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neitherg-dnorthatcher on tumblr asked:

cathy earnshaw?
 

She and Heathcliff have always looked alike. Not— not so much that it’s immediately evident to anyone who doesn’t know them, but spend long enough in their company and it starts to become obvious, like an optical illusion coming into focus. You begin to wonder how you haven’t noticed it before, and then you begin to wonder if maybe it’s your mind playing tricks on you, or them playing tricks on you. Apophenia induced by the uncanny way they turn to look at the same thing at the same time, follow each other where neither of them can see, laugh simultaneously at some obscure joke they couldn’t articulate if asked. They’re like twins, uncut umbilical cord stretching between them, thin red string tied around each of their little fingers. It makes even the casual observer feel like a voyeur, in the rare moments they spend in the company of other people rather than that only of each other, out on the moors.
 

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nyarlathotwink on tumblr asked:

kiss meme - rantep, 31?

31. a kiss after a small rejection

“No.”

“But—”

Carter folds his arms across his chest. “No.”

Nyarlathotep looks down at him, considering. Carter is a little disheveled, shirt untucked and tie loosened, but still relatively put-together for someone who’s just been plucked from a mundane university office and swept off to a palace halfway across the universe. Remarkably composed, too— the first time this had happened he’d been nearly insensible with fear, and it had taken what felt like hours for Nyarlathotep to convince Carter that he wasn’t planning to hurt him. (Tenuously true as that may have been at the time.) Now, adorably diminutive as he looks from this vantage point, surrounded by the trappings of a throne room made for creatures far larger than he is, he has the nerve to look up at Nyarlathotep with an air of defiance.

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skyeventide on tumblr said:

Consider, Forese Donati dies and Dante goes to the funeral, meeting Corso there. Just, that whole situation.

 

It was a sudden thing, the death, and that was what made it so hard to comprehend. Everything in those days felt demanded by a sense of narrative, from the smallest passing conversations to the movements of the city’s most important political actors, all dictated as a part of some larger story. It had been like that since Piccarda died, in some ways, but now there was something of an acceleration about it. I felt it, and so did my husband, and so— I presume, I don’t see how he couldn’t have— did Corso.

Did we know how the story would end, then? Did we know the direction in which we were being inexorably pulled, all of us, the whole city— though somehow it felt so intimate, as though we three alone were at its center? Did we sense it? I believe we did. I believe I did, at least. My husband certainly never lacked for a sense of narrative, and Corso—

Well. If he didn’t know where things were going, exactly, he certainly did not lack for a vision.

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magictavern on tumblr said:

sasha/azu with azu helping sasha with her wounds?
 

Sasha Rackett has never really had a problem with bedside manner. The bedside manner of her caregiver, that is— heaven (Olympus?) knows she’s had a lot of them. The way she sees it they’re just there to patch her up and send her on off, maybe give her something for the pain on the way out the door. Even that last part is optional; she’s been banged up enough that what would bring an ordinary person to tears is to her a minor-to-moderate inconvenience. She can manage. She’s spent her whole life managing. And as far as she’s concerned, the less whoever’s making sure everything inside her is where it’s supposed to be opens their mouth, the better. She and Zolf had got on well, because he had no truck with the kind of nonsense they taught you to tell the patient in…wherever it was that clerics went to school. He’d let her know it like it was. She respected that.
 

 

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kitmarlowes on tumblr said:

write me sam and sibyl!!!!!
 

Sam Vimes has not ever thought of himself as a nice man. Partly because his image of nice men skews toward some vague impression of a banker, or a lawyer, someone clean-shaven and well-dressed and utterly out of place lurking in the shadows of Ankh-Morpork in a small-hours thunderstorm, which is of course an essential habit of any copper worth his salt— and partly because he’d always assumed that there was no room for niceness in his line of work. He considered it to be something like the moral equivalent of one of C.M.O.T. Dibbler’s sausages. Whatever…whatever went into them, you could always slap the label of “sausage” on it, and sell it for tuppence, and be done. Similarly, you could get away with all sorts of nasty behavior in this world, as long as you were nice about it. It was amazing, what went on under the banner heading of niceness. Lord Rust was nice— or he was nice to the people who mattered, so, not Sam Vimes— and look at the sort of thing he spent his days doing. People like that made Vimes prefer the cobblestone-variety criminal, because at least he didn’t pretend he was going for your throat for any other reason than the fact that he was a lowlife and wanted to stay out of prison. None of this nonsense about honor— or, worse, civility. You knew where you stood with him, and you didn’t have to hold your tongue out of concern for that idiotically touchy game of moron’s chess which Vetinari calls politics and Sam calls something a good deal less polite.
 

 

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public service announcement 2: electric boogaloo

aaaand that's all the promptfic from tumblr (at least that which i care to keep), thank you all for your patience! future requested writing from the blue hellsite will go here as well.

smutswap 2019 letter

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