Untitled

teeth against buttermilk moon.

[midcenturies]

“this fleeting world, which in some strange way keeps calling to us. us, the most fleeting of all. once for each thing. just once; no more. and we too, just once. and never again.” rainer maria rilke.

a multimuse written by marcela. do not follow first. memes.

GUIDELINES. muse is not mun. dead doves do not eat. i am slow and love the queue. at this point i am vibing with tight plots that go places. memes are the best way to start threads.

CALLUM DARROW. age: thread dependent, twenties-to-thirties. time period: 1910s-1920s. birthplace: cadder coalfields, scotland. current residence: glasgow, scotland. gender: cis man. orientation: bisexual. no such phrase for it then, of course. faceclaim: ric.hard g.add. time period: 1910s-1920s. thread and plot dependent. occupation: the newest member of the friday mongers, a scottish gang known for carrying their blades in fish wrappers. compromised mostly of trade unionized war dodgers and angry, unemployed youths. headed by his childhood friend — one might even say brother — michael flett. other: born in poverty to a line of miners, which he himself joins early as a child laborer. survives a mine fire in 1913 which killed twenty-one people, exempting himself and michael. weary of destitution, seduced by adventure, and eager not to worsen a case of acute bronchitis, he makes a pact with michael to enlist in wwi. the friendship suffers a betrayal. he steals off to war alone. now he is back, worse for the wear.

REVEREND ELIJAH JAMES MERCER. age: thread dependent, twenties-to-thirties. location: main verse, itinerant. wormhole au, unnamed city. orientation: homosexual. occupation: minister and lecturer. time period: 1930s, or contemporary “wormhole” au. ethnicity: white american. hair: brown, slightly longer than average, tousled. eyes: green, thick-lashed. build: 6’2, slightly thin, but fit. notable features: freckles. protruding ears. sweats easily in the heat. other: born to a cynical conman, william mercer, and a sex worker from new orleans’ storyville district, charlotte fontenot. mother disappeared shortly after his birth in the midst of a postpartum episode. raised on the road with his father, who taught and included him in grifts. he was abandoned at a home for orphaned boys at the age of ten. came to jesus in his early adulthood. forged himself a bachelor’s degree, joined the seminary, and emerged a dustbowl preacher spreading the gospel of social and economic justice. more information on the old google doc.

BEATRÍZ DE LA ROSA RENDÓN. maiden surname: sagrada concepción cordero bermúdez. age: thread dependent, 20s-50s. location: new york city, or adjacent. orientation: straight, with the occasional same-sex infatuation. occupation: former seamstress. current homemaker. time period: 1950s-1960s. ethnicity: puerto rican. hair: black waves, typically styled in an elaborate up-do. eyes: black, almond-shaped. build: 5’0, trim and petite. notable features: her clothes, though expensive, are classic and subdued. she exclusively wears feminine silhouettes (no pants!). other: raised in poverty. moved from puerto rico to new york city in her early adulthood with her abusive husband. this husband is now dead. married again to an italian-cuban mob captain, elio de la rosa rendon. has three children: twins martin and mateo, and daughter belén — the latter of which was the result of an affair with the priest daniel taimur. more information on the old google doc.

[spookiesmausoleum]

𝐘𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐀-𝐙 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭

Remember to specify muse for multi-muse blogs!

A - Affection: How affectionate are they during sex? Is it different with people they're romantically involved with? Can they sleep with people they aren't?

B - Body: Are they into a specific physique? Why or why not? Are they just preferences or complete turn offs?

C - Chatter: Do they like to talk during the act? If so what do they like to talk about? Is it just dirty talk or something different?

D - Dominance: Are they into those types of power dynamics? Or do they like to stick to whose topping and bottoming? If they are into it why? If they aren't why not?

E - Erotica: Do they read or watch it? Does it get them in the mood? Do they create it themselves?

F - Food: Do they believe certain foods can be aphrodisiacs? If so what foods are like that for them? Do they like using food in the bedroom or is it too messy?

G - Group sex: Have they ever tried it? Would they ever want to try it if they haven't? If they don't enjoy it why not?

H - Humiliation: Are they into it? Why or why not? How far will they go? Do they enjoy being de-humanized or is it more being made fun of?

I - Intensity: Do they like intense scenes? Or are they more a slow and take their time kind of person?

J - Jousting: Do they like having more than one object or person inside of them? If so do they prefer toys or just multiple partners? Are they curious about it?

K - Kiss and Tell: Do they talk about their sex life to others? If they do do they go into detail or are they more casual about it? Do they share photos with other people or are those private?

L - Licking: Do they enjoy using their tongue on their partners or is it too gross? If so what are their favorite places to use their tongue?

M - Masturbation: Is it a part of sex for your muse? Or is it something completely different? Do they enjoy watching their partner or being watched?

N - Nope: Do they enjoy orgasm denial or do they want to see how many times they can make their partner cum? Somewhere in-between?

O - Open: Do they enjoy having things in their mouth? If so what are their favorite oral fixations? (fingers, toys, giving oral, etc.)

P - Preference: Does size really matter to your muse? Whether it be for others or toys in general. Do they have a favorite type of toy they like to use? If so is it the same to use on other people?

Q - Quiet: Do they enjoy trying to see how long their partner can last without making a sound? Do they enjoy loud or quiet partners?

R - Risk: Are they into some risky kinks? (breath play, exhibitionism, blood play, etc.) If so what are their favorites? Do they practice them safely?

S - Suspension: Are they into being suspended like on a swing or during rope play? Or if not, what's the highest place they've ever had sex?

T - TMI: Your opportunity to talk about any dirty thing you want to talk about with your muse. Could be kinks they like or just facts.

U - Underwear: Do they enjoy lingerie or dressing up for their partner? Or is it too much of a hassle? Favorite garments to wear? Do they ever go without underwear?

V - Violation: Are there any kinks your muse flat out won't do or even people they know? Are bringing them up enough to turn your muse away from a potential partner for good? Any pet names get them like that?

W - Water: Do they enjoy shower sex or anywhere else that's wet like a pool or hot tub? Is it too awkward?

X - X Ray: What's going on under your muse's clothes? Do they have any special scars or places they like to be touched or avoided? Describe their physique and anything else you'd like to expand on.

Y - Yes: Do they have any specific turn ons? Things that will automatically make your muse say yes to sleeping with someone else. If not what are some other things that get them in a more romantic mood? Lighting? Dinner?

Z - Zones: Favorite places they like to be touched? Are some less obvious than others? Any places they absolutely hate being touched?

[zeelatunes]

[id1eyouth]

x / @midcenturies

The room is small and the bed creaks under every shift of weight, the springs protesting like old bones. The curtain is drawn but the streetlamp still bleeds through a tear in the fabric, throwing a thin bar of yellow across the foot of the mattress and the tangle of their legs. Callum's clothes are by the door where she dropped them, the buttons catching the light like spent casings.

His skin is hot under her hands, the muscle still there but strung tight, the way a wire is strung before it snaps. He fucks her with the care of a man who's spent too long believing that one wrong movement can bring the whole world down. Every motion is measured, as though he's afraid that hurrying might break the fragile miracle of finding her again.

Cathy's fingers dig into the muscle of his shoulders, finding old knots and new scars beneath warm skin. The shape of him is familiar now, but the trembling isn't. She has seen worse on other men who paid by the hour, came home with limbs left somewhere in France, and others who returned outwardly untouched, carrying wounds that never found a place on the body.

Callum belongs to the latter—whole on the outside, but she can feel the tremor running through him, the same tremor she has felt in a dozen other soldiers who could not quite leave the trenches behind. His breath is ragged against her neck, and she turns her face into the pillow to keep from making the kind of sound that might give too much away.

He slows, then stops, buried deep, his weight braced on his forearms so he does not crush her. The movement is so sudden she opens her eyes without meaning to. The light from the street catches the side of his face, the line of his jaw still sharp but softened by something she cannot name. His hand comes up, rough palm against her cheek, and he turns her head until she is looking straight at him. His eyes are the same colour they were when he was twelve and trying to show her how to nick apples from the barrow without getting caught, only now there is a wetness in them that has nothing to do with the war and everything to do with the fact that he is inside her and cannot seem to keep the words back any longer.

"I love ye," he says, and the words come out cracked, like he has been holding them in his mouth for years and they have gone sour. "I love ye, Cathy."

And he just looks at her, the way a dog might look at the hand that feeds it. He shifts his hips, a shallow thrust that makes the bed groan, and the movement is clumsy with feeling rather than with lust.

Cathy keeps her gaze on him because he has asked for it and because she simply cannot. Her own body answers without her permission, hips lifting to meet his next slow push, her legs drawing him deeper even as her mind tries to hold the line she has drawn for herself.

"I ken—I ken ye dae."

Her hands move up into his hair, the strands damp with sweat, and she holds him there, holds his gaze, lets him see whatever he needs to see in her face without giving him the words that would make any of it true in the way he wants it to be true.

The bed creaks again, steady as a metronome.

[jamsmemes]

(     *     BARE BONES.

a selection of headcanon questions inspired by key bones in the human body.

skull.   what memories/thoughts do they guard the most from others ?

cheekbone. what makes them smile ?

mandible / jawbone. what are they incapable of saying out loud ?

teeth. what lasting mark do they leave on others ?

hyoid / neck. who taught them to speak up, or stay silent ?

clavicle / collarbone. who/what do they lean on when they're vulnerable ?

scapula / shoulderblade. what burden do they carry on their back ?

sternum. what makes their heart pound hardest ?

ribcage. who/what are they trying to protect ?

humerus. do they use humour as a shield or a weapon ? what from/to ?

radius. who/what do they reach for first in a crisis ?

ulna. who stands by them no matter what ?

carpals. what small habits do they have ?

metacarpals. do they ask for help or clench their fists and bear it ?

phalanges. what is their relationship with touch ?

spine. when do they lose their backbone, what scares them ?

pelvis. what future or legacy are they afraid/excited to be responsible for ?

sacrum. what sacrifices have they made ?

coccyx / tailbone. what outdated beliefs do they still carry, if any ?

femur. what drives them forward ?

patella / kneecap. how compliant/obedient are they, who will they kneel for ?

tibia. who/what keeps them moving forward ?

fibula. do they ever feel overlooked ?

tarsals. what past mistakes stick with them with every step they take ?

metatarsals. if they could disappear for a day, where would they run ?

[belovedgamers]

The BEST trope is when a character tells another “let’s run away together, we can leave all of this behind and start a new life somewhere” and gets rejected. And then the rest of the tragedy unfolds

[eviji]

<<If the depths do have a master then perhaps we pray to that. I will pray for justice, captain, but not for mercy.>>

[midcenturies]

she looks away from the endless sea and into nemo’s unreadable face.

she smiles.

<< i can attest that they do, captain. and i shall ask him for the same. >>

[choicescreen]

barely, barely, marion resists the urge to ask a snarky question—wouldn't you like to see? while the impulse might show on his face for a second or two, he swallows it. it reaches his tongue but no further.

the corners of his mouth tug up, easy and felid.

he chuckles. there's no other word for it. embarrassing, him chuckling like an impressed schoolboy. "you're full of surprises, padre. one of a kind. granted the only ones i knew were so close to the grave, it's no wonder they talked about god as if they knew him personally."

[midcenturies]

“is that true? i played baseball against a league of catholic priests once. they were quite spry, and with good senses of humor, too.” 

elijah presses his shoulder further against marion’s: a friendly jostle. 

“i'll accept your compliment all the same.”

[id1eyouth]

His hand rests against her neck, warm and steady, and suddenly it feels difficult to breathe. Not because of the touch. Because of the way he's looking at her.

I thought o ye. How carelessly he says it, as though he hasn't just reached into the darkest corners of her and laid a hand on things she'd buried years ago.

Her eyes drop for a moment.

There was a time when Callum's attention had felt as natural as sunlight. He'd followed her through fields and closes, carrying her satchel when she pretended it was too heavy, listening to her nonsense as though every word mattered. Even then he'd had a way of looking at her that made her feel chosen.

The years between then and now seem impossibly crowded. Too many men. Too many lies. Too many versions of herself worn and discarded like old dresses. And yet standing here, beneath Callum's gaze, she feels innocent again. That might be the cruellest thing of all.

A bitter little laugh escapes her.

"Pity?" Her hand rises, resting on his chest, her thumb rubbing mindless circles, and she shakes her head.

Men have accused her of many things over the years. Greed. Vanity. Deceit. Never pity.

"If it were pity, I'd have sent ye a basket o' scones and told ye how brave ye were." The corner of her mouth lifts. "Maybe knitted ye a scarf. "Naw Callum. Ye were breakin' my heart long before I thought I lost ye."

[midcenturies]

with her passing joke, cathy puts words to a sentiment that callum has long had, but been unable to express. the handshakes and backslaps from men who never served, the flowers shoved into his arms by women who did not give up sons and husbands — all felt like hollow, condescending gestures upon his homecoming.

no one who was absent from the fields of france can hope to understand what it was like. as such, he prefers not to discuss it, unless he's in the company of fellow soldiers. 

he watches her intently as she speaks. he always watches her intently, as though some new tic or expression will suddenly illuminate the corners of her psyche that he is still not privy to. as it turns out, though, it’s her words that give him more cause for intrigue. 

“before?” his eyebrows knit together. his hand stays put, thumb mirroring hers in the way it brushes back and forth over her skin.

“hoo's that?”

[choicescreen]

"claudia," bell-like voice, clear as crystal. the resonance of a woman and yet the lighter pitch of a child. she quickens her pace to stand in front, halting them both.

she grabs for his hand, leaning more into the over-friendly, precocious child he believes her to be. "i can't go 'round callin' you just father. you ain't my father. or... is it pastor? oh! monsignor? i heard that one the other day. there's so many i don't know how they expect young girls to keep track..."

a vein throbs under her fingertips. her teeth grow into points behind her lips, which part as she chatters to make room. she clutches a little tighter.

[midcenturies]

so sudden is her appearance in front of him that he nearly stumbles over her. she takes hold of his hand and he shudders at its frigid temperature. “claudia…” he begins in a feeble attempt to stop her ramblings, but she refuses to be cut off.

how is it that the more childlike she becomes, the more false her very nature seems? it reignites the twinge of unease that had visited him earlier in their conversation; fans it so that it spreads through his limbs and to his extremities. he’s been afraid before, of course — the nights spent in the orphanage immediately after his father abandoned him were the worst — but it’s never felt quite so animal. 

and then there are the teeth.

“i must go,” the reverend says suddenly, and pulls his hand from hers with all the strength he can muster. “i’m in a terrible rush. i — i’m sorry.”

heart thuds as he side-steps her, making for the nearest trolley stop.

[bruisedpenny]

@midcenturies eli said, "i hate to think what i'd give for a thousand mornings like this one. for two or three."

her hands are sore against the concrete from leaning on them funny, cheap silver rings digging blue ridges into her fingers. pidgeen doesn’t move, though. her chin’s tilted up toward the sky where the big swathe fades lighter, lighter like old denim. the corner store sauvignon blanc is open and warm between them, inside the bottle the last resting place of a fruitfly. the sun rises pink over brooklyn.

pidgeen’s head pounds but she smiles. eli’s easy company. how he really does listen when she opens her mouth and spins, picking up the dropped threads of her thoughts, forming something coherent between the two of them. the kindness of him. the little bit of melancholy. he differs from all her other friends because she sincerely could see them at this at eighty.

her head drops to his shoulder.

“what’ja mean, loveen? you’re not goin’ off somewhere on me, are ya?”

[midcenturies]

elijah doesn’t look when pidgeen settles against him. it’s enough to feel her there, her hair fanning over his shoulder, her cheek soft and radiating the warmth she’d accrued from one swig of wine too many. it seems a crime to deny himself a longer look at that sky, but he does it anyway: lets his lids flutter closed and takes one deep breath in, another one out. 

“no,” he murmurs. “not going anywhere. nothing like that. it’s just —”

he finds it difficult to put into words what she’s been to him. what he’d like her to be. and even if it weren’t, he doesn’t know if he would be comfortable speaking them aloud. sister, mother, anchor, wife — it’s a lot for one woman to carry on her narrow shoulders. 

his eyes open again. he squints at her with a smile, then back to the oil painting before them.

“i didn’t think i could be happy here. that's all.”

[vitalphenomena]

ELIJAH KNIGHT REMEMBERS HIS BROTHER SHIPLEY. He doesn't know why. He's been ardently avoiding the subject of his siblings, in fact.

(It's the way Elijah Mercer looks at him. To the blonde, it looks murderous and sick in the way he's now come to interpret all of Shipley's staring.)

"Ain't you," He sighs, "Don't you wanna know if other people see what you see?"

[midcenturies]

“see what i see.” 

the reverend repeats him impatiently. 

“can you find it in yourself to be more precise, mister knight?”

[joyousdefunct]

when he pushes off the wall, she steps back— no more than an inch or two, but enough for heel to scrape ground and for pupils to narrow. even gentlemen could do terrible things, and what he says next is of no help to settle her nerves.

“if i required escort through the city, i would have brought my husband.”

then, with a small huff, she indicates the parcel settled on her hip and adjusts it again, more for something to do with her hands.

“but if you’re insisting on usefulness, you may carry this and walk me to the post office.” her gaze drifts down the block, towards the dull churn of existence. soot-faced children stepping in yesterday’s rain.

“ ... i’d rather not be delayed by unnecessary complications.”

@midcenturies

[midcenturies]

callum’s mouth twists into a grin. such a priss, she is, with big words and a high opinion of herself to match. 

some sick, hidden part of himself relishes that a single step from him struck something like fear into her — and so he does it again. takes one step toward her, then another, his gaze unwavering even as he takes the box gingerly out of her hands. 

“lead the way, missus. least a can dae tae thank ye after the other day’s mess.”

[nicostiel]

He's doing so well

[vitalphenomena]

THE LAST THING ELIJAH SAW BEFORE THE MIRACLE HAPPENED WAS HIS LITTLE SISTER WITH A KNIFE TO HIS THROAT. He could let that betrayal upend his entire world view, or he could persist forward with relentless optimism.

So, yes. This is a blessing.

Elijah watches Elijah and does not think to ask for some water, though he's become quite parched from the fright and the exertion of being cornered against the wall.

"Well, to start, it'd be real nice if we could put an end to these hostilities," Elijah suggests. He leans against the counter as he continues to contemplate.

"After that, I do believe we've got more in common than you think. Do you not believe Jesus Christ died for our sins?"

[midcenturies]

modern milk cartons do not make the same satisfying clink as bottles do when you handle them. the reverend frowns at this as he takes one from the fridge and begins rummaging in a cabinet for a mug.

do you not believe jesus christ died for our sins?

a pause as he places the glass on the counter. a heavy sigh as he shuts his eyes momentarily. “yes,” he concedes. “yes, elijah, i do.”

as if the admission that they have something in common — indeed, a major thing — physically hurts him.

[bailheap]

Garden variety telepathy in the grounds of their mutual grandamefriend, the (very recently) deceased marquess al-balad.

Should you choose to rejoin the light, within its burning will lie mercy, and in its mercy your reward.

[midcenturies]

<< self-slaughter. like judas. >>

her face takes on a sour, distrustful expression.

<< i refuse. >>

[choicescreen]

being over there is the first time richard has been seperated from emma. she's the fighter. she's the one who got in trouble for wrestling on the schoolyard. she taught him how to shoot. he is a dream-headed, gawky, tender boy. or was. more than once a plover resident wondered which harrow child was the son.

(she keeps saying how much she wants to come too. his father had looked at him sternly, waved the smoke from his pipe away in an aggravated gesture he used whenever he did not want to hear whatever his wife or children had to say—which was often enough. high time the two of you learned once and for all that you are not the same person.)

"you must miss him terribly, michael." the pain callum must feel. it's hard to imagine. richard takes a chance and reaches out to settle a hand on callum's shoulder, only for a second or two, long enough to impart a reassuring squeeze. "we can stop talking about siblings."

[midcenturies]

“twenty good men died alongside him. no use dwelling.” 

it’s a hollow sentiment. callum’s affect is flat, his gaze distant. across his mind flash scenes from the mine fire that did indeed happen, but which he and michael survived. the third man who laid dead beside them for — was it hours? days? — while they huddled together underground, their hopes of rescue diminished by the minute. 

another beat before he rouses himself from his reverie. he shifts in his seat and looks at richard, asking with a fresh burst of dry humor:

“d’ye think those medieval lads liked being knights more than we like bein soldiers?”