#theprimordium

[mindthewater]

☽ moodboard for @theprimordium ; James & Nix

sink my teeth into what is mine hunt and kill so you can wine and dine it's all worth my time our bodies intertwined so caught up in my self indulgence I tell myself that I'm not hopeless. (🎵)

[mindthewater]

& trine. @theprimordium // James & Mycroft

– London, England. Late August 1872.

Silk stockings meticulously roll over the arch of her foot, up the mound of her calf, and tie with a matching ribbon just above the knee. A pair of black slippers are then slid over restless toes and fastened with a bow around her leg – they resemble a pair of leather ballet shoes, a flexible stage footwear made fine, completely flat, which did not compress her bones unlike any other model James had tried to chuck at her. Fashion, in its many bizarre turns, had now decided that women's feet should be small.

Nix already towers several inches above the average female population.

She won't have it. Not the heels, not the rigid corsets, but ultimately settles for a more lenient type of the latter, half-boned in ecru, which is laced over her cotton chemise by a lady's maid that he'd hired for the occasion, since he wouldn't be present to assist this time. Nix spends the afternoon chittering with the young woman, bathing, perfuming her skin with scented oils, having her hair styled in gracious, loose waves, while the front strands are twisted and pinned into a wreath below the crown.

Anna, her new friend, and she share a box of pastel macarons and send for a bottle of sparkling wine from the cellar, so that by the time Nix's transformation is complete they're both giggling together like tipsy little imps, basking in the eternal girlhood that connects them. Oh, and she's definitely running late.

****

Nix rolls her calash down on the way out of the cab as it stops directly in front of Verrey's on Regent Street. It isn't nearly as daunting as it used to be: navigating the busy street, paying the fare, giving a name up at the desk. She either avoids or lets James field any questions sent her way, giving the cool, detached air of a foreign eccentric, there to be observed, not interacted with. Thankfully, her journey and entrance pose no challenges, and in no time she is escorted to the gentlemen's table, disrobed of her cloak, with a duchess' dowry around her throat, and the collective attention of the room relentlessly dragged along the train of her gown.

She greets the men with a courtly smile, offering her hand to James first, avidly drinking in his reaction to her presence, and lastly to Mycroft. The mischief in her eye outshines the diamonds on her neck.

"Mr Holmes, we meet again."

[mindthewater]

[ location. ]

& nsfw headcanons – accepting !

location — where do they like to have sex the most? would they ever have sex in a 'risky' place (ex. in the office, closet, public bathroom, etc)?

God, she'll go anywhere (except maybe in front of a crowd, but cucking is big yes), though outdoors is really her preferred domain. In the water, in the meadow, under the stars, in a cave, on the beach, in the forest–

If indoors, then she would absolutely gravitate towards the soft furnishings. A well made bed, a lush fleece throw, hell– even a fur rug. Naturally, she can still grab you in the tub for the sake of convenience, but she would prefer to get the rest of your house wet.

[mindthewater]

[ dynamic. ]

& nsfw headcanons – accepting !

dynamic — are they dominant? do they like to be dominated? how do they show their dominance? how do they show their partner(s) they want to be dominated? are they more versatile or does it depend on the context/their partner(s)?

Is there a force of nature that knows submission without putting up a fight-- oof. The same way I could argue that no horse wants to be saddled – they're either broken into it or they learn to tolerate it.

While very strongly preferring to dominate and indeed having a very hard time putting her head down for any other creature, she ranges from being a very hands-on, hold you down & throw you around domme, to letting her partner believe they're the one in charge while she pulls the strings.

I don't know if there are exceptions to this rule yet but I do enjoy being surprised.

[mindthewater]

continued from ( x ) // @theprimordium

"Why are you in this pit, James." It's less of a question and more of a rather harsh judgement cast upon his choice of London as residence, and the communal latrine that had been a river once. Three years of keeping an eye on him through shaving mirrors and shop windows. He's a hard man to pin down, despite their agreement.

Truth was he had yet to deliver his first libation, school-first and all, and her patience was running thin.

Nix emerges amongst the swans, begrudgingly swimming ashore, her frown only partially dissolved by the theatrical way in which he spooks. Evergreen entertainment. She'd been watching the evolution of his aesthetic choices with mild fascination, always the peafowl in the chicken coop, but admittedly pauses at the sight of his moustache, and squints. Had he grown that thing himself?

The lake was at least decent, and she finds no weird city smells clinging to her as she hoists herself over the edge to sit, flinging her hair over her shoulder, fat droplets spraying over the polished leather of his shoes. She looks up, behind, considering his offer, debating whether or not to find offence in it. "You think I have to rely on you to eat?"

Truly, what was this helpless man to do, go fetch an orphan on a whim?

Her temper simmers beneath the dappled shade of a willow tree, immediately irritated by a collection of distant noises she cannot avoid. Gossiping park wanderers, playing infants, some horribly scratchy accordion about two streets away – then the nightmare of indecipherable urban rattle, however muted. She rakes her fingers meticulously through her hair, working out the knots, and continues to sulk.

Suddenly, she spots a brown cart under a red umbrella not far from them, where two or three unaccompanied children queued to collect raspberry shaved ice in wafer biscuit cones from a smiling man.

She looks up at James again, eyes wide as a doe's.

[lostsovl]

❛ do you imagine that the universe conspires to bring lost souls together? ❜ ❛ we are each wretched, but perfectly wretched for each other. ❜ ❛ my heart is so full of you I can hardly call it my own. ❜ ❛ amid an infinite reel of faces, it will always be you. ❜ /Arthur&Val

& Valentine's libations – not currently accepting

@theprimordium // Arthur source (x)

– 1831.

If she lies still long enough, she can almost hear the violins.

It is night, and the lake is still. She had walked down the bank, pushing the boat in front of her, dragging boots and skirts through the mud, the black water; the boat is rotting, wood splintered and green from disuse, but still she dislodges it from its bed of moss and aims for the lake.

The lake is important. The night is important. In the cemetery of memories that Chilham has become, cold and barren, windows bolted shut, the lake holds the entirety of their life together the way water nourishes and then announces birth. She could break into the castle and touch every wall and stone, every piece of furniture, relive it all over again, but she isn't here for punishment, she's trying to remember what life is.

After Nour, after enough was a feeling and not a word, she simply left. There was no fight with her keeper, no farewell or great announcement – she walked out of the hungry woods, out of the country, walked and walked and walked for weeks on end, empty and lost, until the hills of Kent were sighted again. The body leads the mind in a fated dance. There was no hope left, no illusion in the bones that carried her to the grounds she'd once called home. He wasn't there. He would never be anywhere again.

Ten years she had lived as death. Why here, now? Why the lake?

Valerie hoists herself up onto the boat; it creaks and groans and sways under her wet weight, and then it settles. She pries off the middle seat and lies down on the boat's belly facing a chandelier of stars above. Beneath her, the water breathes. She closes her eyes, and memory rises up to sink her.

Do you imagine that the universe conspires to bring lost souls together?

He isn't trying to charm her. Arthur reclines in the settee by the bright window, deep in the ache of contemplation. Their love is a serious, urgent thing, and she'd like to believe his primary source of concern at this point in time. A little dramatic, though he'd never admit it. Was she lost back then? Her soul might have been doomed in the eyes of God, but not hers. Was she lost or was she free?

Then there is the taste of his skin after he's been in the sun, the smell of his hands on the day roses are pruned, the laughter, hysterical, a cascade of it, the music, bare feet on polished floors, his tomes and secrets, his eyes a green river, full of promises and schemes. Inked in copious letters are his deepest sentiments, gushings of affection in cursive. His ashen voice in the early hours. Oh, that wretched temper, that pride, that fire. Nights when the animal was left uncaged. How everything had to be his way, unless his lady spoke, unless you could beat him, somehow.

Sunlight goes through him. It weaves into his hair, the lining of his mouth, the edges of his teeth. Hearts brimming; the precipice. A joy so violent it breaks out of her, her fledging heart. Sated, sated, sated, rotund and drenched in the nectar of being. How can one ever hope to bear it? How could it ever last?

Valerie focuses on the violins. She rolls to the side, arm anchored overboard, the boat tips but doesn't turn, her fingers penetrate the water. This is the pulse she'd been searching for. Viscous, steady, infallible. Where there was love once so may love be again.

They can't both be dead if they never left.

[clairaudievt]

& new role, new faces, old legends.

starter for @theprimordium & @victoriautmorse // the Holmes brothers

Helen hadn't been too happy to hear that Jimmy had had enough of him flaking off in the middle of his shifts, but Guy was relieved to not have to spend another minute listening to disgusting thoughts of jobless johns on a Tuesday. The girls had been nice, though. "Where you off to, sweetheart?" When he told them about the British Library role there was a collective, unimpressed hum of acknowledgement, bubblegum deflating without a pop. It wouldn't be in the library though, which as much as it had always been a hiding spot, he was glad to have a break of it. If only he could see people without hearing their silences.

Sun high on a breezy January afternoon, third week on the job. You can find him on the corner between Euston and Midland Rd with a black cap on, handing out pamphlets highlighting the Library's events for the next half of the year to the crowd drifting to and from St Pancras. Most of them ignore him, which is fine. At least he doesn't have to shout something like sexy, sexy, secret map collections or some shit like that, more like hey how are you, come visit the Library soon. Across from his spot is a building enshrouded in scaffolding, where a white X on the safety panels would signal his next dead drop beacon. Every five minutes, his eyes nervously dart to it. Not trying to fish it out of the trash again.

Work bores him to death, but he manages to zone out enough to let his own mind wander without intrusion. It's just noise. During his lunch breaks, he's perfected the art of wolfing down a sandwich at the cafeteria and then going into the library for the remaining 50 minutes, still wiping grease from his lips, shoving the napkin in his pocket, stopping for a piss and then off into the quiet for some off-the-record research on company time. Safe to say half of the assistants know him by now: wide eyed pretty boy, conspiracy theorist, checks out anything he can find on secret societies and long-running cults.

"Have you heard of Talamasca? You know where I can find anything on it?" He sounds grave as he leans over the counter of the reading room, backpack still on, tapping his toe on the blue carpeted floor.

Janet with the polka dot button-up looks up from her stool, her glasses sliding back up an oily nose bridge as she focuses on the American's now-familiar face. "Talawhat?"

Nope, never heard of it. Yasmine will be here soon though, let's ask her. "Alright, thanks." Polka dot Janet is sweet, and she finds him cute, which he may or may not try to milk in order to get his request circulating through the staff. Someone, somewhere must have heard of it, and if any place in the world would have something written on it then surely the British government, experts at cataloguing anything and everything, even what wasn't theirs. Maybe especially what wasn't theirs.

[igneuscrvx]

&. Eden's apple.

event: garden of sin // @theprimordium

They listen to the draw from a settee in the gallery, dregs of ichor staining chalices on the floor, hearts thrumming on a sustained note of gentle euphoria. Thorne has almost entirely draped himself over his companion, claiming most of his lap, commanding his undivided attention. Mlle. Armetta's composed grace had begun to unravel. Locks of onyx hair fell loose from her crown, and her tulle scarf was now in careless loops around her wrist, leaving her throat bare to the scruff of Jormun's beard. She cares very little for what their host has to say, words and applause swirling in the irrelevant background of their private reverie. In fact, she hardly remembers the lines of verse she penned down, or the edge of emotion that drove her hand.

When silence precedes the reading of the winning wish, when the first few words strike the chord of recognition within his heart, Thorne's smile vanishes under a sobering wave of embarrassment. It didn't make sense. There were hundreds of guests in this snake pit; these weren't odds he usually beat. Suddenly indisposed, he peels himself away from his spot and approaches the rail, peering down at the stage below, catching the beady eyes of their ghoulish patron. His already climbing apprehension grows into mortification when they are informed that the wish should be granted on stage, before the incredulous mob.

No amount of wine sipped straight from a God's lips would have saved him from the intimate hell he plunges into. He feels himself a spectator of his own old circus act: the illusionist with many cards up his sleeve, pulling roses from his mouth and wishes from the crowd; the one who preys on your sorrows and doubts, and what can't he do for the right price... while an audience cheers, cries, and feeds off your stage-propped hope. Regardless, he continues to believe M. Marley works with nothing but a trick of the light. It won't be his Dahlia, but some other young face, smeared in blood for the play, while they look on, hungry for his pain.

He doesn't want to be made fool.

"Excuse me for a minute." Collecting the hem of her dress, Tomasina hurriedly abandons her perch while angling her face to conceal any worrying trace of emotion from her friend, taking to the spiral stairs in hurried gait. She aimed to catch the host himself but he had already faded back into the bowels of the stage, so she comes to a near screeching halt by the designated assistant, towering over him with a flicker of hell-forged wrath in her eye.

"We were told nothing about this being turned into a public spectacle."