FISSILE

ˈfɪsʌɪl/ adjective 1. (of an atom or element) able to undergo nuclear fission. "a fissile isotope" 2. (chiefly of rock) easily split. "flat-bedded and very highly fissile shale" san romi. dependent writing blog, affiliated with london falling. written by beanie.

[fissility]

A STUDY INTO….     corruption  bred  insanity,    apostasy  in  the  face  of  infamy,   how  quickly  one  can  dissociate  from  self,    loyalties  &  morals  consigned  to  oblivion  and  self - proclaimed  godhood.

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{kim hieora, they / them, thirty4}  we just saw  SAN ROMI  entering  ONE MAN'S TRASH. I heard through the grapevine that their loyalties lie with  THE JABBERWOCKS, and that they also go by  JUDGEMENT. be careful, they work as a  UNDERCOVER DETECTIVE  and are known to be  VIOLENT,  PARANOID, or  DECEITFUL. however they’re also known to be  AMBITIOUS,  ORGANIZED, and  DARING. – {beanie, she / they, gmt+1, images of birds}

[fissility]

What’s the weirdest fact you know? Why do you know it?

"fun question, that." and yet they give pause, the recollection of a not-too-distant memory shaping their mouth into a grin, all teeth. "did you know, like, when someone's burning to death, yeah? their eyes will start meltin' --- before they die. fuckin' nasty, right? i love it." the second question goes unanswered.

ASK ROMI. | ASK TAÍS. | ASK CHEL.

[fissility]

ASK ROMI. | ASK TAÍS. | ASK CHEL.

[jack-seo]

who: open starter where: jinjuu korean restaurant, soho, 1:30pm.

"What the fuck do you want? I'm off duty."

[fissility]

"don't lose your temper, piggie. i ain't come to huff and puff and blow your house down." as romi slips into the seat opposite him, their own coiled tail hides well beneath wolf's clothing, but they can feel it there--- like a tumor, begging to be removed. "you remember me?"

[mikalaseabrooke-archive]

CLOSED STARTER for @fissility. WHERE | WHEN: Royal Opera House, late evening.

It’s an idea that Mikala hadn’t put much thought into, inviting Romi to the Royal Opera House purely to spend one on one time with them―to catch them alone. The reality is that he couldn’t care less about La bohème, much preferring Madama Butterfly if he has to choose one of Puccini’s works, and he wonders if they feel the same way. Surely they had to, with the way he had watched them fidget nearly the entire time, until fidgeting turned into playing with his hands. Bending and contorting weathered fingers, like an overly anxious child. Where he would typically recoil from the physical touch, he instead let them, sparing them of an entire lecture.

The opera is over, with both of them having agreed to get dinner, albeit slightly late into the night. So, there they are, waiting in the lift. Alone, after he had rudely stopped other opera goers from entering by allowing the doors to close right in front of their faces. He spares a glance at his watch and it seems, with that brief peek at the time, the elevator halts. Powers down. All by design, of course, but Mikala feigns as if it’s otherwise.

“Isn’t that how it always is,” he scoffs, his eyes finding Romi’s silhouette in the sudden darkness. “You make plans and God laughs,” and so does he, apparently, with a noise that’s contrived and barely constitutes as human.

[fissility]

HE IS OLD AND DYING SOON, they had thought, while wringing his fingers between their own. this gripping and pulling had begun not even ten minutes into the show, when worms had started to slither around beneath their surface. they had counted his age by the lines in his skin, like counting the dark circles in the wood of a tree stump, and rounded up his years to circa seventy-five. the tips of his fingers were calloused. in the dark of the opera house, not so much as a sliver of their attention aimed towards the show itself, they had wondered if he'd rid himself of his finger prints like they had; shed layers of skin like a snake, to remain untraceable.

TO OFFER POISONED FRUIT IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN.

the second it ended, romi had reaffirmed their grip on his hands and pulled him along, intent on the pair of them being the first ones out. as the elevator doors shut an inch away from a couple of geriatrics, their mouth shapes a grin, hand an L. it's barely begun to move when the humming and whirring comes to a sudden stop.

"huh." something pokes and prods and scratches and tells them that there is rot, here. no mere coincidence, but rather than fear, it drives forth a sense of curiousity. amusement, even. "nice laugh, mate. sounds like some hellion call. half expectin' the five horsemen of the apocalypse t' start rising around us like."

[windflowerfairy]

Shirley Jackson, from The Haunting of Hill House

[fissility]

Cannibalism - yes or no?

[fissility]

romi's ask, taís ask!

[kimgoeun]

[lucidloving]

Caitlin Siehl, "Cut" // i.g.p, "Mama Bore a Girl" // Natalie Wee, Letters from Persephone // Sarah J. Maas, Heir of Fire // @klyukvav // @heavensghost // Carol Ann Duffy, "Medusa" // Aria Aber, "Ideology" // Clementine von Radics, "Vigil" // Ocean Vuong, "Prayer for the Newly Damned"

[dailyflicks]

POSSESSION 1981 | dir. Andrzej Żuławski

[metalfull]

A  VIOLENT  DARKENING  OF  HIS  EXPRESSION—-eyes,  already  pitch,  take  on  a  near  cavernous  quality,  expression  downturning  from  annoyance  to  a  seething,  inwardly  consuming  rage  that  boils  directly  under  the  surface,  threatening  to  spill  out.  they’re  like  a  rot,  something  porous  and  creeping,  vines  on  the  brick  tenement  of  his  soul.

HE  DECIDES,  AN  EVEN  STROKE  OF  THOUGHT—he  will  not  be  wound  up  today  by  their  antics,  by  the  infestation  of  them,  the  crawling  of  their  words  like  insects  beneath  his  flesh,  “no,”  quiet,  though  not  a  whisper,  “no  blood,”  tilts  his  head,  a  little  antagonistic,  “how  ‘bout  you,  miss  any  shots  recently,”  voice  drips  malcontent,  “any  more  failures?”

[fissility]

"liar."

  LIARLIARLIAR.   i  saw  you,   white  rose  painted  red,  dripping  between  london's  cobblestones,   residual  rancour  growing  like  stiff  branches  in  your  body.   "i  don'  use  guns,"   they  say,   and  something  in  the  way  they  flop  back  into  their  seat,  the  line  between  brows,  speaks  to  disappointment.  interest  unreciprocated,   or  maybe--

  it's  an  act,   theater,  and  the  theme  of  the  play  is  fear.  the  fear  of  getting  close,  to  confess  to  the  yearning  for  sanguinary  intimacy.   romi  feels  confident  in  this,    the  corners  of  their  mouth  twitching  in  satisfaction.   "i'll  tell  you  about  it  like,    ova'  some  chips.    we'll  share,   yeah?    i'm  buyin'."

[helenasriggs]

Killing Eve — 1.05 “I Have A Thing About Bathrooms”

[metalfull]

@fissility

RUNNING   CHAFED   PALMS   OVER   THE   SMOOTH,   LAMINATED   SURFACE   OF   THE   PUB   MENU—he’d   chosen   a   seat   at   the   back,   as   far   away   from   the   cool   gusts   of   air   that   sweeped   in   with   the   comings   and   goings   of   patrons,   tucked   away   in   a   warm   corner   for   privacy.   in   vain,   it   seemed,   when   a   familiar   face   sat   down   across   from   him,   “taken,”   miodrag   intoned,   unkindly,   “you   know   very   well   that   this   table   s’taken,”

[fissility]

UPON  ENTRY  INTO  ONE  OF  LONDON'S  MILLIONS  'PON  MILLIONS  DINGY,  WOODEN  CARAPACES--they  stride  his  way,    their  prowling,  wide-eyed  movements  suggesting--

  --NO!  ANNOUNCING,  announcing  'i  came  here  for  you,    i  know  you  like the  pious  know  their  deity'.    elbows  on  booth's  table,  they  lean  forward,  smiling.  "uh-huh.   taken  by  us,  innit?  you  get  blood  on  your  hands,  lately,   crosshair?"  they  say  his  title  slow,  antagonistic,   each  vowel  and  syllable  dragged  out;  the  s:es  an  ophidian  hiss.   "did  you  get  it  all?  do  you  scrub  'em  til'  the  skin  comes  flakin'  off?"

[autobahnmp3]

KIM HIEORA as BOSS YONG in BAD AND CRAZY episode 12

[seoinquk-deactivated]

KIM HIEORA as GELLY THE UNCANNY COUNTER: COUNTER PUNCH (2023)