whitby allen

[whywhitby]

𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚃𝙱𝚈 𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙽 of Jeff Vandermeer's 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙽 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙲𝙷 ❛ Because: Why Whitby? Why fucking Whitby? Whitby who was like an old duck, or whatever the fucking phrase was. Freak, piece of work, crackpot, coot, fruitcake, black sleep, no, black sheep. ❜

#WHYWHITBY. an exploration of ― the sublime, relief brought by parallel universes, becoming a beacon for unknowable cosmic entities, trying again and again no matter how many times it kills you, and the meditative experience of bathing a mouse.

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affiliated with: @oriomn & @aston1sh1ng / @uplus003f & @sunmad & @bloodfeared / @isviper & @aithynne

mature & triggering themes will be present. 29, independent, & selective. 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖆𝖘. he / him. can otherwise be found at @cranetm.

CARRD. / IDENTITY. / VISUALS.

[dreamysummer03]

[whywhitby]

unofficial, unannounced hiatus should end in about 1.5 weeks, at which point I will be done with this goddamn film

[whywhitby]

kicks you

you KICK whitby? you kick his body like the football?

[woodsywarbler]

Is this the room you wanted to show me?

Commissioned by @oriomn for the ever-talented @whywhitby. Happy birthday, friend!

[whywhitby]

☆ Put this star into the inbox of your favourite blogs. It’s time to spread positivity! Whrby

GRAY !!! i'm gonna smorch your face

[oriomn]

Missouri glances up with detached amusement as he pours himself a small measure of scotch.

"Hey, did I say anything?"

He picks up an orange from the cooler and inspects it. A bit soft, a bit past its best, but then again, after a few weeks here, very little fresh food remains. He takes up a knife and peels off a curl of rind.

"I never said they don't. In fact, I look forward to receiving your findings. You are a fine scientist, I am certain they will be revolutionary," he deadpans.

He drops the rind into his glass and tosses the remainder of the orange to Whitby, then pushes away to go sit behind his small desk, stacked high with journals and reports.

[whywhitby]

He can smell the fresh citrusy zest as soon as Missouri's blade cuts into the fruit. The pilot's words are kind, but only at face value. Whitby can feel the challenge lying underneath, simmering. Prove me wrong.

He jolts into action as the orange goes flying. With the over-ripe fruit trapped -- somewhat squished -- between his hands, Whitby stares at Missouri with wide, buggish eyes. ❛ ..They will be. You'll see. ❜ He's had plenty of people cast their doubt upon his work before. This is hardly anything new.

He swiftly begins peeling the rest of the orange, all too aware of the way bits of its skin get trapped, sticky and sweet, under his nails. He consoles himself with the knowledge that at least this way the scent might linger a little longer, even if it feels unpleasant. Whitby splits the orange in half and steps forward to offer Missouri his portion.

❛ I suppose we'll have to find a new game now. ❜

[mcafan12345-deactivated20250317]

the mold In My brain makes me sexier

[thedeadtravelfast]

"I already feel like a different person."

[oriomn]

Missouri looks up at him with affected skepticism and a quirked brow. He already feels better -- Whitby's outrage easily smooths over the sting of losing. He shrugs, and turns away again, as though the conversation were only worth half his attention.

"What, are you telling me something like that would be beyond your capabilities?"

He scans the makeshift wet bar. He is making a show of selecting his drink thoughtfully, though in truth he does not plan to drink anything more tonight. Despite Whitby's accusations, he isn't actually drunk, and he does not intend to become so.

[whywhitby]

❛ well, maybe -- ❜ he supposes he might be able to rig the game, if he really wanted to. he'd find a way. but that's entirely besides the point. caught up in the fantasy of this theoretical scenario, whitby realizes all too late that he's already fallen for missouri's trap.

❛ ...oh, i see what you're doing. that's very funny. ❜

arms crossed, he plants himself right by the bar. ❛ you know, biology is actually crucial to this expedition. there are countless thriving bacterial communities deep beneath the ice. just because you can't see 'em doesn't mean they don't exist. ❜

[oriomn]

Missouri stares, blinking, as the digital representation of Whitby's bishop slides across the board, boxing in his king. His eyes track upwards as Whitby leans back, but the rest of his body barely moves, muscles coiled tight with subtle irritation.

It isn't so much that he is a sore loser in general, as it is that he is sore to lose so quickly, and to Whitby of all people. To make matters worse, Whitby's expression is bright and smug, and perhaps even a little mocking.

Missouri must be losing his mind. He takes a sip of his whiskey and sighs, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"You cheated," he grunts, and swirls the last sip of his drink around in his glass. A plan is forming in his mind. Impulsive, perhaps, but all but guaranteed to wipe the grin off of Whitby's mouth.

He scans the board, as though searching for signs of Whitby's obvious deception, but it is not the glowing outlines of the chess pieces that he is looking at. His breath leaves him in a resigned puff of air, his mouth pressed tight in a serious line.

With a quick movement and deft fingers, Missouri reaches forward and pries the plastic off of the control panel, then dumps the remaining contents of his glass into the exposed machinery. It flickers and sparks, and the light of the board blinks out.

Then, trying to act as if he isn't watching for Whitby's reaction, he stands, and paces across the room to refill his glass.

[whywhitby]

❛ no -- ! ❜ he surges forward only to catch a acrid whiff of singed electronic innards. ❛ you -- ! ❜ whitby madly sputters, but the bitter taste in the back of his mouth makes it difficult to get the words out properly. instead, he gestures in disbelief at the darkened board. winter hasn't even officially begun. how on earth will he pass the time? certainly not through small talk. not with these animals.

❛ you're drunk, ❜ he accuses missouri, entirely disregarding his own half - empty glass. swiftly, whitby pulls himself to his feet to stalk after him. there's something about the way missouri has physically withdrawn himself that makes it feel as though he's trying to run away. whitby won't have it. the whiskey, of course, has made him more daring. he wouldn't typically be bold enough to chase after someone like missouri.

❛ and a sore loser. how could i have cheated with an electronic chess board? what, you think i hacked it? ❜

[whywhitby]

THE THING ┊ starter for @oriomn

whitby perches on the very edge of his seat, practically hovering mid - air from the sheer intensity of his focus. it was a gamble, really. he wasn't sure this tactic would work with missouri. the man is sharp. and yet, there it is: whitby's opening.

the long days must be getting to him. with a carefully controlled expression, whitby presses his next move into the keyboard... and hits enter just a bit too enthusiastically.

❛ fool's mate, ❜ he crows over the tinny beeps that come from the computer. a sultry, feminine voice pipes up from the device:

bishop to g-6. check.

with the first real smile he's given missouri all day -- no, all week -- whitby sprawls back in his chair, king, if only for a moment.

[inkpressedpetals]

[whywhitby]

BODILY HORROR PROMPTS.

╰┈➤ @hatt1tude said :: peel it back. ( From Haru, Good morning :) )

his hands hover over haru's wrist, not out of fear but something... more akin to reverence. whitby knows that if it were his own body, he would not hesitate. his fingers itch with temptation, the urge restrained, for now, by a strange, lingering sense of propriety. a rare thing for whitby allen, indeed. ❛ but-- ❜ his breath hitches, eyes darting from the abnormal layer of flesh to haru's eyes, ❛ what if-- ❜ what if there's no going back? perhaps it's already too late.

❛ ...are you sure? ❜

[woodsywarbler]

A chicken. Fuck Whitby. Fuck Whitby's chicken. Just... fuck all of that. But Lowry thought about the chicken, without a contamination suit on, navigating that dank corridor from the Border to AAX, fuck, and some small part of him wept over that fucking chicken's terror.

[oriomn]

BODILY HORROR PROMPTS

@whywhitby said : you don't get to die yet.

Missouri laughs, bitterly, if only to mask the very real dread settling heavily across his sternum. "I'd say it's my turn, wouldn't you?" He sucks in air through clenched teeth. As ways to die go, blood loss is fast, and relatively painless... But he isn't ready. They haven't had enough time. There is never enough time. Besides, for however many Whitby's he has known... the thought of his companion having to stumble away from him now, only to go looking for another timeline... another Missouri... some man who is at once himself and someone else, entirely... He cannot stand it.

[whywhitby]

BODILY HORROR PROMPTS.

╰┈➤ @oriomn said :: ❛ you fed it again, didn't you? ❜

whitby spends a good five seconds opening and shutting his mouth, struggling and failing to come up with a lie that might satisfy missouri. the look on his face makes it clear that it's already too late for that.

❛ her. i fed her. ❜ the words spill out of him with an air of defensiveness, regardless of whether he has any right to it. already, whitby can feel his face growing warm with embarrassment. his gaze drops away from missouri's face. that makes it all a bit more tolerable, at least. ❛ she's helping us, actually. ❜ crazy. you sound crazy. still, he drives on, utterly single - minded. ❛ so, really-- we owe her. in a way. ❜