#that’s right I don’t

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

For the prompts:

Frollo's house burned down in the middle of the night. Frollo may or may not have been inside. The only one who knows everything that happened that night is Claudine, and she isn't talking.

Yeah, this one is not pretty. Claudine is not having a good time. Like, at all.

It will be good for her in the long run though.

Frollo‘s is burning – again. The flames high, and no one bats an eye. And if there is screaming, well, who cares? The old man had it coming, hadn’t he, and his daughter was seen running through the Isle towards the port.

Thus, no one really cares.

The chapel burns, and so does the home next to it, and still, no one talks. No one brags about killing the judge and self-proclaimed priest, and Claudine won’t say a word, will she?

No, she won’t, save for prayers and curses alike, and something that might or might not have been an exorcism.

Too bad she isn’t the only one who speaks latin here. (All three Hook siblings. Evie. Marya Rasputin, in her broken version.)

Exorcism is fairly easy to recognise, though, after all these years of living in the general vicinity of Claudine’s father, and even if it wasn’t, well.

Claudine was indeed running towards the port, only to halt in one of the dark back alleys of the dock. In the dim light of the dawn, she pressed herself against the wall and into a corner, her palm gripped tightly around the blade of her dagger.

The blood slowly dripped down – drip, drip, drip. Claudine tried to think of the pain in her hand, and she failed.

Thus, with bloodied hand, she reached up and arranged her hairs back into their place: she lost her weil somewhere, didn’t she? 

Who cares? Who would blame her?

And like that, bloody and with free hair, she pulls back her shoulder blades and forces her hands to stop trembling, no, stop, now is not the time, is it ever–– she walks through the port towards Gaston’s cabin and prays that Gil is there for once and she will not be forced to visit the false goddess’ ship.

For once, maybe for the first time Claudine can even remember, her prayer is answered. (Or is it? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if she just- didn’t come? She doesn’t need help. She doesn’t deserve help, she––– she should have stayed in the fire.)

Regardless, unaware of her damning thoughts, Gil looks out of his window when she throws a pebble at it, and then jumps immediately out.

„Claudine,“ he lands in front of her and takes her trembling hands to his, takes away the dagger that she is still holding at the right wrong end, „––––, what happened? Are you okay?“

Claudine wanted to nod and say „yes, I am, why would I not be, the God looks over me,“ like always, but instead, tears flowed from her eyes and sobs spilled from her lips.

Traitors.

She chokes on the sounds and presses her lips together, bloodless.

„––––, might I hug you?“ he asks and she leans away from the contact. She shouldn’t be touched.

„Are you injured?“ he asks, still holding her hand gently – she could tug away any moment, run away, why doesn’t she?

„Let me take you to the infirmary,“ he says, urging her to go along, and she doesn’t run away still.

She just lets the second mate of Lost Revenge escort her through the port, and only as they can see the ships, she remembers: „Not Revenge, Gil, not Revenge–“

She doesn’t think she can deal with Uma and Harry now, and whatever cult they have going on.

Gil doesn’t argue with her, only asks: „Hope, then?“ and starts walking again when she nods.

Scattered hope is better. No godlings and heretics. Probably. Possibly. 

Only Marya, the half-demon. Claudine hears her praying sometimes, but her prayers are wrong, and her father says said that were Rasputins not dark witches and creatures of pagan hell, there might have been still hope for them, somewhere.

Claudine doesn’t have slightest idea what he means meant by that.

Claudine starts reciting her own prayer under her breath.

Soon enough, they’re by Scattered Hope, and Gil asks for permission to board. The permission is granted, accompanied by several curses. Claudine barely registers them.

She is at the infirmary now, and Gil is with her, still holding her hand. Marya is there too.

„Send her away, Gil,“ Claudine begs in French, sure that Marya won’t understand, „Please, send the demon away. I don’t want to be damned.“ 

She almost chokes at her words again, but Gil sends confused Marya again, and asks Murphy to get Bonny from Revenge, it’s urgent, pretty please.

„I’m not injured,“ Claudine tells him, but he doesn’t listen, calling for Bonny anyway.

Before the door closes, she sees Marya, upset about being thrown out of her own infirmary, hugging Sammy Smee, and Harriet Hook, impatient as always, pacing the deck.

„I’m not injured,“ she repeats again, nothing happened to me, she wants to say, but doesn’t. That would be lying, wouldn’t it?

„Oh, ––––,“ Gil only says, and asks her if he might hug her again. This time, she doesn’t say no.

She’s tired. Oh God, she is so tired.

Bonny comes and talks at her and Gil tells her what to do too, their voices blending into one. Yes, she can move her fingers. Yes, she can follow Bonny’s finger with her eyes when she moves it. No, the world doesn‘t swim too much, not even when she stands up.

Eventually, Bonny clears her and leaves for the Revenge again.

„I told you I was not injured,“ she tells Gil again.

„You didn’t tell me what happened, though.“

Instead of an answer, she bites her tongue and presses her lips close and shakes her head.

Gil doesn’t make her talk.

The peace doesn’t last long: Harriet Hook barges into the room, heavy footsteps and cloak flaring like a pool of blood behind her, and Claudine sits up, back straight and eyes like steel. She is biting at her cheeks still.

Harriet sends Gil away with but a glare and the doors shut and they are alone, and Harriet knows, Harriet knows, HARRIET KNOWS–

„You did it, Claudine,“ she says.

Claudine bites her cheek harder. She doesn’t want to talk and she isn’t sure this is real, anyway.

„Your father’s chappel is burning, has been for quite some time, and no one has seen him since yesterday,“ Harriet continues mercilessly, „Your father’s chapel is burning and no one says a word about it. No one brags. Calista Jane would have bragged, as would Harry. There would be the flag of Lost Revenge instead of the cross. Ivy de Vil wouldn’t have left the walls standing, and Mal and Maleficent, oh, they fey would have shown off his burned body in the marketplace.“

Silence.

Silence and Claudine’s heartbeat, her blood rushing through her veins. She wishes Gil came back and threw Harriet away; she wished she stayed in the flames, too.

„You did it, Claudine,“ the pirate Captain’s voice is too soft and her words sound like a congratulation, „You did it. You killed your father.“

Claudine looks at her hands, now cleaned of blood and soot by Gil and Bonny, and her fingers twitch for the relief of the blade.

There is no blade near, though, so instead she says it, carefully tasting the heavy words in her mouth.

„I did it. I killed my father.“

Few heartbeats of silence.

Claudine can feel Harriet’s cold eyes on her.

„Will you judge me? Will you tell?“

She can practically see the answers running through her mind, each more cruel and cutting and true than the last, but what actually leaves Harriet’s lips?

A small smile and „no, I won’t,“ and Claudine is grateful for that.

[bizarrebazaar13]

what if your doppelgänger wasn’t evil it was just a person. what if your doppelgänger wasn’t trying to replace you it was just trying to learn to be a person and you were the best model it had. what if your doppelgänger looked at you with your eyes and said with your voice that it just wanted to be loved. what then.

[gayvampyr]

asking people to be mindful of others when sharing a communal space (especially one you cannot just up and leave from) is not selfish or misanthropic. come on now

[arcanefanpage]

And just for a moment they both recognized their sister

[eatyourdamnpears]

I’ve been in such a funk since the concert. I’m not even sure I enjoyed myself that much. maybe I did. I don’t know

[jaybee2000]

I must not watch election coverage. Election coverage is the mind-killer. Election coverage is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will cast my vote. I will permit the result to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the election coverage has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

[elodieunderglass]

hi. what do you mean

[chloesimaginationthings]

The ending of FNAF Help wanted..

[xthe-moonletx]

“You mean, like a sudden rainstorm forces them together beneath a canopy

they look into each other’s eyes

and realize they were made for each other.”

_____________________________________________

Here’s a revamp of a piece I drew about a year ago, now fully rendered and refreshed! It’s a spin-off of Pierre Aguste Cott’s The Storm that I thought fit the ineffables perfectly :)

[ginkgocrown]

rough day for marcille

[ditzybat]

one of those tiktok gotham university reporters approaching bernard on the way to one of his bio classes: thoughts on red robin?

bernard, mildly sleep deprived, and knowing full well what tim’s night life is like: smash [proceeds to walk away like nothing happened]

[onlypans-dot-com]

wilson and house, respectively

[stil-lindigo]

an ex-zionist jewish man recently went a bit viral on tiktok for sharing exactly how he sees zionism tie israel to the jewish identity and his personal experience with breaking away from it - I think it’s a really great watch.

He also made a follow up talking specifically about how he learned to humanise Palestinians, and a really integral part of it was his school, which would often bring in Palestinian speakers who’d share their perspective (here’s a link to it).

[braindos]

Finished the trilogy today

[wolvndmouth]

Okay but this Logan and this Wade

And also this Logan and this Wade

As well as this Logan and this Wade

And then this Logan and this Wade

And then this Logan and this Wade

[elodieunderglass]

changes and trends in horror-genre films are linked to the anxieties of the culture in its time and place. Vampires are the manifestation of grappling with sexuality; aliens, of foreign influence. Horror from the Cold War is about apathy and annihilation; classic Japanese horror is characterised by “nature’s revenge”; psychological horror plays with anxieties that absorbed its audience, like pregnancy/abortion, mental illness, femininity. Some horror presses on the bruise of being trapped in a situation with upsetting tasks to complete, especially ones that compromise you as a person - reflecting the horrors and anxieties of capitalism etc etc etc. Cosmic horror is slightly out of fashion because our culture is more comfortable with, even wistful for, “the unknown.” Monster horror now has to be aware of itself, as a contingent of people now live in the freedom and comfort of saying “I would willingly, gladly, even preferentially fuck that monster.” But I don’t know much about films or genres: that ground has been covered by cleverer people.

I don’t actually like horror or movies. What interests me at the moment is how horror of the 2020s has an element of perception and paying attention.

Multiple movies in one year discussed monsters that killed you if you perceived them. There are monsters you can’t look at; monsters that kill you instantly if you get their attention. Monsters where you have to be silent, look down, hold still: pray that they pass over you. M Zombies have changed from a hand-waved virus that covers extras in splashy gore, to insidious spores. A disaster film is called Don’t Look Up, a horror film is called Nope. Even trashy nun horror sets up strange premises of keeping your eyes fixed on something as the devil GETS you.

No idea if this is anything. (I haven’t seen any of these things because, unfortunately, I hate them.) Someone who understands better than me could say something clever here, and I hope they do.

But the thing I’m thinking about is what this will look like to the future, as the Victorian sex vampires and Cold War anxieties look to us. I think they’ll have a little sympathy, but they probably won’t. You poor little prey animals, the kids will say, you were awfully afraid of facing up to things, weren’t you?