#... Disturbingly Tangible

[neyafromfrance95]

"if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."

oh and gaze back into her he does.

when the abyss she has gazed into with hatred for so long gazes back into her with love, what does that say about the complex depths of her own identity and feelings?

galadriel basically wills sauron into life after she turns her back on heaven for him, and then she calls for him to bind himself to her.

and bind her to himself he does. over and over again. just like she has devoted herself to slaying the darkness of him, he now covets to own the light of hers he worships. her obsession became his yearning. they were already bound cosmically, by the sea and by nenya, by connection they share. but it was not enough, he intended to merge their beings, to become intrinsic parts of each other. so he binds her by the blood in an act that is disturbingly erotic, a symbolically sexual act, as it is consummated through violent penetration. he opens her up and slithers in, consuming her.

and there are dimensions to this. sauron still wants her to give herself to him willingly when he asks for nenya. this is his ultimate goal, he is desperate for her to let him "heal" her, to the point he is brought to tears. pain -> reward is his love language, and i'd say he hates hurting her while she refuses his gifts, and yet he still gives them to her in the form of binding her to himself, his darkness, and most likely to her greatest desire - power.

galadriel is metaphorically ravished and reborn, she is both killed by sauron and birthed by him into something new, his mirror, drowned witch thirsty for power. the symbol of their bond both on her finger and just above her heart - his eye, always with her, perceiving her.

now they are bound for all eternity, and those indeed are the seeds galadriel herself has planted.

all of this is of course a metaphor, a narrative device. as sexual subtext is an effective tool of storytelling, a tangible way of showing galadriel's complex relationship with the darkness, ambition and power. and on a more metaphysical scale, a metaphor for an eternal push and pull of the dark and the light, for the intertwined nature of these concepts.

[familiarscars]

drive you insane | noah sebastian | 09

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. noah sebastian X psychiatrist!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. a mysterious new patient arrives at the Grimshade sanatorium and you have been tasked with taking care of his case.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). disturbing environment, violence, unconventional treatments, manipulation, questionable relationships, explicit sex, submission, knife play, blood play and profanity.

Darkness and emptiness.

The silence whispered a sinister melody, akin to the climax of an orchestra about to announce its final act. A warning. A harbinger of tragedy. With every step forward, the tension seemed to take shape—something invisible yet almost tangible, coiling around her ankles and guiding her deeper into the rotten belly of the Hidden.

The blackness was absolute, perverse. Walking through it was an act of blind faith, a challenge to fate itself. The damp walls exuded a nauseating scent of mold and rust, and the air felt heavier here, as if saturated with everything this place had ever witnessed.

Her steps were firm, but her clenched fists betrayed her apprehension. Her gaze swept the corners, searching for meaning in the gloom. You’d never had exceptional eyesight, and now, shrouded in darkness, you felt even more vulnerable. Only the occasional flashes of light through the dusty stained-glass windows allowed your eyes to glimpse your surroundings—rusty cell bars, cracks in the ceiling, and puddles on the floor, glistening suspiciously.

Water.

Blood.

Whatever it was, there was no way to tell.

The air carried a cocktail of repulsive odors: oxidized metal, rotting food, sweat embedded in the ancient walls. But among these nauseating notes, something familiar and disturbingly out of place emerged—a warm, clean, woody scent.

Recognizing that smell was almost instinctive. You didn't need recent proximity to know that very well. It was imprinted in your memory as much as the insolent looks, the sharp irony, and the calculated silence that always came with it.

Noah.

He stood out in this place in a way that was almost unreal. While everything around them decayed, he remained untouched, as if the surrounding rot could never reach him. He was beautiful. Frighteningly beautiful. He did not display the expected degradation of someone imprisoned in Grimshade’s forsaken asylum. No grime embedded in his skin, no traces of exhaustion in his features. He always smelled good. Always composed. He almost made her forget where was.

Almost.

You shook your head slowly. No. You couldn't be sinking into this. Without realizing it, you had been ensnared in a sticky, filthy web with no escape. Rune was right. You were completely obsessed.

The rest of the world had dissolved into an insignificant backdrop. Your other patients? Nonexistent. Your parents? A distant echo. Your colleagues? Faded figures in an irrelevant scene. You couldn't even remember the last time you had left the asylum for anything beyond obligation.

Everything in you had rotted—and Noah was the infection.

Even in sleep, your mind burned with the sensation of wasting precious hours of progress. When awake, you wanted to be with him. You wanted to observe him, dissect him, dismantle him piece by piece until you understood every layer he so skillfully wove to keep others at a distance.

It was a hunger that grew, voracious and insatiable. You wanted to save him. Needed to save him. Something in you screamed that he was here by mistake, that his caged existence was an error only you could correct.

And then everything became nothing.

A biting cold seized your neck, stealing your breath before a scream could escape. Your eyes widened in pure shock as brute force yanked you without warning, your feet stumbling in desperation to stay upright. You tried to grasp whatever was pressing against your skin—scratch, pull, anything—but the chain was merciless.

With a dry metallic snap, iron met the cell bars.

Your ragged breathing had barely steadied when his voice reached you—low, almost amused.

"Doctor…"

The echo slithered down the empty corridor, vibrating through your flesh like a feverish shiver.

"Noah…" You gasped, your voice trembling with the shock still carved into your bones. "This isn't funny at all. Let me go immediately!"

"And who said anyone here is playing?"

The response came sharp, a low and husky tone, almost animalistic. The dim light filtering into the cell touched his eyes in a wicked way, casting shadows that made his face seem deeper, darker—less human.

Every word he spoke was followed by the dragging sound of the chain against the floor, a sharp, grating noise that vibrated through your teeth. The metal pressed against your neck, tightening with his every movement, forming a cruel X across your back. You tried to move, but he had already closed the space around you. There was no escape.

He was pure, contained hatred. Tense muscles, clenched fists, breath ragged with raw fury. He knew you had been ordered not to return. He knew you were supposed to have left him behind.

And that enraged him.

But the fear crawling up your spine mixed with something dangerous. Something toxic. Something that burned and corroded.

Because even with the cold iron biting into your skin, even with the unspoken promise of destruction thickening the air between you…

You still wanted him.

"I thought I was clear when I said I didn’t want you here. I made my dissatisfaction explicit about your insistence on meddling in my life, but I have the impression you have serious trouble following orders."

His voice cut deep into the silence, a grave, weighty tone. With a single tug of the chain, your body was yanked forward, the pressure of the metal digging into your skin, forcing you to lift your chin and meet his gaze.

The distance between you was minimal. His scent, the heat radiating from his tense skin, the rage simmering beneath every rigid muscle—it all enveloped you. It hurt. But your pride hurt more.

"Here, I am the psychiatrist, Noah. Not the other way around." Your voice was sharp, like a blade that doesn’t hesitate when it cuts. "So you don’t get to decide what is or isn’t part of my job."

His eyes narrowed, dark sparks igniting in his expression. But you continued.

"But I imagine there’s a special reason for this attack today. Your little sister is getting married… isn’t she? You failed to break the cycle, and it made you lose your mind."

Noah’s nostrils flared. His expression was pure wildfire. You shuddered but didn’t back down, even as he leaned in, your faces so close that your noses brushed.

"This story doesn’t belong to you," he growled, the sound reverberating in your chest. "Stay out of it."

"And who’s going to stop me?"

His laughter was low, cruel, almost a warning. When he turned his attention back to you, your lungs felt heavy, your mouth went dry. The pressure between your legs made you realize what he was doing.

Noah had wedged himself between your thighs, using his body as a barrier, a divider, a suffocating tether keeping you from moving.

"It’s bold of you to play truth or dare with a murderer, don’t you think?" His voice was a sharp challenge. "If you were as smart as you seem, you’d have realized by now that you have far too many similarities with my victim. And that I know how to trace profiles… repeat patterns."

His eyes roamed your face, slow. Too slow. As if mapping every detail, every flaw, every fear.

His fingers came next, gliding along the side of your face with a terrifying softness. A touch that made your entire body react the wrong way.

"What makes you so confident that you can dismiss the possibility that I might kill you, doctor?"

His whisper burned against your skin. Your heart nearly exploded.

"The absolute certainty that you’re not a murderer." Your voice came out steady, even with the blood pounding in your throat.

Noah arched a brow slightly, a flicker of interest gleaming in his gaze. But you didn’t yield to the provocation.

"You clearly have traits of someone unstable, someone who masks repressed emotions behind insane desires and well-rehearsed apathy. But I don’t believe you’re easily manipulated. You’re not the kind of person who hands over your mind on a silver platter to just anyone."

The tightness of the chain remained the same, but something in him shifted.

"You’ve always been the leader. You’re the one who orchestrates the situations."

Noah’s eyes gleamed in the dim light, the shadow of a smile curling his lips. The tip of his fingers traced over your skin in a way that was almost tender, but something was off—something far too twisted in that touch.

"If I didn’t know that fear and insecurity seep from your very core, I might actually fall for this little psychiatrist act of yours, desperate to prove your worth," Noah declared, his low timbre reverberating like a warning. "But that doesn’t make you any less interesting."

You took a deep breath, feeling the chain’s pressure still firm around your body. You couldn’t give in. You couldn’t show hesitation.

"I need you to let me go. If you refuse to understand what I have to say and insist on rejecting my help because you'd rather lock yourself away in here like a coward, I believe our conversation ends here, Noah."

The smile that formed on his lips wasn’t a smile. It was a warning.

"Our conversation only ends when I say it ends, doctor."

The tip of his finger trailed slowly along the side of your neck, directly over your vein. You felt the almost ghostly touch pulse along with your blood.

And for the first time since you stepped in, you weren’t sure if you would leave in one piece.

But you didn’t back down.

Your eyes, wide at first, now gleamed with something deeper, more dangerous. Curiosity. Fascination. The quickened breath wasn’t fear; it was something warmer, something hungrier.

He noticed. And he smiled.

"You don’t understand, do you?"—his voice slipped through the air like a thread of silk. "I never just wanted to touch you. Never just wanted to feel your skin beneath mine. I want… to devour you."

He stepped forward, and you didn’t move in the tight space. The heat between you became suffocating, and you took a sharp breath as the cold press of his lips grazed your neck.

Noah crossed any boundary between reason and emotion, professional and unethical, as he slipped your coat off your shoulders, letting it fall to the damp floor.

You gasped, hesitating to pull away, but he insisted, trapping you against him, forcing his leg between yours. You hated admitting how well your body responded to it every time you remembered how wrong it was—how you could be caught at any moment.

"The scent and texture of your skin… do you have any idea how that drives me insane? How much you provoke me every time you insist on crossing my path in this hell? I tried to avoid it, but it’s like raw flesh, exposed, waiting to be torn apart, chewed, taken. Every time you speak, your voice pours hot down my throat, and I wonder what it would be like to feel it die inside my mouth."

His tongue traced along your vein as if following a precise path. You closed your eyes for a moment, as if his words were a spell sinking beneath your skin. When you opened them again, there was a different gleam in them. A shiver ran through you—but not from repulsion.

"I don’t just want you," he continued, toying with the thin strap of your blouse. "I want to consume you. I want to reduce you to something only I can possess. Every piece, every fiber, every fragment of what you are… inside me. Mixed with me. Absorbed, dissolved, forgotten by the world."

You bit your lower lip, feeling the cold of the Hidden blend with his voice, confusing your body’s reactions. His words wrapped around you, tangled in your thoughts like invisible threads pulling you deeper into the abyss.

"Because love, my dear…"—he smiled, and his teeth were like sharp blades in the dark—"love is devouring."

The silence that followed was electric. You exhaled slowly, as if waking from a trance—but with no intention of running.

"Then devour me."

The laugh that escaped him was low, guttural, as if you had just said exactly what he expected to hear.

"Oh, doctor…" The chain loosened for just a second—only to tighten again when he surged forward, crushing his lips against yours.

The impact was hard, feral. There was no space for tenderness. The kiss was brutal, a clash of wills where neither side wanted to yield. Noah gripped the chain tightly, and every movement you made to fight back only trapped you closer against him.

His taste mixed with the metallic tang in the air. It was visceral. It was wrong. It was inevitable.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you against him, and in the next moment, his fingers were tangled in your hair, holding you firmly as he deepened the kiss.

You no longer knew if you were being overpowered or if you were willingly surrendering your own sanity.

And maybe it was too late to care.

You ached to touch him, to bury your fingers in his hair as you straddled his lap and took his lips for yourself. The need burned beneath your skin, impatient. But before you could give in to the impulse, he moved first.

The slack of the chain around your neck slid skillfully down to your wrists, binding them at the center of the X formed against your back.

He gave you no space to escape, no pause between his lips and yours. Between hungry kisses and searing bites, he alternated between claiming and marking, the metallic taste quickly spreading over your tongue.

The taste of blood mixed with metal and warm saliva, a fusion of sensations that made her dizzy. Noah left no room for air, no space for thought—he dominated, gripping her face with firm fingers while the chain around her wrists tightened even more, limiting any attempt at resistance.

You gasped against his mouth, feeling his teeth graze your lower lip before another onslaught. It was like being devoured from the inside out, as if each bite and each pull carried a piece of you into him.

Your body was rigid against the grate, a hostage to your own desire and the brutality he imprinted on every touch. Noah finally released your lips, but only enough to slide his mouth down your jaw and reach your neck.

The kisses there were even crueler—bites, slow licks over sensitive skin, as if he were branding his presence into your flesh.

"You don’t need to go anywhere, babygirl," his voice was hoarse, thick with desire, while the grip around your wrists intensified. "Not until I've tasted your flesh to the bone."

There was mockery in his tone, but something else too—something dark, something hungry.

And you knew, in that instant, that you were dangerously close to losing any shred of control you had left.

The thin blouse you wore felt like nothing more than delicate lace, barely covering your body, the nervous sweat making everything more intense. You were completely at his mercy, vulnerable, in front of a possible killer who could do whatever he wanted with your body. It was sordid on so many levels, but you were trapped in the trance he had cast over you.

Psychopaths are seductive, as if sweetening their words with a special, cursed honey. They mold themselves to their environment, adapting to the situation with the cold precision of a lizard. If Noah was determined to make you feel, he would.

He would do whatever he wanted.

Noah moved in slowly, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he observed your skin, like an artist examining a piece of work yet to be sculpted. The glint in his eyes, like a burning flame, was almost tangible. He ran his fingers along your arms, immobilized by the chains, feeling the smoothness of your skin, and you realized his need to mark every part of you, to make your flesh something more than just a body—but an extension of what he desired.

"Perfect..." he murmured, as if speaking to himself, but you heard it, and the sound of his voice made your breath heavier, denser. He pressed the edge of the knife against the inside of your wrists, the most vulnerable points closest to your blood, and the blade gleamed under the dim light, promising something deeper, more intimate.

"Your skin..." he said, and the blade moved slowly to your neck, tracing along the line of your collarbone, the cold metal teasing your sensitive flesh. "It needs to be shaped, like a piece of flesh that only I can sculpt."

You felt the touch of the blade—cold and precise—but something inside you began to respond. The nervousness didn’t fade; instead, it merged with something else, something warmer, deeper. The pain had not yet come, but the fear was there—and with it, the excitement you could no longer deny.

He traced a subtle path with the knife over your skin, the cut not yet happening, but the touch of the blade created a growing tension. You felt your heart pounding harder, your breath quickening, and he watched, as if he knew exactly what he was doing.

"I can do anything I want with you, can't I?" he whispered, his voice rough and calm. "I can tear your skin and see what hides inside you. I can touch your deepest fears and turn them into pleasure. All you need to do is give in."

The blade slid lower on your neck, toward your collarbone, and you felt the edge lightly cut into your skin. Blood began to well up, warm and thick, and the sensation was like a flame igniting beneath your skin. The pain was mild, but the pleasure of being touched, of being possessed in this way, came quickly, without warning.

"Feel this..." he murmured, and the blade moved to the other side of your neck, as if creating a map of scars, a game of marks and touches. The blood trickled slowly, and you felt every drop, as if it was a part of you now being given to him—something of yours he would consume and make his own.

The blade pressed a little deeper, and the blood began to flow more freely. The heat in your body started to mix with the pain, and you realized you were beginning to lose yourself, to forget the limits, to surrender to this moment, to this game. He smiled, satisfied with the change in your eyes.

"It’s going to be okay," he said, almost tenderly, while the blade rested against your skin—threatening and affectionate at the same time. "You’re going to give me everything."

The warmth of the blood against your skin seemed to intensify every sensation, every touch. The marks he left were there, engraved, like a macabre masterpiece on your flesh. Noah knelt, and with almost ritualistic precision, ran the tip of his lips over the cuts, feeling the liquid trickle down, absorbing it with a sadistic pleasure.

When he finally pressed his lips to yours, the kiss was a mix of heat and iron, the taste of metal still strong, as if every movement of your mouths was tracing a line between pain and desire. The heat of your bodies colliding, the pressure of the chain, and the scent of blood in the air... all of it created an atmosphere of pure abandon.

You weren’t sure who was more lost there—him, with the ferocity of his possession, or you, immersed in this sick and irresistible game he imposed.

And then, without pulling his lips from yours, he whispered, almost like a challenge, "Now, who will be consumed?"

Noah followed the trail of blood trickling from your collarbone, slithering between your breasts and staining the thin fabric of your blouse. His tongue brushed your skin, sending shivers through you, but he continued his path without lingering on your ragged breath, descending toward your waist. When he slid down the fabric of your lower clothing, you tried to arch your body, but the chains tensed, threatening to deprive you of air.

Your gaze lifted to the ceiling, where imperfections in the paint spread like random marks on a neglected canvas. Meanwhile, he dedicated himself to sculpting the soft skin of your inner thigh, each movement marked by meticulous precision, where his tongue followed soon after until it halted at your groin.

He inhaled your intimate scent almost like an antidote finally found, exposing you even more. His lips trailed over your flesh until they stopped at your clit, but Noah only smiled at your frustrated groan as he straightened and stood once again.

Noah’s long fingers closed around the excess of the chain, pulling it firmly and forcing your body to follow his steps. He listened to your deep breath and savored the sound for a few seconds before sliding his index finger gently along the side of your face, where your unease was visible. The absence of light made it impossible to see his expressions, and this uncertainty left you vulnerable—you had no idea what would come next.

With slow, almost studied movements, Noah traced the shape of your lips with his index and middle fingers. Instinctively, your mouth parted, a silent invitation he accepted without hesitation, sliding his fingers inside. Tilting your face upward, you swirled your tongue around his skin, enveloping him in wet, devouring heat before sucking them slowly, feeling them slip from your lips with a faint pop. He watched, satisfied.

You had become a puppet in his hands, every movement reduced to the dance imposed by the chains. Any slip, any hesitation, and he would tighten them again, reaffirming his control, subjugating your body. With firm pressure, he guided you downward, forcing you to your knees before him. It was at that moment that something inside you dissolved—the conflict, the resistance, the illusion of autonomy. You felt between your legs that maybe it wasn’t so bad to be here. Maybe this was exactly where you wanted to be.

Noah made that moment entirely about him, and deep down, perhaps that was what you craved—to be his, to serve him, to surrender to the certainty that you didn’t need to think, decide, or resist.

Just obey.

Just let yourself be guided.

His free hand slid along the waistband of his pants, and it wasn’t long before his erection sprang free, quickly controlled by his grip. You gasped as the tip brushed against your lips, moving slowly as if urging you to analyze its texture first. In the small space your lips formed as they parted, he pushed inside until your jaw popped with the demand, but you took him in.

It was impossible to fit all of him inside your mouth—he was thick and large enough that the sides of your lips stretched as if threatening to tear. You held firm; it wasn’t as if you had done this many times before, but you didn’t want to seem pathetic in front of him, and that drove you to try harder.

With the help of your tongue, you slicked him with saliva, making it easier for his cock to slide in and out in the repetitive rhythm he set as you sucked him. From the sounds Noah made, he seemed comfortable—he pushed your head down further, and everything he carried struck the back of your throat at once. Noah gripped the strands at your nape tightly and fucked your mouth with the urgency of someone who had craved this.

His skin was hot, smooth, and the texture against your tongue had never felt so pleasant. You traced him with your tongue along his length and aided him by opening your mouth wider when he demanded you take him whole. You ignored the pain in your scalp and the burning in your throat—you only focused on sucking him while your eyes lifted upward. Seeing the agonized expression on his face and hearing his almost guttural moan spurred you on even more.

Your legs trembled strangely, your brain losing its sense as if the oxygen had been stolen from it for a few seconds, and down your thighs, the proof trickled that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You felt him pulse inside your mouth, and before he could come, Noah pulled out of you, lifted you off the ground with a swift motion, and shoved you against the cell bars, back to him. It wasn’t long before you felt the weight of his body behind you again, and your eyes closed as the tip of his nose brushed along the side of your face. Noah ran his tongue over your sweat-dampened skin, inhaled your scent, and growled as he lifted one of your legs.

"You’re completely unstable…" you sighed, shaking your head as if you could deny to yourself the grotesque mistake you were making.

"Ah, doctor… it’s people like me who shape, feed, and addict people like you."

"Never."

"You can deny it if it makes you feel better, but you can't pretend you've been the same since you set foot here..." He leaned in slightly, and you felt the heat of his voice against your skin. "I warned you. You're already in the worst of hells. This place is cursed, it will drain your mind, blur the line between reality and illusion... You'll go insane on your own, just by being here."

His whisper chilled your stomach, a sharp shiver climbing up your spine.

"And that's not the worst thing you'll see or do just by being inside. And the worst part? There's nothing you can do about it." He laughed, a low, almost amused sound. "Nothing but enjoy your last days of lucidity."

Discomfort crawled under your skin like needles, a strange, almost narcotic sensation. You hesitated, but his touch did not. Noah kept brushing his lips along the side of your face, his breath warm, provocative, while his fingers moved between your legs, preparing your entrance. You were so wet… his lips had a perverse magnetism, and your body responded as if your mind no longer had any authority over it. Your eyes rolled back slowly, your chest rising and falling, as his voice became a distant hum.

Because surely he was lying.

"Thanks for the warning, but I can take care of myself." Your voice came out low but firm, as if trying to remember who you were before stepping into this place.

Noah smiled, biting lightly at the corner of your jaw before whispering:

"Good, doctor. Because that's all you have in here. Yourself."

With his words came the sudden thrust that forced him inside you, a cry escaping with the searing sensation of his cock tearing through the walls of your pussy, a feeling that lingered until you adjusted to his size. Noah toyed with the tight space and pushed in even further, prolonging the sting.

You tilted your head back until it rested beside his face and saw, from the corner of your eyes, his teeth sinking into your shoulder. Another scream escaped and died on your lips as he tightened the grip of the chain around your neck. He pulled, driving himself deeper, limiting the space between you, milking you and tearing at your walls as if claiming the narrowness you insisted on keeping from him.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and skin rubbing against skin; he defiled every part of you just as he said he would, he was as filthy as he claimed to be, but you couldn't feel more satisfied as he filled you completely.

Every now and then, you glanced around with the tension of someone afraid of being caught. Noah ran his tongue over the deep imprint of his teeth on your shoulder and traced it down to your neck. He had no mercy for your moans, nor for the way you whimpered until a subtle tear slipped from your left eye—he thrived on it.

This was wrong.

You were being fucked by your most problematic patient, the one hiding a mystery you were determined to uncover as if it had become your life's purpose. The way he was possessed by lust, from his movements to his sick gaze, distracted you more than it should—and maybe that was his plan—but you hardly cared.

This version of him, what he became when he was alone with you and willing enough, was the most disturbing and fascinating thing you had ever known.

Your body was on the verge of explosion, Noah filled you entirely, and you synchronized your breaths and movements into a silent, torturous dance that smelled of metal. He had taken complete control of your body, even your moans obeyed his permission. Noah pressed you against the cell to go even deeper, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes and stare at the ceiling above.

He clearly noticed when your legs faltered for a few seconds as he increased the pace of his thrusts. Noah kept you steady and upright to take everything he had to give you, and you welcomed his cock, pulsing more and more, ready to collapse inside you. He moaned louder and louder, and you felt his muscles tensing.

The immersion into hell and the escape from a sea of lava shared the same essence as the sensation consuming you now. It burned. It throbbed. A cruel numbness spread through your nerves, and you wanted to capture every fragment of what you felt, to hold onto them inside you, to relive them later, tomorrow, and after, and after... Like the merciless ecstasy of the worst stimulant, he pushed you beyond the limits of reality, blurred your vision, made stars explode before your eyes.

He drowned you along with him in a perverse plane.

As if, in that instant, he bound you to this place with invisible chains, condemning you to become part of him.

Noah didn't want you to forget.

He wanted you to live it through the marks on your skin.

He wanted to fuse you to Grimshade and condemn you as he was.

Leaning against the back gates of the Hidden, you wrapped your trembling fingers around your own wrists, feeling the rapid pulse reverberate beneath the marked skin. You couldn’t believe that had just happened. Your chest rose and fell erratically, and in a desperate reflex, your teeth sank into the inside of your lip, stifling a pained whimper. Every step made the incisions on your thighs burn, sharp little flames reminding you of every touch, every moment.

The front garden was drowning in a sea of patients, and you quickened your pace along the side discreetly, not daring to look back. Your steps were quick, almost unsteady, as if an invisible force was pulling you away, while a cold weight crawled up your spine. You felt his eyes burning against your back, as if he was tracking you without even moving.

From the corner of your eye, a glimpse—Noah was finally crossing the common entrance, disappearing inside the Hidden.

Your heart pounded erratically against your ribs, and every fiber of your body felt charged with a tension that refused to dissipate. You shut your bedroom door behind you, feeling the weight of that night still clinging to your skin, as if Noah were there, looming over you.

But he wasn’t.

You walked to the bathroom, locking yourself in with a sharp click. The urgency of the shower was irrational, almost obsessive. You turned on the hot water and stepped under the stream, feeling the heavy drops punish your skin. Your fingers traced over the incisions, and every touch brought back the memory of him—of the blade, of the slow, controlled pressure, of the venomous whisper that coiled around your senses.

Your eyes squeezed shut. Your head tilted forward. This would never happen again.

When you emerged from the shower, you wrapped yourself in a nightgown and took a deep breath, staring at your own reflection in the fogged-up mirror. What you saw there didn’t seem exactly… yours. But you blinked, pushed the thoughts away, and forced yourself to act as if nothing had happened. As if you could simply move on.

You lay down, closing your eyes, and within seconds, sleep swallowed you whole.

Until something woke you.

A breath against your ear.

Your entire body tensed. Your heart skipped a beat.

It was the same ticking and dragging sound from the night Tom Hallow was found dead.

You bolted upright in bed, your eyes sweeping the dark room, and a growing agony gripped your chest, a cold tightness that suffocated. You needed to get out. Now.

Without bothering to change clothes, you crossed the room and opened the door. The hallway was deserted, the dim lights casting distorted shadows on the floor. The air was freezing, biting, raising goosebumps on your skin.

Your bare feet made little noise against the floorboards as you descended the stairs. But then—you stopped.

On the other side of the window, something moved.

Your gaze locked onto the tower beside you.

And that’s when you saw it.

A body. Standing at the window.

The shock hit you like an electric current. Your chest heaved in panic, your mind snapping with the certainty that this couldn’t be happening.

But it was.

Before you could react, the body plummeted.

Your scream tore through the night, echoing until it faded.

Without thinking, without processing, your feet carried you forward, bursting through the sanatorium’s main doors. Inside, lights flickered on in the windows, voices rose in a growing murmur, but none of it mattered.

Your gaze was fixed on the rocky ground. On the lifeless body, on the head crushed against the stones.

And then, you saw it.

On his wrist, a small bracelet.

The name engraved there made your stomach sink.

Elias Faulkner had committed suicide right in front of you.

⭑ @bloody-spades ; @iluvmewwwww75 ; @anarchydomainglory ; @foliosgirl ; @lacy1986 ; @chey-h ; @supersquirrel1996 ; @zozaline​ ; @just-randomm-stuff ; @do-it-jakey-baby ; @flowery-mess ; @youcanreadmy-mind ; @tikosblogg ; @gothic-pumpkin ; @badomensls ; @themorticians-world ;

[velvetvexations]

i wanna say this is not said in anger or an attempt to say nonbinary people are privileged over binary trans people, thats certainly not the case, im just here to state my thoughts. the "binary trans people having the resources and genes to pass perfectly to match a changed gender marker in the eyes of cis society affords privilege to binary trans people" is disturbingly reminiscent of "if trans men pass perfectly they get cis male social privilege meaning trans men are oppressors" and ignores it for what it is - conditional hyperspecific privilege that a grand majority of binary trans people will not be able to access. it largely depends on where you live, access to hrt, and access to gender marker changes - being able to change one but not others(extremely common) is an instant out no matter how cis you appear.

as for spaces being less understanding of nonbinary people, i believe thats also a vary-by-location thing. ive been iced out of friend groups for being gnc and not wanting to id as nonbinary. ive been to trans groups and a trans event that was geared for trans women and nonbinary people without advertising that fact. seeking out community irl in the previous two states ive lived has left me usually the only binary trans man, and isolated and shoved aside for it.

it also inherently implies binary trans people's goals are to assimilate perfectly into cishetero society which is also rarely ever the case. and when we don't, we're punished for it by both cis and trans people. binary as an identity does not mean upholding the gender binary, like any other its a personal identity term, typically just meaning "a man" or "a woman". the "gnc binary people(too far from the binary)" feels like its missing the point and trying to other binary people who dont wish to perfectly assimilate which again, is not the grand majority of us.

again im not saying nonbinary people are privileged as a class above us. i dont believe any trans people are privileged above any others. some of us may have specific, rare access to conditional privilege in some situations but i feel like its splitting hairs to try to afford that some tangible place to split apart trans people, who are all one messy glob of Other Freaks to cis society. ive seen so much "binary trans people are privileged because they experience X and nonbinary people experience Y" when ive been living my whole life experiencing Y. i think a lot of us subconciously invent a new gender binary thats "binary(cis assimilationists)" and "nonbinary(everyone else)" and cling to the idea that binary people could never be treated as weird outliers and freaks.

one final go of this was not said in anger to that person's ask. i genuinely mean no ill will or attempt to shutdown discussion or claim that nonbinary people are privileged instead.

Yeah, like, I'll say that I am an example of a binary trans person who does not fit very well into the binary by virtue of my identification with being male and being proud of my "male" traits, so I don't have access to most of the relative benefits. Even being called "male" and having the symbol I like so much on all my shit is not necessarily the best because that always comes with the idea that I'm also necessarily a man, which I'm not and I really do not like being tagged as.

[chaoticxbeast]

Chasing shadows: Hitting rock bottom and bouncing back again

Content: Leo and Raph finds themselves at the hands of TCRI and has a real talk. cw: kidnapping and mutants getting milked

...

"i'm sorry..but I'm a purple dragon now. I let you down. Do you hate me?"

...

Raphael jolted awake and groaned as pain rippled through his body. He felt like he'd been chewed up and spat out, stepped on and chewed up again.

"Hey." Leo suddenly whispered from his right, and Raph trembled, jarred by his voice. And he'd been dreaming just now..Had he been talking in his sleep? Raph was so sore he couldn't even turn his head to look at him.

"Where are we?" Raph said, his voice raspy and weak, and it felt like someone was playing pingpong inside of his head.

"At some lab. Back at TCRI i think." Leo whispered. There was a calmness to his voice, and it surprised Raph a bit.

"Ahh man I..hurt all over." Raph said, and tried to move his arms and legs a little, finding himself to be firmly secured by his arms and legs. His arms and legs were numb, but as he moved, he felt them start to tingle with thousand pins and needles.

"Me too.." Leo fell silent for a moment or two, and it made Raph a bit anxious. As if Leos emotions were tangible, and warning him or something.

"Raph. you were saying something..in your sleep."

"Huh?"

"You were saying something..about the purple dragons?"

"..like what?" Raph said, and winced in pain as he turned his head to look at Leo. Leo was bruised and battered, his eyes looked empty, and tired. Raph's heart broke at the sight, but he was filled to the brim with compassion and hurt, as well as determination, wanting to get them out of here.

Leo fell quiet for a moment before he spoke again. His voice was concerned, and hesitant, as if he was afraid to ask.

"You said..you.. joined the purple dragons. Were you dreaming or something?

I.. Raph hesitated. "Wait. Are we getting milked again?"

"Dont freak out. But yeah."

"Motherf.." Raph growled, a wave of hopelessness washing over him as he turned his head, searching desperately for options. His eyes landed on a massive tank of mutagen above them to the right, then shifted to a row of mutants beside them—unconscious and locked up. Some of them looked disturbingly familiar. Was that… Mondo? And… Ray? And more of them too.

"Leo. we're gonna get out of here I swear. I'm gonna kick their asses so bad. I'm gonna fuckin' murder these jerks.."

Leo's eyes welled up with tears, and his eyes lit up a little, and he smiled in determination, as if some of Raph's strength poured over on him. "I know.."

"But i gotta tell you something first." Raph said, gritting his teeth, his eyes already apologetic.

"What?" Leo said hesitatingly, not liking that look.

"About uh...The purple dragons.." Raph's gaze dropped to the floor, unable to look him in the eyes.

"What..."

"I uh...It's not a big deal I mean..I got into some trouble. With Hun..with Angel."

"Who?"

"The purple dragons, they're just..they're mad at me and they're picking fights with us, because of me. so..i..kinda told hun I would..help them steal and fight and shit."

""You..what??? That's a big deal, Raph...Why did you do that?" Leo said, his eyes widening in disbelief with his brother.

"To get them to stop messing with us! To stop picking fights with us. After what happened to donnie...I had to."

"I..I..m sorry."

"You joined the purple dragons?!" Leo groaned, angrily. "That's..insane. What were you thinking?"

"Hun's okay, i mean.."

Leo fell quiet and stared at the floor. His own brother. Joining a gang? Leo just wanted to cry, but for some reason, the tears were not coming. Instead, a storm of anger and disappointment churned inside him, into a big ball of hurt.

"Leo?"

"And..NOW you tell me?"

"I.."

It was rare Leo was furious. It was kind of refreshing, in a strange way. Even though it hurt him, it like a wake up call, and he regretted his actions even more. It even made him feel like he was talking to a leader.

"We're probably gonna die, and you tell me you betrayed me..us? How could you??"

"!..I..I had to do something. After what they did to Donnie..! I had to do something to get them to focus on me, and not you guys."

Raphael looked at Leo, lost and frustrated. Why didn't he understand? Why was he looking at him as if he'd lost his mind? "I..I was just trying to do the right thing."

Leo's anger boiled over as he clenched his fists, pulling hard against the restraints on his wrists, the metal groaning under the strain.

"The right thing?! Why don't you ever talk to me about anything? You're so impulsive and chaotic and ...I never know what you're doing! You're telling me you've joined a gang behind our backs? That's insane. Raph. I can't trust you. You're out of control."

"I'm sorry..I'll...just tell Hun I quit." Raph, his voice laced with hurt and guilt. Was he really...Out of control?

Leo fell quiet. Maybe he'd been too direct with Raph but.. This hurt. He felt so betrayed, and lost, and hopeless. He wondered how he could he even trust Raph after this.

"...Why do you do all of this? Why are you so...so..." Leo said, somewhat softer, as he tried to find his words.

"I dont know!" Raph muttered, staring at the floor.

"Do you hate me or something? You obviously don't want me as a leader." Leo said, full of hurt. But he looked over at Raph, truly wondering how he was feeling.

"Maybe I don't. " Raph muttered, hurting too. He didn't hate Leo. But it was hard to say that right now, when he was feeling so hurt.

"I dont think the others want me as a leader either."

"I guess not.." Raph muttered.

"Then..I don't even know if I wanna be a leader, Raph."

They both stared at the floor. Cynthias nightmare of a machine made a beep, and seemed to shift to the next mutant. He felt sorry for that guy. Luckily they seemed to be sleeping.

"I just...hate that you're so scared all the time." Raph said, staring at the floor. "Why are you like that..it's SO frustrating.

"You hate that I'm scared?" Leo said, glancing at Raph, his face riddled with confusion.

"Yeah it like..really pisses me off, because you're always so scared and anxious and insecure, and its so..lame, and it makes me really angry. A leader shouldn't be so..scared all the time.

"Well you're not helping, you're always doing your own thing. You're never listening to me. I never know what you might do! Have you thought about how that's affecting me?" Leo said, rolling his eyes.

"I feel SO alone..." Leo said with a loud sigh. It felt awful to be this vulnerable with his brother, he knew it was wrong for a leader to do so but..maybe he should just give up on that whole leader thing. He wasn't exactly doing a great job.

"I'm sorry.." Raph said, looking at Leo. "I..I let you down man.."

"I let you down too.." Leo smiled a bit, and Raph smiled back.

"We'll make it through this." Raph said. "Together."

"And we kinda need a leader.." He continued, looking at Leo.

"I know..we will." Leo said and smiled, his face furrowing into a determined frown, before he suddenly gasped in terror, remember their other brother. "Shit!"

"What?!"

"Donnie!! Donnie was in the van too. But..where is he now?"

Raph looked out into the room at the row of victims along the wall. "He's not here..Where could he be?"

[banjjakz]

notes: parasocially relational infidelity; implied stalking/harassment

➡ Go back the way you came.

Well, if you’ve gotten this far with your undoubtedly ridiculous lucky streak, it shouldn’t be so far-fetched an idea that you could just waltz out of the backstage area the exact same way by which you’d initially trespassed.

With Geto’s LINE ID stored squarely away in your phone and a post-coital pep in your limping, bruised, wobbly-kneed step, you proceed to walk down the dark, desolate corridor as though you actually belong here.

It is not long before you’ve made your way past the genesis of all this chaos to begin with: Yuuta’s dressing room.

Wow, you can’t believe what brought you closer to ShinShow was, in the end, ultimately, your connection to and passion for Yuuta… even though Geto was the member who, in the end, was more forward in proving his tangible desire for you, you will always remember Yuuta: your first love.

Lost in reverie, you stop in your tracks, pausing to admire the door…that happens to be ajar…with light leaking through the sizeable gap…seeping out around a conspicuous silhouette…with a familiar stature…and wardrobe…and morose, gaunt, haunted-looking face…

AH!!

Yuuta looms in the doorway like a ghoul materialized out of bereft nothingness. Backlit by the cheap, fluorescent lighting of the dressing room, Tall, broad in the shoulders, disturbingly lithe everywhere else, he appears to you less as a man and more as a specter.

…Creepy.

“Y-Yuu-chan…!!”

His usual droopy expression seems to be even more downcast than usual – and that’s saying a lot. Onstage, he looks like he’s delivering a eulogy. That’s a part of his unique and special charm.

The very same charm that ensnared you in the first place…

Ugh, what’s this gross, syrupy feeling welling within you, webbing across your chest in a terminal infestation of guilt?

What had you been thinking?

Regret holds you close, tight, intimate, like a lover gone rogue. You don’t want to be here anymore. You can’t bear the thought of standing before Yuuta after what you’ve just done – after your unabashed infidelity.

Worse still, why is he looking at you like he knows where you’ve been?

Yuuta’s eyes are heavy with unspoken feeling, which on the one hand feels nice, because he’s even looking your direction at all holy shit, and on the other hand kind of brutal, because you feel like you’re in a lot of trouble.

���…”

Before you can even begin to try and come up with a lie to justify your presence in the restricted backstage area, Yuuta beats you to the punch, breaking the silence with his characteristically somber, soft-spoken timbre:

“You look like you need a hug.”

The words hit you like a slap to the face. More impactful than any rough treatment of Geto’s, you reel back, blinking hard as tears spring to your eyes, unbidden. “Huh? I don’t understand—I’m sorry, I j-just, um, I’m lost—”

Yuuta’s chuckle is almost bittersweet. You have to strain to hear the sweetness in that hollow, forlorn whisper. “You’re so cute, even when you lie.”

“E-eh—”

“Here.”

Pure instinct drives your hands up to catch the foreign object tossed at you with lightning-fast precision. Instead of the hard impact you’d been expecting, what meets your awaiting palms is soft, fuzzy, and almost soothing to the touch.

“A gift.”

Peering down, you discover that Yuuta has thrown you a blanket. It’s pitch black with wide, blue eyes that yearn towards you, sucking in your attention, blocking out all external stimuli, seemingly multiplying in number the longer you stare into their cerulean depths. Are you blinking? Are they?

“You might be interested to know it originally belonged to Geto-senpai,” says Yuuta, voice oddly flat and numb, affectless in a way that feels like a foreign object has been inserted underneath your skin. “He’s slept with it at least several times. I know that much. Eventually, he got bored, and now it’s mine. Senpai used to say it was good for comfort. Something about always feeling watched over. I hope it brings you that same stability.”

Confused, and still quite teary, you cock your head at Yuuta, trembling in your shoes. Why is he doing this? Why?

“As long as you’re happy,” he mumbles, smile almost as watery as your eyes are. “That’s all that matters to me. I’m glad.” Okay, the last part is uttered through gritted teeth – but you can tell he’s really trying to mean it.

“Um…I’m really grateful for Yuu-chan’s care and support—”  

“Just ‘Yuuta’ is fine.”

In an odd moment of denial of fanservice, he cuts you off before you can finish your grateful platitudes.

Why does this strangely feel like a break-up?

Nodding, you decide that you have no choice but to accept the consequences of your actions… while you’d come to this ShinShow performance as a dedicated Yuuta oshi, you’d left as a Geto-sama devotee. You suppose it’s only fair that you’ve forfeited any right to call Yuuta by his wota-given name.

“Many thanks to Yuuta-san, then.”

“Take care of yourself…and be well. You never know who could be watching.”

The dressing room door weeps quietly shut behind his skulking form.

Have you made a mistake?

Before you can dwell too deeply, your phone pings with a new LINE message. Hurriedly, you fish the heavily keychained device out of your pocket and swipe on the notification to see a new message from Geto. It reads:

Geto-sama wwww 23:55 someone needs to train you how to perform worship properly. I guess that particular burden must fall upon me.

Despite the chill in the unheated building, your face erupts with flames and the wet, soppy spot between your thighs is reignited with renewed heat.

This is your choice. You’ve dug your own grave.

And you’ll be buried in it – quite happily.

ENDING ACHIEVED: GETO SUGURU NORMAL END

SECRET ROUTE UNLOCKED: FUSHIGURO TOJI.

> PROCEED TO ROUTE [coming soon!]

[sioniestyn]

Do Shakespeare's "Unruly Women" Challenge the Status Quo?

Much Ado About Nothing is one of Shakespeare’s comedy plays. Therefore, the presentation of characters that are atypical should be analysed cautiously. The plays are pieces of entertainment meant to make the audience laugh. The characters are written to amuse, as too are the relationships they have to one another. Beatrice’s relationship to Hero is among these. She, Beatrice, is placed in opposition to her more ‘chaste’ and ‘virtuous’ cousin, Hero.[1] One area where this opposition is most obvious is in Beatrice’s rejection of heterosexual romantic partnerships.[2] This may be seen as an unruly act, as Beatrice is refusing to be controlled within a patriarchal marriage. She explicitly and confidently states how she does not wish to be loved by a man.[3] However, the contemporary responses seem to refute this being an unruly act. Queen Elizabeth 1st believed that characters like Beatrice were an attempt to scold her for being unmarried.[4] Contemporary responses to unruly women, like that of Queen Elizabeth 1st, show that to some degree unruly women, like Beatrice, actually perpetuated gender norms that they apparently challenged. This then raises questions over their unruliness. Petersen suggests that “unruly women… question, interrogate or otherwise challenge the status quo”. This cannot be the case if contemporary, and modern, audiences see them as reinforcing the status quo.

Furthermore, comedies work to enforce the status quo, despite some presumptions that comedy can work to challenge it. ‘Henry Bergson’ argued that ‘laughter police[s] the boundaries of society on behalf of the power brokers’.[5] So, even though Beatrice may be unruly within the fictional world of the play, it is debatable whether she would have such an impact in the real world. Unruly women in Shakespearean comedies cannot sincerely critique and defy the norms of the society they were written in. Comedy is, by nature, unable to do such a thing. Shakespeare’s comedies are not likely to produce sincere representations of unruly women. Unruly women challenge the norms and values of their society too much, something that comedy cannot do. If it does, then it may lose its comedic element, as it could become too political for the public’s pallet – a public that paid to see a light-hearted comedy. “Unruliness”, therefore, may actually be a joke, as opposed to heartfelt challenging of the status quo. Shakespeare may actually have only introduced “unruly” women to mock such women and amuse his paying audience. Through this, Beatrice would reinforce the status quo, not challenge it.

Beatrice’s perceived unruliness, and the unruliness of other similar characters across Shakespeare’s works, may only be allowed because women did not have real social power to wield against men. There was little tangible threat of change or violence when women spoke on gendered issues. Therefore, there was no measurable challenging or questioning of the status quo. However, the threat that men posed was extremely obvious and dangerous. This threat generally manifested in three major ways: threat of physical violence, sexual assault, or defamation of a woman’s ‘good name’.[6] Whilst the threat of physical violence may not have been as lucid as the other two, it still terrified numerous women.[7] Can Beatrice, or indeed any other woman, be truly “unruly” when they exist for a society that is broadly okay with physical, sexual, and verbal violence against women? The answer is obviously no. For all the talk, no real challenging takes place because if it did, Beatrice could be murdered, assaulted, and lose all her family and loved ones. We see how fragile the position women hold through the narrative arch of Hero. Hero is rumoured to have had sexual relationships before marriage. Whether these are true or not seems not to affect the majority of the characters. Instead, they are disturbingly preoccupied with the sex life of a young woman.[8] A similar level of concern is cast over Beatrice’s unmarried status[9]. Whilst her abstinence from marriage may be a sign of her unruliness, as she appears to cast off the restrictions put on her sex, she still marries by the end of the play. No unruly woman can truly exist in a society as intensely patriarchal as that of Early Modern England.  

Shakespeare’s comedies end with the construction of ‘social harmony’, namely through marriage, the villain losing, and order being restored.[10] The return to normalcy and order, particularly an order matching the society in which a text was produced, is a common one. The Hero’s Journey narrative structure, which matches the structure of a great number of myths, plays and stories, ends with the return to normalcy.[11]  Beatrice marries Benedict at the end of the play, when normalcy is meant to reign.[12] Structurally, the audience is meant to understand that an unruly woman can be tamed. Beatrice is not an unruly woman because she is rarely, if ever, written to sincerely criticise the patriarchal institutions around her. Instead, she is encouraged to marry by everyone around her and then eventually does.[13] It is, then, no wonder that women like Queen Elizabeth I took issue with the portrayal of “unruly” women like Beatrice. Ultimately, the narrative structure of the play led them to marry, as did their society, and those they surrounded themselves with.[14] The notion that unconventional, unmarried, people must bring themselves into the norms of society through marriage is one not only espoused by Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, but also a great many people in the Early Modern Era, and even some today (for some strange reason).[15]

The question of “unruly” women and their place in Shakespeare’s works is an interesting one. Definitely, the ways in which Shakespeare writes and presents gender is distinctive, to say the least. The fluidity and colourful ways it manifests, whether it be cross-dressing in Twelfth Night, or what could be considered the Early Modern version of an “ideal woman” in Desdemona. Shakespeare does not limit himself to only exploring the feminine identity, but also the masculine – Romeo, Tybalt, Othello, Claudio even. However, all of these should not be taken as wholly sincere, or in-line with modern understandings of gender. Unfortunately, Shakespeare was probably a huge sexist who wrote to entertain, and to profit. Unruly women can only challenge as far as would be acceptable to contemporary audiences. And let’s face it, it would not be that far.

[1] William Shakespeare, Claire McEachern, and William Shakespeare, Much Ado about Nothing, The Arden Shakespeare, third series / general ed.: Richard Proudfoot ...[...], Reprinted (London: AS [u.a.], 2008). pp 41-43. All future reference is to this text.

[2] Much Ado about Nothing (1.1.125-6)

[3] (ibid)

[4] Dympna Callaghan, A Feminist Companion to Shakespeare (Hoboken, UNITED KINGDOM: John Wiley & Sons, Incorporated, 2016) <http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/dmu/detail.action?docID=4457771> [accessed 22 February 2021]. pp 140

[5] Gavin Schaffer, ‘Fighting Thatcher with Comedy: What to Do When There Is No Alternative’, Journal of British Studies, 55.2 (2016), 374–97 <https://doi.org/10.1017/jbr.2015.229>.

[6] B. S. Capp, When Gossips Meet: Women, Family, and Neighbourhood in Early Modern England, Oxford Studies in Social History (Oxford ; New York: Oxford University Press, 2003).

[7] F. G. Emmison, ‘The Casebook of Sir Francis Ashley, J.P., Recorder of Dorchester (1614–35). Edited by J. H. Bettey. 30 × 21 Cm. Pp. Xiv + 131. Dorchester: Dorset Record Society (Publication No. 7), 1981. No Price Stated.’, The Antiquaries Journal, 62.2 (1982), 441–441 <https://doi.org/10.1017/S0003581500066403>. pp 79

[8] Much Ado About Nothing (4.1)

[9] Much Ado About Nothing (2.1.346-7), (3.1.15-46)

[10] Callaghan. pp 139

[11] In Quest of the Hero, ed. by Otto Rank, Raglan, and Alan Dundes, Mythos (Princeton, N.J: Princeton University Press, 1990).

[12] Much Ado About Nothing (5.4.93-126)

[13] See footnote 9

[14] Callaghan.

[15] Penny Gay, As She Likes It: Shakespeare’s Unruly Women (London, UNITED KINGDOM: Taylor & Francis Group, 1994) <http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/dmu/detail.action?docID=169570> [accessed 22 February 2021].

[mifhortunach]

Reading Horror in Architecture a decade after its first publication is particularly compelling. With additional environments rendered freakish by free enterprise rigor, the evidence for Comaroff and Ker-Shing’s observations proliferates in cities and suburbs alike. Reading it as a Gothic scholar who regularly considers how horrific cultural productions instruct us, revealing our anxieties and providing cautionary tales, has transformed how I see human-made environments. Comaroff and Ker-Shing use horror as the lens through which to view these structures and the language by which to describe them—aptly so, because the conditions that summon their rise (often from the unhallowed grounds of stolen or abused land) are themselves horrific and, importantly, foster yet more horrific conditions. Horror may seem a bit melodramatic until one recalls the hypnotic and numbing flicker of fluorescent lights stacked upon each other in gray corporate skyscrapers, reddening eyes and blocking stars. Or perhaps, more disturbingly, one witnesses news stories featuring the remains of Gaza, consequences of settlement colonialism and global complicity. The horror of those settings lies not in exaggerations but rather, as the book proclaims, in the tangible—and accurate—expression of extremes, for we live in an era of extremes. As Comaroff and Ker-Shing note, “Horror is one by-product of modernity and thus mimics its advanced forms”; it manifests immoderations and indulgent extravagances. Hence, when we see buildings bloated, deteriorated, mutated, duplicated, or dislocated, often a dereliction of ethics is the remodeling contractor at work. By interpreting buildings in horror mode, the authors unveil the systemic greed, unsustainable growth, and unchecked power embedded in their foundations.

[hikarry]

Living in my little bubble, surrounded by wonderful queer, left-leaning friends and allies, it's easy to believe that the world is progressing toward a more inclusive and understanding future. Within this sphere, love is celebrated in all its forms, acceptance is (almost always) a given, and societal advancement feels like a tangible reality.

But recently, I stumbled across something that shattered this comforting illusion I was trapped in—a surge of young, right-wing extremist voices emerging here, in Portugal. Yes, you read that right. Portugal. The very country people think it's pacific and everyone is vibing and "CRISTIANO RONALDO" and "FOOTBALL" and "WHORES AND WINE" and what not.

I was browsing through the depths of social media when I came across a series of podcasts led by disturbingly young and fervent right-wing kids. Legit kids. These aren't fringe, obscure channels, but rather platforms that are gaining alarming popularity among teenagers and young adults and what they say is...is simply absurd. Their messages are a chilling echo of the far-right rhetoric we’ve seen spreading across Europe like wildfire. They are just, what, 19 year olds spitting ideas from our dictator 50 years ago? There's literally a girl saying women are born to be at home and raise kids. A GIRL.

And it’s not just Portugal. Look at bloody France, for crying out loud. Across Europe, there's a disturbing trend of young people being drawn to extremist ideologies. Countries once celebrated for their progressive values are now grappling with a resurgence of nationalism, xenophobia, homophobia, and ultra-conservative agendas. The rise of far-right parties in countries like bloody Germany. Fucking Germany. Germany. Someone fucking slap me.

For a long time, I believed that each generation since around, idk, after WWII, was stepping forward, breaking down barriers and forging a more equitable society. But these young podcasters are a stark reminder that we are not all moving forward together. Instead, it seems that for every step forward, there are forces pulling us ten steps back.

It's easy to feel insulated when everyone around you shares your values. The idea that young people—the supposed torchbearers of future progress—are espousing such regressive views is not just disheartening; it's terrifying.

Cause, yes. I'll confess. Since the last presidential election here in Portugal (2020, I believe? Fuck me, I don't know politics, I'm just ranting alright?), the guy running for the extremist right got 3rd place with a really small difference from the woman in second place and I thought "There we go. The old uneducated folk trying to fuck this up. Fucking Salazarists. Just fucking die already." but little did I know a lot of his votes and one of the reasons why that party is now the 3rd strongest force in the Portuguese Assembly it's because of people my fucking age. Or even younger than me. People that grew up with information on their fucking fingertips.

If we want to truly advance as a society, we need to understand why these ideologies are taking root and work tirelessly to counteract them. The bubble of comfort and progress we live in is not representative of the world at large. And if we want to protect and expand the values we hold dear, we need to step out of our bubbles and confront the darkness creeping in at the edges.

[nickmpreg]

it’s also disturbingly funny how these are the exact people who want us to maintain a patriarchal structure where men are at the top and don’t show any sign of emotion to the outside world , saving it all for their wives at home who they can beat to a bloody pulp and then rape her body later and then have the GALL to talk about men’s mental health . you don’t care about the complexities of mental health or the real , tangible effects that it has on our society at large you just want some lousy excuse to come home every day and treat your wife like a hunk of plastic that pops out a baby for you once a year . how are we expected to set aside our time and address the ‘male loneliness epidemic’ when these violent fantasies are what drive their own loneliness . it’s hard to care about someone when they don’t see you as a human being , but what do i know

[cloisfics]

STAY

She was running...where exactly, she couldn't fathom, couldn't bring herself to care about the fact that she, being defenseless could potentially get murdered in cold blood, not when she felt that sensation of impending doom suffocating her, the terror running deep in her veins, her heart pounding.

Lois Lane was not one to shy away from danger. It was what excited her, chaos was what she was used to thriving on, it was what defined her life- what made it worth living for. But this was different - of course it was - she could feel it..the last thread of hope -slipping away from her clutch, the flashing lights from the battlefield nearly blinding her. She found her breath coming in pants, her eyes tearing up, limbs shaking..her entire world crumbling down into pieces, right in front of her eyes- and yet, she was totally and utterly helpless to do anything about it. Her frantic eyes had found the read and blue mass lying in the corner, right next to that terrifying beast- most disturbingly, motionless.

" Clark!"

Lois was so horror struck for a moment that she could only stay rooted to the spot, praying that her bloody mind was playing stupid tricks one her. This couldn't be real. She wouldn't allow it...

She finally willed enough strength to move to him, dizzy and feverish, for the first time-petrified of the unknown, of what awaited her. She managed to turn him around onto her lap, shaking hands immediately finding the face she loved so much. His skin was so frigid, and clammy. He had never felt so cold before. The soundless scream erupted from her throat of it's own accord...

Like a bucket of ice-cold water had been splashed on her, Lois jerked awake. She felt her forehead, feeling sick, her heart pounding loudly against her ribcage. She instinctively reached out next to her, and was further anguished on discovering the cold side of the bed. Slowly, she took in the familiar surroundings- the comfy bed with the silk comforter she was tangled in, the walls coated in warm beige illuminated from the table lamp, the cozy decor, the tall mahogany cupboard and the frigid bay windows against which snow was falling, heavily.

No. She kept telling herself. It was just the usual nightmare- her worst memory, in fact- the one which took pleasure in constantly haunting her..and yet- it had been so real, she could feel her throat constricting, her chest tightening. Her restless mind began conjuring up such bone-chilling imagery she couldn't manage to shut out.

She ran her hands through her hair, trying to pull herself together somehow and failing miserably. He would be here, he had to be here, or was he?

Tired of her internal debate, she decided to put an end to the dilemma; she was even more frustrated to find out the amount of effort it took to sit upright against the headboard, and that was when she was suddenly alerted to the wound on her left shoulder, the pain so tangible she was forced to recollect the unpleasant scenario she had found herself in before the bullet had brushed past her skin.

As if on cue, the door opened- and there stood Clark- in his casual flannel, looking quite worn out with dark circles quite visible under his eyes- he never got dark circles, he was Superman for God's sake- but alive. Miraculously, right in front of her. Unharmed.

The fatigue weakening her body, and her wobbling legs which threatened to give way beneath her, forgotten- all of a sudden, she collapsed straight into him, wrapping her petite frame against his muscular torso, arms wrapping around him as tight as she could muster.

"Lois!" He breathed into her hair.

She felt his steady heartbeat, as she buried herself deeper into him, letting his scent wrap around her- healing her. She once again reminded herself of how much her life revolved around him, and him alone.

"Honey.." he gently peeled back away from her, concern pooling in his mesmerizing blues, as he took in the sight of her, hand trailing down her cheek.

"Hey.." she managed weakly, instinctively melting into his touch.

"Is everything..."

"I'm fine.." she assured him, and herself, arms circling his neck, leaning her forehead agaist his, "Just a bad dream.."

He held her close, kissing her forehead as he murmured, "You scared the hell out of me.."

She knew they had to talk it through. She sensed apprehension, fear and worry- all in that one simple sentence, and felt the guilt creeping up her veins, already. But not right now. It had to wait.

"Clark..."

"I know." He whispered, delicately stroking an arm down her back, perfectly aware of her need for comfort.

"Stay."

"I'm not going anywhere, Lo!"

[rpgsocialservices]

The Core of 'The Crooked Man'

The Crooked Man is the first game in the strange man rpgmaker horror game series. It is perhaps the scariest rpg horror game I've ever played, thanks to the disturbing body horror, game pacing, and timely jump scares. Admittedly, that may partially be because of my own disposition and personal weakness toward body horror and jumpscares (I also have not played the last two games in the series, one of which has stronger content warning than The Crooked Man does). While I am not someone who likes essays explaining why society or some such is the 'true horror' in a piece of horror media, I do think that the best horror pieces use horror as an exaggeration of evils we already deal with in real life, their consequences, and as a way to showcase a tangible defeat of intangible evils.

VERY quick summary: David the protagonist of The Crooked Man, and is introduced during a period of self-isolation when his relationships are suffering and in some cases falling apart altogether. He begins to be haunted by a frightening apparition, and follows a trail to various locations as he attempts to get rid of this haunting. He meets other people who are also more or less at rock bottom, and finally finds the body of the Crooked Man [Duke McGahan] who has been haunting him and can put him to rest. I don't want to recap the entire game here or spoil everything, so this will overall make more sense if you have played the game before.

On the surface, the horror of this game is largely body horror, as the titular character is indeed disturbingly physically crooked, along with the jump scares and chase scenes. The anticipation of meeting the Crooked Man again as he chases you down is matched by the visceral revulsion you feel when you see him. There is also the general atmosphere of the game, as every place David has to travel through is empty except for one other person in each place who is at something of a dead end in their own journey. This creates a pervasive sense of desperation both for the characters to not fail in their darkest times and for David to find some companion so he isn't alone against this monster. However, none of our new friends follow us beyond their individual maps, so each move along the plot brings a loss of companionship even as it brings a new character for us to meet. This too contributes to the desperation that drives the game. The dread of facing the monster again is only matched by the twin contradictory fears of facing it alone or of it hurting someone you now care about, and all the while you are terribly aware that you are on the run.

But how did this happen in the first place? Why? This is only partially a case of 'wrong place, wrong time'. The core of The Crooked Man is not the body horror and the chase scenes, and it's not David's own problems, even though avoiding them was what drove him to the location where he first met the Crooked Man to begin with. The core of the The Crooked Man is the human need for connection. David's spiral is ultimately caused by his self-imposed isolation. Duke's suicide which lead to him becoming the Crooked Man was caused by his despair after a lifetime of abandonment, failure, and loneliness. Every character that David meets in each new location is desperately lonely, and this loneliness is mirrored in David. For brief periods of time, David seems slightly revitalized as he focuses on his companions over his own despair, but ultimately this is fleeting. Once we learn that these characters are only facets of Duke, the reality hits full force that this horror has narrowed down to encompass David alone as he faces Duke.

It is what comes after we walk away from the final confrontation that makes human connection the true core of this game. We've learned that Duke lacked any real safety net or network, and he succumbed to his despair and his own crooked man. David, by contrast, has a network of people who care about him, but has spent the game up until this point rejecting them, and has almost gone down the exact same path that Duke did. The foils of Duke and David's respective stories combine to one conclusion: your relationships with other people cannot save you, but they can make it easier if you let them. Loved ones cannot fix your problems for you. They cannot take away your depression. Importantly, they also cannot help you if you do not want to be helped. By the same token, if you are willing to reach out, they might be able to help you, and maybe make things a little easier and a bit more bearable. Maybe Duke wouldn't have become the Crooked Man if he had a network, or maybe he would have. David almost did because he isolated himself, which left him vulnerable to external and internal threats. We don't know how long it took for David to get better after the game, or what role his friends played in helping him bear it all, but we do know that in later games he reaches out to others to help them with their problems when he can. We know he learned how important that human connection is when facing trials and tribulations, and that he was willing to offer that to others.

[denimbex1986]

'Andrew Scott did not receive an Oscar nomination, more disturbingly not even a BAFTA, I mean what the hell, for portraying Adam in All of Us Strangers.

All of Us Strangers tells the tale of a middle aged writer starting a new relationship while seeming to be able to visit his deceased parents as he knew them as a child.

Andrew Scott plays the writer as we open the film in his lonely room in a high-rise London apartment complex. Scott's performance in the opening is a man operating in his loneliness as the innate state of being. I think what is essential in his performance is he doesn't open with some overwrought note of suffering, rather what Scott portrays is almost a, not quite comfort, but a settled state of being as he moves around his apartment thinking about life, occasionally writing but also just listening to music or inane television. Scott's work has much within the silences about this as Adam goes about in his way, that just is, it isn't happiness he's exuding, nor is it this constant sorrow either, it is rather this long state of being where Scott alludes to as being something years the making. The first time we see him speak is when he opens the door to find seemingly his one neighbor Harry (Paul Mescal) knocking at his door, seeking company, romantically likely but also more directly just connection. Scott's performance in this scene portrays Adam's state for likely years at this point as he greets Harry with a very kind of reduced delivery. It isn't that he is being rude, or aggressively dismissive towards the man, he's rather being in this state of the self that feeds into the state of being alone. Scott responds just enough to everything Harry says, but only just enough to just be as pleasant as he'll be, until Harry tries to invite himself into Adam's apartment. Scott's reaction in this moment is genius in a way because there's so much there, even as it is relatively modest in terms of the "loudness" of performance, but there is so much texture. There's a glint in his eye of being intrigued, then in the same second there's a tightening, a sense of a man avoiding any potential wound the man could suffer from opening himself up to connection again. Scott shows in this moment Adam choosing to stay lonely but lonely in this way he's come to understand.

The crux of the film comes into being as Adam begins to think of his childhood for his writing and begins to visit his old house. Scott's silent work is consistently great in creating a tangible sense of the emotional state of Adam in each instance, and doesn't allow any dead air of pensive staring. Scott always develops this with purpose, and in the initial scene it is with this sense of confusion mixed in with a kind of pondering discovery as he, perhaps fantasy literally or metaphorically, sees his father as he knew him as a boy who beckons him to come along. Scott's performance is so important in not making this silly, because he creates this sense of discovery as he goes about it and this is a real man entering into this dream. Which initially it is as his family welcoming home as though he'd been on a long many year long trip away coming home after so much time. Scott's performance is so good by making it always so unbearably tangible in every conversation we see between him and his parents. The way he reacts to them is with this interest initially, this sense of "what is going on" but also the embracing of a discovery in the moment. In his initial scene, Scott's performance brings a nonchalance initially that in itself works so well in the man essentially trying to explain his life to his parents, who beam with pride at hearing that he's in London and a writer. Scott brings this simple modesty about Adam that is able to articulate both the son who doesn't want to seem boasting about his parents, perhaps even feels he hasn't lived up to enough dreams at times, while also not sure yet to make sure of this situation he finds himself in either. Scott's delivery of explaining himself not be a writer of particular note of any kind, with a blunt honesty about it, that reflect a man who still isn't sure of himself in so many ways, that contrasts so beautifully against his parents who are just in love with every word he is saying, as he seems to be living above and beyond the dreams they might've had for him. The scene being the ideal support for Adam to open new pathways for himself.

Meanwhile back in his apartment it appears as though Adam is finally opening himself to anything as he tries to incite Harry into an invite again, which seemingly he rejects at first before later accepting and the two do begin a relationship. These scenes where I think Scott very much gives purpose for every encounter that we see between Harry and Adam, because there is more going on with the man. As what Scott performs so well is showing the way the lonely man who had settled opens himself to this experience. He articulates through every step so well, as even in the first encounter with the fairly direct, though not aggressive Harry, Scott has these perfectly implemented subtle moments where you do see surprise, a little hesitation in the man, before giving into the idea showing the man basically needing to learn to make connections again. Scott gives such a weight to the progression of each scene with Harry because he shows just how deep of a hole Adam was in, and slowly but surely we see Harry push him out of it. He and Mescal have great chemistry with one another, by the connection being a given but more so the dynamic that is crafted between the older gay man who lived through the far more prejudiced and dangerous era to Harry who could be more open in his life and experience. The scene where they speak to their mutual experiences, Scott's performance is again outstanding in underplaying the emotion while finding so much truth in it, because the past of his experience as a gay man is in the past, yet it isn't at all gone from his mind. Rather what Scott is able to portray is this sense of reasoning the past from himself, there's so much pain in Scott's expression but pain he's held in, he's adjusted, he's calibrated to where he is now, but still pain all the same. While never wasting hearing Harry's own story, as more accepted yet still an outsider, where Scott articulates every thought Adam is going through in his own experience, understanding and even falling into the memories of his parents.

His next return to his parents is when only his mother (Claire Foy) is home, who at first is just excited to see her son again and commenting how much he looks like her father now that he is all grown up. Scott's performance again is so great because he not only makes the fantasy tangible, he makes it so strikingly powerful. In this case we have the son discovering his mother best he can and trying to reason with her, as she quickly comes to ask about his relationships, where Adam essentially comes out to her where she is taken aback, almost acting in denial to the statement. Scott is so great in the scene because his reaction in part is holding a lot in showing the man trying to almost forgive his mother for not accepting him right away while also being so evidently frustrated all in the same momentary reaction. His delivery is so good as he challenges her each time because Scott really brings this sharpness while not becoming overly aggressive. There is this sense of disbelief in every line that his mother can't accept him, but also this painful sense of almost an expectation as well. Scott articulates the moment so effectively because he is playing so much at once in trying to break down his mother's constrained perspective. Scott is challenging but challenging in a way in which he's almost angry at the whole prospect of having to ask. There's so many amazing moments as you just see Scott trying to not hate his mother, while wanting to entirely hate his mother at the same time. His eyes do so much in going between each phase, and his way of explaining every question of hers, as an almost "well duh" way of pointing out the obvious, while also kind of going slightly mad at the same time when having to have this conversation with his mother. The scene could've been easily overwrought if it had been just one note, but Scott goes through so much life, that every second of it feels brutally honest.

The next moment he visits home he sees his father (Jamie Bell) alone rather than his mother. Where his mom was so blunt in her emotion he's instead dealing with his father who actually offers initially some comfort by saying his mother will get over it. Scott's great in the more guarded way he comes in first in his way in just asking as he can, which his dad bluntly breaks when saying he knew because "he couldn't throw a ball for shit". Scott's reaction with Bell, as fantastical as the situation is, feels so natural as they manage to naturally laugh in the moment even if the rather brutal reasoning on his dad's part. Scott's amazing though in the way he speaks to his dad so differently, where Scott shows in some ways trying to be more controlled, more direct, more like his dad's expected son. His delivery is more precise, more short, his attempt to hold the emotion in is more exact. His way of trying to peer into his dad's thoughts while also maintaining a certain control. Even when asking why he didn't come into his room when he heard him crying, Scott holds in so much anguish in the moment, and in such a bluntly convincing way in showing the man putting on the brave face for his father speaking so much to their relationship rather than his mothers. When his father attempts to offer his own apology in his way, Scott's shift to the good things they had in his memories, Scott speaks from the heart with such warmth to just the simple memories of enjoying the family Christmas decorations and trying to ease the tension in such a natural way. The two kind of maintain their distance, then proceeds to tear my heart out, as both break as his dad apologizes for not comforting him as a child, and Adam trying to say it is okay. With both actors bringing such beautiful honesty and comfort to the scene, of the father and son embracing after so many years of distance.

Meanwhile we see the progression with Harry's relationship where Scott's performance articulates this gradual removal from himself from that self-imposed exile of self from connecting to others in each subsequent scene. Scott always being so genuine, such as a simple moment such as requesting Harry not watch him undress, despite the two having had sex already, filled with sincerity that speaks to Adam as very much finding a pathway out of his shell he's put himself into. The moments of them speaking growing in the sense of comfort in their interaction, and that malaise that had defined Adam before that point in being lost as he is alone. There's a simple power in the moments of the two speaking to each other in their tender calm they have in their experience with one another. This opens up as we watch the two go clubbing, which could just be a scene about direction and visual imagery, but Scott's performance still stands out within this. As in every little interaction we see through the sequence speaks so much more to the sense of Adam going to go enjoy life in a way he hasn't in some time, or maybe even simply hasn't it. Scott's great because he doesn't play it with a simple ease, rather he shows the man discovering every moment of each experience, and embracing it that builds this at first little bit of joy that expands. Expanding in a way that is so potent in Scott's performance because we've seen where this man was in the opening scenes, and he shows this growth in such a natural and wholly captivating way.

There is a shift though in the scenes with his parents which is a kind of regression for Adam as we see him with his parents, and Scott's performance again takes a big risk that if not pulled off perfectly, would be kind of terrible, of course it's the former. That is portraying this almost infantile manner he begins as he returns to his parents again in Christmas, as his physical performance is much smaller, emphasizing more of a child's size but also deferring state to his parents, and looking up to his parents celebrating Christmas, with both of them wholly embracing him, Scott manages to show Adam kind of giving into the pleasantries of the past by indeed being a child again. Scott makes a heartwarming moment in the way you see how much Adam appreciates getting to live this experience again with the sense of nostalgia in his eyes, while also showing the danger as he is indeed giving into the idea of the fantasy. With the moments where now his traveling between the kinds of worlds he's experiencing he's in a way much more lost and needing than he had been in a way, as he becomes dependent on the visits. His moment of trying to stop his parents from going out, where they are destined to die in a car accident, Scott's delivery of "promise me you won't go out", is incredible work as again it is the combination between the sort of child's worry in his voice but with the sense and knowledge of the adult. Scott manages to be neither purely one way or the other, and is both at once in a way that shouldn't work perhaps, though entirely does.

The following scene with his parents Scott is magnificent in his ability to be able to kind of show both the dangers and beauty of being stuck in the past, and the struggle to reckon with it. The scene where he explains to his own mother, his life after he died, his initial delivery is so poignant because he does speak like a little kid just recounting something to his mom in the night, yet with so much more emotion of the man who knows so much more behind each word. Scott brings this unique vulnerability as his mother apologizes to him for her actions, and he tries to comfort her. And another scene that perhaps also just rips out my heart once again, when Adam tells his mother what he would've done with his parents through his life if they had lived. Scott's performance is so heartbreaking because there's such a wistful dreaming quality that speaks so much to the boy just wishing for the simple joys of a family. Even noting they had to fight but with a smile as just part of being a family and being together being the important point. Scott's kind moment of realization of the pain within it all being so heart wrenching as again his performance, just uncovers the level of vulnerability as the man needing to realize the truth of his loss. His breakdown back as the "adult" Adam being just all of the blunt sorrows in a moment that Scott opens up as the most tremendous wound being opened up. His detailing of the entire death is great acting, as again the adult, where the adult tries to distance himself from years past, where Scott is carrying so much shaking horror of every thought of thinking of the terrible death of their parents. Scott putting the years into it with every word filled with all of the searing pain beneath it, but the man attempted to articulate his defense of being isolated from his parents.

A merging occurs where Adam brings Harry in an attempt to meet his parents, though his parents refuse to let him enter. Scott's extraordinary in the scene in showing sort of the mania of Adam on the brink of trying to deal with the loss of his parents again in his experience. Scott being filled with the manic desperation attempting to be the young man attempting to bring his loved ones together. Scott shows the man trying to live all his lives at once, and becoming lost. Which leads to a great scene with both parents trying to be tough love of having them say that they have to let him go and he has to let them go in order for him to be able to move on. Scott is so great in the scene because through every moment you see in his eyes a man trying to live out the joy of his parents, and just closing himself up from the reality that he must separate from this fantasy. Scott brings within his performance this aggressive force of the man just trying to hold off on the pain just that much more, being almost brat in a way when physically trying to silence his dad as the boy who doesn't want to have to grow up. As natural though in so meekly delivering "it's not been long enough" as still the little boy just hoping to be with his parents just a little more time than he had been able to be granted in life. Scott again being so outstanding by being the man and the boy, not as two separate parts but as one going through the grief. To ease the blow, the parents invited him out to the mall for one more time together. I love Scott's reaction to their invite, as he shakes his head stubbornly as the child, but the man's eyes recognize it as what needs to happen. Scott decides to rip my heart out one more time for good measure in their sequence of a final goodbye, where every moment of Scott's performance is some of the most moving acting of 2023. As every moment of realization of his loss again, with just the simple appreciation of being with them, and articulation of the mix between the man trying to hold on yet realizing he must move on. Scott's fluctuation between what should be such unbelievable extremes just are the most genuine sincerity that deliver every bit of poignancy to this moment of the man and the boy accepting their deaths finally, as best as he can. Scott's "I love you very much dad" and comfort to his mom, as she finally comforts him, is wonderful as it has such complex emotional truth to the interaction yet feels effortless in Scott's devastating performance. Scott showing every bit of love that was there from the son to the parents, as a boy, as a man, but with every sense of the loss interwoven innately in one final stunning tapestry of the relationship with his parents. Scott never shying from the beauty of the simplicity of the love of parents and child, but also finding every hint of nuance in the complexity of it all the same. It is never just one thing, but everything, that delivers such a tragic poignancy and not only makes the fantasy tangible, it makes it so powerfully incisive.

The final "twist" of the film, which I think is necessary from how Harry is written in what comes out, though I don't think was entirely necessary in terms of the overall film, that spoilers being Harry is also dead the whole time and has merely been speaking to his ghost as well, as just this film really isn't about the "gotcha" to begin with, regardless, it still mostly works for me due to the performances of Mescal and Scott. What Scott uses in this moment is to articulate the final true growth of Adam in the moment in trying to finally embrace others out of his loneliness despite having in fact lost another opportunity to do so. Scott's great by very much playing the reaction to Mescal's performance, of the dying man destroyed by his own loneliness, while Scott brings such a poignancy in his understanding, comforting and alto together self-actualized manner as he explains his earlier fears that prevented from reaching out. Scott's "I found you" to give any sense of care to the man in his final moments brings such a beauty in just the idea of human connection in any way, and Scott's expression that shows the power of in a way simply being seen and acknowledged. The final scene shows Scott embracing fully another, even within these circumstances, as someone who can reckon now with his past, and embrace his life even as he helps yet another dead person move on. Speaking now with this certain emotional confidence that is life affirming with each word, and his look into the other man now fully being without fear or being stuck within his terrible grief. This is masterful work by Andrew Scott, as there simply is not a false moment in the entire film. And this is a performance that manages every difficult emotional scene, every strange shift in style or circumstance, that not only makes them work, it makes them feel entirely profound and only ever intensely impactful. It is very complex work in terms of all that Scott needs to portray, take in and illustrate, yet never does feel anything but wholly genuine in its simpler core elements that binds everything together. It is a tremendous performance in every sense, that breaks my heart in a way few performances ever do.'

[spartanblacksmith]

As a kid in from the 90's, this is true, in a disturbingly accurate sense. @just-your-average-tangerine almost described my own childhood. The only difference being I didn't have a therapist because they're too expensive and my family was just in the middle ground between poor and middle class.

To be fair, I'm not a party animal. Never have. I didn't like the noise at wild parties, what some call music, that was loud enough to shake your teeth and pound your head.

I much prefer to enjoy gatherings, where we just hangout. We play on the console the party games like Smash Bros, Halo, Mario Cart, Etc. in the living room TV. Perhaps a game of poker for the players not currently holding a controller to keep them entertained.

I've never smoked cigarettes, and seeing everyone in my extended family above 30 hopelessly addicted to them, I never wanted to. Nor was I ever interested in Alcohol, seeing it's killed 2 great aunts, an uncle, and 2 cousins. And would later claim my father. And I did listen when D.A.R.E. explained the effects of drugs. I would rather have the cognition to daydream rather than be out of it for a while.

Twas the life of a sober person for me, and it's not like I regret it.

And there's also the point of kids losing their mobility outside the house. I wasn't allowed past the immediate neighbors house, and they were good friends with my parents. My sister's kids nowadays aren't even allowed past the front lawn, under supervision.

The world has gotten terrifying. Kidnappers will just scoop up your small child and you'll never see them again if you're not vigilant. Too many have experienced this dreadful situation.

Then when the kids get older, there's nothing for them to do outside the house, unless they got money. And it's largely our previous generation to blame for that when they were having fun. Because as they got older, the stuff they got into was outlawed or banned. And then they changed how it worked, thinking they're "improving" efficiency for the younger kids.

The Mall? If there even is a mall, "No loitering!" unless you're buying something, and at these prices? Forget it.

The local McDonald's? Buy your food and go, we got more customers.

The park? Everything is rusty and poorly taken care of.

The bowling alley? Where? So many are gone.

The skate rink? You mean the one 3 towns over?

The bar and their pool table? Not for anyone under 21. And those prices? Not even as an adult would most people buy drinks there.

The ball park? Are you an official team who can cover the entry fee?

The arcade? Unless you're okay going into Chuck e Cheese, the only arcade you'll find is that hole in the wall kind in the side of a supermarket.

And when you're an adult, it's hopeless. So many have been given rides into college, and the retirement age keeps going up, that the job market for degree carriers is not just filled, it's saturated. Colleges being completely fine with giving you a degree they know a very large percent of their graduates can't/won't be able to use is terrible and greedy, but we're here.

Then there's the economy. Years of stalling wage increases has had a tangible effect on most people. No large disposable income? Got to go to work more. Got to work more? Less time with friends. And you have to sleep longer to ensure you stay healthy because Good Lord, you're not affording health care these days.

And finally, social media. It's not the big boogeyman some people make it, but it has given its users a big label maker and convincing people you have to stay within your cliches or be punished.

Maybe this is the wrong platform to pose this question given the average tumblr user but

Is it just me or did our generation (those of is who are currently 20-30 ish) just not get the opportunity to be young in the 'standard' sense?

Like, everyone I talk to who's over 40 has all their wild stories about their teens and 20s, being young and dumb, and then I talk to my friends and coworkers and classmates, and we just... dont.

[thestrangenessofhumanity]

In late October 1998, a series of unusual events began to unfold in the small Michigan town of Mount Grayson, residents initially reported minor disturbances: misplaced tools, depleted food supplies, and a pervasive sense of being observed.

These isolated incidents gradually escalated over the subsequent weeks wildlife and other animals began to disappear, followed by the unexplained vanishings of townspeople as the local law enforcement agencies were unable to identify any credible leads or discern a pattern in the disappearances.

This lack of progress fostered widespread fear and speculation among the remaining inhabitants. Rumors emerged, attributing the events to a mysterious entity residing within the surrounding forest, and theories ranged from a dangerous wild animal to a supernatural presence.

As winter approached and the disappearances continued unabated, a significant piece of evidence surfaced in January 2000, a camera, positioned on the periphery of town, captured a blurry image of a figure clad in a white gorilla suit standing outside a derelict residence and the initial reaction was largely dismissive, but as more corroborating eyewitness accounts emerged, the possibility of a tangible threat gained traction.

The individual in the gorilla suit was reportedly sighted in various locations, both within the wooded areas and, disturbingly, inside private homes and the mounting terror prompted a mass exodus from Mount Grayson, as families sought refuge elsewhere.

However, the mysterious figure remained, seemingly omnipresent and perpetually observing, a group of residents, driven by desperation and armed with flashlights, decided to confront the perceived threat and tracked the figure to an abandoned mine located on the outskirts of the town. What they discovered within the mine would have lasting psychological repercussions.

The mine's interior was littered with the remains of brutally slaughtered animals and standing amidst this carnage was the figure in the gorilla suit, its eyes exhibiting an unnatural luminescence and the group attempted to retreat, but was unsuccessful, according to accounts, the figure underwent a dramatic transformation, its body contorting into unnatural shapes while emitting a piercing scream.

Then the members of the group were never accounted for following this encounter shortly thereafter, Mount Grayson was completely abandoned and the mine was subsequently sealed, and the narrative surrounding the figure in the gorilla suit became a local legend.

Some believe it continues to exist in the region, awaiting future victims and claim to have observed it in the shadows, maintaining a constant vigil.

The grainy photograph taken by the security camera remains a tangible artifact of the events that transpired in Mount Grayson, upon closer inspection, the image purportedly reveals the figure's eyes, radiating an unnerving intensity, as if it is perpetually observing and anticipating.

[snarkformysanity]

Twilight Chapter 11

Mr. Banner backed into the room then [...] pulling a tall metal frame on wheels that held a heavy-looking, outdated TV and VCR. A movie day—the lift in the class atmosphere was almost tangible.

I remember movie days in class. The lift in atmosphere they brought about was indeed tangible.

But, yes, it's movie day in biology class, and not much really comes of it except for Bella telling us all about how intense sitting next to Edward is. I do want to pull one bit out, though:

My eyes, of their own accord, flickered to [Edward].

Mostly because of that "of their own accord" bit. It's quite staggering the number of YA protagonists whose body parts seem to have more agency than they do - from feet that "decide" where to go without input from their owners, to being pulled/driven by some "instinct" the protagonist does not (and never will) understand, it's really quite disturbingly common. Why can't Bella choose to look at Edward? Why is all the agency here being given to her eyes? Seriously, just remove that "of their own accord" thing and it's perfectly fine. Or, if you must, make it "seemingly of their own accord" instead, if you want to give the impression that she's trying to resist. It's very odd.

But, yeah, nothing really happens in biology, and then they have an Agonising Goodbye before Bella goes to gym class. She then spends the rest of that time dissociating from lack of Edward and being bad at badminton (or whatever they're playing), until Mike comes to speak to her after class. He's mad that she and Edward are seemingly a thing now. And while Bella's love life is, as she says, none of his business, he does make a very good point.

“He looks at you like . . . like you’re something to eat,” he continued, ignoring me. I choked back the hysteria that threatened to explode, but a small giggle managed to get out despite my efforts. He glowered at me. I waved and fled to the locker room.

And, while I'm sure the book expects this to be nothing but a witty, ironic quip, I can't help but read it as Bella being in denial and fleeing from having to confront the idea that her new boyfriend is an abusive ass who sees her as a thing, rather than a person.

Edward is waiting to take her home from school as well. He's been eavesdropping via mind-reading again, and says Mike is getting on his nerves. The usual dickery. Bella is mad that he's been eavesdropping again, but she still goes with him to his car. Also, all the boys at school are clamouring around Rosalie's red car because... idk, cars are cool, I guess. But that's not really important. Bella's still mad.

He sighed. “Will you forgive me if I apologize?” “Maybe . . . if you mean it. And if you promise not to do it again,” I insisted. His eyes were suddenly shrewd. “How about if I mean it, and I agree to let you drive Saturday?” I considered, and decided it was probably the best offer I would get. “Deal,” I agreed. “Then I’m very sorry I upset you.” His eyes burned with sincerity for a protracted moment—playing havoc with the rhythm of my heart—and then turned playful.

And, to the surprise of no-one, Edward is being an ass about it, completely ignoring why she's mad at him and making other "concessions" to get her to shut up about it. And look at Bella. "The best offer she would get." Bella, you don't have to concede to his "offers", if he ignores the fact that you don't like him stalking you via mind-reading, you can just tell him to fuck off. Alas.

His smile was condescending now. “I wasn’t intending to bring a car.” “How—” He cut me off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there, no car.”

And he's refusing to answer very reasonable questions, in a dickish way, of course. Honestly, I feel like this one is done more for the sake of the audience (because I guess the book thinks we can't work out that it'll be the vampire super-speed we already know about), but it nonetheless reflects very badly on Edward. He doesn't have to be a condescending ass about it.

It was easier to ride [in the car] with him if I only looked when it was over.

Just........ what more needs to be said? Poor Bella has given up on trying to assert her right to feel safe and is doing the car-passenger equivalent of lying back and thinking of England.

“And you still want to know why you can’t see me hunt?” He seemed solemn, but I thought I saw a trace of humor deep in his eyes. “Well,” I clarified, “I was mostly wondering about your reaction.” “Did I frighten you?” Yes, there was definitely humor there.

Yup. He finds her fear funny, ladies and gents. I wish I could say this was exclusive to Edward, but no, there's many love interests who enjoy provoking negative emotions in the objects of their affections. Some more so than others. I'd say that, more commonly than fear, the love interests might go more for annoying her/making her mad, and then laughing at her anger. You know. Like assholes. There's one in particular I'm thinking of, but for the life of me I can't remember the book name. I think the LI's name was Noah? Something like that.

But yes, anyway, Bella needs it explained to her why hanging around hunting vampires with the scent of blood is a bad idea, and then she forgets to breathe because she's looking into Edward's eyes. Legit, she only realises when she starts getting dizzy from lack of oxygen. Then, Edward says that tomorrow it's his turn to ask the questions (which is presented as ominous for some reason), and then he leaves.

The next day, Charlie tries to ask Bella about why she doesn't want to go to the dance. It seems like he's worried that no one asked her, and she's too upset to say anything. But Bella brushes him off.

Edward shows up to take her to school again that morning. They banter in the car a bit, about Bella's favourite colour and music. It's mostly unremarkable, except that Edward apparently has a copy of the same CD Bella was playing earlier in the book. Hmmmmmmm. Wonder if he had that all along, or if he's only "acquired" it recently... I think it's mostly so the book can remark over how special it is that Bella and Edward like both Debussy and this unspecified metal band, but as someone who also has rather eclectic music tastes, fuck you, book. It's probably a lot more common than you're making it out to be.

But, yes, apparently Edward spends the rest of the day interrogating her about her interests. From Bella's description of her reaction to the attention and how "absorbed" Edward seems to be by her answers, I can't help but read it as love-bombing. He's preying on a girl who's very insecure about her interests by pretending they're the most fascinating things in the world. Creep.

There's a bit about how Bella says her favourite gemstone is a topaz, but apparently it as, until recently, actually a garnet. Three guesses as to the reason for the switch. Edward wants to force her to admit it.

“Tell me,” he finally commanded after persuasion failed

Yeah, see, this right here. A clear sign he straight-up will not respect her wishes. He can't persuade her to do something willingly, so he just commands her to do it instead. Fucking gross. And... er...

I’d given more information than necessary in my unwilling honesty, and I worried it would provoke the strange anger that flared whenever I slipped and revealed too clearly how obsessed I was.

She's already walking on eggshells. Bruh. This is way worse than I remember. At least the book seems to realise she's obsessed, I guess? Not that it understands that's a bad thing, though.

We get a summary of the rest of her school day, including another "electrically-charged" movie session in biology, and then a summary of them sitting in Edward's car outside her house and chatting. We get the first indication that Bella actually liked Arizona, with a paragraph of her describing what she loved about it. It's a bit bland, but hey, it's something. We get a title-drop and some vague philosophy about night and stars, and then Edward says they should wrap it up, because Charlie will be home soon.

But then, there's a "complication." A car pulls up, and Jacob is in it, with his father, Billy Black. Edward speeds off, but the Blacks saw him, and Bella assures us that Billy both saw Edward and clearly believes the vampire legends his tribe has of them. Dun dun dun!

[ejzah]

A/N: I’m glad you guys liked the heavy angst and drama.

***

Blunt Force, Part 12

“Dammit!” Kensi hissed. She ran out of the firing range, catching sight of the back of Deeks’ hair disappearing through the front exit. Tossing the headphones onto the attendant’s counter, she ignored whatever he said about refunds, and headed for the door.

Please don’t let him do anything foolish, she silently begged. For a wild second, Kensi expected to see him lying in the middle of the road or sow thing equally terrible. Instead, she found Deeks just a few yards away.

He was crouched on the ground with his back pressed against the rough granite wall and his face buried in his hands. Kensi stilled, her chest aching at the sight.

“Deeks,” she called out softly, hesitating to move closer. She didn’t expect him to lash out, but she’d also never seen him like this and it honestly scared her. When he didn’t respond, Kensi closed the gap and knelt in front of him, trying to make some noise so she didn’t startle him. “Deeks.”

“I’m ok,” he said, though he sounded anything but. With a heavy sigh, he lowered his hands, revealing reddened skin around his eyes. He avoided her gaze, looking out into the parking lot.

“Deeks, you ran out of there like you’d been…did you remember something?” she asked. Even as Kensi realized how traumatizing a sudden memory might be, she couldn’t help the thread of hope that spiked through her.

“You mean aside from suddenly knowing how to shoot a perfect bullseye? Six times in a row. No, nothing.” He made a sarcastic noise, then shook his head. “How does that even work?“

“I don’t know.”

Turning his face so his cheek pressed against his forearms, he sighed. “I thought about when I shot my dad, Kensi,” he said dully.

Kensi fought back any reaction to this revelation. She was honestly shocked he’d admitted such a personal and shocking thing. “Your dad was a pretty awful guy from what you told me. So, it makes sense,” she finally managed.

“It makes sense that I’m apparently as violent as he is?” He made a bitter sound. “I never wanted that. I tried to prove to myself and everyone else that I was nothing like that man.”

He looked so sad and hopeless, Kensi wanted to hug him. She didn’t know if he’d accept that kind of comfort from her right now; she was the one who caused this after all. She settled for kneeling down in beside him.

“I’ve met a lot of violent and dangerous people in my life, and I would never consider you to be one of them. You are a protector and defender for those who can’t defend themselves, and sometimes that does require violence, but it’s never without a reason.”

She didn’t know if that was the right thing to say, even though she meant every word. At any other time, one of them would joke about vulnerability not being her strong suit. Deeks handled the softness and compassion in their relationship.

“So I’m the good guy, huh?” he asked rhetorically. Pushing himself to stand, he leaned his head against the wall with a heaviness to his posture than exceeded physical exhaustion.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought your here. I wasn’t thinking about how it would affect you,” Kensi apologized.

“It’s not your fault. Theoretically, I knew I must be pretty good with a gun if I’m a cop. It’s a whole other thing to actually experience it.”

Kensi started to reach for him, needing to comfort him in some tangible way, but before she made contact, a woman stepped out of the neighboring business, and started walking in their direction. Deeks abruptly pushed off the wall, his face shuttering.

“We should probably go,” he said, gesturing around them, disturbingly calm. “You know, before someone arrests us for loitering.”

It took Kensi a couple of seconds to respond. “Right.” She nodded several times. “Do you want to go come back to my apartment? I can order some food and we can talk.”

“Um, I think I just want to go home. I don’t think I’d be very good company right now.”

“Sure. Of course.” She let him go on front of her, needing a moment to blink back the tears filling her eyes.

***

Kensi dropped Deeks off with repeated offers to stay with him, get him food, or just stay with him. Thankfully, when he gently declined again, she didn’t push it. He didn’t need a witness to him falling apart again.

He wanted nothing more than to pop open a few beers and forget the last couple hours. Technically, his doctor hadn’t cleared him to consume any alcohol, but right now, the desire to dull everything overrode any fears about ruining his progress. In the end, the only thing that kept him from walking down to one of the many nearby shops for a six pack of beer, was the memory of coming home to his father drunkenly berating Roberta. Or worse.

He’d emulated Gordon enough for one day.

It wasn’t even the shooting itself that bothered him; it was the thoughts that triggered his motor memory. It felt vindictive and violent, despite what Kensi insisted. He didn’t know how to reconcile that with the promises he’d made to himself as a teenager.

A strange, sharp tingling feeling sensation ran through his arms along with the image of a man falling to the ground. He shook his hands out, inhaling deeply to fight off the feelings threatening to overwhelm him.

He couldn’t stay here. It was too closed in and he couldn’t breathe.

Deeks’ hands felt slow and clumsy as he struggled with the front door, but somehow he ended up outside. Then he started walking, his only intention to get as far away as he could.