#when i get to see my own larynx >>>>>>>>>>

[fangparade]

doing a workshop in FEES (fiberoptic endoscopic evaluation of swallowing) today and i am excited

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

hope you feel better soon!

I am riddled with ailments, but I stay silly!

[astrofhobia]

I tried to help you.

We were never brothers. Pretending our relationship worked was what ended it. You never cared about me, I was aware of that to a certain extent. I pretended to care about you even if you knew better.

You got angry because of that, no, you didn't get angry because I pretended to care about you, you got angry because I wasn't honest with you, because I didn't tell you absolutely everything that was going on in my head.

Maybe things would have been different if they had treated you well, you were alone, trapped in someone else's mind, you felt pain but never showed it.

You were always very proud, Eclipse.

I tried to please you many times, staying extremely still in those analyzes that you did to me all the time. Until now I don't know why you made them. Was something wrong with me? Were you afraid Moon would take control? I guess you'll keep that secret until you actually die.

I was looking for a way to feed your ego and please you because it made me sad that you were alone without anyone congratulating your achievements. You always made me feel sorry for you. You can deceive yourself but you cannot deceive others. You were an artist deceiving others but you never knew how to continue with your lies and people came out of the threads you built around them. You tricked Moon and he tricked you, you tried to bully Sun and he bullied you. You killed me and I killed you.

Don't blame yourself. No one was really nice to you, no wonder you were so cold and empathetic towards me. Until Earth arrived.

She really changed your perception of people, right? You know, I love her, she's my sister. Nothing will make me hate her.

But I'm jealous of her.

She managed to get you out of your bubble without trying, it only took a few soft words for you to stop considering her a threat. You stopped seeing her as a hunting animal, you saw her as a friend.

I tried that many times. But the only thing I received was slaps and insults. You changed with others, but you never did with me.

That's my problem.

I tried to pretend that I didn't care about you. I regretted many times yelling at you, hitting you or disappointing you. I erased those feelings over and over again but they always came back.

I felt like you deserved a hug, a "I'm sorry" many times but I was never able to say it.

I was terrified that you would leave me. All those tests, I was so worried that you would leave me alone like they had left me... But my obsession with the star led me astray.

Maybe if I had been nice to you things would have been different. I mocked you when you betrayed me. But that really hurt me, my own creation stabbed me in the back.

I would have done it too if my creator abused me like that...

I'm not the Eclipse who treated you like that but I don't know how to talk to you without my larynx shutting down. I want to treat you better but our relationship is at the bottom of the sea and I don't know how to start a conversation without sinking further.

At the moment Earth appeared I was so hated by everyone, I was scared when she appeared, she didn't attack me, she didn't ignore me, she tried to be on good terms with me because she didn't know me. He knew what he had done, what he had done to you. But she still approached. She said I could have a second chance if I wanted.

I guess that's when I understood that I could improve.

I moved because I had done so much damage here that trying to walk near daycare or your family became extremely anxious and I hated that feeling.

When I got here I expected everyone to hate me. But apparently, this place is so different and the same at the same time. I feel at home but very far from there.

I try to start something new here, I want to get away from the problems but those problems are still there.

That's my problem.

But I still want to help you.

[venoyale]

AO3 MASTERLIST - Jujutsu Kaisen

will be updating :)

Gojo Satoru/Reader

Neighbourhood Watch (ongoing) - Rated E: AKA: THE Satoru Gojo being down bad for one (1) single mom. ★ fluff, SMUT, angst/comfort

Anteros (oneshot) - Rated E: "In Greek mythology, Anteros (/ˈæntərɒs/; Ancient Greek: Ἀντέρως Antérōs) was the god of requited love (literally "love returned" or "counter-love") and also the punisher of those who scorn love and the advances of others, or the avenger of unrequited love." ★ fluff, SMUT, angst/comfort

Kiss Me Better (oneshot) - Rated E: You've always understood the importance of words, especially ones that are said to someone who won't come back. However, you were foolish enough to believe this concept doesn't apply to your boyfriend, AKA The Strongest. Arguments break out, Shibuya happens, and you're left haunted by the last words you both uttered to each other. But what happens when he's quite literally sitting on your bed twenty days later, obviously missing you? And why aren't you kissing him?? ★ fluff, SMUT, angst/comfort

All I Need (oneshot) - Rated E: A friend of Shoko's is a friend of yours, right? So why does it seem like Satoru Gojo wants a lot more from you than expected? ★ SMUT, slightly obsessive but NOT yandere Gojo

Satosugu

Heartbeat (hiatus) - Rated E: When they reach the peak of ecstasy, Satoru wraps his arms around Suguru, eyes boring into the man on top of him. He wants to convey his feelings through words, but it gets stuck at the base of his larynx, so he only hopes that his saccharine moans and the unadulterated emotion pouring from his gaze sends the right message. Suguru burrows his face in Satoru’s neck so that he doesn’t see him falter under pressure. ★ SMUT, angst/comfort, misunderstandings

Venus Fly Trap (ongoing/semi-hiatus) - Rated E: What's the easiest way to capture (the heart of) the only daughter and heiress of the Gojo Conglomerate? Seems like only a certain woman has the answer to that, despite her shady and mysterious presence. ★ SMUT, sexual tension despite having marathon sex

Occult TV (ongoing/semi-hiatus) - Rated T: When Itadori, Iguchi, and Sasaki's Occult club expands into something big, like a paranormal investigation YouTube Channel, they're tasked to investigate the former home of a friend's guardians. Will they, a trio of amateur ghost-hunters, be able to find any solid evidence? Stay tuned to find out, only on Occult TV! ★ fluff, crack, slight angst/comfort

Valentine's Day 2018 (oneshot + platonic satoshoko) - Rated T: It’s not that she doesn’t care, but if she’s being honest to anyone including herself, she does not have the mental capacity to even try to be there for her white-haired friend. It’s futile, because the last person who truly understood Satoru left, and now he’s gone forever….Forever. That’s why Shoko’s here today, though. This Valentine’s Day marks the first of infinity where Suguru is gone forever. ★ angst/no comfort

Slow Mornings (oneshot) - Rated E: "Suguru now realizes just how scarce domesticity truly is, and how he almost threw it away when he wakes up on a chilly December morning with a sleeping Satoru in his arms. The expensive silk sheets that his husband had handpicked are wrapped around them tightly, bundling them up like a baby’s swaddle, or a hubby burrito as Satoru lovingly dubs it." ★ comfort, fix-it, fluff, a pinch of angst in the beginning

Character Studies

It's My Birthday, Did You Remember? (ongoing) - Rated M - Gojo Satoru: As a friend, teacher, and colleague, Satoru Gojo will always be the first person there when it comes to celebrating someone’s birthday. He thinks it’s important to celebrate the existence of a person, even if it’s for one day, and let it be known that they’re greatly appreciated. But what’s only known to a few, is that, his own birthdays weren’t like this when he was growing up…. ★ angst

[honeygrahambitch]

"Since laryngitis is not contagious I told Will he should definitely come to work today. Especially now that the Ripper dropped a body. He doesn't need to talk much. He can do his thing and then write a report on it." Jack explained to Hannibal as they arrived at the crime scene. "No one gets hurt and we get even closer to catching the Ripper."

"It's quite cold today." Hannibal commented as a tiny snow flake landed on his palm. "Will agreed I suppose?"

"He did, yes. But we have only been texting so I am not sure what state he actually is in."

Will was already there, next to Beverly, looking around the crime scene, examining something in particular. He was so focused that he didn't even hear Hannibal and Jack.

"Will." Hannibal greeted him. To that Will and Beverly turned to them.

"Will can't speak. Like, at all. I am doing the talking for him today." Beverly explained. Will rolled his eyes helplessly. "He is not thrilled about it but I can do a pretty good job."

"He definitely should not force himself." Hannibal agreed, frowning in concern. If Will was not making any effort to talk then it definitely meant his voice was gone. His usual strategy of ignoring any symptoms he would have did not work in this case.

Jack sighed loudly, probably understanding that Will should have indeed stayed home to rest instead of standing outside in negative temperatures.

"He wants to say that your coat looks majestic, Dr. Lecter." Beverly commented. "Jack, I'm not allowed to say what Will thinks about you at this very moment. I really want to keep my job."

Will didn't protest to any of the things Beverly said and pulled out a little bottle of pills. Hannibal was wondering if Will knew that aspirin won't help that much with getting back his voice. Was his throat sore as well? Probably. Will wouldn't complain about stuff like that even when his voice was perfectly fine.

Hannibal wished he would know that kind of things.

He wished Will would allow him to care for him.

That is why as soon as they were done with the crime scene, he asked Will to get into his car instead of Beverly's. He wanted to open his mouth to protest but the stern look on Hannibal's stern expression made him abandon his attempt to force his larynx.

As soon as they arrived at Hannibal's place, he started making some tea in a navy blue kettle.

"Ginger and chamomile tea does wonders for a sore throat." He explained as Will followed him with his eyes around the kitchen.

Will felt partially powerless and partially grateful. He could admit to himself that other than popping pills, he usually did nothing about feeling sick. He mostly took medication to function at work, he wouldn't need those at home.

"Thank you." He whispered.

Hannibal felt something warm inside himself at hearing his voice for the first time that day.

"You should have told- well, wrote Jack that you are too sick to work, Will. Just so you know, I'm not expecting you for our therapy session tomorrow." Hannibal said as he moved the cattle away from the electric stove.

"No, I can do it." Will whispered a bit louder and coughed immediately after.

"Therapy implies having conversations. And by canceling your appointment I don't mean that I don't want to see you tomorrow. You should definitely come here for dinner." Hannibal went on while pouring tea in two cups. "Sitting with you in silence is not something that I dread."

Will smiled at that. When it came to the two of them, silence was indeed not an obstacle. There was always something to project and something to observe.

Hannibal added a generous spoon of honey in Will's cup and none in his own.

Will opened his mouth to say something more but he coughed again. Hannibal passed him a note book and a pen.

"We can pass notes."

"How romantic" Will wrote to that, earning a genuine smile from Hannibal. Then he kept on writing and then handed the notebook back Hannibal.

"Since I can't talk and you insist on having me around I can finally do what you've been asking me for ages."

"And what have I been asking you for ages?" Hannibal asked curiously as he gave Will the notebook.

"You can draw me in your sketchbook and I promise not to move or make any comment about how boring it is." He wrote back and raised his eyebrows, watching Hannibal's expression as he was reading his words.

"Are you sure?" Hannibal asked trying to conceal his excitement behind a satisfied expression. He was already picturing each pencil or charcoal he could use.

Will nodded.

[dangerkittenclaws]

Hi! If you are taking requests could I request a sleep token Vessel X reader where he comforts reader after a nightmare?

The amount of excitement I got when I saw this ask- AH!!! Hands down, nightmare comfort fics are my weakness by far, always have been. So thank you!! I hope you enjoy! This is STRONGLY inspired by my own nightmares and their aftermaths, so a tad self indulgent too. 😝😘

vessel x f!reader

warnings: nightmares obv, a lot of comfort from the cute lean bean of a man

It’s happening again.

It’s the one where you feel your body vibrating. Your mind is aware but your body is still asleep. You’re unable to move, frozen to your bed and unable to open your eyes. Not that you’d really want to see what was going on.

You feel as though you’re being watched from all sides. The only sound you hear is your own blood rushing through your veins and your lungs are moving oxygen so fast that you feel as though there's not enough. Panic sets in to your bones now.

You know it’s happening and you’re not able to stop it. Try as you might to tell yourself that it will be over soon, the terror that's being inflicted on you by whatever force above you is overwhelming.

You try to call out to Vessel, exerting all of your energy it seems, to get your voice to work, for air to move through your larynx.

The sound of your blood gets to be too loud and your entire being feels like it’s being shaken by this force that comes to haunt you too often.

Soon, you think through your panic. Soon you’ll pass out and it’ll be over. Soon is finally here.

Blackness envelops you, for how long, you’re unsure.

You wake up in near hysterics next. This time you’re able to move with your own will. Your legs come up to your chest as you sit upright.

Your breathing once again is too fast as you clutch the sides of your neck. You try to look around you to get your bearings.

Vessel moves to sit up next to you, “‘re okay, love. I’m right here.”

Tears fill your eyes and quickly overflow. You feel a hand rubbing up and down your spine, trying to get your lungs to cooperate. Your breath catches over and over again as you sob. The fear running through you is tangible.

Vessel realizes you’re past the point he usually can catch you to calm down. He gets up to be in front of you, moving the comforters to take your forearms in each of his hands.

“Hey, hey, focus on me,” he says seriously. You blink rapidly and look up to him. You try not to think about being frozen as you were, helpless and vulnerable.

“That's it. Focus on my voice sweetheart.” He puts your palms to his bare chest. This always helps you to focus.

“Breathe, baby. Slow. In and out. Do it with me. In and out.” You try to follow as best as you can through the tears streaming down your face. You feel his voice rumble through your hands as he speaks and his ribcage moving as he exaggerates his deep breaths.

He shushes you for a few moments. As childish as it may seem, it’s your favorite thing to hear.

You look into his eyes, trying to show him just how terrified you were a moment ago. You squeeze shut your eyes for a moment, more tears flow and you breathe out heavily.

“There you go. Just like that.” One of his hands leaves your own to caress your face. You lean into him. His thumb brushes underneath your eye, the skin there tender with hot tears.

You let your lungs fill with oxygen and breathe out again. It’s coming easier now, but your diaphragm still spasms occasionally.

“You’re okay now, pretty girl. It’s over.” He reassures you. He knows that this dream is recurring and petrifies you.

You breathe out before swallowing to speak, “I’m sorry. It.. it always feels so real.”

You always feel a bit stupid afterwards. It’s not like a zombie came back to life and ripped your leg off. Something normal be scared about. It’s just that an unknown force seems to make you unable to move on your own accord and to feel your body practically vibrating invokes such a fear into you that it leaves you unable to sleep for days afterwards. There’s never a zombie, as much as you wish for one instead.

“I know it does.” He reaches for your water cup on the nightstand and puts the straw to your lips. You suck down nearly half of it before exhaling again. “I’ll always be here, okay?” You nod at him as you take back your arms from him.

You get up to use the bathroom and gather your thoughts. By the time you get back to bed, Vessel is there, opening the covers to you.

“Come on, sleep time.” You slide in next to him, feet cold from the bathroom tile. You rub them together before finding his legs to warm them up. He laughs quietly, “Why do your feet always find me when they’re cold?”

“Because you’re always warm!” you whisper-yell.

He laughs again before sliding an arm around you.

“You know I’ll always be here for you, right? After every nightmare, after every dream.” He tightens his arm for a moment and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“Mhmm,” You snuggle in closer to him, if that’s possible. “Thank you,” you whisper back before pressing your lips to his ribs.

You hear him shushing you again, knowing it's your weakness and your eyes close.

Vessel stays awake for a bit longer just to make sure your little breaths are even against his skin.

[translunaryanimus]

Salutations! I recently found your alien world and was instantly hooked by your Chenesht sophonts. The world is captivated - but your conlang truly hooked me. I don't i've EVER seen an alien conlang as fleashed out as yours, and as a nerd of biology (and not linguistics) I have no idea how to start incorporating such a intricate concept into my own world

My question is: what is this Chenesht like? could a human speak it? And most importantly how did you make it and what are your tips & tricks for someone starting their own conlang?

Oh man thank you! Funny enough this isn't even my most fleshed out conlang [that honor belongs to one I made ages ago that will never see the light of day] but I'm exceptionally glad you enjoy it!

Chenesht language is divided into 2 groups, regional and standardized. Regional is an umbrella term used for the several different dialects spoken across the supercontinent, whereas standardized is what's accepted as the 'proper form', ie. what you'd learn out of a textbook. Chenesht isn't 100% pronounceable by humans due to their Ejective Glottal Click consonant [usually romanized as 'CH']. Chenesht make it by exhaling quickly and opening/slamming closed a special set of flaps around their larynx that initially formed for their pre-language pre-sapience mating call. It ends up resonating in their chest/throat, and makes chenesht a shockingly loud spoken language. The closest humans can get is the hard 'k' or the ejective post-alveolar click of Xhosa [represented by q].

The rest of the sounds are nothing special though, and humans can and do easily pick it up!

In terms of overall sound, the closest languages I could point you to are Welsh [due to their 'sh' consonant being identical to the welsh 'll'] and Xhosa [due to the aforementioned clicks], but I'm not sure it resembles any one human language. These are also the human languages Chenesht have the easiest time picking up.

ADVICE SECTION - Making a conlang isn't easy necessarily, but it can be really fun. I always take myself through a small checklist whenever I start one.

1- What sounds could the speaker reasonably produce given their anatomy?

2- How developed does this need to be?

3- What is the 'vibe' of the language?

When I have all of those, I feel comfortable to start. For Chenesht, they can reasonably produce All human sounds + some extra, but I chose to limit myself to their current batch of sounds for the sake of ease. I decided I wanted it to be functional enough to eventually write a couple sentences in it + write dialogue for Chenesht characters if I want/need to. And I decided the 'vibe' was going to be loud and lilting. Vibe is a pretty nonspecific term to use here, but the way I think about it is the way that humans stereotype human languages. To an english speaker, languages like German and Russian may sound 'harsh' or 'scary' because of their rougher sounds, whereas french and spanish sound 'smooth' and 'romantic' due to softer consonants and longer vowel sounds.

After I had all that, I decided on my 'batch' of sounds, you can have as many or few of these as you want to. Chenesht have ~15 give or take borrowed sounds for loanwords. Then I just start smashing them together into words and adding grammar rules where I deem necessary. Chenesht is currently sorely lacking in grammar, but it is in the works. Currently i'm sort of just adding words when I need them and slowly building a dictionary in the process!

For specific resources i'd recommend

- LanguaGen lets you input different letter/sound combinations and will randomly generate 'words' from it following syntax patterns that you input. It also has a handy help page in case you get stuck

- Babelingua isn't educational per se but the channel is excellently fun and has some good videos that helped me understand conlangs, such as their Polysynthetic Languages video and their Upper Tanana series

- Bibliaridion has a Whole Series on Making Conlangs, a playlist of Conlang Showcases and a pretty excellent series for Speculative Biology as well

-Agma Schwa in general has a lot of conlang/conlang content and generally solid advice

Good luck with your conlang endeavors! And thank you for the kind words! [Also lovely bittern pfp, I love bitterns!]

[drawonescenet]

Hi! long time with no uploads from me, so here you go!!

3 sketches and 1 complete illustration! Hinata during the "Poor Unfortunate Souls " scene. In my AU Fanfic, both Hinata and Sakura give up their voices and become human, but it is also at this moment that they get separeted in the story, so the scene is told from Hinata's perspective. I will add a little fragment from the story, I hope you like it.

Than you all for the support, likes, rebblogs and comments.

I would also appreciate if you could visit my Deviantart account :

Now, for the story, enjoy.

" There has been a beautiful duet echoing at the witch's lair just a moment ago.

Hinata, princess of the underwater kingdom of The Hyuga, had reluctantly signied her name to a magical contract along her best friend Sakura, her lady in wating, to give up their voices in exchange of becoming humans for 3 months. Sakura's desperation to be with a human prince she had fallen in love for and her own unwillingness to marry Prince Toneri, of the Otsusuki Kingdom, had led them to the sea witch lair. Orochimru, powerful in magic as rumor had him, made a special incantantion:

Beluga, sevruga, come winds of

the Caspian Sea

Larynxes, glossitis

Et max laryngitis

Le loro voce to me!

Now, sing! Compelled by the magic at play Hinata started singing against her will, as if a force was pulling at her very vocal chords, she and Sakura sang loud and beautifly. unabel to move or stop. Two pairs of hands appeared from the cauldron menacingly moving towards each of the singing mermaids. Fear gripped Hinata's heart as she tried to resist the magic suronding her. She couldn't see Sakura, but she could hear her her loud and clear as she also sang. Then one of the hands brushed away her hair, Hinata flinched at the ghostly apparition's touch, but her voice did not waver. Sh eopened her eyes, facing one of the two hands that had stop right in front of her. Keep Singing!! The witch shouted. Hinata knew that her voice was now under the complete control of the witch, she no longer had any way of resistng her, being able only to watch as the gosthy hand went for her moth, her eyes closing as she felt it dive dow her throat. It lasted but a moment, hearing hers and Sakura's singing, when she felt the hand leaving her. Hinata had gently closed her lips the moment she felt the evil apparition exit her mouth. Opening her eyes she saw it. Her voice in the form of a shinning golden pearl, singing her song and trapped in the hands grasp. Clutching her neck in absolute shock, Hinata could only watch as her voice  was captured in a seashell with another one for Sakura's voice. At that moment, it began. The cauldron erupted in light and smoke creating two bubbles that encapsulated the mermaids. Hinata squirmed inside her magical cocoon, her face twisted in pain as she silently scremed. Her tail split in two forming two beautiful legs and in a last pulse of light, her bubble burst, realising her of the pain, but leaving her helplessly trying to swim as she was now unabel to breath underwater. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Sakura struggling to swim to the surface. Meanwhile the witch was laughing out of control, an insane look in his eyes. He made a gesture with his hands and Hinata felt and impuls pulling her upwards, almost unconsious she reaches the surfece and emerges, fliping her hair as she brakes waters, breathing in the so needed air. Fortunately the witch had sent her near the shoreline, so she swam as best as she could reaching for the lands. her last thoughts where of Sakura and what had been of her, she wasen't here in the shore, so maybe the witch had capture her? Hinata could only wonder as the last of her consiousness slipped and everything went dark, the moon and the stars bathing her new human form with their light."

[carries-corn-syrup]

fic question:

if amber and stu met, how do you think they’d interact?

gift for @slashherslut, the original stu x amber shipper ♡

warnings/before you read: fairly large age gap (amber is 18 for the sake of me not getting cancelled), rarepair that isn’t widely considered, porn with plot, oneshot, op’s first smut, might be ooc on amber’s end because i need to rewatch 5, voice kink if you squint

the best decision amber made, by far, was making an account on that online ghostface forum that richie recommended. one of the admins greeted her warmly and set her up to get started. immediately, she found discussions in cryptic hyperlinks that caught her eye.

these discussions usually brought up one of the killers in the original stab- stu macher. constantly overlooked in later movies, left out of the narrative, seemingly on purpose? what could it mean? amber typed out only three sentences.

> i think stu’s still alive. tvs weren’t 50 pounds back then: i owned a vcr from 1994, it was only 37. weighed it myself. <

within the span of five minutes, a reply from the original poster, “mach_iavellian”, responded:

> so did i- the one from my house was almost 40 pounds. it fell on my dad when he was assembling it- he was fine. just a concussion. <

amber’s eyes lit up. she finally felt right. she finally felt seen.

the next couple of days, she lurked on the forum. “mach_ivellian” became an online friend of sorts, and someone she could vent her vitriol on the newer stab movies to. he always listened. he always agreed, giving his reasons to think the way he did.

in time, she started to learn more about the enigmatic user. that he was apparently 37, he worked for a “protection agency” known only as “atrophy” (a name which gave no relevant results on amber’s search engine) and that him and his best friend were part of the first massacre. also, that he still lived in woodsboro. ..surprising, considering all he’d been through in that town. according to him.

amber decided to do some more digging. what did he mean, “part of” the massacre? wouldn’t he say “victims of?” why did he pick that word for his username? was it just to be edgy? the user gave her one request: “use tor. you’ll find everything you need to know.”

she searched up “atrophy protection services” immediately on the browser. a page for a…. hitman service came up. the names matched, though. she needed to learn more. she scrolled through the list of “participating protectors in your vicinity” until one caught her eye.

- s. macher. 37 y. o. elite-tier “rhino”. supernaturally fast reflexes. good with hand-to-hand and sharps. unpredictable behavior.

she forwarded the link to the forum user, who sent only a nodding emoticon. she found her mark.

but, by extension, so did he.

she decided to meet up with him. now that she knew that she was actually talking to one of the perpetrators of the ghostface attack? the original one? the massacre that started it all? she was ecstatic. they traded addresses over private messaging. amber searched up stu’s new address on a real estate website, only to find that it was a small, cramped housing project commissioned by the state. she almost felt bad for him. almost.

the man at the door was not what she expected. nearly seven feet tall, a black hoodie beneath a kevlar vest, dark camouflage pants, and- strangest of all- an armored mask that obscured almost all of his face, save for his piercing deep blue eyes.

“you planned on meeting up with me,” the man finally spoke after a quiet pause. his voice was low and gravelly, raspy almost- like someone ripped out his larynx, tore it apart, and sewed it back together. his voice alone made a strange, warm feeling settle into amber’s stomach. something she’d never felt with a boy her age.

“i did,” she responded awkwardly, letting the man into the house. he seemed melancholy, seeing his house after so many years. he stood, almost idly in the entryway before moving quietly to the dining room and sitting on one of the chairs.

“sitting” was a generous word, though- he was moreso lounging, spreading his legs and relaxing his neck against the back of the chair in such a way that made the fuzzy feeling in her abdomen intensify. his breaths came out in huffs that bounced off of his mask. “…i bet you pictured me the exact same as the way i was back in ‘96. young, dumb, inexperienced.. i’ve matured, trained- i’m better than i ever was then,” the man broke the silence again, aligning his neck to make eye contact with amber, who was leaning awkwardly in the doorway. she must’ve been doing something wrong, because the masked man straightened his back and tilted his head.

“..you’re making a very weird face, amber.”

in reality, amber was picturing the filthy things she wanted the man in front of her to do- pounding his cock into her sopping cunt, his hands migrating from his sides to her neck. choking her. keeping her from making a single sound. keeping her quiet and obedient. what kind of sounds would he be suppressing with hands like those… moans? screams? maybe he could use his knife. the very knife that killed so many…

“you alright?” that breathy voice against the mask asked amber, shaking her out of her dirty thoughts. she hesitated, uncharacteristically.

“..yeah, i’m.. i’m fine. just forgot something, that’s all,” she laughed nervously, trying desperately to save her situation.

“one of the questions for the interview?” he asked gently. amber’s mind lurched. he thought he was here for an interview. about the massacre, i bet, she thought to herself.

“so.. when are we starting?” stu asked, still making eye contact with those mariana trench-blue eyes. amber didn’t want to tell him that she wanted to hook up. she had to, for the sake of attempting to be a good person, but she wanted to keep him in the dark, just for a while more.

“…whenever you’re ready. i have a pc in my bedroom, so we might need to go up there if you’re not comfortable with my.. er.. class hearing your voice,” amber responded warmly, finally chasing the thoughts out of her head, ignore the pounding feeling in her core. her plans were delayed, but that was alright, in her eyes. they’d come to fruition soon enough.

“so,” stu attempted to make small talk as he followed her up the stairs, “you mentioned this… me coming here, i mean, being part of a project for your high school. but you said to me that you were eighteen. that’s.. past high school, isn’t it?”

“i was held back a grade,” amber shamefully replied once they reached her room. “had to repeat 8th.” stu chuckled to himself at the information, exhaling in stuttering puffs through his nose. at her failure. “i’ll take your word for it,” he said sitting cross-legged on her mattress. it creaked in the anguish of someone that tall (and heavy) sitting on it that way. she wanted to see him lying on that mattress. hands cuffed together, behind his head, writhing and painfully erect. whining in that deliciously breathy voice. wearing nothing but that featureless mask. what he had under it, amber fantasized quietly, before-

“you’re making that face again. what’s on your mind?”

“n.. nothing, mr. macher,” she responded after an awkward beat of silence, gritting her teeth into a smile that must have looked uncomfortable. her thoughts were getting to her.

“is that so?” he cocked his head so that it aligned on his neck. he sat up a bit more and slowly removed his kevlar vest. “..you’re really eyeing me up. like you’ve got something you wanna say to me,” he nearly muttered as he took off the heavy garment.

just as amber suspected, he was wearing a themed sweatshirt, probably from spencer’s or the halloween store across town that was only open for a few months in the fall. she wanted to butt in and ask him to take everything off, but that might elicit the wrong reaction. the last thing she wanted was to make a bad first impression on stu macher. but those damn thoughts came clawing back into her mind- his face, when he was her age though, in a blissed-out expression as he bucks his hips senselessly through the remainder of his orgasm. maybe it was all scarred-up from the tv. that made a pleasant shiver run through her.

“let’s just start the.. the interview, huh?” amber asked. stu nodded compliantly, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. in reality, amber had tons of questions to ask him. how did he survive the television? how did he survived being stabbed that deep? why did he choose the victims he did? why did he spare randy? is billy loomis still alive? how did he fly under the radar for so long? how did he become a hitman? could she take a job like that? she wouldn’t let her urges take over just yet- she couldn’t. over the course of about an hour, she transposed every answer to her questions. he even handed her a small piece of cardstock with numbers to call if she wanted to sign up for atrophy.

“thank you for answering my questions, but i.. didn’t actually want to interview you, mr. macher,” amber’s stomach dropped and turned itself in knots as she uttered those dreaded words. his brow dropped, then furrowed slightly.

“..what? then.. then why’d you ask me to come here? what’s this “project” about? …is there someone i need to kill? cuz sidney prescott’s off the table,” stu responded cluelessly. amber finally decided to make one move on him- a risky move.

“i asked you to come here because i found a yearbook from my school dated to 1996 on ebay. you are, er, were really hot back then,” she finally admitted. “i didn’t want to interview you, mr. macher. i.. i wanted to..” she couldn’t even bring herself to say it. she must have sounded like a stalker. she must have sounded like an insufferable creep. but stu’s eyes only widened beneath the mask as the gears turned in his head. attempting to find the answer on his own. stu could only say one phrase as he was considering what she said, weighing his options.

“..you really see me that way, amber?”

she nodded only once, standing up from her chair at the desk and leaning against it. “the case fascinates me to no end. being with someone who was a part of it? even just for a night? god, i’d.. i’d feel so lucky. if you, like, reject me or whatever, that’s fine though. i won’t take it personally.. i promise,” she finally said it out loud. in all honesty, she probably would take it personally if he rejected her, but she’d never take out her anger on him.

she saw him smile through the mask. he must not have heard that in a while. that he was desired that way. he motioned with two of his fingers for amber to sit on the mattress. she immediately complied. he looked at her face for a silent moment.

“i didn’t realize you were this pretty up close. you remind me of my first girlfriend, back when i was your age,” his gaze softened through the eye holes in his mask. amber wanted to slip the thing off of his face, finally feel his lips on hers, but the looming thought that he’d change his mind and leave still crossed her psyche.

“i just have one question before we, y’know, get started,” he said, pulling down the hood of his sweater.

“have you done this before?”

amber sheepishly shook her head. she knew there was no need to be embarrassed- she turned 18 eight months ago. stu only nodded, knowing how he needed to approach this now.

he moved to stand off the edge of the bed and gently pushed amber onto her back, but she stopped herself on her hands to look up at him. he undid his heavier layers first, keeping his shirt, mask, socks, and black briefs on. then he helped amber with her clothes, save for the mismatched lingerie she was wearing. under the shirt that hugged his figure in a remarkably attractive way, amber could make out toned muscle. so that’s what the website meant by “rhino”, amber thought to herself.

he pulled amber up so that their hips were touching. she was already wet through her underwear, and stu took notice.

“.. damn. were you thinking about me like this the whole interview, sweetheart?” he asked almost mockingly, rutting his hips against hers. amber only nodded, the new friction from his hardening cock against her clit already making a moan want to escape. he knew that she was thinking about him like that. he knew the face she was making was one of lust. he was just leading her on, making things more difficult on purpose. mocking her.

“pretty baby… ‘m gonna pound you.. gonna fuck ya dumb,” he quietly muttered under his breath, finally pulling his briefs down and sighing in relief once they hit the floor. soon after, he removed his shirt. he was in nothing but his armored mask now, but the scars running down to his collarbone and adam’s apple- like cracks in porcelain- left little to imagine.

he sighed dreamily before gazing down at amber’s still-clothed cunt. soaking wet through her panties, arousing by itself. slowly, almost too slow even for him, he pulled them off of her hips, down her thighs. she playfully kicked them off. beneath his mask, he was probably chewing his bottom lip. he audibly whined as he lined up his already-throbbing cock with her warm, already-lubricated hole. just the contact alone was enough for him at that stage.

as soon as stu pushed into her, filling her up completely, amber nearly screamed as she felt the rip of her innocence being taken away. she could feel every vein, every ridge, and as soon as his hips started moving, shameless moans and sighs started spilling from amber, nearly subconsciously. as he started getting into his rhythm more, stu started making the filthiest sounds she’d ever heard a human make. loud groans and high whines that made his raspy voice break as he pounded into her ruthlessly. and he had no shame. he didn’t ever cover his mouth or muffle the slapping of his skin against hers. he squeezed her hips with both of his hands, trapping her impossibly close against his abdomen. it felt like amber was holding on for dear life to a brick wall. eventually, his legs almost gave out due to the pleasure alone, so he instead knelt on the mattress and motioned amber to turn onto her stomach.

she obeyed immediately, and the feeling as he penetrated her again was new, somehow, her already-tightening hole clenching around stu, making him groan and gasp, before-

“i think ‘m gonna cum, sweetheart.”

something snapped within amber then, something she’d never felt on her own when she saw those pictures of the crime scenes and imagined she was there. a hot coil, a spring coming undone- a scream. she felt out of her body before the thick, intruding thing wedged between her thighs pulled out and hot fluid spilled onto her back in bursts.

amber woke up later that night, still nude but clean. the man she slept with was next to her, the armored balaclava on the nightstand. he was facing away from her, breathing heavily. he must have been asleep, she thought to herself, but before she could sleep on her own, he rolled onto his other side to face her.

his face was scarred, almost to an extreme degree, but beautiful in its complexity. those same scars on his neck extended up to and converged at his face, and as she looked down at his form she could see other marks. stab marks. the only thing he must have left of billy.

she finally knew what became of stu macher. and in the morning, when he inevitably left, she was going to call up richie and thank him for the best recommendation of her life.

[assless-chapstick]

BABY JOHN HEADCANONS

not like baby baby but like he's MY baby yk? my babygirl as a baby before he was babygirl when he was a little baby boy

• When the gang gets John - cuz let's be real, they get him the way one gets a puppy or a case of smallpox - he's fresh off that attempted hanging. It was more of a lynching than anything, an impromptu eye-for-an-eye killing after John shot a feller with his own god damned gun. What made a twelve year old mad enough, scared enough to kill, and how'd he manage to grab the guys gun? Kid won't say

• kid won't say much of anything, really. The gang had a disgraced doctor running with them at the time, a guy so hooked on his own cures and tinctures you wouldn't trust him to diagnose a hole in the head, and he said the noose had crushed John's larynx. Sure, the boy can still talk, but it ain't ever gonna sound the same and for the first lil while it'll be hard as hell, but he should be able to. So why don't he?

Doc says maybe the lynching, lack of oxygen to the brain made him go daft cuz just look at him, ain't a thought behind those eyes.

But Dutch, he has faith, he knows.

I think just the fear and trauma after the incident sent John to a pretty rough place and he went nonverbal for a space of six or nine months. Not right after, maybe, but in the following days and weeks - enough they got a name out of him, an age (he said 12 but he's got the stature of an eight year old, not nearly enough meat on his bones), a little bit of a story. "Where's your daddy, boy?" Dead. "And yer mama?" Dead.

• John was always told his ma was a lady of the night, knocked up on accident and dead in childbirth. He came out with the cord around his neck and his ma bled out before they could even untangle him.

There'd been a picture, though he'd never had the courage to ask his father about it, drunk and angry as he was. A young woman with round features and hooded eyes, long dark hair parted in the center and braided, his father's hand resting gently on her shoulder, both posed like a portrait.

(john is métis/mixed indigenous and you can pry that headcanon from my cold dead fuckin hands)

• in the winter john is so small and skinny he gets too cold at night and Arthur begrudgingly is like "FINE you can share with me" and so they share a bed until John is like 16 fjjfbfbf way too old to be sharing but imho John is a bit of a late bloomer and sort of, not a mamas boy but just kind of a baby yk?? Arthur is like "dontcha think it's time you got your own tent or something?" and John's like "No." and just walks away and Arthur is like "AT LEAST YER OWN COT??"

• john is reptilian in his search for heat he just wants to be warm ever since they got him he's crawled into Arthur's jacket whatever chance he gets

• during that first year especially, John was clingy and strange.... after a particularly terrible bathing experience (Susan is great but she's fastidious about personal hygiene and if water goes above John's navel he starts to freak) Arthur is just posted up by the fire with John sat between his knees, tucked into his jacket as they sit in silence mutually brooding... and John reaches up to rub the stubble on Arthur's jawline as a way of like, stimming n self soothing and Arthur would stop him cuz it's weird but he feels those boney little shoulders loosen and John says something, and he never says Anything so Arthur knows it's a big deal... so he just let's John keep doing it after that

• Susan is highly against taking in a child when they first bring John around - maybe because she thinks the main childcare duties will fall to her, or because she doesn't trust the gang to be a safe place for a kid - and this manifests as a little bit of short-temperedness towards him. it's not unusual, she's kind of a Bitch on the best days, but she's cold towards him at first... and I don't think anything Happens, per sé, no big event, just over time she sees he's a damaged boy in need of mothering and that's a part of herself she tried to kill a long time ago... but he brings it out of her. She nags him to cut his hair but brushes it out for him anyway; she'll share an apple with John if no one's looking, peeling it and quartering it and sneaking him a piece. She'll complain about the food - "God this stew is terrible what's in it? Rat meat? Here John, you finish it" - because sometimes good food is scarce and he's a growing boy and she sees his hungry frame, remembers how he used to steal and hoard food in the early days. They almost always have enough but she wants him to have more than enough. She reads to him, and then when he's learned to she gets him to read to her. A damp cloth on the forehead when he's laid low with fever, maybe a soft lullaby if she thinks no one's around...

• at age 12 John has a smoking habit. I don't know if this is unusual for the era or not and I dont know what the gang thinks of it but the kid loves his tobacco

• in fact John rolls his own cigarettes and, when he's young, that's primarily how he earns his keep - those tiny little kid's hands did a great job and he ends up getting the chore foisted on to him from everyone fndbbdf ( prerolled cigarettes had been invented only 7 years prior)

• at agw john also unfortunately loves to drink. I don't know if this was unusual for the era but I'm sure Hosea and Susan and even Dutch had something to say about it

and I think that's all I got in my head for now fellers.... thanks for reading mister....

[girldragongizzard]

Chapter 5: Cop Out

Did you know that humans have instincts?

When I was growing up, and everyone thought I was a human boy, everything I read about instincts claimed that humans simply don’t have them. But as I got older and started thinking about things like gender, sexuality, and eating preferences, I started to see that this was wrong. And now, I’m pretty sure there are scientists that fully recognize that humans have instincts. It’s just that human instincts are buried and hidden under a gorgeous complexity of social interactions and conscious executive functions, and the ability humans have to just learn so much, and keep learning. But they’re still there.

Let’s take a look at a simple one.

Most human infants have an instinct to grip anything that’s placed in their palm. Previously, scientists would call that a reflex in humans, and a survival instinct in monkeys and other apes. Any other baby primate has got to hold onto their mother. But a human infant? Not so much. And it is a reflex. A simple reaction to stimulus. But it’s also an instinct. A bit of evolved behavior that didn’t hurt to have and at one time increased the chances of survival and continued reproduction.

And human adults still have that instinct. They use it in things like the design of bicycle brakes. By using a lever on the grip of the handlebars, humans have taken advantage of that gripping instinct to do the right thing in a moment of crisis without thinking about it much. If you get startled or see danger, you clench your fist, and clenching your fist is how you pull on the brake and stop the bike.

Now, I’m noticing that since my transformation, I’ve unlocked a whole bunch of draconic instincts. And the more complex ones, too. The ones that are a series of reflexes. A chain of if-then statements in my nervous system. I’m pretty sure it’s how I got through the day, how I made the correct assumption that Whitman was just challenging me for dominance (and probably why Whitman challenged me in the first place), and how I’ve so easily and even accidentally imitated basic sounds I’ve heard. I think it’s also why I can drink anything without drowning myself with this new anatomy. I just know how to use it. It’s certainly how I was able to breathe fire.

Humans have instincts that are that complex too, and I obviously had some of them when I was younger. Such as the instinct to learn language and figure out how to use a larynx and mouth to talk.

I’m pretty sure, at some point, I can eventually learn to talk again. I have all this language in my head. But I don’t seem to have the instincts to naturally apply all this linguistic knowledge I have to my new vocal apparatus.

And this is going to be a problem when talking to the police.

But I’ve got an even bigger problem right now.

Because, when Rhoda opens that door after speaking to the officer through it for as long as she felt she could, what I see there is not just a couple of police officers. I see a couple of competing predators that are not my own species.

And before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve already reared up and flapped my wings completely careless of Rhoda’s belongings. And I’ve made my favorite noise again. To human ears, I imagine it might sound like a muscle car trying to imitate an enraged parrot. If I took a deep breath and really pushed it, I think I could work an elephant into it as well. I might practice that.

And just like that, there are guns pointed at me.

“I thought you just wanted to talk,” Rhoda manages to say.

“Ma’am,” one of the cops utters, putting all of his intention into that word, nodding toward me.

His partner is grimacing and obviously trying to decide what to do.

These two people have been trained to fire at anything that is a clear and present danger to themselves. Which is currently me. And that training has got them to at least draw their weapons.

But – and I recognize this because a combination of my reading and my emotional instinct are kicking in – they’re being hit by a human reflex that’s been largely hidden for as long as anyone can remember. Though it’s made it into almost all the myths.

Well. Humans do have this reflex. As someone who had C-PTSD, I know it all too well. Sometimes humans freeze in the face of danger. Sometimes they fight. Sometimes they run. Sometimes they try to make nice, they fawn. And I think there are a couple of other reactions there, too.

But, when it comes to dragons, there is something deeper and more ancient and stronger that always results in freeze, apparently.

Because now that I’ve locked eyes with them, they can’t seem to budge or pull their trigger fingers.

The thing that sinks my heart is that when Rhoda turns to look, she gets caught up in the transfixation, too.

I can think about this, and I can make decisions still, but I’m learning something important and unfortunate at the same time. Because I’m on the other side of this, and I’m finding that it’s something of a two way street.

It’s as if I’m transfixed by them as well.

My body is swaying of its own accord from side to side, which causes my neck to snake a bit, and that pushes my head side to side ever so slightly. My head is swiveling to keep my gaze locked on the enemy’s eyes.

I’ve already noticed how much my attention is drawn to movement. Anything that moves within my vision vies for my center of focus. I don’t have to snap attention to it, but I want to. And if I look at something that’s moving, I see it more sharply and clearly. It’s easier to focus on it and see the details. And by my body doing this little dance, which I’m sure is part of what triggers the transfixion instinct in humans, I’m also having my movement tracking triggered as my targets parallax against the background despite otherwise being frozen.

And I’ve got two very strong urges, and it’s just like having my C-PTSD triggered. It’s all I can do not to follow one of the two of them. My whole body is tensing and coiling in anticipation of action on my part. And the longer that this lasts, the more intense the urgency is. It feels like a mix of fear and hunger.

If I were encountering these police in the wild and had recognized them as a threat there and gotten us into this same situation, I might have more options. I’d likely be able to take one of the two choices being presented to me by my instincts, and choose to retreat and take to the sky.

And I think the reason humans are frozen by a dragon’s stare is that half the time a dragon would just use that opportunity to leave. Maybe even more than half the time. Humans are pretty scary, actually. Especially when they have pointy things.

I’m terrified of those guns. I don’t think I’m impervious to projectiles like dragons in movies and stories, and a bullet is going to do some pretty shitty things to me, especially if it punctures one of my fire sacks, or whatever I should call them.

Flying would be risky, as once I get away from them the transfixion might be broken, and bullets can go pretty far. But it would be the more socially acceptable of the two options, and I can’t do it because I’m surrounded by walls and a ceiling. And I can’t turn to crawl out a window or I’ll break the transfixion.

Which leaves the other urge.

Pounce and eat.

I don’t want to be a people eater, but right now I want to.

And it doesn’t help that I’ve exerted myself a lot today, because that’s making me even hungrier.

But I’m a civilized dragon.

I’m not going to do it.

I’m not.

I’m not.

By the logic of this instinct and the urges it’s making me feel, Rhoda is now one of my targets, and I’m not going to do it.

I’m using my C-PTSD therapy to manage this. But it’s a tense situation that gets more tense with every second and every movement. Because I don’t know how long these people will remain frozen.

Remember that squeezing instinct humans have? That’s how you fire a gun.

Something about the transfixion prevented them from doing that, so far. And like so much of all of this, I don’t know how that works.

I slowly uncoil myself and move forward, snaking side to side even more as I go. And I watch as the guns track my chest.

Yeah.

They can move a little bit.

And they look so soft and vulnerable.

I lower myself as I get closer to them, which is dangerous because it’s another pouncing position, and I feel my butt wiggle back and forth like a cat calibrating a leap. And I visualize how that leap is going to go down.

But I keep moving slowly, armored head momentarily between those guns and my more vulnerable chest cavity, keeping my eyes on theirs the whole time. Which they can clearly see, because my head twitches with every movement to keep it that way.

And then I rise up right before them, almost between the guns, towering up until my horns brush the ceiling.

Oh, wow, I smell urine.

I’d take a deep breath to calm myself, but that smell is triggering my hunting reflexes something fierce and if I fill my nostrils with it I might lose control. So I hold my breath.

And I slowly, carefully place the palms of my foreclaws on the tops of the guns and push down steadily and glacierly with my whole weight.

I do what I can to grip the guns themselves with my claws, without nicking their hands. But without actually looking at them, because I don’t want to break eye contact, it’s hard. I think I do draw blood.

But I don’t hook their hands, just the guns, and that’s nice.

Neither of the officers have the strength to hold those guns up, and eventually my weight forces them to let go and stumble back a couple wobbly paces.

And now I’m standing on the guns.

And I’m close enough that I can only keep my eyes on the two police officers, and Rhoda is broken from the spell.

“Gentlemen, I think it would be a good idea for you to leave,” she says cautiously but firmly.

Now that I’ve secured their guns, I know I’m in less danger, so I force myself to tilt my head quizzically and then glance at Rhoda. But not at her eyes.

Then I look at the policemen in the chest.

That snaps them both out of it and they stumble further back into the hallway. But one of them looks longingly at his gun, while the other stammers and fixates on Rhoda.

“We’re going to have to call this in,” he says. “This is aggravated assault of a - “ And his eyes flick back to mine and his words trail off.

“You don’t have ordinances for dragons, do you?” Rhoda asks. “How does a dragon fit into your laws, anyway? Are they an animal or a person? I assure you, this one has a name and can talk if you let her use a tablet or my phone. You recognize that, don’t you?”

Both the officers look at her in confusion.

“We all see it,” she says. “Before you drew your guns on her, you were going to ask to see her ID, weren’t you? But this is all so new, there aren’t any laws about it. And maybe until there are, you should leave her alone.”

“We really did just want to ask some questions,” the one who was staring at his gun says.

“Dear?” Rhoda says to me. “Do you want to answer the questions that these fine gentlemen have for you?”

I kind of do. I want to make it clear to everyone that I was attacked in my own apartment by Whitman. And going on record as saying that seems like not a bad idea. But, on the other hand, it occurs to me that maybe I don’t want my former identity attached to my current state of being. Just in case certain laws do get crafted and passed. I don’t know what could happen, and I don’t want my own case to be used against me to take away my… human… rights.

Hm.

I’ve been close enough to activist circles, and I’ve been on social media for longer than a lot of kids have been alive. I know the wisdom. Don’t talk to cops.

It’s pretty easy for me to not talk to anybody, actually.

I shuffle back and kick their guns out to them. I don’t want to be responsible for those machines of death, and I’m sure neither does Rhoda. It’s also a gesture of trust, if somewhat foolish. I’m willing them to take it to mean that they should pick up their things and go, unharmed. And if they point them at me again, I might not be able to hold back this time. And I’m wagering that they think the same thing.

I watch them very, very intently as they hesitantly pick their weapons up again.

When they return the guns to their holsters, I turn and walk back into the apartment and start taking note of what I’ve knocked over.

“I think that means, ‘no’,” I hear Rhoda say, before closing the door. “Maybe come back with a warrant if you want to talk to me, and maybe the dragon won’t be here then. Thank you. I hope you have a very good day.”

I hear Rhoda’s cane thump on the floor as she moves up to my side, but I keep looking at the broken vase and upturned ficus.

“We can’t do that again,” she says, grimly. She sounds like she might be shaking. “I definitely can’t be doing that again. I hope they won’t be coming back, but you’ve got to find yourself a place to stay.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and adds, “I want to remain your friend and keep helping you. I’m not so worried about my things, but between dragon attacks and police visits, I just don’t know. I hope it’s rare. But, I don’t think this is a good place for you to live.”

I bow my head in solemn acknowledgement. I agree with her.

“Anyway, you can sleep here tonight,” she says. “We both need a good sleep, and while I don’t know if I feel safer with you here or gone, I can’t take that away from you. Your place ain’t fit for it, though. So you can stay.”

I look at her.

“Just, right in front of the front door, please. I have fewer breakable things there and if the police come back they’ll have to go through you.”

I give her a nice cat smile.

I really don’t know what I’m going to do, but a nice long nap is absolutely in order.

—

The next morning, I really have to use the bathroom first thing.

I’ve already figured out how to use the toilet with a cloaca and a tail and everything, but I really don’t want to do that to Rhoda’s bathroom, so that means wandering over to my apartment and using my own facilities. These apartments have pretty small bathrooms, which means I need every surface available in there to maneuver. And I’ve just basically emptied my bathroom of everything that’s moveable.

I could probably just go shit anywhere, and no one would know what to do about it. I can probably even do it on the fly, like a bird. But I don’t want to do that to people, or other animals. If I can use a toilet, I’m going to.

I’m a clever girl, I’ve got this.

Rhoda’s still asleep, so I let myself out. The doorknobs of this place are actual knobs, but they’re antique and textured, pretty easy to grip, even for me. I’d still prefer levers, but I’m practiced with these.

Except my door won’t open.

It’s locked.

There’s police tape across it.

I know that landlords, and the police, and the system are all ultimately to blame for my door being locked when I really need to use my own bathroom. But one thought enters my mind with a fiery fury, because there’s a reason it happened now.

I’m going to eat Whitman.

[whileiamdying]

Eartha Kitt, Living Her 9 Lives to the Fullest

By Dinitia Smith March 2, 1999

She slithers across the stage at the Cafe Carlyle, catlike, 72 years old, with the muscles of an adolescent boy -- Eartha Kitt, whom Orson Welles called ''the most exciting woman in the world'' and the C.I.A. reportedly called ''a sadistic sex nymphomaniac'' after she stood up at a White House luncheon and criticized the war in Vietnam.

Her tight velvet dress is slit to the thigh, fixed with a glittering brooch, as she sings her own rendition of ''I'm Still Here'': ''I lived through Shirley Temple. Now I'm here. I remember Lyndon Johnson. Gee, that was fun. . . .'' She purrs, growls, does a belly dance to ''Uska Dara,'' pours Champagne down a waiter's throat, delivering a patter of double-entendres as she goes.

Ms. Kitt has been a fixture on the music scene since the early 1950's, known for her sultry voice, her persona as a golddigger who renders men into helpless little boys with her sexual power. The New York Times critic Stephen Holden called Ms. Kitt the original ''material girl.''

She has performed on Broadway and in Las Vegas and played Catwoman in the ''Batman'' television series. She has appeared in films ranging from ''New Faces,'' based on the Broadway revue that made her a star, and ''St. Louis Blues'' to, more recently, ''Boomerang,'' with Eddie Murphy, and ''Harriet the Spy,'' from the popular children's book.

During the late 60's and early 70's, her career went into a decline as tastes in music changed and because, she says, of her opposition to the war in Vietnam.

But now she is back in full force, appearing at the Carlyle till March 13 and as a voice in New York City taxicabs admonishing passengers to buckle their seat belts.

In the past, with the smoldering anger of her performance, her voice straining in the back of her throat, Ms. Kitt has sometimes degenerated into self-parody. '''If you look back,'' said her daughter, Kitt Shapiro, her voice ''almost sounded like a caricature. Now I think it's very real. It represents life.''

Indeed, there are many who think that Ms. Kitt has finally come into her own. The voice has mellowed, become softer around the edges, rather like vintage wine. And in an age of mass entertainment on huge screens and in giant stadiums, people are drawn to her cabaret act for her ability to create an intimacy with her audience. It is an act, Mr. Holden said, ''worthy of comparison with Marlene Dietrich in her prime.''

A few days after the Carlyle performance, you wouldn't have known it was Eartha Kitt in the hotel's restaurant, dressed in black sweatshirt and sunglasses and without makeup and wig. But even offstage, she preserves the shtick, conducting herself with hauteur, referring to herself sometimes in the third person.

''There is beluga always in the fridge, Champagne,'' Ms. Kitt said, ''even though I don't have a man.'' But she would like a man, she said, ''just as somebody who would escort me around town.''

True to her image, Ms. Kitt says she sleeps on a bed covered with lion skins. She would like to fill the room with them. ''When I get out of bed I am usually nude,'' Ms. Kitt said. ''I look at myself every morning to see if there are bulges, so you don't let it go past, say, five pounds.'' The solution is exercise. She can lift 50-pound weights, she said, and wants to make an exercise video for older women that is aimed at preventing osteoporosis and that uses the principles of Radu, her trainer.

She has also learned to preserve her voice, to ''throw'' it from the larynx, as she puts it. She is an opera lover, she said, and draws inspiration from Maria Callas. Ms. Kitt is also quite a reader, she said, having read through the Book of Knowledge and ''Goethe, Marlowe, Shakespeare.''

''Plato was a great influence on my mind because he teaches you to think,'' Ms. Kitt said, with a haughty gaze. There is an anger in her presence as well as in her performance, a calculated tension.

''Whatever man's down front is hugely intimidated,'' said Daryl Waters, her longtime accompanist and music director. ''Now and then she gets someone who decides to get up and dance with her, or catch her because they think she's going to fall. She always has a line or a look ready. Usually it's 'Where's your father?' ''

The other night at the Carlyle, Ms. Kitt said, ''I was doing my belly dance'' when suddenly a woman in the audience offered her husband for the night. ''I don't think you can afford me,'' Ms. Kitt responded coolly.

Still, despite her intimidating stage presence, Ms. Kitt says she is ''scared to death.'' ''Every time I walk out there I think I'm going to be rejected again.'' Indeed, rejection is a constant refrain in her conversation.

She has laid out the lineaments of her life in three autobiographies. The most recent, ''I'm Still Here: Confessions of a Sex Kitten'' in 1989, sometimes reads like Dickens: an illegitimate child, an unknown father -- a white man, she believes, who may have been the son of the owner of the South Carolina plantation where her family lived.

Ms. Kitt said she was rejected by her darker-skinned family and given the name ''yella gal.'' Her mother abandoned her because her new stepfather said her skin was too light. The family that took her in abused her, she said, and she went to work in the cotton fields. When she was about 8, an aunt sent for her to live in Harlem. The aunt told her she was her real mother but treated her unfairly too, Ms. Kitt said.

Her looks often worked against her, Ms. Kitt said. In 1958, when she starred in ''Anna Lucasta'' with Sammy Davis Jr., ''2,500 cinemas would not take this film because they thought I wasn't black enough to be making love to a black man on the screen,'' she said.

When she was a teen-ager, Ms. Kitt won a scholarship to the Katherine Dunham dance troupe, the leading black modern-dance company. On a trip to Paris, she was ''discovered'' and began singing in cabarets. In Paris, she knew James Baldwin, Richard Wright and Jean-Paul Sartre. ''He was very quiet,'' she said of Sartre. ''But he seemingly remembered everything and went home and wrote about it.'' She also met Orson Welles, who cast her as Helen of Troy in his theatrical production of ''Dr. Faust.''

Returning to the United States in the early 50's with a vaguely French accent, Ms. Kitt had exotic appeal, a sophistication that made her acceptable to mainstream whites. She became a ''crossover'' figure, like Lena Horne and Dorothy Dandridge, also light-skinned. Ms. Kitt said that she, Ms. Horne and Ms. Dandridge were the ''the three most beautiful women in town.''

Ms. Kitt appeared on Broadway in ''New Faces of 1952.'' And she went on to record ''C'est Si Bon,'' ''I Want to Be Evil,'' ''Uska Dara'' and ''Santa Baby,'' songs that were to become her signatures. She said she received a Tony nomination for a dramatic role on Broadway in ''Mrs. Patterson'' in 1954.

Ms. Kitt also had relationships with wealthy men, who sent flowers and boxes from Tiffany. One was with the playboy Porfirio Rubirosa, who ''thought I was too young,'' she said. ''I never had an affair with him.'' Among her other boyfriends, she said, were Charles Revson, John Barry Ryan 3d and Arthur Loew Jr. ''I wished he was the father of my child,'' Ms. Kitt said of Mr. Loew. Often, she said, it was the men's mothers who broke up the relationships.

Ms. Kitt has been married once, to a man named Bill McDonald, and they had one child before their divorce. Ms. Kitt has two grandchildren, Jason, 8, and Rachel, 3.

In 1968, Ms. Kitt was invited to the White House by Lady Bird Johnson. ''You send the best of this country off to be shot and maimed,'' she said to Mrs. Johnson. ''No wonder the kids rebel and take pot.''

The singer's outspokenness nearly ended her career in the United States, she said. Ms. Kitt said she learned from a reporter that the Central Intelligence Agency had drafted a damaging report on her. Contracts were canceled. She went abroad, working mostly in Europe.

Her reputation was revived somewhat in the mid-70's after President Jimmy Carter invited her to a White House gathering, and she appeared in a concert at Carnegie Hall. Then in 1978 she won a Tony nomination for her role in ''Timbuktu!''

More recently, in 1996, her first American recording in nearly 20 years, ''Back in the Business,'' won a Grammy nomination.

For most of her life, Ms. Kitt has not known her exact age. Last year, she challenged students at Benedict College in Columbia, S.C., to find her birth certificate, and they did. She had been celebrating her birthday on a random date, Jan. 26, and assumed she was in her 60's. But the certificate said she was born on Jan. 17, 1927.

Looking to the future, Ms. Kitt said she wanted to do more concerts and legitimate theater. ''I'm tired of traveling,'' she said. Maybe she should pair up with one of the new female rappers, someone suggested, to become more of a presence for younger audiences. Ms. Kitt looked down her nose. ''I've been doing rap since the beginning of time,'' she said. And you wouldn't want to contradict her.

[plethomacademia]

Edit: this is now in chapter five of my slow burn

Original post: Well here's a ridiculously horny thing I just wrote for my fic. It's of course for the chapter that is after the one I am supposed to be writing and is part of a series of drabbles but I want to share it now because I think it stands on its own.

Synopsis: The Dark Urge wants to try out Enver's gauntlet. Enver discovers a new kink. 644 words. Rest of the story is my pinned post!

Triggers: blood, light choking, people who just need to fucking kiss already.

----

“Can I ask you something?”

Gortash looked up from the map of the city he had just been drawing on. He and the Bloody Hand of Bhaal were in the middle of discussing a proposal he had just received from another weapons trader. She, obviously, was not paying attention. “Maeve, when have you ever not just asked me whatever is on your mind?”

She ignored the barb. “Your gauntlet. How does it work?”

He looked down at the golden gauntlets. He had just come from another meeting and was in his full regalia. This pair was new, better fitting his station as a lord than his old black set had. He had shucked off his coat when they had started working and he did suppose this was a novel view for her, his arms covered in gold up to the elbow. “Well, it’s jointed to mimic the human anatomy. Quite intricate and honestly, it was hard to get the design right. You latch it higher up the elbow, like so.” He showed her how it disconnected near his right elbow using his two clawless fingers on his left.

She watched, her head tilted. He had seen that look so many times as she dissected something with her mind. “Do you think I could try it?”

Anyone else he would deny, but he did love seeing her curiosity piqued by something. He finished undoing the latches, then took it off and held it out to her. “By all means. It will be too large but you can get an idea of the mechanics.”

She took the gauntlet from his hands gently. After she struggled with the moving pieces of metal, he helped slide it onto her arm. He was right, the latches were far too wide to stay up on their own, but she was able to keep it secure enough to flex her fingers. She spread them wide, then tightened them into a fist.

Enver swallowed. Well this wasn’t how he had expected the day to go.

Maeve tested the sharp claws against the inside of her other forearm, pushing them in enough to dent the skin.

“Careful!” he said right when she looked up, her eyes wide.

“Oh Enver, this is positively wicked.” She held it up in front of her face, spreading the hand and looking at it as if her fingers were covered it jewels. “Would it work to…” She trailed off, cocking her head at it as if figuring something out.

“Would what —“ he began to say, but he stopped as she closed her eyes, putting her golden hand to her throat. He watched as she settled her fingers around her own larynx, first gently feeling out how to place her thumb and fingers. Then she began to press. The sharp tips of the gauntlet first pressed in her skin, then a couple fingers just pierced through, letting a bit of blood well up under the curves of metal.

“Maeve,” he said in a warning tone.

Her eyes flew open. They were wide and feral, her smile broad and sharp. She dropped her hand and he couldn’t help but look at the red crescents framing her throat, the little bits of blood beginning to drip.

“I see why you wear those, that has to be terribly fun. Just ripping out a person’s throat.” She laid her arm on the table, undoing the latched and sliding her hand free.

Enver cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Sadly for you,” he said as he picked up the gauntlet, “it’s much more of a Banite custom than one of Bhaal.” After he had secured the gauntlet to his arm once more, he reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and offered it to her

She dabbed her wounds, then looked back at the maps. “Yes, it’s too bad. Now, what was it you were saying?”

[khufiya-khaufnak-antariksh]

The bones used to be eternal, before I ascended. I would strip away certain caches of fat, I would go and add some muscle here and there, but it was never enough. I’d chop myself up like chicken (wings, legs, breast, thighs, wings, wings, wings) and get dinner ready for the ‘family’. And then I’d regrow my body later on and no one would notice a thing because I’d keep my unhappy form the same way it always was. And truly it was– I could eat myself away. I could. But such a thing would be selfish, eating myself and never giving it away. And I thought the bones would always be eternal.

Why? Because there was a parasite eating away at my muscles. The parasite brought the skeleton's growth to a shrieking halt too early, too. The parasite seemed indestructible.

It made my skin so soft and smooth, so I used it as a carpet after making dinner for the ‘family’. Before cutting out the fat, I made sure to put the skin I stripped into neat bundles. Neat piles of pretty fabric. Carpet on the floor. Curtains to hide from outdoors. Gags to shut my mouth and close my windpipe.

In spite of this, "HALT!" the larynx shrieked. Every day it made me shriek. My breathing never sounded like my own. And, “the bones are eternal,” it said.

.

The buildings around here have quite beautiful architecture. I can’t describe them because they twist and dance in my vision, my vision is filled with static and I often see my RBCs and muscle cells cast shadows on my retinas (more muscle with each and every day, I need every cell I can make before I die/deteriorate), it’s quite sad to see when these beautiful buildings deteriorate and set themselves on fire in an act of self-destruction & remorse when they themselves aren’t responsible for the sins committed within them — that’s the people who desecrated them! It’s not the buildings’ fault! And yet they burn!

[its-chickenwing-450]

"If tumblr had voice notes, I fear you'd all be sick of me." I look down as I address my imaginary audience.

Relentlessly, I monologue. There is nobody on this stage, but my many facsimiles, unadorned, sans the catatonia in the shadows.

"I've been feeling so manic, recently," one of my iterations, like a meerkat, perks up at that, thinking she had heard her name, though I was the only one speaking.

A cricket chirps in the distance, the noise resoundingly interruptive, almost hauling me out of my performance. The sheets on the bed beneath me seem to rematerialise, and I pause.

The clock ticks and my heart echoes. Once. Twice.

By the third, I've been re-submerged, feeling the heat of the stage lights and not the breeze from my old fan. I could almost feel a droplet of sweat run down my brow, I swear it.

"Y'know the other day, I watched the newest episode of Abbott Elementary-" My oration undaunted, "-and found myself to be appalled by the painful, clogged feeling in my chest that surfaced by the end."

I scanned the faces of my congregation, pausing for dramatic effect. Something glistened in the back of the room, but I looked only to see myself. It's funny how I couldn't recall a mirror being there before. Do audiences like it when comics get personal?

I swallowed, a prickly feeling dancing along my spine. I wished that I had a cardigan to wrap myself in, suddenly craving warmth. Wasn't I just sweaty?

I pressed on, but things were murky now.

"It's funny," I began, without feeling the least bit humorous. "How I can stomach reading erotica in public without a single shame or expression, but find myself being uneasy when two characters hold hands."

A deep, bass full drum sings from the orchestra pit. I squint— did we always have one of those? Something about that diction made me squirm and swallow again. What was wrong with my voice?

The drum seemed to belt—my disorient its appendeceal support. Its voice seemed so healthy.

My audience seemed to waver, flickering in tune with my imaginative discrepancies. The image was appalling, ratifying my chill. No longer did the stage light grace me with its holy malevolence, but the arena, suddenly filled with ten thousand mirrors—one for every seat.

The vibrato of that percussion seemed to have stolen my breath. I clung to my throat, holding on for dear life as it sung louder my lament.

My heart joined in, the sound deafening me. Blood poured out of my ears, the membranes shattering in perfect unison. I couldn't hear that drum's belt now, but I felt it in every pore. I screamed but couldn't hear that either, though I felt the strain on my larynx.

I looked out again to my audience from my gallows—it was clear now that this was an execution. 10,000 mirrors that redirected the comfort of my stage light, distorting it to blind me. Perhaps that's why I couldn't see myself in any of them.

I staggered backwards from the pulse of that drum and the violence of the heat, reaching out for any comforting thing.

My stomach plummeted as I could feel a foot, an arm if I went higher. I could see them as clearly as myself— my dear iterations strung up like puppets from their gibbets, swaying to the pulse of my death drum.

I screamed again, bathed in my own blood, flesh seared from that divine heat. I scurried backwards, no more than a beetle on its back or a fly with its wings pinched, and onto something cool—perhaps the last cool thing.

I sagged, relieved to feel it. I flipped over and felt a gentle breeze wash the skin of my burned back like a breath of life. I rested my face against that surface like cool glass, allowing myself to trace its edges. I began to wonder if I could open my eyes if I tried and why blood no longer poured freely from my ears.

I smiled, bloodstained as I managed some, tracing the ornate edges of my reprieve. I thought I heard someone singing an aria.

My eyes burst open with the sound of that drum, and I jumped up, heart pounding, skin alight. My chest heaved, and my heart burned as I faced my terror once again.

The golden edged reprieve stood slowly. It seemed sentient. It knew I couldn't get up. I faced another mirror, the pièce de résistance, the amalgamation of my living terror as I beheld myself, blood-soaked and battered.

The last notes of my death drum's aria pealed like a ringing bell, shattering that contemptible invidious image.

Shards of glass lacerated me. One crept past the arms I used to shield my face and danced across my throat to the remnants of that infernal vibrato.

Soon, I could feel the breeze of my fan again, hear the distinctive ticking of my clock. Hardwood became a mattress, and I smoothed my hands, unharmed, over the soft expanse of my bed.

Reluctantly, I looked over at my mirror, sighing in relief when I saw myself whole. I relished in it, hands creeping over my body as I hugged myself.

My joints sang as they were ripped away from me, my struggle meaningless as I felt a noose coil itself around each limb.

I was back on stage, looking out at a full house, suspended by the gibbets from my performance.

[thisworldisablackhole]

SeeYouSpaceCowboy The Romance of Affliction

🌕🌕🌕🌕🌑

It was a cold, dark winter evening. My best friend and I were having one of our frequent "get faded and listen to music" sessions. Those hang outs were always the highlight of my week. Crack a cold one, have some deep conversations, and crank some tunes. Lift off, baby. The vibes were good, but when it came time for me to commandeer the Auxiliary Cord SS, I admit I was a little sheepish.

"You got any new shit?"

"Well… sort of… you might not like it though"

"Fuck it dog, put that shit on. You know I'm pretty open minded"

I laughed.

"Alright, we'll see about that"

I think I might have put on "…and My Faded Reflection in Your Eyes", first, but my memory of that night is a little hazy. It doesn't matter though, because what happened next was a complete and enthusiastic unravelling of our former selves as we bonded over a new found mutual love of melodic metalcore. We had been friends for close to 10 years, but up until this point we had reserved our musical exchanges for mostly palatable cool guy bands who hid their emotional urgency under a veil of artful stoicism. Perhaps this was done out of shame, because wearing your heart on your sleeve is generally discouraged in the culture of adulthood. It felt like a risk to open up and share the side of me that still loves an arguably juvenile mode of expression, but the reward for doing so was unbridled joy and connection.

SeeYouSpaceCowboy said fuck shame, fuck stoicism, fuck acting cool. We're gonna scream, we're gonna sing, and we're gonna feel something. The Romance of Affliction is scenecore for the modern age, and it is completely unapologetic in being so. Taking cues from bands like Drop Dead Gorgeous, The Blood Brothers, Botch, and Underoath, SYSC created a special blend of sounds that is equal parts chaotic, violent, and sweet as sweet tea on a hot southern day. Sugar, spice, everything nice, and a metric fuck tonne of Chemical X. Excuse my language.

One of the first things to really draw me into this album was the vocals. This album has a major case of split personality disorder, and I mean that in the best way possible. Vocalist Connie Sgarbossa bounces between larynx shredding highs, lows, and sasscore yelps while guitarist Ethan Sgarbossa and bassist Taylor Allen also chime in with mid ranged roars and lovesick cleans. It's enough to induce a psychotic episode, or at the very least give listeners with ADHD enough variance in frequency and delivery to keep them stimulated. The vocal patterns are impressively synchronized, and you can tell that a lot of thought goes into this aspect of their music. It's something I wish more bands would take note of, but maybe that's just my addled attention span speaking. There are some pretty cool, albeit head turning features on this album as well. Shaolin G's rap verse on "Sharpen What You Can" in particular has been polarizing, but ends up being one of the more impactful and (frankly) punk rock moments on the album as he comes in with a strong message of self affirmation and being true to yourself in the face of adversity.

The instrumentals don't hold back either, and come well equipped with their own hyper aggressive inability to sit still. Razor sharp panic chords and time signature switch ups dance their way toward atmospheric passages before plummeting back down to earth with classic single note breakdowns. Almost every song comes packaged with a hookworm chorus or dreamy melodic bit to offer respite from the teeth clenching madness and draw you back in for repeated listens. A good hook is one that makes you really appreciate everything leading up to and preceding it, and thankfully the band delivers on this every time. SYSC doesn't just rely on a catchy chorus to sell a mediocre song. They aren't afraid to show their full hand of influences either, as they ambitiously swing between three or four different niche subgenres in rapid motion. It might sound like a recipe for disaster, but it comes across as more meticulous than random, and the result is a surprisingly smooth and cohesive experience. 13 songs and 40 minutes goes by with a flash, and not once do I feel like the band is testing my patience.

The Romance of Affliction is a time machine that will unlock forgotten pieces of your heart, but it's also a vessel of progression for a subgenre that not many are brave enough to claim in today's landscape of serious mature stoicism. SeeYouSpaceCowboy have managed to breathe fresh life into old tricks in a way that only the most studious of scene disciples could pull off, and I can't wait to see them continue to flourish and expand their palette of influences in the years to come.