#tantalising

[markscherz]

I think I have officially written my best sentence ever in a paper we are working on right now, and it makes me so sad that I will have to wait perhaps upward of a year before I can share it with you nerds.

[citrine-elephant]

leon's body is supposed to be here tomorrow. supposed to be.

as i struggle to take a break from painting (and being so fuckin close to finishing him -> lighting + final touches left....)

as i struggle to wait for my boy.... to complete him....

here's an idea, a spoiler if i were to commit to it, for the doll fic...

so what if chris had a box delivered to his office/home that was all dolled up (hah, pun!) for him. specially, for him.

and inside, chris finds leon's severed head-

can you imagine? can you imagine the dread? the terror? the fear? the burning fucking hatred and blind rage? ohhhoohoh....

[poorly-caffeinated-diatribes]

I want to write a story about a relationship so all-consuming it transcends time. I want it to make the reader question whether or not both of the characters could even be real within the confines of the literary universe I have constructed, because I want these characters to be so deeply attached that there is no way to discern one from the other by the end of the book. I want a Fight Club moment where it becomes clear that one of them is fake, but I want it to be so confusing, so illusive that it is never clear which one of them is real and which is fake. I want a story about loving so fully you forget yourself, and loving so fully that you are nothing but yourself. I want a story where people leave with their lungs trampled on the floor and their heart tangled like gum in their hair. I want people to know what it is like to yearn and to yearn so desperately that there is nothing outside of that incessant want, that hunger. It is worse than Tantalus, worse than Erysicthon, it is worse than pain. It is the feeling that lives deep within the recesses of a brain so starved that there is no way to describe it without screaming into the wind and watching it gust away. I want to make the incommunicable entirely and utterly real, I want to make it so visceral that it is all that can be felt. I want people to understand, and I want them to leave the experience knowing that it can never exist ever again.

[brendalamour1]

[dungeonaspects]

The Thrum of Blood

So there you sat, perched upon your branch, watching the forest shiver with the pulsing beat of life. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the sweet aroma of wildflowers. You observed how the sun danced through the leaves, casting dappled shadows that flickered like whispers on the forest floor. The roots burrowed among the rabbit warrens and badger dens, like ancient veins.

You could have sat there for a moment or a millennium, knowing that all of it was the same, singular moment. You danced beneath the moon, its silver light bathing the world in a ghostly glow. You laughed under autumn leaves, their crisp crunch shifting beneath your feet, and napped beneath spring buds, the air alive with the fragrance of new growth. And all was good.

The first time you felt the acrid tang of iron, you would have retched if not for your curiosity. The scent of copper underlay it, inviting, calling. The forest was still, the bruised, grey sky above holding back a torrent of rain that had threatened to burst for days, yet it spat, barely holding back its deluge for… something.

You followed the scent, your chest thrumming lightly at the thought, the sensation as the world around you held its breath. The leaves rustled softly, a whispering chorus that seemed to guide you. And there he lay, curled inward like a wounded deer. You had seen how your four-legged friends would stagger through the forest, from the barely adolescent fawn to the mightiest stag. How they would limp and chuff and shiver as their blood coated the ground.

A thing of iron buried into them, an intruder in every sense of the word, as the humans would track and trail and taunt. Now, you stand on the edge of a clearing, the sky shivering above, as a man lay curled around another thing of iron, blood seeping into the ground, his own chuffing breath laboured and short.

You approach his crumpled form. He was bigger than you, yet… so small. His eyes leaked dazzling tears that shimmered to the ground, the lustre lost to the dirt below. Blood coated him, the thing of iron deep in his gut as you watched. You felt yourself lean over, curious, concerned.

You flinched as his eyes flicked open, locking onto you, sharp and sudden, before growing dull by the second, his laboured breaths so shallow. He didn’t flinch when you touched his shoulder, cold and fragile as his body cradled the thing of iron, the scent of blood and earth sweet between the stench of unnatural things.

The blood sang to you, not like the pulse of the forest. The forest was calm and rhythmic, methodical and melodious. But this blood… The blood was primal and cruel and shimmered with malice, but below it all, under the aroma of violence, the cruel beat of vicious drums… Was a melody all its own.

It tasted unlike all of nature that had tantalised your tongue. Sweeter than the richest honey, earthier than the forest mushrooms. The nectars of life were better, stronger, hardier than this human’s blood. Yet it captivated you as bursts of light shimmered over your eyes, and your lips stained with blood.

You caressed his cheek, so cold. Barely a whisper passed his lips as his bleeding slowed, his aching heart unable to follow the demands of the spirit trapped within its wounded shell. Your lips stained his tear-soaked cheek, the burst of exquisite flavour sending you reeling as you turned his head towards the roiling sky.

And you tasted him, truly. His lips, while cold, were burning and hurt almost as much as the stinging burn as you gripped the blade in his stomach. Hunger. Need. Desire. It was as primal as the thrum of his blood.

And as your flesh burned from the poisonous, corrupting iron, you drew it from his parted flesh and cast it into the forest. You pressed on the wound, vestiges of blood flowing over your hand as you kissed him, the throbbing, pulsing, frantic pace of his blood, his lips, his tears making you shiver.

His body shuddered as his lips parted, burning as they were against your own. You didn’t need to hold his wound any longer, as his shaking hand lifted from the ground, to kiss you back in the cruellest way as his eyes fluttered closed.

The silver scar shimmered as rain began to fall, the tantalising, gasping kiss left you laying over him, head on his chest as lightning thundered above, the sound of his heart thrumming in your ears.

[orionsangel86]

Sandman fandom is so funny to me. We are all going insane over a glimpse of collarbone and cleavage in the promo when he literally spent the entire first episode totally stark naked. Like its only thanks to a very intentionally placed hand that we didn't get full frontal nudity. That chest is nothing we havent seen before!

[onesidedradiostatic]

you know if you subscribe to the demiromantic pansexual val hc, between val and alastor, vox is just really prone to falling for arospec people and idk what that says about him

[wickerfemme]

my belly is so close to falling fully into my lap whenever I sit, and I'm just itching for it to close the gap. Right now it just grazes the tops of my thighs, and it's like. come on, girl; I know you can be heavier than that.

[trans-l-lawliet]

Rotating Killer Within in my mind... what if it's a game where you get the Death Note in a post-Kira world, you as the player taking over the "one year after" nameless guy that landed the new Death Note on the epilogue... or maybe go further in time, post-Minoru time, 10 years after he dies and after the weird economic changes affecting future Japan and its relationship with death/gods, the original Kira a distant memory turned cult... hell what if it's a murder mystery visual novel set in Wammy's House

[thevisionofbeautiesthemes]

[remnantspod]

How do you imagine Sir and Apprentice? (the reply may be used for fanart purposes :P)

aaa I am so excited for fan art ;-;

and aaaa there is not a way to answer this in a satisfying way without spoilers unfortunately. Suffice it to say that the Apprentice has dark hair and boyish good looks. Sir is. Or, I mean, he probably. He's. Very. He. Hmm. Yes. He probably.

Interpret this how you will.

--- Eira xxx

[purpleminte]

taking all the strength in me rn to NOT tap on the blurred out photo sent from a sketchy account that does not follow me

[gmaybe666]

pre-'pre-nuptial' episode kenstewy aka before ken accidentally kills the waiter at shivs wedding aka Kendall Dooms Himself To The Narrative is soo

[zilabee]

Snippets from Ticket To Ride, by Larry Kane, a reporter who accompanied the Beatles during the 1964 and 1965 US Tours:

- My own positive relationship with the Beatles was formed early on. Despite my cynical scepticism at the beginning, I became a fan, not only of their professional personas and their music, but also of the individuals they were. What impressed me most about all of them was their indisputable naturalness and, to varying degrees, the depth of their humanity and their lack of phoniness. Another unaffected aspect of their behaviour that was special to watch and be around was their relationship to each other.

- At one point on the tour, as I interviewed Brian Epstein, I mentioned how he seemed so protective of the Beatles. "Well, it is a simple proposition," he explained. "They are special. I believe in them. They should not be compromised or taken advantage of in any form."

- The Dallas police brandished their rifles openly; this was the first time in America that the Beatles had seen rifles at the ready. I got the impression that we would be well protected on this leg of the tour, but the raising of rifles only reinforced the anxiety that the Beatles were feeling. The expressions on their faces, their eyes wandering around, gave me the feeling that they were concerned about their safety.

- On the flight to Ohio, the Beatles seemed joyful. Paul walked up and down the aisle, winking that Paul wink and acting as host of the day. At one point, he stopped by some members of the group Exciter and said jokingly, "Coffee, tea or me?" On the plane Paul was also the biggest walker. He didn't like being confined.

- I knew we were in big trouble when the upholstery of the car's ceiling [started] getting lower, closing in on my face. By sheer force, the eager crowd, jumping on and pressing against the roof of the car, was pushing the metal roof into a dent that evolved into a sinkhole.

Ringo's smile was a wonder to watch.

- The next morning I discovered that the Beatles, or someone in their party, had urinated on the carpets of their suite at the Edgewater. This was the apparent 'plan' Lennon had mentioned to have the last laugh - or in this case the last drop - against local merchants who had planned to cut the rug up and sell it.

- I realised for the first time that this sceptical, cynical reporter was beginning to fall for the music of the Beatles. I was even humming out loud along to the tune, and I continued to do so throughout the evening. Was it the repetition, the hearing of these songs over and over, or was the music beginning to stir my spirits? Whatever the reason, listening to the music was making me feel happy. (Aug 64)

- I was curious, "How many of you have tickets?" Only a few raised their hands. Once again, hundreds, maybe thousands for all I knew, were travelling - and travelling without a chaperone - just to get close to the Beatles. Remember, in those days, teenage girls travelling alone without a parent or guardian was unheard of, but on this ride they were legion.

- Watching Brian Epstein watch the Beatles in complete absorption was one of the most educational sideshows of both great tours. He truly loved their music.

- Much has been said about the static between Paul McCartney and John Lennon after the breakup. But on our tours, we saw nothing but a sensitive closeness between all of them.

- Brian Epstein and Derek Taylor were initially prohibited from getting in making them quite upset. Epstein was also furious that day because Ringo wasn't wearing a tie.

- One of the girls got through and made a wild dash for the elevator. She tripped on a rug and fell to the floor, trapped beneath the weight of two cops. It looked like a football scrimmage. The tape of my conversation with the girl is missing, but I will never forget some of her words. She said, "They're all scumbags, those cops. They suck." She got up, dusted herself off, left the hotel and made it to the street, where she received a round of brief applause from her soulmates.

- The flight from Cleveland to New Orleans featured a magnificent pillow fight, with Lennon and Jackie DeShannon leading the combatants. It was fascinating to watch John Lennon leaping up and down the aisle and - with that eager smile and those penetrating eyes - toying with the pillows and his targets like a five year old in a playground. Practically everyone aboard got involved until a flight attendant, giggling uncontrollably, broke it up.

- One vivid image I'll never forget is of an ice-cream vendor who stopped in place, stared at the Beatles on stage in front of the grandstand and started crying. I said to him, "Is something wrong?" He replied, "No, their music just makes me very happy."

Epstein: I'm very much a Beatles fan. I've probably felt everything that any, um, male Beatles fan ever felt. All the various things I've liked, I think, is what the fans have liked, both in their music and their general manner. To me, in terms of popular music, the Beatles express a cross quality of happiness and tragedy. And this is basically what the greatest form of entertainment is made up of. They in fact do original things. Their songs are always new and different. So are their performances.

- Suddenly I heard the smashing of glass and watched the people inside the lobby rushing toward the windows. When I arrived by the windows myself, the scene was ghastly. Three girls were lying on the floor, bleeding profusely from head and facial injuries. A fourth was up on her feet and trying to stop the blood flowing from her knees. The force of the crowd had pushed these kids through the glass.

- One of the press cars, the one I was in, had a brief upside down experience. Overzealous fans mobbed our vehicle, began to shake it wildly, and ended up rolling it over onto its side. We remained stuck inside for several minutes before the highway patrol were able to right us.

- Ivor Davis (on seeing the Beatles meet Elvis): "We stood a few feet away, trying not to make them feel like prize horses at stud being watched over the fence to see if they'll mate."

- The flight to Indianapolis was subdued, but thankfully it was also short and uneventful. […] Travelling down the aisle later, John broke out a big smile and said, "So how are the nameless, faceless, unidentified news whores doing tonight?"

- Paul was the master host, providing a welcome that made the extremely nervous fans at home and comfortable. In Baltimore, I watched three girls and a boy leave the dressing room and, in the hallway outside, break into tears. They were tears of relief and joy.

- In a corner, John sat quietly and reached into his jacket for his cigarettes. He pulled out a thinner cigarette from his pack, a marijuana joint, and thumbed his lighter to start it. But before he was able to light the joint, Brian Epstein took a quick detour away from chatting with me and a few others, walked over to John, and glowered at him, shaking his head. John slipped the object of his desire back into his jacket pocket, pulled out a legal smoke from his pack, and lit up.

- Art Schreiber: "They were lonely, isolated from the world, both on tour and at home. They couldn't go anywhere. Remember, aside from all the fame and glory, they were young men, barely out of boyhood. I've always been a pretty tough reporter when it came to the people I covered, but let me tell you, they were terrific. I actually started feeling close to them. They really opened up. I was also impressed with how bright they were. They knew how to treat people. They were terrific."

- Paul would look left and right, and wink to a face in the crowd. It was a sexy form of eye candy, tantalizing the crowd with his head gyrations. Paul was a world class flirt when it came to the fans. And they loved him back.

Kane: Will you ever be anything but the Beatles? Paul: We are the Beatles, that's what we are.

[displacerbeasts]

swept off her feet

[saints-who-never-existed]

Part of me wonders if Hickey had killed enough before to become somewhat inured to the physical sensation of it?

Like he was so used to the feeling of plunging a knife into someone's body that when he did so to poor McDonald it didn't immediately register as unusual?

Which leads me to wonder in turn if the reason he does look momentarily shocked is less about the violence itself and more about being confronted so starkly by it?

The last person we know for sure that he killed was the real Cornelius Hickey and from his description of that act, I always imagine it as a very quick and frenzied attack akin to the one he inflicts on Irving. Real-Hickey is dead in the water without ever realising what just happened to him, and Fake-Hickey disappears into the night without ever having to look his poor victim in the face and confront what he's done.

McDonald's death stands in sharp contrast to that vision. No sooner has the violence been done than Hickey and he stand face to blood-streaked face. McDonald stares right at him - "his face a horrible question..." - understanding fully, if briefly, what Hickey has done to him. And Hickey is not only confronted with that understanding - with knowing that McDonald knows, if you will - but confronted with the very real and immediate consequences of his actions in a way that he perhaps hasn't been before (or at least hasn't for some time).