#nineteenth hole

[vintage-tigre]

[etheralisi]

If you had the ability to go back in time and add something (writing, an object, etc.) to any location in any time for future archaeologists to find and be bewildered by, when and where and what would you add?

Ahaha! Now this is my kind of ask! Sorry for taking a while I wanted to give this sufficient thought.

I want these archaeologists baffled. I want them scratching their heads and coming up with such convoluted ways to explain its existence that conspiracy theorists sound like the sane ones by saying time travel.

So, naturally, to bamboozle them in the ways of religion I’ll leave behind this statue:

It speaks for itself.

As for where and when, a peat bog as far back as possible. Gotta keep it preserved, but have it authentically old. Just for that confusion.

Thanks for the ask!

[edenspoem]

Omg can I request Ellie and reader on halloween night exploring an abandoned house that’s known to be haunted. Ellie and reader are both huge fans of horror and ghosts, often exploring abandoned places and even using those apps that you can talk to ghosts with. So, you both go, but terrifying things begin to happen and you’re both freaking the fuck out equally. Bonus points if Ellie gets protective <3

ok so yeah i had to do a bit of a drabble for this one! nothing too extreme though, but i love this idea. instead of them using apps, because ellie is such a nerd, i think she would have the genuine gear for it. girl heard the words "ghost hunting" and decked out immediately in all the utilities. ellie image @/angel-gbc

“Can you tell us your name?”

This house is a chamber of disembodied sounds. Ellie discovered it on her usual walk from work, dead and moth-eaten as ever, and all she wanted to do was explore it through and through. She loves horror, and you follow her on that sentiment. The Victorian face of the house has remained gently intact—a debris-ridden ghost of its preceding self—save for a few holes, shattered windows, spots of soot from fire, and the eternal state of squalor. Eternal life of loneliness, unwantedness. Quite a big, blotchy stain on a lovely modern neighborhood full of copy and paste houses, huh?

Wrong!

Gentry used to live there, and now the gentry want it torn up. Like a sketch you feel disgust looking at.

But you admit this plainly. Watching your nerdy girlfriend psych herself to come here with every gimmick and gadget pushing on the seams of her backpack really is cute. Noticing her lip curl when there's even a second of static feedback on the spirit box, really is the cherry on top of a long weekend; you regret nothing.

For now.

She is kneeling, you are crouching. “You can use the—um, spirit box,” Ellie swallows her throat clear, adjusting the placement of the equipment. ”To talk to us.” Ridiculous excursion or not, you both felt a bit on edge. Hairs raise in anticipation.

Your pores felt susceptible. Open to the change in the air, responsive to the uncomfortable sounds of clothes and limbs shifting. Maybe your mind had made up an individual now: a pompous and rich woman. Tight in the waist from the boning of a corset, and rather busty because of it. She is the woman of this household, you believe, and she circles you with broad shoulders and steel curiosity. Not too creative for a nineteenth-century ghost.

You could feel her stare crawling all over you. Or your imagination. Shivers run up your spine regardless.

“Hey, maybe we should ask what happened to her,” you bleat, not conscious of how disomforted you look palming the back of your neck, or your words. The air has gone cold.

Ellie scales a brow at you. “Her? Shit, have you gone psychic now?” Her questioning tone drips of mock and shock, somehow simultaneously. But one widens her expression when static crackles inside the receiver, and lets a low sound through. She props up on her knees. “Could you tell us what happened to you?”

The feedback ends.

Ellie huffs a sigh of disappointment, lowering herself again. So much for going psychic. “Good job, though. Seem to 've said somethin' right,” she reveres you softly, pricking a knee up to set her fist on. Her leather jacket shines low with your flashlight.

The event left you paranoid, but all you can do is wonder if she feels the same, but stomachs a facade over it. God, does she think she needs to impress you?

Apparently so. Behind the silence, came a violent clatter of wood, or a door, none can be sure. You were the first instantiation; something between a shirek and a gasp calls your hand to cocoon at your chest, and you scatter aimlessly onto your bottom. It felt like an injection of fear. It made your blood drain. Made your breath run thick.

Fucking ghosts.

Ellie repined in a yelling whisper. “Jesus!” Her silhouette much more composed and still upright, but with a hand on her heart. Faint sounds of her scooting over, however, spurn your sight from the suspected room of activity, her acorn-brown brows pulled to a worried low. “You good?”

The gentleness of the question soothes. “Sure.” Somewhat.

Her lips quirk, and she hesitates a laugh. “Ha—yeah. No clue what the fuck that was,” she rasps as she slides up next to you, the warmth of her hand eroding the stifle in your back. She encourages you to ease into it with rubbing motions. “Way scarier than horror movies make it out to be, huh?”

You over-ease, “Definitely,” the word falling out so heavy. The charm of her actions make you forget this place even surrounds you. Material disappears. “God, my heart is racing.” You lean into your knees.

Ellie noses at your neck, tip smushing. “I got you.”

She does. You cannot see her from your cocooned vantage, but you can feel her breath, and sweet lips forming into kisses. The little noises created let you imagine instead: she is probably donning a dorky smile, and has wispy, brown, shut eyes. You picture her hand coming up to clasp your shoulder, right when it actually does.

“Good thing we aren't in an actual horror movie, though,” Ellie presses the joke into your humid neck, slowly creeping behind your ear. “That would suck.”

You bring your forehead up, smiling tauntingly. “You would probably die first since you're so distracted.”

Her mouth clicks. “Shut up.” But resumes the delicate act of pinching at your skin without shame. That, for her, is the reason the other-worldly, torturing atmosphere around you turns to something of a soothing bliss. Funnily enough, it happens during said movies. Distractions on your neck and a greedy girl hungry to eat them whole and proudly.

Though, when she finally comes to her senses, she plays knight in converse and band-shirt armor and scopes the area of interest. Nothing was there except an old broom and a rat nest. Made for a whole lot of embarrassment later on in bed, that is for damn sure. Little comments of “I'm such an idiot,” rolling off your tongue while Ellie complimented you on your sudden intuition; the house did indeed belong to a woman of affluent status. How sexy is intuition? Ellie would know.

But Ellie loves being your ghost-hunting bodyguard—and nerd—either way. Something inherent inside her says she might be made for it.

a/n: wrote this in one go so i hope it suffices enough! click here for my autumntime masterlist!

[thevoidscreams]

For the mating press march.

What about stalker!corvus, where he is doing his best to make you acept his love?

Dark romances have prepared me for this moment. *Cracks knuckles* (I'm so sorry this is late)

Day 20 Year 2:

Warnings: Stalking, non consensual touching while asleep, generally kinda creepy behavior, murder, masturbation, scopophobia, body parts as gifts

Word count: 4750

The bag of groceries in your hands felt heavy, even if there wasn't a lot in it. You hurried down the street, the hood of your coat pulled over your head as you tried not to be noticeable. You fish your keys from your coat pocket as you begin to approach your door. Looking over your shoulder every now and again.

It was the third time you'd had to relocate this year alone. If only your ex could get it through his head that you DIDN'T want to see him anymore. That you’d be better off if he would never speak to you again. But he just wouldn't listen. You wish he’d drop dead, or that someone would kill his stupid ass.

You shut the door behind you, locking it immediately and turning the dead bolts.

Your groceries went into their proper places. It wasn't much of an apartment but it was better than the streets. You wished you could go off world, to find somewhere far away from the man who tormented you so.

"Maybe I could," you spoke to yourself. You flipped through your sketchbook, you were a fair hand at art. And the nineteenth would be docked in your planet's orbit for some weeks while getting repairs done. Or so you heard. Maybe you could join them as a remembrancer or something?

Yeah and maybe you'd spontaneously sprout wings and fly away. You sighed, looking at the missed call button on your phone. You knew who it was, you didn't need to check it.

That settled it. You made a copy of some of your best pieces and went out, hood over your face as you went. It was later than you liked to be out but you could at least talk to someone and figure out if you could get out of this hell hole.

Corax watched you with interest, of all the people he saw down on the street, you were the only one who looked like they were hiding.

He wanted a closer look. He followed silently from rooftops until he was right on top of you. Unseen and unheard.

You stopped at the landing pad where several smaller transports were being worked on.

Most of the workers ignored you as you tried to ask questions.

He gathered in the first minutes that you were an artist, looking for work as a remembrancer.

He could answer those questions but he waited. You looked ready to give up based on your body language, when a sudden breeze caught your hood and pulled it away from your face.

Corax's hearts stuttered as he saw you. His footing suddenly felt uneven and he over adjusted, cracking the roof tiles under his foot and sending them crashing to the street below. He cursed as it spooked you and you tugged your hood back up. He watched you as you began to hurry back towards your home, he followed as if drawing along on a leash.

Why were you so skittish? He'd been following you for several days since he first saw you trotting home late at night. From a job most likely. You seemed so frightened of the world around you. He could only surmise why, in a city that was relatively safe, there must be a cause. Most likely, a human cause.

Since then he'd seen you to and from your home , whether it was to work or the shops. He kept his keen black gaze on your hooded figure.

Today was the first clear look he'd ever gotten off your face. He craved more of it. More of that visage.

He waited till you were locked safely behind your doors to descend down from the roof to peer in through your windows. He hadn't done this before.

He watched you pull your hood away, then the coat it was attached to and hang it on a hook above your doors peephole.

He stood, still as a statue as you went about a routine of checking every nook and cranny till you seemed satisfied. Odd.

You were home, you were safe, for the most part. But the insisting sensation of being watched gnawed at you constantly. For over a week you'd felt like a rat in a cage, eyes peering down from between the bars to scrutinize you.

The blinking of the answering machine told you that the device had several missed calls on it.

No one ever called you but your job. Or him. You pressed the blinking button and stood, waiting for the inevitable. Maybe it would just be your boss though, asking you to cover a shift.

"Please baby, I'm sorry, please call me-" you deleted the message. The beginning of the guilt tripping it was too much. But you knew it would only get worse from there.

"I know I fucked up, please!-" deleted.

"I broke in ONE TIME! Stop ignoring my calls-" deleted.

The begging turned into angered yelling, each message more vile than the last till the voice on the other end was threatening violence and worse if you didn't forgive him and come back to him.

When they were all done you curled up on the floor, crying, holding your legs tight to yourself as his voice rang in your mind. You would have to change your number. Again.

Corax's vision was tinged red, his anger burning hotter than the sun this world orbited. He saw in you the same torment that the prisoners of Lycaeus had endured. People suppressed into smallness by those that willingly terrorize and abuse them. He longed to reach out and touch you, to give you the peace you so desperately needed. To provide the safety that man had denied you.

It would not stand.

When you finally crawled up the stairs of your tiny apartment to sleep off the panic attack Corax slipped inside. The balcony doors weren't an easy place for him to slip through given his height, but he'd gotten them open easily enough. That would be a point he'd have to fix later.

He went through your mail. He read your name, over and over. Sounding it out in his mind. He stopped to take a breath, the place you called home didn't smell very strongly of you yet. It must be a recent acquisition.

He took in his surroundings, it was a very humble little place. He has no quarrel with small humble places. He himself came from a place that was unglamorous. As long as a home was a home, what did it matter?

But Corax could tell that this wasn't a home. Not truly. A home was a place of safety and comfort. And this, this was a shell, a place you were hiding in from something outside.

He left, securing your balcony in just such a way that he would be able to return later, but also so the wind would not blow it open.

He had work to do. But he would return to you as quickly as he was able. His hearts beat a rapid staccato as he pictured your face in his mind.

Soon.

The first thing he had to ascertain was who this ex of yours was, what was this less than human scumbags name? What had he done to you? And furthermore, he needed to get you enrolled in the system to become a remembrancer.

It took him an hour to do the latter. Having a letter written up to you as if it was simply a notice that the legion was taking on more and you could return the post with examples of work. You of course we're the only one that got the letter. But he knew you'd apply. And he would pick you personally.

The first bit of information he got by simply walking into the local law enforcement office. A search of your name brought up multiple results. The poor woman working the desk didn't dare to turn him away.

Restraining orders, breaking and entering, domestic disputes and other things turned up. His hands shook with rage as he took the reports. He would see that you had justice. Now that he had a name and face. It was inevitable.

On his way to the port he stopped by your house, watched you dart out to collect the mail and heard the soft squeak of surprise as you found the letter. He sat and waited, watching until you darted back out to place it in the post box.

He collected it. A wide grin over his face as he tucked the envelope into a safe place. He could feel the bulge of your added artwork. He'd look them over later.

That night he went about setting things up. Telling his crew and some of his sons that he intended to take a remembrancer of his own. It wasn't unheard of and those around him seemed to accept the idea without a second thought.

He penned the letter that he would deliver to your mailbox telling you that you were to be interviewed for the position. Of course it was just for show, but you didn't need to know that.

The following days were a blur for you, so much so that you hadn't noticed anything amiss, a letter with an official seal from the nineteenth legion came back and you felt over the moon. Finally you'd be getting away from all this torment.

The interview was the following morning, you'd be meeting someone at the port that allowed transports from orbit to land inside the city.

It was all so exciting that you didn't even think you'd be able to sleep. But you laid down nonetheless and eventually exhaustion found its way in. As did something else.

Corax watched you sleep from the corner of the room. His body hunched as he crept closer. You looked much more peaceful in your sleep.

He took that as a good sign that you weren't in danger of waking. Not that it mattered if you did. You hadn't seen him any of the other nights he'd come to wait for you.

It was almost troubling how easy it was for him to come in and just.. watch and sometimes more. He grew bold in his knowledge that you wouldn't wake. He'd touched your hips softly for the first time several nights before. The night you'd received the letter.

He shouldn't touch you, he knew he shouldn't, but how was he supposed to help himself? He wasn't blind to his own obsession as he came back night after night. But he couldn't help it, not that he wanted to.

His hands had started on just your hips and arms, feeling your softness under his fingers. Slowly he'd trailed his hands over your body. Tonight however you were wearing just an oversized shirt. He knew there was nothing underneath as he'd hidden your sleep shorts while you showered. Eventually you gave up and went to bed without them.

He crouched by the bed, his palms reaching to touch, to feel the softness of your body once more.

There was an intoxicating aroma about you that night. He pressed your thighs to the side to take a closer look, seeing the glistening moisture between your thighs. It was unlike anything he'd seen before. His right hand reached down to palm the ache between his legs. His thumb traced the outer edge of your womanhood. Maybe, once you were his, he would explore that forbidden garden more.

He freed his cock, stroking it as he pictured it in his mind.

Your body pressed to his as he bounced you in his lap, spearing you on his cock again and again. Your voice crying his name sweetly as he came inside.

He groaned at the mental image. You stirred, sighing as you turned over slightly in your sleep.

Corax withdrew, waiting for you to settle fully before returning to your side. Cock still in hand as he looked hungrily over your form.

He needed to control himself. He didn't. His hips rutted into his hands as he imagined it was your hand, or mouth, or body. Corax felt his orgasm coming and reached for something. He finished in a pair of your underwear, painting the fabric with his seed. Guilt washed over him as he came down from the high. Scrapping what he could from the fabric he tossed it into your dirty laundry. Hopefully you wouldn't notice.

He left through the balcony again.

"We found the man you spoke of."

Corax didn't turn from his view of the street, he nodded. "Very good we will bring justice then."

The forms of his sons around him gave him the certainty that this was right. That he should be doing this.

"My lord? Who is she?" One of his sons asked. "I will be taking her as my remembrancer, and if all goes well, you will have a legion mother soon."

His sons seemed to brighten at the news. "And we are to hunt this man, why?" "Because he hurt her."

It was all they needed to hear, as they traversed from the city to the town beyond the city's limits where a dead man was waiting for them.

You stumbled out of bed, exhausted from a night full of dreams that left you needy and horny beyond belief.

You grabbed the clothes you'd set aside for today, except the underwear. You swore you'd had the one clean pair left. You sighed, grabbing the first pair off the top. It was decidedly not clean but that's what you got for forgetting to wash a load of your laundry. You pulled them up and sighed as you felt it seemed to be your own dried juices. You'd get another shower when you got home.

At least your skirt and blouse were pristine.

The trek down to the port wasn't a long one, but you went as quickly as you could regardless. You didn't get a notice saying who you'd be meeting, just that you should be there at ten and you'd be picked up for the interview. You arrived thirty minutes early just in case. A portfolio of drawings you hadn't included in there just in case.

At ten on the door a ship landed, it was huge. It had all the right heraldry so it had to be the right one. The large door at the back hissed as it began to lower.

You expected a crew member or some legion official. Instead your knees nearly gave out as the tallest man you'd ever seen strolled from the back. "Hello." It was all he said, but you felt as if you were going to faint. His voice was quiet and he motioned for you to join him in the ship.

When you did the door shut behind you, leaving your spine with the very tall man. You felt choked, as if all the air in the universe couldn't feed you the necessary oxygen needed for your brain to function. It wasn't like your other panic attacks but it certainly didn't feel dissimilar, Judi different. A massive hand reached out to you, and you reached for it in return. The contact calmed you. Easing the rising sensation of whatever it was. You closed your eyes to gather your thoughts and when you opened them again you were sitting across from the practical giant.

"I'm so sorry-" He raised a hand to do you, your voice faltering as he smiled and settled you with the simple gesture.

"There's nothing to apologize for, you are here on time. And as for the reaction, I have had far worse than that."

You swallowed and nodded. "I take it then that you are the primarch?"

Corax's smile did not waver, oh you would be taking it when the time was right. "I am, you may call me Corvus Corax, or simply Corvus."

You nodded. "Okay, Corvus... it's nice to meet you."

The primarch nearly jumped you when you said his name so sweetly.

"Likewise, and I believe I know who you are. But please, won't you tell me your name?"

You gave it without hesitation, and Corax nodded. He wanted to eat the sound of your voice, he wanted to consume every little bit of you and hold you within himself for the rest of time as you exchanged pleasantries and basic facts about yourself that he already knew. You even offered him the art in your portfolio. Art he'd seen numerous times before but it felt more special, seeing them now as you offered them so freely.

"You have a gift for this. I am impressed, it seems so effortless how you capture the world around you and place it onto paper this way." He complimented, eager that you should know how he felt about your art.

"Thank you, it's a long time hobby really, but I'd love to make it my proper job."

Corax nodded. You'd gotten more comfortable reclining a bit in your seat.

"Tell me about this piece." He urged handing you back a page with an illustration he hadn't seen, something dark in the sky above the streets of a city looking down.

You took the page and shivered. "Oh I did this one recently, it's more of a feeling piece. I was trying to capture the feeling of being watched by something you can't see or by someone who isn't there." You told him, not mentioning that if it was how your horrible ex made you feel.

"I see, and have you felt watched?"

You blushed embarrassed that he'd asked about that one in particular. "Yeah, it's just that I had a really nasty break up and the guy won't leave me alone. So I made this piece to try and capture the feeling of that."

Corax processed the words slowly. "When you are with my legion, you will be safe." He promised softly. "My sons and I will make sure that no harm befalls you." His voice was so sincere, that you believed him.

"Thank you." You felt your eyes mist surf unshed tears. This interaction had been the first time you'd felt safe in such a long time, a warm hand cupped your cheek. "There now, it will be alright." He soothed, and he babbled something as the tears did begin to fall. His thumb brushed away the tears. "I will keep you safe as your belongings are gathered. I would have you as my remembrancer if that is amicable to you."

You nodded excitedly. "Oh yes, I will go at once to gather my belongings, thank you Corax."

As you made to stand, you unfolded your legs and Corvus caught the briefest flag of your underwear. The color and pattern were immediately familiar to him, and though he kept a calm external expression, his mind reeled. You were wearing them. You were wearing the panties he'd cum in. His cock began to fill with blood as he nodded and ushered you out. "Gather your essentials only, I will see to it that the rest of your belongings are brought up later. Assuming the address on your application is current."

"Oh it is! Thank you again I can't tell you what this means to me-" Corax walked you to the end of the port as you gushed excitedly about your new position.

Once you were gone on your way he hurried back to the transport, glad he'd for gone wearing his armor so as not to intimidate you. The door hissed shut and he tugged his cock free, pumping his length as he knelt before the place you'd been sitting. He could still smell you in the air as he fucked his hands to the thought. His cum at least to some capacity had been pressing snug against your pussy that whole time, even if he scraped away the bulk of it. It was just further proof that he needed to have you. He blew his load into the seat where you'd been, painting the metal with his seed as he whined your name.

Guilt again, but not nearly as strong as before. He voxed the Shadow of the Emperor. You would be theirs soon. A ripple of excitement went they'd his sons as they even offered their aid in getting you there quicker. Corax cleaned up the mess he'd made. Two hours by his estimation, and you'd be his.

When you returned home you packed your bag, clothes, documents, any small tokens of your personhood that mattered.

When you finished you looked around. The furniture was all second hand, a lot of what you'd loved had been left behind or destroyed by him.

You shook your head. You were free now. Corax would keep you safe now. Wouldn't he?

You shook the seeds of doubt from your mind, of course he would. He was a primarch. You'd packed up quick, and had a few minutes to relax. You'd informed your boss that you'd done this and told him that if you'd not come in for your next shift it was because you got the position.

You sat down on your bed, taking it all in. Soon you'd start your new life.

You closed your eyes and thought about Corax. He was handsome, really handsome. Your cheeks heated as your hand moved down to the hem of your skirt. Pulling it up you dug your hand into your panties fingers caressing the outer folds, gathering the wetness that had gathered there. You stroked your clit, stimulating more wetness as you pictured Corax, sitting across from you, he was huge. You wondered if all of him was big like that. The mental image shifted to him above you, fucking you instead of it just being your fingers. All the wet dreams you'd had last night left you eager and your body was alight with the sensation your fingers were providing, but you couldn't help but wish it was him.

As you got close you cried his name softly into your hand. Cumming on your fingers.

With that out of the way you gathered your bag. Time to go.

You stopped at the port, looking for the transport when large armored figures appeared, they towered over you frightening you. But they made no move to grab or harm you. "The primarch has gone ahead to prepare your place. You will come with us."

You nodded, these must be the astartes you'd heard so much about. "And you are his.. uh.. sons?"

One turned towards you but didn't respond as you were ushered to the ship. As the transport went up you could see over the city. It was prettier when you weren't getting an up close look, you decided. As it moved you could see the outlying suburbs and towns. Over one part in particular you saw a swarm of law enforcement and hummed. "Wonder what happened there" you said, "maybe someone finally did in that abusive asshat." You chuckled. Not seeing how the marines looked from one another to you and then back.

The Shadow of the Emperor was absolutely massive. You'd heard about void ships this big, but actually seeing one. It simply didn't look real.

The astartes had ushered you into a seat to keep you from being jostled around as the craft left the atmosphere so when you landed you were the only one buckled in.

The seats were clearly sized for individuals much larger than yourself and you felt like a toddler.

They led you from the craft and into the interior of the gloriana class battleship. They were all quiet as they ushered you forth only answering basic questions, yeses or nos.

Corax was waiting for you, he greeted you warmly as you stepped into his personal chambers. “I hope that you will be comfortable, the room I have available is connected to mine, so you will be close to me.” At first it was a bit daunting, but when you stepped into the ‘small room’ it was several times larger than your cramped apartment. “It’s much nicer than my old place, thank you.” The primarch had to bite his tongue to keep from replying, “I know.” Which surely would have raised questions.

You’d wanted to get off the planet so badly and here you were. Corax had promised to keep you safe, and he was one of the emperor’s sons, so he would. You had to believe that.

The furniture came up the next day, your dinky little couch and bed, the scant few personal things like your clothes as well. You didn’t even have to raise a finger to move this time. That was nice. Corax stayed close by for the next two weeks to help you settle and the more he did the more you did feel safe with him, it was hard to let down those walls but Corax seemed to climb over them with ease, and you let him. You were even becoming something kind of like friends. Even if you wanted to jump his bones every time you saw him, in and out of his armor. The ship was still docked when you told him the first time about your ex, having shared some wine together as you told each other personal stories about your lives. Even though he knew about the scum bag he listened intently. Letting you vent your frustrations and fears. The ways he hurt you, and the years of torment that you’d endured at his hands. Corax had killed him before you’d ever set foot on this ship, and now he was glad he’d done it. He was reassured that his murder was justice and not just vengeance as you recounted how the authorities did nothing to help you. His father was a man of means and that left you feeling powerless as searches were called off and evidence was ‘lost’ or ignored outright. The primarch held your hand throughout the retelling. “You will have justice.” He promised, knowing that even as you spoke, the dismembered parts of his body were sitting on ice. He would have them wrapped for you. And he would give them to you himself. You shrugged. “I’m not sure how, I just worry that what I did was selfish now. What if he hurts someone else in my place now that I’m gone.” “He will not.” Corvus promised, and he pulled you into a soft hug. You rested your head against his chest until he left you to get some rest. How could he be so sure, you wondered as sleep took you. Hours later you awoke, to a knock at the door. You got up to answer it, Corvus was there, a soft smile on his face. “Hey,” you yawned, “What time is it?” “Late.” Corax replied as he stepped in, holding a metal box in his hands. “What’s this?” He handed it to you as he knelt by your side, ready to steady you should the shock cause you to pass out. “I told you he would not hurt anyone else, and he never will. No new women, and especially not you.”

With shaking hands, you opened the lid, you nearly dropped the box as hot acid burned the back of your throat. You took a deep breath and looked again. Two eyes, a tongue and two hands. You took them in with a cold sort of detachment. “Why?” You asked. “Why these parts?” Corvus was glad you asked. “We took his eyes so he would never watch you again, his tongue so he could never speak such vile things to you again. And his hands, so he would never touch you again.” It was disgusting, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be disgusted. Corax had done for you what no other person had ever done, not just murder, but he’d taken you seriously, and he’s actually done what he could to see you safe. There was a bloom of warmth in your chest that traveled throughout your body. Tears burned in your eyes as you closed the lid. “Thank you.” You breathed through a choked breath.The box was taken from your hands and set aside, Corax’s massive arms encircled your body in a warm, tight hug. “I told you, I would keep you safe.” It should have frightened you, but instead your heart beat with relief. Safe. You were finally safe.

[vintagehomecollection]

The hall, with its rich 'Bahama coral' walls and early nineteenth-century pine dresser, is warm and welcoming. The large papier-mache cockerel, nestling in an Irish handwoven basket, is by Mai Watts. The holes, however, were added later by a Whitechurch mouse.

In an Irish House, 1988

[cowboyshadows]

Fucked up horror sequel to this that will probably become a full fledged fic if I stop being a weenie about ghosts LOL

CW: honestly not that scary now that i think about it but still proceed with caution, cigarette and alcohol consumption mentioned, breaking and entering, reader is a ghost

He’s counted. One, two, three right. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen up.

His breath is heavy and clouded as he climbs up the asphalt of the stairs. There’s wires and metal sticking out, so he has to watch his step.

The smoke’s long fallen somewhere, faint hiss of its sizzle lost in the cold drafts. Poorly ventilated.

He’s counted, and he counts still when he reaches the nineteenth floor. He isn’t in a rush.

The golden number three hangs crooked on your door. He fixes it, and then lands three raps in succession.

No answer.

No problem. He’ll try again.

Still, no answer. Stubborn girl.

He tries, he knocks, he thuds, until someone opens the door.

No, not number three.

The one behind him.

“Piss off, mate,” a tired grunt comes. He turns around, catching the sight of a man in a robe. “’S an empty flat.”

Ghost furrows his brows. That couldn’t be right. He’d counted.

“Sorry,” he mutters anyway.

He walks away, more than willing to take on all those stairs once again to count. He barely reaches the foyer when he hears it again.

Your voice. Calling out to him, siren to the sailor. Lighthouse to the stranded. It wafts towards him, caressing him where the wind stings.

He bolts to the source. He’s gotten pretty deft at locating sources now.

The same door. The number three is crooked again. Not like it just fell—in the exact same position, like someone put it back there after he fixed it out of indignance.

That fucking wanker from across the hall must have lied to him.

He knocks again, this time softer. Just so he has plausible deniability—makin’ the captain proud and all that.

He looks around the hall. Empty, silent. Few of the doors are littered with broken green bottles. He feels right at home.

He digs his wallet out. It’s fraying and peeling, beaten up. Worn out. There’s a few torn and crinkled notes in there. He fishes for a credit card he hasn’t used in nearly a decade, swiping it straight across the junction between wall and door.

He jimmies the unyielding plastic around till he hears a satisfying click. Bingo.

Should’ve just opened the door for him, bird.

It’s dark. Completely. He paws around to his side for a switchboard, but his finger circles a hole into a void. Red, yellows, greens stick out of the empty sockets unprotected.

He’s seen worse.

Walks carefully around the apartment. Swipes his foot around instead of lifting to walk, just so he doesn’t end up piercing his arches with glass. The window’s open—actually, it’s just a frame. There’s no glass installed, no doors.

Something behind him falls, knocked over by the raw winds. It shatters on the floor, a little ways ahead of him.

Anyone would’ve heard that. Why haven’t you awoken yet?

Does he have the wrong apartment?

He’s about to turn around when he hears a soft whine. High and thin. His muscles coil. Was that the door?

Is that held breath belonging to him? Or the apartment?

The curtain in front of him billows dusty and pale. There’s a shadow of something behind it.

Hide and seek? Not his favourite game, but he’ll indulge.

“Not gonna hurt ya,” he starts, voice low and steady. He walks towards the curtain, the fabric landing on a silhouette. Your silhouette. Like you’re a sculpture made of glass. “Just wan’ ta talk.”

The air is stagnant, warmer. The dust from disuse clings to his throat like a noose, tethering him away. He moves still, desperate to find you.

The curtain sways again, but the strong breeze bends it horizontal. Above.

Nothing. There’s nothing behind. His breathing is loud, saturating the air around him. Like he’s not alone.

He straightens, hairs raised in the wake of your absence.

“Bloody hell…” he mutters, brows creasing in a furrow.

There’s no such thing as ghosts.

He swivels on his heel, sated with his efforts. It isn’t fun anymore.

A sudden cold breeze envelopes him, his neck and his ears and his face—flush with hisses and whispers of leaveleaveleaveleave.

His eyes shoot open wide, looking around.

“Wha’ the fuck?”

Bird’s got claws.

There’s a cracked mirror leaning on the wall below the window now. Was that there before? He can see himself in it. Scarred and blonde and brown eyed. There’s a creak of floorboards beneath his unmoving figure, soft thud of footsteps following all around the house. Towards him, away from him—all at once and everything in between.

“Not in the mood to play.” He’s not scared.

Your voice starts again, closer to him now. Like you’re right there. He looks at the puddle of moonlight spilling onto the abandoned floors, as if the voice emerges from there. It’s slower now, warped and distorted. You slur your words like bad radio.

It’s angelic all the same.

It splinters over his skin, warm and overlapping.

There’s no such thing as ghosts.

Is there?

[gatheringbones]

[“Instead of presuming trans femininity’s coherence in advance and then using history to certify it, this book examines where and when trans femininity became a fault line in broader histories, including the repressive practices of colonial government, the regulation of sex work, the policing of urban space, and the line between the formal and informal economy. In this way, the method of this book is deceptively simple: it uses the history of trans misogyny to understand where trans-feminized people were lit up by the clutches of violence and how they responded to its aggressions. In doing so, we learn what makes trans misogyny unique and get a glimpse at how wildly diverse people around the world have come to find themselves implicated in trans femininity and trans womanhood, whether or not they wanted to be.

For these reasons, I maintain a difference between trans femininity and trans womanhood or trans women. The first is meant to signal a broad classification by outside observers, including aesthetic criteria and the history of ideas attached to people who have been trans-feminized. Trans womanhood and women, on the other hand, name people who saw themselves as intentionally belonging to a shared category—in other words, who tried to live in the world recognized as women, whatever that category meant to them contextually. Everyone in this book may have been trans-feminized, and all may have been brought into the orbit of trans femininity, but only some considered themselves to be trans women in response. These careful, empirical distinctions remind that trans misogyny has had the effect of pulling huge swaths of people into relation with one another, like Black trans women in New York City and kathoeys in Bangkok, who but for the accidents of history may never have seen each other as having anything in common. It does not weaken the category of trans femininity, or the political project of trans feminism, to examine trans women alongside hijras, street queens, transvestites, and Two-Spirit people, even if few to none of the latter would identify as trans women. On the contrary, it reveals just how narrow the Western definition of woman has been, since many groups of people reject it as a colonial limitation, even when it arrives in a trans idiom.

Some of the fault lines this book explores remain sources of major friction to this day. Is trans femininity best understood in relation to womanhood, or does its history suggest that gay men’s culture is its better reference? Much would seem to be at stake in the answer, for if trans women are women, period, as the adage goes today, why does so much of their history involve gay men? From late-nineteenth-century sexology’s concept of “the invert” to present-day fights over whether trans women belong in drag, the mixing of gender and sexual frameworks has long produced anxiety directed at trans femininity. Rather than pretend that deciding in one direction or the other is desirable, let alone possible, A Short History of Trans Misogyny emphasizes how gender and sexuality, or what is gay and what is trans feminine, have generally been blurred for most people. This book explores what kind of womanhood trans women acquire by doing sex work and considers the street queens of the mid-twentieth century who answered to the word gay precisely because their trans femininity had made them the queens of something called “the gay world.” Gay men turned to them to reflect on the electrifying promise—or horrifying possibility—of falling down the proverbial rabbit hole from effeminacy into outright femininity. Street queens appear all over the gay male cultural canon because their proximity to gay men represented the threat and freedom of “going all the way.”

Trans women and trans femininity, from this book’s perspective, aren’t so definitively excluded or erased as they are degraded and punished by those who lust after them in anger, fascination, and affection. Though I bracket trans-femininized people from other kinds of trans people—namely, trans men—this book has no separatist impulse. It doesn’t argue that trans women or trans femininity must be taken up in isolation to do them justice, or that trans misogyny is the responsibility of any single group, including men. Nor does it subscribe to the simplistic notion that some kinds of people are inherently affected by trans misogyny while others are cleanly exempt from it. A Short History of Trans Misogyny stresses that gender categories are intensely social, even if they are arranged in hierarchies. Trans femininity, just like non-trans womanhood or male heterosexuality, doesn’t come into the world on an island. Each one of us emerges as individuals to know ourselves only through our entangled relationships to those who are not like us—which is, strictly speaking, everyone. Indeed, the root fear common to trans-misogynist women, gay men, straight men, nonbinary people, or even certain trans women comes from needing the trans femininity of others as a foil for their place in the world.

Gender as a system coerces and maintains radical interdependence, regardless of anyone’s identity or politics. Trans misogyny is one particularly harsh reaction to the obligations of that system—obligations guaranteed by state as much as by civil society. The more viciously or evangelically any trans misogynist delivers invectives against the immoral, impolitic, or dangerous trans women in the world, the more they admit that their gender and sexual identities depend on trans femininity in a crucial way for existence.

Understanding this primary interdependence between gender and sexual positions in the hegemonic Western system, this book pairs trans-feminized subjects in each chapter with people whose relationships to them are disavowed in misogyny. By telling stories through their enmeshment, this book refuses to pretend that trans-feminized people are alone, isolated, and suffering because they need rescue. This book refuses to pretend there is only one form that trans womanhood and trans femininity take, or that the Western model of gender identity and bourgeois individualism, with its simplistic understanding of oppression, is all that useful except as a tool of discipline and domination. And though it cannot tabulate every relevant entry in what would be an impossibly long list, this book insists on holding everyone accountable for the degradation of trans femininity. The collective power of trans-feminized people, including trans women, lies in how many others rely on us to secure their claim to personhood.

In other words, the dolls hold all the receipts, and the time has come to call them in.”]

jules gill-peterson, from a short history of trans misogyny, 2024

[dawndelion-winery]

Just Like That

Guiding their starry-eyed junior (can be viewed as platonic or romantic)

Ft. Alhaitham, Cyno, Dottore, Kaveh, Tighnari

Alhaitham:

Haravatat was...well it had the lowest enrollment rate for a reason

And having enrolled yourself, you were starting to see why

But you wouldn't let that deter you!!

You'd heard of the exemplary senior in your darshan by the name of Alhaitham and decided to seek him out for assistance

Which in itself, you felt, should have earned you an award of sorts given how hard he was to find

He excelled at making himself scarce, perhaps even more than he did at his work

Worse still was convincing him to tutor you

As passionate as you were to learn, he wasn't the type to be moved by devotion, and teaching you seemed like more trouble than he cared to deal with

Worst of all was the roundabout, cryptic ways he'd phrase his rejection: never a direct no, it always had to be in another language in some sort of riddle

Until you realised his stupidly annoying phrasings were his way of teaching you subtly

You should be more annoyed with him (enough to never speak to him again) but for whatever reason, him opting to help you, however ridiculously, was touching enough for you to hang around him even more

Cyno:

You'd looked forward to the day you enrolled in Spantamad

After all you'd heard of incredible alchemists like Albedo from Mondstadt and Rhinedottir from an ancient civilisation

But of course, Rhinedottir's work wasn't something you could freely research

And the ley lines!

You'd found a bunch of ley lines that, very strangely, spawned in a foggy orb which when walked into, spawned monsters

You concluded soon enough that the yellow ones gave you mora while the blue ones gave you old academic texts

Now, Cyno first approached you because of interest in Rhinedottir's alchemy

It was mainly to warn you to remember the sins and how you ought to be careful

And then he followed you on one of your ley line trips because it was suspicious how you kept finding notes from adventurers who went missing

Sometimes even the occasional weatherworn documents on research not documented in the Akademiya library

And you were fighting random monsters for this? With no way of knowing what would come out? What if there are rift hounds or something worse?

Absolutely not on your own. He's coming with you from now on

Trust in your reliable senior to beat up anything the ley lines spawn with ease

Dottore:

You must have thought you were real smart getting into Ksharewar

Until you found every Kshahrewar student is brilliant and you're not all that special

The very first time you found a puzzle you couldn't solve, you holed yourself up in the library for endless trial and error

Which only ended when some disgruntled senior came by and solved it for you because you were taking up his usual spot

With his fluffy, electric blue hair and startling ruby eyes, he was an eccentric sort of handsome

And so you scooted to the side for him to sit with you

And he only stared at you wondering why you hadn't left yet

Not that you would now that he's sat beside you

Looking over his solution, he was no doubt the brightest of the brilliant fellows in your darshan, and you'd be damned if you didn't get him to teach you his ways

Against his better judgement, he did finally cave to taking you under his wing

Begrudgingly. Though he wouldn't necessarily get rid of you at the first chance he got

Kaveh:

You had the opportunity to attend the Akademiya while the Light of Ksharewar did, what an honour

His work ethic was really something else

It was... inspirational to see, but frustrating to work with

Can you imagine being on your nineteenth draft because the professor squinted a little too hard at your submission which clearly implied they weren't fully satisfied with it?

Yeah well there's no need to imagine, (read in salesman voice) because with Kaveh, that becomes a reality!

For the low low price of your happiness and sanity, you too could be as much of a perfectionist as Kaveh

Of course he isn't that hard on you

He offers to redo the drafts himself since he's the one who thinks there should be modifications

But for one, you weren't about to waste an opportunity to learn from him

And second, you'd feel bad if he slaved away at it himself

So you often ended up in the House of Daena at ungodly hours with him

Which in turn sparks gossip because of how tired you seem and your peers knowing you're often with your very pretty senior

Tighnari:

Congrats on getting into the most popular darshan, Amurta

I sure hope bio is your strong suit bc it isn't mine

The potential projects you can pick from is so broad that it's impossible to have nothing to do and it's doing wonders for your mental state

Until it's not and you find yourself burnt out

Professors who once praised your drive and dedication now look at you in disappointment and disapproval

It's heartbreaking, really, until they ask Tighnari to guide you, thinking you've had a change of heart about your passions

Tighnari called bullshit on this, of course

He knew what the actual situation was once your change in behaviour was described to him

So when you'd nervously ask him how he was gonna get you back on the work grind, he scoffed and took you out for some relaxing field work

You were wondering what the point of it was, but didn't think it wise to question your well respected senior

At least until his sass got to you and you started quipping back

To which he finally laughed as though he'd succeeded in something

"There you go, you depressing lummox. About time you started loosening up. Stop losing your mind over what you can't do, or you'll start spiralling even more."

Taglist: @ryuryuryuyurboat @yinyinggie @mx-kamisato @chaosinanutshell @haliyamori @irethepotato @boundedbyfate @favonius-captain @aqui-soba @tiredsleep

[forthegothicheroine]

The sinful implication of such ["yellow"] books had come from France, where, from the mid-nineteenth century, sensationalist literature had been not-so-chastely pressed between vivid yellow covers. Publishers adopted this as a useful marketing tool, and soon yellow-backed books could be bought cheaply at every railway station. As early as 1846 the American author Edgar Allan Poe was scornfully writing of the "eternal insignificance of yellow-backed pamphleteering. For others, the sunny covers were symbols of modernity and the aesthetic and decadent movements. Yellow books show up in two of Vincent Van Gogh's paintings from the 1880s... Traditionalists were less impressed. These yellow books gave off a strong whiff of transgression, and the avant-garde did little to calm their fears (for them the transgression was half the point.) In Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, published in 1890, it is down the moral rabbit hole of such a novel that the eponymous antihero disappears, never to return. Just as the narrator reaches his defining ethical crossroads, a friend gives him a yellow-bound book, which opens his eyes to "the sins of the world", corrupting and ultimately destroying him. Capitalizing on the association, the scandalous, avant-garde periodical The Yellow Book was launched in 1894. Holbrook Jackson, a contemporary journalist, wrote that it "was newness in excelsis; novelty naked and unashamed...yellow became the color of the hour."...The magazine's art director and illustrator, Aubrey Beardsley, had barred Wilde after an argument- he responded by calling the periodical "dull" and "not yellow at all."

Kassia St. Clair, The Secret Lives of Color

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Mammalia - Notoryctemorphia

(Sources - 1, 2)

The marsupial order Notoryctemorphia is commonly called the “marsupial moles.” It contains just one genus with two known species: the Southern Marsupial Mole (Notoryctes typhlops) (image 2) and the Northern Marsupial Mole (Notoryctes caurinus) (image 1).

Marsupial moles are rarely seen and poorly known, with N. caurinus being one of the most poorly understood mammals in all of Australia. They are convergent with the placental moles, living a fossorial lifestyle and only coming aboveground after rain. Notoryctids use two enlarged, spade shaped, flat claws on the third and fourth digits of each forelimb to dig in an up-and-down motion. They are functionally blind, their eyes reduced to vestigial lenses under the skin that lack a pupil. They have no external ears, just a pair of tiny holes hidden under thick hair. They have a leathery shield over their muzzle and their tail is a short, bald stub encased in leathery skin. They do not make permanent burrows or tunnels, but rather “swim” through the soil from place to place in search of food. They feed on earthworms and insect eggs and larvae, but have also been recorded to eat adult insects, seeds, and lizards if given the chance. They are between 12 and 16 centimetres (4.7–6.3 in) long, weigh 40 to 60 grams (1.4–2.1 oz), and are uniformly covered in fairly short, very fine pale cream to white hair with an iridescent golden sheen. Little is known about the preferred habitat of notoryctids, but they are more often found in sandy dunes or flats, and they are probably restricted to areas where the sand or soil is soft.

Notoryctids have a small but well-developed pouch that faces backwards so it does not fill with sand while the mother digs. It contains just two teats, so the animal cannot support more than two young at a time.

The order Notoryctemorphia has been around since the Oligocene. Notoryctids themselves are represented by early Miocene fossils of Naraboryctes and Yalkaparidon.

(source)

Propaganda under the cut:

Notoryctids are the only marsupials with a true cloaca.

Fossil evidence suggests that marsupial moles have been burrowing long before the Australian deserts came into being, staying underground while the terrain slowly evolved from jungle to desert.

Nineteenth century scientists believed that marsupials and eutherians had evolved from the same primitive ancestor and were looking for a living specimen that would serve as the missing link. Because the marsupial mole closely resembled the golden moles of Africa, some scientists concluded that the two were related and that they had found the proof. This, of course, was not the case, as scientists later discovered when better preserved marsupial mole specimens could be examined and were found to have a pouch. The coincidental similarities of the two species are, in fact, the result of convergent evolution.

The fact that the marsupial moles’ middle ear seems to be morphologically suited for capturing low frequency sounds, and that they produce high pitched vocalizations when handled, indicates that this kind of sound that propagates more easily underground may be used as a form of communication between marsupial moles.

Despite being generally unknown to European scientists, the Southern Marsupial Mole (Notoryctes typhlops) was known for thousands of years to Australia’s Indigenous people and was part of their mythology. It was associated with certain sites and dreaming trails such as Uluru and the Anangu-Pitjantjatjara Lands. They were regarded with sympathy, probably due to their harmless nature, and were only eaten during hard times. Aboriginal people generally cooperate with researchers by teaching them tracking skills and help with finding specimens. Their involvement has been instrumental in gathering information about the species’ habitat and behavior.

Marsupial moles have a presumably high impact on soil turnover, as they do not build burrows or tunnels, instead allowing the sand and soft soil to backfill behind them as they “swim”.

Large numbers of marsupial moles were collected in the early twentieth century, and informal reports of a fur trade using their pelts were reported.

As very little is known about marsupial moles, it is hard to access their conservation status, but records seem to indicate that they have declined. As 90% of medium-sized marsupials in arid Australia have become threatened due to domestic cat and red fox predation, it is likely marsupial moles are also threatened by these invasive predators. One study found remains of marsupial moles in 5% of the cat and fox faecal pellets they examined.

[bestnoncannonship]

There are normal people.

Then there are people who take those bullet hole decals that gun people put on their trucks and use them to make gay nineteenth century literature references on their living room walls.

We are the latter.

[storm-and-starlight]

farewell, wanderlust

I don't know if I'm ever gonna finish this fic or even even really post it, but just like Meteoric, here's a section that I think stands well alone and that I really quite like. Dick finds Jason post-Bruce's "death" in Final Crisis. Operates off of UTRH movie canon.

Dick had the courtesy to find him in person, plainclothed, appearing out of nowhere at a tea shop Jason still stops in at, sometimes. It's one of the places Alfred buys from, a sharply astringent Earl Grey -- Jason, he'd said, low and soft at his shoulder, and Jason had turned on his heel and left without paying, boots thumping oddly on the cobblestones (Old Gotham, god, he hates this part of the city, pretending like the battered streets and ancient buildings are somehow charming, pretending it's someplace sweet and touristy and safe, pretending like it hasn't got just as much rot as the rest of the place -- Scarecrow attacked this street six months ago, gassed half the market, and now all that's left of that is a handful of signs in various shops saying "respirators sold here!"), chilled to the bone even in the summer swelter. The city had already recovered from the alien invasion or zombie apocalypse or whatever-the-fuck-it-was that had the League all over the place a week ago; the rest of the world might still be reeling, but not Gotham.

Jason! Dick had said, loud and surprised, and then gentler, cut to carry, Jay, little wing-- and Jason had frozen where he stood, middle of the street, crowd splitting around him like a running river until Dick had found him again. He'd been dressed in civvies: black tee, battered leather, worn jeans, perfectly nondescript. Hair a wild tumbledown mess, windblown and ragged. Hadn't slept in at least three days, but he'd had a bright-burning clarity to his eyes; Nightwing, clinging on to sanity when the rest of the world's gone mad.

Jason hadn't seen him this close up in years -- he'd been a shadow at Bruce's heels, a bright figure against the skyline, always at least arms-length and the barrel of a gun distant.

He was-- so much shorter than Jason thought he remembered.

Don't, Jason had said, sharp -- there's a gun under his jacket and Dick's here in civvies and this is Gotham, after all, what's a little mid-street-weapon-pulling to a native, and Dick had said We need to-- we should talk.

So talk, and Dick had flicked a glance out at the heaving crowd around them and said not here. At-- do you remember Wilhelm? and Jason does, only a single bright flash of a memory but still there despite the holes the Pit ate in his head -- Dick, younger and shaggy-haired and larger than life, dangling one-handed from the talons of the saddest damn gryphon Jason's ever seen, grinning up at him; "second-best hiding spot in the city, little wing" -- and he jerks his head in a nod.

Midnight, Dick had said, and swirled back into the crowd before Jason could even acknowledge that, gone again in the current of humanity.

He'd paid for the tea, too, the bastard.

---

He arrives at Wilhelm's corner at sixteen minutes past the stroke of midnight -- there was a church here once that still rang the hour every hour, Westminster quarters marking out the passage of the night. It's gone now, nineteenth-century masonry apparently not up to the task of surviving an earthquake (a goddamn earthquake, what the fuck) but he can still hear the ghost of it, echoing over the years. All through this hour, Lord be my guide. Wilhelm's still standing, leaning gloomily over the street, but the gap between his wings is empty -- even the replacement's too big to fit, now. Nightwing's waiting on the roof instead, a dark shape silhouetted against the orange sky, lantern-light bleeding the color from his insignia. Batman's nowhere to be seen.

"Jason," Nightwing says when he lands beside him, heavier than any Robin has a right to be.

Jason snorts. "What happened to no names in the field? The old man leaves for a week and all the rules go out the window?"

Dick-- flinches.

Jason pauses. Bruce is still off on League business -- another day, another dollar, another planet-ending threat -- and he hasn't come back yet, leaving Nightwing and Robin to keep an eye on Gotham. He'd assumed it was just-- cleanup, like usual after shit like this goes down, or maybe he was off in space chasing down the guy who did it, but this is-- this is Dick naming him Jason, full-formal, not the name he took to scare the shit out of Bruce or the tattered remnant of a childhood he can't even remember.

"What happened?"

"Bruce--" Dick says, and falters, and stops. 

There's a siren in the distance, wailing away; the rattle of old and ill-maintained ventilation systems; the clacking rush of the train going through. The ghost of ringing bells, long-gone and buried; the salt-sting of the Pit in his eyes; grave-dirt under his nails and on his tongue -- all through this hour.

"How?" he says, and the helmet flattens it, turns it into just another electronic snarl, but he hears the scrape of a shattered voice anyways.

"Darkseid," and well, okay, Jason does have to admit that motherfucking Darkseid probably is one of the only people who ever could have done it. The Joker sure as hell wasn't fucking going to.

"Are you..."

"I-- saw the body." Jason's silent for long enough that Dick says "Jay," reaching out for his shoulder -- Jason twitches back and away, sharply, and Dick's hand drops limply back to his side.

"So he's dead, then," and it rings flatly in the air, the blade striking, the hammer coming down. "The fuck am I supposed to do about it?"

"Jay--" Dick says again, but Jason's got salt under his tongue and the Pit in his blood and he can feel the anger rising. "What, I'm supposed to-- say I'm sorry? Sit politely at the funeral? Come home? Have you forgotten that I'm not fucking one of you anymore?" The warehouse, the Joker, the gun -- I would have done nothing but search the planet for this pathetic pile of evil, death-worshipping garbage and sent him off to hell! -- Batman, walking away.

"Jason," Nightwing snaps, sharp and furious and Bat-vigilante to the bone, and then he sighs and he's right back to Dick Grayson again, trying to carry the weight of the world and not quite managing. "Jason, I-- you deserved to know."

He can hear what Dick's not quite saying underneath: you were Robin, once.

You were still his son.

The silence echoes.

"Alfred?" Jason asks, eventually, when the seethe in his blood isn't quite so strong.

"He's... holding up," Dick says carefully. "Better than I was, at first, but..." He rolls his wrist outward, a restless motion. "You know how he is."

"Yeah."

The Gotham quiet -- which isn't actually quiet in any sense of the word, just a constant background hum of trains and traffic and police sirens and the odd intermittent scream -- filters back in. It sounds different than it used to, though maybe that's just the brain damage. He misses the bells, every hour on the hour -- he can hear Alfred's voice humming Big Ben's prayer along with the chimes of the Manor clocks. All through this hour Lord be my guide, that by Thy power no foot shall slide. A good prayer for Robins, he'd called it, if you're going to be running about on rooftops in the middle of the night, and Jason had never quite believed the way Catherine once had but he'd still sung along at midnights, fleet-footed and sure on the spires and skyscrapers.

"I'm sorry," he says, at last.

Dick doesn't look at him. "Me too."

---

The dawn finds him still awake, leaning over the chipped counter of his latest base with a mug between his hands -- Earl Grey with rosemary and rose, an indulgence, a memory -- the warm golden haven of the Manor kitchen with all the windows black-backed mirrors in the predawn darkness, Jason bleary-eyed and up entirely too early and Alfred as crisply put together as ever, pouring water over tea leaves and letting the steam curl sweet and sharp up into the air -- it had been special, somehow, though now he can't remember why. The smell of the tea Dick paid for is the same, even all these gaping years later -- black tea and rose and bergamot, sweet and sharp -- and he closes his eyes tight, trying to shut out the salt in them still.

[gofishygo]

[PRIDE MONTH- WEEK FOUR] : through green hydrangeas (my heart lies) price x ftm reader (part 2/2) - UNFINISHED

(i will complete this once i am unsuicidal and motivated)

[PART ONE] | notes: medical settings, description of injury, should have a good ending but like rn its not necessarily very bonita for either of them

The next time you and Johnathan price meet each other is indeed, in Burningham.

The doctors treating you had come with a prognosis- a puncture to the intestine. Through the whole eight hours of the surgery, the whole two weeks of an induced coma, he’d shadowed it behind a glass window. His now practically immune to the scent of disinfectants, the lemon-stained chemicals burning at his nose until the chemoreceptors in them saw nothing, felt nothing. He compares it to a black hole, how his sensory limbs have dulled since his career; his ears are now half drowned, all noose shallow and diasporic, left behind at a botched mission in 2002 Moscow. The keenness of his nose now snuffed by a recent disaster with chemicals. His body is trying and failing, pulling the weight of the world on its shoulders and inside the gaping voids of his chest, always consuming, killing, but never truly settled. Never truly sated.

And now his eyes have resulted in you being eaten, now his ears have resulted in you being ripped at your core. His body has chewed you and, and was left to spit out your body, just like Johnny-

He is scared of looking into closed eyes-they remind price too much about him. So, he leaves the living pearls alone, refuses to peel the skin back to see your colours. He never wants to chew again, not after this.

In every other world be should have stayed attentive, should have yelled at you to not mount the doorframe. But now you are here, bandage wrapped vice-tight below your own scars under your chest and blanketing part of your tattoo, and guilt and pity and some dark festering emotion he couldn’t pinpoint layer and boil like bile in his kidneys. Threatens to spill over into his throat and all over the bed when he is finally allowed to take the compression off. It reveals the shooting star of a wound, crusted tail stretching and expanding into arms that seem to try reach across your skin, to take more of the body it had infested. And he fears you will meet the fate of Johnny- that the wound had claimed your soul instead of your life. And it was an early death too, for the man he had met, for the private who’d body he thought he’d fully memorised a decade ago. The short-lived life of the man who smiled with his whole face for the woman who couldn’t. He knows you have changed, have grown up and out of your past life.

But he can only hope that now; you are strong enough to live through it.

On the nineteenth day of your bedrest, John seems to notice that the slow trickle of bouquets and cards of condolence had been wrung dry, petals brown and crusting on the small bundle of roses that Gaz had left on the bedside since the beginning of your stay in the hospital. The colour of the wilt now matched his increasingly darkening eyebags, crow’s feet near buried, shallow dents in the corner of his peripherals. Pads of his fingers rest atop your forehead- and he knows no matter how dysregulated your internal temperature was since the mission, the number of degrees in your body would always be more than the amount of “get well soon’s” you were given. Some stone of pity seems to snowball at the tip of his tongue and lodge in his throat at the lack of a similar last name on any of the unopened cards left to collect dust on the table. Perhaps, since you’d dropped your original name, the people who’d carried your last refused to see you. And maybe, the idea that the number of degrees your body temperature was also outmatched the number of times you’d seen your relatives since your transition. And maybe, you had been alone for that stretch of years, without familiar flesh to grip onto or a face to share your ashtray and lighter with.

(When long-abandoned lawns are left unattended, they seem to flourish. Rainwater fills the cracks of pavement, toadstool and wildflowers sprouting between the roots of household weeds. In miracle, you had thrived in your isolation.) With one of your eyes slightly peeled open and fixed towards him, and voice barely gathering into the creak of a tree deforested, you ask what is wrong. Price swallows: and he replies with silence.

But even in your quarter-dead state, the captain can’t seem to stomp out the embers of your stubbornness. You’d always cared for him, affection growing teeth and latching onto him with a grip near impossible to pry. In warmth, it held him, in cold, it smothered him. “Put a lid on it, private,” its some form of rumbled warning, a predecessor to earthquakes that would split continents open. “Laswell called. All six targets got taken down, thanks to the work of you and the ULF. Another mission cleared, another day of living.” The dynamics of your exhale sound oddly like a rendition of price’s puff of a cigar. He can faintly recognise the lethargy, energy seeped out of your injuries, clearly exasperated by the way he slams shut at your prying. “You don’t need to worry about me,” But you’re attentive, even in your indigence, and notice how his eyes are not focused on the explosion of scab across your torso, but on the scars that adorned the underside of your chest. “Or is there something else on your mind?”

Price- he truly does hope that you register his stifled grunt and the widening of his eyes as shock instead of horror. Your words catch him off guard, a bear trap that ensnares his tongue instead of his legs, and he is left thrashing in desperation for new words. “no, it’s not- its not that you’re transgender. I don’t care for that. Why didn’t you contact me? What made you think that I would despise you, just because you changed? Just because you were happier?” did you think I could ever hate you for that? “no, its not your fault kid. m’ mistake.”

Silence from the only person who’d dared to raise their words to match all his own, isolation from the man whose touch anchored you down to the ground of the earth and the heat of his skin- it’s smothering him still, a phantom weight that chained the both of you to the bones in your knees and the cuffs of your necks. (If love Is liberation, maybe you two could have been set free-)

[misspieckfinger]

In Defense of Ellen & Orlock

When Ellen tells Willem Da Foe what happened in the past it sounds way less like she willingly broke up with Orlock & way more like her negligent father caught her doing something & tried to send her to an asylum which in the nineteenth century would have meant procedures like lobotomies if she has a seizure. I think she had to make all kinds of promises to be more normal to keep herself out of that situation.

She talks about wishing she’d married Orlock & that the happiest she ever felt was everybody being dead (presumably so they’d leave her the hell in peace about being the weird girl).

We don’t know how she & Thomas met or what happened, I’d hope Thomas didn’t know & would not willingly take advantage of a young woman who he’s being told is mentally unstable. I hope he was just clueless about the whole thing & just thought she was a nice girl but he does seem to know she had issues in the past, hopefully he wouldn’t go through with raping a woman who was temporarily ripped away from her partner by a parent who didn’t bother to understand her & was being pressured to pick some random guy to be physically safe from non consensual procedures. I really wish it were the kind of situation where he just didn’t realize but seeing how the men behave in this story I’m worried there’s more to it.

To this demon’s immense credit it looks like he started working on a plan to physically go to Germany so they could be together without Ellen getting locked in a hell hole & lobotomized for having nightmares. She’s probably feeling hurt he didn’t intervene & she doesn’t appear to have ever stopped talking to Orlock. She did not leave him, she was threatened by the people around her with physical harm for who she loves. We’ve seen this story before.

I don’t think this is a “monster after my girl” movie, I think this is a “what kind of Dracula & Juliet bullshit did I just walk into?” movie.

If Orlock had been portrayed as a she or a they or trans the actual story would have been so obvious it’s cliche. Instead we’re confused because the audience is being asked to use their brain to understand the omnisexual witch metaphor without getting confused by the make up on Nicolas Holt & Bill Skarsgard. It’s kind of funny to watch the same snowflakes who talk about pretty privilege fail to understand this is a story about a depressed girl who society tried to forcibly remove from her chosen spouse so they feel more comfortable with her choices because they prettied up Nicolas & made Bill look scary. Here’s the reality, as flawed as the vampire is it’s better to chance it on a man that’s actually able to chance exposing the romantic parts of his personality than KNOW you’re going to get your feelings hurt every day by a guy who has shut himself down to try to fit what society prefers.

[ltwilliammowett]

The wooden shipwreck of Qoroq,Iran, 19th century

The wreck is located 5 kilometres east of Talesh in the province of Gilan, near the village of Qoroq on the south-western corner of the Caspian Sea. The wreck was discovered by locals in 2005. It is still not known who it is or where it came from.

The research team has outlined several possible scenarios for the ship's grounding on the coast of Qoroq: a large hole in the northern hull of the ship, complete damage to the southern half of the ship and, according to some historical accounts, the ship may have been hit by gunballs during the Iranian-Russian wars in the early nineteenth century.

Another possible scenario for the decommissioning of the ship could be related to the 1904 law that stated that wooden ships should be replaced by steamships in Russia. However, the most likely scenario is that the ship sank due to sea storms.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Rebecca, Parasitism, and the Death of Aristocratic England

One of the curiosities of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca is that it evokes the novels of the nineteenth’s century – grand manors, elegance, servants, formal dances, women with few prospects marrying men far wealthier than themselves – in a way that jars with modern features like cars and cancer diagnoses. Max’s trial feels like the modern world breaking into the old-time otherworld of Manderley. (Even its name recalls Pemberley, though none of the characters do.)

On my last reading of the book, I felt an undefinable impression growing on me that the book was a elegy for the English aristocracy – far from uniquely, in the 20th century, but in particular an elegy that recognized it both as something that contained beauty and something that needed to die.

Connected with this, I had a strong feeling of the concept of parasitism pervading the book – enpugh that I was surprised at running a search on the ebook and finding that the word ‘parasite’ occurred either once or not at all, and the somewhat-connected word ‘alien), I think, once. That leaves me with far less of a strong textual foundation for this post, but nonetheless a continuing sense of this as a key to one of the elements of the novel.

When the narrator comes to Manderley, she feels herself as deeply out of place, alien, an intruder. Everything from the flowers to the furnishings is more vivid, intense, rich, powerful than she can be. She is taking Rebecca’s place, but as an inferior replacement, a fraud, glass in place of diamond. In this phase and perspective of the story she is the parasite, growing up where Rebecca belonged, living off her memory and shadow.

With the revelations about Rebecca, the image flips. It is Rebecca who is the parasite, a sort of vampire, gorged with life, living off Max and Manderley as he fades and Manderley becomes consumed by her. Both his identity and his house’s is swallowed up in her, and so is that of everyone else in her orbit – they are all taken up into the centre of gravity, the black hole, that is Rebecca. She is the monstrous crimson-blossomed rhododendrons of the opening chapter, growing and expanding to cover all else.

Some literary analysts will turn the perspective again and make Maxim the parasite, the man who murdered one wife and is destroying another, a dominating anti-feminist force. I find this too simplified – he acts like a man who is traumatized, not one who is controlling, and his pursuit of the narrator seems grounded in a desire, above all, for someone who is simple, guileless, and unthreatening. His desire is not about controlling, but about not being controlled. His central flaw in his treatment of her is selfishness and impatience – to marry a woman who is young and callow because she is young and callow, and then get angry and frustrated with her for being young and callow. She needed gentleness, and he did not give it.

Instead, it seems to me at the end that the true parasite is Manderley itself. We see hints of this when the narrator daydreams of herself finding happiness with Max in a small, simple home, nothing like Manderley’s grandeur, or picnicking with some of the townspeople who have come to see the shipwreck and wishing that she was only a day-tripper there, rather than the mistress of the house. We see it with Maxim, who marries Rebecca to his misery and is repaid with the glory and beauty of Manderley as he sinks further into deception and desolation. We see it even in Rebecca, who runs off to London to get away from the place and its old-world feel, to be with modern companions in modern surroundings; her bringing members of her ‘crowd’ to Manderley, that Maxim feels as a desecration, may be an attempt to control the place, to pull it into her world rather than be pulled into its. Max speaks of his horror at her bringing such people and scenes to the Happy Valley, but he has acknowledge that the Happy Valley is her creation, no less than the deep-red rhododendrons – the idea that there is a divide between the parts of Manderley that look dramatic and sensual and the parts that look sweet and innocent is an illusion. Manderley is beautiful, Manderley is intoxicating, Manderley consumes and destroys those who live in it.

To switch genres for a bit and reference Pratchett, Manderley is like his elves in Lords and Ladies. (The title of which is, uh, duh, also an aristocracy reference. How did I not see that before? That’s what it’s about.) Elves are wonderful, they create wonder, they are marvellous, they create marvels. No one ever said elves are nice. Manderley is glorious, Manderley is marvellous, and Manderley in the end must die. They cannot go back. Is the world after it dull and bland because Manderley is gone, or because of all that Manderley had already devoured?