#iravide

[queensupe]

@iravide​​ said: “shut it! i feel dirty even talking to you.”

INVINCIBLE STARTERS

❛  listen  up,  you  sad,  angry  little  pinprick  of  a  man.    ❜    the  flashpoint  of  her  temper  riles.  she’s  still  riding  high  from  the  confrontation  in  the  woods,  from  the  momentary  victory    &    REPRIEVE  that  came  with  it.    she  meets  him  eye  to  eye    ;    her  fists  settle  at  the  brim  of  where  her  belt  meets  her  hips.    the  stern  line  of  her  jaw  is  set  in  an  immovable,  unimpressed  stone.    ❛    just  because  i  saved  your  ass    ----      ❜    

a  reminder  that  she  pairs  with  an  calculating  uptick  of  her  brow    &    index  finger  poised  to  tap  right  at  the  center  of  his  sternum.    

❛    ---  doesn’t  mean  you  get  to  talk  to  me  like  i'm  one  of  your  little  cronies.    i  know  who  you  are    &    what  you’re  capable  of.    ❜    her  own  anger  is  automatic,  an  easy  simmer  at  the  surface  of  where  she’s  been  so  complacent,  hope  flat-lined  for  so  long.    ❛    but  homelander’s  right  where  we  need  him  to  be.    ❜  

her  accusing  finger  waves  between  them  to  measure  the  distance    &    the  difference    (  growing  slimmer  all  the  time  on  both  fronts  these  days    ).    ❛      &  that  means  that  you    &    me?    we  need  to  play  nice.    ❜    

[nlustris-arch]

valarie kaur  /  les amours imaginaires (2010)  /  still here by ari banias  /  to the desert by benjamin alire sáenz  /  the boys 2x06,  the bloody doors off  /  the boys 2x06,  the bloody doors off  /  the boys 1x07,  the self-preservation society  /  bloodsport by yves olade

[golemn]

               THE GREEN DEVIL ABSINTHERIE  is busy on Friday nights, mostly populated by old faces. Regulars so reliant they've almost become fixtures of the bar itself. But dotted amongst the usual suspects Emet can pick out newcomers— English speaking tourists looking for an adventurous night out and something worth posting about on the internet. Regardless of Emet's difficulty with technology, he can still understand the impulse to document every experiece, as things in recollection tend to fade just like old photographs. In the digital age, a memory can be recalled at the touch of a button, information that would have once taken hours to weeks to retrieve just a couple clicks away. It's overwhelming and exciting and unfortunately for the ghosts of Emet's past, it made them very easy to find. But somehow, Vought had managed to wipe the slate clean, start anew under American protection in exchange for the very evil he'd developed for the Third Reich. 

               He may have the strength of a battleram and a taste for death to back it, but he is one person against an institution, a hydra with far too many heads. Cut one off and they will continue to grow, and use the responding press to their advantage. To fight the power is to draw its attention, and Emet is not sure he'd be able to escape Vought's clutches again if they found him. So he keeps his head low, or as low as it can be at a man of his stature. He takes a page from Vought's "supes" and develops an alternate identity, one that can curb the rise of neo-fascism without entering the spotlight. It even works for a while, but nothing lasts forever. Not even him.

               His thoughts clear like fog in the wind. The obscuring gloom that hangs like a proverbial stormcloud over his head is not enough to distract Emet from a particularly rowdy patron at the bar, one who seems intent on starting trouble. He's not sure who exactly throws the first punch, the bar explodes into pandemonium soon after. The two men grappling for victory don't seem to notice him approaching. One of them gets pinned against the bar, his nose broken and bleeding red lines into his beard. Emet curls his fingers in fabric of the assailant's coat and uses it to pull him off the other. He holds him above the ground as the man with the broken nose is given a moment to catch his breath. The scene would be comical if it weren't so visceral.

               ❝ No....fighting... ❞ 

||: @iravide liked for a starter.

[cadisflya]

a betrayal happens to you right in the gut.

CREATURES PART 2  /  ACCEPTING

   𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝚂𝙾𝙵𝚃 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝙹𝙴𝚁𝙺, Will presses a palm against his belly. The seam there, under his shirt, beneath the skin or in the skin, over the flesh and delicately woven hardness of the musculature of his abdomen. The latticework of his body. Over it, but in it too—through, where the knife had so carefully parted him. It’s funny. It could be funny. Irony is the origin of comedy, after all. Phallic symbols and a sense of the inevitably ridiculous. Tragedy plus time. It’s not surprising to be confronted with it; anyone might have heard, might have read it in the news. There were certainly enough headlines. The photograph of his freshly-stitched abdomen, his sedated hipbones and pale thighs—all of it had made the rounds. The knife. His colostomy bag. Will assembles the associations around himself for Billy to observe, assuming without analyzing that it’s what he wants to see.

   Life is so slender, isn’t it? Sticks set on sticks. Thought and personality, memory and experience and sensory undulations. Latticework. One little stone through the front facade and the whole immaculate edifice comes crashing down. Hardly more than a touch in the right place and the body crumples, or leaks and oozes outward.

   Not Will, of course. He’s been carefully preserved. Thinking about it, even briefly, makes him feel lonely. Loneliness floods him with a sharp spike of resentment.

   Will slides his hand away from his stomach. It’s private, and it’s not something he likes the idea of elaborating on. His eyes—blue, heavily saturated, blue past blue, maybe—twitch vacantly across the train car while all the time Billy is looking straight at him, imagining that he’ll succeed, or already deciding that it will be easy. Trying to take him apart, thread by thread, and then suck the information out like marrow from the bone. A big, mean child. He’s dangerous, and charming, and Will occupies a dark slip of space almost invisibly by comparison—but that isn’t unusual for him. Charm of a general type has an astringent affect on Will Graham. He drws back from it. This is one of those general types, but there’s something else beneath it. Rough, and large. Volatile but almost warm. Will tilts his head a little, and there’s a flash of interest behind his eyes.

   Will had been a mean child, too—but a small one. The difference that such an ordinary detail makes is stark. Now, his dark eyelashes flicker.

   “Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.”

   He’s too worn out to summon the necessary vitriol. His face changes rapidly in jerky series of fluttering expressions, but settles on a cool indifference. The train rocks on the tracks, and Will rocks with it, his compact shoulders swaying against the creaking vinyl benchseat. He looks petulant, annoyed.

   They both do.

   “If you want something from me, just tell me what it is.”

[muhlti]

LOVE   WITH   SOMETHING   GROTESQUE…    #DEATH & THE BUTCHER @iravide​

1. MONSTER, MUMFORD & SONS       2.  WORK SONG, HOZIER 3. 9 CRIMES, DAMIEN RICE                  4. GLASS HOUSE, KLAEO 5. GUN IN MY HAND, DOROTHY          6. WANTED MAN, ROYAL DELUXE

[hiscanary]

            * SOLDIER   BOY?         anxious frame had grown out it’s thorns now, hadn’t it?   no longer soft foliage of pastel variety that needs a gentle tending to         (   he had ripped you from your roots and your head hangs like a wilting white carnation,         desperate for some grounding, some earthly comfort   )         --         but still he shakes in this eternal wind and flinches in reaction to this new revelation ;    new soil, dry and jagged and unyielding.         he has to find a new home in this mess,         to regain his footing again before they trek off to kill another supe, just another day, just to breathe, just to prepare -

              “    ...did  you,  did  you  say  soldier  boy?    ”           there’s a lump in his throat, right where his pride and rage should be, with purple knuckles to match.   but he doesn’t find that fire.   ire snuffed out as he asks, mellow,        but heart beat like          a  rabbit,                skipping so rapidly he’s near enough fainting.           “   we’re  not  going  after  him,  are  we?    we’ve  got  annie  in  vought    -    she  can  keep  an  eye  on  him  if  he  returns.    besides,  i  thought,  he  was  dead?    are  you  telling  me  none  of  the  top  supes  actually  die  and  vought  just    -    keeps  them  on  a,             i  don’t  know,             private  island  until  they  want  to  do  a  fucking  game  of  swapsies?    ”

               * @iravide​​

[treppenwitzz]

alone,    alone,    OH    !        she    remembers    being    alone    ;    christian's    phantom    touch    on    the    ghost-body    of    the    girl    he    was    meant    to    love    ...        alone    then,    forever    yearning    for    more    (wanting,    wanting,    never    receiving    :    a    scream    kept    in    the    throat,    thrumming    like    a    melody    waiting    to    be    breathed    /    waiting    to    be    sung)    family    breathing    fumes,    family    too    busy    to    sing,    family    silenced    by    a    sister's    final    plea    for    help    :    oh,    yes,    she    was    alone    then,    and    that    was    her    only    truth.    not    the    truth,    surely,    for    she    discovered    more.    hands    in    her    hands,    spinning    ghost-girl    given    flesh,    petals    in    her    hair    ___    she    was    more    in    that    moment,    turning    &    turning    &    turning ��  around    the    maypole,    she    is    so    sure    of    it,    she    remembers    it    oh    so    clearly    :    𝚗𝚘𝚝    𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎,    𝚏𝚘𝚛    𝚝𝚑𝚎    𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢    𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝    𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎.    𝚊    𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑    𝚘𝚏    𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎    𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚝.

«        we're    not.        »    placid    smile    on    pink    lips    ;    a    blossoming    bouquet    of    light    red    carnations    &    yellow    tulips.    she    looks    no    more    delusional    than    any    pessimist    __    but    she    has    bright    sunny    optimism    on    her    side,    a    warmth    that    only    the    truly    insanely    convinced    exude    :    loneliness    is    still    time    spent    with    the    world,    all    you    have    to    do    is    find    someone    to    hold    your    hand    through    the    worst    of    it.    «        or,    at    least,    i    think    we    don't    have    to    be.        »    hand    hovering    above    his    shoulder,    half-touch    that    awaits    for    an    invitation    ;    she    is    light,    light,    light,    brighter    than    any    sun    (demons    would    burn,    should    they    ever    reach    her)    «        you'd    be    dead    already,    were    you    truly    alone.        »    they    all    would    :    no    hands    to    welcome    you    into    the    world,    no    mother    to    feed    you,    no    one    to    teach    you    how    to    stand    &    live.    and    upon    looking    at    him,    she    feels    that    perhaps    more    than    a    general    truth,    it    is    absolutely    his    truth    :    no    one    meets    violence    &    survives    without    a    gentle    hand    to    patch    up    the    broken    pieces.    perhaps    it    was    a    long    time    ago    ;    but    a    single    touch    is    powerful    enough    to    break    the    ourobouros    of    loneliness.    «        ___    wouldn't    you    ?        »

@iravide​    said    :    we’re    all    alone.    that’s    the    truth.     (   &    DANI   )

[agamemnidesarch]

TAKE  ME  MUSE  TO  THAT  BARREN  LAND  in  which  dread  lurks  beneath  every  shadow,  the  scent  of  abandonment  hangs  heavy  in  the  air  clawing  at  any  who  pass,  and  an  deafening  silence,  heavy  and  thick,  calls  through  the  air  like  a  siren.  there  is  something  so  off  about  the  place,  as  though  one  has  journey  to  the  underworld,  walking  past  souls  upon  the  river  styx  that  even  you,  lion-hearted  elektra,  a  girl  built  from  blood  cannot  help  but  turn  and  glance  behind  your  shoulder.  as  nox  closes  in,  dark  talons  grasping  as  the  edge  of  her  consciousness,  crafting  terrors  out  of  shadows  so  the  daughter  of  agamemnon  waits,  hand  never  leaving  the  knife  resting  in  her  coat  pocket    (    her  mother’s  very  own    )  at  last  a  figure  steps  from  erebus  grasp,  offering  her  a  nod  as  he  moves  towards  her  and  she  cannot  help  the  sense  of  relief  that  befalls  her.  “   what   took  you  so  long?   ”  tone  is  sharp,  eyes  narrow  as  the  daughter  of  agamemnon  attempts  to  conceal  former  fear  beneath  a  facade  of  annoyance.  and  then  the  very  words  that  brought  them  together,  the  reason  to  have  entered  the  jaws  of  hades,  to  come  to  this  lost  and  desolate  place,   “   it’s   done.  ”

@iravide  sent  :   “  8   ,    the  lot  behind  an  empty  hotel  ”

[paniceia]

‘   knock ,  knock !   ’   and  before  the  joke  could  even  take  off ,  let  alone  land ,  a  mass  of  golden  fur  nuzzles  into  the  room  ------  all  excited  pats  and  blundering  grunts  and  the  wag  of  a  tail  more  so  a  series  of  exclamation  marks  at  the  end  of  whatever  statement  the  curt  bark  meant .   ‘   oh ,  wrong  room ,   she  gets  a  little  too  keen ,  still  in  training ,  you  see .  ‘  

(  @iravide​      ♡-ed    )

[nlustris-arch]

I WAS TOUCHING HIM. I WAS GOING TO TOUCH HIM. I HAD TOUCHED HIM. YES, I FELT EVERYTHING. INSENSATE WITH LONGING, I FELT IT ALL AT ONCE. IT WASN’T ENOUGH. I FELT AN ENDLESS HUNGER FROM THE CORNERS OF MY SOUL. I SET ALIGHT THE EVENING WITH MY IMMOLATION. I LEFT TRAILS OF BLOOD BEHIND. I HAD KISSED HIM — ALMOST — AND I WAS HALF OUT OF MY MIND. I WAS STRIPPED BARE. CLEAVED IN HALF. SPILLING MY GUTS OUT ONTO THE STREET. I FELT FORCED INSIDE OUT.              [ @iravide ]

LIV & INGMAR (2012)

HOLY LOVER  by  KEATON HENSON

REST ENERGY  as  PREFORMED BY MARINA ABRAMOVIĆ & ULAY

UNKNOWN

WORK SONG  by  HOZIER

BUFFALO ‘66 (1998)

THE ATONEMENT (2007)

THE INVISIBLE MAN (2020)

RUN  by  DAUGHTER

BUFFALO ‘66 (1998)

[atdamnbraina]

@iravide​ asked:    💬    /   meme

“    you  think  i'm  being  𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚍  but  the  truth  is  i'm  worth  a  lot  more  to  her  dead  than  alive.     ”

[hellempty-a]

"     i     think    the    room     (   is     bugged    )     ...   “

@iravide​    :     💬

[wiltdd]

one finger, relentlessly tapping over her own arm, betrays impatience. betrays a lot, actually —— the umbrella term would probably teeter around ‘ NERVOUSNESS ’, something she might chalk up to too much caffeine, over-exhaustion, and other merry bullshit reasons. at the heart of it, a grain of truth: she dislikes billy butcher. not for any blatant reason, mind you, no vought-led indoctrination she could be vulnerable to ( she isn’t ). it’s a sense, it’s an INSTINCT —— it’s a thing about men and posing as saviors, it’s a thing about men and their anger, it’s a thing about violence. so the smile, usually TIGHT and controlled for the sake of a script, withers quickly. in its place a line of contempt, a nervous wiggle of her lips. “ remind me again what your big plan is composed of. ” arms are folded, eyes are narrow. there are questions she wants to ask, but reels back in for now —— TRUST is a precious commodity, rarer than honesty. “ you’re gonna face him with... what ? your gang of rabid strays ? ”

@iravide​​​​ picked queen maeve / starter call .

[atlazaraes]

❛               WHAT     ?               ❜               she's     half     downed     a     drink     ,     glass     sitting     abandoned     off     to     the     side     ,     rim     covered     in     lipstick     prints     reminiscent     of     diamonds     from     the     way     she     purses     her     mouth     .               she's     also     half     leaned     over     the     bartop     ,     one     foot     in     the     air     for     instinctual     balance     [     ...     ]     this     is     what     crime     looks     like     ,     even     petty     ,     useless     ones     .               hands     laden     with     bright     tissue     paper     &&     toothpicks     ,     she     shoots     a     look     -----     it     can     be     their     little     secret     ,     if     he     so     wishes     .               ❛               i     like     the     little     umbrellas     .               what's     it     to     ya     ,     i     ain't     hurtin'     nobody     [     ...     ]     they     got     hundreds'a     them     back     here     !               ain't     even     gonna     miss     'em     .               ❜        

@iravide      ━━     h.     quinn ​       ━━        ♡

[bowvengermoved]

@iravide​   liked for a starter !

"   look   ,   i   may   not   be   great   when   it   comes   to   quotes   or   sayings   ...   "   there's   a   careless   shrug   that   joins   his   words   ,   eyes   watching   the   other   .   "   but   somethin's   rotten   in   around   here   .   "

[stfreds-arc]

MANHANDLING STARTERS | selectively accepting .

@iravide​ sent :  ♧ - slap my muse’s hand away from something they shouldn’t touch

“ oi, what the fuck —— ” arm jerks back to her chest, disdain on her features. perhaps the punishment is not undeserved ( curiosity is the way she guards herself —— she touches, and looks, and does not keep still because keeping still feels like a blow might come at any moment, at any direction: and either way, she does NOT trust them ). it still ignites the hair trigger mechanism of SELF DEFENSE and if perhaps a part of her was keen to working with billy butcher and his ragtag team of — what, exactly ? a thrift store version of a power rangers team ? — , she can’t exactly call this pleasant. makes her wonder. wouldn’t it be easier to go back to square one ? behind the counter, CONCEALED —— safe, in a way, ( as safe as she can be with her exile self-imposed and not awarded: knowing it may have an expiration date, and the phantoms of a compund v-infused past might come knocking any time now ). 

bite your tongue, fred. she feels the inkling of an analogy , an acidic note over her tastebuds —— the way men shroud themselves in violence as if it were a language, something tribal, something ancient. if she wanted to be illogical and cruel, she would overlap this team of his and the seven’s golden, polished ROT and say why should i trust you, all of you, when you’re skilled in the same art as them ? [ hurting, and maiming, and killing, and lying, and the things left in their wake meant to starve, convulse on the floor, eventually dissolve ]. she thinks of her husband —— she thinks of how, if it’s an ideal separating the good guys from the bad, it is lost on her. but all these thoughts remain tuck back, reeled in: truly, she is hopeless, and last resort smells like shit and urine and festering wounds, but it’s better than the alternative, isn’t it ? better than ANNIHILATION. freddie massages her wrist, steps back —— guarded like a dog, she might as well be snarling. “ you gonna tell me what the fuck i’m doing here, anyway ? this place smells like shit ”. lack of a better argument, but her need to make a point is old, and expected.