#eyeteeth speaks

[eyesteeth]

y'know personally i think it'd be really thematically fun if faulkner jumps in the aquifer in the series finale and carpenter pulls him out.

i've said before that they very much are an earth/water duo and carpenter doing well as someone close to the maiden (death -> graves & cairns -> earth) while faulkner's absolutely fucking struggling with the river faith (river -> water) keeps strengthening that impression. and also as i've said before faulkner's inability to swim ties in well with this too - he, within the framework of this overarching "faith-as-water" metaphor, physically cannot survive in these conditions.

meanwhile, carpenter can swim, and that ties in well with her position in the faith. she's well-known enough to be on mercer's list even when she's been presumed dead for months, and was present for many notable events, enough that faulkner directly asks her about them in s1. she doesn't like her position there, she'd much rather be out of the water, but she can swim if she has to, and because she's had to for so long, she's gotten very good at it (or, because she's spent so long as a member of the faith, she knows how to blend in and not get found out).

now, going all the way back to the "born to water, born to land" speech in the first episode, i'd wager carpenter is one of those amphibious people who are a mix of both, while faulkner is land all the way. carpenter could survive up to a point, but her strength would give out eventually, as shown in season two with her leaving the church. meanwhile, faulkner never had a chance - it was never going to end in success for him.

and so, within this metaphor, carpenter's the only one who can get him out of the water. no one inside the church is going to save him - they're essentially water-born creatures that don't understand why he's struggling, if they even notice at all. meanwhile, carpenter can identify this struggle because she's had her own crisis of faith, and she's equipped to swim him out of there and onto dry land.

and i fully believe this. quite honestly, if faulkner doesn't end up crossing paths with his sister, he is almost definitely going to finally successfully kill himself, and go down in the verses as the role he played and not the person he actually was.

and hey, y'know. big body of water right there in the aquifer. good of a place to die as any. quite convenient, really. surely no one plot relevant has crash-landed there recently.

(or maybe not the aquifer specifically, pacing is as pacing will be, after all - any body of water in the wastes would do for this.)

it would just put a fun bow on everything i think. you're out of the water now, you don't have to go back in there, no one's going to make you go back in. let's be on land. quite frankly, it's better for all of us if you stay on land. i'm going to be fucking pissed if you go back in the water honestly.

and hey, maybe she kills him, maybe she doesn't. her rules don't count if it's for him, after all. but at least he'd get to die on land. far easier to bury him that way, should it come to that.

but if he's allowed to live out of the water - out of the faith - he can finally stop being a prophet or high katabasian and just go back to being a brother.

[leiascully]

what about… a short msr bathtub fic, but only if you feel like it.

It got a little out of hand, so have 1300 words of bathtub fic. TW: infertility mention/IVF arc.

She answers the door wearing a robe. He steps in quietly and she locks the door behind him. She looks soft and small despite the bulk of the terrycloth, her bare feet silent on the floor. She takes his hand without speaking and leads him across her apartment.

The bathroom is full of steam; it swirls out when she opens the door. She draws him in. With the door shut, it’s as if they’re sealed away in another world. Water thunders into the tub, capped with a thick layer of quivering bubbles. He can see particles of mist in the air. Sounds seem muffled. She turns away, lets the robe slip off her shoulders. He turns his back hastily, but he can see a sliver of her side in the mirror: pale skin, a compact curve from rib to hip, an arc of lurid ink. He closes his eyes and unbuttons his shirt.

She called him earlier, an exchange of mostly breath. It wasn’t out of character; they’d both picked up the phone before just to know the other one was on the other end. At last, she said, “Please come over”, and the smallness of the request broke something in him. She should have known he’d do anything for her. He’d been to Antarctica and the graveyard and the IVF clinic for her, sat in filthy rooms and sterile ones, waiting for news.

Now he stands in her bathroom undressing. He can hear the taps creak off and the water swirl as she gets into the tub. There is an air of unreality to it: the steam, the heavy scent of bergamot, the unaccustomed glimpses of skin. He’s seen her naked before, but those moments were dictated by circumstance. This is her choice.

He toes off his shoes, folds his shirt and his jeans over them, drops his socks and his boxers on the top of the pile. When he turns, she’s tucked herself into the end of the tub, sitting with her knees drawn up. He climbs into the other end, hands braced on the sides. The water rises according to the principles of Archimedes, brimming toward her knees. Their toes touch in the center of the tub. He loops his arms around his bent knees, holding himself together, giving her space.

They sit like that in silence, quarantined at their separate ends. Together but not. She lets out a long shaky breath.

The water is hot enough to prickle at his skin. Scully is already flushed, tendrils of hair curling around her face. He’s trying not to look, he swears he’s trying not to look, but he’s always been transfixed by her.

“I’m tired,” she says at last.

“I know.” He studies her, keeping his eyes above her neck.

“I wanted….” Her voice breaks. She swallows. “Mulder, I really wanted it to work.”

“I know.” He rests his hand on the side of the tub, there if she’s ready to reach for it. She tangles her fingers with his.

“Did you?” Her eyes search his face. This is the moment, he understands. This is what could make or break them, after everything they’ve endured. Total honesty or nothing.

“Yeah,” he says, nearly choking on the word. “Yeah, I did.” He closes his eyes against the swell of emotion that makes his chest ache. A child. With her. He wanted that. He wanted it so badly he never allowed himself to know how much it meant until it wasn’t plausible anymore. He wondered about it from the moment he found her ova, wanted it badly from the first time he saw her with Emily.

In a way, he’s ashamed he feels this way. It’s such a cliché, to want to see her bear his child. It feels old-fashioned, even chauvinistic. There’s something primal about how territorial he felt about her during the IVF process. He felt larger, heavier, sensitive to her relative delicacy. He prowled at her side, showing his eyeteeth to Skinner, sensitive to any attempt to invade their pride of two.

He had some secret knowledge of her then, despite the fact they’d never made love. His seed inside her made her his woman. He hates that he enjoyed the thought: she belongs to herself first. But a baby would be a shared responsibility, immutable in a way their assignment to the X-Files isn’t. It would change both of their lives irreversibly. It would link them forever. He wants it so badly he can’t breathe.

The water ripples. He opens his eyes. She’s kneeling now in front of him, a supplicant. She puts her hands on his knees, her hot palms cupped over his skin. Scully has touched him everywhere, maybe, but not here.

“Will you kiss me?” she asks, and his heart breaks all over again.

“Anything,” he says, the way he should have years ago, the way he should have months ago when she first asked him. “Scully, I’d give you anything.”

He’d been terrified then. He’s terrified now. They have been standing on a precipice for so long, their backs to the abyss. The road has been steep and rocky; at times they’ve had to blaze their own trail. There are higher peaks, perhaps, higher truths, but they’re weary of climbing to the pinnacle to find more mountains beyond. He thinks that a paradise might await, if only they can take a leap of faith. She’s the only thing he has faith in, these days.

He leans forward, takes her face in his hands, studies her. Her eyes gleam. She’s got that little crease between her brows that bespeaks great internal turmoil. She studies his face.

“Scully,” he says tenderly. He strokes her hair back. His fingertips find her jaw and gently draw her forward. She leans closer, her weight supported on her hands on his splayed knees. He angles to meet her halfway. His lips brush hers. A butterfly’s wing, the lightest breathless touch.

The world shifts. In his heart, a hurricane forms.

How could he have been afraid of this? How could he not have been?

He can count the number of times they’ve kissed on one hand before tonight and not even use all his fingers. It’s magic every time. This time, it transforms them. The leaden tension that’s hung heavy between them since Diana’s return is transmuted into gold, pure and soft and shining. Her mouth opens in sudden hunger, asking urgent questions, and he answers, pulling her close.

It all feels like a dream. Their hands slide smoothly over slick skin, leaving trails of bubbles. He stretches out his legs and it seems she floats into his lap. Everything is easy. Everything is simple. He touches her breasts, her hips. She balances herself with a hand on his chest as she sinks onto him. They draw pleasure out of each other with lips and fingers, with hot breath and sweet words. She rests her forehead against his as she comes and pants against his mouth. The water sloshes as his body shudders under hers.

They towel each other off, after, moving slowly and gently. Scully’s towels are warm and soft as a Downy commercial, or maybe it’s just that everything feels like a miracle. Her mattress yields to their combined weight as comfortably as if they’ve slept together every night for years. Her bare skin against his is heaven. She exceeds his expectations, always. He knew she would. Still, this kind of solace seemed unimaginable. Fictional. They had written themselves out of happy endings. Now here it is, some blissful twist to their story. He can give up his holy quest: the Grail is in his arms.

“One more round,” he says. It’s a question and a promise. His fingers are splayed over her belly. He tries to ignore the softness of her, tries not to imagine a fecund swell instead. His imagination has always run wild.

“I’ve exhausted my resources,” she says in a small distant voice.

“I sold my father’s house,” he tells her. “Let me do this for you.”

“For me?” she asks.

His heart swells. He pulls her closer, nuzzling into her hair. “For us.”

“For us,” she whispers. She clutches his hands to her breast.

“I love you,” he says, and the once-bitter words are honey on his tongue.

[landwriter]

Throwing vague Hobrinthian inspiration your way. You'd write them so deliciously.

Thank you!! Back in January I wrote 8K of them - I think it's honestly my favourite thing I've written or close to it <3 Just Like Love. The Corinthian comes across Hob in a hotel bar after he's stood up in 1989. Things don't go as planned.

Here's an excerpt from the continuation of that 'verse:

---

Hob Gadling isn’t his boyfriend. Hob is better. He’s a soldier, a hunter, a haunted man, and it makes every grain of the Corinthian sing to know that one of the ghosts rattling around in there is him. Of course it is. He’s memorable. Doesn’t change how good it feels, though, to have been followed across the Atlantic by something almost as hungry as him.

Hob is holding a plastic bag, and the Corinthian can smell the meat from here.

“Fresh from Lancashire,” he says, all fucking casual-like.

The Corinthian walks over, hooks a finger into the bag and pulls it open to see what it is. Black pudding, he thinks. He’s standing close to Hob, close enough to feel how Hob notices it, how his pulse quickens a little. He still smells like airports. He thinks Hob will wrap an arm around him, pull him in. Kiss him filthy right here in his kitchen. Hob doesn’t do anything but let him inspect his gift. He looks up, and pretends he’s disappointed about the offering instead. He should be.

“I’m not a fucking reptile in a terrarium. You don’t need to buy me crickets.”

“Well. Thought this was more on the mice side of the scale.” And then his face does that hideous English thing, where he’s obviously hurt but smiles and pretends he isn’t, which isn’t half as fun when it’s just his feelings. “But you don’t have to-” he starts, all fake cheer, and the Corinthian grits his eyeteeth.

“Stop making that face,” he says, and snatches the bag away. Sees too late Hob smiling a little, and realizes he was playing at being injured, just to get him to come closer. He sets it on the counter, and feels Hob close right up behind him. There’s warm breath on the back of his neck for a moment before Hob speaks.

“You sure? Maybe it’s a bit like feeding wild foxes. Shouldn’t do that.”

The Corinthian turns and uses his height to bully Hob against the fridge, presses him there, then murmurs into Hob’s ear, threatening, just the way he likes. “You think I’ll forget how to feed myself?”

Hob is already hard against his thigh and he tilts his head up, to kiss the side of his neck. His heart is thumping so steady and strong the Corinthian wonders if he’s got a bigger heart working in there, one to power all his hunger. A horse heart, crushed into his ribcage.

“Maybe I’d like it if you forgot,” Hob says. “Maybe I’d like to spoil you. Maybe I’d like you to try eating out of my hand. See if you don’t like it better, to be fed by another.” He says it flirtatiously, covering up the tenderness there with hunger, because he knows the Corinthian’s mother tongue. But he hears the tenderness in it still, and it ripples over his instincts like a different kind of threat. A different kind of snare. Still wire-sharp. He knows he’d draw blood if he struggled in it, even if Hob would let him go the moment he really did. That’s why he stills, he figures. That’s why he goes all limp, submissive.

Hob feels it. Hob knows exactly what he’s done, and he runs a soft hand over the back of his neck, like he’s tamed him. The Corinthian finally twitches away roughly.

“Kinky.” He grabs the forgotten sausage and starts slicing it to be fried. And Hob just laughs, like it was the joke they were making together all along.

---

Twenty minutes later, he’s kneeling on the floor, still wearing his apron that says #1 Grill Dad, and Hob is feeding a cut-up piece of fried black pudding to him. It’s overcooked. They’d gotten distracted. He licks a stripe across Hob’s palm and feels the small muscles twitch under his tongue. Hob’s hand withdraws, and comes back a moment later to stroke the back of his head, dull nails scraping invisible tracks along him. It feels good. He hates it, he thinks.

He leans forward, and nuzzles against Hob’s crotch. The denim chafes his cheeks. Hob groans and ruts into him, his idle hand on his head turned greedy, knotting into his hair. Hob pulls him off, and he looks up, mouth hanging open.

“You going to bite it off if I let you?” he asks.

“Will it grow back?”

Hob sucks in air through his teeth and pretends like he’s considering it too. “You want to take the chance and find out that it doesn’t?”

“Nah,” he says, and Hob laughs and unbuttons his jeans.

---

He blames it on being fucked stupid for the first time in weeks. He blames it on being dark in the room. He blames it on Hob wrapped around him from behind, possessive. “You’d really care for me, huh?”

Hob scoffs, then seems to realize he’s not fucking around. His hand comes around and finds the Corinthian’s throat, and he strokes a line along where his pulse should be. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course I would.”

“You can’t save me, Hob,” he says.

Hob huffs a laugh against his shoulder blades. “Well, then you won’t mind me trying, will you?”

[jerzwriter]

cactus

daffodil

Hey Nonny!

Thanks for the ask from this list.

cactus ⇢ something you’re currently learning (about)? I just answered that here, but I'm also learning other things lol I'm about to take a Spanish class because, while I can speak it a little, I am far from fluent and I want to know it better for personal, cultural, and business reasons. I'm really looking forward to it.

daffodil ⇢ do you have siblings? if yes, in what ways do you think you’re similar to or different from them? One biological, several "soul" siblings, but I'll focus on the bio. lol We're alike because we have similar senses of humor and shared trauma, we are very much aligned politically and ideologically - and we are pretty fierce about our opinions; we both love to travel (but in very different ways). We both love our home state, but we are really not all that impressed with our country. I love NJ, but I'd move back to NYC in a nanosecond if it was still affordable, she'd rather have her eyeteeth removed than move back to NYC. We both love the Yankees. She loves football, I refuse to watch the NFL anymore. lol We're different in a lot of ways. She limits her opinions to ranting on social media. I do that too, but I also do grassroots shit to change things. I love reading/writing, she hates reading/writing. I love traveling to new places, she will go to Disney every fucking time. I'm pretty anti-Disney/pro-theater, she hates theater/worships Disney. Our work ethics are different; I work all the fucking time, and she literally never works. lol. Until recently, we had a big Starbucks vs. Dunkin thing going, but I'm boycotting now, so it doesn't matter.

Thanks so much for asking, Nonny! :)

[naivesilver]

I'M LATE TO THIS BECAUSE I WAS PLAYING ONLINE MINI GOLF SORRY

Anyway, an ask that allows me to gush about your fic????? sign me the FUCK up <3

My favourite fic of yours:

WHERE do I even begin with this, seriously??? I think that, technically speaking, your 25k Lampwick fic is your best fic (or, at least, your best pinocchio-adjacent fic, because sadly I do not read anything that isn't related to him in some capacity, but I have no doubt that your other works are just as high quality 💕). The premise...the pacing... the care taken to properly explore him as a character........fuck, it's SO good.

Two Stars will also obviously hold a very special place in my heart (SO so beloved).

However, I still think that 'to love (with little to your name)' is, well, unbeatable here. It truly is one of your best works. Eugene's chapter within this fic had me bouncing off the walls and gnawing at table legs. (It was also THEE chapter that really re-wired my brain when it came to Eugene and I have been Not Normal about the square boy ever since, as you're well aware.

BUT not ONLY does it have a Eugene chapter, it also has the Scalawags (THEE first chapter of the fic and I KNEW it was gonna be good when we started with that, holy shit) and Leona?? Leona my BELOVED HELLO???? This fic just means so much to me. It's made me laugh pretty hard from time to time (thank you Pierrot and Mignon in particular for that (ALSO I NEARLY FORGOT THAT THE CHAT FIC WAS PART OF THIS???? BELOVED HELLO?????) and it's also made me want to chew my own arm off (affectionate).

What I'm saying is, thank you for this verse in general, but particularly for this fic within the thousand problems series 💖 It has affected my brain permanently.

3. The best character you've written for:

SO, I would argue that the Scalawags (yes, all three) could take this crown. Because?? how the HELL do you take something as awful (for a multitude of reasons) as EotN and transform these characters into such likeable and three dimensional people with these incredibly well thought out backstories. It blows my mind!!!!!

I also love the way you write Lampwick. And also Eugene but DUH I could talk all day about the way you write Eugene because I am mentally unwell about him.

If we're talking about characters that aren't technically OCs? Then I've gotta say that I love the way you write Regina 💖 You do a fabulous job with her, truly.

6. Something I remember vividly from reading one of your fics:

A lot of your imagery in your fic has stuck with me (things like the green description of the chapel in eyeteeth), but I guess that there are just loads of general little details and snippets from various fics here and there that still cross my mind without warning. I still remember the opening scene of choice on the beach really well for some reason. The patchwork quilt. The little handstand that Igor did to make Twinkle laugh. Pierrot's 'nun of my business' joke. idk I've told you this a million times before but....It's the little character details that fuck me up the most and that make your fics so damned enjoyable to read.

7. What made me the most emotional after reading

'when you know the makers hand'. That fic fUCKS ME UP, okay???? Because of course it does!!!! Also, spell of shattered sight fic fucks me up in a similar way (it's about.......August and his relationship with his father........). Lose my mind every time I read either of them.

13. If i've ever shared/talked about your fic to someone else

well DUH. I'm abnormal about your little guys ofc I have to talk to other people about them every now and then <3

💗💗💗💕💕💕

LIBBY SHUT UP 😭😭😭💓💓💓 I saw you play golf but really, you could have stayed playing - I wouldn't even have been bad, you're already too good to me during normal chats, you COULD have skipped that. But since you're here now!!!! Let's go 😏😏😏

Fanfic Asks (For The Askers)

1.My favourite fic of yours

Did I expect this? Yes. Did it STILL make me emotional? ALSO YES!!!! The big Lampwick fic started an avalanche of content that to this day fills me with EXTREME joy, and Two Stars is the one thing I was still shy about gifting to you (because WOW COOL WRITER IS GOING BRRRR WITH ME WHAT DO I DO), but the kids! The kids!!!!!! I'm so happy about this world that has blossomed to life and expanded into something ginormous, and it was a blessing to plant the seed with you 💖

3.The best character you've written for

You think my Regina is good? 🥺🥺🥺I will melt jsyk

Also you know what motivates me? Anger and spite. EOTN made me so fucking mad I couldn't NOT make it better (and it wasn't that hard to do, ngl). Justice for the weird little kids! They're so much more than love interests!!!!!

6.Something I remember vividly from reading one of your fics

Not much to say here, just that a lot of those scenes get rolled around my brain like a pinball marble for ages before AND after I write them, and it means the world to me that they stuck with you too 🥰🥰🥰

7.What made me the most emotional after reading

MAKER'S HAND!!!! Wow we never talk about that anymore - we do love making that man sad, don't we? Sopping wet puppet guy smh

Spell of Shattered Sight moment will be brought up again btw so don't get mad at me when it happens I warNED YOU

13.If i've ever shared/talked about your fic to someone else

YOU STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!!! And you freak out when I go on rants about your Lampwick 😡😡😡💗💗💗

[paperworkanddogs]

Headcanon dump

*Ludwig writes in his journal every day. If for some reason he can’t write that day, he’ll try to make up for it the day after. He’ll outline his day, thoughts and feelings, sometimes he’ll sketch things he’s seen or project ideas. He’s decent at buildings and plants, not humans or animals. Most of them are leather bound or heavy cloth covers. Some of them have flowers or leaves pressed into the pages. If he’s in the field or travelling, he’ll have a smaller journal that he will fill up and put in the library with the other bigger journals.

*Black Dog is a trained guide dog, he comes into work with Ludwig most every day. Since Ludwig has poor eyesight, sometimes stairs in a shady place or without visional markers for the steps or a dark night can make it difficult for him to walk. Black Dog gets Sundays off and Ludwig is trying to train Malva to be a guide dog but he’s easily distracted.

*Ludwig’s outdoor hobbies include camping, hiking, mountain climbing, swimming, hunting, and fishing

*All his furniture is heavy dark wood from the Victorian Era.

*He has chronic dry mouth from smoking and medication, he drinks a lot of water through the day but even so his mouth still makes a smacking noise when he opens it

*He does not do online bills if he can help it. All mail goes into a box inside the house through the week and he answers everything on Sunday so he can drop off letters in the post box on his way to work.

*Most of the time he speaks French with other representatives unless they start with English or ask him to speak a different language.

*His work clothes are all as plain as possible, so he can wear them across multiple decades. He only wears black slacks and ties, and white shirts to work. 

*He used to have a live-in maid from the time he got his own house until the Great Depression when he had to let her go. 

*Ludwig attended university in Bern, Switzerland in the late 1880s for a law degree, when things were calmer under Wilhelm 1. When he died less than a year later, Ludwig moved back to help with the short reign of Friedrich III and never felt comfortable enough leaving the Empire to go back to university.

*He isn’t a strong swimmer. Anything bigger than a small river and he can’t keep up

*Ludwig smokes regularly, despite his attempts to stop. He smokes more in times of stress and works through a pack either in a single day or over the course of a week. He only smokes outside and usually buys cigarettes in the country he’s visiting rather than bring his own. 

*Ludwig has a few precious items in a small safe, easy to grab and flee the house with and fireproof. He used to keep them scattered about but once he got the safe, he moved everything into there.

Inside, there’s a pamphlet from the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft which is well worn from being read over and over. A silver hairpin. A pressed leaf. A small ledgerbook, half filled out. A large chunk of amber.

*Ludwig can open beer bottles without a bottle opener, using anything from his teeth to any random object given to him

*Ludwig was raised Catholic, converted to Lutheran, but now identifies as atheist

*Ludwig rarely smiles widely enough to show his eyeteeth/canines, most of the time he keeps his lips closed

*Ludwig rolls his Rs, even when speaking English

*He tends to only wear his contacts while at work and take them out as soon as he's home

*He speaks and writes in British English rather than American English

*Ludwig tries to bike, walk, or take public transportation as much as he can.

He does not like to travel by sea, unless it’s on a large ship.

*Ludwig’s preferred bread is a bread that is 90% nuts (any nuts, preferably a mix) and 10% bread

*The dogs are allowed on every bed and couch available and they get first dibs on where to sit

*Ludwig uses things until they can no longer be used. He’s got a set of pots and pans from the 50s that are still in use today

*During WW1, he was caught in a gas attack and his eyesight was permanently damaged. He still can't see most colours and is far sighted. While recovering, he contracted Spanish Influenza

*He doesn’t have a microwave in his house

*He makes dog food to add to their kibble

*He can knit and sew but he doesn’t do much aside from basic hemming and knitting scarves. He can, he just doesn’t want to

*His big project is a massive piece of chainmail that he’s going to... Make into a shirt? A full-length ball gown? He’s not sure but it’s large. He works on it when he wants to keep his hands busy but doesn’t want to do anything too difficult.

[house-of-crows]

It's been a few years now.... Shall we Unpack this?

Sink me in the River like stones, coins beneath the waves; To break your teeth on love and fight what nests beneath your bones-

The River is often known as the River of Memory. In a ritualistic sort of way, one attaches a memory or a thought or emotional response to a coin, a gemstone…. or a simple, humble river rock, and sinks them into the water. What Lies Beneath will guard them, keep them safe for the same hands who released them to retrieve; if and when they will.

"To break your teeth on love" - Love is often deemed a 'soft' emotion and therefore would not 'break' something, especially your teeth. BUT, if you look at the expression "to cut ones' teeth" : Get one's first experience by doing, or learn early in life, as in I cut my teeth on this kind of layout or He cut his eyeteeth on magazine editing. This term alludes to the literal verb to cut teeth, meaning “to have teeth first emerge through a baby's gums." So if you are cutting your teeth on LOVE, it is a reference both to the first experiences of youth, but also somewhat a return to innocence. Simpler views of the world… when love was the all-encompassing thing we felt.

"what nests beneath the bones" is the heart; in a very literal sense it is talking about fighting one's own heart in a quest for new experiences, but also fighting the concept of LOVE itself. This goes back to the Morrigan's meeting at the Ford with Cu Chulainn, the Dagda, and others; and echoing it in my own life with my lover at the time. Using devotion to Her in a literal and metaphorical sense of my struggle with Faith, asking Her to forget me, as one might ask a Lover to forget them.

So the first verse's meaning becomes, largely:

"Forget me, as the River forgets, as those who go to the River forget; sink me in the water like a coin. Less noble and precious than gems, more worthwhile than only a rock. Tell me that I mattered, when I know I did not matter so very much in Your eyes. Then go and, having forgotten me, find new love/a new servant/new believer. Fight whatever memory Your heart holds of me, so I can rest in peace."

My struggle to find my faith is too great, release me! Don't release me without telling me that I was good. For you do eyes blaze with holy fire For you do untamed tongues speak holy words For you are temples all ruins at your feet For you do the hills cry together glory and mercy! Mercy! Mercy!

For the Morrigan and under Her gifts, I experienced the joy of Belief. For Her, and with Her presence, I found faith. Healing… but it came at the cost of the "temples" of my earlier life. Safe places, old refuges that no longer fit me, or no longer allowed me in due to my pagan beliefs. In Her mythos, She is a goddess of prophecy, and battle, self-sovereignty and sacred kingship. The glory of battle, yes, but oh mercy, mercy mercy! In Irish mythology, Macha; one of the Morrigan's faces; is a goddess linked with horses, battle, and sovereignty. She is said to have collected the heads of the slain, which were known as “Macha's acorn crop-” For which reason many would beg Her to spare and show mercy if they failed…. or would swear to sacrifice in Her honor if She gave them victory. ​ You have given me gifts, and I cherish them, I have sacrificed my past safety; grant me victory over my past or grant me mercy…. by sinking me in the River and releasing me from my oaths. What lurks in the depths Bears your face and form- Still waters and deep currents; Reflected in your gaze, Washer At The Ford!

"What Lurks Beneath" are the Watchers in the Water. River monsters, that take various forms. Great eels with giant jaws and teeth, mega-fauna crocodilian-type reptiles, or even something more horrifying. The "washer at the ford" is a mythic vision of the Morrigan washing blood from the armor of the slain. It was a prophecy that battle was coming, and they would die.

The monsters who will guard my spirit have the Morrigan's protective nature, no matter how terrifying their face. The purpose is the same; to set a guarding wall and offer the space to grow before fighting again. A release, or merely an abeyance until the promises can be fulfilled. Her eyes hold that much power and more, and if my time has come, so be it. Take me! If I must struggle and wrestle with faith, I will wrestle! But if I must give up the fight, then I will.

​ For all the feathers between your teeth, You devour death like crows-

The Morrigan's principle animal shape is a hooded crow; Specifically as the Badb Catha, the Battle Crow with a reddened beak and hood. ​ "Hope is the thing with feathers-"

Though my hope of ever having a stable, steady faith or a simple relationship with Deity is dying, the "heart between the teeth" that are "breaking on love" (I love this Goddess, I love this spirituality, I love this path for me, but I am breaking, breaking) Morrigan is only doing as She has ever done… devouring Death. Her Nature. Inevitable.

​

But whether "devouring death" means devouring the circumstances that lead to this cycle of crises in my faith and ability to hold faith in the Divine, or whether it is a devouring the death of my faith as yet another sacrifice…. I still don't know this many years on. It is the same sort of cycle I am walking.

Battle Crow

Sink me in the River like stones, coins beneath the waves; To break your teeth on love and fight what nests between your bones- 

For you do eyes blaze with holy fire For you do untamed tongues speak holy words For you are temples all ruins at your feet For you do the hills cry together glory and mercy! Mercy! Mercy!

What lurks in the depths Bears your face and form- Still waters and deep currents; Reflected in your gaze, Washer At The Ford!

For all the feathers between your teeth,  You devour death like crows- 

[fracktastic]

Tom Zarek :

[speaking on the wireless]  This is Tom Zarek, President of the Twelve Colonies. It's over, Laura. Saul Tigh was killed attempting to escape. Bill Adama was tried and found guilty of his crimes. A firing squad executed him this morning. It's done, Laura. You need to think about the people of this fleet now, and surrender.

President Laura Roslin : No. Not now. Not ever. Do you hear me? I will use every cannon, every bomb, every bullet, every weapon I have down to my own eyeteeth to end you. I swear it! I'm coming for all of you!

---

Gouache and metallic watercolor on paper. I can never get shiny shit to photograph well - is there a trick to it? Might try to do some digital clean-up/color correction and re-post at some point, but this is good enough for now, I guess? In other news, still hate/suck at painting glasses.

[nightmarecountry-a]

“What the fuck was that.” At the first Corinth, hearing him talk when he didn’t see his mouth move.

"What was what?"

It happens again: the nightmare grinning wide, its voice coming from its face but not its mouth. It's been decades since a human knew what he was for longer than a few minutes before he killed them: he'd forgotten how fun it can be to let loose, to not bother holding his tongues, so to speak.

"Oh," he says, affecting innocence, "This?"

And he takes off the glasses, revealing those sharp, gleaming teeth--and it is clear now that that is where the voice comes from.

A long, pink tongue flickers out, running over the rim of his eyeteeth with undisguised pleasure.

"You didn't think it was just teeth, did you?"

[onekisstotakewithme]

so very late, but... POV?

so very late in answering too lol 💜 but we'll make do.

~

“Now darling," Penny starts, giving her daughter a look, "I want you tell me straight out: this isn’t one of those… lilac marriage things, is it?”

Donna blinks. “What?”

Penny hesitates, but then forges on. “Well, Charles is a very nice… affluent man, but surely forty is a little old for a first marriage? Most forty-year-olds I know are up to the eyeteeth in children.”

“Mother…” Donna groans, sounding very much like a teenager.

“I think it’s a fair question.”

“Well…” Donna allows, “I suppose you could say this is his second marriage.”

Penny raises an eyebrow. Now they're getting somewhere, it seems.

“And what was his first marriage like?”

“It only lasted about seventy-two hours… very quickly annulled. Very hush hush.”

“So naturally, you’re telling me all about it," Penny jokes.

“Well, you want a character reference. You can always ask his first wife.”

“And what was the bride’s name?”

“Donna Marie Parker.”

Penny chokes on her coffee, coughing into her sleeve as she mops the coffee from the table. "What?"

Her daughter gives her an innocent look, taking a sip of her coffee.

Penny waits on the answer, until finally Donna takes pity on her.

“Well it wasn’t legal or anything, it was an intimate ceremony performed by a bartender when Chuck and I were both utterly soused on leave in Tokyo.”

Penny laughs, relived, as there’s a knock at the door.

“Speaking of my former husband, I believe that’s him now,” Donna says.

“It’s open!” Penny calls.

The door opens, and Charles walks in, carrying a white pastry box.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice cautious when he sees Penny.

Penny smiles back, even as she's looking him over. A little round, quite a bit bald, but the way his eyes light up when he sees Donna makes him handsome - although she can see the way he looks at her, his face guarded.

“Hi Charles, I’m Donna’s mother.”

“Ah, yes, Mrs… er.”

“Call me Penny," she says, smoothing over the awkward moment.

[seekercoded]

@red-in-revolt

The other mechanism is given a curious look as the seeker regards them with those sunset optics. Long, strong arms are crossed over the edge of the hot-spring, full lips covering sharp dentae. His mandibles aren’t a horror-show like the Polyhexians, but the eyeteeth are quite sharp enough to pierce plating and lines.

And the rest of those shearing dentae are made for reducing metal to shavings. His wings flicker once, hitching up in greeting- rather than speaking. It’s a casual enough thing, trying to be friendly without threatening. He doesn’t get up to lord his height over the other- merely remains there, waiting.

[eyesteeth]

Time for another ATWQ theory. This theory contains MAJOR SPOILERS for the entirety of the fourth volume, so tread with caution. Content warnings for semi-graphic discussions of violence. Long post. I cannot stress how long this post is.

I think Ellington killed Qwerty.

Qwerty’s death is perplexing. His neck wound has thrown me off for years. It’s deep and it’s prominent enough to produce a “terrible stain“. And yet, we’re told the weapon that did him in was a poison dart, shot by Stew Mitchum. I don’t believe this. I believe Qwerty was as good as dead before Stew even had the chance to shoot.

The order of events

Let's break the scene down.

More murmuring, more rattling. “… a good evaluation,” Theodora finished, in the same voice she’d used to make me go to bed early. “You haven’t earned a good evaluation,” Qwerty said sharply. “I’ll tell you what I’ve earned,” Theodora said, and then she said something else I couldn’t hear, in the quiet tone. Qwerty heard it, though. The librarian now sounded less steady and precise and more frightened and anxious, or perhaps I was hearing my own fright and anxiety. “What are you doing?” he cried, and then there was a loud, shattering noise that sounded so close I thought the bottle had broken against my ear. Qwerty screamed, a wild, loud sound he never would have allowed in his library, and then I don’t know exactly what happened next because I dropped the bottle. “What is it?” Moxie asked me. “What’s going on?” “Let’s find out,” I said, moving to the door. “I can’t,” Moxie said. “I need to lie low, remember?” I remembered and said so, then hurried out of the compartment and found myself in a narrow corridor, clattering with the noise of the train and full of nobody but me. (ATWQ4, Chapter 4)

So, in order:

Qwerty exclaims "What are you doing?"

The window breaks

Qwerty screams

Lemony drops the bottle

Lemony enters the room several seconds later

This is very interesting to me, especially because Qwerty asks his question before the window breaks. I'd imagine that the window would break first, then he'd ask the question, and then he'd scream.

Qwerty's exclamation

“What are you doing” is an odd thing to say when a child comes in through your window. To me, it would make far more sense to say something like “What is he doing here” or simply “What the hell”. “What are you doing” is a phrase that seems directed at someone in the room, someone who Qwerty could see and could hear him. Taking context into account, this sounds directed at Theodora - she tells him something in a low voice, he reacts with fear, he is found dead. But I believe this to be a red herring. Because, as we find out later, there was someone else in the room - Ellington.

That's not how poison darts work

“I saw S. Theodora Markson shoot Dashiell Qwerty with a poison dart.” “You did no such thing,” I said. (ATWQ Chapter 6)

“Hangfire lurks in the background,” I reminded her, “imitating people’s voices and making mysterious phone calls. He doesn’t do anything himself.” Ellington poured the coffee. “Well, this time he did,” she said. “He shot Qwerty with a poison dart and threw the weapon out the window. Then he slipped into a nearby compartment and frightened the librarians into serving as false witnesses.” (ATWQ Chapter 8)

“I’m sure it was heartbreaking,” I said, “for the law to do something so lawless. But they were protecting someone important to them—their darling little boy. It was Stew Mitchum who clung to the railings of The Thistle of the Valley, shot Dashiell Qwerty with a poison dart, and then escaped into a compartment full of librarians scared into hiding the truth.” (ATWQ Chapter 11)

Over and over, when it comes to the murder, everyone agrees that it was a poison dart.

We all love our poison darts. A major reveal in TPP, and now they’ve come back again, like history rhyming. But a poison dart should not leave a neck wound like that. In the Netflix adaptation of TPP, there’s a small prick, and then Olaf’s father falls over. There is no blood involved.

Poison darts also have a very small tip. Even if Stew had missed his shot and the dart had run across Qwerty’s throat instead of hitting the side, I don’t think the wound would have been deep enough to kill. It would have bled if the angle was right, but what Qwerty’s death is described as sounds much more like a throat slash than a dart shot. 

Imagine a throwing dart. Imagine throwing that dart to a dartboard. Now imagine how precisely someone would have to stand between you and the dartboard in order to have it run the length of their throat but not get stuck in the side. Now imagine trying to do that in a moving train car, with you on the outside of the train. Not only is it a highly improbable (if not outwardly impossible) shot, even a poison dart shot from a dart gun would not be able to go that deep.

Your honor, that was not the murder weapon.

Even if it was I don't think Stew couldve made that shot anyway

I read for quite some time before I was distracted by a noise that sounded like a rock being thrown against the wall, just above my head. I looked up in time to see a small object fall to the table. It was a rock, which had been thrown against the wall, just above my head. It would be nice to think of something clever to say when something like that happens, but I always ended up saying the same thing. “Hey,” I said. “Hey,” repeated a mocking voice, and a boy about my age stuck his head out from behind a shelf. He looked like the child of a man and a log, with a big, thick neck and hair that looked like a bowl turned upside down. He had a slingshot tucked into his pocket and a nasty look tucked into his eyes. “You almost hit me,” I said. “I’m trying to get better,” he said, stepping closer. He wanted to tower over me, but he wasn’t tall enough. “I can’t be expected to hit my target every time.” (ATWQ1, Chapter 4)

While Stew may be morally capable of shooting a man (we see him go from firing rocks at birds to physically beating Lemony in the span of a few months), he may not be physically capable. Standing still, Stew Mitchum failed to shoot Lemony with a slingshot. And given that Stew was supposedly climbing on the outside of a moving train before swinging in through a window and taking the shot, I call bullshit. This would require an insane amount of coordination and skill, which Stew does not have.

Putting it all together

So, if it wasn't Stew, then it was either Ellington or S. I already believe S didn't do it. She wanted something from Qwerty, and killing him was only going to make her evaluation worse. She wasn't above threatening him, but I believe she was above killing him.

“Ellington Feint and Dashiell Qwerty shared Cell One,” Moxie said, typing it as she realized it, and then she stopped and looked at me. “She must have killed him.” I thought of Ellington dangling out the window of the train, and shook my head. “I know how you feel about Feint,” Cleo said to me. “We all do, Snicket. But if Theodora is not the murderer, then Ellington Feint must be. There was no one else in the compartment.” (ATWQ4 Chapter 11)

So it comes back to this. If it wasn't Stew from outdoors, and it wasn't Theodora from inside, it has to have been Ellington. And I believe I have the motive.

I sat up in bed and quickly turned the light on. I knelt beside the old-fashioned phonograph and looked carefully at it. It could be anybody’s, I told myself. It looks like Ellington Feint’s, but that doesn’t mean it is. I picked it up and turned it over and then saw a word, just one word stamped into the machine, right where the arm with the needle lay waiting to make the music play. It was the wrong word. It made me take three steps back. (ATWQ3, Chapter 5)

“I believe Hangfire would kill Ellington Feint if he could,” I said with a shiver, “and Ellington knows it.” (ATWQ4, Chapter 11)

Ellington likely knows Hangfire is her father, she just doesn't want to admit it to herself. She uses the phonograph far more than Lemony does, and if he knows, so does she. And if she also knows that he could kill her without much hesitation, then that gives her reason to get into his good graces.

And then there’s the one, I thought, who has stolen more sleep from you than all the rest. Ellington Feint, like me, was somewhat new in town, having come to rescue her father from Hangfire’s clutches. She’d told me that she would do “anything and everything” to rescue him, and “anything and everything” turned out to be a phrase which meant “a number of terrible crimes.” (ATWQ4, Chapter 1)

Who's to say she didn't work her way up to murder?

A hypothetical scene

So, Ellington and Qwerty are in the same cell. Kit is in the other cell. S is talking to Qwerty. The Mitchums are present. Here's what I think could have happened.

While Qwerty and S are talking, Ellington comes at him. He yells "What are you doing?", a statement directed at the person sitting next to him, and not someone coming through the window. Stew comes in, ready to attack, but this serves more as distraction than anything. Ellington, with a weapon actually meant to cut a throat, gets at Qwerty and he screams. Outside, Lemony drops the bottle, avoiding the sound of Qwerty's death gurgles.

Then, Ellington's deal with the Mitchums becomes silence about Stew's involvement as opposed to Stew murdering someone. She leaves, and likely discards the weapon out the window like everyone assumed Stew did with the darts. Stew does his threatening and Ellington slinks off, leaving Theodora, the Mitchums, and Kit in the room. Theodora is too stunned to speak, possibly rethinking her choices up to this point, the Mitchums are kept silent by their son, and Kit does not have anything to say.

Events on the train carry out as they do, the second conspiracy unfolds, Hangfire is revealed and then subsequently killed, and then eventually Kit and Ellington wind up in the same cell, shaking hands, two orphans who have been taught to kill.

How it works thematically

ASOUE and ATWQ both convey unreliable narration in different ways. ASOUE is a man reconstructing events he was not present for, and ATWQ is a man looking back on one of the most traumatic events of his childhood. He’s bound to get things wrong in both, and I believe that he is wrong about this scene because he’s falling into the biases he had when he was young.

It would be easy for him to assume that Stew killed Qwerty. It's easy for the audience to assume it, too. We know Stew's history of violence and his hatred towards Qwerty. It makes sense if you don't look too deep into it. The whole event was incredibly stressful, and Lemony was still so very young. Even if he had come to a different conclusion, he may not have wanted to consider it. It’s possible that these inconsistencies are the result of him wanting to tell the facts of what happened while also not wanting to acknowledge that Ellington killed Qwerty.

Or maybe I’m just overthinking things :]

[thewhumperinwhite]

And Then You Kill Me, Part 1

hey, it’s been a hot minute, huh?

been sorta Going Through It, so uh... Vampire Time, featuring Art and Karim from FBI AU. (Though, for the record: this is their original incarnation, hence why fbi au is Called That.)

I’m gonna tag @whumpitywhumpwhump and also @sweetheartblue bc Karim is... her oc once removed, basically, so if you like this, Thank Sweetheart

Blanket Warning For This Story: this story heavily features suicide, including multiple suicide attempts.

TW for: attempted suicide; mentioned/”threatened” murder; slight foot whump; implied vampirism; referenced parental abuse; referenced captivity; prescription drug abuse; drowning mention.

----

Art doesn’t know how far he runs, or for how long, but by the time he stops the air smells like salt water, and also his feet feel like they’re filled with glass.

He hasn’t been out of his room for a full month. Or his father’s house for longer than that. There’s a sharp ache in the center of each of his calves, and muscles jumping in his thighs; he hasn’t used his legs for much of anything in weeks. He hasn’t even paced back and forth within the confines of his room like he did at first. Didn’t even stay on his feet for the entirety of his last few too-long showers.

The maid who let him out is new, at least to his wing of the house. She’s been bringing his meals for three weeks at the most, and collecting the trays after he refuses to eat it with increasingly visible discomfort.

She’s the only member of staff who broke his father’s injunction that no one should speak to him; said “You must eat something” in a soft, accented voice, looking around furtively.

He wasn’t been sure his father had actually given specific orders—thought maybe they all just hated him, or had decided among themselves that he was too much trouble to bother with—but this new girl was so clearly afraid of being caught, just speaking one sentence to him, that he knew his father must have said their jobs were on the line. For a little while he wondered why his father would bother. And then he felt stupid, for still wanting the old man to need a reason for things.

The new maid’s name is Noa. It took her a week to talk to him, and two more after before she felt brave or sympathetic enough to sneak him out.

Which means she probably didn’t know that this was always what he was going to do, the second he was out. Last time he didn’t do it fast enough, and the cops found him before he had the chance; this time he isn’t taking any chances.

Noa might feel guilty when they find his body. He thought about leaving a note—to tell her thanks, and that it wasn’t her fault—but he didn’t want to risk getting her in trouble, if she somehow managed to help him without getting caught.

Anyway, she hasn’t known him very long at all. She’ll get over it before too long.

He hasn’t been to this part of the city before. In fact he’s not sure what part of the city this is; he’s been running through a thick mental fog since he first left his father’s manicured lawn. He makes himself really look, now, blinking in the dim yellow light of the streetlamps.

He’s made it to the edge of the city, near where the river that runs through the center meets the ocean. It’s hard to believe this is the same river where his mother sips martinis and watches races between indistinguishable blinding-white boats (largely captained by indistinguishable blinding-white men, though Art doesn’t have much room to talk on that score, obviously).

Art steps out onto the dock. The wood is damp and rough, ice-cold on his bare feet, but it’s solid, and not very slippery. There’s an old railing along the edge, and he leans against it, wrapping already-numb fingers around the rough metal. The river’s wider here, the city lights on the other side further away than he’s used to. This must be where it starts to open out, stops being the river and starts being the bay.

The railing’s sturdy, but only as high as his waist. It’d be easy to climb over. The water must be freezing, maybe even cold enough to kill him on its own, before he has time to drown.

But he doesn’t know what the tides are like, here. His corpse might wash right out to sea, and then what will have been the point of any of this?

Art pries one hand off the railing—it’s already stiff with cold, and it takes more effort than it should—and puts it in his pocket, wraps his stinging pins-and-needles fingers around the reassuring shape of the pill bottle.

Art closes his eyes, and breathes in. The water smells worse, here—like industrial waste, mainly, with a hint of rotting seaweed. But it doesn’t smell like too-fancy cologne, or any of his mother’s preferred cocktails.

Art figures there are worse places to die.

He’s turning his head, looking around to see if there’s any place to sit or if he should just sit on the ground and lean against the railing—and then he spins wildly on his heel, stumbling back against the railing, his heart stuttering in his chest.

There’s a man standing at the edge of the dock, under the nearest streetlight, watching him.

The man is wearing a full suit, and Art can tell immediately that it’s been professionally tailored and that it’s at least partly silk and for a moment that’s all he can see—neatly pressed trousers and shiny black shoes, with patterns on the soles that leave bruises anyone could recognize if they wanted to, if they looked at Art’s face and throat and hands for even a second—

“—to startle you,” the man is saying, in a blessedly unfamiliar voice, and Art shakes his head, hard, to force his eyes back into focus.

The man is holding his hands up in surrender and looking slightly alarmed, presumably worried that Art is about to swoon at his feet. There’s a red silk ribbon hanging untied around the collar of the man’s shirt, and Art’s father only wears plain black ties.

The adrenaline runs out of Art’s veins in a rush, and this time his knees actually do give out on him, and he slithers down against the railing until he’s sitting on the damp wood, which is very cold through the thin fabric of his jeans.

The man blinks at him. He has big, long-lashed eyes, over-bright against his light-brown skin. His hair is bleach-blonde, glowing white-gold under the streetlamp; it’s mostly slicked back, with a few curls flopping loose over sculpted black eyebrows.

He isn’t standing on the docks themselves, but his suit—now that Art can really see, it’s pretty ostentatious, satin-shiny in the yellow glow, not something his father would wear at all—looks very out of place above the dirty concrete sidewalk, between two dingy, abandoned-looking buildings.

“You’re wearing a suit,” Art says, before he knows he’s going to say anything.

The man blinks his glow-in-the-dark eyes at him. His lashes are so long they cast visible shadows on his cheeks. He looks at Art, and then down at the suit; touches his own lapel gently with black-gloved fingers, like he’s just remembering that it’s there.

Then the man looks back up at Art, and says, “It’s Boglioli,” in a surprised sort of voice, like it’s a conditioned response.

“Ugh,” Art says, with perfect sincerity.

The man laughs, his full lips parting in a startled grin, and—

There’s something wrong with his teeth.

Art is still on the ground. There’s no sound except the river, behind him, water lapping quietly against wood. Art hasn’t slept properly in days. He’s prepared to believe he imagined it, except.

Except that the smile immediately drops off the man’s face, and his gloved hand twitches up as though in an aborted attempt to reach up and cover his mouth.

Art stares.

It was only for a second. But the man’s eyeteeth were too long, surely, poked down over his bottom lip, like they barely fit in his pretty red mouth.

Art’s ears are ringing. He feels cold, and then too warm.

The man takes a half-step back, his eyes not leaving Art’s face.

Art doesn’t move. He’s been out here in the cold for—an hour. Most of him is freezing, is almost painfully cold, but suddenly there’s heat in his cheeks and his ribcage and the palm of his hands.

He’s feeling something too big to identify. It doesn’t feel like fear.

The man is watching his face very closely.

“What’s your name?” he asks, finally. His voice is low and velvet-soft.

That does sent fear up into Art’s stomach like a knife. He shakes his head once, sharply, reaching up for the railing, ready to haul himself to his feet.

The man holds his gloved hands up again, in surrender. This time when he smiles he keeps his lips firmly together.

“No, alright, my mistake,” he says, smirking. It’s much worse than the grin; more controlled, less real. Art liked the grin better.

He liked the man’s smile better with teeth.

“I just, uh,” the man says, and he gestures toward Art’s feet, folded awkwardly underneath him. “That wood’s so dirty. Your cuts’ll get infected.”

Art’s feet do hurt. He’s run half the city with no shoes, they must be cut to shit. But he hasn’t left a trail of bloody footprints, or anything. Maybe the man can see that his feet are bare, but surely not more than that, not from where he’s standing.

When he leans over, a little, to see if his foot is a horrible bloody mess and he’s just missed it somehow, Art wobbles, and takes his hand out of his pocket to steady himself.

The bottle of pills clatters out of his pocket.

Art’s heart clenches painfully in his chest, and his head swims, and the bottle rolls easily across the wooden planks in front of him. The man takes one step forward, and it taps casually into the toe of his shiny black shoe.

The man picks the bottle up, frowning down at the label.

Art stumbles forward, onto his knees. “Give that back.”

“What is it?” the man says, voice nothing but curious. He’s reading the label. Art wants to tackle him and rip it out of his hands.

“It’s mine,” he says, and now he’s almost yelling. “Give it back!”

The man takes a step back, startled. “Huh,” he says, blinking down at Art, who is now kneeling practically at his feet. Art has no idea what kind of face he’s making.

“Really,” the man says slowly, and makes a show of squinting back down at the label. “This says… Honoria Lange, is what it says.” He raises a perfectly-sculpted brow at Art. “That’s you, is it?”

Art wants to rip this guy’s head off. “Maybe it is,” he says savagely, and reaches for the man’s hand; the man laughs and dances easily out of the way. “Give me my fucking pills back—"

“Oh, relax,” the man says, smirking again. “Seriously, what are you so desperate to—” He trails off, frowning down at the bottle. “…Huh.”

The man looks down at Art, thoughtfully.

“These are—what, sleeping pills,” he says slowly, and tips his head, like a curious dog.

Art’s stomach clenches painfully.

“Hey,” the man says. “Are you—”

Art throws himself to his feet.

This isn’t as good, Art thinks, while he swings his foot onto the lowest bar of the metal railing; they might not find his body for weeks, might not find it at all, he might die for nothing, but he won’t go back, he won’t go back to his father’s—

“Hey—Don’t!” the man yells, and he grabs Art by the hood of his sweatshirt, and yanks him backwards, off the railing.

Art gasps in a painful panicked breath and kicks out at the man with his bare, bleeding feet, aiming straight for the testicles; the man moves easily out of the way, not letting go of Art’s hoodie; Art overbalances and falls backward, just catching himself my scraping his hand bloody on the concrete at the bottom of the railing.

“Shit,” the man says, reaching for Art, and Art flails at him, wants to push him away, or to scratch out his shiny glass-marble eyes, or—

The man catches Art’s wrist easily. He’s leaning over Art, now, with one arm braced beside him, and holding Art’s arm; Art’s hand, his wrist in the man’s glove fist, is very close to the man’s face.

The heel of Art’s hand is cut open; a drop of blood trails down over his pulse point, and disappears into the fabric of the man’s glove.

The man’s pupils visibly dilate. When his lips part, his fangs are even more visible than before, like they barely fit inside his mouth.

Art feels his own lips part in response. Feels his fear—he’ll stop me he’ll call the police he’ll drag me back please no please please I’ll do anything—shift, pool lower in his belly.

The man is watching Art’s face—their faces are very close together now. He looks Art in the eye and—parts his lips slightly, so there can be no mistaking what they both know Art sees. Then he wets his lips, delicately, with an almost obscenely red tongue.

“Hey,” the man says, and his voice has gone slightly hoarse.

“No,” Art says—and his voice is hoarse, too, an embarrassing croak. His face is hot; he knows it must be red, now. “I don’t want it. Whatever you’re offering, I don’t—uh—”

Art tries to pull his arm back, as hard as he can. The man’s grip doesn’t budge a single inch. Like he could—like he could snap Art’s wrist, just by tightening his fist. Art swallows, his heart fluttering in his chest. His ribcage feels too tight. And now his pants are starting to feel that way, too.

The man studies Art’s face, very seriously. “I think,” he says, and his voice is softer, almost hesitant.

“I think,” the man says, watching closely for Art’s reaction, “that I am offering to kill you.”

[sacredvein]

@rozsapalota

It was a killing winter.

The freeze had descended upon Paris over a bitter night, a veil of iced condensation sticking to the filth of the City of Lights; she had soured with stink and blackened snow in an evening. The avenues choked with soot and chimney smoke as the poor folk huddled before squat coal stoves or else were found thawed and half-eaten when the snow drifts melted that Spring.

But the world, that seething January, was quiet.

Few lingered long or willingly out of doors. The children that had first thought to make games and play cannonades and castles quickly sickened and chilled and tossed abed with fever, and soon they, too, were silent.

Windows shuttered and even the parlours of genteel society brooded with hungry fires, starving for want of wood to feed them. Kindling sold for a dozen francs a bundle, and it had seemed the whole countryside must have been felled to feed the greedy furnaces of Paris. The city belched and groaned in a drowsing, satiated stupour that the blood-gods of Carthage would have envied.

And still, they were ravenous.

Something was killing the stoop clochards and the mendicants in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. The constables had dismissed the matter, a three-dog night, they shrugged, but the dogs had already been slaughtered for their meat, for boiled fat, for thin marrow stew. But mortals were ever wont to live with the scales over their eyes, and cosmopolitan Paris had forgotten her folktales.

Someone was being sloppy.

It was Céleste who told him first, cluckling like a hen about the rumours in the 19th Arrondissement of an axe-wielding madman, furred like a Prussian and barrel-chested. Two nights after, François remarked upon a third cadaver found, bloated in the little man-made lake and already purpling when the authorities had loaded the corpse upon the back of the chief examiner’s carriage. Not half a week later, Agosto and Clémence reported a heartbeat as they hunted in the Quartier, but it had fled upon their approach. And so there was no doubt. Their city was plagued by another of their misbegotten kin, a sorry beast that made poor feasts of the downtrodden and polluted their populace with its slovenly appetite. And so Laurent, ever the lieutenant, was elected to find it.

He stalks its hunting grounds well past dark, and even the winking gas bulbs of the boulevards are swallowed by the thick filaments of snow that torment Paris that evening. Snowflakes gather upon his neatly parted curls and on the fine silver lashes of his eyes and the thick black twill of his coat. They do not melt, for he has no heat to give. But Laurent is patient, and he is quiet, settling into the minds of a dozen restless mortals that shiver in their boots and try not to die.

And he hears them, this interloper, poacher.

He hears them through the dim and darkening thoughts of a beggar-woman, sees the white flash of eyeteeth through her own eyes. He has found them.

Laurent approaches softly from the Avenue de la Grotte, and watches impassionately as the woman dies in the vampire’s arms. He waits for a moment, almost as if to entertain the possibility of his being found. None of their kind savour interruption during the intimacies of the kill. But this is not their city, and these are not its people to hunt.

He speaks at last, glacially soft.

“You have been gravely incautious, cousin.”

[gatheringbones]

what you said about stone butch blues, i felt it bc that was my entry point like.... about 6 months ago and i haven't been able to read any other queer lit book since. do you have any recs for easier books? ones that don't hurt so much?

ivan coyote

they’re a storyteller, author, and folk singer who’s been going on speaking gigs at elementary schools across canada for decades; they’re gentle, they know how to talk to kids and young adults, and they know how to talk about serious issues in sober sensible ways that aren’t as visceral and upsetting as sbb. I think sbb is as close as any of us is going to get to a sacred text, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t extremely painful to read; I cut my eyeteeth on prison literature and babi yar and even I have to approach sbb in erratic bursts, it hurts that badly. 

but they’re gentle, they’re kind, they’re romantic as hell, and they’re also extremely prolific; 13 books give or take, most of them pretty slim, thriftbooks has a bunch for under five bucks. they explain things like C explains things; short and sweet and to the point, and they also grew up in the middle of bugfuck rural working class nowhere like me and C did only the difference is their family actually liked them. 

here’s my tag where you can find some excerpts, if you follow them on ig you can find links to the live musical revues/readings they’ve been doing over quarantine, godspeed. 

[kingofattolia]

SINCE ALL MY DREAMS ARE COMING TRUE AND THE LAWS OF THE UNIVERSE ARE SUSPENDED

HERE’S MY WISH LIST FOR THE KENOBI TV SHOW:

It’s taking place in 11BBY so EVERY single cinematic parallel between 8 year old Luke and kid Anakin. Just BEAT me over the head with it until I’m unconscious.

FLaShBaCKs??????? literally ANY

Obi-Wan lowkey saving 8yo Luke from deadly shenanigans and some kind of Owen Lars altercation. I know we’ve seen this a million times but in live action. I need it so badly.

Qui-Gon’s Force ghost and some Way of the Whills lore PLEASE.

Show me Obi-Wan’s deep and abiding inability to stay out of trouble.

Obi-Wan: All right, THIS time I’m going to lie low and preserve my cover.

[ distant sounds of some injustice being done ]

Obi-Wan: ......

I know it’s a little late in the timeline, but WHAT I WOULDN’T GIVE...... FOR FOOTAGE OF THE MOMENT OBI WAN FINDS OUT ABOUT DARTH VADER

Hondo?!?

Okay this is asking a lot but something about the fugitive Jedi. I would give my eyeteeth for Obi-Wan getting a distress beacon from someone he knew and being unable to stop himself from answering, or rescuing a former youngling or SOMETHING.

SABER FIGHTS.............. USE OF THE FORCE.... MEDITATION... HE IS THE LAST JEDI. THE WAR JEDI. THE ULTIMATE JEDI. LET HIM CUT OFF SOME ARMS

Obi-Wan absolutely has to leave the planet at some point to do some kind of mission so BAIL?????? PRESTOR??? ORGANA??

On a similar note, CAN YOU IMAGINE EVEN 3 SECONDS OF FOOTAGE OF 8 YEAR OLD LEIA. PLEASE.

1 namedrop of Ahsoka. I know dreams are coming true but I almost am too afraid to ask for an actual........... onscreen appearance......

KENOBI, WIZARD OF THE WASTES

Show me how sad Obi-Wan is and how he grapples with everything that happened. WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE A JEDI, ALONE? In his journal entries from Kenobi he was still barely processing it. How long does it take him to reach his ANH outlook?

1 glimpse of Hayden Christensen’s face, even in holocron or flashback form, and my weak heart will give out and I will instantly expire on the floor

*whispers* Clones? Are there some that still patrol with the Empire? Are there more fugitive ones who cut out their chips? Does Obi-Wan know that Rex is out there?

The realities of living on Tatooine. Show me Tusken Raiders, and the oppression of Hutt rule, and slavery. Does Obi-Wan speak Huttese? How does he procure his daily food and water? Does he have a vapirator? Does he know how to fix it when it breaks? Show me his eopie friend and what its name is.

ALIENS. Twi’leks. Hutts. Trandoshans. Please.

The Kenobi Hunt. Is the Inquisitorius up and running? Is anybody hunting him? Is there a price on his head? Wanted posters? Tatooine is rife with bounty hunters, after all. Does he ever get recognized?