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On 17/09/2017, at 20:29, @memoryserved wrote: > roland deschain, who’s like 20,000 years old: you are like a little baby, watch this [signs up for a threesome with a demon]

the losers club, who r all 10 years old: all collectively overcome and occasionally beat the shit out of a demon that feeds on fear roland deschain, who’s like 20,000 years old: is nearly killed by a demon that feeds on laughter

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the losers club, who r all 10 years old: all collectively overcome and occasionally beat the shit out of a demon that feeds on fear roland deschain, who’s like 20,000 years old: is nearly killed by a demon that feeds on laughter

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> follows a bunch of stephen king blogs > my dash is immediately full of posts about some drama i’m not party to

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memoryserved:

Falling into normal, they let normal fears creep up on them, normal grievances, normal loves. They watch fondly for the way he turns passive, looking for comfort in a little head shake, preoccupied with warmth, being warm, finding and taking in warmth. They cross their arms and step back to give him room. They haven’t forgotten who he is. What he does. Did. And when the big picture is getting smaller, and smaller, and it’s not about life, or morals, or whatever this is and whether it figures into what Kennedy deserves, it’s about a boy who can make them sad standing in their hallway. It’s about being happy today. They wait.

Better than you’re welcome, they give him, “Yeah, just, feel free to just drop in anytime and ruin my life.” He can read ‘playful’. He knows he’s not in trouble, at this exact moment in time and space, on this level of things.

   “I want to know what you’re doing in my house after half a year of radio silence, but,” they gesture to the open bathroom door with a shrug, “I don’t want you to catch a pneumonia, so go have a shower and I’ll leave some clothes in my room.” They’ll make food, but that doesn’t come up. This does. Abruptly. They hardly see it coming ‘till it’s out of their mouth. “Christ, are you – staying over?”

     he looks at them from under the towel. his eyes are a cold colour, not the warm blue of a hot sky but the grey ice of glaciers and water, and he is a hard-looking man, with weather-beaten skin and deep lines and hair that, at some point, became more grey than brown. “what an offer,” roland says, and then he smiles, toothy and wide. it cracks the thick veneer of sobriety and reveals a handsome man underneath; someone who looks good in the aesthetic and moral sense, not so tired, not so resigned.

     his brow furrows sharply. “a new-moan - new-moon - ?” his head follows the line of their arm and he looks into the bathroom with an undue amount of worry. showers in the time of gilead were rare; they were a feature of bath houses, mainly, great open faucets pouring water back down into bathing pools. they were simple in that way. he doesn’t like many things in this world very well, too easily frustrated and made child-like by his own slowness, and showers here all seem to have a different set of machinations.

      “i didn’t come here to upset your life,” roland says, wrapping the towel around one stunted hand and pushing it into the neck of his shirt, chasing away the chill of the storm from his collar. he’s looking at them again. “i came here because i know you. i can go.”

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If you have given your heart up for the Tower, Roland, you have already lost.

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Personally, I’m a mess of conflicting impulses — I’m independent and greedy and I also want to belong and share and be a part of the whole.

Richard Siken (via quotemadness)

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    slow and deliberate in his inexhaustibly even way, roland reaches for the remains of his fire. they’re cold to the touch, and although he expected it he’s surprised by it, rubs ashes to black soot between his fingers and then looks up at marten-that-was with shadowed eyes. “i take no bets with you,” he says, throat dry. “any games you play are rigged.”

@antet

His shadow falls over the embers of Roland’s fire and extinguishes them immediately, no oxygen left in the dark. Further, his shadow spreads. 

‘Besting me in one world only means I best you ten times over.’ He picks up conversation as if there’s been no break in it, expecting Roland to do the same. 

‘How do you take that bet?’

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writing-prompt-s:

write the backstory of your url

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bunburie:

     “Ahhh, shit.” Eddie wipes a hand up over his face and lets it go through his hair too while it’s up there. “No you’re not. You’re gonna get us arrested. Try again.”

     his hands are already braced on either side of the turnstile, a foot half-lifted off the ground. his brow knits tightly, disparagingly: “the gunslingers of this world would arrest a man for this?” his foot lowers. he turns the ticket around so that he can feed the opposite end, but were eddie able to see it he might tell roland aw jesus roland it’s upside-fuckin-down - but he can’t from there, and so roland, effusing his belief that it’s the machine’s problem and not his, tries to coax the machine to eat the piece of paper once more. the slit mouth of the thing doesn’t give. “it won’t accept it,” he says, anger permeating his tone this time.

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crystal by  Christian Benetel

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Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just

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The Edge of Love (2008) dir. John Maybury

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i love roland/eddie/susannah but also i would die for roland/cuthbert and roland/walter and am so mad i don’t have opportunities to write those things right now. but also i’m really weak for roland ships in general? any time he feels anything resembling romantic affection for anyone my knees buckle. i love it. i love roland/susan and roland/allie and roland/that woman in book 7 who comforts him and roland/jamie and just BOY i LOVE roland ships

and roland/maika i would die for them

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five times kissed from eddie dean of new yoyk xoxoxo

FIVE TIMES KISSED / ACCEPTING.

ONE

eddie has halfway rolled over in his arms, one bicep awkwardly draped out over roland’s forearm, his foot caught between roland’s calves. the dry, miserable heat of the sun is crawling overhead, and the lobstrosities with their terrible questions are gone, giving them what respite they can take. roland can barely see, truth be told, and won’t remember this, the way that eddie’s opening eyes come into focus, or the hand that moves to rest on his arm instead of over it, the peaceful warmth of eddie’s body before it cramps and remembers that it, he, hates roland.

he has drawn the first of his deck. the weight resting against him makes that all real, makes it all very sudden and potent, really makes it true in a way that somehow jack andolini’s face being blown off, that the shootout with balazar, that henry dean’s head cradled against eddie’s naked chest, had not quite, because for all its horrors moving against gunfire was natural for the gunslinger and so he did not think twice on any of it. now he has all the time in the world to think, but without a head equipped to do it, he simply pushes his left hand against eddie’s face to bring him nearer and kiss him.

eddie doesn’t quite kiss back at first, maybe considering hitting roland or even killing him, but much in the same way he discredited the entirety of his world before coming through the door he seems to absently shrug off his concerns and push back, mouth opening with an unanticipated greed that makes all of roland’s blood rush south.

the trouble is it hurts to be hard, like he’s stealing blood away from the more important parts of his body that need it more, and he breaks back with a pained hiss, and eddie makes a disgusted noise that roland can’t place before it’s time to 

shuffle.

Keep reading

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         he’s tried. is trying. the gate senses his foreignness and won’t let him pass; the little indicator light, the rite of passage, above the ticket slot has remained steadily, stubbornly red this entire time. he puts the ticket in again. nothing. he looks up at eddie and announces, somberly, “i’m going to climb over.”

@antet

     “Jesus fuckin wept, Roland, you’re gonna make me cry. If you get stuck I’m gonna have to call the fire department to cut you out.” He’s on one side of a turnstile and Roland is on the other, and the look on Roland’s face would be funny if — yeah, no, it’s funny whichever way you cut it.

     “Just put your ticket in the thing. The little, uh,” he gestures, “the little slit.” They’ve missed three trains and people are staring. He really wants to laugh.

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five times kissed from eddie dean of new yoyk xoxoxo

FIVE TIMES KISSED / ACCEPTING.

ONE

eddie has halfway rolled over in his arms, one bicep awkwardly draped out over roland’s forearm, his foot caught between roland’s calves. the dry, miserable heat of the sun is crawling overhead, and the lobstrosities with their terrible questions are gone, giving them what respite they can take. roland can barely see, truth be told, and won’t remember this, the way that eddie’s opening eyes come into focus, or the hand that moves to rest on his arm instead of over it, the peaceful warmth of eddie’s body before it cramps and remembers that it, he, hates roland.

he has drawn the first of his deck. the weight resting against him makes that all real, makes it all very sudden and potent, really makes it true in a way that somehow jack andolini’s face being blown off, that the shootout with balazar, that henry dean’s head cradled against eddie’s naked chest, had not quite, because for all its horrors moving against gunfire was natural for the gunslinger and so he did not think twice on any of it. now he has all the time in the world to think, but without a head equipped to do it, he simply pushes his left hand against eddie’s face to bring him nearer and kiss him.

eddie doesn’t quite kiss back at first, maybe considering hitting roland or even killing him, but much in the same way he discredited the entirety of his world before coming through the door he seems to absently shrug off his concerns and push back, mouth opening with an unanticipated greed that makes all of roland’s blood rush south.

the trouble is it hurts to be hard, like he’s stealing blood away from the more important parts of his body that need it more, and he breaks back with a pained hiss, and eddie makes a disgusted noise that roland can’t place before it’s time to 

shuffle.

TWO

“i’m 21,” eddie says, with the kind of baleful purpose that tells roland he should be listening. but he doesn’t turn his head. he keeps walking up the beach, ignoring the way his sore feet slip on the shingles. “21 years old, you hear me, you old fuck?” there’s a pitter-patter where eddie rushes to catch up, and roland doesn’t slow. he doesn’t care how old eddie is as long as eddie is strong enough to keep walking and smart enough to make the right choices, and the latter is a trait that seems to be dice-roll risky, all there some days and off with the need for his devil powder the next.

with no rise being gotten out of roland, no reaction at all in fact, eddie’s temper deflates the way it usually does and he deflects to plaintive questions. “how old are you anyway? how long you been doing this?”

“old enough and long enough,” roland says, partly because it’s none of eddie dean’s business and partly because he doesn’t know. he was in his twenties once, but then time’s dough-stretching habits set in, and then in the golgotha he slept and aged ten years all at once. he doesn’t know. he could be forty, he could be sixty. he could be older, with no idea of just how old.

“what kinda bullshit answer is that, huh?”

“one that’s full of it,” roland answers, and eddie’s laugh is so sharp and angry that it surprises the both of them. they stop, on the spot, and face one another. not quite as equals, but they’re getting there, and eddie today is full of some kind of unknowable, unstoppable fire, even without his temper.

“guess not all’a your sense of humour got shot off.” and then: “d’you even remember kissin me or was you just hoping that i’d forget?”

startled, roland takes a step back. no, he did not remember. there’s no reason for him to have done something like that, and so he had no reason to remember the things that did not happen. but there was no lie in eddie’s eyes, roland saw that, partly because he has no reason to lie about something like that, just as much as roland had no reason to do it.

“guess you gotta ask the audience,” eddie says. “cause i remember. and i dunno about you but where i’m from guys don’t just kiss each other and not talk about it, ever. hell, i wouldn’t even do that to a chick. she’d know what she was gettin from me. you wanna fuck me, roland, that it? guess you already fucked me this far, why not - ”

“eddie,” roland says, with a voice that’s starkly gentle despite the warning growl underneath, and eddie follows roland’s footsteps to lean up and kiss him, ungently, urgently.

THREE

susannah dean once said to eddie that, you know, her husband’s man was there long before she came along and she wasn’t never gonna get in the way of them. might be sometime yet but maybe she’d love roland herself that way, someday, and eddie had said, i don’t love him, not like i love you. susannah understood this perfectly: you don’t gotta love him like you love me, you love him how you already do.

she had said this because susannah had come into their lives and the river had run dry; roland had personally accepted that whatever brief companionship eddie dean found in him on the beach, he no longer needed it. he had his wife now, and their loving was not something roland was privy to. he felt lonely sometimes but he always was, and he felt a strange pressure at the back of his head like there was an immense weight bearing down on an old tree that was trying not to buckle, which gave him something to worry about when he was not teaching his fellows to survive and to shoot - making gunslingers out of them.

roland didn’t know that susannah had given eddie any kind of advice, but he let eddie follow him into the brush and the thick of branches, let eddie play at picking up firewood to take back, let him ponder over a particularly thick knot in one of the branches. when eddie took his hand, roland could have stopped him. in fact, he could have moved his hand before eddie even though to reach for him, but he didn’t, because in the greedy, jealously romantic pit of his stomach, he missed this part of eddie, the part that was always warm and wanted him.

it didn’t feel good, not then. of course it felt good - eddie’s back was in the pines with knees either side of roland’s hips and roland was inside him, pressed over him, his nose buried in the hollow of eddie’s throat. he barely moved because he wanted to stay deep, only moved enough to satisfy their urges, could’ve fucked eddie for hours if they had hours to spare but they didn’t. he wanted the hours, to hoard them, to hoard eddie, but eddie had a wife - and this was what didn’t feel good. he kissed eddie and some ghost told him he could taste susannah on eddie’s mouth, tried to kiss the taste off and find eddie underneath but it was all susannah, all guilt. this in itself was love. he didn’t want to hurt susannah, if that was what they were doing here.

it wasn’t, but it took the not-knowing for roland to understand that he loved them both.

FOUR

susannah was propped up between roland’s knees and laid back against his chest, and eddie was between her knees, and in a moment when they weren’t both lavishing the woman between them with attention and hands, he kissed roland over her shoulder. a warmth spread through roland like nothing he ever knew, like there was a secret garden in his stomach that had decided to bloom all at once. it terrified him.

FIVE

eddie has halfway rolled over in his arms, one bicep awkwardly draped out over roland’s forearm, his foot caught between roland’s calves. roland comes awake when eddie’s hand touches his arm deliberately, when eddie turns further, encourages roland’s legs apart with a gentle further kick of his foot. the greed is anticipated, eddie’s sometimes demanding nature filtering through; there are people who need people to need them, and for eddie dean that included roland needing him in the basest way possible. 

roland swears that he will remember this moment for as long as his life stretches on, the way the sun made eddie’s brown hair almost yellow when it was raked through roland’s fingers, the way that eddie kisses him first and roland nearly yawns down his throat before kissing him back, in a place far more beautiful than the beach if only by virtue of a window of good health and good heart that will not carry them forever, but carries them for now. 

he maps out his memories with his mouth. he kisses eddie on the lips, on the cheek, along his jaw which is harder now than it was when they met. his ear, which eddie smacks him for, enough for roland to kiss his neck instead. he kisses his chest. if there are words, roland chooses to forget these, instead opting for the feeling as being the thing to preserve.

and in the end he always, always, comes back to eddie’s mouth. to remember kissing him, that is the place to begin and to end.