fastofthekillones - Tumblr blog

[fastofthekillones]

so, edwin enlisting charles’ help in learning how to kiss, right?

charles being like, “all right. before we get started, show me what you think you know about kissing.”

and edwin looks at him nonplussed. “charles, i do not know anything about kissing. that is why we are taking part in this ex—”

“nah, mate, i know that. but, like, you’ve got to have some idea, yeah? like… what you’d do in 1908, or whatever.”

“i was eight years old in 1908.”

“you know what i mean!”

and edwin is all, “…fine.”

and he sort of… sits lost in thought for a minute. charles is expecting him to go in for a very chaste peck, or something. even a kiss on the cheek.

but edwin reaches for one of charles’ hands instead. picks it up delicately, curls his fingers around charles’ in a loose but undeniable hold that charles could pull free from, if he wanted.

edwin dips his head, and glances up at charles through his lashes as if for assent, and then he raises charles’ hand to press a brushing kiss to charles’ knuckles, not looking away all the while.

“charmed, i’m certain, mr. rowland,” he murmurs, still bent low over charles’ hand.

and just as quickly, he’s let charles’ hand drop again, is withdrawing his own back to his lap, looking at charles like he’s expecting to be graded.

and charles is like, what the fuck??? was that??? blushing. completely flustered. gobsmacked. taken out at the knees. can a hand kiss make him fall in love???

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tumblr? tiktok did not like this video.

but y'all?

i think y'all will know what to do with it.

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Just leaving this here

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CRYSTAL PALACE SURNAME-VON HOVERKRAFT

when the ground moves and the bird cries stop looking without and look within

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NIKO SASAKI ✨

You never know when the good you do might come back around

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that's just his listening face

(ko-fi)

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bloody charlotte rowland <3

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was about to post "would it be easier for the fandom types to learn geography if the countries were anime boys they could ship" and then i remembered

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*bleeding to death because the paramedics can’t break the windows to get me out of my stupid fucking truck* heha well at least i dont have to worry about the friggin Zombie Apocalypse… awesomesauce 😎

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quick spideypoolverine.

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noncon friendship

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If you had to get a mode of transportation that wasn't a car/truck. What would you choose

I want an Arthropluera centipede from the Carboniferous period;

I'd call him Jeremy and around on his back in the King Soopers

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(flight intercom) this is the pilot speaking. yeah we expect todays flight to be normal. um if you look out your window you shouldnt see the skull

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GET YELLED AT

photos by carl bergstrom

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HIGH ON STANDARDS LOW ON SKILL. CREATIVE PROCESS MAKE YOU ILL

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Hopefully the agonies have abated by now, but if you're still taking questions I'd be curious to know; favourite plesiostene (God knows if I spelled that right) megafauna? Hard mode; can't be from Eurasia.

Changes every so often but I am endlessly charmed by the literally everything that was happening in Australia. Especially the giant Kangaroo Macropus titan and Procoptydon goliath, the short-faced kangaroo,

look at his fucked up little feetsies :)

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Southeast Kansas Gothic

- “There was a coyote last night,” your neighbor says. “There was a bobcat last week,” your other neighbor says. Their eyes dart. Their hands tighten. They want so badly to be right.

- There is a dirt road called Bethlehem. You’ve never taken it. It’s still waiting for you.

- Are the trees creeping closer to the road as you drive home from Missouri? Do they know where you’ve been?

-There’s that old silo, the one on the farm that was lost to Reagan. It breathes in the night, inhaling the memory of corn. It is meant to be filled. It exists to be filled. If it isn’t filled with corn, it will fill with rage.

- The bobcat screams. It sounds like a woman; everyone says so. It sounds like a woman being dragged to hell. You busy yourself with the dishes and don’t ask yourself: how do they know?

- Keep the arrowheads you find in the fields. Put them in the windowsill; they like the sunlight. They’re happy in the windowsill, happy in the sun room. Make a mosaic on the top of the storm shelter where the last rays of the day can warm them. Don’t hang them from the rear view window or they’ll go searching for the hand that made them. If they can’t find him, they’ll hunt alone.

- Leave the arrowheads you find in caves, under moss. They weren’t dropped carelessly. They were planted. They will bear fruit.

- They have a Lovers’ Leap in Crawford County. They have a Lovers’ Leap in Montgomery County. They have a Lovers’ Leap in Wilson County. It’s always the same lovers. Will you make them leap again? One day you must answer.

- You can smell a coyote from a mile away; they reek like an outhouse that ain’t been moved in a while. You know a coyote. You tell yourself that’s a coyote.

- “That cottonwood is twice as big as it was last year,” you grumble. Your grandparents exchange a glance. “That cottonwood wasn’t there at all yesterday!” you say. Grandma’s hands are covered in flour. “Has there always been a windbreak of cottonwoods??” you ask. “Oh yes,” Grandma whispers. “Oh, yes.”

- You hit a deer. Everyone hits deer. They understand, but you must say sorry.             Y o u  m u s t  s a y  s o r r y

- There is corn at the crossroads. “It’s Kansas,” you think, “Of course there’s corn. We grow corn.” But there is always corn at the crossroads. It’s tallest at the crossroads. Our best seed is given to the crossroads; we plant it by hand at the crossroads. We pat the little mound of earth at the crossroads to seal the bargain at the crossroads.

- The Verdigris knows. It has held ages of hunters, warriors, lover, and families in its curving arms. It has smiled upon newcomers. It has been poisoned with blood and bone and debris. Sometimes it shrieks when you walk its banks. Sometimes it sings. Do not touch the singing water.

- Do not whistle the old hymns as you pass the homestead. They crave the old hymns. Seventeen were found under the cabin. Twelve were left there. No one to claim them, no one to bring them home. No rest in the soil of their birth, no tears to wash them clean, no hymns to sing them to peace. Do not whistle the old hymns as you pass the homestead.

- It screams. You close the door; there is no lock. “A bobcat,” you tell your child. “In my room?” she asks. Your hand tightens on her shoulder. “A bobcat.”

*

(thanks to @37-hours for beta-reading!)