#she supposed to be at the gomorrah

[honeybeebe]

Tried to do a lil pose study based on "Pot Luck" by Gil Elvgren, but with my courier

[angrybell]

An Israeli author was supposed to appear and give a talk about her books at the Pushkin House, part of the University of London. It was due to occur on . With the date approaching the people at Pushkin House sent the following to Ms. Rubina.

Good afternoon, Dina

The Pushkin House advertised our upcoming discussion on social media and immediately received critical messages regarding your position on the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. They would like to understand your position on this issue before reacting in any way.

Could you formulate your position and send it to me as soon as possible?”

Natalia! “

Ms. Rubina responded with the following open letter.

An OPEN LETTER

from Dina Rubina

“Dear Natalia!

You have written beautifully about my novels; I am very sorry for the time you have wasted. But it seems we’ll have to cancel our meeting. The University of Warsaw and the University of Torun have just cancelled lectures by the remarkable Israeli Russian-speaking writer Yakov Shechter on the life of Jews in Galicia in the 17th and 19th centuries – “to avoid aggravating the situation”. I suspected that this would also happen to me, because now the academic environment is the main nursery of the most disgusting and rabid anti-Semitism, hiding behind the so-called “criticism of Israel”. I was expecting something like this, and even sat down three times to write you a letter on the subject… but I decided to wait, and so I have waited.

That’s what I want to say to all those who expect from me a quick and obsequious account of my position on my beloved country, which now (and always) lives in a circle of ardent enemies who seek its destruction; on my country, which is now waging a just patriotic war against a violent, ruthless, deceitful and sophisticated enemy:

The last time in my life I apologised in the headmaster’s office, in the ninth grade. Since then, I have done what I think is right, listening only to my conscience and expressing only my understanding of the world order and human laws of justice.

And so on.

I’m really sorry, Natalia, for your efforts and the hope that you could “cook something with me” – something that everyone will like.

Therefore, I ask you personally to send my reply to all those who are interested:

On Saturday 7 October, the Jewish holiday of Simchat Torah, the ruthless, well-trained, carefully prepared and perfectly equipped with Iranian weapons Hamas terrorist regime ruling the Gaza enclave (which Israel left some 20 years ago) attacked dozens of peaceful kibbutzim and simultaneously pelted the territory of my country with tens of thousands of rockets. Atrocities that even the Bible cannot describe, atrocities and horrors that make the crimes of Sodom and Gomorrah pale in comparison (captured, by the way, by the frontal and chest cameras of the murderers themselves and boastfully sent by them in real time to the Internet), can shock any normal person. For several hours, thousands of gleeful, blood-drunk animals raped women, children and men, shot their victims in the crotch and in the head, cut off women’s breasts and played football with them, cut babies out of the bellies of pregnant women and immediately beheaded them, tied up small children and burned them. There were so many charred and completely burnt bodies that for many weeks the pathologists could not cope with the enormous burden of identifying individuals.

My friend, who worked in a New York hospital waiting room for 20 years and then spent another 15 years in Israel identifying remains, was one of the first to arrive in the burned and blood-soaked kibbutzim with a group of rescuers and medics… She still can’t sleep. A medic used to cutting up bodies – she fainted from what she saw and then vomited all the way back to the car. What these people have seen is beyond words.

Together with the Hamas fighters, the “civilian population” rushed into the holes in the fence, joined the pogroms on an unprecedented scale, robbed, killed and dragged whatever they could get their hands on into Gaza. Among these “peaceful Palestinians” were 450 members of the UN’s UNRWA scum. Everyone was there, and judging by the stormy total joy of the population (also captured in these inconvenient times by hundreds of mobile cameras) – there were a lot of people – Hamas supports and approves, at least before the real fighting starts, of almost the entire population of Gaza… The main problem: our residents were dragged into the beast’s lair, more than two hundred of them, including women, children, the elderly and non-essential foreign workers. About a hundred of them are now rotting and dying in the Hamas dungeons. Needless to say, these harassed victims are of little concern to the “academic community”.

But that’s not what I’m talking about. I am not writing this to make anyone sympathise with the tragedy of my people.

For all these years, when the world community has literally poured hundreds of millions of dollars into this piece of land (the Gaza Strip) – and the annual budget of the UNRWA organisation alone is a BILLION dollars! – All these years, Hamas has used this money to build an empire of the most complex underground tunnel system, to stockpile weapons, to teach primary school children how to dismantle and reassemble a Kalashnikov assault rifle, to print textbooks in which the hatred of Israel defies description, in which even the maths problems go like this: “There were ten Jews, Shahid killed four, how many are left?” – with every word calling for the murder of Jews.

And now that Israel, shocked at last by the monstrous crime of these bastards, is waging a war to destroy the Hamas terrorists, who have prepared this war so carefully, planting thousands of shells in all the hospitals, schools, kindergartens… – here the academic world of the whole world has risen up, worried about the “genocide of the Palestinian people”, based, of course, on data provided by… who? That’s right, by the same Hamas, by the same UNRWA… The academic community, which was not concerned about the massacres in Syria, the massacre in Somalia, the mockery of the Uighurs or the millions of Kurds persecuted for decades by the Turkish regime – this very concerned public, wearing “Arafat” around their necks, the trademark of the murderers, rallies under the banners “Free Palestine from the river to the sea! – which means the total destruction of Israel (yes, many of these “academics”, as surveys show, have no idea where this river is, what it is called, where some borders are…). – Now this very public asks me to “take a clear position on this issue”.

Are you serious?! Are you serious?!!

You see, I’m a writer by profession. All my life, for more than fifty years, I have been folding words. My novels have been translated into 40 languages, including Albanian, Turkish, Chinese, Esperanto… and many others.

Now, with great pleasure, without using too many expressions, I sincerely and with all the strength of my soul send all the brainless “intellectuals” interested in my position to the ASS. In fact, very soon you will all be there without me”.

Dina Rubina

[siriusleee]

up to light

a/n: so part 1 and 2 were the only parts of this story that were originally going to be published. i did this to wrap the story up, so it is narratively different because the first 2 parts were a story of like being enamored and panic, and all that. this is about becoming better and healing. i did a lot of research into ptsd in returning soldiers for this. tags: PTSD, arguing, some domestic arguments, breaking shit, fighting, blood, redemption, some religious imagery, did not proofread because I am lazy “Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.” ― John Milton, Paradise Lost part one | part two

He has fits of rage that shock him: chairs broken into pieces, plates smashed in the sink, his hand through the window, a hole in her dashboard. Sodom and Gomorrah beneath his hands. He expects her to react in kind; more than once he begs her to retaliate, to scream at him. 

She refuses, but she doesn't speak to him when she wraps his knuckles, wiping the blood away with a sting. He fixes each broken item the next day, a silent apology that he'll do better the next time he gets angry.

Once he wakes up and expects her to be in the kitchen like every morning, the golden light filtering through - a cup of coffee already made for him on the counter. She's not there. He knocks on her bedroom door, but she doesn't answer. He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he paces, carving a trail in the carpet. He sits at the kitchen table and flashes back to seeing her above him. He can't sit there long.

It takes an hour for her to come back, grocery bags in her hand. He barely registers what he's doing when he grabs her by her shoulders in a bruising grip and shakes her. He doesn't yell, but he's close to it.

"Where the fuck were you? You were supposed to be here!"

The bags hit the floor, contents spilling out onto a disarray. She shoves him, harder than he would have expected her to be able to; he stumbles backward, surprised at her strength. 

Scream at me. Please.

She doesn't move, fist clenched at her side - an archangel ready to strike him down. She rubs her hands on the thighs of her jeans, eyes downcast before she speaks to him.

"You can break everything in my house if you want, but the next time you grab me like that, you will regret it."

She is the wrath of God; Simon expects her to strike him down at any moment: his angel showing her true strength. He feels her anger radiate off her in waves. But she leaves it, dropping to her knees to grab the apples that have rolled across the floor. Simon's hands shake when he bends down to help her; the first box he picks up is the brand of tea he mentioned last week. 

***

You teach him how to garden; repenting to the dirt for all the harm you've ever caused. The dirt cakes under his nails and in the evenings he lets you wash them. You trace your fingers over the bruised and raw skin of his knuckles before he pulls away and disappears into the spare bedroom.

He stays up in the long watches of the night; you hear him through the thin walls. He showers quickly - you don't even think five minutes pass before the water shuts off. You wonder if he wears his mask to the shower. 

He's there to watch your cook dinner every night, a shepherd of the potatoes. 

"Here," you say, shoving the vegetables towards him, "cut these up for me please."

You both eat in silence, your eyes downcast so that you don't see his face. He eats everything quickly, finishing his second plate before you can even finish your first.

He leaves you at the dinner table to check the locks, to make sure the windows are latched shut against the outside world. He rotates through each of them twice, reassuring himself that they're impenetrable. He checks the shotgun behind the front door before disappearing into the spare room. Through the door, you hear the sound of a bullet being chambered; you know he puts it underneath his pillow and there's another on the bedside table. 

***

Simon spends more nights at the bar than he'd like to admit. She's always there to unlock the door for him to stumble in, feet catching the edge of the stairs. He leans on her and she helps him to bed. She doesn't complain about his weight. She slides his boots off, fingers catching in the laces. Her hands trail up lightly, pausing at the scar she knows is below his ribs, before pushing down gently on his shoulders. 

Simon lets himself fall heavily back, he pretends not to feel her run her fingers across the top of his mask, nails massaging his scalp through the fabric before she leaves him.

One night he lets himself fall into temptation, his hand snaking out to grab her wrist when she turns. His thumb traces the inside of her wrist, she smells like apple blossoms and spring. Redemption.

"What is it, Ghost?" 

She speaks so softly to him, it makes the room spin around him.

"I'm sorry I'm a disaster." 

In the moonlight, her eyes soften; she pulls her wrist from his hand. For just a moment, their fingertips linger together. 

"Go to sleep, Ghost."

It spills out of him, a prayer he wants her to listen to.

"Simon."

"Go to bed, Simon."

She leaves him in the dark.

***

You go out with Simon when the New Year comes; he promises he won't drink as much as he usually does. It's a tradition - an obligation the two of you can't seem to shake off from all the years before each other. You nurse a rum and coke for hours and watch him disappear into the dark corners with his drinks. When the fireworks go off early outside, it takes you by surprise; you push through the crowd, drink spilling onto your wrist. You find Simon in the back, hands bleeding where he gripped his glass hard enough to shatter it. 

Outside a firework explodes in the sky, bright enough to shine through the dingy windows of the bar. Simon doesn't look at you when you wrap your hands around his wrist, trying to pull his attention to you. Beneath your fingers, his muscles are taunt - ready to run. 

"Simon, come on. Let's go home."

He lets you pull him towards the back door of the bar, and into the dark parking lot, but his muscles don't - can't - relax under your touch. Outside the air crackles around the two of you, the fireworks screaming in the air. You lace your fingers through his and pull him towards your car, blood pooling where your hands connect. Three men watch the two of you, the cherries of their cigarette burn in the darkness.

One of them jeers at you - come on babe, ditch him and come with us. 

Simon rips his fingers from you, his anger exploding in the night.

***

He is Apollyon in the darkness; he comes to when his feet connect to the door of the guy's truck. It crumples beneath his boot, caving in. He hears the guys screaming at him; one tries to grab him and Simon shoves him off. Dents litter the side of the truck the guys were leaning on and one of the men has his hand pressed to his nose, blood running between his fingers.

His lungs burn in the cold air. The guys are still screaming at him, minglings of you fucked up, and call the fucking cops. Shame burns through him when he finds Hazy, her hands hanging limply at her side, illuminated by a street light. Her face is screwed up; Simon knows she's about to cry. His blood stains her jeans - he's slammed back to her begging him for his name, hands trying to stem the flow of his blood- back to her pulling him from the nightmares.

Hazy.

His angel.

He leaves her in the parking lot - the shouts and fireworks behind him. 

The door is unlocked when he gets back to her place - the sun tinging the horizon. His heart stutters - she never leaves the door unlocked, but it stills when he sees her curled up on the couch. She's under the blanket from his bed, hair haloed around her. He lowers himself down to the floor beside her and falls asleep with his head by her knees.

***

You slither from behind Simon, fingers tracing his shoulders as you try not to wake him, but he stirs beneath your touch. You lower down beside him, back pressed against your coffee table. His eyes shine in the early morning glow, the skin below dark from exhaustion. 

You reach forward to grab his hands gently, flipping them over to inspect the clotted blood from the night before. 

"I'm sorry," his voice cracks from the lack of sleep. You trace one of the cuts with your thumb before cradling his hand in your lap.

"I know you are."

"I don't know what's wrong with me," it comes out half a whisper; you grip his wrist tighter. You push yourself up enough to crawl in front of him, resting your knees between his. You hold yourself up by leaning on his thighs, hands pressing into the rough material of his jeans, dirt and blood that wasn't there the night before staining your hands.

"I'm ruining everything." His voice is rough and he looks at the ceiling above you. 

"Simon," your voice draws his eyes down to yours, "you're still learning how to come home. It's not easy - I know."

He reaches down to grab your wrists, pulling your hands up until they're level with his chest. You can see he wants to say something; he struggles to form the words. His eyes stay locked where he holds your wrists.

"I'm - I'm worried I'm going to hurt you."

"I can take care of myself."

Simon squeezes your wrists, hard enough that you know you'll have a thumbprint bruise there tomorrow. 

"I know you can, angel."

***

Johnny shows up a few months later banging on the door. Simon's fingers itch for the pistol beneath his pillow at the sound, but he can't make it across the room before Hazy swings open the door. 

"It's for you Simon," she yells over her shoulder. She lets Johnny in, muttering something about another one showing up.

"What are you doing here Johnny?"

Johnny grins at Simon from his spot on the steps.

"Just wanted to check on you L.T.; make sure you were surviving."

"Fuck off Johnny. You came to eat for free."

***

Simon and Soap - no Johnny is what Simon called him - sit outside and smoke on the front steps while you finish dinner, beating the chicken until it's paper thin. Their cigarette smoke floats through the window - the same window Simon put his hand through after one of the neighbors complained about him cleaning his gun on the front steps - and curls around you. It makes your stomach turn, reminding you of how you and your Boys had sat with your feet dangling outside of the helis and passed a cigarette along when you were finally pulled out, the way you all smoked on the back of a smoking Stryker when it got hit by an EFP - the copper lodging itself just inches from your own sergeant. You hadn't been able to smoke since you came home years ago.

The chicken sizzles in the oil when you drop it into the pan - the sound of Johnny laughing cutting through the air. You hear Simon laugh just slightly beneath him, a sound you hadn't heard since he showed up at your door. 

You call to the boys from the open window, chastising them to wash their hands before they dare touch the dinner you slaved over. 

It's horrifically domestic, you think, watching the two of them eat at the dinner table from your spot in the living room. Simon has his back to you; you can see his balaclava pushed up around his nose, the two of them angle themselves towards each other. Simon's loose, shoulders slumped in comfort at the way Johnny speaks to him. The way Johnny can touch Simon's shoulder without Simon flinching away from him.

All at once it hits you - a wave of jealousy in the pit of your stomach. You leave the two of them in the house, your feet pulling you towards the rain-soaked pavement outside; the smell of ichor overwhelming you.

***

Simon hears the door shut behind Hazy - Johnny stares intently at the door, eyebrows knitted together. 

"I think your girl is upset."

"She's not my girl Johnny."

"Oh?" Johnny's eyebrows go up, disappearing into the hair he's growing out. "So you just live here and nothing? You don't fuck?"

Simon's hand hits the top of the dining room table, hard enough to knock over Johnny's glass of water. 

"Shut your fuckin' mouth; don't speak about her like that."

Simon can see a dangerous glint in Johnny's eye, in the way Johnny leans closer to him. It makes Simon's skin prickle.

"So she's open for business? I might stay awhile; I was hoping to share her like-"

Simon slams into Johnny, the chair beneath shattering like matchsticks. They land heavily on the ground, Simon's hands fisted in the front of Johnny's shirt. Johnny doesn't fight back - his hands out to the side of him, ever forgiving on the cross, as he grins up at Simon. Simon lifts him up once before slamming him back into the ground, but Johnny never winces. 

The anger rolls and bubbles inside of Simon, hellfire ready to overflow. The stupid fucking grin on Johnny's face makes it worse. Johnny's hand wraps around Simon's wrist, limply, but enough to remind Simon that Johnny can still kick his ass. 

"Be honest with me L.T.."

Simon's fingers falter in the slick fabric of Johnny's shirt.

"I'm going to hurt her Johnny."

"L.T.-"

"I get so fucking angry at everything. I grabbed her once. I'm worried I'm going to do it again."

It scared the fuck out of me.

***

You notice one less chair when you get home, hair stuck to your neck from the humidity. Johnny is gone, a thank you for dinner note scrawled in chicken scratch handwriting on the counter. The sink is empty, dishes washed and dried, and put away. 

You can see in the small backyard, Simon sitting on the back steps. His mask is off; his hair, brown and cut short, makes your fingers itch to run through it. He's cradling his head in his hands - you want to go out to him, to rub your hands across his back, but you don't. 

The shower water runs hot, burning your skin red. You let it wash over you, a Lazarus pit trying to pull you back into the mortal realm. The backdoor slams shut, hard enough to shake the walls around you. Outside of the shower, your hair drips onto the carpet of your bedroom as you dress, drenching the back of the t-shirt you pull on. It takes a moment for you to realize it's Simon's, hanging to your knees; it must have gotten mixed up in the wash. 

Simon's on the couch, balaclava pulled back on. You drop down heavily on the other end of the couch, the distance a chasm between the two of you. Unceremoniously Simon holds out a wrinkled pamphlet towards you; you take it, wet fingertips indenting the paper. PTSD for Veterans.

"It's a group; Johnny goes to it."

You trace your fingers over the words without reading them.

"I went to one like this when I got out," you tell him, handing the pamphlet back to him. "It helped a lot."

Simon doesn't speak, but he tucks the pamphlet back into his jeans. 

Next Tuesday, he comes home sober. 

***

Simon sits in the back of the group for weeks, his usual balaclava switched out for a plain black surgical mask to keep everyone from staring at him. They talk about ways to reduce anger, to get your mind back here and not there. 

The next time he curls his fist, he remembers what the group leader said about pausing and being in the moment. His hand unfurls slowly. He sets the glass he thinks about shattering back in the sink. Beside him, Hazy hums, slicing mushrooms into precise slices. He reaches around her to grab the dish soap; his hand lingers at the small of her back for a moment too long; he sees how Hazy stops cutting the mushrooms, how the next cut is uneven.

They don't speak at dinner; the sound of their forks on the plates punctuates the silence. Hazy goes to wash the dishes, but Simon beats her to it. He can feel her eyes on him, piercing him from behind as he slops the dishwater onto his shirt. 

Hazy leans across the counter, watching as Simon meticulously dries each plate, each fork tine until they shine the way he wants them to. 

"Do you want to go on a walk?" She asks as he finishes. Simon wipes his wet hands on his jeans as he looks at her.

"Sure."

They pace beside each other, the hot pavement cooling beneath their feet. They're crossing the street when Hazy reaches out and takes Simon's hand; the first time since New Year's. Simon remembers his dreams of her, golden haloed and tracing the scars on his body. 

They walk in silence, a quarter-mile trek until they circle back home, Simon's heart in his throat the entire time. He knows something is different when the door clicks behind them; in the dark, he can see Hazy fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. Simon pushes the bottom of his mask up enough to hook over his nose; when she turns back around, she doesn't speak, her hand lifts up to trace Simon's jawline, but pulls back before she can actually touch him. She starts to pull away, but Simon catches her and pulls her hand to his face.

She's so soft and warm, the way he dreamt she would be. She traces a scar on the underside of his chin and Simon feels his knees buckle, just a bit.

"Can I touch you?" His voice is soft, so quiet he can hardly hear himself. Hazy's breath catches in her throat, fingers teasing the edge of his mask. She nods; Simon wraps the piece of hair that hangs down in front of her face around his finger before resting his hand on her shoulder. He can feel her pulse quicken beneath her skin.

"Are you scared of me?"

Hazy's hand trails down past his chin to rest on his chest, nails lightly digging into his skin.

"Are you?"

His thumb rests on her clavicle; his hand tights against her skin.

"Absolutely. I wake up every day worried I'm going to hurt you."

Hazy presses herself closer, Simon's hand reaches up to tangle in the hair at the nape of her neck. Her hands slide under his shirt, tracing the scars below and Simon sees his angel again, she pulls him back from the darkness.

"You're not going to hurt me, Simon."

"How do you know?"

Her answer is to kiss him, pulling him down to her height. Her tongue traces the edges of his lips, pushing through until Simon can taste her. Simon's grip on the back of her neck tightens, and he pulls her closer until Simon can feel the heat of her through his clothes. 

She guides him to her room, fingers soft and pleading against his belt buckle. When Simon freezes at her touch, she doesn't push him farther, she stills until Simon can move again. Later, when the sheet is tangled beneath them, and she's straddled over him, fingers splayed out across his chest, tracing the scars that crisscross at random, Simon brushes her hair out of her face.

"I thought you were an angel when you were above me on that table. I dreamt about you - a golden halo."

And this.

The corner of Hazy's mouth twitches up, and she presses a kiss to the middle of his chest. 

"I thought you were going to die there; I begged god to keep you alive."

Simon's hands grip her hips, stilling her. 

"Why didn't you ever come back and see me?"

Hazy traces her fingers in circles slowly around Simon's skin, and he waits for her answer.

"You called me an angel that day when you woke up. It scared me, someone so enamored with me like that just all at once. I didn't know what to do. I thought I would disappoint you when you got your senses about you."

Simon flips the both of them, hovering over her, studying the way the light glitters in her eyes. He wants to tell her how his angel could never disappoint him - how she keeps him alive every day, but he can't make the words come out of his mouth. Instead, he presses a kiss to the base of her neck, fingers dipping below her shirt. 

taglist:

@lieblinqs, @random-thot-generator, @nervousloverkitten, @thychuvaluswife, @stillinracooncity, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @fog-sama, @wordsfromshona, @soundsfunbutno

[sgiandubh]

No Liberace's smile

Warning: this will take forever to read. It didn't take forever to write or research, though. But since I will be gone tomorrow and back well, next Saturday, let it be done with a bang.

S the Actor. S the Entrepreneur. S the NYT (3x!) best-seller Writer. Coach S. S the Lover. S the Womanizer. S the Husband. S the Father.

Is something missing, in this deck of Happy Families?

S the (closeted) Gay, of course.

It doesn't really matter the man himself took the time to deny it loud and clear. Twice. This avatar, fueled by idiocy, hatred and ignorance, makes regularly the rounds, each and every time we dare to celebrate something, anything really. It serves three tribes and serves them well: the Congregation of Domestic Bliss (aka Taiters). The Data Lounge crowd. And the Disgruntled Harpies, who once were some of the most fervent Ginger Jesus worshippers, but whose hopes, dreams and trust wrecked on the shores of Quarantein Ha-wa-wee.

It is the proper of calumny to leave a pungent, persistent trail wherever it fumbles around. Calomniez, calomniez, il en restera toujours quelque chose, Beaumarchais once wrote. Calumny, calumny, something's gonna stick - in a very lazy, but dependable translation. This one is particularly vicious, because it sounds coherent: he trades in make-believe, lots of actors are, precedents exist. And my favorite: it explains everything (fun fact: it doesn't even start to cover the shitshow).

Four exhibits should put us out of this dumpster. Chronologically and comparatively:

Exhibit A: Rough Beginnings (2009)

This one is the most touted on Tumblr, by that horrible woman Queen Puff thought was the same person as Paul C. (and was probably wrong). In a nutshell, she was in London then, she often went to the theatre, she was in the know, fuck knows what else, but she has SOURCES, too: there is nothing straight about his bat.

I suppose this person must have watched Nicholas de Jongh's Plague Over England, a play essentially narrating a scandalous episode of John Gielgud's biography, with a heavy-handed focus on homophobia in Britain during the 50's.

He got naked on stage! He kissed a man! Oh, oh, oh... the rumor! the scandal! (insert domestic fire shrieks) My eyes! Quick, let's fetch the smelling salts! And chlorine! I need a good rinse!

You would imagine Sodom & Gomorrah Ltd on that stage, eh?

Tumblrettes United of the disgruntled sort, did your talkative friend ever show you this devastating Guardian chronicle, signed by their in-house critic, John M. Morrison on February 27th 2009 (https://www.theguardian.com/stage/theatreblog/2009/feb/26/de-jongh-plague-over-england) ?

Should I sign it or use a pistol flare? It wasn't exactly scandalous, the only thing is the text was really, really piss poor. S is only gracing the above picture, hovering over the article: no mention of him whatsoever. Unlike Somerset 2019, a most Unremarkable Performance.

And S himself was very interested to explore precisely this kind of progressive-ish acting, as he clearly writes in Waypoints. This sounds legit - this is business, baby:

Exhibit B: Know your Classics, bi@ tches (2010)

*channeling Tears for Fears* Data Lounge, I am talking to you/[something, something]/These are the things I could do without...

Aside the already very, very tired stock stories purporting that "my dog's aunt knew Heughan and yeah, he was so, so, so gay I could cry", all you have (I checked!) is 1 (one) absolutely dubious BTS pic taken on the set of that terrible dud, Young Alexander, shot in Egypt, circa 2010. Prominently featuring S's waxed calves (see? gay AF!), an unbecoming, supremely effeminate white tunic and *gasp* a bong (no comments were made on that one, a pity). Yeah, you got it: I am writing and I am laughing at the same time. Freak.

How the hell do you want him to look but, pardon my French, queer as a three-dollar bill? You clearly have no idea about sexual ambiguity as social norm in Ancient Greece and also no clue about that fascinating Alexander himself, his life and his yeah, blatant, documented bisexuality.

Take one of the most interesting sources (yeah, only serious ones, with FACTS) of the Late Antiquity, a guy named Athenaeus of Naucratis. He left us The Banquet of the Learned, a fifteen-volume encyclopedic compilation on the pleasures of eating and drinking and doing it in style, along with some juicy gossip. For example, this (open in separate tab, it's worth it):

What do we read? Alexander's mom, dad and tutor (Aristotle, my favorite Greek philosopher, along with Diogenes) are worried he finally might not really be into women, after all. The future of the Macedonian Kingdom itself is at stake (that watery semen made me choke on my Coke) and this is a very serious affair of the state. The most cost-effective and discreet solution is to handsomely pay that Callixeina courtesan from (famous for pin-ups) Thessaly and be done with it.

Apparently, it worked, not without some resistance. If you ever have the curiosity to go on that (in)famous Wikipedia, you will find a whole page dedicated to Alexander the Great's personal life. It reads exactly like the ABC, do-re-mi summer soccer mercato, feat. the Fitness Harem. One of the major joys of Classical studies is to realize we really didn't invent anything new.

But I digress again, so onwards to ...

Exhibit C: Jobbing Actor on the Road, nothing straight about his Bat (2011-2013)

Once the Batman show is on world tour, things are looking a bit better and it is time to try and lockpick America. Still, the struggle is real:

Also, this:

This is something no one noticed. And this is very clear: how on Earth do you expect to commit to a relationship, any relationship, when your basic needs, according to Maslow's Pyramid (a roof, a job, a steady paycheck, etc), are not satisfied? What would you offer your woman? Your precarity? Your insecurity? Your fear and shame of the bailiffs? A pint of cheap Polish beer? A futon in Golders Green?

But let's conveniently not answer these questions. Let's pretend that poverty has no impact on one's sexual life or dating history. Let's just endlessly cackle and blather on a drunk tweet stating candidly - and perfectly truly - "there's nothing straight about my Bat". I hate to quote myself - for any good speaker, this is a defeat- but, LOUDER FOR THE PEOPLE OF MORDOR:

Exhibit D: A French example - the case of Michel Serrault

The 1979 comedy La Cage aux Folles, later adapted for the US public under the name of Birds of a Feather (that Robin Williams/Nathan Lane forgettable gay movie) is absolutely representative for the live and let live French approach to homosexuality, ever since it was decriminalized by the revolutionary Penal Code of 1791. This is why I chose Michel Serrault, one of its two leads, to illustrate my Gay Anon post. Not to mention Serrault was a genius who could play absolutely anyone, from a retired hitman in Matthieu Kassowitz' Assassin(s) to Zaza Napoli.

This balding, ageing, cantankerous drag queen (sound is horrific, but you've got English subtitles - granted, you lose about 30% of the hysterical hilarity in translation, but it is what it is), as seen here in a domestic scene opposite her partner, played by notorious womanizer Ugo Tognazzi:

By the limp standards of Mordor, Serrault must have been a French LGBTQ+ institution, given his stellar, flawless acting, isn't it?

Incorrect, dolls. In his real, personal life Serrault was a devout Catholic, an exemplary father of two and a one-woman man. His wife, Nita Serrault, whom he met in drama school and never looked back.

It almost sounds like... but no, this cannot be..

The hard, gruesome life of shippers.

[theredpharaoah]

Morgana doesn’t really make sense. She’s supposed to be super powerful but she loses to a 10-year old Cereza. She doesn’t have any of the hallmarks of a powerful Umbran Witch either besides Demon Masquerade; no bullet arts for instance.

I also think the theories that Cheshire and Viola’s Cheshire aren’t the same are wishful thinking. I think the theories that Madama Butterfly is Cheshire is even more of a reach. People say that the two Cheshires are very different from on another as if Cheshire wasn’t summoned literally 5 secs after birth. Of course he’s different 500 years later. Bayonetta and Cereza are just as wildly different as Cheshire and Viola’s Cheshire. Furthermore, Viola’s Cheshire was summoned by Bayonetta, as Viola said she hadn’t been able to master that spell. Also, why would a demon in Inferno just so happen to have the appearance of Cheshire? Rosa made a toy from the scraps she had available to her in the likeness of a cat. She didn’t make a mini model of a demon she knew from Inferno. If there was a demon other than Cheshire that looked like that, I feel like it would’ve been mentioned

Madama Butterfly has a very strong personality and implied backstory. To me, it also seems to be implied that Madama Butterfly is older than Cereza - that all infernal demons are older than their contracted partner. As the infernal demon doesn’t just give the witch power but also specialized knowledge in powers they hold - such as Madama Khepri giving Rosa so much knowledge about time. We know she’s at least 500 because Bayonetta is over 500, I don’t remember it saying that’s her exact age. Also, I don’t think Alraune’s past with Madama Butterfly is her being the wife and the latter, the mistress, in the eponymous story/opera. Alraune is her own figure in folklore and has her own popular story that is completely different.

Also, who raised Bayonetta? Were they just keeping her in a house or something before she went to live with Morgana? And how the hell didn’t the elders notice all the young witches going missing in Morgana’s care? And why can’t Morgana just summon any old demon for Luka to siphon the energy of? I’d put forward a Gomorrah, as they don’t listen any damn way. And Rodin steals demon souls all the time and turns them into weapons - she should’ve hit him up.

[danses-with-dogmeat]

Day 9 -- Dazzle

The (nsfw) details for Kinktober, Day 9 are just below the cut!

Minors, please don’t interact.

Stripping with Dazzle x F!Six

Yay, Dazzle! She was super fun to explore, for the mere reason that she's just... well, she's not a super big character in FONV, so there was lots of freedom concerning her true personality (I think she probably puts on a bit of a show when she talks to the courier in-game, so it's not really her true self that you get to see most of the time, but that's just my opinion)

I hope y'all enjoy! <3

Here is the link to my  Kinktober 2023 Event List so you can stay up-to-date, or re-visit these works as you please.

Included: Stripping, undressing, dancing, dirty talk, teasing, talk of overstimulation, lipstick stains, kissing, stress relief, sweetness, some jealousy.

Words: 2.5k

--

“Take a seat for me, sweet cheeks.” 

Dazzle’s eyes rolled good-humoredly at Six’s request, an easy smile playing at her plush lips as she played the part and sauntered over to the worn, leather chair. 

“Atta gal, now just sit back and enjoy.” 

Six turned down the lights, something Dazzle hadn’t even known was a feature at any of the hotel rooms, let alone the one she worked in, but, well, if anyone knew the perks of Gomorrah's presidential suite, it was the Omertas’ prized darling. The sadistic tribe's most infamous ally warranted nothing but the best, she was sure.

Suppose being their ally's paramour has its perks.

“Sure thing, sugar.” Dazzle winked as she sank into her seat, spreading her legs wide in a mockery of her usual clientele. 

Despite her joking, Six kept her own half-lidded bedroom eyes locked to her counterpart as she sensually swayed her way over to the jukebox in the darkened corner of the room. 

The machine spun to life at the click of a button, and deep, provocative music poured from its speakers as Six spun on one heel, and set her sights on the woman in the chair. 

Dazzle’s heart kicked up, something leaping and swooping in her stomach, too, at the way Six’s gaze melted into her. She had a dark, smokey eyeshadow painted on her lids, her lips wore a deep red, like the crimson felt of the blackjack tables downstairs. The leather top she wore shone in the dim light, the reflective beams shifting and glinting with her swaying movement, her short skirt rippling with the accentuated movement of her thighs as she teasingly approached her partner’s chair. 

“You’re pretty good at this, baby. You sure you’re not in the wrong line of work?” Dazzle quipped, hoping it would hide the flush she felt creeping to her pale cheeks. 

“What?” Six’s eyebrow quirked upwards, “You afraid I’m gonna take your business, Dazz?” 

Six twirled around, the wind catching the fabric of her skirt just so, to give her partner a sly peek at the decorative panties she wore below.

“Maybe I don’t want business no more. You think of that?” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, just sit back like this, take you in." Dazzle settled further in her chair, and ran her eyes markedly over partner's form. "Hell, maybe you could just give me a lil allowance or somethin,’ you know? Successful woman like yourself, Omertas wouldn’t mind. So long as their favorite little helper sticks around. You could be doin' the damn landscaping and they’d still throw a hundred caps your way, easy.” 

“Is that jealousy I hear?” Six meant it as a joke, she was sure, but still… A fire kindled within her that she couldn't shake, lighting an enraging red over her eyes as she thought back on her service to the family that gave Six everything, and gave her...  

So many years under contract, so many nights spent with every one of those assholes who barely treat us better than Legion slaves, and then Six comes along, and boom. It’s like none of us are worth a damn thing, not compared to her.

“Dazz, honey, please don’t take it that way.” She nearly jerked back at she felt Six’s sudden touch on her hand, the contact tearing her from the growing fury bubbling up and up. “They only want me cuz I’m in good with House. They know what he can do for them, that’s all.” 

She pulled Dazzle’s hand to her lips as she bent down, pressing a kiss there and leaving a pretty little lipstick mark on the back of her hand. 

“This is what I mean,” She continued, more softly this time. “You deserve to have a night off, to turn off that loud mind of yours, sweetheart, and just let me take care of you.”

Another kiss and Dazzle’s lip twitched, even as she felt her sour mood holding onto her with clawed fingers. 

And then another kiss, leaving a small trail of red imprints up her forearm, another and another; her smile growing inevitably larger until Six’s mouth was pressed to the apple of her cheek, her lipstick very nearly gone by the time she got there. 

Dazzle was smiling openly now, though, giggling at the tickle of her partner’s stubborn affections. 

“You’re right, ‘m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” She mirrored Dazzle’s grin and gave her one final parting smooch on the cheek, before releasing her hand from her grasp and turning back to the jukebox. 

“Now, let’s try this again, okay? Just try to focus on me.” 

The button clicked, and Six restarted that rhythmic, reverberant song back up and began her sexy approach all over again. 

Dazzle let herself soak it in, her lips half-parted as Six did another twirl, as she snaked her shoulders and pressed her hands to her own breasts where they were almost spilling out the top of her tight corset. 

Dull pain sparked from Dazzle’s lips as her teeth sunk in, as her own steamy expression, her sultry gaze only inspired more from her partner. 

Six had insisted she’d never properly stripped before, but it was evident in the lithe movement, in the way she so expertly brought attention to those deliciously curvaceous areas of her body, that she’d been around the Gomorrah ladies enough to have– consciously or not– picked up some pointers on the art of the strip tease. 

If nothing else, Dazzle knows she’s given her at least a dozen shows herself, but this? Watching the way Six’s form rippled in the soft light, watching her movements-- so carefully crafted to showcase those parts of her that she knew Dazzle adored most of all-- it captivated her just the way Six intended, putting pause to even those loud thoughts, her distracting worries and jealousy that tried to keep their hold on her so desperately that it ached.

Now she could think only of her.

She really could become quite good at this with a bit more practice, a few more clients, learning their respective tastes…

“Are you watching, beautiful?” Six’s voice demanded her attention, her active gaze. “This is for you and you alone, baby, I want you to enjoy.” 

At that, in one fluid– definitely practiced– movement, Six's arms moved in a flash, dropping the skirt from her form and stepping out of it with a distinctly lewd sway of her hips. She grinded her barely-clothed pelvis against the air like she would Dazzle’s ass on those nights where they got tipsy in her room, and her positively indecent expression came to match that same passion of those shared nights.

Now in only her dark leather corset, her thin, lacey thong and stiletto heels, Six firmly had Dazzle’s attention. 

“That’s more like it.” Six’s voice was husky, rough, matching the dim, seediness of the room she was stripping in. 

“Keep those pretty eyes on me.” She blew an air kiss next, and Dazzle licked her lips, imagining what their night would be like– would taste like... what she would taste like-- as it developed. 

Dazzle had to hold tightly onto the armrests, digging her long nails into the wood to stop herself from tackling Six right now, and tumbling right into the queen-sized mattress on the other side of the room. 

Soon enough. She told herself. 

Six hummed in appreciation of Dazzle's unbroken attention, the sound wanton and hoarse as she fixed her with a look of unbridled desire.  

The beat picked up a bit in the song as Six grew closer, until she was near enough to touch, her hips bouncing to the faster beat, her corset almost unable to handle the incessant jostling of her gorgeous breasts in the too-small space for them. 

That had to be strategic. Dazzle thought as her eyes locked to her partner’s chest, watching the darker colored skin of her nipples peek out with each undulation of her body to the beat. 

The overwhelming urge to reach out washed over her– to touch her partner, hell, to grope her with both hands and pull her straight away into her lap and mouth at those tits, her lips, her shapely throat until they were both breathless and soaked. 

But she knew. 

If anyone knew the rules of stripping, it was Dazzle, and so, she kept her hands firmly to herself. 

Six wound her body around with the beat of the song, spreading her legs into a squat position once she was facing away, her shapely ass less than a playing card’s breadth from Dazzle's crotch as she began to sway her hips in place.

The swell of Six's skin against the tightness of her nearly see-through panties had Dazzle’s mind fully occupied for the first time that night. Her mouth actually began to water, now, at the look of her partner. She could imagine the feel of her plush hips against her hugging fingers, wanted to savor the hot drag of her nails over her partner’s skin, admire the paths they’d leave upon her, wanted to haul her panties down and attack the curls between her legs, licking and mouthing until she had no breath left to spare. 

“Mm, that’s it baby, watch me. Imagine my skin against yours…” Six spoke lowly, her tone blending in with the din of the music as she lowered herself down in the squat, thrusting her voluptuous ass right into grabbing range of Dazzle’s stiff hands. 

“Imagine what it’ll be like to taste me, how hot I am for you, baby. How sweet and wet.” 

Dazzle followed her orders easily, her mind running wild with the possibilities of tonight, after all of her worries, her stress building up– rivalries, drama, jealousy, asshole clients, entitled Omertas, the list goes on and on, but Six… Each exquisite undulation, that hazy, pleasured look upon her face, the sweet smell of her perfume, and her growing arousal, so close to Dazzle’s hungry senses… it left her distracted from all the raucous fuss in her life, had her honed in, had her here. 

And dammit, it had her wanting. 

She adjusted her posture in the leather chair, squirming a bit as she felt her own wetness seep down into her panties, as another overwhelming urge to reach out almost claimed her self control. 

“Imagine when you get your hands on me… And when I get my lips back on you.” Six looked over her shoulder, her backside still turned to her partner and threw her a teasing wink, long eyelashes fluttering like moth’s wings with the movement. 

“The heat of us, baby. It’ll sear your fingers, my tongue.” Slowly, she wound her way back around, twirling those shapely hips until they were facing one another again. “It’ll burn so good.”

Dazzle’s jaw was clenched tight, she could feel sweat running down the line of her spine as Six leaned in, almost close enough for her lips to brush the shell of her ear. 

“I’ll taste you everywhere, gorgeous.” Her breath tickled as it caressed the peach fuzz on Dazzle’s face. “Your sweet, candy lips, your throat, all sensitive and ticklish… you won’t leave here without a few dozen marks from me. My lips, my teeth on your pale skin…” 

Six was almost growling now, even as Dazzle fought to hold back a whine of frustration. 

Please, Six. Her expression pleaded the same as her thoughts did, Let me touch you already. Quit talking and let’s fucking do this. 

“Then I’ll tear this whore’s outfit from you, slide my teeth over your nipples until they’re pink and hard and sensitive to my touch.” 

A pathetic whine finally left her, and Dazzle’s eyes fell shut, imagining the scenario in her head, her sensitive little buds already hardening and tingling at the mere thought of Six’s attention upon them. 

“What next?” Dazzle finally prompted in response, her words nearly breathless with her growing desire. 

“I’ll paint a line with my tongue, drag it down your stomach, rip your poor excuse for panties away with my teeth, watch you drip for me as I run my lips over everywhere but where you truly crave me.” 

“No–” Dazzle almost choked out the word in her disappointment. 

“Yes, baby. Oh, but it’ll be worth it…” Six’s lips pursed together, and she blew a cool stream of air down the line of Dazzle’s throat, causing goosebumps to suddenly prickle up her skin until her whole body gave a noticeable shiver of lewd appreciation. 

“Because in the end, I’m going to bury myself in you.” 

Dazzle’s hips thrust up off of the chair, very nearly colliding with Six’s, but managing to stop just short of contact. 

“You’ll have no idea where you end and I begin, baby. I’m going to live in you, going to set my lips on that sweet little button of yours until you’re pouring your pleasure out all over me.” 

“Mhm.” Dazzle nodded to her desperately, feeling the sweat slickening on her whole body, feeling her pussy drip and soak the leather cushion beneath her in anticipation. 

“Going to drink you down like sweet nectar, grasp your thighs in my hold until you bruise, bury my tongue inside and scoop out all your honey until I wring you dry.” 

“Six, please…”

“Make you come undone until your legs are shaking and I can’t feel my tongue. Make your eyes roll back, your breath hitch until your vision blurs, and then...”

Dazzle sat in silence a moment, her body mutely writhing in her seat as Six teased her, as she promised all this and did absolutely none of it. The song played on, slowing down, the beat pulsing through both their bodies, making their insides quiver with the sheer bass of its heavy notes. 

“Then what, Six?” Dazzle pleaded breathlessly. 

Her partner only continued her swaying, so frustratingly close, hovering near enough that if Dazzle just extended one hand even a tad, she could gain some miniscule semblance of relief. 

“Sugar, keep goin,’ don’t stop now.” She prompted again, the sounds leaving her growing increasingly desperate.

“Oh, if you insist.” 

God, Six was being cruel, that tone of hers plainly vocalizing the favor she was doing for Dazzle by finishing the sentence she'd started of her own rude volition. 

“Where was I...? Oh, yes." Her voice hissed in her ear, closer than before, and Dazzle felt her lips part involuntarily in anticipation. "I’ll wring you dry, baby, and then I’m gonna keep going. Lave and kiss and fuck you senseless until that messy little brain of yours can’t take any more. Until you can’t think of anything else but me and the pleasure I force on you, because, Dazz?”

“Hhm?” She whined out. 

“There’s nothing but you and me tonight, you hear me?” 

Dazzle nodded, not trusting her voice to leave her with any kind of dignity. 

“Good, love.” 

The lightest and barest hint of a touch ghosted over Dazzle’s cheek. Six’s lips? Her hand maybe? 

She leaned into it desperately. 

“So, what do you say? Care to break the first rule of strip teasing?” 

Finally, Dazzle did as she had dreamed of, what seemed like hours ago, as her partner danced and swayed and teased until she felt like leaping out of her chair. Now, she did just that, colliding their bodies until they were as Six said– nearly one– and they spilled out onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and heat; and finally, Six made good on all her promises. 

[dancingonmoonbeams]

Hello Jo! I think I know which song "on pillars of salt" comes from, but I'd love to hear how it inspired a fic!!

This one actually came from a literary quote first, and then I modified it to be a version of the lyric from Viva La Vida because that song rocks and I love the tone it sets.

This is the working title for my Tess fic, and I was struggling to come up with a title and then thought about the quote from Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut (one of my favorite books) where he's talking about the Bible story of Lot's wife who looks back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah and is turned into a pillar of salt. Vonnegut uses it to talk about his experience writing about his time in WWII and this quote from the book has always stuck with me:

“And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. So she was turned into a pillar of salt. People aren't supposed to look back. I'm certainly not going to do it anymore. I've finished my war book now. The next one I write is going to be fun. This one is a failure, and had to be, since it was written by a pillar of salt.”

So that's a lot but maybe gives a little hint at the general tone and vibe of this fic :) thanks for the ask! <3

Send me an ask with the title of one of my fics and I'll tell you how I chose it!

[inkatesbush]

I looked through the Gideon Bible in my motel room for tales of great destruction. The sun was risen upon the Earth when Lot entered into Zo-ar, I read. Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of Heaven; and He overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.

So it goes.

Those were vile people in both those cities, as is well known. The world was better off without them.

And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.

So she was turned into a pillar of salt. So it goes.

---

People aren't supposed to look back. I'm certainly not going to do it anymore.

I've finished my war book now. The next one I write is going to be fun.

This one is a failure, and had to be, since it was written by a pillar of salt. It begins like this:

Listen:

Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.

It ends like this:

Poo-tee-weet?

—Slaughterhouse-Five, by Kurt Vonnegut

[blookmallow]

was Snooping in new vegas and came across some wild broken questline i feel like i wasn't supposed to see. maybe this is common knowledge maybe i just missed a conversation somewhere and never activated it but. uhh

so i was poking around in gomorrah

hey why is there blood in here

(dont mind ed-e floating over my head)

um. hi. what have i walked in on exactly

HELLO???? HUH???

i don't remember what information my inspection brought up but she just. was hanging out in here. she said normal greetings if i walked up to her. but she's apparently Dead. i have no idea if there was some quest that was supposed to lead me here or if it's supposed to be something you can just Find if you're nosy but it's clearly uh, really broken,

its actually been a While since this happened so i dont perfectly remember from the screenshots but i think there were like. no obvious leads anywhere. i dont remember how i even figured out there's a guy somewhere in one of the fancy suites who had hidden evidence that he's been running a dark web style snuff film studio. if i remember right i couldn't even confront the guy about it or anything??

i couldn't find anyone to report it to or anything else to do so i just killed him myself

aaaand that's what we do to abusers. murders. whatever the hell you were

this didn't do anything either. nothing changed anywhere that i could see no one ever commented on it. what the fuck

[callmearcturus]

The feeling I got reading it was that Fallout AU Karkat is essentially married to both Dave AND Rose but with Rose it’s not sexual

i want it on the record this ask arrived before i posted the last one, lmao, the fucking TIMING

Karkat and Rose are accidentally my ideal relationship and that was not my intention when I started writing it. but with the benefit of hindsight, i can say pretty confidently that Rose is aromantic and maybe even asexual, and is either using "gay" as a shorthand for "not straight" or she finds women and femininity appealing btu is not compelled towards relationships.

Her relationship with her body and with sex is purely transactional. Sometimes, given she's a hustler in New Vegas, that means there is a dissonance there that is uncomfortable or unpleasant. But also that's not baked into her job as a sex worker. She is perfectly capable of having sex with someone and it being fun and pleasant, but I think if money were no object and she held all of the power she needed to, she just would choose to not have sex. At most, it's a bodily maintenance.

some of my fellow ace folks are probably nodding along right now lmao.

then, there is Karkat. Karkat who is a mark, who comes to understand he is a mark, and who accepts that, who nods and says "yes, and" to the fact the twins are transparently playing him. early on, Rose guesses that Karkat is gay and that's his reason for not wanting to sleep with her. I think of him as bisexual but caring more about romance than arousal and attraction. see his panic flail when Dave kisses him.

over the course of the story, Rose comes to see Karkat as a safe person, which is ludicrous and flies in the face of her modus operandi. rose is only supposed to trust her brother and her adoptive mother, and I'm not even sure about the latter. but Karkat is so predictable, so eager to take commands, so conscious of Rose's safety even though he has zero interest in sex with her, that he becomes a weird safe haven.

Rose flirts with Karkat. She teases him, she pokes him and pulls his tail, she keeps testing and testing, always becoming more confident that Karkat will not swipe back. (when Dave is kidnapped by Gomorrah, rose tacitly offers karkat sex again for his help, and he immediately, wordlessly shuts the offer down)

It's a very blunt and kinda passe way to boil it down but I think Karkat is the only person that Rose would be fully comfortable being stark naked with. There is no chance that he will interpret her advances and flirtation and play as genuine overture. And I don't think Rose has every had that with another person besides her brother.

Which is frankly my dream, because I think other ace ppl will understand this, the always lingering fear of showing affection or having fun with someone, because even if you make it clear you are categorically Not Interested, you are always afraid on some level of being misconstrued.

I actually know what happens after the final chapter of that story, and it's a ridiculous romp in which

Rose manages to bully Karkat into local politics and becomes his right hand, using his cover to do her own work, like starting a sex workers' union out of Karkat's councilor office. also after Dave manages to get preg and goes "yanno. i'm okay with this." it leads to some wild hijinks in which rose and dave swap places basically to provide cover for the whole situation, and karkat having to keep track of them and wrangle them is a whole sitcom situation. also the local gossip around Vineyard is frequently filled with people wondering "what the fuck is councilor vantas doing with those two twins he lives with, they go to the beach together all the time, what is the situation there? eh whatever, they're nice people and the ranger always clears out incoming trouble."

the first time karkat mistakes rose for dave early one morning and kisses her, rose is so fucking delighted, she shouts down the hall "DAVID, it finally happened and you missed it! it finally happened!" and the twins give karkat so much shit, he just sits at the table with his face in his hands. he opted in for this. this is his life now.

ANYWAY THAT'S ENOUGH OF THAT.

[crmsnmth]

Beautiful Sinner

You were such a beautiful sinner My gleaming angel without wings And we both met god on a Monday night She had nothing to say in our defense Meet me at the altar Let's bring back the religious sacrifice And burn this whole cathedral to the ground Ash over stone and shattered stain glass windows Some of us actually like it as hot as hell

It all came from you my Saint of heroin and rough sex My sacrament is the taste of her sweat Let me create some acolytes Starting a cult shouldn't be this easy I'm getting bored without you on your knees

praying.

Baptized in the name of flying high Transmutation and excessive masturbation I've never been pure and I'm not sure I really know what that's supposed to mean Laughing at people on the sidewalk our commentary a sick study of junkie bums Pretty, or just pretty deadly? You write out my commandments and I shatter the stone tablets and flip you off

Fuck your big ass boat.

Gomorrah. Sodom. Goddamn, what a party Some guy turned water into whiskey It was quite the magic trick he pulled the king of the trailer-park, white trash Jesus Christ That halo slipped from it's place and now becomes a holy noose around your neck It's going to leave a bruise

Those didn't actually come from a fist

[posttexasstressdisorder]

https://lefsetz.com/wordpress/2024/04/17/laquila/

Happy Birthday, Mr. Mancini...thanks for three of the biggest tunes of my younger years...and many more!

L’Aquila

We’re here for a hundredth birthday concert for Henry Mancini.

L’Aquila is somewhere between one and two hours from Rome, depending on the traffic. It’s in the Apennine mountains. (You remember them from elementary school, right? Well, I remembered they were in Italy, but I couldn’t have picked them out on a map, nor did I know they were so close to Rome.) It’s a bit over two thousand feet high and feels like it, it’s in the fifties today, and supposed to go down to almost freezing tonight. If it weren’t for the long days, I’d think winter is coming.

Actually, Hank’s birthday was yesterday. We celebrated with dinner in the hotel, in a restaurant with multiple cases of aged beef wherein you can see your dinner before it is cooked. Actually, I was the only one who had steak, from the local cow, as opposed to one from Russia, Ireland or Japan or even America, all of which were in the case. And they served this round bread that was a cross between naan and pizza and it was very good.

But speaking of the food…

I just have to testify about the bread. It’ll crack a tooth, I tell you. Which is the crusty exterior you want, which Americans won’t tolerate. That’s the way bagels used to be, now they’ve got the consistency of Wonder Bread. Furthermore, everywhere you go in America, except for a few restaurants, the bread in the basket they serve with dinner is soft, basically bland, empty calories. But at lunch today, the bread might have looked pedestrian, but the crust reminded me of my youth, back when you bought rye bread at the local bakery, when they sliced it upon order.

So the key is not only making people aware it’s Henry Mancini’s hundredth birthday, but that they consume the music.

Now if you’re my age, everybody knows Henry Mancini. But over the past week I quizzed two twentysomethings and got blank stares in response. Then I started to sing “Pink Panther” and their eyes immediately lit up. But still, it’s such a challenge crossing old acts over to younger generations, attaching the composer to the song. The family switched to Primary Wave to quarterback this centenary celebration, we’ll see how it works out.

Anyway, the conservatory in L’Aquila reached out, they were doing four concerts, would we come?

Well, here we are.

Now the head of the conservatory’s passion is prog rock, I kid you not. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak English so well, but I did get him to say his favorite prog rock keyboard player was Rick Wakeman.

And the conductor of the program… He’s not that great with English either. But Daniela studied at the University of Chicago, she’s the conservatory’s musicologist. And she’s a fount of information. They say you learn most when you hang with the locals…that is true. Although I still wish I spoke Italian. You know, like Jackie Kennedy, that’s what we heard when JFK was president, before she was married to Onassis, when her image was at its peak, that she spoke six, or was it seven languages. You have no idea of the hope JFK’s election generated. A turning point, a young man to lead us into the sixties. We thought we had something similar with Obama but he punted, for fear of looking like the angry black man. Biden is standing up to the status quo more than Barack, then again, Biden was vice president for eight years and saw firsthand that you can’t negotiate with the unreasonable.

I had to ask Daniela about “Gomorrah.” Of course she’d seen it, and “Suburra” too (although it took a while for her to understand what show I was talking about, I didn’t have the accent right). Streaming television is now the universal language.

So after waking up we went to the Fountain of 99 Spouts. Built in the 1200s. No one knows where the water comes from, supposedly they killed the architect and buried him under the fountain to preserve the secret.

And then we went to the local museum.

Most of the art was religious, but it all made me feel insignificant. That and the Forum back in Rome. You’re born and you feel so important, believing you matter, that you’re going to put a dent in the universe. Meanwhile, almost no one achieves this. And frequently those who are remembered were overlooked during their lifetime. But you see the antiquities and you realize nothing has changed over the years. Oh, of course travel is much speedier, and health care is much better, but everybody thinks they’re important when they’re alive, that the era within which they’re living is the most significant. I don’t know, it’s weird. Museums are sanctuaries, where the trappings of regular society don’t count. How rich you are, what kind of car you drive… You leave those at the door at the museum. It’s just you and your senses. Your thoughts start to percolate. Today money triumphs, but not at the museum. It’s a great correction.

So we’ll be back in Rome, but for less than two days. The whole trip is barely a week.

And L’Aquila is not a tourist town. Although there are ski areas in the mountains, one where Pope John Paul II used to surreptitiously ski. And there is still snow on the peaks. And every car I’ve been in so far has had a stick shift. Nearly extinct in the U.S., from Skodas to Volvos, everybody’s rowing through the gears here.

And oh, on the conservatory stage, I saw this Fazioli concert grand. I figured they couldn’t afford a Steinway. But it turns out Fazioli is usually more expensive, and their concert grand is even bigger, and you learn something every day.

That’s the name of the game.

“Al Conservatorio dell’Aquila parte l’omaggio a Henry Mancini”: https://shorturl.at/houxX

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

Omg I MUST hear about "Portrait of an unknown woman in repose, nude (Bryo-Chrome Photo Company, Free Economic Zone of New Vegas, 2282, gelatin silver print, 2” x 3”)"

"failed" yeehawgust prompt for "lucky strike", failed in the sense it was very much not posted august 2022 (or at all). the whole schtick for this series was going to be museum catalog style names, like the completed piece Columbia-AtomiCo Glass Works Division (a Fully Owned Subsidiary of H&H Tools Co.) Dealers Catalog, 2077 which is a riff off the pyrex dealers catalog on my bookshelf

the original idea was "someone sitting at someone else's feet, accepting occasional drags off a cigarette, while they listen to a sleipnir race taking place somewhere in the NCR" but i decided i didn't want to write a horse race, so it grew into "sexiest and most atmospheric act to do while smoking a cigarette? people developing photographs and sharing the same cigarette", and THEN my sister sent me a bunch of tiktoks about boudoir photography photos, and THEN i remembered a museum exhibit of civil war photograph that was half doctors going YOOO LOOK HOW NICE I DID THIS AMPUTATION and half like. proof-of-life battle scar portraits sent home to families? and we were off to the races. this photographer wants to do portraits of the courier So Fucking Bad.

anyway you know my eternal quest to give every woman in new vegas more of a backstory! just outside the city there's a brothel with a couple different sex workers, one of whomst is Sweetie. the photographer Minerva Eastman is ex-Legion but I haven't figured out a good way to work that in there yet

She let one knee fall open on the back of the chaise. Ah, that got her attention. Minnie had helped her oil up her inner thighs just so for the nude shots this morning without a flicker of emotion but an inviting crook got her now. Might be just as flustered as Sweetie was. 

About two hours into the shoot, she’d stopped doing things carefully crafted for widest possible appeal, and started doing things carefully crafted for Minnie. Two hours and fifteen minutes in, Minnie had stopped correcting her and started furiously chain-smoking.  (TK better distinction that they’re the same poses just with tiny changes to appeal specifically to Minnie).

“Come stand in front of the fridge, you’re all sweaty again.” Minnie threw the switch for the fans that were supposed to suck all the hot air up and out but mostly replaced it with different hot air from outside. 

Sweetie got up in the sort of sinuous, show-offy motion that was vital if you wanted to get peppered in caps on the stage at Gomorrah. Or tease your photographer. 

[revolversandlace]

Blemished Silk | Chapter Twenty-Four - Sodom? Back to Gomorrah

Chapter Index

Arthur Morgan x f!OC Longfic

Mature Rating - 4.5k Words

Chapter Tags & Warnings: Arthur!POV, Angst, Pining, Canon Divergence, Violence

Summary: Arthur heads back to the estate to deny himself a chance at happiness

Valentine, May 1899 

Finally, it seemed that their luck was on the up. As close a call as it was, the bank robbery led to a mighty fine take. Even Bill - the moron - managed to not screw anything up. 

One bank robbed, a couple of dead Pinkerton’s and a pocket full of cash. It was almost enough to put a smile on Arthur’s face until he remembered that he had to make another trip to the Downes’ ranch. 

The first visit was bad enough, beating some sickly old fool near to death. It didn’t sit right with him and now he’d have to do the same with the widow. 

It weren’t all on him though. Damn fools shouldn’t have been borrowing money they ain’t in no position to pay back. Especially borrowing money from the snakey little Strauss. How anyone could even look at that man and trust him was beyond Arthur. 

But they all had their parts to play, and debt collecting - whether he liked to admit it or not - was good money for the gang. He supposed he could always rustle up some cash, say they paid it back but he weren’t a numbers man and Strauss would figure it out sooner rather than later. And the last thing Arthur needed was Dutch thinking he’d gone soft. 

Arthur was a wanted man after all, and he didn’t get that bounty on his head from playing nice. 

So he climbed on the back on Montague, clicking him into a gallop in hopes that whatever Pinkertons were still sniffing around would soon be lost. 

 As Arthur arrived, riding through the oak trees with the snowy mountains invitingly lying on the horizon, he rode up to the ranch. Mrs Downes and the boy were already outside, meandering around as Arthur pulled his horse to a stop and swung his leg over, dismounting. 

The widow looked over her shoulder; her lined skin formed into a frown as she organised some boxes on the cart that she stood over. 

‘My husband’s not cold in the ground, and you’ve come back here. Archie.’ She waved her hand dismissing the boy, and she wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I nearly paid off what was owed.’ 

Arthur shrugged as her son went into the house as their hound greeted Arthur with a sniff on his leg. 

‘Your husband knew the rules when he took that money,’ Arthur said, wanting to be done with the exchange and away with the money as quickly as possible. ‘Now I’m real sorry about the way things turned out, but he had a choice. Ain’t my fault about the way the world is.’ 

‘He didn’t have a choice,’ Mrs Downes retorted as she walked towards her son, who had returned from the house with a luggage case. 

Clearly, their debt came with more than just the price of paying the gang back. A knot formed in Arthur’s stomach. 

‘He was good and did good,’ she continued moving one thing and the other from their porch to the cart. ‘There wasn’t no choice in that. And you as good as killed him yourself, and don’t kid yourself.’ 

She turned to look at him, right in the eyes. A very different woman to what he last saw. But Arthur didn’t shrink from her gaze, as much as his conscience told him that she was right. He was here for one thing and one thing only. 

‘You had a choice,’ she said, and she may as well have spat on him right there. 

‘You speak as if killin’ him were something I cared about,’ Arthur said, his voice low and mean. 

‘You ever wonder about eternity? You should.’ She said, turning to collect more belongings from her son. 

‘I hope it’s hot and terrible, Mrs Downes, otherwise I’ll feel I’ve been sold a false bill of goods.’ 

His mouth spoke before his mind thought too hard on the matter. He knew damn well where he was going to end up after all of this, and he deserved every second of it. Well, that was if he believed in those children’s tales. Life weren’t fair and whatever happened after - which he was sure as shit was nothing - weren’t going to be fair either. 

And besides, he knew it would wind the widow up enough to get on with getting the rest of the money, as she seemed too suited on giving him some rapture. 

‘Now, please…’ he said with an exasperated sigh, as his arm gestured towards the house, ‘get me that money.’

With a tut, she stormed into the house, shaking her head from side to side with her feet heavy on the porch stairs. 

The boy, meanwhile, brought out yet another case, his eyes far too narrow for Arthur’s liking. He shifted himself on his feet, looking the kid up and down. 

‘Either you’ve got a lazy eye or a lack of respect. Which is it, boy?’

‘I ain’t got no lazy eye,’ he said, his scrawny shoulders puffing out as he turned to Arthur, ‘nor respect for the likes of you.’ 

Arthur would have laughed any other time, but he was growing impatient and his blood was still hot from the robbery not one hour ago. 

Gun fights were funny like that. The rush would cling to your veins for hours, even days afterwards.

‘Well, maybe when your mother’s finished mournin’ your father,’ he stepped closer to the boy, his eyes squint and chin jutting as his thumbs tucked into his gun belt, ‘I’ll keep her in black… on your behalf.’ 

The boy stepped back, growing suddenly sheepish with the brief moment of his balls dropping out of him. 

‘You think on that, boy,’ Arthur said with a firm nod, his tongue flicking out the corner out of his mouth like a hungry wolf. 

‘Well, maybe you shall sir,’ the kid said, his voice shaking as Arthur was sure he could hear the fear filled heart beat, ‘and maybe other events will transpire.’ 

Now Arthur did laugh, but in no way was it a kind laugh. It was a dark laugh that bordered on unnatural. 

‘You best stick to them books, because mark my words on this - vengeance is an idiot’s game.’ 

The footsteps returned as Arthur stood back from the son, his eyes only gracing him for a second longer while the widow appeared with a healthy billfold. 

‘Ah, Mrs Downes, thank you for punctuality,’ he said, not giving her a moment before he held out his hand as she shoved the money into his palm. ‘It’s next to godliness, isn’t it?’

He licked his thumb, flicking through the notes. The last thing he wanted to do was to return or track them down if they weren’t paying proper. 

‘That’s cleanliness,’ she said with tight lips. 

‘I’ll have to take your word on that,’ thankfully, the money was all there as he shoved it into his back pocket with a swift nod. ‘Good day.’ 

And so he left, without another word, throwing himself onto the horse and getting away from that damn ranch as quickly as possible. 

He wasn’t ready to return to camp, far from it. The whole interaction with the widow had left a dirty taste in his mouth like sour beer, his mind heavy with regret. The world was simple to Arthur. You take, expect to pay back. Even with all the stealing, he knew his price was at the end of a rope, but he was smart enough to not get caught. 

But he wasn’t smart enough to stop making excuses for himself or for the gang. They could have had a cleaner life, a life without being on the run, but they were in far too deep now. 

Far too deep in the cheating, the stealing and killing. And he was far too deep in with Amelia. Hell, he cracked a man’s skull open like a glass jar, just in the hopes of some information. He wasn’t even just putting the gang at risk with his schoolboy crush. He was risking everything, risking her. 

Another unfair thing in life. 

He was a goddamn outlaw. A no good thief and killer, and she was… she was good and kind, with a beautiful elegance and charm, and it was beyond Arthur why she had even turned sweet on him. 

But it had to end. He had to put a stop to it all, and it was that simple. 

Before he even realised, he was heading down the treeline of the Edwards Estate. The grand manor nestled in the southern countryside against the sun which had started to drop in the sky leaving the whole world orange.

Hitching his horse, he looked around for her golden hair and bright smile. The thought of her face damn near broke him in two. 

He wanted to tell her, tell her all of it. All the mistakes, the bad decisions and all the shit he was in with no one but himself to blame. For a fleeting moment, he thought that her kindness would extend to him, that she would forgive him, that maybe she would even help him. 

He knew it was foolish, but he hoped just for a second, it could all play out how he wanted even if he didn’t deserve it. 

But that weren’t the way. Good people like Mr Downes got sick and beaten by miscreants like him, good horses got shot in the chest because people like him would lead them to their death when they had nothing but blind loyalty. Children begged on the street with dirty frozen feet, and women let men do whatever sadistic shit they wanted for a few dollars. 

If life weren’t fair to them, why did Arthur hope for anything better?

He knocked on the door with the side of his fist, almost hiding underneath the brim of his hat.

The door pulled opened slow and heavy, as the tall man with a thick moustache that he recognised as Mr Jameson appeared on the other side.

‘Mr Morgan,’ he said, his words curt as he looked down at him. ‘I don’t believe you were expected today.’ 

‘Nah, I ain’t…’ Arthur said, clearing his throat, ‘but I was hopin’ to speak to Miss Edwards.’

Mr Jameson held his silence, standing in the doorway with his eyes looking over every part of him. 

‘Very well,’ he said eventually as he stepped aside, gesturing Arthur in. 

He walked through into the marble entrance as two of the young maids walked passed with arms of laundry as they looked at him and giggled to each other not as silently as they hoped for.

‘Miss Edwards is in her study. Please follow me,’ Mr Jameson said, his tall stature walking towards the curved staircase and up onto the gallery. 

Arthur followed timidly, his footfall unusually uncertain as he felt a pressure in his head. 

The man said nothing as he knocked on the thick wooden door as Arthur heard Amelia’s voice from the other side, beckoning him to enter. His stomach flipped at the sound of her sweet voice. 

‘Wait here,’ the older man said as Arthur nodded, taking a deep breath as the door closed before him. 

He waited a moment, his shoulders tense and his mind reeling. 

What are you even doin’, Morgan?

It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually the door opened, as Mr Jameson stood before him, his eyes harbouring doubt. 

Perhaps he’d already put the pieces together about Arthur, but maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. It wasn’t like he was thinking straight after all. 

Arthur gave a terse nod and stepped into Amelia’s office as the door closed softly behind him. 

The way she rose from her desk, Arthur could have sworn she was ready to swallow him whole and spit him out. In all his years, he never felt so small, nor so afraid. 

The room was dark as the sun had now set with only a few oil lamps simmering and dancing in the corners of the room. 

‘Ma’am,’ he managed to muster as he removed his hat and held it, passing the brim through his hands. 

‘Mr Morgan,’ she said with a tight smile as she gestured at the chair in front of her desk, ‘I did not expect to see you so soon.’

He could hear her words, calculated and punctuating every last letter. He didn’t expect much else, and probably deserved even less. But all of this was for her. At least that’s what he told himself. 

He took the gesture, sitting demurely in the chair, expecting Amelia to be no warmer to him than the northern mountains. Whatever she said to him would at least never be the words that he had already said to himself. 

The regret was already eating him alive. 

Even in the bitterness that lined her face, he couldn’t help but soften towards her as he dragged his hand through his hair. 

‘How… how have you been?’ Arthur said with a slight choke in his throat. Pathetic, he caught himself thinking as her face - although had all the hardness he expected - remained passive. 

‘Fine,’ Amelia said, her lips pursed and eyebrows raised expectantly. ‘Drink?’ 

He nodded meekly as she moved swiftly from behind the desk to the drinks cabinet as he looked to his lap, doubtful that he would find the answers there that he needed.

If only Hosea was here to give me the clip I needed, he thought sarcastically. 

Amelia returned, passing him a very generous measure of whiskey as she returned to her seat, taking a large gulp as she folded her hands in front of her face with a distant gaze. 

‘Amelia -’

‘Is everything in order?’ Her voice was taut as she barely even looked at him. 

He paused for a moment. He knew he had fucked up, fucked up worse than any job that had gone wrong. It was staring him directly in the face, and yet he refused to let this lie. He was a lot of things, but a coward weren’t one of them. 

‘I…’ He began looking her up and down. The front of her hair framed her face so perfectly. Everything about her was so perfect and yet there he was, causing her nothing but pain. 

‘Shit,’ he sighed as he reached for the glass and swallowed hard and thick, his eyes closed as he drank like a man who had been stuck in the desert for a week. 

Wiping his chin, he slammed the glass on the table as Amelia’s shoulders tensed at the noise. 

‘Look, Amelia…’ 

Her lips parted, those precious lips that occupied every other thought he had since that night. 

‘Please, just listen.’ He said, his voice stern and hard, and he tried to meet her glare of sheer disregard. ‘This… all of this,’ he gestured broadly with his hand, the whiskey hitting him almost instantly. ‘Hell, I don’t even know where to begin.’

He sighed as he heard her breath draw in. 

‘Amelia, everythin’ I’m involved in now… it ain’t right, ain’t proper. It’s a goddamn mess.’ 

Nothing he said stirred her, a statue of beauty in a cage that he had caused. He’d seen it enough times, the walls that women built. He weren’t that much of a fool. 

‘I can’t…’ He said, barely above a whisper as his gaze dropped to the floor. 

‘What is it that you “cannot” Mr Morgan? Cannot protect the estate? As far as I was aware, that is exactly what you are employed to do, and nothing more.’ 

With that, she dropped her hands and looked at him with such venom he was sure even the likes of Abigail would shrink. 

He had no words, no excuses. All he knew was that she couldn’t be a part of it, a part of the mess he, Dutch, and everyone else had created for themselves. The running, the hiding, the scheming. The dying.

He tried to resist the ever burning fire, those tempting whispers that sang to him like a morning breeze. To throw it all over the cliff and reach out to her and to tell her he was a sorry, sorry fool.

‘My life ain’t simple. Never has been. And I doubt any time it will be. I just want you to be safe.’ 

She laughed, not a real one though. A laugh filled with morose, devoid of any humour while she grabbed for her drink. 

‘What is going on here, Arthur? Really?’ She gave a small shrug, and she shook her head in disbelief as she averted her gaze. ‘You humiliated me, and you’re talking about my damn safety?’ 

He couldn’t even look at her. Arthur had known what he’d done. Hell, it’s all he could think about since. 

Amelia had made herself vulnerable, had opened up to him and made her intentions known with that look that would be scorched into his mind until the day he died. 

‘I know. And I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice low, ‘but this can’t happen, Amelia. I don’t think you know -’ 

She stood suddenly; her drink swirling as she pointed her finger at him.

‘I don’t think you have any right to come here, to try to tell me what is or what isn’t. What to think and feel and that all of this is your fucking decision!’ 

Her voice rose to a shatter level as all her calmness dissolved. He almost crumbled to dust on the spot. 

Every part of him felt so ashamed. You left her there. He thought to himself; she had made her feelings as clear and as plain as day and yet he walked from her like she was as important as a hay bale.

He had done this to her, and there was no turning away from it.

‘Amelia, it ain’t like that!’ He couldn’t help it but he was angry, angry with himself as he stood too, reaching his hand towards her as she stepped back, her eyes rolling with a resounding nod of her head. 

‘Then what is it like? You knew what you were doing, and you said nothing. What was the plan, Arthur? Toy with me until it suited you and then drop me like it meant nothing? That I meant nothing?’ 

She sucked at her bottom lip, a wistful smile appearing on her face as she took another gulp. He could see the moisture in her eyes, like morning dew on the garden roses.

He wanted to tell her. God, he wanted to tell her. To tell her everything. The lies, the gang, how he was a wanted man in god knows how states with a bounty so large you could retire on it.

‘I just need you to understand, Amelia -’

‘It’s Miss Edwards. And the only thing I need to understand is whether you are fit enough to ensure the security of this property,’ she said with all the rancour he deserved as her drinking glass crashed onto the desk. ‘If you are not able to do that, I will hire someone more becoming.’ 

The withering look she gave him told her all he needed to know. Whatever excuse, any reason he could give her, would be nothing that could placate her. And he doubted he deserved anything else. 

She turned her back to him as Arthur sighed. He weren’t one for picking battles he was going to lose. 

‘Ma’am,’ he said, placing his hat back onto his head as she barely acknowledged his presence. 

He turned, making his way to the door, gripping the knob and turned it with a heavy heart. 

‘I thought…’ he heard her say those soft words, that voice so decent, so genteel. ‘I thought there was something between us.’ 

He felt his hand tighten around the golden doorknob, so much so he was convinced he would tear it off. His heart thrummed in his chest as he looked over his shoulder towards her. 

Just kiss her, you damn old fool. 

Arthur’s mind stopped, all sense gone, all warnings aside and all good reason had left his body like a loose thread singed over the campfire. 

He stomped over to her, grabbing her by the elbow turning her to face him as his other hand slunk around her waist. 

She looked away from him, almost pushing away from him as she refused to meet his gaze. 

Bang.

They both jumped as they looked toward the window, and then there was another. That unmistakable sound. The sound of gunfire. 

The flash of orange strobed through the air as the sound echoed outside as Arthur saw Amelia’s face run pale, her entire body tensing in his arms as she turned to look up at him. 

At that moment, two things happened. Before he had time to blink, his gun was in his hand and she ran for the door. Sprinting from the office, Amelia ran as the distant sound of her heels clipped down the stairs. 

‘Amelia!’ He roared, as he willed his feet to move. Somehow they obeyed him, as all of him felt numb and on fire at the same time. He followed her as the yells and distant screams filled his ears. 

If there was one thing all those damn skirts and corsets was good for was that she had barely made it to the front door before Arthur had nearly thrown himself down the staircase to catch up with her. 

‘Get inside!’ He yelled, as she threw open the door with both hands, her back arching as she threw all of her weight into it. 

‘Goddammit woman!’ Arthur cried, as he just managed to grab her shoulder on the front porch, the gunfight continuing somewhere ahead of them. 

‘Unhand me or give me a damn gun!’ she yelled, her face changing to an expression he had never seen her wear, but one he knew all too well.

‘Amelia, get upstairs and lock the door,’ he tried to say calmly, looking between her and the sounds behind him.

‘This is my estate!’ She tried to shrug his hand off, but he wasn’t letting her go anywhere other than back into the house. 

‘I know, but please, Amelia, I’m beggin’ you,’ he pleaded as she blinked at the tears that had started to roll down her cheeks. 

Gritting her teeth, she looked between him and the sounds deep in the grounds. She nodded slowly as he ferried her back towards the entrance.

‘Now listen, Amelia. Don’t open that damn door.’ Arthur said forcefully, his mind regressing to its natural state. The state of a killer. 

In less than a flash, the sound of a gun burst through the air around them and all time seemed to slow. 

Arthur turned and saw a man, his gun raised as the darkness shadowed him. 

‘Arthur!’ He heard Amelia cry, but she sounded so far away. He saw her blue eyes in the low light, wide and terrified. 

He aimed and pulled the trigger at the man, an action so simple, yet it had seemed to take hours. The man fell, a single bullet straight through the brain and the blood blew through the air. 

He heard Amelia scream; her dress once cream and unblemished, now painted with the splatter of crimson.

‘Get inside!’ He yelled at her again.

Against every instinct that told him to chase after her, he turned towards the stables, moving as quickly as he could in a crouch as he heard the door bolt satisfactorily behind him. And then he saw a familiar face.

‘Arthur ain’t it?’ The man said, the stable master with his hair falling over his eyes and his shirt half done up. 

Arthur nodded, his knuckles turning white around the wooden grip of the pistol. 

‘All the women inside? Thought I heard a scream?’ 

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

The fight carried on; the bullets flying and sounding like corn in a hot pan. 

‘I think so,’ Arthur said, his gaze steady. 

‘Best get shooting then,’ the man said as he turned and Arthur followed. 

They ran towards the sounds as Talako, or whatever his name was, pointed with his pistol at the half wall before them. 

‘Any idea where they’re coming from?’ Arthur said, ducking his head, trying to make sense of the shit show he had run into. 

‘Nah,’ the man said, ‘they’re swarming us though.’ 

Arthur peeped his head over the brick, praying the darkness would shield him for the brief seconds he needed. 

Horses stamped and neighed, but he couldn’t see any. Bastards must have come in by foot, least it made for a slower moving target. 

He aimed his gun, cocking the hammer and shot, hoping it wasn’t one of the staff. 

‘I’m on you,’ Arthur said, turning to the man. ‘I ain’t got no clue who’s who.’ 

Talako looked at him with a twisted mouth. Hesitantly, he nodded. 

‘I’ll scout, you shoot.’ He said, balancing himself on his haunches.

And so they fought on, Talako peering over, instructing which o’clock the robbers were at as Arthur took aim and laid them to waste. 

The night was growing more humid as sweat dripped from underneath his hat and into his eyes. It was a dark night with a covered moon, and Arthur could barely see his hand in front of him. Luckily, the metallic glisten of gunfire was all he needed to keep his aim true. 

They moved forward when they could, but neither of the men were in the mood to take any risks. 

Eventually, they found their way near Mr Jameson, who covered them whilst they reloaded their empty pistols.

He was a good fighter. Even the stable master was competent, so thankfully before long the bullets ceased and the men could breathe. 

Arthur’s chest heaved with the life that was coursing through his veins as they looked around at the bodies on the floor. 

They certainly weren’t Raiders and didn’t look like O’Driscolls, neither. 

‘Check the bodies,’ Mr Jameson instructed them as a few of the other staff made their way out of cover. ‘Anyone injured?’ 

Arthur looked around and, aside from the shaken faces and panting, everything still seemed attached to where it should be. 

A few headshakes and a nod of gratification from Mr Jameson who seemed content that all heads were accounted for, Arthur got to checking the bodies. 

No cards, no insignia, rings, nothing. Even the label of their clothes had been cut from the seams. Whoever they were, they made a clear effort to cover who they were. 

After rummaging through every pocket he could find, Arthur shook his head. 

‘Ain’t nothing here,’ he sighed. ‘Only thing is these damn guns.’

Mr Jameson breathed through his nose heavily as Arthur walked around, collecting the firearms off of the ground. 

‘They’re good guns, don’t waste ‘em,’ Arthur said, handing them over to Mr Jameson as he took a smoke out of his pocket, lighting a match off of the bottom of his boots. 

‘You got the bodies?’ Arthur said, filling his aching lungs with smoke.

Mr Jameson nodded, turning the safety guard on each of the weapons.

‘Good. I’ll go check on the women,’ Arthur said, puffing on his cigarette and walking as quickly as his legs would allow him back towards the house and back towards Amelia.

[lady-bluebird-luv]

Hello Luv, Santa is back! Just in time for a little Halloween celebration. Are you doing anything especially frightening for 31st?

I will always read 300 pages of your Feysand takes, so bring them on. And did you somehow introduce me to a new Hozier song? Wasteland Baby is my favorite album but I had never listened to the special edition.

I did a lot of evil cackling, maybe even steepled my fingers, when I read your responses to my questions. There were two or three fic ideas I had kicking around in my head, and I think I've chosen the one that will be a feast of favorites! I can promise at least that someone will be covered with blood.

Would you be interested in some teasers and other little gifts between now and the official release date? I can certainly light a few candles and try to build some anticipation.

In the meantime I have a few questions for you:

What are some of your favorite books?

Tell me a little bit about your other fandom and what drew you to write for it!

And: what's your favorite scary movie?

Until next time! 🎅

Santa, I would be beyond happy to get a stocking stuffer! I hope you're enjoying spooky season :) I'm so excited to see what you come up with, and I hope you're having fun plotting! I'm also absolutely thrilled to introduce you to more Hozier, and I don't suppose you've heard Ethel Cain's new song, too?

As far as choosing favorite books goes... WOOO-WEE I don't know where to begin. I love books that are kinda weird and/or surreal. It doesn't need to be fantasy or sci-fi to scratch the itch, but it often is. I also love fictional worlds that just... feel really lush and vibrant, which I know sounds really vague, but I don't know how to describe it much better than that. :/ I guess a good example would be Marlon James's Dark Star Trilogy, which I adore.

Some of my other favorites right now are the Aye, and Gomorrah collection by Samuel Delany, anything by Toni Morrison or Yoko Tawada, and The Overstory by Richard Powers. Stuff by Emily St. John Mandel (think Station Eleven) and Lydia Millet (especially A Children's Bible) are also up there. Dark academia also hits the spot for me, so I love work by Maggie Stiefvater and Laini Taylor, although it's been a long time since I reread their books. I used to be obsessed with The Mortal Instruments. I'll still always have a soft spot for them and the Infernal Devices.

I don't consider myself a huge poetry person, but the book that I keep coming back to more than anything else is actually my anthology of Louise Glück's poems. She writes a lot about the loss, failure, shortcomings, etc. that are inevitable in life. A lot of her material is pretty depressing (if not straight-up dark), but she weaves painful experiences into extraordinarily beautiful poems. I admire that a lot, and it's... comforting, in a way? Catharsis doesn't quite capture what I mean. She's not going to tell you that it will all be OK in the end, but that's alright, because that's how life is sometimes. I like that she rips the band-aid off AND shows you how to grit your teeth while she does it. Ocean Vuong's poetry is also some of my favorite writing.

I don't know how familiar you are with my other fandom, Attack on Titan, but it was a HUGE part of my life for a long, long time. It still is near and dear to my heart, although ACOTAR has taken some brainspace from it for sure.

I've always read a lot, and when I was... 13? 14? somewhere in there. I got bored to death with a lot of the YA novels I was reading. I got into anime/manga to try something new, and since AoT was one of the big shows at the time, I watched it first.

It was a hell of a first anime, but I really liked the action and how deceptively simple the premise is. In case you aren't familiar, I won't spring any spoilers on you. But basically, the premise is very easy to grasp until you realize that a lot of characters are lying through their teeth about themselves and the world around them. AoT was also one of the few major animes at the time that had basically zero fanservice, which I appreciated, and the characters were really appealing. AoT has a strong anti-war message, and the story is partially about how governments can prey on young, idealistic, hurt people by turning them into war machines. There are no heroes in AoT. If you think otherwise, wait a few episodes.

I love morally grey characters (if you couldn't tell) and angst that seems to have no good solution, so that drew me in. Hange might be my favorite character.

I'd already written a little fanfic before AoT. It was for a really trashy fallen angel romance called Hush, Hush. It's definitely still out there on fanfiction.net LMFAO. I don't remember my username or the name of the story, which might be for the best. In any case, when I found the AoT fandom, I was so excited to find a huge and incredibly talented fandom. AoT is what introduced me to AO3 (for better and for worse) and where I learned to channel my writing itch into projects that I could stay passionate about for, in some of my fics' cases, years. Looking back, some of what I wrote was definitely cringey. Nevertheless, I'm also really proud of how well some of it has held up and performed. I learned a lot from writing AoT fic, and writing for AoT undeniably boosted my confidence as an artist.

Also, Santa, I LOVE horror movies. I'm not gustsy enough to try to write horror, but I think it's one of, if not THE hardest genre to execute well, and I admire a good horror film. My favorite has to be Hereditary.

This video essay is a great breakdown of what makes the film awesome. It's a way better explanation than what I could do, but it's also almost five hours long. So, the TLDR is that the film subverts and reworks a lot of tropes while having insane acting, cinematography, effects, etc. When I saw it, it was the first genuinely frightening movie I'd seen in a while. I'm not super into the torture porn/pure shock value style horror movies, and I think this one strikes a good balance between disturbing gore and psychological horror.

I moved to Central Europe recently, so I celebrated Halloween in a very foggy ex-Yugoslavian city with lots of bridges over canals. The spooky vibes were indeed spooking. I hope you had fun :).

[almaqead]

"Edith." From Surah 15, Al Hijr, "The Jaguar."

So Iblis tells Allah, no, I will not show love. The entire world is following this thing, the Mother of the Djinn, who makes promises he cannot keep into the cracks between the worlds.

Rockets are still flying, Trump is still alive, the Republican Party is still plotting to find new ways to sin an escape accountability, the one man who is supposed to be God's Hand, Joe Biden is ducking and covering. The news continues to be glum.

So we turn to the Quran to see if God will guide us just as He did when Muhammad was preparing to leave his home out of fear its government, like ours was destabilizing for higher pastures in Medinah.

Except where are all the oppressed people in this world going to go? Where can they go to escape the pancake makeup of Marie Le Pen in France, who laughs and brags over a brutal sexual assault and attempted murder like it was a knock knock joke? Or from Sudan where there is the world's worst famine in history? Where can we go if we decide we are not willing to stand up and fight?

The answer, the Quran says is we stay, and we let the angels come to us by studying these verses. They say the amount of time the wicked are permitted on this earth is limited and it is coming to an end, and the knowledgeable sons must be the ones that end it.

Stupid asses from America, Lebanon, Egypt, Palestine, Saudi Arabia, Syria, and Iran started a war against God in defiance of the Quran, one they cannot complete. This they must know and it is time they found out for sure.

Included in this lesson is why God spared Lot and not his wife:

15: 49-60:

Inform My servants ˹O Prophet˺ that I am truly the All-Forgiving, Most Merciful,

and that My torment is indeed the most painful.

And inform them ˹O Prophet˺ about Abraham’s guests

who entered upon him and greeted ˹him with˺, “Peace!” He ˹later˺ said, “Surely we are afraid of you.”

They reassured ˹him˺, “Do not be afraid! Surely we give you good news of a knowledgeable son.”

He wondered, “Do you give me good news despite my old age? What unlikely news!”

They responded, “We give you good news in all truth, so do not be one of those who despair.”

He exclaimed, “Who would despair of the mercy of their Lord except the misguided?”

He ˹then˺ added, “What is your mission, O  messenger-angels?”

They replied, “We have actually been sent to a wicked people.

As for the family of Lot, we will certainly deliver them all, except his wife. We have determined that she will be one of the doomed.”

Commentary:

Why was Lot's wife included in the council of the ungodly? She looked back; she was unsure God's decision to kill all the blasphemers in Sodom and Gomorrah deserved it. She identified with them on some level. That is a mistake. Her name was Edith, and here is why she died along with the rest:

Edith= "the ink diffuser". Edith was a bitch, a cunt, and a heretic. Edith was friends with Sodomites:

The verb שדד (shadad) means to deal violently with, ruin or destroy. Noun שד (shad) or שוד (shud) means havoc, violence or devastation.

An identical verb, which in the middle ages was pointed slightly different, is שדד (sadad), which describes the harrowing of a field: to act violently upon a field. Whether formally related or not, the noun שדמה (shedema) means field, and nouns שדי (saday) and שדה (sadeh) do too, and may denote either a cultivated field or a wild one, where wild animals live.

Speaking of wild animals, the noun שד (shed) is a loan word but its adoption was probably lubricated by the similar words treated above. It describes a mythological creature, namely the Mesopotamian sedu, a kind of protecting spirit depicted as a winged bull, in essence not unlike the more familiar genius and daemon. Note the similarity between this word שד (shed) and the noun שד (shad), meaning havoc.

Slightly more surprising, a third identically spelled noun, שד (shad), describes the mammalian breast, whether human or animal. This noun is assumed to stem from an unused verb שדה (shadeh), meaning to moisten in cognate language, which is identical to the assumed verb that yields the nouns שדי (saday) and שדה (sadeh), meaning field, suggesting an emphasis on natural irrigation.

In cognate languages, these same nouns also mean [wet] mountain, and beside the link between a moist, fruitful mountain and a milk dispensing breast: milk is dispensed to infants, whereas the belief in supernatural bullies is a mark of an immature mind.

Gomorrans = "worships dirty words", also "friends with persons who are tyrants."

The root עמר ('amar) means to grip or bind, to deal tyrannically with, or to be enthralled by and worship.

Noun עמר ('omer) means sheaf or describes a unit of measure (like our "bushel"). Denominative verb עמר ('amar) means to bind in sheaves. Noun עמיר ('amir) denotes a row of fallen grain.

The verb עמם ('mm) probably expressed to be inclusive or comprehensive. Its rare uses in the Bible relate to making secrets or making info available to an in-crowd. Preposition עם ('im) means 'with', מעם (me'im) means 'from', and עמה ('umma) means 'beside'. Noun עם ('am) means a people, ranging from all of mankind to the in-crowd of a small village. Noun עם ('am) refers to one's (paternal) kinsman.

The verb ירה (yara) describes the bringing about of a unified effect by means of many little impulses (arrows, stones, words, instructions, rain drops, and so on). Noun יורה (yoreh) refers to rain that falls during the first period of the agricultural year, when seedlings bud but don't bear fruit yet. Noun מורה (moreh) may either also refer to early rain, or it means teacher, who is a person who teaches children who can't think for themselves yet. Noun תורה (tora), refers to any set of instructions (hence the familiar word Torah).

The verb ירא (yara') describes the same process, but rather from the perspective of the receiving "soil": to revere, to pay heed to, and in extreme cases: to fear. Nouns יראה (yir'a), מורא (mora') and מורה (mora) cover the broad spectrum between reverence and fear, between anything awe-inspiring and anything terrifying.

The Value in Gematria for the final three verses above is 13565, יג‎הו‎ה‎‎, "He is Yahweh, He is the Lord."

God said firmly in the Torah and also in the Quran that mankind is not to participate in violence or oppression and this is what it is doing all over the world and it has to stop, and the persons responsible for it have to be put to death.

We are waiting and seeing and this is not what God told us to do.

Donald Trump, those rogue Supreme Court Justices who killed all those innocent women, Marie Le Pen, Vladimir Putin, all of the foul things like these all around the world must be rounded up and thrown into the furnace, this is what God said has to be done and this you will all do. We are not Sodomites and Gomorrans, we are not wild animals. Men who want to act like it cannot be tolerated.

We were made by God to be upright, to be merciful and sweet. But if we must be vengeful like God's angels, if that is what is needed, then we must do it and not be like Edith. We are not going to run from home; we must take the fight where it belongs.