#yes they are puppets i just liked their real people faces

[fiomeras]

Overcomplicated yuri

[inkats]

having a crush is like poison status effect whenever u have to think.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Multiverse Police (pt.3)

JL very soon finds out there's no reasoning or controlling this particular brand of crazy. Amity, as they like to call themselves - 'Because saying Interdimensional Law Enforcement every time is long and ILE is boring', Dani explains to them - do whatever they want and deem necessary, and no one can stop them.

They have bargained with the US government to let their whole town stay for a week in Illinois like one would ask to stay in a hotel room. They have all but swiped all the tech shops in the nearby area, and somehow, they had real, actual money to pay for it, despite not even originating from this dimension. They claimed it was due to the Ghost - or God, the opinions were mixed - of Time making it work. They visited a bunch of people. Heroes, that was.

One memorable visit was one they paid to Flashes. Vlad, the mayor of Amity Park and unofficial leader of ILE, and Tucker, a kid with an insane knowledge on all and every kind of tech, performed a whole lecture to Flash family as well as their friends and colleagues, on importance of safety while time-traveling, the best ways to fix the timelines and even on upgrades to their costumes.

The other important visit was the one they paid to Diana, although that one was not so climactic - Jazz just gave her a bunch of letters and a card with a summoning sigil on it. 'It's for Pandora, she enjoys having a cup of tea with Themyskirians,' the redhead claimed.

Now, it was Batman's turn, it seems.

Danny was standing - more like floating - in front of Red Hood. They were at the Watchtower since Batman did not like Amity coming to Gotham. In his opinion, that would be just calling for trouble, and both Valerie - head of ILE security - and the records of other Batmans said he was not wrong.

"Yeah, this one's fucked up," Danny says after almost three minutes of looking straight at Hood, and the man huffs:

"Thanks, I got that part," he throws back, but Danny just laughs softly.

"No, sorry, I didn't mean it as you personally. Just, like, compared to the other Red Hoods I've met. At least you're not fucked up beyond reason, I can still help you," the ghost boy says cheerfully and claps his hands, "Ready to get rid of the boiling rage in your veins?"

And, before either Hood or Batman can say anything, he reaches his hands inside Jason, and the man tenses up, holding his breath. Batman hovers close - he's read about the same kind of procedure being performed by Danny on other versions of Jason in the files, but reading about it and witnessing it is two entirely different things.

Danny's hands start turning green. The same thing he did with the portal before happens again: glowing, Lazarus green flows up his hands, like veins outside his skin. Only this time, it's not as bright as the portal was. It's murky and dull.

A few seconds later, Danny slowly takes his hands out of Red Hood's chest, and Bruce is really glad he was standing so close because Jason all but falls down to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Batman holds him by the shoulder, keeping him up, but Danny shakes his head:

"No, he better sit down. He's probably gonna feel lightheaded for a few minutes. Oh, and catch," he throws something to Batman, which he catches on reflex. It's a weird, jello-like substance of dark, dirty green color, almost like a stress ball.

"What is it?" He asks, and Danny grins:

"A souvenir. That's his Pit Rage," he nods to Red Hood.

"My what?!" Jason snaps his head to the ball in Batman's hands.

"The parts that made it actual Rage. Think, like, an infection, or a parasite, or just- You know what, it's what you get when some crazy asshole bathes you in ghost sewers," Danny shrugs, completely disregarding the face expressions Batman and Red Hood are giving him. "Speaking of which, do you wanna come with us when we get rid of those Lazarus Pits of yours?"

There's a bit of silence, before Red Hood breathes out:

"Hell, yes."

-------------------------

I'll be writing another part with Amity getting rid of Ra's and Lazarus Pits, yeah. In the meantime, Sam is looking for Constantine to give him a slap on the hand because all the John Constantine's pieces of soul were like a massive jigsaw puzzle to her, considering there's more than one John Constantine and all of them can't stop selling their fucking souls even for a minute and Sam is so done.

Tucker and Tim are nerding out in WE with no sleep or food, Damian gets to play with Cujo, Kon is discussing clones' trials and tribulations with Dani, Jazz is giving Supes a long overdue lecture on how to treat clones, Dan is looking for someone to fight - so far he's found Captain Marvel but he knows he is just a kid so instead of actual fighting they are playing Mario Cart - Val is having fun with Arrows because sharp shooters gotta stick together, and Vlad had abandoned all of his responsibilities and is hiding in Lex Luthor's penthouse, discussing cat breeds and how annoying heroes can be.

Paulina made her way into Gotham without anyone noticing and befriended Harley and Sirens, so Batman may or may not find a particular clown dead when he comes back to his city. Dash is actually not up for trouble, so he is on duty in Amity Park, doing tours for all the curious people who got interested in ghost town and decided to visit. GIW agents are in the process of locating all the Pits, Maddie is elbow deep in a scientific discussion with Martian Manhunter, Jack is upgrading the Amity Ship with all the new tech he's got, and Cyborg is keeping watch on him.

Did I forget anyone? I most likely did.

| <- prev | next ? |

Tag list: @mae-mae-mae @okami-love @fantasticstoryteller @ultra-stormsaga

[theminecraftbee]

The moon has fully set over the horizon. The howling over the server has stopped. Four Hermits sit in a circle, staring just slightly away from each other, as to not be caught staring. Joe is miserably trying to wring mud out of his puppet. Stress isn't bothering about the mud at all but is despairing at how shredded her jumper is. Somehow, Zedaph has only lost a shoe, which is more concerning than any of the prior people. Xisuma is deliberately not checking himself. The damning lack of helmet on his head, though, means he can't avoid feeling how he underwent the same terrible transformation as everyone else.

"So," he says, finally.

"I could use pants," Joe says, finally giving up on washing out his puppet, and, ah. Yes. Those are pretty well destroyed, aren't they? Xisuma looks away politely, feeling his face heat up. It heats up more when he realizes everyone can see it, gosh, he's–he's not so sure how he feels about that–

"I think we all need pants. Look at us," Stress says, and if Xisuma can be looking away any harder, he sure is now. Wait, she said 'all', does that include... Oh, oh dear.

"Well I don't know about you, but I still have perfectly serviceable pants," Zedaph says imperiously.

"You know, if anything, that's weirder, given the way we were all giant wolves traipsing around in the night just now. Which is strange itself! However, wolves don't normally wear pants, so really, the fact the only article of clothing you've lost is your shoes is less miraculous and more actively impossible!" Joe responds.

"Well you're actively impossible," mutters Zedaph.

"My god, it was real," Xisuma says.

"Well, I mean, I sort of figured it had to be, what with the four of us being all covered in mud and tired and your helmet being gone and all that," Stress says.

"It was real," Xisuma says.

The four of them sit in silence a little longer. The sun continues its steady march upwards into the sky. It's April; the day is longer than the night, by now, so they aren't wasting but so much time compared to the time the moon was up. The time the moon was up feels a bit more like a dream than anything else, too; distantly, Xisuma wonders if this is what spiders feel like when they become angry during the night, or what drives the undead from the ground. It's a disquieting thought, and he'd literally lived in a skeleton!

"So," Joe says. "So. Which one of us is going to yell at Zedaph for biting us?"

"Rude!" Zedaph says. "Very rude, I'm not the one that bit you! You bit me! Xisuma bit me, actually, you all saw him!"

"What? No, I didn't!" Xisuma says. "Gosh, if I were a werewolf, don't you think you'd know by now?"

"Hm. Suspicious," Zedaph says.

"No?" Xisuma says.

"I mean, I'd try to claim it was my fault, what with being a monster and all, but I'm actually a different sort of beastie normally," Stress says. "Being all doggy is new for me. I should show Iskall. Hey, do you think I should bite Iskall?"

"Yes," Zedaph says.

"No," Xisuma says.

"I'll split the difference and say maybe," Joe says. "Also, since we're arguing about it anyway, I'll say that I think I'd remember if I bit someone, although maybe I wouldn't. It's been a weird night. Maybe I should just go ahead and get everyone apology gifts instead?"

"Please don't," Zedaph says.

"Aww, but I like his gifts," Stress says.

"Honestly, yeah, I was–no, Zedaph is right, it'd be too distracting," Xisuma says, thinking of many of the, er, gifts he's gotten from Joe in the past. "Besides, it's not your fault. But if none of us bit anyone, then why on earth are we all werewolves no–oh no."

"That was ominous?" Joe says.

"Oh. Ohhhhhh," Zedaph says. "Whoops."

"It was supposed to be a joke about investment bankers," Xisuma says.

"Wait, what, do you really think the silly name turned us into werewolves?" Stress says.

"I had other season plans, Xisuma!" Joe says.

"Hey, does that make me a sheep in wolf's clothing that's also a wolf that turns into a sheep that turns into a wolf? If so, neat," Zedaph says.

"Do you know how annoying it will be to get a werewolf puppet?" Joe says.

"Gosh, I absolutely have to bite Iskall now," Stress says.

Xisuma, for a moment, considers putting a stop to it. If it really is the silly name, the collective, the hats and the howls–if it really is the collective weight of story bearing down on all of them–then really, it's still so early that it would be very easy to stop.

Xisuma considers the competition the rest of the shopping district poses, and how easy it will be to move as a collective when they're also a pack.

Also, he hasn't actually been a wolf before. That's one mob he hasn't done!

"You should bite Iskall. I want to know what it does," Xisuma says, deciding that he's quite bored with being responsible and that if someone wants to stop it, it will have to be not him. "But, er, first, in the meantime, do you think he or Doc is better to ask for a helmet that'll grow to fit my muzzle instead of nearly trapping my skull?"

"Hm," Stress says. "Well, Iskall is pretty good at head electronics."

"Yeah, but Doc is a better choice for abominations against nature!" Joe says.

"What about me? I like abominations," Zedaph says.

"It's okay, Zedaph, it's just you don't make many helmets, is all," Xisuma says. "We'll run around being abominations of nature, gosh, most full moons together. Is that good enough?"

"Fine," Zedaph says. "I'm bringing the snacks. I have sheep, and I've always wanted to try cannibalism."

"I guess werewolves wouldn't have to worry about prions," Joe says, nodding.

"Well, if you're going to get Doc, I'm going to go bite Iskall. I know I don't got fangs right now but it'll be very funny either way," Stress says.

"Have fun!" Xisuma says, and even though he's still red, and no one has pants but Zedaph, and he feels vaguely sick without his helmet, he also feels something close to pure delight. Gosh. Werewolves, huh? What a concept, having a little pack. He'll have to make the most of it; they've already seen his face anyway, and not one of them have commented or looked him in the eyes. Clearly, it won't matter so much if Doc takes a while with the helmet.

[linkspooky]

YUTA WAS ALWAYS SELFISH

I was originally going to make this post the week the big twist with Yuta in Gojo's body happened, because of the massive subversion that it was. It was the kind of twist that made you question if everything you ever knew about the character was wrong. Namely, Yuta one of the most empathic sorcerers we see in the series - the character who seems to lack the selfishness of the other sorcerers that make up jujutsu society. The kid who fights with the literal power of love.

Was Yuta a monster to begin with and we just didn't see?

So ignore the clickbaity tagline, Yuta is one of my favorite characters I'm not going to start calling him a terrible person. Rather that Yuta is dismissed as a soft kid or a wifeguy, when he's actually more cunning and cutthroat than anyone gives him credit for.

If a sorcerer is nothing more than a con-artist, then if the talent for trickery he displayed in the Sukuna fight is anything to go by Yuta is a true sorcerer down to his bones. Yuta turning Gojo's body into a puppet seems like a massive twist, and almost out of character for Yuta who was so devoted to Gojo.

His earlier fight in the culling game even seemed to hint that Yuta was too soft and he didn't truly have the attitude to fight someone like Ryomen Sukuna who was the embodiment of a calamity.

These panels seemed like a prophecy that Yuta was doomed to fall short against Sukuna. That he could never live up to his title as the next Satoru Gojo, because unlike Gojo and Sukuna who can stand on the top alone Yuta clings to his loved ones.

Sukuna got to where he is by rejecting love. Sukuna is Sukuna because he's never needed anyone to satisfy him. So how can Yuta who needs to be surrounded by his loved ones at all time to validate him and tell him it's okay for him to be alive even compete?

However, even in JJK zero Yuta's love is questioned on whether or not it's as selfless and "pure" as it seems. To begin with, Maki calls him out early on for attracting bullies by playing the victim a lot. He pretends to be a good and innocent person put upon by his circumstances and bullies when really he doesn't want to help himself. Instead of standing up to the bullies he's always let Rika protect him and then condemned her for being a monster. He's let Rika take the blame for all the destruction, even though Rika is HIS cursed technique, created by HIS emotions, and is protecting him.

Yuta doesn't make any attempt to try to learn to control Rika, or even work with her, he just shrivels away in fear.

"You act like a good person, but it feels fake..." Yuta has always adopted the facade of a good person. He seems soft, socially anxious and withdrawn, even after he gains confidence as a sorcerer those traits don't go away because they're a part of his outward persona. Jung divides the psyche into two parts, the persona a mask that faces the world the parts of yourself that come out in your social interaction with people and then there's the shadow your repressed personality.

Yuta's shadow is a literal monster that declares her love for him and then expresses that love by violently destroying everything around him.

Yes, Rika initially contained the soul of someone else but Rika the curse was created by his technique, her power corresponds to his emotions, she comes from his shadow, and even after the real Rika passes on the Shikigami RIKA still remains completely under Yuta's control. Rika is Yuta, the embodiment of his twisted definition of love that would curse his loved ones to keep them by his side forever because he can't live without them. All of Rika's insane possessiveness? That's Yuta's too. Rika's violent overprotectiveness? That's Yuta.

How poetic is it really that Yuta and Rika are so codependent that Yuta's shadow, the other half of his personality is literally RIKA. Yuta cannot exist without love, and without someone too love, he's so terrified of being alone that he cursed Rika and then turned her corpse into a puppet after death. He uses his loved one as a weapon to fight his enemies.

If you think about it for more than five minutes Yuta's cursed technique and Rika has some seriously messed up implications, but it's hard too because as messed up as Yuta's love is it's still genuine.

Love is a curse, but in 236 Nanami speculates that sometimes curses can save people too, just like how Jujutsu Sorcerers use curses to fight and protect others.

So Yuta's love is a screaming, raging, overprotective monster, but it's also what give shim the motivation to fight ofr others. Yuta's love is a curse, but curses can save people too.

Yuta on the other hand isn't aware of his own darker nature most of the time.

The big twist in Jujutsu kaisen Zero is that just as Maki accused him of from the beginning, Yuta was playing the victim all along. He acted like Rika cursed him with her dying breath, but Yuta was the one who cursed her because he couldn't bear to live without her.

However, even this apology is a bit telling of Yuta's self-centered nature. He immediately turns everything into his fault and starts beating himself up over it. He doesn't look at anyone else's perspectives or that other people had a role to play. He deliberately ignores Rika's feelings on the past few years, which Rika is quick to point out for him.

This scene has a parallel later where Yuta ultimately, only thinks about himself first and foremost. In spite of wanting so badly to be surrounded by his loved ones, it's more about him loving them, and less about their feelings for him.

After all he's completely willing to commit a double suicide with Rika to protect his friends, ignoring the fact Rika doesn't want him to pass on just yet, and Maki, Inumaki and Panda wouldn't want him to disappear either. This scene has a direct parallel a year later in the fight against Sukuna when Yuta gives up his body.

Maki almost breaks character from her usual culling game arcs stoicity to fight and argue with Yuta to stop him form doing this, and Rika who one year earlier told Yuta to live a long life so she wouldn't have to see him on the other side so soon is reduced to screaming and sobbing while holding his dead body.

Yuta loves people, or at least he feels an intense amount of love for people, but he can be as self-centered as the other sorcerers we see in the story. Geto even points this out right away, that Yuta is selfish, that he's seeking self-affirmation first and foremost. He needs other people's approval, their love, to feel like he deserves to exist. He'll do anything to earn that love, and once he has it he'll do anything to protect it but it's ultimately for himself.

It manifests in Yuta's technique itself copy, which first and foremost requires Yuta to consume parts of his loved ones that can never be healed if he wants to keep their copied technique. Yuta gets stronger by literally eating his loved ones. We have canon confirmation that Yuta fed part of Inumaki's severed arm to Rika.

Yuta's cursed technique is to emulate the strengths of all of his loved ones copying them and making them a part of his oqn technique, because Yuta will take any shape and form in order to be loved. It's also the perfect technique for fighting as a part of a group, because someone like Sukuna will naturally assume that Yuta's technique STEALS instead of COPYING so he'll forget that the original still retains their technique.

Yuta's not only selfish and has a very selfish, overprotective love for others, but it's those exact qualities that make him an effective sorcerer strong in the area that Gojo is the weakest. Group coordination.

Gojo is in his element when he's alone, but Yuta is so codependent that he literally cannot exist unless other people are looking at him. His strength comes from the things he copies and takes from his friend, and he turned his loved one into a puppet to fight others. Is it really that surprising that this kid would willingly use Gojo's body as a weapon after death when that's literally what he did to Rika.

How telling is it that like Yuta learned that Rika was cursed by him, went so far to exorcise her spirit, and then after finally letting go after her spirit passed on he made a second Shikigami named Rika a few months later made out of the small remnants of cursed energy that Rika left behind as a gift after passing on. The dude is not over Rika, he's like, Geto and Gojo levels of not over Rika.

Yuta's cursed technique being the literal weaponization of his love and his loved ones makes him the best character for group coordination in the entire series. Yuta even adopts apsects of hakari's persona when making his plans against Sukuna since he decides to gamble at several key points in the plan.

Several of the key moments in the fight are all Yuta's plans, with some collaboration from Angel. He makes several bets too like Hakari would. The first being going to finish Kenjaku by himself and using both Todo and Takaba in conjunction to trick him. The second is the bet that he'd be able to make it back in time to rejoin the fight in case Higuruma's plan fail.

It was Yuta who let his own domain barrier down on purpose to let Sukuna think he had the victory so he would let his guard down and make it easy for Maki to ambush him. Something that also required perfect coordination between Yuta and Maki working in tandem with one another.

Yuta set up Hana to do one large jacob's ladder when Sukuna least expected it because he knew Sukuna would forget that his technique is COPY and not steal. He also made the biggest bluff which was leading Sukuna to believe that he fed Rika his last finger.

These aren't just good bluffs, they require near perfect coordination with your allies and taking several chances on them. Nobara might not have even woken up so the last finger / resonance Gambit was perhaps the biggest gamble. Maki and Yuta had to coordinate with each other well so Maki would be there when Yuta dropped the barrier. Yuta needed Takaba a relatively new and inexperienced sorcerer to survive against the threat that was Kenjaku, and he needed all of his allies to stay alive while he was prioritizing Kenjaku.

These are all plans Satoru Gojo would never have been able to pull off, because Gojo only ever relies on himself. If Yuta and Hakari had intervened in the Gojo and Sukuna fight then he would not have been able to go all out, whereas Yuta REQUIRES people collaborating with him in order TO GO ALL OUT.

This is Yuta. This is his strength. Yuta is nothing without love, so he takes on the forms of the people he loves and takes things from the people he loves in order to gain the power to protect him. Yuta copies everything from the people he loves, so is it really that much of a surprise that he'd become a monster just like Gojo.

In some ways, Geto and Yuuta were the same. Geto was too sincere. To someone like him, the reality that the world of sorcerers presented to him was just too cruel. ’…that in a world like this, I couldn’t be truly happy from the bottom of my heart.’ To live for the purpose of being yourself. And for that goal, Geto could only continue to pursue his twisted dream, drowning himself in the curse that lies in the gap between ideal and reality.

Love is a weapon for Yuta. Just like his curse technique can take any form, so does Yuta's love, and so does Yuta himself. Love always wins, and in order to do so Yuta will take any shape necessary, no matter how twisted.

Love is the worst curse of them all, and Yuta will become the worst monster of them all if it means protecting his love ones.

[harleehazbinfics]

Idk if ur doing cannibal reader but just imagine her and alastor teasing her and her just short circuiting and he keeps flirting with her and she s literally almost dies again lolz (also i love ur work sm)

Trying to Flirt with You

Cannibal chef! reader m.list | Author profile

A/N: THIS GAVE ME OHHH ASHLEYYY GLASHBACKS OH MY GODD thank you for liking my fics hsdshd. I didn't do the request 1-to-1 cause i was satisfied how this turned out hsadas I WANT YALL TO SEE HIM BE AFFECTIONATE UNDER ALL THAT EXTERIOR AND WHAT HE DOES WITH HER BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

"Oh, (y/n)~"

You place your eyes on Alastor as he settles his chin on his laced fingers and smiles at you seductively. You flush and hiccup when you see his heated gaze, your eyes turning to their irregular heart shapes.

The both of you were enjoying a wonderful meal together in his room like you usually would, however he's never called you like this before.

"Yes, sir?" you sputter wiping your mouth with a napkin.

"I was just wondering how your eyes turn that way," he says while smiling at you, "I find it quite cute."

You choke on your own spit at his complements, unsure how to react to his flirty remarks. It didn't help that the radio filter enhanced everything. You covered your mouth and fanned yourself from the massive blush you had on your face.

Sure, you were used to love bombing him and all, but you never outright flirted with him since he seemed to dislike other people's advances on him. So, to not end up on his bad side you settled to a more comfortable area where he won't despise you, but he knows that you appreciate him.

So, this was entirely new to you. He never reciprocated any of your affection so what were you supposed to do?! There was no handbook for this!

"Isn't it getting hot in here? Why don't I open a champagne--" You stopped from getting up when he snapped his fingers, a shadow puppet came and delivered the champagne in their glasses while another shadow pushed you back down on your chair scooted it closer to the table.

"How about I take care of that? We've known each other for so long but I want to get to know the real you better," he replies, "I have known for a long time that you're a fantastic cook! You failed to mention however that you went to culinary school and~ owned a restaurant of your own!"

"That is commendable on itself! Why, aren't you just the perfect partner for a cannibal overlord," He claps at your achievements.

"Partner?" you whisper sweat dripping from your form squirming from the amount of attention you're receiving.

"Why, of course! If not my partner, then what else!" he laughs heartily with a laughing track, "unless, of course, you mean to be my spouse?"

Your head exploded at the thought, your heart squeezed and pulled. S-spouse? to Alastor? That was just a wishful dream you had! You never thought he'd utter the words you only dreamed to hear. Several years of you imagining to his significant other, you never imagine he'd open the possibility of it.

While you head was running around, currently, you slumped on the chair as smoke came from your head as you muttered words to yourself with a dreamy smile with an unfocused look in your eyes that maintained their heart shape.

"Oh, (y/n)?" Alastor tries again to gain your attention and pull you from your daydreaming.

However, he unsuccessful. So, he just sighs in defeat with a chuckle and took your hand that was left on the table and caressed your knuckles with his thumb as his chin rested on the other as he admired your dazed form.

He barely started his conversation with you, and you've already turned out like this. It seems he'll have to be patient with you.

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[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.

[chronicbeans]

Wally and a Puppeteer Reader

I was just kinda thinking to myself... What would happen if he somehow got into contact with one of the puppeteers working on the show? Idk I just like to write what I find interesting. Lol.

TW: Obsessive Behaviors, Mentions of Stalking, Idol Worshipping

🍎 The first time Wally realized what is going on, he's going to panic. Yes, Wally has been aware of the fact that he is a puppet, but he never really understood what that meant. He has always just seen it as a name for what species he is. Kind of like how humans are called humans and that caterpillars are called caterpillars. Just a word that had no implications on his free will.

🍎 However, when he sees the outside of his world... the bright lights setting the stage, the crowd of people all running around and setting things up, he is terrified. These... creatures... look so similar to his neighbor that he has seen every now and again. The only difference is that they are usually smaller and, compared to some of these versions he now sees, have no fluff on their face.

🍎 Then, he sees YOU. He recognizes you. He's seen you in the background, behind one of the smaller creatures he calls his neighbor. You sometimes even come by to check on them. What are you doing here? He doesn't know, but you are an immediate comfort amongst the strange, unfamiliar faces... Even if he doesn't know you.

🍎 Next thing he knows, you are picking him up in your warm arms and carrying him somewhere. He watches as his neighborhood slips away from him, the horrifying realization that his world is just a small little stage in it of itself. His neighbors all being taken by their own strange creatures to their own little areas.

🍎 On your way to wherever you are taking him, someone happens to pop in. Complimenting you on your love for the little puppet in your arms, the excellent care you give him when handling him, and telling you that you are surprisingly good at puppeteering for a newbie on the set. You're going to make an amazing replacement for the last guy.

🍎 Wally cannot believe his ears. What's a puppeteer? This is the first time he's heard of that word. It isn't until the odd fellow asks you to make Wally say his iconic line that he realizes what is happening. You suddenly maneuver him, making a poor impression of his voice as you force him to say "You think I'm the absolute most? You're the most to me, neighbor!"

🍎 Yes... the situation is all coming together in his mind. You must be the one behind everything! All that he does and all that he says is in your hands. All that his friends do and say should be in your hands too, right? It would make sense... If you can control him, then you can control the others!

🍎 Soon enough, you've brought Wally to a room with a little tote box near the corner. You begin checking him over, looking for rips or tears, before wrapping him in a plastic bag. Then, you place him in the box, making sure he isn't squished at all.

🍎 Left alone with his thoughts, Wally thinks about everything that has happened. This all feels too real to be a dream, as much as he sort of wishes it was. In fact, it feels more real than his life before this. He must do something, anything, but he doesn't know why. He just has to do something other than sitting in this bag inside a tote.

🍎 So, after a few hours of trying to move, he finally succeeds. He's gotten himself out of the plastic bag... Then, after a few more minutes, he hears someone return to the room. Lying limp, he watches as you open the box. Your eyes grow wide as you look down at him. You turn your head to look around the room, before crying out "Hey... Dave... Did you mess with Wally?" "Nah, (Y/N)! Why? Is something wrong?" With that, you leave to go talk to this... "Dave".

🍎 Of course, he follows. Very slowly, since he isn't used to walking in this... odd way. His legs feel weak. Like they are filled with stuffing. It is a strange feeling. He is also so incredibly cold. Why is he cold, yet, you are so warm?

🍎 He find you talking to another one of your kind. You and the other strange creatures that make up your species seem so frightened by him moving. Why is it okay for you to make him move, but not for him to move on his own? Why are they assuming someone tampered with him?

🍎 You seem most worried. How... introguing. You seem so kind compared to the rest of these odd creatures! So benevolent in your worries. The others talk about him like some sort of object, but you seem to genuinely have an attachment to him!

🍎 He wants to learn more about your kind - no... YOU in specific. He could care less about the others. You are all that really matters at the moment. If he is wrong about his assumption that you control all in his world, be it that others of your kind control his friends or whatnot, he will deal with that. For now, he can watch from a distance. When you all go, he'll be sure to learn the layout of this new land he is in. When he does, he can find you wherever you are in here. He can find out what you love and hate, what makes you tick, what makes you sad.

🍎 That sounds like a wonderful thought to him... maybe, if he leaves little gifts for you, you'll be sure to make everyday of his good. Happy parties with all of his friends, no bumps or bruises on himself or his friends, no rainy days that makes Home sad and cold... If it takes giving gifts, he'll gladly do so! You are so warm and benevolent, he would do so even if it never became fruitful for making his world perfect.

[incorrectfatui]

give one to each harbinger

OHH this is gonna be fun!! Pierro, ironically, is getting The Weight of Knowledge- technically Dottore is more heavily associated with Knowlegde, of course, but uh..its not weighing on him. Dottore has fun with it, but Pierro has seen horrors beyond everyone's comprehension and acts like it. Capitano gets the chainmail. Because yes. Dottore has the decoy wallets- mostly because I dont think this dude has any real money (his budget is gone 1st of the month), but also because I can picture Webtorre throwing them at peoples faces. Columbina has the keys to heaven and hell, and you know exactly why. Arlecchino has the picture of- just kidding, she gets the Baby Toys and stuff, for the younger kids. Pulcinella gets Santiago. Scaramouche has the heart on the string. He hides it in the little pocket on his back. It's one of his three most treasured posessions, the other being the golden feather and the little puppet he made. Sandrone gets the glock, because she deserves it. La Signora has the rose for her beloved, tragically dead, Rostam Pantalone has the Cement, he sells it for higher profits. Aaand finally, Childe gets the picture of Ma- assuming it's his mother and not a random old lady. Which, I suppose, would leave Crucabena with the cyanide pill- not in case of HER capture, but for the kids. You know. Like a responsible parent. This was really fun!! Feel free to send more of those xD

[yanderes-galore]

Then Yuji with your prompts 3,8, and 29

Sure, didn't have many plot ideas so here's Analog AU! Yuji pulling a KinitoPet since I wanted to explore that more. Sorry it came out a bit short ^^;

Analog AU Here!

Yandere! Yuji Itadori Prompts 3, 8, 29

(Analog AU)

"You'll love me, even if we have to sit and wait for it to happen."

"I could look into those eyes forever...."

"I want to be this close... forever...."

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Isolation, Yuji is not technically Yuji, Brainwashing/Mind control implied, Possessive behavior, Jealousy, Forced affection, Forced relationship.

"Isn't it nice when everything is perfect?"

Your new life was difficult to get used to. In fact, you have no idea how long you've been imprisoned here. Time could very well work differently here.

All you recall is buying that strange DVD... meeting Yuji... and now you're here in a world resembling the show you loved so dearly.

At least you still managed to keep lucid enough to know this isn't your home. The entity puppeteering this realm could try their hardest to adapt you to this place... but you know better. This is not home.

This will never be home.

Yuji never gave up on making you feel like you belong in his realm. He made you a Jujutsu Sorcerer, he uses other characters to give you friends, he even took the identity of the main character you adore so much! Yuji yearns to please.

So why do you ignore him?

This place never fails to feel... uncanny? You know none of this is real. The other characters don't seem sentient and you can't seem to get Yuji's faint red glow in his eyes out of your head.

You and Yuji are the only people seemingly real in this world. Even if you speak to other characters, Yuji's always close by to watch you. You aren't sure what he is... but he seems awfully determined to make this world a paradise for you.

"Your world is so full of stress..." Yuji would say, looking disappointed. "But here? Here anything can happen. You can be happy... I can make you happy."

Yuji acts like a god in this realm. A god who's using your favorite show to gain your approval. However... you haven't allowed yourself to give in.

You can't let your guard down around those glowing eyes....

"The apartment looks close enough to your old home, yes?" Yuji asks you excitedly, rearranging furniture with ease. You blankly watch him, the familiarity only making you wish for home more. Were you technically dead?

"I just hope you know I do this because I care..." Yuji whispers, sitting on the bed to look at you. "It was so upsetting to see you so bored and stressed after work before. But... this is fun, isn't it?"

Ah, yes... was playing pretend with some entity fun? Was this meant to be more relaxing? Why does he bother acting like he cares?

"Why won't you let me out?" You ask, Yuji looking at you confused.

"Let you out...?" He echoes, seeming hurt. "That isn't how things are supposed to go...!"

"I never wanted to be here!" You plead. "Nothing's real... It's all fake..."

"I'll work on it more for you!" Yuji smiles, his eyes gleaming red again. "Anything for you, right...?"

"What do you even want from me!?" You plead to Yuji, the entity watching you with a frown.

"You... You don't understand...?" Yuji whispers, concerned about your confusion. "Seriously?"

Your adrenaline creeps in when Yuji stands up, stepping closer. There's no point running. He always knows where you are....

"I made this world for you, sweetheart... for us!" Yuji whispers, a smile on his face. "I did it because I love you...!"

Your breath hitches when Yuji leans closer, uncanny eyes staring into your own. The effect is almost... entrancing. You go to look away, to fight him more on his words...

Yet you can't.

"I could look into those eyes forever...." Yuji whispers, holding your face. He grins, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips. You want to tell him he doesn't know what love is...

But he cuts you off.

"You see... if you accept this new world I made for you... we can have more moments like this..." Yuji whispers, teasingly kissing your lips as you gaze into his eyes. Why can't you look away?

"I love you so much... I was so tired of just watching you through that damn screen..." Yuji murmurs breathlessly. His grip tightens, gaze becoming a glare for a moment. "I didn't want to share you with anyone... but now..."

Yuji pulls you into a tight embrace. His hold is crushing, possessive. That manages to snap you out of your trance a little bit, just enough to push against his chest and struggle.

"I want to be this close... forever...." Yuji whispers with a grin, eyes holding a lovesick gaze towards you. He leans in to kiss you again, only for you to harshly shove him back. His expression then becomes unamused before he perks back up again with a smile.

"Oh, baby... am I coming off too strong?" Yuji frowns, feigning guilt. "I'm sorry... I forgot I need to be patient with you. I'm just getting a bit too... excited due to you being here now...!"

Yuji steps back, gaze softening with an uncanny glow to it. He gives you space before continuing to redecorate. He's getting too eager.

"That's okay, you may not understand it now but..." Yuji whispers, looking at the room before his eyes trail back to you. You freeze when you see them flash an entrancing red again. "You'll love me, even if we have to sit and wait for it to happen."

With that, Yuji continues rearranging your new home. An uneasy feeling swirls in your gut at the experience. You'd never know what Yuji is... or his true intentions.

But as your fictional life treks on, your fears slowly don't matter anymore...

Why bother fighting him when there's nowhere to go now? Maybe you should just be loved...?

After all... it's just you and Yuji... together forever in a world made for you.

[corpsesrottinginacelestialgarden]

The canonical differences between Demon and P1 Dude: How mischaracterizations lead to sanism.

There is a lot of ableism/sanism in the Postal fandom, especially surrounding P1 Dude. I'm tired of people thinking that Demon and P1 Dude are the same entity/personality/have the same moral conduct. I understand how easy it is for misinformation to spread about old indie games. I am not here to attack anyone. I just wanna shed some light on a few things.

There is a reason that P1 Dude's journal entries sound and look completely different from Demon's. P1 Dude was completely detached from reality and believed he was killing monsters to "save humanity," not innocent people. Yes, P1 Dude was a terrified, anxious, traumatized, psychotic man. Meanwhile, Demon was a cold sadist who enjoyed killing and spouting off goofy one-liners. They have distinctive personalities.

RWS has stated many times that P1 Dude was an average guy that was really going through it before he "went postal". He was not plotting, planning, or scheming to kill a bunch of people. (He is not like Notim from Hatred.) Quite the opposite. He only purchased a Kevlar vest and armed himself at the point he felt his life was in mortal danger.

He lived in a dangerous area of Paradise in which he heard gunshots and screams after dark every night. When he began to feel genuinely threatened, he purchased a singular gun. (This is all in the lore.) The rest of his weapons are found and collected in-game. He did not begin shooting at anyone until the cops literally came barging into his front yard shooting at him first. While that doesn't justify him going on a killing spree, it is the moment that set off his paranoid delusion fully.

We know from the lore that Paradise is a fucked up place filled with dangerous people. There is something genuinely wrong with Paradise that pushed Dude to this point (even if he likely already had mental health issues). The real-world threats he was experiencing amplified the delusion that everyone was out to get him. Chronic stress and trauma can make a person become highly psychotic. You are not immune.

The wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time makes all the terrifying difference. RWS stated he is an "everyman". He is meant to be related to without condoning what he does. The whole idea behind Postal 1 is that this could happen to anyone in the right circumstances. Absolutely anyone can develop psychosis if they experience enough stress.

In P1 Dude's journal entries, he repeatedly stated that he was scared and thought people were trying to kill him. He was straight up visually perceiving the people shooting at him as creatures infected with the "hate plague". Many of the loading screens show what people looked like through his eyes. They have heavily distorted, skeletal, and monstrous faces. On the flip side, Demon's journal entries are quite sadistic, playful, and a bit poetic. Demon speaks completely differently from Dude, aside from a few later journal entries when his sanity slips further. It seems like the delusion is worsening at that point and Demon (if real) is possibly taking over further. It is important to note that Dude never speaks in-game. That is all Demon's voice speaking. RWS confirmed this.

According to RWS, no one else can hear this voice but him. It was deliberately left ambiguous as to whether or not this is an actual demon possessing him, or merely part of his psychotic delusion. Nonetheless, P1 Dude completely lacked agency over Demon's thoughts/behavior. Thus, wholeheartedly blaming P1 Dude as if he was somehow aware of what he was doing during his psychosis is straight up nonsense.

You could say he was like a puppet for Demon/his delusions. To say there is no difference between P1 Dude and Demon is to fundamentally misunderstand how this character was written. He did not know what happened until the end of the game when he realized he was attempting to harm children. That's what made him collapse to the ground in shock and horror. Everything I have stated is 100% canon and can be sourced directly from the original Postal 1 manual, in-game lore, canon information in the game files, RWS' social media accounts where they answer fan questions, and old interviews with the original dev team.

This may be a tough pill for some to swallow, but there are people with psychosis so extreme that they are 100% lacking in awareness of their own behavior. That is a real thing that happens to people all the time. There truly is a lot of ableism, sanism, and misconceptions about how psychosis works in this fandom. Please don't contribute more stigma toward psychotic people if you can help it.

With all that being said and done:

Do I think what he did is ok? HELL NO!!! I can deeply empathize with a traumatized psychotic man who thought he was “saving humanity” by killing monsters without condoning his actions. So can you, even if it is solely cognitive empathy. Severe persecutory delusions are no joke! That's a pretty tragic situation to be on either end of. Imagine thinking you were doing something akin to killing off a zombie outbreak…only to realize you committed absolute atrocities. That's peak psychological horror, my dude. That's raw and real as hell to me.

I am not primarily concerned with P1 Dude's overall sense of morality. My focus is on pointing out the clear moral discrepancies/dilemmas that were deliberately written into the lore. These are moral discussions in the context of Dude's delusional perspective. Obviously, from the player's perspective/morals, his delusion is completely fucked and not logical. It is a delusion, after all. Explanations don't and should never equal justifications. I am not focused on if he is good or evil, as I do not believe in that type of thing. My main focus is with understanding the context of his delusional thoughts and actions. I think people are just people. They're all capable of wonderful and terrible things. I am primarily concerned with the canon lore and ableism/sanism toward psychotic/delusional people I have been seeing. People do not choose their delusions or control them, period.

-Sincerely, someone who has experienced similar delusions.

Edit: I originally wrote this post when I was sick, sleep deprived, and had a hellish headache. I have since tried to elaborate on several points I feel I did not explain in a nuanced enough way, initially.

I have noticed some people quote the Postal Strategy Guide claiming that P1 Dude shot first. That is a fair concern to bring up. This is slight misinformation on the original writer's part. Even if you do absolutely nothing in the game but stand around, the cops shoot first. Paul did not work at RWS, was not a game dev, and did not write the lore. Vince Desi confirmed P1 Dude was, indeed, attacked initially. Misconceptions and errors are very common in game strategy guide books from the 90s and early to mid 2000's.

[an-ambivalent]

I thought of this scenario... 😳🙃 So um anyway... Back on my uchiha bullshit.

Warning: yandere content and themes of abuse. Read at your own discretion. I do not condone this behaviour in real life.

Imagine one of those medieval european settings from any villianess/isekai manhwa you've read. The royal family (the Uchihas) are tyrannical rulers, particularly the current monarch Fugaku Uchiha. There's no room for error, people are easily beheaded left and right for the tiniest mistake or "disrespect" against the Uchiha family.

Itachi understood his family dynamics. So, he adapted quickly and knew how to behave and navigate his family complex situations to not get on his father's bad side. Despite whatever he believed, he did whatever Fugaku expected him to do to not face his father's wrath. But, Sasuke on the other hand... He's always been a bit more oblivious from a young age.

He lived a sheltered life. His mother already lost her first son to Fugaku, she didn't want to repeat the same mistakes so she kept him more isolated and protected. It didn't matter because Fugaku ignored his youngest son anyway. He only cared for his heir, Itachi.

Raised in his own little bubble, there were only few people Sasuke interacted with: his mum, his nanny, and his nanny's daughter and his only playmate: you. There wasn't much else for a long time, just sweet innocent childhood memories. That's until he reaches a certain age and starts noticing the difference between his brother's status and his own, and his own father never even speaks to him. He wants to start seeking out his father and yearns for his approval.

There have been something different about Itachi lately. Fugaku knows he's losing his control on his son. There's not much he can do until he notices his second son lingering around. Its perfect because Sasuke is seeking his approval and Fugaku needs to restart his training for a new puppet.

The tyrannical monarch, when seeking out his second son for the first time, witnesses the most appaling his scene. His son, a royal prince is confessing to you, a mere servant's child, a commoner. That's not the worst part: how dare you, a filthy peasant, dare to reject his son?! Who did you think you were?!

That scene is enough to show how lacking Sasuke's education has been under his incompetent mother. The most pretegious family, Uchiha, they don't ask. They take what they want, when they want it.

And then before anything could happen, both you and Sasuke are captured by the imperial guards. You're terrified. You've heard countless of stories about how ruthless the Emperor is. You knew that with your status, death awaited you. For Sasuke, despite whatever his harsh punishment, his royal status would protect his life.

You cried out in pain as the knights pinned you to the ground. The concrete dug into your skin, causing painful abrasions, and you felt blood gushing out of your forehead.

Sasuke cried out in panic at seeing your situation. "Father please! Stop-"

"Insolent child! No child of mine will be ever at a peasant's mercy! Clearly, your education has been lacking. I've been too lenient with my dear wife. It's about time I take you under my wing.

"You're not going to be like Itachi, I'll make sure of it. I'm going to teach you how to take things for yourself and keep them for yourself."

Fugaku loomed over Sasuke; the young boy wept in fear, with tears at the corner of his eyes, and legs shaking.

"Do you want her?"

"W-what?"

Fugaku clicked his tongue and his glared hardened. "Don't make me repeat myself boy, I will make you regret it. You confessed to her. Do you want her?"

"Y-Yes."

"Then you will have her. No child of mine will be denied anything, especially not from a peasant. You're going to keep her and learn how to take what you want and keep everything under your control." He said, grinning widely.

You could do nothing but tremble in fear knowing that you were going to be nothing but become a possession for another future tyrannical monarch.

[raisedbythetv89]

I don’t understand how people can actually hate season 1 of Buffy unless they just hate fun and like jw has claimed “loves seeing buffy suffer” and be blamed and punished for everything???? It’s so nostalgic and camp and queer coded what do you mean you don’t like it????

The puppet show is comedic genius and I’ll say that shit with my whole chest - they’re dealing with an unknown demon killing children and Giles who is always chastising Buffy for focusing too much on things outside of slaying is like “THE SHOW! ITS ABOUT TO START!” 🏃🏻‍♂️💨

Buffy has beef with a puppet for 3/4ths of the episode that is so Spike of her and EXTREMELY FUNNY to me to have the slayer who decapitates vampires with tiny X-Acto knives and knowingly walks to her death majorly creeped out by a dummy 😹😹😹😭😭

Buffy whining in tandem with the tuba playing on the stage as a background sound track to her sinking mood after Synder forces the scoobies to participate in the talent show

The curtain opening to Buffy cradling the dead dummy and a dead demon on stage and Synder in the audience goes “I don’t get it - is it avant-garde?”

THAT SHIT IS SO FUCKING FUNNY TO ME

And Buffy is just in top form for me. Realizing Amy is in her mom’s body even on the verge of death. Seeing the way Cordy treats Willow and immediately finding a reason to align herself with Willow instead despite it being a new school and she is still struggling with not fitting into her old, pre-slayer life. Helping Billy face his fears in his nightmare while overcoming her own of becoming a vampire and really owning her slayerness in a way we haven’t seen before there’s a lot of scary things in the world “AND IM ONE OF THEM”

LIKE YES GIRL YOU ARE TINY AND SCARY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH OWN THAT SHIT. The whole bit where Angel is like BEWARE CLAW VAMP SO DANGEROUS WATCH OUT BE CAREFUL - and she’s like right…… I’m gonna use him as my own personal bloodhound to find the REAL monster. I EAT THAT SHIT RIGHT UP ITS AMAZING. It’s also when Buffy is blamed and suffering the least it’s such a nice break for the entire rest of the series that sometimes I just desperately need.

I LOVE that a show that gives us such deeply emotional moments and captures depression perfectly in season 6 can also be so silly and camp with genuine human emotion and connection underlying it because of the core of very talented and dedicated actors

AND THIS IS COMING FROM A DIEHARD SPUFFY. My man isn’t even there yet and Angel with his useless cryptic creepy bullshit is annoying me to no end AND I STILL LOVE IT

I know there’s tons of technical and quality stuff that gets better as the seasons go on but that’s part of the charm for me.

So anyway leave season 1 alone, she’s my girl and I love her.

[maverick-werewolf]

Daily Werewolf Thoughts - Days 10-16

More not super prettily formatting werewolf thought posts that I've been doing daily!

Day 10- You don't really love werewolves if you don't enjoy terrible werewolf movies. Which the vast and overwhelming majority of them are terrible, at least if you ask me. But I just love werewolves so much I am driven to watch them (I also love movies with all my heart and soul), and even if the film is beyond terrible - again, as most of them are, even the ones people say are good - there's going to be a few moments that make it worth it, because werewolves are so badass, and I absolutely love studying how they created the werewolf for any film. Here's a bit of a rant for today...

One such film and series is Underworld. I hate the Underworld movies. Yes, stone me. They're terrible. The only one I enjoyed in its own right at all was Rise of the Lycans, since it had a far more compelling story than Selene's tight black leather (I understand why men enjoy this, in their defense) and absurd motivations that only extend as far as what the director wants for the next action sequence - and it was set in the Middle Ages, which is way better as a werewolf story, imo. Anyway, regardless of how I feel about the movies, I LOVE how they handled the practical effects on the werewolves.

The Underworld werewolves are unmatched. I'm not crazy about the design of the main "lie-kans" - I will never forgive the movie for the "lycans" thing btw - because they were specifically designed to be more "cat-like" or even more like a pitbull. For some reason people like to use things like cats, bears, etc to design something called a "werewolf." So I think those initial ones, like in the first film, frankly look pretty stupid. But the "feral" lycan "breed" or whatever they're called that have the more wolfish heads are a very cool design, and ultimately what I'm talking about here is how they were created and put to film. Sidebar: I'm not one of those people who thinks that the instant a movie uses any CGI, it should be condemned; CGI is a tool like any other filmmaking tool, and it can be used to achieve things we otherwise could never film and that are artistically beautiful and creative; but yes, I do prefer practical effects where they can be used.

The werewolves in Underworld were created using bodysuits, animatronics, and creature actors. They wore leg extensions, got big guys in the first place, and had extensive work for muscle, hair, and especially the faces and facial animations. The entire face is created using servos that respond to controllers held by workers off-camera to animate the werewolf costume in real time, while it's being worn by a person. The entire face, eyes, mouth, lips, etc were fully animated using a complex system of animatronics, and a comm system so the actor can be given instructions from the lead puppeteer so everyone can properly sync their work - and the final effect is such a step beyond anything we've seen from werewolf designs of this size in film before - or since.

There are better videos of the later films that had more advanced technology, like Underworld: Evolution (terrible movie but great werewolf effects), but here's one on youtube that has a lot of what was involved: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jWIF8lSlxg&ab_channel=IsaacKoo

*: "feral" by definition most often specifically refers to domesticated animals that have gone wild again and sounds very odd when used to refer to something like a wolf (but it always happens anyway because people don't care about the English language; ask any video game about their "feral wolves")

**: "breed" specifically refers to controlling the birthing of animals to produce a desired outcome, as in domesticated animals, such as dogs, cats, sheep, etc., and it makes me want to become a hermit living alone atop the Himalayas when I see people use it for werewolves

Day 11- I've often wondered what exactly set me down this path of being completely and hopelessly obsessed with werewolves. I've never really had an answer. I've speculated it was just Halloween itself, seeing the very rare and occasional werewolf around, since that's always been my favorite "kind" of werewolf. I have distinct memories of a little werewolf statue in a Hallmark; I really loved looking at that thing (never got it, though, sadly). I've occasionally wondered if it was watching Scooby Doo at my grandma's house - but in retrospect, the werewolves in Scooby Doo of that era weren't much to write home about, so that probably wasn't it. I do know for a fact I've been obsessed with them for as long as I can remember, certainly by age 6, so whatever it was, it started early. I was reading Sabine Baring-Gould's The Book of Werewolves when I was 8, searching for werewolves in video games forever, and I'll never forget the first werewolf figure I got to decorate my desk.

If you ask one of my favorite professors, who sat on the committee that passed ultimate judgment upon what became my book The Werewolf: Past and Future, she would tell you I was led to love werewolves because of "dream visions" (she is a professor and lifelong student of Old Norse, Old English, and the cultures, many sagas, and histories thereof). I told her about how my earliest memories of werewolves and the start of my obsession with them were actually long series of dreams and nightmares I had - a white werewolf would always crop up in them, sooner or later. Sometimes he was on my side, sometimes not. My dreams and nightmares are... very detached from reality in the first place, but the white werewolf became consistent for a long time. What put the idea of a werewolf into my head in the first place? I'm really not sure.

Some of my favorite experiences with werewolves come from playing as them in classic RPGs, including ones where you aren't technically supposed to be one. I loved playing a werewolf in Neverwinter Nights using character editors, cheat codes, and scripts on the big roleplaying server I played on. Now THAT was fun, but that's a whole separate story.

Anyway, I really don't even know. All I know is, I've loved werewolves for as long as I can remember, and I always will, no matter how silly that might seem.

Day 12- Remember when video games called RPGs had actual roleplaying elements in them? Some of the only games that have ever let you play as a proper werewolf are the Elder Scrolls series, specifically Daggerfall and Morrowind: Bloodmoon, the latter being my absolute favorite werewolf game ever. Why? Because you actually played as a werewolf - and all that came with it - instead of lycanthropy being a cool thing and/or awesome button.

In Bloodmoon, if you are a werewolf (having either become one from surviving a werewolf attack - werewolves spawn with INSANE rarity, trust me I found one naturally and it took me weeks, in the wild of Solstheim or you can become one through the main Bloodmoon questline), you will transform each night. You must devour 1 humanoid (playable race) NPC or suffer from hunger and exhaustion the following day, lowering your stats. The transformation will break any armor you have equipped. If someone witnesses the transformation, word of your true nature will spread, and you will be hunted. You are also attacked on sight - but NPCs will often run away rather than dare attack you. Your stats are insanely boosted, you run like the wind and leap to the point of almost flying, and you can destroy nearly anything in your path. It is one of the single coolest things in all of gaming and nothing like it has ever been recreated (I have biases).

Being a werewolf became part of your character and changed your entire gameplay experience rather than just being an "ability" or "race."

Many of these systems were also in place in Daggerfall, Morrowind's predecessor. But Morrowind was the last game of the ES series to incorporate proper werewolf mechanics. In Oblivion, we got exactly nothing, which left me crushingly disappointed as a child. In Skyrim, you have an awesome button werewolf mode wherein you must continually devour enemies in order to maintain the werewolf form. It's cool and it's fun, and I'm very glad Skyrim had werewolves playable at launch, but it doesn't have anything approaching the same feel as "being" a werewolf in Bloodmoon, where it is a curse. It can be an inconvenience, it can be an advantage, and it's something you have to plan your gameplay around - and something you must hide from everyone around you. That is what playing as a werewolf should be. I'm likely to make another post soon talking about that some more, because it's a favorite subject.

Anyway, therefore, Morrowind's expansion pack Bloodmoon is easily one of my favorite games ever made. It is really the only game where you can really play as a werewolf instead of a reasonably cool and fun but ultimately far less interesting alternative.

I also recently wrote a big ol' article about the best video games that let you play as a werewolf: https://maverickwerewolf.com/werewolf-facts/werewolf-articles/werewolf-article-play-as-a-werewolf-video-games/

Day 13- A werewolf's transformation sequence is one of the single most important things in any werewolf story. It might even be -the- most important. After all, the crux of werewolves is that even a man who is pure at heart (etc) can become a monster - and back again - and the sequence undergoing such a traumatic change is quite a thing to tackle.

I've seen it approached many ways. Painfully (obviously), painlessly, slow, fast, as something undesirable and as something desirable, as something controllable and uncontrollable - I swear this isn't innuendo. Anyway, personally, my favorite will always very easily be the most classic concept of the werewolf transformation: painful, traumatic, and very, very bad. I am not here for cuddly or happy werewolves. I'm also a fan of the werewolf not remembering what happened, but I'll ramble about that one later.

This also actually has basis in legend, as well. Even in antiquity, witnessing a werewolf transformation would potentially bring one to madness. This is mentioned in several stories, including but not necessarily limited to Niceros's story, in which witnessing the werewolf transformation freaks him out beyond reason. When he realizes the soldier he'd traveled with was a werewolf, he swears never to go near him again: "I couldn’t have eaten a crumb of bread with him, no, not if you had killed me!"

In Ovid's Metamorphoses, oft hailed as one of the "first werewolf legends" (that we have recorded, anyway), we also get our first proper werewolf transformation ever in the form of the legend of Lycaon...

"[Lycaon] howled his heart out, trying in vain to speak.

With rabid mouth he turned his lust for slaughter

Against the flocks, delighting still in blood.

His clothes changed to coarse hair, his arms to legs—

He was a wolf, yet kept some human trace,

the same grey hair, the same fierce face, the same

Wild eyes, the same image of savagery."

I've always found it interesting to note that his clothes became coarse hair, rather than him tearing his clothes off. Just a little difference there between this and many other legends.

Lots more on the ancient Greek tale of King Lycaon here: https://maverickwerewolf.com/werewolf-fact-66-the-legend-of-king-lycaon-of-arcadia/

There are a few legends, of course, that don't make it quite this dramatic. But popular culture carried over the painful transformation sequence for those with the werewolf curse, by and large, and it's incredibly effective. Everyone remembers seeing the first transformation in An American Werewolf in London (as much as I think the movie itself frankly just sucks), and likewise no one was exactly taken by a guy jumping really high and painlessly CGI'ing into a wolf in like .3 seconds.

I obviously have a lot of opinions on werewolf transformations, just like every other werewolf thing. The best and most memorable werewolf transformations are painful, dramatic, and traumatizing - because, after all, being a werewolf is neither a fun thing nor a good time... not for anyone involved.

Day 14- There's something I deeply hate in media, and it's when someone says "a werewolf scratch can turn you!" What on earth?

I have a lot of thoughts about all of this, obviously, and I'll get more into the whole werewolf bite thing later, but let's entertain if you will this notion that becoming a werewolf is like rabies. This is an extremely Early Modern concept, following the rise of scientific thought and the dismissal of all things mystical, religious, magical, mysterious, and allegorical, but even then, a werewolf spreading lycanthropy (in itself an Early Modern concept, as it was viewed as a disease, not a curse) via bite has no basis in folklore already. Does that make it bad? Nonsense, a werewolf bite is a classic storytelling element - that, once again, almost certainly comes from The Wolf Man (1941). It's so classic that for some reason zombies later completely lifted it and now everyone acts like it's a zombie thing, which is completely unfair.

But a werewolf scratch? Really? Even if we're equating it with rabies, that still doesn't work. And how stupid is it for someone to be like "oh no! the werewolf SCRATCHED you!" When I hear "scratch," I think "my cat got a little too excited about the tummy button," not "I've been mauled by a giant twisted man-beast and now I will inherit its curse." How does a werewolf even "scratch" someone without taking an entire limb off or raking red rivers through your torso? Are we sure it was a werewolf, or is it a chihuahua*?

I really wish this "werewolf scratch" thing would stop. It's just bad all over. Bring back werewolf bites exclusively.

*: what pains me is that some people would find this hilarious and make this their exclusive takeaway, because werewolves have just become jokes

Day 15- I love a wide variety of werewolf designs. If the werewolf is presented well, the design doesn't always matter that massively, as long as it doesn't look incredibly dumb and/or doesn't even resemble a man or a wolf. Unfortunately, it's amazing how often this happens.

Many monster design classes do actually say, when designing a werewolf, absolutely don't use a wolf as a reference. Artists are told by everyone under the sun, including filmmakers: use dogs, cats, bears, mandrills, hyenas - I've even seen mules, foxes, bats, badgers... and above all, they are told explicitly: whatever you do, don't use a wolf as inspiration. That'd be like, expected or cliche or bad or corny or something, because it's a WOLF monster. And we can't do anything "expected."

Werewolves are two things: human and wolf. If you're drawing the majority of your inspiration from a bear or a cat or a fox or hyena or whatever else, why even call it a werewolf? Why not make a different creature entirely, like the Beast of Gevaudan?

(more on that remark here: https://maverickwerewolf.com/werewolf-facts/the-beast-of-gevaudan/ )

I can understand the desire of some to have some particularly "memorable" or "unique" design (although I have never been taken by any of these attempts, nor do I remember them fondly), but ultimately, it baffles me that someone would choose to draw more directly from animals that aren't wolves for a werewolf design. Then again, you can also go too far in the opposite direction and just end up with fluffy wolf-people, and those can look far too cuddly (at least to... modern audiences; no one thought the werewolves in Dog Soldiers were cute even just a few years ago).

It's a careful balance to walk. When I was very young and innocent, I hated that many designs removed the tail from a werewolf (which they have in legend and I think it looks cooler), but I completely understand now. I also understand wanting to change the head shape, ear shape, etc, but all of this can be achieved without making the werewolf look like some other animal or like nothing in particular. There's a reason the Underworld werewolf design that became ubiquitous for so many werewolves afterward - Skyrim, for example, and World of Warcraft: Cataclysm, just to name two - was the one with the wolfish muzzle and head shape, not the "cat pitbull" design from the first film.

Call me old-fashioned (I am), but I want a werewolf to look like what it's called. Note: I'm also not knocking the quadrupedal but still part-man looking designs, although those are far from my favorite, but it should still have wolf features. At least a few.

Day 16- Another werewolf folklore lesson! How about "curing" lycanthropy? What was that like in folklore - lifting the werewolf curse?

As per usual for my discussions, I have to mention that being a werewolf was not considered a "disease" until relatively recently; it was a magical curse, not an illness that could be "contracted" or "cured," and individuals were not "infected." Likewise, there weren't exactly a lot of examples of a werewolf curse - as per traditional "transforming between man and beast on a regular basis" definition of "werewolf" - being lifted in folklore.

There are some examples of more unusual variations of the curse being lifted, however, namely with those who end up stuck in a more seemingly permanent wolf form. Removing a magic item that cursed you to become a werewolf is fairly common, such as the magic skins donned by Sigmund and Sinfjotli in the Volsunga Saga; when they wore them, they were wolves, and only returned to human form when they managed to get the skins back off again. Another example is Melion (titular character of a British lai), who was trapped in the form of a wolf when he put on a cursed ring.

And in at least one story, that of Guillame de Palerne, the werewolf returns to his human shape when the one who cursed him is killed. This is a special case in that the werewolf never actually returned to a human form and was in fact stuck as a wolf, so it's not quite your typical werewolf example, but it is still from a French story whose title was translated as William and the Werewolf - and it's a good story.

However, in the vast majority of cases, especially with the werewolves that are more in line with what we think of as proper werewolves (transforming back and forth, instead of stuck in a wolf form), either the werewolf stayed a werewolf and it wasn't really that big of a deal (such as in several ancient Greek tales and some medieval tales, for example)...

Or else the werewolf was killed. Popular culture sometimes insists the only cure for lycanthropy is death, and that also often held true in many legends. It's also quite fun and dramatic, of course, although I do get tired of the werewolf predictably getting wasted.

There is, of course, a Werewolf Fact for this: https://maverickwerewolf.com/werewolf-facts/how-to-cure-lycanthropy/

[dorkus-mcdingus]

Rewatching Pinocchio because I'm on a massive Fellow Honest high rn and the Playful Land event's not helping rn but it made me wonder something.

Fellow and Gidel are no stranger to petty crimes but do you think this stint with this world's version of the Coachman is the lowest he's stooped in his mind?

Personally, I can see them meeting in a really crappy looking tavern (possibly somewhere in the Shaftlands). The Coachman offers Fellow some cigars and some beer while Gidel got himself some hot cider to warm himself up.

"And those dummies fell for it! HAHAHA! HOOK LINE AND SINKER! HOO HOO HAHAHA! And they still think they got a magestone that one of the Great Seven used! And did those wealthy pricks pay? Plenty!"

'plop'

The amount of Thaumarks was impressive indeed but still a rather pitiful wage. Despite that, the Coachman listened to the fox beastman's stories of his travels and various schemes, all while blowing a few smoke rings from his pipe with nonchalance.

"Now then, what's your proposition?" Fellow asked as he blew a few puffs of smoke from his cigar.

"Well, how would you blokes like to make some real money?"

The amount of Thaumarks in the case he brought certainly got the attention of the swindlers. That's probably more money than they've seen in a lifetime and could only dream of having!

"You see, I'm collecting stupid little scholars." The Coachman whispered. "The disobedient ones that play hooky from school or work. And you see..."

From there, he carefully whispered the plan to the two beastmen. Get the giant boat built and have it working complete with theme park rides, games, and all sorts of delicious treats. Once that was complete, Fellow and Gidel were to wrangle as many stupid suckers as they could,

"And you takes 'em to Playful Land."

"Ah, Playful Land. PLAYFUL LAND?! BUT THE LAW! SUPPOSE THEY..!"

But the Coachman soothed the fox's worries with the oh so infamous quote,

"No, no. There's no risk!

"

Seeing that sinister smile coupled with that maniacal laugh was like staring the devil in his face and it was no shocker that both he and Gidel were scared senseless. Yes, this sort of mission would make them so much money and they could finally have enough for new clothes on their backs and something to eat, but something like this just felt wrong. True, his main concern was the authorities being on their backs but maybe Fellow would try and justify it in his mind saying to himself,

"Those privileged brats should pay for taking their education for granted when we weren't so lucky."

"It's what they deserve for looking down on people like us!"

"If I was able to afford it back then, I would be at the level they are and more!"

Even though he subjected himself to being a puppet for the elite running this ring, it quelled his shaking conscience the more he tried to justify it. After all, those ungrateful brats deserve a harsh lesson after all the humiliation he endured and the misfortune he was dealt with in his life.

However, his biggest worry concerned Gidel. Even though that kid partook in petty crimes and schemes with him, deep down, he knew that Gidel was a kind soul and didn't deserve to be pulled deeper into the darkness where he resides.

But, in order to have a decent meal and some new clothes, he had to suck up his pride and take it. If they don't like it, they can just pack up and go. That's how they always lived after all.

However... Seeing that demonic smile and Gidel shaking in his arms as they held each other after hearing the Coachman's plan, it was enough to give him nightmares that night and scar him for life.

"Give a bad boy enough rope and he'll soon make a jackass of himself."

[nyc3]

One thing that is now unfair to ask is...what is Nine's name? Look hori treated him as an afterthought but his lack of origins works better than the comical twnko's origins.

Yes his family was all killed thanks to him but ...I can't help to think that scene was too ridiculous.

We never saw anyone mentioned them again, not even shig. (He remembers them in MVA and we do see the disgusting human puppet hori flay around) But that's it.

So Nine...

Im not one of those people who think a new character needs to be related to a pre stabelished one. Nine doesn't need to be a Todoroki, Shimura or hell even a lost Midoriya (hahahahahahaha as if hori would care for this family)

But ....imagine if Nine was related to Oboro, somehow, wouldn't that be interesting?

Maybe, maybe not.

Oboro's character became a thing to turns Aizawa into a better character...and fails. Kuro was sacrificed for nothing.

The thing about Shigaraki/Tenko backstory is that it feels... a bit overdramatic?

Well we can say that about his whole character, but the part of his backstory in particular when he kills his family is so exagerated for the sake of shock value that it kinda feels comical.

Horikoshi tried a bit too hard on make MVA feel like the edgier and "different" arc of the series, but the contrast in so big that I can't take it seriously.

Especially when Hori already nailed a dark tone without being super explicit or over the top.

Take the simplicity of Eri's backstory for example:

No blood, no unnecessary violence, just two panels giving a basic idea of what happened to Eri's father and yet the image of those clothes lying on the floor is much more haunting and eerie than the enterity of Shigaraki backstory.

Why Horikoshi stop being subtle with his storytelling?

...

Anyway going back to Nine real name, or the lack of one, I think it's interesting how that aspect of his character adds to the underlying theme of how AFO and Garaki dehumanize people, especially the ones that are part of their experiments.

We know very well how AFO doesn't view other human being as persons but rather objects that belong to him. This starts with his very own twin brother, which name Yoichi means something like "my first possesion".

And just like Nine, number 6 from Vigilantes was a child which whole life was modeled by AFO. They both are just numbers without a real name.

In this case the idea is presented even more explicitly because Six was a child who suffered some kind of amnesia and couldn't even view himself as a normal human with a face.

He even died as a monster without ever know if he had an identity outside being the number 6.

It's funny how you mention the idea of Nine and Shirakumo being connected somehow, as isn't the first time I've hear that.

It's interesting notice how they share this common theme about sky and clouds as part of who they are (Nine's name also is supposedly a reference to the term "cloud nine") both Nine and Oboro are individuals willing to sacrifice their own lifes for others, and ironically both of them ended being experimented by Dr Garaki.

I even have the headcanon of Kurogiri being the "Number 7" in this line of experiments were Nine and Six belong, as sort of missing link between Six and the sentient nomus.

I probably should make a post later explaining better this idea.

And yes for Horikoshi, Shirakumo was just a diposable character to make Aizawa look cooler and more edgy.

While the author of Vigilantes clearly invested a lot of effort on making Oboro a real and memorable character which complements Aizawa rather than just being an accesory. But that topic deserves it's own post as well.

P.S: I have an idea of what real name we could give to Nine, but I keep it for me at least for the moment.