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@doghoods-a
#DOGHOODS. THERE'S SOMETHING SOFT IN ME. PRESENTING ▇▇▇▇▇▇ ▇▇▇▇ [ AGENT EPSILON ]. DEPENDENT, ORIGINAL PORTRAYAL FOR MERCY. WE KILLED IT & IT'S ROTTING.
⁰¹ DOSSIER ⁰² MUSING ⁰³ THREADS ⁰⁴ PINTEREST
AS PENNED BY KAY, SHE/HER, TWENTY1+, EST. BE FOREWARNED THAT THIS BLOG WILL LIKELY CONTAIN MENTIONS AND/OR DEPICTIONS OF ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION, CHILDHOOD TRAUMA, AND VIOLENCE.
“I love the fans. They’re so accepting of me, even before they’d seen the film! They’re purists and that’s exciting, when the love is genuine you realise you’re in this huge extended family that I feel incredibly lucky to be a part of.” – Callum Turner on the Wizarding World fandom
" eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed in offense , a soft yet acid asshole is murmured under her breath . the seriousness of his statement is something unknown to sabine , but this is how they work — recalcitrant , rude toward each other , taunting in a way that’s hard to read . hence , she wipes the offense from her face because it is her turn . " oh , right , because questioning is made through the eyes , i totally forgot , " sarcasm drips from the words accompanied by a derisive smirk that widens at warden’s admission . " of course you’re hangover , your responsibility and commitment are truly outstanding . " sabine hands her coat to the employee standing right outside the cloakroom and seizes the place — it is not crowded , but the amount of people still makes her stomach churn . just the thought of this time being spent at something more productive ( like researching ) makes an aggravated huff fall from her lips .
the icy temperature of her third drink was welcomed between her hands the moment sentinel’s ceo made his way to the stage , eyebrows raising to her hairline at the announcement he made at the end of his boring to death speech . however , as an vexed comment hung from the tip of her tongue , the lights flickered unexpectedlyfollowed by the vibration of her phone that took the grimace on her face away . the notification iced her blood for a fleeting moment . " fucking hell , amazing , " she whispered , rolling her eyes , containing the need to pinch the bridge of her nose at the inconvenience .
the proceedings of the evening game him a shotgun sort of nostalgia. no accuracy required to inflict a certain soreness. its a welt the agency had made sure to marr all of their agents with: give them something to expect, make sure its the worst. ignore the hole blown clear through you when the job was done, nevermind the perpetual bruise of title. the fit of his suit makes him wish he were in some foreign brush running for his life. or what part of it he'd carved out for this new one. it's funny how pseudo normalcy will do that to you, that habit of making you crave the things you shouldn't. like a cigarette after a boozy night. " isn't it, " it's a nothing remark, only founded on the basis of having something to contest her with. the night before had been an occassion of many little incidents that clotted together into a larger problem. warden had a habit of letting things accumulate until there was nowhere left to turn. he prefers the drunken pulsation of his temples, it gave him something else to focus on. " i'm glad you've come to accept my lack of inhibition, maybe you'll try it sometime. " it's the pot calling the kettle black, waiting for that errant whistle to sound. they find eachother again in the mean, ebbing crowd a few selter waters & a smoke later. he's nursing a glass of something he shouldn't be, a gentle purl of conspiracy following. " how do you figure that merger will fare now? "
there's god in the minuscule gestures. administering the eucharist occurs in the spool of only a few seconds, and yet in that time material objects are transubstantiated, the body of christ both administered and received. the same can be said of a first kiss, a motion so simple it can be learned without practice, by instinct alone, and yet it is often viewed as a powerful portent to what's to come ⸺ an omen stronger than anything edita sees. in the moment it takes warden to extend the lit flame to the end of her cigarette, there is very little that could be done: one could ingest the flesh of jesus christ. kiss. watch a waxy insect could burn up on a candle. and by the time edita's hand wraps around the curl of his, leaned in with thumb pressed familiarly into the indent of a palm, they all have.
the tendon underneath her finger is tender, familiar. protracted with effort. before edita pulls away, she glances her thumb along the length of it, even as nicotine and something else rush her head. it bares the scent of his bedroom and the roll of sage she'd behind left in a drawer.
moth, meet flame.
"decent."
she laughs the way god does ⸺ thrumming, slow, a sound lodged in the throat next to all the untold truths. silk shifts around her ankles, a shadow slice loose from its creator. edita knows what the addendum ⸺ this time ⸺ means, of course; it's a succinct reminder that all that had come before hadn't been enough to turn his eyes away. instead of acknowledging it, edie draws on her cigarette and pretends to think about it. then she leans back and pretends some more. "i've never been decent a day in my life. good, on occasion. never decent."
when she stands, it's only to briefly take up the space before him ⸺ breath-close, smoke exhaled under his chin ⸺ before starting the slow, hazardously affectionate walk of an alley cat, shoulder brushing his as she rounds warden's body. the fountain gurgles on, hiding the echo of her heels as she reappears on the other side. head cants over one shoulder, dark hair dragging after her. "i could go in and put on a shawl. would that work?"
conscious sin, he knows not of religion, not in a way that had not been garnered faith of a fallible god. warden could not kneel before what he had not found tangible. could not bow his head & beg for forgiveness. pardon him for this trespass upon fate. god could not be killed in a way that mattered. so if there were one to begin with, let him witness this sacrilige. he lights her cigarette & its a spark above a burning bush: this scene is not yet consumed by flames but you can still smell the smoke. how long until this whole thing turns to ash? the scene was some sort of cruel mockery of eden. only, they had chosen to ignore the inconsistencies: her hair longer on her shoulders than when they last parted & him wearing a parfum that distantly intermingled with someone elses. a morsel that beheld the universe could not have sated them. there had been too much left to carve out. they're both adored in silk, shimmering in the night like two stars come down from the sky to startle their onlookers. they weren't meant to be seen this way⸺hadn't desired the art of spectacle. " never bothered me. " lighter is pocketed, palm absently smoothing upon the breast of his evening jacket.
he exhales sharply as if the world itself had been upheaved from his shoulders. oh, to bare the weight of standing before a dead woman. the music changes, ward's mind is elsewhere but he takes note of the upcharge in tempo. unpracticed habit, the way they revolve one another; prancing upon the most undetermined string of fate within grasp. anything to subvert the expectation of what had already been known. " on someone else, perhaps. " he considers that she'd prefered to be left to the cold that way. if you were going to be brazen, why not let it be on your terms. in the small interval that they occupy one another, he chances a long drag from her cigarette. they were transactional that way: i take a bullet for you, you let me bum your cig. still, he does the gentlemanly thing & blows his smoke toward his 2 o'clock. " were you planning to admire the fountain all night or were you waiting for something bad to happen? "
agent merlin & agent epsilon : governor's ball, a conversation on medical advancements ( @doghoods )
speaking to a hospital director and a pharmaceutical ceo, accompanied by agent epsilon as a biomed agent to offer details when needed ( chosen to keep the younger agent out of trouble, for which he is likely not appreciative, though dom is fully willing to play dumb ), domnhall is very much in his element — talking medicine. so what can we expect to see out of mercy's research ? they ask, and he gathers his thoughts. " i'm not as involved in the medical division anymore, so agent epsilon will have to confirm, " he says, " but i believe they've been working on some ways to accelerate healing of broken limbs, and i've been involved in some discussions on cell regeneration with a view to heal damaged organs and the like. " the three of them all look to epsilon, awaiting his response.
boy eat world, or more keenly, boy unfurls the world barehanded. it's one of the first lessons of war: this decimation could mean creation. to build something formidable, you must level what had already existed. a career in a field such as theirs was a constant state of levelling & rebuilding. taking what you thought you knew and accepting it as nebulous truth. " certainly, " mock enthusiasm, a placid assurance of his involvement in the four way interrogation. " though not to reveal the entirety of our deck, our latest research on accelerative healing is going into trial. " sedates the urge to inflate the truth, " in few months time the recovery turn-around could be starfished⸺agents will be returning to the field in far better condition than ever before. "
simplicity is better tolerated by those who have touched and been touched back. feeling feeding feeling, starvation allayed by the mutualistic desire it's born from. an ordinary touch. denied it, and touch grows teeth that learn to either bite or bind; fend off or cling to all promises other than the known slaughter of neglect, misuse. call it survival. she had been born with the teeth her mother demanded of her — that is to say, those instruments that gored the dense fabric of affection wide open and clung to anything that touched her.
she's never known simplicity more than recognizing another's bite-touch; knowing precisely how to treat the bruise it left behind.
smooths down the silk of his lapel. " proost, " she assents, murmur matching murmur, bright-curious gaze resting on his as she swallows a small mouthful of champagne. how innocent it is, those resected sliver of words offered the world over, offered again in this velveteen cross-section of an unremarkable evening. how good they once were at making the most of the unremarkable; and aren't they, still? " look at you, all dressed up and hiding out in the dark. don't you have a few hundred people out there to charm ? "
this is the alchemy they do: discovering how to live forever, beyond the transmuting of time. it's the sort of history you're begged to forget, the beating parcels of time between now and then. all of the blips between the things that mattered. call it the inconsequential many, had they realized such time had passed and more importantly, how had it changed them? did they still recognize each other by such marred scent?
life's cadence had turned them, but it had not been a familiar estrangement. they've only just gotten to know each other, don't you see? there will be no forgetting. " you've been practicing, " indulgent revelation, how tender it had been to reach across oceans of language to reach him. it's a breech of truth, that subtle leakage of a dialect that is no longer his familar. it's like a gentle, murderous homecoming. " you mistake me, mara. i'm only in attendance to distract our benefactors with shop talk. " keep your head down, don't show them where you came from. he savors a mouthful, finding his perch upon the overhang of a mahogany davenport. " so tell me, what are you here for? "
CALLUM TURNER as JOHN ‘BUCKY’ EGAN MASTERS OF THE AIR · part eight
𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗌 closed, feat. warden ( @doghoods ) 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖾 + 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 evening, event one - governor's ball
although veronica isn't the focal point of the occasion, her demeanor suggests otherwise. the desperate longing for her father's approval and validation is evident. it manifests through her domineering behavior towards her subordinates, her iron fist rules heavy. while her commanding presence isn't entirely unusual, it now felt more oppressive than ever before. sentinel's involvement into mercy's operations grows invasive and it's veronica's desire to align herself as closely as possible with the organization's possible rebirth.
as she navigates through the building with practiced ease, veronica seamlessly blends in, not merely as an agent, but as one of the corporate elite. her eyes locked onto warden's, and her inquiry came across more as a demand than a question. "what is that on your face?" her finger pointed accusingly at the burgeoning facial hair adorning his upper lip.
he's too busy mindlessly deliberating through the panes of the nearest window when she crosses him. idling between the great clamor of a hired brass-band & the indistinct chatter filling all those other empty pockets of space. hence why he does not immediately respond, he'd tucked himself off into another world entirely. finally, steely gaze pivots toward her own. something softening around the edges. " veronica, " however impetuous, she deserved the extended greeting. he was her subordinate, after all. one should always bow their head to the oldgods even as they walked among them. " thank you for noticing. " there is no beat of confusion, he'd seen himself in too many mirrors this evening to consider a stray lipstick stain upon his cheek or the speckled remnants of a shrimp cocktail. he'd never made it a practice to eat at these sorts of events anyhow. " it's something new i'm trying. " meaning it had been a sollen excuse to not shave his face for a month and a half. palm works the side of his jaw & wisps the budding mustache, a proud gleam waxing over his visage. " adds to my mystique, don't you think? "
she's thought about it enough times — warden like this, in the moonlight. not by way of some traditional lens of romance, but through the rhombus of history, each year shifting to present some new angle, a different play of light across his face. in the beginning, perhaps, there had been something more closely resembling convention: a hand-drawn image of what patterns light through a windowpane might draw on his exposed chest. but in the stretch of it, she'd thought about what he might have looked like in the true night; the cold, unforgiving white she'd known as a child. in the bunker, she'd thought about what he might look like under the singular window, knelt in the corner across from her bed. company, the terrible through-line of it all. a baser desire, a crueller one. the need to simply have him there in the dark.
"mm." a single syllable, much like yes or no, and as easily read when between them: at once that's true and let's not talk about it. the water pours on, its presence the only tangible sensation of a third party despite the array of guests and acquaintances in all directions, and the perception of solitude is dangerous. this close, and his eyes have a heat — blue like the flame on a gas stove she'd had as a child. left unattended, she'd been burned by them both. there is the urge to reach a foot out and press the pointed toe of a heel into the sensitive inside of warden's knee, breaching the gap between them with a quiet bridge, little more than a meeting of leather and wool. instead, edie raises an unlit cigarette to her mouth. one kindling for another. "you wanna give looking away a shot next?"
the were both dead as the night at one point or another, or so the world had destined them to be. they stand upon the same parallel now, only at opposite endings. she who evaded dead and he who awaited the next passing of the reaper. such grim conspiracy, surely it would come for them in time. like father said: for every throat there is a pair of hands made to snuff. isn't that familiar? you've always seen this coming. let the killing be a kindness. " you'll have to give me a reason. " it's more of an excuse. as if to beg the question: have i become too ruined to witness you? the water gurgles distantly, sure as a tide had it not been contained by marble. how elegance could be forced upon things that had been meant to be untethered. the tide turns, or the music changes⸺there is little differentiation as to which. still, he remains as if overgrown with mossed overgrowth, deterred only by time but never her advances. he governs that it had been the distant glimmer of the moon, withered into fractals along the water's edge that brought them here. that ever-current, always knowing what depth of underwhelm to expect. one of the few things that could not be changed. palm flits beneath his lapel, thumbing past something or another within the discreet jetted pocket. there's a stark quiet just then, only the hum of the world ebbing between them. how dangerous things became when you got too close. a lighter is retrieved, silvereen in his palm. moth, meet flame. and the blaze does so little to luminate the obscure night, merely resonating as a vague radiance that swaths the both of them. " a decent one, this time. "
there is a spider-spun silk thread to be walked in a crowd composed of mouths filled with sharp teeth, bargaining with rumor as readily as they bargain with their pocketbooks. nine years sunk into that cerulean stretch of the laccadive sea, her remains unaccounted for and face almost certainly forgotten. and yet, still she is asked to hug shadows and flit demurely through the polite tumult of conversation. smile winningly, fawn over and laugh warmly, but do not linger in what might become memory.
she does not walk it well. prefers the anonymity of a supper club in lisbon, vibrant enthusiasm as memorable as the wine-pink blush that blooms against her skin. prefers to be a flickering glimmer of memory: all laughter, heliotrope and cinnamon perfume, a pair of hands holding playing cards, clawing back an ace unintentionally laid. " the lights are out , " she says from her perch on the arm of a chesterfield, gaze lifting to the shadow who lingers so vibrantly in her own memory. " who's left to see the show ? " catches that slip of a grin in the thin light and cannot help the flitting, self-aware mirror of a thing that rises to her own mouth.
taking the glass by its delicate stem, skin grazing skin as a habitual appeal to affection, and rising to her feet in this half-dark, once-locked office. drawn by that inquiry that looks like a promise — thumb and forefinger finding the broad lapel of his jacket, drifting halfway up the hem, then down again. " what are we drinking to ? " dark eyes lift. the champagne effervesces quietly.
death crawler, he wears a blanket grief that is entirely his own. it only became another beast entirely when there were others watching. what do you become in the limelight? in the fine warmth of the lowlight one could witness the cracks within his moral footing. the man broken & reborn into his body thrice over. you'd think he would have formed into something sterling by now. still, a tap upon his shoulder would reverberate dully. the only thing warden had grown to harbor was a multitude of selves, and the many graves they'd been born from. he hadn't meant to find her here, considers that perhaps she'd been laid in wait for more desirable company. they find each other in this brief intermission as they usually had, " this is when the real performance begins, no? " ceasing behind the velvet drape & down the slope of their shared occupation's tribine; into something less inhibited. that dressing room quiet where all things unfurled are still within their highest form. in a shy corner of such revelry, they can retire their false fronts and ease into this new reality. ward should like to be as merry as the others, only the chronicle passed between them had far too much grisle to be downed with only champagne. even so, flute is raised to a half-stop as he nears, an orbit comanded soon as she rose to eye-level. " to our potential onlookers, " because there were far too many people present for them to not be excluded from some distant oversight. words become a dogwhistle murmur, that sacred discretion for only the pair of them to indulge. then, the cusp of his glass is panged against her own as her fingers warm against the silk of his lapel. " let's give them a good show. "
it was almost impulse for her eyes to practically roll to the back of her head whenever the insufferable biomedical agent opened his mouth. hell, he was plenty enough reason to avoid the department as much as humanly possible. she prayed to whatever existing goddess that she wouldn't be recruited by them when she graduated, which was hopefully soon. " good, " british accent piped up along with an eyebrow. she eyed the ice cubes in her glass of scotch, " wasn't planning on it. " she fucking hated quiet, but who was she to not push every single one of his buttons ? " but, since you mention it ... y'know, preferring the quiet and all ... what brings a total dickhead like you to a nice place like this, hm ? "
they bicker and it's a schoolyard reminisce. keen to tots bickering over the last shovel in the sandbox. pressing the question as to who got there first. run your finger along the brief seam of their history and you would discover what bound them so. it had not been a phantom thread, reaching itself through time unselfishly. no, that would be too kind. rather, it was a knot that cohered them together, swollen & matted with a rudimentary sort of anger. if only they would relent on such inhibitions should they come to realize that they were merely funhouse distortions of each other. the try-hard & the slacker, undenyable masters of none. except for the antagonizing, perhaps. " fucking hell, " head lolls upon the velvet backing of the chaise, denying himself a laugh because while earned, the strings had become too easy to pull. a smirk persists, though. " i'm in a tenured position, you know. something you ought to aspire to, junior. " he doesn't know which part of himself meant that. " besides, i deserve champagne & au d'oeuvres just as much as the next bloke. "
PAUL NEWMAN (and his side profile that belongs on a Roman coin) in PARIS BLUES (1961), dir. Martin Ritt
“ a huff bubbles from her throat , annoyed , already tired of warden’s bullshit , yet the smile is there , faint and fond , almost imperceptible , but there nonetheless . an eye-roll precedes her words as the clinking of her stilettos halts in front of him . " of course i clean up nice , have you seen me ? " self-condient , arrogant as usual , she gives him a once-over , analyzing what he’s wearing , how handsome he looks . a hum of approval falls from her lips , and that’s everything she gives in return . " oh , no , god fucking forbids " the answer comes swiftly , no hesitation . " i’m here to drink and maybe get someone to warm my bed , business be damned . " she didn’t even want to come , but the mandatory clearly announced made her relent , irritation paving the way to set the proper mood . " what about you? are you seriously wearing glasses inside ? " what a ridiculous specimen warden was , regardless , she couldn’t help the affection , even though she’ll never say it out loud , losing her head sounded a lot more appealing than accepting she harbored anything but annoyance for the agent .
attagirl, two chips wedged off the same voracious block. leave it to them to meld their own opportunities from a work event neither had been particularly excited to be in attendance of. " come to think of it, " looking down to her from the slope of furrowed brows, makes note of how uncharacteristically tall she had been for the occassion. " sometimes i wish i never had. " he doesn't mean it in any capacity of harm but knows it is not a sentiment that would befall deaf ears. for too long had they made enemies of each other. " my eyes, they're sensitive to questioning. " sights diverge momentarily, perhaps to oggle someone else in the distance while he adjusted his glasses. ward clears his throat just then, " and perhaps i'm a little hungover. "
@doghoods ⸺ the grounds surrounding sentinel hq . water feature .
behind the fountain there's little to hear: the din of the party reduced to some dim thing, a warble of exaggerated joy, the laughter that falls through the windows rendered distant and tinny. even the music is outbalanced, details crushed under the gentle, persistent weight of artistically timed spouts, leaving only the spine of rhythm audible. a whole evening, momentarily lost to something so completely anodyne. but water has not met a thing it could not drown. even the present.
so, then, what does that make the man on the other side of the yawning entrance — tracking closer, familiar, clear, entirely uninterrupted; not a drop of him malformed by the fountain? something beyond reproach, possibly. someone beyond time, more likely.
edita can’t remember the last time they'd used the word hello. after a certain point, the idea of hard ends and new beginnings had begun to feel ill-suited to them, leaving them only to a soft, shared middle; it was see you later rather than goodbye. there you are rather than hello. so she doesn’t greet him. doesn’t offer up any of the incongruous phrases everybody else uses to communicate a stop or start. instead edie remains sitting on the cold marble rim, hair a little longer than it used to be, leaning back as warden steps forward.
"they send you off to retrieve me, hounddog?"
didn't you hear, this old dog lost his collar. though that is not to say that he'd forgotten the binding of his muzzle. he's tame this evening, a careful estimation: like chosing a flattering cufflink or double-tying your laces. all of these meek details that so diligently nursed the sum of man. you could free a dog from his cage but that would not change his nature. even the wild things knew to keep their distance when they bore their teeth. the evening had done very little to wear upon him. still, a strange hunger gnawed: lonesomeness. the mind is a cage that beckons him, a homesickness that brews within ones own body & calls him to the distant outside. down a short underfooting of steps and into a clearing. creatures of the night, they know how to find each other in all the darkest corners of the world. he's severed by fractals of moonlight, still wafting a certain tinge of danger because again, a wild thing free from his leash was still feral. " we all run out of places to hide, " it's not that he had been sent for her and rather an absence that was felt. all that howling loneliness had to be filled with something. a drink or two, a smoke⸺none of which could suffice such a human urge. all to say, part of him knew that she'd scatter the best parts of herself somewhere. emphasis is wedged here, as if it were the only secret belonging to him. " i just know where to look. "
LOCATION SECURED: SENTINEL HQ. SITTING ON OPPOSITE ENDS OF A CHAISE LOUNGE, WITH @w0rstcritic.
there's a sloped distinction between obligation & impulse. their agency being called to preside of the event was an obligation. the world's stage beckons them now: what part shall you play? enter, ares & athena. gods of war, together they will wage a feud that reminds angels why they should remain in heaven. there is much to be feared earthside, such horrors bridle within mankind. ward⸺even with libation in hand⸺being called to taunt her, was an impulse. " we can just sit here, you know. " call it picking a scab the way he denies the urge to press his thumb in the wound. " you don't have to talk. i prefer the quiet. "
LOCATION SECURED: SENTINEL HQ. SOMEWHERE BRIEFLY ESTRANGED FROM THE FESTIVITIES OF THE EVENING, BARING AN EXTRA FLUTE OF CHAMPAGNE FOR @illumin4te.
such an occassion held the same current as hells mouth. this pooling maw, unfurling to lurch its inhabitants closer to their fate. enter, the great denier. they converge in just the place any good spies would have: exactly where they shouldn't have been. warden flatters himself with the notion that he spotted her before he could consider the inverse. " pray tell, " he lingers near, a grin absently furling in the crook of his mouth. note the extra glass he carries in suit of his own. even the devil beheld good will, it seemed. " when did you make a habit of looking so [ ... ] solemn. " he wears a look that asks: what are you drunk on tonight & how can i be of assistance. spare glass is extended toward her by a canted stem. " come, have a drink with me. "
LOCATION SECURED: SENTINEL HQ ENTRY. THE TURN OF THE HOUR, GETTING FRISKED AT THE COATCHECK WITH @tvrmoils.
grandeur held the same fascination as a blade. a shiny, stark catalyst poising change. how the gleaming things attracted all the wrong people. and much like a blade, this man is man is slick as the night. however tall & sharply dressed, he had not been found misplaced among the dirty, designer crowd. that was the point: maintain appearances. " well, don't you clean up well. " it's pointed, sunglasses perched low on the snope of his nose as if discretion were still a weapon here. offers his overcoat to the coatcheck attendant. " all business this evening, verbena? "
