#eyeteeth speaks

[eyesteeth]

imagining an s1 era scene in my theatre of the mind where carpenter's feeling particularly charitable one day with faulkner's endless torrent of questions and his focus of the day is her scars, he wants to know all about them, the battles, the adversaries, the stories, so she lets him point and she answers, a series of triangles across the fingers of gripped barbed wire, a cut across the palm a deflected blade, the semicircle of a saint's bite, three burns from fumbled lighters, spots of skin where the hair won't grow anymore indicative of a pox-monk's work, all stories that make him nod his interest, making an image of her in his mind, a better one, she hopes, and he points at a particularly savage cut across a finger, old and deep, and she chuckles and tells him she fucked up cutting tomatoes and he lets out a little "oh" and then he points at the column of three symmetrical straight lines across her wrist and that's when she's had enough of his questions for the day because look, there's the turn, we're here.

[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 😡😡😡💗💗💗

[maestrita]

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.

[himbohotel]

Adam's eyes narrow as he exposes particularly sharp eyeteeth. Despite his maman's best efforts and the finest tutors in all the lands, he never quite got a handle on the wit required for quick repartee. It's his inherited temper. ❛ Speak plainly, ❜ he grounds out in lieu of an answer. A tic in his jaw jumps with how agitated he is--how exposed he feels in public. He almost wishes for claws to vault over that wall right there and escape.

❛ You have no idea to whom you speak, do you? ❜ Amazing. His fingers flex on reflex. ❛ And does it bother you when people stare? ❜ He tosses the question back childishly with bite. Literally. Staring is stupid. This whole conversation is worthless.

ㅤㅤ“ Isn’t it obvious? ”  Somewhere between the dextrous flick of the remnants of ash to one side and lighting up a second cigarette, Sanji doesn’t miss a single beat, an unbothered jut of his chin extended in the other’s direction  (  son altesse? s’il te plaît, épargne-le…  ).  “ A caricature of our kind, that’s what. ”  There’s a semblance of humour within the words although it’s exceptionally subtle, the pair of them making a strangely complimentary duo for anyone passing them by, the blond leaning back to continue with his unabashed observation. Eyes narrow with a low hum.  “ Does it bother you when people stare? ”

[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.

[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.

[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?

[abbacchiosbelt]

Mango 🥭 Would I be able to request NSFW headcanons of incubus Risotto after he was summoned by the reader? Like, how would he entice them and eventually fuck them? Sorry if it’s so vague it’s my first time requesting 😅

i am a Hoe for incubus and succubus content, so thank you for this request!♡

18+ under the cut! cw for manipulation.

Risotto hadn’t been summoned in quite some time, so when familiar furls of black smoke started to form around his body in order to pull him somewhere else, he gladly gave in. If he’d been summoned by someone… unworthy of his services, he could easily dispose of them. Plus, he’d be in for a quick meal. Risotto had no problem finding meals of his own, but being handed a body brimming with energy on a silver platter was a nice break. If someone interesting had summoned him, well, that was all the better.

You had never taken yourself as the type of person that would find themselves attempting to summon a demon (a demon that fed on lust, nonetheless) but here you were, lips bitten pink from nerves. The supernatural had always intrigued you and the thought of being taken to the sheets by a mysterious creature had been a thought in your mind more times than you’d like to admit.

The summoning circle in your room reacts quickly to your words, lighting up with a red flash and bringing forth black smoke. You’re speechless when whatever you’ve summoned steps out. In front of you stood an impossibly tall, dark-skinned man with black sclera and red eyes, two black horns sticking out of his forehead. He was dressed in no more than mere straps that covered his chest and lower half, large black wings and a black tail unfurling behind him. His body was thick and muscled — he was so large that you feared a single slap could kill you. 

He was beautiful. He radiated death. You couldn’t look away.

Risotto, too, felt pleasure coursing through his body from your sheer energy when he caught your gaze. Oh, you were a lovely meal. Not only were you a beautiful human, but you were crackling with lust and fear. Yes, it had definitely been worth responding to your call. And yet while he’d normally feel the beast within him clambering to eat & kill, Risotto wanted to spend time with you. He wanted to play with you.

‘What business do you have with an incubus, human?’ Risotto steps out of the circle as he speaks, feeling his cock pulse when he sees you give him a once-over and swallow. He’d be ready to push you to the floor and take you right now, but it was always more fun to draw things out, especially with something as delicious as you. 

You feel like you can barely speak, not with how much powerful energy the creature in front of you is radiating, but he was right — you summoned him for a reason. It was best not to lie to demons, you’d read. You supposed the advice was sound, considering the people who lived to tell the tale were there to give it…

“For exactly the reason you’d expect.” You say, feeling bold. Something about the energy in the room invigorated you. Perhaps it was from the creature you’d summoned. “I’d like a night with you, incubus.” You let your eyes trail over his body again, widening when you see the sizeable bulge under his thin straps of clothing. 

Risotto can’t help but laugh at how absolutely bold you’re being. Most humans who summoned him did so on accident, or to request a favor for him. He’d had yet for someone to outright ask him for sex, despite his very nature. Risotto steps forward and forces you back against the wall, caging you in with his strong arms. The taste of fear and arousal he can smell coming from you is driving him wild.

‘You’re an interesting human, dolcezza.’ Risotto puts one clawed finger under your chin and tilts it upward, leaning down until your lips are ghosting against his. ‘What do you want?’ 

You feel dizzy but the arousal in the pit of your stomach is burning brighter than you’ve ever felt. You expected the incubus to put up more of a fight but maybe you shouldn’t have been surprised that he had seduced with you with just a few words and the lightest touch. You place a tentative hand on his chest and marvel in how hot his flesh is, sliding your hand up until you’re cupping his jaw.

“Use me.”

That’s all it takes for Risotto to growl and pick you up, pressing his lips against yours in a bruising kiss as he savors the energy coming from your body. Though his body was bursting with almost violent energy, he wanted to savor you. That didn’t mean he’d be gentle, though. No, you had summoned him and you would take whatever he gave you.

Risotto wastes no time ripping your clothes off with the aid of his long nails, leaving you bared to him. He can’t resist pressing his mouth against your warm skin hungrily, inhaling deeply before he runs his tongue along your flesh to make you shudder. Risotto picks you up with ease and holds you so that he can press his mouth to your chest, rolling your nipples with his tongue as you squirm against him. Each moan that he draws from you tastes divine — the sexual energy you were emitting was like nothing he had tasted before.

You were not something he could only try once. 

With uncharacteristic slowness (Risotto was known for being a… quick eater amongst his peers, even compared to Melone) Risotto lifts your body up even further as he pins you to the wall and dives in-between your thighs. 

It’s almost too much for you. You cling helplessly to his thick silver hair, digging your fingers in as Risotto licks and kisses at your sex with such fervor that you can barely think. Maybe it was because he was an incubus that you had fallen into a pleasurable haze, unaware of anything else but how good it felt to be touched by him. You couldn’t care, though, not when he brought you over your peak and eagerly licked up your juices. 

Risotto’s cock was painfully hard at this point — everything about you, a mere human, was sending his incubus nature into overdrive. You were the most exquisite meal he had ever tasted and he could scarcely wait to bury his cock into you and drink up more of your energy. Risotto drags you away from the wall in his arms, wings flaring out behind him as he flips your body around to press your chest to his back. The straps of his clothes had long been shredded and there’s nothing between your slick center and his cock, Risotto hissing as he nudges his thick head against your entrance. 

He wanted to draw things out further but he couldn’t wait anymore. Risotto presses his lips to your neck as he starts to work his cock inside, unable to resist biting down when he feels your walls clamp pleasurably around him. He knew he was stretching you to your limits by the loud moans you were making and the way your head was falling back against him — it only pushed him on further as he drank more and more, your stolen energy buzzing brightly in his veins. 

When Risotto is pressed fully inside of you, you feel lost in pleasure. You’d never felt anything this big, nor thought anything this big could even fit. And yet here you were, being held up by a demon as he drank his fill, huge cock snug inside of you. The haze in your mind is getting even thicker and you can’t help but think you could spend your life like this, as ridiculous as it sounded�� But then he starts to move and you suddenly don’t find it so ridiculous. The groan he lets out in your ear is intoxicating and you tighten around him happily.

Risotto doesn’t waste a second before he starts driving his cock in and out of you, craning his head down so he can kiss you roughly while he fucks you and drains you of your energy — this is what an incubus liked Risotto lived for. It wasn’t often that he encountered a human with such delicious energy. It helped even more that you had summoned him solely to be fucked, to be used by him. It’s that which draws Risotto to start working your sex until you’re crying out and cumming. He draws your final burst of energy into himself and roars as he holds you to himself and fills you with his seed, brimming with energy to imbue you the same feeling he was experiencing. 

This is normally the moment that Risotto would use to tear into his prey’s jugular or to rip out their heart to add to his meal, his jaw cracking on the sides to reveal an even sharper row of teeth — but not this time. You had a better use than that. While you were in your haze, Risotto would claim you.

Risotto flips you back around to face him, only pulling his still-hard cock out for a moment before he slides it back into your sensitive walls. You moan against him and he watches with delight as your eyes roll back into your head. The energy he had put back into you was working perfectly.

‘You were delicious,’ Risotto coos, calling your name. You can’t remember telling him that, but you’re too drunk on pleasure to think properly. ‘You want more of this, don’t you? You’d like to be fucked and filled every day. Your life will be perfect if you wish. It will be filled only with pleasure.’

There wasn’t anything tying you to this world, and though you should have thought about it more nothing could convince you to say no, not with how much your body was shivering in pleasure. You knew what you had to ask — you’d read about it. Risotto’s eyes are locked with yours.

“What is your name?”

The demon smirks at you, sharp eyeteeth visible. ‘Risotto Nero. You may call me Risotto.’ He presses his lips to yours and nips at your bottom lip before he pulls away, his cock twitching inside of you. ‘What a smart human you are. Come, I have much more in store for you.’

There’s nothing but a lazy smile on your face when Risotto steps back inside the circle you’d summoned him from, the same dark smoke from earlier furling around both of your bodies as you’re taken to somewhere unknown. Risotto, of course, knows it well — he is taking you back to his home in hell, after all.

Yes, you’d be the perfect pet for his team… Though he would make sure they knew you belonged to him.

[efrmellifer]

FFxivWrite ‘20, Eight

Prompt: Clamor, post-Stormblood (Rise of a New Sun), 940 words

Standing in the mists of the morning dawning on Yanxia, Etien still struggled to process it all.

At every turn, there were primals coalescing from crystals that somehow always seemed to flow in tributaries around her.

The purposeful and insidious creation of a cycle of summoning was not lost on her, but she did wonder how deeply she’d have to dig her fingers into the dirt to find the root of the problem and pluck it out into the light of day.

But for now, she had been snipping off the freshest sprouts, putting out small fires. Or large ones, in the case of Ifrit.

But still, it felt like she was standing still—when she had the privilege—and every nation-state reached up and out, tugging at her skirts, clamoring for her attention.

“But the Mineral Concern!” “The Wood Wailers report--” “Our scouts have alerted us...”

She couldn’t begrudge them any of it either, when she had the power, was obligated to use it, and was afforded a degree of protection only offered to those with the Echo.

They asked her, because she was the only one (well, one of the few) who could take care of it. Minfilia had done things her way, Krile had her uses for the Echo, but only Etien had taken up her bow and answered the call by going toe to toe with every summoned primal. With help, of course.

She was starting to find she needed to count on her fingers and her toes to enumerate the gods and monsters she’d taken to the ground—the early ones sometimes blurred together, though Garuda was easy to remember. The more recent battles were fresh in her mind, but even they had their own melting and warping of forgetting.

There was just too much happening. But any time she stopped, she could hear them all calling out to her again.

Oh, no, this time there was actually someone shouting just a ways down the road.

Isse and Azami, accosted by Kojin of the Red on their way back from the Enclave. Huh.

Some part of Etien was glad that Asahi had been there to at least hold himself as a barrier between the two sides, but she was cautious now of strangers arriving before she did.

Didn’t need another Warriors of Darkness and the Gnath situation on her hands, after all.

In any case, here she was now, and it wasn’t hard to chase off a few Kojin.

After that, she listened attentively to what Asahi had to say about allegiance and reforming the empire. She wasn’t sure how much of it she believed, how much she trusted him (there was just something about him that unnerved her), but she could listen, at the very least. What was the alternative, covering her ears and walking away?

She tensed, though, stepping back when he mentioned her time in Ishgard. It was well-documented that she had been there, she conceded, but it still felt that he knew intimate details of her life a short time after meeting her and exchanging a few words. She’d never mentioned it, so it felt especially like she’d been exposed without her say-so.

The Garleans and their associates had no right to Etien’s heart. To making suggestions about her role in her new home.

Maybe she was reading too far into it. Deciding who to trust was such a tricky business in her line of work. As tricky, almost, as fathers. She snorted softly at the memory, sad though it had been at the time.

Still, when it came time for Asahi to depart, and he made a special request to speak with her a short distance away from the others, that trepidation washed over her again. She followed him, giving him her full attention, but felt a hot flash of fear as his expression changed from a detached cordiality to downright threatening.

She took a step back from him, spine straight and the hairs on her tail standing up, as he made the threat much more explicit.

If she weren’t rattled by his promise of a reckoning, Etien would have laughed. In her more confident moments, she would find something like that hilarious. Woman made weapon, constantly brought up against divinities and the hells’ denizens? That was who he was promising this to?

But unfortunately, this was not one of her more confident moments. Her ears flattened.

Gods, she had so many temptations run through her, same as she had when she was younger. She wanted to claw and hiss and get him away from her. Instead, visions from the Echo swept over her.

When they had passed, Asahi kept talking.

“Everything you are—your power, even your face—it vexes me.”

Etien’s lip curled up, exposing gleaming eyeteeth. Her hand, hanging at her side, was stretching out, ready to give him a good slash with her fingernails—close enough to claws.

But he wasn’t done. “Go on. Lash out like the beast you are. At an emissary. And jeopardize the newfound peace between Doma and the Empire.”

She clenched her hand into a fist, nails scraping and digging into her palm. Her ears were integrating with her hair again, tail thrashing behind her.

Beast. Charming. If only it were new.

As Asahi praised his lord’s radiance, Etien let herself fantasize about knocking him back from her personal space, taking him down into the rocks below them and showing him what a beast looked like. But he was gone, thank the gods, too soon for her to let fate be tempted.

Well, he did promise her a next time.