unhowl

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i find my own completeness / the darkness and the weakness / the light, the fight, the quietness.

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please note: i’m trying to get more active writing here & get more interactions, follow new people, make my blog overall less sparse. although i’ve had this blog a while it still feels pretty new and it’s taking me a while to get into the rhythm of it.

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— sam’s marriage to lucy: there’s massive unhealthiness on both sides, including a power imbalance from the off. she was his therapist, and he did some manipulative shit to prove a point to her. their relationship wasn’t healthy. their relationship wasn’t good. sam blames himself for all of it. i view it as an unhealthy marriage formed under unhealthy circumstances. none of this contradicts the fact that sam loved lucy and was horrified to lose his family.

— sam’s sexuality: i do hc sam as gay. i think given his isolation the whole thing doesn’t really clock or matter to him, but in the decades after lucy’s death, he does figure it out.

— sam’s gender: sam is trans. he’s had a full medical transition, and considers himself pretty lucky in that respect - it’s something he wanted, and he was able to get it with relatively few barriers. bridget may not have been much of a mother, but being the president’s adopted kid comes with privileges that not everyone else has, and he knows that. he socially transitioned as a young teenager and transitioned medically as an adult, but before his marriage to lucy.

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— 1800s gunslinger and lawman, as follows his history. his official job has always been a moving target; he’s been a teamster, a saloon owner, a miner, a boxing referee, the keeper of a brothel, and of course a deputy marshal...

— but also: the earps are beast hunters! the dark and crawling things at the edges of society are something they’ve taken upon themselves to hunt down. mobility in work allows tracking creatures easier. wyatt does his best to make a point of not harming those who haven’t harmed others, but he doesn’t always succeed

— wyatt is also dead. he was murdered in 1871 during an altercation over a horse theft, but some three hours after dying, he simply stood back up and walked away from his body. he’s a hollow, a kind of ghost-zombie with perpetually unfinished business; a corporeal entity that simply goes on and on. he doesn’t need to eat or drink, and he’s no longer aging. he has powerful telekinetic abilities. he’s vulnerable to exorcism and anything else that hurts spirits.

— largely canon compliant with wynonna earp — he’s a glorified poltergeist and can show up anyplace — if you can sense ghosts or are a medium etc, you can tell what wyatt is

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as a ref for later: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Assiniboine

this is the group that is in/around purgatory (despite them only ever being referenced in past tense on the show, i believe) and would be the peoples i wld be inclined to say the present-day earps belong to, for consistency

it’s their religious/consecrated ground that bulshar is moved to in the show; a mine had been built on that land and bulshar was interred in that mine. it would make sense for the present day earps to be part of that and tie up the lore a damn slight better than em*ly andr*s ever has

the earps go back a long way to a white dude and i envision that just changing over the generations but i don’t want to commit to the particulars of that without a lot more reading and navigating a way about it that doesn’t come off weird

hearing about wynonna earp s4 only strengthens my resolve to do enough research to rewrite them as first nations

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lautrui​:

does he want. the thought of wanting sits far away enough that it glides out from between his teeth when he tries to grasp hold of it. the low rumble of eventual demurral in his throat feels halfway hollow. “no.”

there’s a kind of way of sitting where it’s almost like they’re hovering an inch off the floor, ready to get away at the right or wrong moment. they settle their weight out of that posture. no cutting or running. willa looks at the strings of white and brown framing his face, always wolfish, always robert. “i could cut your hair for you. or brush it, at least.”

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learn to share, sam

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i wish to you the best but i am the best and i am leaving so this is untruth wishvertising. my sorries.

an independent original character.

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“undress for me.” eyes never quite leaving whip, even as michael moves to their dresser, tugging open the drawers that have things like ties and toys organised in rows. “i’m going to pick rope.” he settles on something a pale blue colour, more aqua than cornflower, and watches whip, avidly, starting to unspool the rope in his hands.

he moves to the bed, then, and settles in a manner that is quietly demanding. “come here.” he doesn’t want to tie whip up immediately; he wants to be close to him, first, to kiss him and remind him how pretty he is. let whip hear michael’s heartrate catching up to everything.

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Keep reading

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Natalie Wee from Our bodies and Other fine machines

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@lautrui​. flying to bogotá is something particular - eight hours, give or take from texas. no fancy private planes, no special treatment, extends the journey by another handful of hours to get through the airport. and it’s boring. flights are boring.

crowds and close quarters of a plane always put an itch in the back of alejandro’s teeth that he sees glimmer back at him from kate’s eyes, but he’s learned that if someone is going to kill you they won’t try it at an airport. no one person is important enough for the effort. the boredom these days usually saturates his bones, leaving him a half-asleep guard dog who is just looking forward to going home.

it’s stranger with kate in the seat next to him. the same feeling of a commute home at the end of a long day is punctuated by knowing that his dogs will be happier to see kate than they are to see him (they always are; he doesn’t blame them), by knowing that for the first time in a remarkably long time, his apartment will have more than one human in it.

it’s not anxiety. not exactly. it’s a kind of simmering neighbour to it, poking and prickling at his other, more inoperable neuroses. his elbow nudges against hers the whole time and wheels finally hitting tarmac is like letting a breath out - another breath in for unloading bags and getting through the airport. a breath out for moving away from el dorado and towards the inner city. 

a breath in when he sees the facade of his apartment, shifting his bag up over his shoulder. he has a long list of particular opinions about american food and is thinking, as much as anything else, about his distinctly non-american home, with its locally sourced coffee, with its local beer from nearby microbreweries because soitude has afforded him time to become a snob.

he glances at kate and gestures up at the building, pointing it out as they approach from down the street. “you can smoke on my balcony. i have cigarettes in my kitchen.”

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it’s time for the pertinent scott mccall info post

— i write scott post-s3. i do not acknowledge pretty much anything post-3a, except for certain things from scott’s character arc, and the existence of great characters like kira and malia etc. i just don’t care for the show’s arc after that point, not when scott’s arc felt so complete with him becoming a true alpha at the end of 3a.

— i write scott roughly around the age of 19, and treat the show as if three years passed across season one / two / three. the show goes to great lengths to treat the cast as kids in some scene, and then in other scenes the show is gratuitous about sex (and lingering, sexy body shots, and sexy scenes) in a way that isn’t appropriate for teenagers. i hate it! and as it happens, i also wanna treat them like adults. so scott is 19, recently became a true alpha, and he’s working between the vets and doing community college

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requested by anonymous

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“out there,” voice thin and crackling like splintered wood, and there could be nassau or the ocean or england, “the truth is what they make it.” the truth is often what he’s made it, too, he knows. the truth is what he’s demanded it to be.

there are things he can’t demand, though, and things he misses. things that gouge deeply enough that he can’t help the biting, and he wants to reach for miranda, have him turn back to him, but his eyes linger on the back neckline of her dress, instead. he fixates on a stray uneven stitch. quietly, corrective: “in here, it matters.”

@unhowl said “It doesn’t matter what the truth is, does it?” flint to miranda 

miranda blinks; halfway stiffens, as though she’d reached out to touch him and had her hand struck. ( he does this, she knows - bites out blindly when he’s the one who’s wounded - and it’s never once made her leave, yet, but every time she wonders if he wants her to. )

‘ it matters to me. ’ her voice bites, too, sharp and prickling, out of her throat - she stares at him for three, and then four, thudding heartbeats, before she turns to the window, tone quieting to where her lips barely move. ‘ it matters to me. ’

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It’s not your enemies that devour your flesh. It’s the people you love and that’s why you leave them. The Exorcist | S02E08: A Heaven of Hell (2017)