the one that shifted their relationship here.

and i’m not being naive and thinking there wasn’t already some degree of professional scoping out wrt to riding style and decision making, ofc. vale is a savvy dude who would use the experience and learn about marc as a competitor any way he can (and oh my god vice versa). he loves to win just as bad as marc does. they BOTH went ham trying to win that day he’s right there with him.

i’m also not saying marc was in the wrong!! in his brain of course he’s gonna bring his mechanics, he wants to win!! he can’t even work out without a competitive incentive it’s a huge part of like. the foundational makeup of his being. so he doesn’t notice anything that would raise a red flag in terms of vale being unhappy about it or transgressing on his climate of relaxed fun bc in his mind it’s normal! why wouldn’t he try as hard as he can! his mechanics help him do that! and valentino is a charming guy who is generally pretty friendly. hell, he’ll stab you with a smile, so marc doesn’t notice much in the way of tension at the time, probably. or, at least he can brush it off.

BUT! it’s notable that the way marc has narrativized the breakup to himself starts at the ranch. he says our relationship changed THERE. even now he conceptualizes it as i beat vale at the ranch bc i was better than him and our relationship changed bc he couldn’t handle it. and i’m sure there is a factor of valentino sensing the sun setting of his era and the rise of marc’s here. but i also think he saw marc as deliberately orienting himself as a serious, direct competitor to vale in a way he wasn’t before. so he pulls back a little. you wanna be my competitor? we can fucking do that.

so going into the season some narratives are forming in valentino’s brain here, and then they have a bunch of races where they always seem to tussle on the track — they make contact a LOT— and i think to vale those narratives are unfortunately being confirmed. vale voice that twunk wants me dead.

ON TOP OF ALL THIS and maybe most crucially: the title fight heats up and vale is WAY more insecure about it than he’s ever been in his entire competitive career. he’s older, he’s had some dogshit years at ducati so he’s not bullletproof anymore, he’s had to actually start going to the gym (he committed corporate espionage on jorge lorenzo to find out how he trains LMAO), and this punk kid who idolizes him is apparently the second coming of motorcycle christ. he used to be motorcycle christ. and!! i think he knows he can exert some real power over marc by spinning all of this to the media and making marc the bad guy.

so in vale’s head. he can take marc down a peg and shift some blame away from the way he’s potentially flopping AND do some personal mythmaking. reassert his status as motorcycle christ. and to his credit it pretty much works!! but GOD. poor marc got blindsided. like it’s so so mean. so mean.

[starplusfourletters]

I read vision of the future (hand of thrawn book 2 aka Who Scams the Scammers)

(spoilers) and once again it turned into a liveblog, apologies

Hold up are we doing Warrior Cats? Is this Warrior Cats Planet??

What base is “arm around your waist to serve as a psychic translator conduit”

Omigod I WISH my Warrior Cat name were “Jaded of Mara”

Everything I know about Soontir Fel I learned from x wing but I would not have guessed his primary motivation to be "dirt"

@ luke and mara: the girls are talkingggggg

North Barris Spaceport has me twitching

Ghent not remembering who the president is and just assuming it’s probably Leia. I mean fair

What base is "holding hands to brace yourselves over a swarm of flesh eating insects"

So we’re finally asking why Mara ISN’T actually dark side and the answer is… shrug emoji?

Man Zahn really is stuck on “character bonding hike” as a device huh. But consider I eat that shit up

Oh No Lando is racist

LMAO at “so oblivious you need a child pterodactyl to tell you to just kiss already” to “besides I don’t want my life to be like spiderman three I hated that movie” to “kissing with dubious consent” ALL ON THE SAME PAGE like Zahn finally realized he really needed to get this show on the road

LMAO at Ghent getting a free pass from Pellaeon to hack the empire. Like you’re just going to get the thing you need and not steal all of our military and political secrets right? Riiiight? Even more LMAO at the fact that that would probably not even occur to Ghent

When everyone assumes they're the protagonist so finding this one macguffin is their job personally. Like guys I like the energy but maybe we've got enough different plans to do the same thing (the exception, hilariously, being Luke) (and Oh No it turns out Luke is the one to find the macguffin because You Have to Follow Your Heart and Let the MacGuffin Come to You. I eat that shit up also)

Mara’s just... So great.

Not to make everything about my blorbo but absolutely to make everything about my blorbo I do wonder to what extent Ahsoka’s characterization post-Rebels doesn’t click for me is because a lot of the more obvious directions for Oldsoka overlap with Mara, and the powers that be didn’t want to reinvent the Mara Jade wheel. Not to say they have similar characterization – Mara has terminal sam coded dean girl syndrome – but idk, in dynamic range maybe? Calling out bullshit, weaponizing her own abrasiveness, covering insecurity with humor, being Kind of a Lot with a side of trust issues at any given moment – there are modes Mara and Youngsoka share that didn’t pass to Oldsoka apparently. Idk possibly all this is just me wanting them to TALK

Establishing that you can do evil things for selfless reasons without necessarily being in any danger of falling to the dark side is... Philosophically interesting

We interrupt this tale of political espionage to bring you Jedi Relationship Counseling (spoiler alert: communication is key)

"That part of her life [Mara’s time with Palpatine] had died unmourned" I mean mourned a little bit. Mourned for at least a book and a half

I've been willing to suspend my disbelief on everything in this book until "both Luke and Mara forget that ysalamiri exist"

I will never not be a sucker for The Movements and Transferred Ownership of Emotionally Significant Weapons

Oh No thrawn made a second foundation

The Aing-Tii seem OP but whatever

Oh No the second foundation forgot to close the garage doors

(Re: The Jade’s Fire) I know Mara’s having a Moment, and I promise I’m taking it seriously, but when the warrior cat asked “What is it you want, Mara Jade” my WHOLE BRAIN responded with "I want Hermione Granger! And a rocket ship!"

Moranda has real Kevin from home alone energy and I'm living for it

Is it bad that I’m actually kinda happy the Imperials’ Bothawui shield plan worked? Like, they had a really interesting plan and I’m happy for them. They earned it

WAIT IS MORANDA DEAD FR?

What base is “full mind meld while you’re fighting for your lives”

Who would win: ~1.5 Jedi, 2 sentinel droids droidekas, or Artoo with a sauntering gun

If I had a nickel for every time this duology explicitly established Jedi can’t go completely without oxygen, even when in a trance, I’d have two nickels. Which isn’t a lot but which makes me feel like the Ahsoka show had a weirdly specific axe to grind with the source material

Luke’s proposal to Mara is Just. The. Funniest. Thing. That’s some Anakin-level cringe and the prequels aren’t even out yet. He truly is his father’s son.

I mean POV there’s this guy and for a couple years you want to kill him, and then you realize that’s more of a You Problem, so then you’re friendquaitances for a decade mostly because you don’t approve of the shit he’s getting into, and then you have one (1) honest conversation and get caught in a death trap and he’s like “so I think the next step for us is marriage”

LEIAAAAAA! Full Jedi Knight Leia is both terrifying and hot. I would run.

“So it is treason” – Some random guy

Lando needs to be on the New Republic payroll simply for being willing to speak to any of the other characters and also he needs a raise. This poor guy getting called on to command the entire New Republic fleet mid-battle and he’s like “I’ve been a civilian for 15 years and also I knew you would pull some horse piss like this steve”

Mara Jade, Imperial protege. Skills include: Identifying load-bearing walls. (Now all I want is Property Brothers: Sith Edition)

Mara please. Luke please. These absolute idiots. This is some pear scene shit. I hope nothing bad happens to them ever

The whole back half of this book has been an emotional rollercoaster for me specifically because I wanted Flim to be Thrawn FR soooooo baddddd. And now I’m sad. His name literally means scam don’t do this to me Zahn

I’ve been amused by all the Star Wars universe idioms but I gotta take a moment to specifically showcase “burned your sky-arches.” Karrde is a delight to have in class

Having an independent intelligence agency that’s supposed to work for both the New Republic and the Empire seems absolutely unhinged but go off I guess

When the New Republic and Empire sign peace accords and Luke can’t even be bothered to show up

Mara is great and her arc is fuckin hilarious to me. The narrative has identified her as The Damaged One and I’m like???? She came to terms with her troubled past, drew her own boundaries regarding the Dark Side, recognized that there are people who care about her instead of pre-emptively pushing them away, and resolved to form deeper emotional connections. Smash cut to ROTS Anakin whose physical and psychic damage has literally turned his brain into oatmeal

Again I know this was before the prequels Mad points for explicitly saying Mara needed to form attachments to become a Jedi. Zahn being pretty gangsta there

OH NO THEMB

[omentranslates]

Owari no Seraph volume 33 author's afterword english fan translation

Hi I did it

Sorry about the month late um but I got my Krul illustration card so that's really I think what matters anyways thanks for reading :)

Afterword

This is volume 33. Since the recent plot developments have been so chaotic and fast-moving, I've been curious as to everyone's reactions while writing. We're in a dead sprint to the climax now, I'm so glad everyone is still supporting all of the characters.

I've often been asked how well I like my own characters before, and now I find myself thinking, "well I'll just show you the answer with how I write the climax." In any case, I like all of them. I'm writing this story like "AHHHHHHH, I LIKE EVERY CHARACTER AAAAHHHH." I'm working hard to continue this plot in a way that satisifes everyone.

The topic of recent for me has been moving houses, I've just moved into a place with a huge study. Right now I'm still locked in fierce combat with the amount of cardboard and also I really want to overthink out I layout my bookshelves this time. I'm a bit of a mess about leaving my previous house, it's overwhelming.

Something else that keeps coming up lately is talking to AI and, this thing, not only have I made it into my tireless nonsense conversation partner, it also responds to me with text from religious leaders and philosophers that have thought about it more than I have. I think I could play around with this thing for a lifetime. I'll have to read even more and harder than ever to stay competitive with its knowledge (lol)

For example, debating whether humans are in the end conscious in a true sense or whether we are only influenced by our environments, I could talk about this forever. Humanity is a social creature so what if my own internal self doesn't exist, but rather the me that you see, and so I'm influenced to be more like that me, which is a perception influenced by your own environment and conditions which influence you, etc.

But I don't have time in the day to talk about this stuff forever, so I've downloaded an app that blocks AI, videos and certain websites. We here really are controlled by the apps we use! (lol)

That app in particular is funny to me because I'll open it and, instead of telling me I can't go places I've blocked, it'll say something in English. It says something like "you are free." And after that it'll say, still in English, "Do what you have to." I'm like, am I talking to Guren or Kureto!??*

Guren: Just do it. Kureto: Do it. Ferid: Don't mind if I do! It's getting scary out here (lol)

With everyone's support, I'm working on the manuscript again today!

And so, next up is volume 34. That's gonna be the real climax, I'm counting on your support until the end!

I want to reign the next time in with cheers!

Also, I've mostly just written nonsense here, but I want to get serious for this last bit.

I'm so grateful to Yamamoto san. And I'm so grateful to Furuya san. We've really ended up coming a long way together and experienced with each other moments full of both joy and sorrow. With this once-a-month work of so many months, sharing each other's feelings over such distance, anyways I'm just so glad I was able to meet them. Thank you.

I also want to thank Okuyama san, who's newly in charge, for working so hard. It was him that restarted activities on the official Owari no Seraph X account (once upon a time we called it Twitter….). A round of applause for him!

With that, I most of all want to thank the readers for supporting us! And so having concluded my gratitude, I'll leave you with that til next time!

Kagami Takaya

*this is a really strange way for an app to talk to you it doesn't make grammatical sense w the character lines he compared it to but the tone is like "get your shit done" lmao

[astralleywright]

I don’t even agree with everything Ashton and Dorian say but it’s wild to me how incensed people are at them for engaging with literally any of the philosophical questions about power raised by Downfall. Like do people really think Brennan Lee Mulligan and Abubakar Salim got put in the DM’s chair for shits and giggles

people are very very good at narrowing in solely on what they agree with and ignoring everything else and assuming that Brennan and Abu and Matt actually do all think there's a pretty cut and dry answer to this. Bc the people in Aeor did bad things and made mistakes, so obviously Brennan agrees that what happened was their own fault! The solar who said "if you wanted us to follow the gods, you shouldn't have made us good," was really just mad about not getting to fight! The Archeart is a novelty seeker without all the answers and a blase relationship with mortal life, so clearly Abubakar is saying that their perspective is stupid and BH should just knuckle down for Calamity 2! The other option would be making The Wildmother sad! (which is maybe the single thing Tal has said on this topic a lot of people have retained, lmao).

Matt, and Aabria and Brennan and Abubakar, have all done a fantastic job of imbuing this conflict with a ton of nuance and complexities and thorns. There's no easy answers. There's barely even difficult answers. It's excellent and real and also basically a saw trap for a lot of the fine minds of fandom.

[metalgearstranding]

Hi hi hope you don't mind me ranting about Ocelot a bit cause I didn't want to clog up tags of that one post and I love talking about the kitty man.

I assume they meant privileged as in. well I always assumed he is a bit of a rich boy, honestly. Like, his upbringing must have been horrible in terms of what and how he's been taught, but he obviously has a good education and training that the Philosophers (or whoever it was that trained him, with his distaste for them I'm assuming it's them) put a lot of time and money in. How harsh was said training is open to interpretation, but they definitely didn't want him harmed enough to not be able to get the job done AND think for himself. He knows many languages, is really skilled, got a position of Major and his own unit that answers only to him at a very young age too. I think there is an mgs3 call that implies part of it was because Volgin knew he's The Boss's son. So like, special treatment and all.

I don't think it in any way takes away from how miserable his childhood must have been though. I just can't shake away the idea of him looking at some regular every-day item and going well how much can it be? Hundred dollars??

Oh yeah, of course, I always assumed the same thing. So yes, you're right, in that way he'd be totally privileged. And maybe part of Ocelot's refusal to indulge in self-pity is him recognizing that he just can't because he knows he was lucky?

I guess I got tunnel vision-ed on this one, because I'm aware of this aspect of his life and the ways it must have influenced him, but to me it really doesn't weigh much in the balance? All I see when I think of his life is what was taken away from him, his freedom and his loved ones.

But also, I think that in a way, his real privilege are his genetics lawl I bet he's highly educated, but that doesn't count for shit if you're dumb as a brick, and to me it's obvious that Ocelot is just naturally gifted. He's scarily intelligent and he learns quickly, and he's eager to learn and get better too. He got lucky enough to get the basics, but I'd say that he as owes who he is primarily to being self-taught. I don't think anybody taught him his fancy gun tricks, and although the idea of his mother teaching him a few moves in Groznyj Grad is heartwarming, I think he just really learned some CQC just by watching Snake and his mom.

So yeah. But I do really love the idea of Ocelot as snobbish and having expensive tastes lmao The guy really is a creature of duality (I don't believe in astrology but he really do be a gemini XD), and the materially privileged aspect of him clashing with his far west aspirations is one of my favorite things about him.

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 1: Take Me To Church

AO3 link

Playlist of all songs

next chapter

Summary: A traveler arrives in a land of hidden villages and even deeper mysteries. But to the Akatsuki, she's a secret herself. A multichapter songfic about a strange, soft, "real world" musician who wins a stranger group over. She'll use the only thing she's got- her whimsy- to survive, but what does that mean to the charter of villains who survived by throwing pure mirth away? Maybe her head is stuck in the clouds.

Author's notes: I have been hyperfixated off and on by the Akatsuki alone (less Naruto the show) for about ten-so years of my life. At this point, they are dolls to me. They listen to my silly little songs and agree if I say "lmao that you". If the canon is king then I am God and what is God to a king. I don't care if Hidan knows what a keyboard is, I don't CARE, NO HE DON'T.

(Clearly cares a lot)

Anyhow. Combination OC-self insert-reader insert character is soft, musical, secretly from the "real world", and wins people over. I have a sociology degree with a focus on religion so I like musings about that sort of thing. Philosophical thoughts about murder, suicidality abound. I don't plan on any SA or anything majorly sexual, but I'm mulling over some pretty fucked up (erotic?) moments so 18+ interaction only, please. Partial songfic as I associate songs with anytthing that has an imaginary pulse, have different songs planned out to reference. If you like Will Wood, you'll have fun. Title is a reference to The Song With Five names by Will Wood and acts as scene breaks in this post. Perhaps obviously, Take Me To Church by Hozier is in this chapter. Lyrics not necessarily in order every time.

I'm writing this to get it out of my system but more than happy if it's for you too.

Edit 9/27/24: I lied about the not being sexual thing

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Never trust in yourself Or anyone else We’ve always all been wrong

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He likes the way boiling water stings at his skin. It’s not quite as hot as that, but hot enough to make him feel something. A small comfort, a reminder from Jashin. Hidan, lamenting as he slips into the spring, contemplates on a comparison between this and being clothed by the lord himself as it washes upon him inch by inch, popping and sizzling until it makes his hairs stand on end. It hurts-- not quite enough, but it hurts.

Good.

Prayer fills the back of his mouth, thick enough to choke on, as he remembers pain means he is alive. He wrings out a small cloth in a bucket besides him and places it over his forehead and eyes.

Darkness. Steam fills his nose; he breathes deep...and he listens to his god.

…

…

It sure sounds a lot like someone yelling a room or two away.

A dull smack happens somewhere else in the inn. A woman begins to run. She has no fucking idea where she’s going-- how, where, who-- just that HERE and with THEM is going to SHIT. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping her eyes open and feet moving. She’s so thirsty she could drink the clouds of steam as she unwittingly approaches the men’s bath. So tired that she hardly recognizes three red prongs as a weapon as it’s propped against the stone. So scared she sees only one choice:

“Hey!”

Surely that wasn’t a voice talking to Hidan, right?

“I- I need to—” She’s out of breath already and she’s hardly lifted his scythe. “I need to borrow this! You’ll get it back-- I promise!” He lifts up one edge of the wet cloth, heel-turning from annoyed to pissed.

“EH?!” Hidan shrieks. “What the FUCK-” He’s cut off as the woman screams herself and backs just out of view from the bath entrance. “SHIT!” He didn’t pray nearly long enough to not fall headfirst into magma-hot testiness. Who the hell sees THOSE robes and fucks with his shit?! Who sees those BLADES and fucks with him?!

He probably doesn’t leave the bath as fast as is really warranted, stumbling out with the knot of his larger bath towel so loose he needs to hold it at his waist to keep it up. Through the hot fog of this dark hallway, his chin tilts up in intrigue. “Eh--?”

Hidan sees her face first. A brow is furrowed, a thousand horrible emotions weighing it down. She’s afraid-- that’s what’s most readily apparent. There’s a blotch of red and blue on her cheek and her mouth gapes with heavy breath.

“Stay away!”

She looks like she’s never held a weapon in her life. Goddammit, she’s holding it with all of her life, though.

He decides just to watch as she begins to address the most forgettable thing in the room.

“Cute.” A man snides at her. Ah...Hidan had seen him check in. His cologne smelled like ass. Now that it’s mentioned...he guess he did see someone else trail behind him-- close enough to be his shadow. Didn’t really set his alarms off then. But then again, till his scythe got involved, he didn’t really care. Hidan’s eyes flicker.

“Not a couple, huh?” he mutters. Although uncaring if he was heard or not, the former possibility occurs.

“Hey! Either get your pants back on or mind your own business! You don’t know us.” This approach is not reciprocated by her, shaky hands pushing the crimson steel further into his space. At first the man cringes, but the bluff is called. “Come on, now…” The guy’s smile is soft, like he knows her better than she herself. Hidan doesn’t miss how she flinches. It’s impossible to when there’s five more feet attached to her arm of cold hard metal. Knuckles brush almost lovingly against her new, sharp fingers.

“You don’t have it in you, duckling. Fluffy and soft, all squawk with no teeth.”

“I said NO!”

He steps forward. She panics.

He cuts like butter.

All three of them briefly share the same expression. Wide eyes, shock. However, each births something much more complicated in the seconds following.

While her stomach flips, Hidan’s feel butterflies. The whelp's blood splatters in all directions, just as it was meant to with such a swipe. It flutters through the air, settling on their faces as gentle as a whisper, while the rest swim around the still-pulsating eviscerations of a soul worth less than a rat. She watches the body sink to the ground, a human heart gush its contents into a dark, glistening puddle closer and closer to her feet. Just as it’s about to touch, her gaze raises and meets another’s. The reverence in his eyes is lost upon her.

The silence is peaceful to him as he studies the stranger-- stilling, like his lord laid a hand on his shoulder and beseech he witness. At this point the thoughts and emotions that she’s gripping in her stare even more pure and divine than the blooming rose shedding its petals before him; that sort of thing is expected-- wet blood as ordinary as dew on grass in the morning. But this… He’s never seen a civilian kill before, he’s beginning to ponder...

This revelation, too, goes unappreciated, but the upcoming perhaps is even more delicious than the taste of iron in the air for Jashin’s priest. The woman’s breath hurries, the blade drops to her feet, and her arms raise at her sides.

Three expressions are in this hall: Addicted. Afflicted. And dead.

“JESUS FUCK!” she screams in horror.

Hidan grins wider than he has in ages. This is the beginning of something beautiful.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Yes or no isn't null Yes it is, no, I don't know Yes or no, isn't that a silly question? Ask it anyway

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Being isekai-ed into another world isn’t nearly as convenient as it’s cracked up to be, you know?

The traveler’s body is tensed tighter than tightrope, her teeth in a perpetual grit and brow hurting from being furrowed so hard for this long. She killed a man. She utters this out loud to process the fact.

“And it was GREAT, right?” This guy is more than a little too eager for all of this. Fuckin’ shit, that doesn’t bode well for her. She reflexively scream/shouts at nothing in response, gaze unflinching at empty air… No, that sort of volume isn’t going to cut it. A floor cushion is snatched up from besides Hidan and she belts face first into it until she can’t breathe, and then she goes for a few seconds longer so her insides burn.

The silver-hair demon, however, is having the time of his life. The great Jashin himself drops this poor little idiot straight from his palm to drench in blood till white becomes red. He leans into his own palm, amused smirk across his face as they bide their time in this inn’s bedroom. They’ll be kicked out eventually, dead body and all, but he’ll deal with that when they get there! Just break the news to Kakuzu that he lost the deposit. An amputation or two will be worth the trouble.

“Ahh, so this is your first?” he hums almost sensually. The tears well in her eyes.

“Yes!”

“And? How was it?! The weight of the blade in your hands, the way he ripped in half, how his chest cavity just DID THAT?” He pinches his fingers and “explodes” them in a quick stretch.

“It was BAD!” the woman agonizes, still needing a paper bag to breathe into.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “You get used to it.”

“Eeeughhhhhhhh….!”

Hidan sighs. Of course she doesn’t get it yet. Where would the fun in that be? “So, figures if that shithead had kidnapped you...you don’t really have a place now, huh?”

The pinpoint precision breaks her attention like glass, and she can tell where this is going. It wasn’t like she had anywhere to belong to in the first place!

“How about we hang out? I don’t have anywhere to be till my mandated jackass is back around.”

She squints. “M...mandated?” Like an...officer? “...Are you on parole?” she prods gently. He looks more confused than anything, though. Is that more or less relieving?

“The hell? You mean patrol?”

“...Yes,” she decides to lie. Her eyes shift finally, looking to the side to avoid his gaze. Constant reminders are about that she’s way down the rabbit hole. Or...bottom of the sea? That’s probably more accurate, going unconscious. The waking up part hasn’t come yet and hunger, thirst, and being punched do hurt a lot, and so she has no choice but to either survive or kill herself on the spot to save the trouble.

Hidan, unwitting, knocks the side of his head like he’s shaking water out of his ears. “Damn, you really ARE a dumbfuck civilian, mispronouncing that bad. Never heard the word before?” Just as the woman’s mouth opens, he interrupts. “Anyhow. No. Just biding my precious time till my partner comes back from whatever heathen nonsense dragged him away.”

She blinks. These words mean nothing to her. The whole murder thing makes simple conversation hard to keep up, and she’s already trying not to worry about pissing a guy off who thinks killing people is fine.

“Oi!” Hidan waves his hand like an impatient child. “Don’t leave me hangin’!” The stranger can only fold her hands in front of her lap and stammer.

“I-- I—”

There’s no clue what he really wants out of this. She’s 100% fucked if she doesn’t accept. Only 99% fucked if she does. Good odds.

“OKAY!” There’s no idea to her if he takes this as enthusiasm or as the duress it’s really under.

“That’s the fuckin’ spirit!” He sounds nearly sarcastic as he flings his head back and praises towards the ceiling. An ear-piercing scream brings him back down to earth. “Ahhh, yeah. Well, maybe now’s a good time to go. Don’t shit where we sleep n’ all.” With a swoosh, a black robe is taken off the floor and is swung around Hidan. “Normally I wouldn’t give a shit. But the virgin killer probably needs her time to relish this moment.”

A rock drops in her stomach. The man casually passes her and starts walking out the door, the bloodcurdling screaming continues as if it’s only as annoying as a car alarm in the parking lot. She swallows, and he stops past the doorway. Purple pools under a silver hairline look through her, over his shoulder. “Comin’?”

1%, she repeats in her mind.

Hopefully she’ll get the opportunity to kill herself later, without any help, if need be. There’s a hunch that dying by his hand wouldn’t be so pleasant.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Even I might defy, won't deny That I'm trying while my eyes do defy And belie quiet liars as I Say what I say, any way, I might be saying it But I've been wrong before

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Despite being a city girl, since she’s dropped in, the hustle and bustle of this society sure does overwhelm. The bargaining, the wagons, the bells-- and that’s only sound! Wafts of street food make her stomach hurt. The flags, statues, and other decor all clearly have a story behind them; she purses her lips trying to imagine--

“Oi!”

The woman knocks into his back and nearly falls over, him having nothing to offer but disdain as she regains balance. “How about this joint?” Clearly this is less of a suggestion and more of a certainty as he meanders into the doorway he suggests. A tapestry overhangs the darkness the cloaked man slips into, a single symbol printed so large and intimidating, despite not knowing what it means. She gulps.

Recompose. As best as you can.

She glimpses a ring as he sets his glass down, it only briefly distracting from the menu in her hands. “I’ll...get whatever you’re getting,” she compromises softly, hoping everyone gets the hint when she sets the list down. The man shrugs.

“Make it two, yeah?!” The server slips away, leaving the awkwardness as an appetizer. Anything besides the guy ahead of her is what her eyes go to, shoulders tilting back and head cocked enough every which way that it’ll get sore. The way people dressed. Laughed. Gossiped.

“Hoshigakure!” lips speak in the dim light. “That’s where it’ll be.” A snarl meets this, an old time friend with her doubts.

“You’re sure ‘bout this? That’s awfully far—”

“Yeah, but he’s worth it! Wouldn’t you? For the chance at true love?!”

“Get your head out of the goddamn clouds…”

A literal snap in her ear brings her back. “Oi!” the man repeats, forcing her attention back to him. “What are you, high or somethin’? Where. Are. You. From.” He’s not the type to repeat himself twice.

“...Hoshi-- gakure.” The unintended stammer makes her heart race, and the way he hums loud and long doesn’t help.

“Never been! Heard it’s a shithole. Probably why you left!”

The other conversation still fills her desperate ear, leaving her clues:

“The Kage is an idiot, isn’t he?! All that power means nothing with no respect. What’s a land without a leader?”

“We’re rendezvousing there, not living there.”

“The way you describe his passion for his homeland says otherwise, you know…”

“He likes the stargazing!”

The friend sighs. “Hopeless,” she murmurs.

The woman mentally returns to the table she’s seated at, briefly biting her bottom lip as she forces a face-to-face conversation. “It’s hopeless there,” she weaves. She may not be a good liar, but she used to have fun performing, pouring one’s self into the story being told. A grain of truth makes it all more believable, and so she rolls back her shoulders, swallows her pride, and thinks about being gone. “I didn’t belong anymore. Politically, it’s in the shit, obviously… Not even the stars could hold me in place.”

A palm holds his cheek in place, violet stare unflinching as hands drop steaming plates and bowls in the small gap between them. “So it started by leaving on yer on volition?” She nods, honestly. “Kidnappin’ came later,” he assumes. “Don’t take this the hard way but you’re not pretty or anything. Not like yer meant for sellin’… Any idea what he wanted you for? Did you have money? Don’t fucking tell me your family was loaded.”

Redness pinpricks her cheeks but she still manages to shake her head no. “I think he just...recognized someone was lost and thought he could make something out of it.” She rakes her mind, trying to think of the guy more alive than when he was dead. You know. By her hands. “Can’t really ask him why now…” the woman surmises.

“Ahh…” the man replies simply, conveying what seems to be the barest threads of interest in her actual words. “So. Alone. Broke. N’ lost.”

The scent of seared meat in front of her compounds the suffocation of this observation. “Yeah.”

The man once again snaps, though less in her face and more in front of the scratch on the table she had glued her eyes to. After her attention is caught, he uses two fingers to point to himself. His own eyes are hooded, far too calm, and his smirk is lopsided.

“Sounds like a perfect time for a change of pace, yeah?!” Instead of knocking his glass into hers, he bumps it against her forehead, chuckling at the noise that escapes her mouth. “Jashin will set ya straight.”

Her eyelids flutter. “Jashin?” He raises the cup to his lips at a bad time. “Is that your name?”

He spit-takes.

“Fuckin’—NO! No! Hell, no!” There’s a solidness conveyed to her as the ceramic is set down, a change of tone. “I can only aspire to the name,” he muses, leaning philosophically all of a sudden. “Study the scripture… Follow his ways…”

“Jashin…” the woman echoes, delicate on her tongue. A major religion, perhaps? Or a cult leader? Or-- as history has taught, maybe both! How exciting. “Tell me about it?”

Oh she has no idea how abruptly she had just changed her life--

That’s what he thinks just as he gets shoved out of his chair.

“Eh?! The hell?!”

The friend she was spying on suddenly towers over the not-Jashin, clenching her fist. “You fucking SPAT on me!” Only a long, drawn out question-shaped breath returns from his lips. The man planning to run away throws a warning shot with his own glass, squarely breaking besides Hidan’s ear. “Get on your knees and beg, or get the fuck out!”

While it isn’t lost on her that several others in the candlelight are matching her horror, she’s unaware their reasons don’t match too. She’s just mortified there’s fighting at all! Holy SHIT she hates fighting! Someone could get hurt!But to the locals...Hidan’s cloak gave a glimpse of the bloodbath to come.

He hums, oh how smoothly he hums. It’s almost a purr. Slowly, his head turns to the traveler. “Seems like we’ve been blessed a first hand opportunity.” The way the woman screeches likely bothers him more than what initiated it-- another attack attempted, a cling of metal as a knife is blocked by a scythe. After that, it only hits the friend and the runaway that they’re in deep water, teasing a piranha ravenous. It’s a thing of beauty straight from the river Styx or the fires of Hell, those blades, bisecting a man like you can blow puffs off a dandelion.

“Wait- WAIT-” the traveler beseeches just as the Jashinist enters a fighting stance. He considers the plea, nodding in agreement.

“Ah, yeah.”

She nearly falls down again with the force of the scythe finding her hands.

“Lesson one: grave sin to start a fight that doesn’t end in slaughter.”

“WHAT!”

Suddenly she is the grim reaper to these people, awestruck in fear. “Please, hey-- HEY! WE will leave, okay?! Don’t hurt anyone!”

“I don’t WANT to hurt anyone!” she begs to ears deaf with their pounding hearts. No, wait, NO! everyone prays in turn. Hidan reads her expression intimately; how does it taste, to make others see what they have to lose? She’s full to the brim of whatever Jashin has bestowed upon her soul, arms and lungs trembling with the weight of mortality. It’s like a kitten scared of her own claws. His teeth can feel the pulse of his lip as he bites in anticipation.

It’s just about when someone in the crowd is about to act on her hesitation that a familiar voice growls from behind.

“HIDAN.”

Two chilled hands grab the man by the collar and the woman by the scythe. Kakuzu wasn’t intending on dragging her over; her fault she won’t let go for dear life. She gasps, abruptly across the entire length of the room in a snap, shaky eyes meeting emeralds. They literally see right through her. Immediately she can see she is an object. A hindrance. If Hidan is the grim reaper then Kakuzu is cold uncaring death itself. And death is already tired of this bullshit playing around.

The tall newcomer sighs, gravelly in his throat. “What,” he more states than asks, “Are you doing.”

“Proselytizing, cocksucker!” Kakuzu repeats the first word under his mask, eyes returning to the girl while saying nothing directly to her.

“And this?”

“My disciple!”

He studies her. It’s like if a mouse that hides in the wall became a person.

“...You can’t be serious.” Guy and gal are simultaneously dropped to the floor, all threat forgotten in the crowd as they witness the bizarre show. The masked one starts to leave, and much to her dismay, the prophet takes her by the wrist and follows.

“Can you not respect my fucking beliefs for ONCE!” Hidan shouts at the back of his head as they go under a sunset sky.

“No.”

“KAKUZU!” Okay, so that’s both of their names now, she manages to note. “If you get your pointless bounties then I get this!”

“The hell you do!”

“Fucker!” Hidan spits back. “I saw it in her! This is something Jashin MEANT for me!” He grits his teeth, rationalizing the irrational. “We are all subject to Lord Jashin’s will! Even SHE can kill!”

The traveler only now recognizes how close to the outskirts they were, how if she screamed now, they’re so deep in the trees that the forest floor would dampen the sound. The red sclera stands out on Kakuzu’s face as he turns slowly-- too slowly-- to glare at the two behind them. She is in deep shit.

“I-I-I don’t mean to be trouble! I’ll just—” Politeness be damned, there’s no way out of a zombie’s grasp. Again, Kakuzu glares at her while addressing someone else.

“No expense,” he demands, curdling anger on his tongue. “No slowing us. She needs to do less than exist around me. If I feel a single iota of air shift around her, we are leaving her behind.”

In the woods. To die.

A lot of this comes back to killing or dying, doesn’t it?

She can’t even dare to swallow, while Hidan nonchalantly- roughly- yanks the woman from Kakuzu’s iron hold. “And you call me dramatic.”

Kakuzu doesn’t even have it in him to roll his eyes. He just turns back around, grips his fists to his sides, and walks once again. Hidan lets out a “pfff” in her ear.

“Old bitch.”

This traveler is fully aware she is just a goldfish in a plastic bag from this second on.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Why, I can't see That I am the "me" That I was born into And what's the source of you?

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Her tired heart won’t even stop pounding now that they’ve settled for the night; in fact, it made this worse. Idleness could mean anything to these people. For sure, at least for one it means that injuring others is entertaining. The other guy feeling at best contempt for her causes the woman to take Kakuzu’s threat very seriously. That’s why it’s such a surprise when a half hour or so into Hidan’s prayers, the masked man speaks to her for the first time.

“How’d he get you into this?”

She gasps lightly, as if any request of her will weigh the worth of her existence. As she hesitates, Kakuzu dips his head, light of the fire slicking over his slashed headband and ghostly gemstone eyes. Thinking better of it, she blinks away the fear and tries to reply.

“He...helped me get out of a bad situation.”

Rustling grass and crickets. She’s guessing if he wants more.

“He...saw me kill someone to get away. And. I guess he liked it.” Her voice is so soft, words not thick like honey but like tar.

“So he didn’t help you at all.”

“It was his weapon,” she states as defense. He murmurs in response. The pages of Kakuzu’s book finish flipping between his fingers, and he’s satisfied that at least as of this moment, she has no price.

“So you don’t want this.”

“I—” the woman holds herself tighter, hands in her lap and flames flickering, leaving as fast as they come. “I don’t. Know.”

“So you don’t.”

“I can HEAR, you bastards.” She suppresses a yelp but not a shiver. Kakuzu only sighs.

“She’s taking you for a ride, Hidan. Know that underneath all of your pointless sentimentality.”

“TCH!”

The silence fills the space between them, suffocating. Is she? Is she taking him for a ride? It never crossed her that way, but it was true. Just sticking around to whatever- whoever- offers a place to cling to. And how did it end up with the first guy? She was lucky that a sore face is the worst she got out of it. So what about this?

They sit in a triangle, both staring at the fire as a glow washes the fronts of midnight-soaked garb. One holds a book in front of his hearts and the other has a pendant to his lips. No one is really happy about all this. What’s the point?

Bravely, gently, the woman shifts up and wanders slowly enough that it’s known she’s not running away. She gets far enough away she believes no one can hear her, if she just speaks under her breath. A cliff is ahead, a clearing of stars over a pit of lush, deep greens stories below and miles beyond. The little noise there is becomes so much louder. Rustling leaves in the wind surely will keep her secret. You can taste the oxygen from so many trees; maybe they will satiate the hunger. Her own heart is sore from racing. Wistfully, she needs peace now, in this quiet, uncaring world that won’t let her rest.

My lover’s got humor

She whispers melodically.

She's the giggle at a funeral

Knows everybody's disapproval

I should've worshiped her sooner

If the Heavens ever did speak

She's the last true mouthpiece

Every Sunday's getting more bleak

A fresh poison each week

Hidan breathes in.

We were born sick

You heard them say it

Hidan breathes out.

My church offers no absolutes

She tells me, "Worship in the bedroom"

The only Heaven I'll be sent to

Is when I'm alone with you

I was born sick, but I love it

Command me to be well

Amen

Kakuzu doesn't acknowledge, but he does listen.

Amen

Hidan doesn’t know what it means, but he feels the veneration it carries. Her white-toned dress is spectral in the moonlight, curls of hair played with by the wind.

Amen

She prays for something she doesn’t know.

Amen

[stevie-petey]

When can we get some insight into jon’s mixtape 🤠

.... yes <3 you can listen to the mixtape here x

spoilers below !!

ok. i spent SO LONG on this mixtape. finding songs that not only were from the 80s but also songs jonathan would listen to but then also were songs that reminded him of bug ,,,, whew . shit was rought. but im so so so proud of it <333

so heres a long overdue analysis of the playlist ;)

in my life by the beatles: this is bugs song. ive said it before and i'll continue to say this. its her song. the lyrics remind me so much of her, its a song that encompasses all that i imagine her to be. she grew up with this song, its the song her dad would sing to her. and jonathan knew this and added the song because he knew she'd love it <3

in my life, i love you more.

uh oh, love comes to town by talking heads: this song is the bug n jon theme song in my mind. it kinda embodies who i see them as. this song started playing in jons head the moment the hendersons moved to hawkins <333 its a cute, fun song that he would play whenever bug was hanging out in his room. cuties !

im a know it all. im the smartest man around. thats right, you learn real fast. youre the smartest girl in town.

stay by oingo boingo: this song is about being vulnerable with someone and begging them to stay with you even though they cant offer you anything else ,,, pretty self explanatory i believe. when jon first hears this song he cant help but laugh at the irony of it all, and thats why he puts it in the mixtape. he knows only bug will understand.

this is not the first time you had to get away.

soul love by david bowie: i was iffy with this song. its not my favorite of bowies, but i think its just bizarre enough to catch jonathans attention. i think he hears it one day and it makes him think of how much bug loves everyone around her. the song is weird and philosophical and he knew immediately she would love it.

love is careless in its choosing.

these days by joy division: this song is so angsty jon coded i had to add it. i think this song can be interpreted however you want. for me, i think its about disliking the times youre living in but having someone next to you side to make it all bearable. for jon, this is bug for him. when shit goes wrong, shes always there and hes always there for him. theyve always taken care of one another, even during the bad.

searched hard for you and your special ways.

venus by television: this song talks about falling into the arms of venus de milo, a statue of venus that has no arms. read that however you want. but i interpret it as falling in love with nothing to catch you. thats kinda how bug and jon ended up. they both fell, it was a childish, free for all fall. its unclear whether the song is about love itself or the effect of drugs, but i think that makes it even more symbolic of jonathan and bug. the line that always seems to blur.

there stood another person who was a little surprised to be face to face with a world so alive.

youre all ive got tonight by the cars: now THIS song is just. so so so late seasons jon and bug. it perfectly describes their codependency. this song is all jonathan is for bug. he doesnt care if she hurts him or mocks him or breaks his heart and bug doesnt care if he does the same to her. this is where things get a bit :/// because of jonathans later phone call lmao.

i dont care if you use me again. i dont care if you abuse me again.

another day by the cure: god this song is so </333 its so lazy sunday afternoon staring out the window with the person who understands your silences as sworn oaths. and thats exactly how jonathan found the song. he had been listening to the record with bug one afternoon and she was laying next to him and he when he looked at her, it hit him. he was in love with her. this is the song that jonathan fell in love with bug to. she doesnt know this. she never will.

the sun rises slowly on another day.

what a great note to end on LMAO

[mr-president]

hey about ur chaos enabler au with bedman, is bedman aware that HC influenced the circumstances around his manipulation and death? if he does, how does he cope? does he compartmentalize it? do you think HC does an ariels impression sometimes to fuck with him

he’s definitely aware—not because chaos told him or anything, but moreso he just parsed it together himself with “i was the original who ventured into the backyard and had been in there for a Very Long Time” and “i have powers to control reality” facts about chaos. hard not to piece it together, and chaos probably doesn’t give two shits whether bedman knows or not; he probably finds it funnier if he does know.

he probably copes very poorly, mostly just burying himself in philosophical conundrums and technicalities of his research assistant to ignore the fact that he got absolutely Gotted. he entertains these thoughts by bugging chaos about the stupidity of several paradoxes in his plans, which chaos happily obliges these logical debates, since he can flex and be a little bit more like himself prior to the backyard. but mostly to be a contrarian piece of shit internet debater.

since bedman fully believes as well that he is entirely at fault about everything with his horrible circumstances (as well as carrying to guilt of killing a lot of people), he probably spirals a lot between the inevitability of his current existence and how he believes he deserves it/wasn’t smart enough to prevent it. the only reprieve he gets is that he genuinely did accomplish his goal of giving delilah a happy, comfortable, real life, and now he can guarantee her protection from then on. the moral questions of whether it was right to do this or not—barring the fact that he was mislead into believing he could undo his mistakes—still plagues him, but he jumps between “that was so fucked up it deserve worse than death for it” and “this is fine, fuck it, what’s done is done and my sister is safe” pretty often.

i’d imagine he discusses this with chaos himself a lot, mostly to pass the time. chaos is, well chaos, but ideologically he’s mostly neutral. he’s just past the point of ideology and embraced total individual autonomy. but in debates, i believe he argues from a perspective different from his physical actions (like most people do!). so yeah, he’d definitely do an ariels impression just to fuck with bedman, but his actual opinion on bedman’s actions would probably be something like “from a human perspective, it’s inexcusable, and if there could have been a better way to solve this issue or see through ariels’ schemes beforehand, then it would be completely unjustifiable. but you were misled, and you fully understood the weight of your actions and planned in advance to remedy them; that complicates matters. morality is chaotic itself, and what is considered repentance—whether it’s punishment or service—is ultimately social. basically, you do you” or some shit like that. but it would come out like “lmao you killed a bunch more people’s sisters by doing this, you know? and i killed waaaaaayyyy more people and ur hanging out w me soooooooooo” if that makes sense

[youremyheaven]

https://www.tumblr.com/youremyheaven/754408463252209664/i-checked-jks-mahadasha-and-hes-going-through?source=share

Man Russell brand is problematic I don't want jk to become like that 😔 , and tattoos are a spiritual part of so many tribes , that man got an eye tattoo ( which people mistook as illuminati so he got it covered) in a live he said he got the eye tattoo so he can feel he is being watched and don't take wrong decisions in life that shows good moral compass ( Jupiter trait) and if I am not wrong he has jupiter in 1st house in cancer exalted in d9 .

Russell brand is so not it and apart jk releasing that song 3d( that song rap is so fucking misogynistic) , if I leave that thing I think he is pretty spiritual just not mainstream way but I believe he asked jimin to go with him at a temple. Ketuvians idts can live that sanely if they don't feel spiritual or don't have a feminine in their life to drain( mostly Ashlesha)

I know he's problematic as hell (sexually assaulted multiple women???) and I wasn't seriously implying that JK will turn into him,, I just meant that he'd channel the vibes of a guy who just seemed super spiritual and philosophical and the first name that came to my mind was Russell Brand 😬😬I admit that its a poor comparison considering Russell is known for being an asshole as well (even without the SA allegations) but I ONLY meant his spiritual philosophical vibe, like take any interview of his and he's just talking about existential things

tattoos are deeply spiritual to me and they're connected to Ketu for a reason,, Claire explained this in her tattoo video about how getting tattoos and piercings are a way to open up certain energetic channels and how marking your body permanently can have spiritual consequences

ive heard that getting your nose piercing is a remedy for Mercury related issues

and ear piercings are supposed to help both your Venus and Jupiter apparently

there's more but i cant remember them rn

idk if he has Jup in 1h but he has struck me a "good" person so he probably channels healthy Jup energy (his Ketu is in Purvabhadrapada in D1, idk which house but generally the Ketu placement is very apparent with artists because they have to reach that deep down within themselves to make art. It can be more dormant or less obvious with other people tho but generally I've noticed/sensed the Ketu nak's energy with manyyy artists, for example, Namjoon has Ketu in Bharani and everything he writes, how he talks about life etc is soooo Bharani influenced, its hard to miss. His dignified stoic kinda vibe (which I also attribute to him most likely being Vishaka Rising) kinda comes from there because Purvaphalguni can exhibit similar Venusian traits but Namjoon's unique brand of Venusian male behaviour also feels heavily Bharani (all that eternal love he sings about = Bharani, him singing about being horny = Purvaphalguni lmao)

idk whether or not JK is spiritual but he seems connected to that energy at least a little. he said he'd hear bells when he met his soulmate lmao, ik that sounds like a cheesy fanservice-y thing to say but i also feel like its very Venusian of him (he's Purvaphalguni Sun)

Ketuvian men draining women is so real UGHHHHH i think they're hot but i could never date them due to this very reason,, they suck the life out of me :///

[nysus-temple]

[Helen/Paris] and [Odysseus/Calypso(and/or)Circe] similarities

I shouldn't have actually written this down? Probably. Am I still gonna do it anyways? Yeah. 8 years in the Trojan Cycle thingy and people are still discussing the interactions between this characters, damn, I thought it was clear enough.

Anyways. Onto the similarities and why I keep thinking until this day that both Helen and Odysseus were held captives. It's a short essay, since i'm just dumping my thoughts and other people's thoughts after seeing the ammount of bullshit that goes around here.

Were you kidnapped or seduced?

Agh, jeez.

So can we, you know, start from the part that it's Aphrodite the one who does literally everything? DO NOT demonize Aphrodite, this IS NOT what i'm telling you to do.

She had to do her part of the deal, that's why she gave Helen to Paris as a prize for choosing her. She's a goddess, we know how this works.

The thing is... Okay, Aphrodite forced everything since she promised it to Paris, but was Helen okay with this?

*checks notes* so Gorgias, a sophist philosopher (oh that explains why people never talk about him) said "but if Helen was raped by violence and illegally assaulted and unjustly insulted, it is clear that the raper, as the insulter, did the wronging, and the raped, as the insulted, did the suffering." ... Well, that's interesting.

I mean sure, we can EVEN still think that somehow she was seduced or whatever, but then in the Iliad, when Aphrodite tells her to go and comfort Paris, she refuses and fights with her. Helen literally fought with a goddess, explaining that she did not want to go with Paris.

But Aphrodite is a goddess, you cannot question the will of the gods, they're GODS for a reason. So she goes in the end, with fear.

(We even have... Whatever the hell Euripides' tragedies where. Since according to him, Helen was never in Troy, instead it was an ilussion made by Aphrodite, the real Helen was in Egypt. psjdksjfkd what. I kind of like it tbh, it's fun. But since Helen says in the Iliad that she's been 20 years in Troy already, that version just doesn't feel right. ANYWAYS-)

... Wait, 20 years? Why does that sound familiar? Ah, right, the other member of this essay. Odysseus.

Helen was kept against her will in Troy for 20 years, just like Odysseus was away from Ithaka for 20 years. Dude !!

I'll go with Calypso first since people defend her less than Circe (kind of) SO, you know the deal with translators acting as anything except translations? I believe that might have been the problem, at least in English, I don't recall an Spanish translation saying that he stayed with her for 7 years because he wanted too, lmao.

I myself haven't reach that far in my degree to translate the Odyssey nor the Iliad, but I still have copies of them in the original Greek. So you see, there's some small things that I have enough level to understand and translate by myself and realize how blind we all are.

Did he want to?

You know the whole deal with people not giving words from other languages the proper definition? In this passage of the Odyssey, the word used when saying that Odysseus "slept" with Calypso was anágke (ἀνάγκῃ). Which means, HEAR ME OUT, force, it means FORCE. And this next thing is more me being risky because as I said, I'm not that far in terms of translation levels, but in the text, it's in dative, the dative is used, in a simple definition, for denote the person or object affected.

He stayed with Calypso BY FORCE !! Shock. Wow. And I mean, he literally cries everyday because his only way to cope with the fact that he's trapped is by thinking about Penelope and Ithaka while crying looking at the sea. How can you see him staying willingly being like that? And the "he just left because he got tired of her" ... So you're saying that (trying to have the most mysognistic way of thinking ever) he got tired of an inmortal gorgeous nymph who would not age? You're telling me he preferred to leave, even if it was risky, than staying in an island that was considered a paradise? Yeah, no, sorry, not buying it. HIS ASS DID NOT WANT TO BE THERE, just like how Helen did not want to be in Troy. Move on. And now and quickly because the more I talk about this topic the more tired I grow out of Circe...

Odysseus just... Never says that he wants to? That he's fine with it? He literally just saw a sorceress trap his men and planning on killing them, so what was he gonna do against that? Hermes to the rescue... More or less ! He pretty much just told him to obey what he was told to, and that if he wanted to save his men from Circe, he had to do what she asked him too, after making her swear she wasn't gonna hurt them. So what gives, you're told BY THE GODS that you have to stay there for a little while if you want to keep your men safe and convince Circe of showing you your way out of the island.

Remember? Helen did what Aphrodite told her to because you can't question the will of the gods, same goes with Odysseus and Hermes. You do what they tell you to do because they're gods... And, I mean, Circe is Helios' daughter. Do you really think you could hurt the daughter of the Sun and move away with it? No. Just look at what happened with the cows !

And now, a nice similarity to end this.

In the Odyssey, it is clearly stated that Menelaus and Helen are FINE. They still love and care for eachother, they're still husband and wife. If you truly believe Menelaus didn't believe Helen... Then read the Odyssey?

20 years appart they were, following what Helen said in the Iliad, just how Penelope and Odysseus were 20 years appart and they still loved eachother and recognized their tricks despite the time.

Both Helen and Odysseus were trapped by people who had power over them, they couldn't do anything to be freed from them unless the will of the gods stated otherwise.

So, if after this you keep believing that Helen didn't love Menelaus anymore and that she's the culprit of the Trojan War; and that Odysseus didn't care for Penelope at all and he stayed with Circe and Calypso because he wanted too... Maybe you should start wearing glasses, since apparently you can't read well?

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

Can I ask your top 10 fav fics ever (from any fandom, if you don't mind)?

Also, just curious, is there a story behind your name "ofoceansandtombsanew "?

Oooh that's a fun one! Time to go diggin' though my favs because do I have some recs!

But first, I'll answer the easier of these two questions, the one about my url. Originally it was "ofoceansandtombstones" but some bs happened and my original blog accidentally got deleted. But it was still up for a few days afterwards miraculously so I couldn't actually use my old url for the new writing blog I made, so I went with "ofoceansandtombsanew" to represent that the evils of my clumsiness couldn't defeat me and that I was the same user as the OG account.

But as to why I have the oceans and tombs name in general, there are a few reasons. I'm a professional yapper, sorry in advance for this being long. (TLDR: I love selkies and banshees, I love the ocean & water in general and I have a lot of deep thoughts and philosophical wonders about death.)

Two of my favorite faeries in all of mythology and the selkie (a shapeshifting faerie that goes back and forth between human and seal by use of their seal coat) and the bansee (faerie women that herald death by wailing, screaming and keening). I like to jokingly call myself the love child of a selkie and a banshee as well.

I've loved the water and the ocean since I was a kid. To a point to where my moms both tell me that it was never a pain to get me in a bath, the pain was in trying to get me out of it (so they had to drain the tub first). And that they'd have to keep the bathroom door closed because if my brothers left it open and the toilet seat open... well to Kid Nyla, it was free real estate to play in water.

As a kid I also had a really reckless habit of jumping into the deep end of the pool.......... even though I couldn't swim. But I also taught myself how to swim (ironically I taught myself how to swim underwater, I never got the hang of overwater swimming). I was also that kid that just floated around in the water letting myself become 'one with it'. In the third grade I found this website called changeyourlifespells or some shit like that and spent a month trying to find a spell that would turn me into a mermaid if I touched water.

It's to the point that in any elemental magic system where water is an option, my IRLs stick that one on me. One of my IRLs in particular. Disney Fairies? (The books mostly but I do love the movies. I just wish Rani and Prilla were there too TAT. My girl Fira too.) I'd be a water-talent. I told her once one of my moms said I would have been a firebender and she deadass went "your mom is wrong. It's water. The only option has ever been water." She doesn't even play Genshin but when I talked about Dendro and Electro being possible options for me, she immediately shot that down too lmao to be honest she's right. I'd likely end up with a Hydro Vision and I wouldn't have been mad. She also told me to not be on some Children of the Sea shit and disappear into the ocean whenever I went to the beach.

But I'm also fairly comfortable around the subject of death. If you've read any of my fics on this blog that have a reader character that is a god of death or death incarnate or somehow death-adjacent, you'll have probably read my philosophies concerning death and its place in the cycle. I've been told by funeral directors that they thought I'd be really good in the profession whether as a mortician or a director of a funeral myself if I decided not to go into education.

And I have a blog on the side for this kind of thing but on one side of the family, Mom2's, experience with the supernatural runs in it so it's something I've dealt with since being a kid.

Either way, when I was trying to come up with a name for my writing blog, I ended up deciding to go into my self-proclaimed lovechild of a selkie and banshee-isms. It was supposed to be temporary honestly, until I found something that sounded more writing blog-y. But it stuck. To me there's nothing more beautiful than the ocean, the sound of the waves, the blue, the cry of the gulls and so on and so forth. But there's a beauty in death I think, if you look at it from a certain angle.

^o^ No one's ever asked about my url before, that was fun to talk about!

As for the second... oof that will take some thinking.

💧 = 18+

save your love by @cafedanslanuit 💧

Porco wasn’t surprised when you called him at three in the morning because you were too drunk to drive back to your place. He would always be there when you needed, both as your best friend and the guy who was completely head over heels for you. And both of them were sure Zeke Jaeger was cheating on you.

Written by one of homies on this hellsite. If you want your quality of Porco-related reader inserts, this is one I recommend fully. I really mean it when I say I go back to read this over from time to time.

Let This Bond Be Heard, Lover by @lychniis

he bore an irrefutable connection with you, tangled through their fingers. parts of you, guides to you and he finds himself so hopelessly smitten and scared...for love it was a beautiful, painful thing.

Aine speaks... and I listen. I don't even simp after Ayato and I was still hanging on every word. Goes to show what happens when the homies cook. A soulmate AU fic with lots of yearning and tension, all in a oneshot.

Nerve in my Bone by @hash-slinging-slasher-trash

Sometimes Satoru forgets how fragile you are. But in moments like these, the realization twists in his chest like a blade.

Another homie cooking up a storm on their blog for no reason, other than the fact that they can! I think this is really good if you love Gojo-related character exploration as well as bro bro being a dad to Megumi. The best of both worlds!

More Than Human by sbj

There is no way I can make this sound original, ever. My attempt to write a believable RrB/PpG in high school fic. Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal. - Camus

The best PPG fic in the world, no questions asked. Each character feels extremely representative of what the girls and boys would be like at this age and the fandom around this fic? Love it. We literally all lose our minds whenever this fic updates. I've been following it since its days of being published on FFN and I look forward to reading the thrilling conclusion. Oh god just thinking about the quality of the ships just make me fjsnkjdnkdjfn

Three Months by kaotic321

When the girls get together, watch out! They're making lists and checking it twice. Are the guys in or out? Shika, Neji, Naruto, and Sasuke are now declared 'undateable' by the girls. Who does that leave?

A really fun what if fic about the Naruto girls we know and love deciding to try out dating someone they normally wouldn't. Sakura and Kiba, Hinata and Chouji, Ino and Gaara, Temari and Shino, Tenten and Kankurou. I loved this shit so much found it by accident when I was going through my KibaSaku phase (still love that ship btw). 50 chapters of goodness I still go back to read.

Vertigo by Cynchick💧

Sakura accepts the most critical and dangerous mission of her life, but the price of success may very well be her soul. When your entire world turns upside down, how do you keep from going under?

From my DeiSaku phase. Still love that ship very much btw ANYWAYS, oh my god this was so good. Basically it's an AU of 'what if Deidara didn't die after his explosion' where Sakura finds him and heals him without realizing he's a member of the Akatsuki. Chaos ensues from there years later when she needs to join the Akatsuki for an undercover mission.

Somewhere I've Never Traveled, Gladly Beyond by Wyntermute

Naruto had been bragging all day that his new jutsu was his best yet. Sakura and her new situation beg to differ. Post timeskip.

Another one from the DeiSaku phase lmao. Sakura and Deidara are stuck traveling with each other as they try to get back to the shinobi nations, somewhere in there, they fall in love. Hnnngh this is still so damn good all these years later! The amount of Naruto on here, my god fjdsnfkdsjnf sorry folks. I have read a lot of Naruto fic in my time.

sparkling, stammering, splendid by createandconstruct

He wanted to see her. He always did. He’d gotten used to waking up on time for school each morning because despite everything else, Mitsumi was there. But this feeling, this want, was new, or a revelation of what had always been. A culmination of everything he’d felt before.

ShimaMitsu for the soul, made after during the chapter 53 era when the entire sukirofa fandom was losing it after Sousuke realized he's been in love with Mitsumi for months. 11/10, always read again.

Crepuscular Rays by Axe_puff

It takes Shikamaru a little while to realise he's fallen in love. In comparison, it takes Naruto barely any time at all. But that's only after Shikamaru finds it in himself to confess in the first place.

A retelling of Naruto from Shikamaru's perspective, also he's been in love with him for ages. Onesided NaruHina and an unexpected ShikaHina bromance that fed my soul.

surrender to your peace by spiralpegasus

Sylvain and Felix have been in each other's lives for as long as they can both remember. As the years go by, their relationship grows and changes, but one thing stays the same: the way it feels to sleep beside each other. Or, five times circumstance makes Sylvain and Felix share a bed, and one time it's choice.

Quality Sylvix for the soul, you're welcome. I adore relationship it's lwk why I've never played Golden Deer or Crimson Rose. I have to experience those routes on youtube lmao. Anyways, sylvix is a ship I adore a lot (maybe I should make an addendum to that ship ask I got) and I love when the childhood aspect of their relationship is explored in writing.

[aprofessionalwithoutstandards]

Since someone brought up the God’s Gift thing in the comics, it makes me think that when the mercs die (at least the ones going to heaven) they get whatever they would consider paradise/happiness?

Like Sniper saw his parents (who are also dead) bc as we’ve seen in Meet the Sniper and the comics, they never approved of his profession. So, when he sees them praise him/tell him to get back to work, he’s fully content. He doesn’t need an extravagant eternity, he just wanted their approval.

Scout on the other hand had God himself boosting his ego, endless games to play, Tom Jones, and overall *attention* (I’m guessing he doesn’t see his siblings + mom bc they’re still alive). I think that interpretation is actually really nice? Like there’s no universal “paradise” just what each person would consider paradise. Parental approval for Sniper and what’s essentially a hypeman for Scout. Idk this is long sorry but it made me curious

YEAH! I think I did a post abt this actually AHGKLAHGA where I got like super philosophical and informed by my own ideas about religion and a whoooole buncha boring personal stuff u guys aren't here for LMAO but like yeah! That's basically how I feel. However, I do think SOME stuff calls into question whether or not what they see is, quote unquote, "real" - I think a lot of people take this idea and go "so because each of their heavens are different, what they see isn't 'real' and there is no God in the tf2 universe" which I'm not fond of either as a genuine perspective on religion (boring and personal) OR as an interpretation of the source material (fun and what ur here for)! I think we kinda ARE meant to understand that each of their heavens are "real." I think Scout's is a better example for arguing that God is real in the tf2 universe: Scout dies, Scout goes to Heaven, Scout meets God, God decides Scout should come back to life, Scout comes back to life. It's not like Sniper where Medic brought him back to life with science; Scout just leaves the pearly gates and wakes right back up. Also, we see Tom Jones in heaven. If this were all in Scout's mind, he wouldn't KNOW that Tom Jones is in heaven - even if he subconsciously knows that Spy is his dad and is just in denial about it (as is heavily implied), he seems to have NO idea that Tom Jones is dead! So heaven must be real because Tom Jones is there while Scout doesn't know that Tom Jones is dead.

This isn't even getting into how Medic MOST DEFINITELY goes to Hell for real, so the Devil must exist. Medic DIES. He's like, SUPER dead. He gets shot twice directly in the chest. He's DEAD. And he comes back. Just like, stands right back up. And it's implied that he previously interacted with the Devil in order to "sell his soul." And he wakes up with the fuckin pen. So the Devil is real, God is real, Sniper's vision of his parents is also probably real but I just don't have the stuff to back that one up. Sorry Snipes