yourabattoir

[yourabattoir]

hi all - my grandma passed away on monday morning and on top of dealing with That, i now am in the process of very suddenly moving so. lots going on. hope you're all doing well! 💞

[yourabattoir]

when i think about ray, i think a lot about a self-published autobiography i read about an iraq/afghanistan vet (that i REALLY wish i could remember the name of) and how the author talks at length about one of the most meaningful relationships of his life and how him being so deeply closeted resulted in him using his partner and leading him on, and how tragic it felt to have that slip through his fingers when his partner had enough. this was all while he was in the army while his partner was a civilian.

like that's typical dl behavior but what added a layer of complexity was that that was under don't ask don't tell in the mid 00's. def reminds me a lot of ray/inspired a lot of my backstory for ray.

specifically, ray and sam, and the years that ray would've led sam on and fueling their codependency while also being afraid to make an actual move toward anything more significant in their friendship despite the tension. moving to las vegas with sam did help the two of them cross the boundary of friendship into romance, but it was never anything more than mutual yearning and discreetness because of ray's need to keep their relationship a secret.

which led to resentment between them both, which led to sam leaving ray for dead because of years of pent-up hurt and anger. ray will refer to sam as his ex despite not really being an ex, because that's the only relationship he's ever had that's ever meant anything to him. after the loneliness of a 10 year prison sentence, ray is still bereft without him and bitter and desolate. he sacrificed his relationships with his mother and sister for sam, and when sam left so did the rest of his connections to other people because they were all shallow compared to what he had with sam. he has little idea of his own identity outside of sam, either, and his loyalty to him.

honestly they are the peak of the queer experience of the traumatizing homoerotic codependent friendship and was that my intention? yes

[yourabattoir]

anyway, new roster dropped - now that i know about tabs in gdocs i've overindulged

[yourabattoir]

"me too." ray glances at her sidelong, realizes distantly that he should feel upset, in some way, at the thick smell of blood that won't leave his nose, at his own capacity of cruelty. instead, whatever swell of emotion he couldn't name is gone, leaving him empty again.

" - you didn't kill that shitbag, sweetheart," his boston drawl drops the r in the endearment. "but for what it's worth, you did great."

he takes the bloodied glove from her hand gingerly. "what's your name?"

she stares at it before accepting, a little emotional; bloodied latex glove turned inside out and dangling from her free hand. “sooo,” her voice warbles, “we just chopped a guy up.” pause. “i told myself i wasn't gonna do that again.”

[yourabattoir]

all-night pharmacy.

dialogue prompts from all-night pharmacy by ruth madievsky.

you're so alive, it's scary.

being a person doesn't come naturally for me.

what's the deal with this place?

you are my best and my worst friend.

are we horrible people?

i like the idea of having someone to come home to.

i can't tell if you're being cruel or if you're just dumb.

these aren't the decisions of a well-adjusted person.

the less you know about my life, the better.

everyone here is a liar and a cheat.

you deserve to have a life of your own.

a person can't be held responsible for what they don't know.

all relationships are transactional.

no one should have that much power over you.

it isn't too late to come back.

you're uninvited from my birthday party.

i love you, but you're such a cunt.

who do you think you are?

forced intimacy makes me lightheaded.

i know you're in there. let me in.

jesus. why do you have a knife?

what happened last night?

it was less embarrassing to pretend i didn't care.

maybe i'm not the mothering type.

i wish i could carry some of this pain for you.

i need a break from feeling so much all the time.

sometimes i can't tell if i'm asleep or awake.

whatever's going on, we'll figure it out.

i don't know what's wrong with me. i'm scared all the time.

this is the most i can imagine for myself.

if you're not asking yourself 'am i ruining my life?' at least once a day, you're not living at all.

you act like you're over it, but it's okay if you're not.

all my life, i've felt like a dead animal with its skin still on.

it's a virtue to rid yourself of anything that doesn't serve you.

i've never had a day of rest in my life.

i chase after you like a dog, leaving pieces of myself behind, and every time, you act like that's how it's supposed to be.

you don't take me seriously. i'm not a real person to you.

i can't play house anymore.

never say that name in front of me.

to you, other people are always the problem.

you can't reach a mutual understanding without spilling blood.

want to make fifty bucks?

the only way to really see a person is to lose everything you have in common.

you don't think we'll get caught?

our loyalty is to story, not reality.

just don't do anything that could result in a lawsuit or a tmz article, and you're fine.

i don't have the energy to keep up with your antics.

our most beloved delusion was that lying to each other was a kind of love.

speaking our fears aloud won't save us.

one day, the mask slipped. i haven't been able to wear it since.

i try not to think about my life at all.

a junkie can spot another junkie without a flashlight.

your voice reminds me of wool sweaters.

boundaries? i don't know her.

i'm just sick of doing the same goddamn thing every day.

you are obsessed with a projection that will never love you back.

think of me as a spiritually connected friend.

i know liars. you don't strike me as one.

you have iconically poor judgment.

has anyone ever told you about your past lives?

you're capable of tolerating a lot. frankly, more than you should.

friendship can be a slow burn. you don't have to consume it like a drink at last call.

i'll give you a clue. i work for myself.

you make me want to feel things again.

criticism is still a cousin of attention.

you don't have to pretend to like something just because i made it.

i know you crave being told what to do.

you don't have to settle for being a person things happen to.

you have desires. act on them.

bitch, does this look like an intro to philosophy seminar?

i thought i had quit you.

my favorite. how did you know?

i feel like my organs are cannibalizing each other.

how did i get here? that's not a rhetorical question. i'm actually asking.

i can't tell if i believe it, or if i'm making excuses for myself.

sometimes i wonder if it's healthy how much meaning you see in things.

you're always waiting for the universe to hurt you or to love you. usually in that order.

that's how it was in my family. reading the room was a survival skill.

where will all the animals go in the rapture?

a bunch of fuckups under one roof doesn't constitute a family.

my little saint.

time passes more slowly as a sober person.

you'd better not pull away from me now.

there's a russian proverb that goes, 'so much is ruined by saying it aloud'.

you wear your emotions like a name tag.

your resting face frightens me.

how are you both the most innocent and the most experienced person i've ever met?

i need you to just be here with me.

our dead deserve to see you happy.

i like the idea of being marked by you.

i don't know what i saw, but it was more than i wanted.

i know what i saw.

i can't tell which of the memories are real, if any.

i can't believe you're mine.

nobody warned me how terrifying it is to get what you want.

you're cute when you're freaked out.

sex is supposed to be unsettling.

there are things i need to atone for.

you can't go back like it's nothing.

i won't live in service of my dead's vision for me.

___ was a real person. a murder isn't a metaphor.

count five things you can see. four things you can touch. three things you can hear. two things you can smell. one thing you can taste.

banish one god, and you'll end up worshiping another.

i want to be with you, but i don't want to keep feeling like this.

you know everything about me, but you won't let me know you.

you aren't someone i can keep at a distance.

i've been reading about intergenerational curses.

resisting something isn't the same as not wanting it.

anything you say stays between us.

i can't decide if i like you.

most people only possess a third of the empathy they think they have.

will it get easier?

hope is a tricky thing: losing it is bad, but so is having too much.

i don't want the future to come. i have a bad feeling about it.

in cartoons, you don't start falling until you look down.

why are you here? where have you been?

how did you know i'd come looking for you?

you never asked what i was going through. you didn't want to know.

i didn't have the language for what was happening to me.

you were supposed to protect me.

there's a lot i don't remember. a lot i don't want to remember.

i wouldn't have looked for me, either.

we belong to ourselves now.

you know where i am, and i know where you are. maybe that's enough.

when i'm down, vigilante justice makes me feel better.

survival is provisional.

[yourabattoir]

PROMPTS FROM THE SOPRANOS *  assorted dialogue from the television show, adjust as necessary

i find i have to be the sad clown: laughing on the outside, crying on the inside.

i went ahead and ordered some for the table.

when you're married, you'll understand the importance of fresh produce.

we've got guns here.

he just told you to shut the fuck up.

the things i take pleasure in, i can't do.

don't you ever say you hate life.

oh, poor you!

so what, no fucking ziti now?

you want compromise? how's this?

i'll keep this short and sweet.

you're weak. you're outta control. and you've become an embarrassment to yourself and everybody else.

sometimes it's important to give people the illusion of being in control.

are you in the mafia?

tomorrow i can be on time, but you'll be stupid forever.

let me tell you a couple of three things.

you're not gonna believe this.

a wrong decision is better than indecision.

i'm like king midas in reverse here. everything i touch turns to shit.

if you can quote the rules, then you can obey them.

we're soldiers. soldiers don't go to hell. it's war. soldiers kill other soldiers.

we're in a situation where everyone involved knows the stakes and if you are going to accept those stakes, you've got to do certain things.

there's an old italian saying: you fuck up once, you lose two teeth.

someday soon, you're gonna have families of your own and if you're lucky, you'll remember the little moments like this that were good.

hey, i don't even let anyone wag their finger in my face.

it's good to be in something from the ground floor.

those who want respect give respect.

is this a woman thing? you ask me how i'm feeling, i tell you how i'm feeling, and now you're going to torture me with it.

lately, i'm getting the feeling that i came in at the end. the best is over.

my father was in it. my uncle was in it.

maybe i was too lazy to think for myself.

buy land, 'cause god ain't making any more of it.

i don't care how close you are. in the end, your friends are gonna let you down.

family... they're the only ones you can depend on.

take your hat off.

teddy roosevelt once gave an entire speech with a bullet lodged in his chest. some things are just a matter of duty.

some people are so far behind in a race that they actually believe they're leading.

sometimes we're all hypocrites.

other people's definitions of you, sometimes they're more about making themselves feel better. you gotta define yourself.

people only see what you allow them to see.

death just shows the ultimate absurdity of life.

you know when i was depressed i said i didn't want to live? well, i'll tell you something. i didn't want to die.

that's why dinosaurs don't exist no more.

don't touch that! my program's coming on.

i wish the lord would take me now.

our existence on this earth is a puzzle.

i'm getting my wine in position to throw in your damn face.

[yourabattoir]

deleted my last post abt it bc i felt embarrased but like this if you'd like a one liner? and specify from whom?

[yourabattoir]

"it's clear-flavored." whatever that fucking means. he's passing the vape to @wornclean regardless. "good shit. here's to a job well fuckin' done."

[yourabattoir]

“we all move forward anyway. ripples in all directions.” ↳ richard siken // @godblooded

it's been almost three years and allyson's knee replacement is still brand new, the concussion from that night healed to an occasional dull ache. the chalk outlines of her mother and cameron's and vicky's bodies are gone, and with them the rest of the myers house and the shape himself. and time has been both excruciating and too fast. she hardly remembers the sound of her mother's laugh, cameron's voice. but she remembers heavy breathing, remembers the rough fist in her hair and the electricity of her hands under his.

nothing's changed. except alana—dr. bloom. she has to remind herself of that. segregation of duty and all of that.

"hard to feel like i'm moving anywhere, stuck here," she says, impolite with her mouth full of the ham and cheese sandwich laurie had packed her for lunch.

"not to ruin it for you. haddonfield, i mean. but it's a vortex. frozen in time. but at least it's pretty."

[yourabattoir]

"there's always room for you. and your ego too," allyson pauses, just long enough to at least feign pensiveness. "maybe. i don't know if yours and mine can both fit."

alana is compact, formidable. it's one of the things that allyson likes about her���one of many things, anyway. she's tried incredibly, incredibly hard not to throw her complete and full self into this as she has a tendency of doing because it's consistently ended with a nosedive straight to rock bottom.

a slender hand cups alana's cheek, thumb swiping over her sharp cheekbone. her gaze is so intense, unintentionally so, that allyson almost feels herself shiver under its weight.

can't quite help herself when she adds, "as long as you stay, there's room for you."

she leans upward to kiss her again, pulling her in simultaneously. the glock that had been in her hands is forgotten about on the table beside them.

“that’s very polite of you. thank you.”

polite as allyson’s hands are not, it does nothing but bring out a warmly playful nature in the good doctor that softens all her edges. the heavy-sharp of her jaw is nothing but tenderly sculpted in the other’s hands and she feels comforted by that. it’s a happiness that easily makes and remakes her into something better than she had been seconds ago.

she doesn’t comprehend how to express to allyson the way it feels better to feel sane about something so insane. allyson discusses the inevitability of michael as a famed bogeyman in every way and alana quietly admits that she knows hannibal will get out, and that she will certainly pay with full knowledge she’ll be right in his scope. she tells her about how it feels certain, definite. inevitable.

she hates the way both their lives are controlled by inevitability.

but in moments like these they certainly do not matter. she feels none of that now, none of that weight. allyson touches her with something close to perfectly content and she responds in kind.

“how can there be room for me when there are so many guns. i take up a ridiculous amount of space. me, you, all these guns, and my ego in one space.”

she bestows a kiss pleasantly, softly, something utterly and happily given.

closer is necessity, and perfectly possible always.

[yourabattoir]

updated roster. updated theme. updated icon.

[yourabattoir]

🤎

[yourabattoir]

"well, the stop and shop pickles aren't going to be the same."

more than once, they've been accused of enjoying the sound of their own voice—and it's not an accusation that they'd ever deny. even now, in the ugly northeast american accent they've taken on for the even uglier chef's whites and chunky black work crocs. their clothes stink of onion and potato and grease, their face too. an eyebrow raises at harris' demeanor, amusement dancing across their dark eyes.

it's with the back of a lithe hand that they wipe sandwich oil from their lips. their tone is bland and even when they add, "you know, i wasn't even talking to you," which is a lie, but that doesn't matter, "and yet. here you are. so pissy."

@selfinflicts // villanelle said: i asked for extra pickles, and they give me two? so what, a normal amount of pickles is one? makes no goddamn sense.

"I have no idea what the fuck you're talkin' about."

They perch next to Harris in the alleyway where he pretends to take smoke breaks. During the day, he's at the same Chinese joint he's been at for the past year or so. They don't mind his temper tantrums, usually, and he's made a decent attempt to learn Mandarin and Hunanese.

Harris looks ragged, beat down. Even would-be super soldiers can be bested by a particularly brutal dinner rush. His apron is inside; he's in only his Dickies and a dirty white t-shirt. He regards Villanelle dispassionately.

"I don't even work there. I work next door. You got a problem? Ah, the Stop & Shop's probably got jars of pickles. Jars."

[yourabattoir]

RICHARD SIKEN / WAR OF THE FOXES Change pronouns as necessary and tweak sentences as appropriate!

I am faithful to you, darling.

When you bang on the wall you have to remember you’re on both sides of it but go ahead, yell at yourself.

Some people don’t understand anything.

He’s easy to desire since there’s not much to him.

No one wants to know what’s in his head.

To make something beautiful should be enough. It isn’t. It should be.

You’d break your heart to make it bigger.

Will you defend yourself? From me, I mean.

Let’s kill something.

I prefer to blame others, it’s easier.

All these ghosts come streaming down and I wish I had something else.

We all move forward anyway. Ripples in all directions.

What is a ghost? Something dead that seems to be alive. Something dead that doesn’t know it’s dead.

All thoughts finish themselves eventually.

Can we love nature for what it really is: predatory?

When you have nothing to say, set something on fire.

I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way.

Something’s not right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it.

The enormity of my desire disgusts me.

Look away but I’m still there.

Want something to chase you? Run.

Take only what you need.

Never finish a war without starting another.

I’ve seen your true face: the back of your head. If you were walking away, keep walking.

The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.

All these things and what to do with them. We carve up the world all the time.

I like dead things. They cannot hurt me.

We like things related to our survival: soup, arrows - they expand the range of the species.

My body is a graveyard.

People like to think war means something.

Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other. We know who our enemies are. We know.

There are many loves but only one war.

You will need to comfort him, or we will never be finished with this.

You cannot have an opponent if you keep saying yes.

Its roots in the ground and its branches in the air, a tree is pulled in two directions.

The boy is a bird, bad bird. He falls out of trees.

You cannot get in the way of anyone’s path to God. You can, but it does no good.

Some say God is where we put our sorrow.

In the wrong light anyone can look like a darkness.

What can you know about a person?

Difficult thing, to be scrutinized so long.

Even when I look away I am still looking.

Everyone secretly wants to collaborate with the enemy, to construct a truer version of the self.

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?

Why build a room you can live in? Why build a shed for your fears?

There wasn’t much left but it felt like him, wild and scared.

The best part of spirituality is reverence. There are other parts. Some people like to hear the sound of their own voice.

If you don’t believe in God, then who are you talking to?

But truth doesn’t count in law, only proof.

Was I discovered or invented? Feels like I’ve always been here.

Measure yourself against the truth and not the other way around.

Perfect and completely dead.

People don’t learn anything unless they are afraid of being left behind.

Logic is boring because it works. Being unreasonable is exciting.

I am your arrival, there is no refusal, we are here, you see, together, we are already here.

This is also part of the story: how the story changes. This is something I forgot to tell you.

You might like it here. I think that you might like it here.

I tell you these things because I love you.

It’s nothing like I thought it would be and closer to what I meant.

Maybe we will wake up to the silence of shoes at the foot of the bed not going anywhere.

It reminds me of where I was going without you.

You know what it’s like to be alone: gimlets and vermicide. You know what it’s like to be alive, so forgiveness.

You asked me once, What are we made of? Well, these are the things we’re made of.

I turned my ears in all directions. I’ll live alone or in between.

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.

Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.

I live in big spaces, so I’m left alone in big spaces.

We made ourselves cold. We made ourselves snow. We smuggled ourselves into ourselves. Haunted by each other’s knowledge.

To hide somewhere is not surrender, it is trickery.

I try to guess your trajectory and end up telling my own story.

I surrender my desire to be healed.

Take it or leave it, and for the most part you take it.

Shame comes from vanity. Shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us, but you think you’re better than we are. Maybe you are.

There is no new me, there is no old me, there’s just me, the same me, the whole time.

Don’t try to make a stronger wind, you’ll wear yourself out. Build a better sail.

You want to solve something? Get out of your own way.

What’s the difference between me and the world? Compartmentalisation.

I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love.

I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary.

I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad. It’s too much work.

I mean, maybe it’s better if my opponent wins.

What happens when I no longer want to meet you?

Nothing lasts forever: we know this.

Longing and suffering? Of course, of course. You want it to mean something.

You can disconnect it or you can try to glue it all together.

We could pull it apart, spend our whole lives pulling it apart and have no time left to do anything smart with the pieces.

The sooner you embrace it, the sooner it will leave you.

You are what you cover up.

Noise and more noise. Noise up to heaven.

One wonders why a story like this exists.

I want to give you more but not everything. You don’t need everything.

Someone has to leave first.

He was pointing at the moon but I was looking at his hand.

All this was prepared for me. All this was set in motion long ago.

I stayed as long as I could. Now look at the moon.

What does all this love amount to?

[yourabattoir]

what big teeth, pt. 2.

dialogue prompts from what big teeth by rose szabo.

i don't think anyone's asked what you wanted in a long time.

you're so young to be so cynical.

i've always wanted a daughter like you.

i need a little time to be alone.

i've never been very good at making friends.

god lives in empty places.

you have such a good heart.

let's talk about more pleasant things.

you'll believe me? you promise?

i just wanted to see you. i like looking at you.

why do people have to have a purpose?

i'm fine. more than fine, because i'm with you.

i wish you wouldn't pretend to rescue me.

you're generous. i like that about you.

i'm not sure i want anyone to know where i am.

you can't trick me anymore.

please. i need you to help me.

you don't know, or you don't like to know?

you don't know anything about me.

you don't know what i've suffered. what i've lost.

it's strange to remember how much i loved ___.

maybe i only liked the feeling of being wanted.

i've been alone most of my life.

i'm ready to hurt for what i've done.

all i can do is remember.

i will try to love all the parts of you, even the parts i cannot see.

i know it the way i know everything: metaphors, invisible signs.

you have a face like a renaissance saint's.

who are you when you're not with me?

charity can be another kind of spite.

you don't know what alone is.

you're lucky to have been born into a family that loved you.

i've never wanted to tell anyone, until you.

you don't have to believe me. i'm going to show you.

i felt like you do, once.

no one you love is ever fully yours.

are you going to kill me now?

is it you? tell me something only you would know.

you still ask for so little. i wish you would ask for more.

nothing you could say is silly to me.

i'm here. i'm going to fix this.

why be alone when you could be with someone who loves you?

you do like feeling sorry for yourself.

love feels like carrying an egg in your mouth.

[yourabattoir]

"it's a thorough spread."

no amount of guns had stopped michael from salvaging himself from the fire. no amount of guns could've saved her from corey or from the people of haddonfield or from her own self. she doesn't delude herself into the belief that anything can be the lock and key to her safe passage besides herself—one of the differences between herself and grandmother, she thinks. it's why she's here and not in haddonfield. here with alana, who fits so easily in her arms that it's almost a marvel.

a hand comes up to thread through dark hair, feels some of it stick to the lip balm she'd shellacked on an hour ago. she pulls back to press a kiss against alana's temple, greedy for affection and touch as she is, and she pushes that hair back and away from alana's face.

it's an easy excuse to cup her cheek, to let her thumb swipe over her cheekbone.

"don't apologize. i don't need context."

both hands slide into alana's back pockets. god help her, but she can't quite help herself, a sly but simultaneously earnest smile spreading over her features. it's an easy way to pull her closer, impossible of a feat as that may be.

"— i guess i can put them away. make the spread less thorough."

“you know, my ex is hannibal lecter. your gun collection? couldn’t be more comforting, frankly. mmmmmmmmm is that questionable to say as a psychiatrist? i like to think it’s more productive to be openly fucked up than falsely moral.

—maybe i’m just slightly unnerved by the spread you’ve created.”

head cocks, tilts, and nose brushes the edge of a jaw with an affection that does not truly know name. it is, instead, unspeakable affection, fluttering along the curve of the other’s jaw like a kindness. it’s almost bestowed, nearly given. she leans her head comfortably in the crook of a neck, finding simply the place that she deems her own.

she loves with an exceptional ferocity and never considers it a mistake. for all the deadly game it was to love hannibal, did not it create her heart, and give her poetry and song and dance? for the damage that’s so been wrought, is it worth it to have a heart so capable now, simply because it knows what it is to be loved with hands soaked in a lifetime of arsenic? she’s always afraid he’s handled hers too much and she’s poison now, too.

but she tries not to think about it.

“i think i’ve seen too many things. i think i just felt my trigger finger itch and somewhere i fire four bullets upstairs where no one can see. and i remember how i was sure will would shoot me because why else would he have the gun — “

her lips purse and her eyes narrow at the sure and she pauses, blinking herself back to where she’s paused in her words.

“you have no context for the words i just gave you. sorry. i really wish i had better coworkers.”

[yourabattoir]

"that's all they're there for—that's what they do." in gotham, anyway. if there's a place where that isn't what they do, oz doesn't know about it, doesn't care to know about it. the fine lines of his forehead crease when his brow furrows, reaction delayed.

belatedly, he follows, legs aching from the cold as he finally ambles toward the car to open the rear door for sofia to step inside. the combination of the cold and extended stillness sends pain shooting from his toes up to his knees up his sciatic nerve like a bolt of electricity.

there's little indication it bothers him, safe for a grimace.

"y'know, i don't wanna step out of bounds here—but you've been different."

sofia fixes her smile like she fixes her makeup--- precisely. with the knowledge that every angle of her face is going to be photographed. and then again, with the distinct awareness that those photos will make it into the next evening's glossy magazine pages. it's part of being a dutiful daughter to carmine falcone. you do what the fuck is expected of you.

even with oz, the smile doesn't quite falter. at the very least, though, it relaxes. ❛ that reporter's there again. swarming me. ❜ her eyebrow raises as tension clutches her features. she doesn't appreciate this one bit. how suddenly suspicion is clouding her thoughts, covering them as aptly as a blanket does a body. suspcion of what exactly? she's not sure.

(you know exactly who you're suspicious of, sofia.)

❛ you know, it's fucked up. she'd never 'Berto those kinds of questions. what is she doing? trying to appeal to my womanly soft side? ❜