#compliance self-assessment

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[lexlawuk]

IR35 Disputes – Richard Alcock Back To The Drawing Board

Richard Alcock, a self-employed contractor, is currently embroiled in a lengthy legal battle with HMRC over his tax status under IR35 legislation. After years of dispute, the case has been remitted to the First-tier Tribunal with a potential liability of £240,000. Alcock’s situation underscores the complexities of IR35 regulations for contractors and highlights the importance of understanding and…

[bluebelly-sun-serpentine]

I feel as though the language of accommodation is backwards in so many cases. Especially in regards to covid, I’ve started reframing things in my head. I am constantly accommodating other people; treating their disability to deal with reasonable daily decision-making and the existence of chronic risk with kindness and empathy, reacting to their defensiveness and hostility about my continued use of and advocation for masks, ventilation, and regular risk assessments with measured responses that mask the rage and helplessness I feel about the apathy of ableism, communicating about my household’s needs in the softest possible way, reacting compassionately when people who have stopped taking any kind of precaution complain that their health has worsened in the long term or their most recent bout with covid has cost them income (even when these people have continually judged my choice to take precautions), being endlessly patient when people invite me (or try to pressure me) to attend risky indoor gatherings instead of saying “you know I can’t do that. Nothing has changed since the last time I had to say no. You could always invite me to something I don't have to say no to.” Ignoring so much cognitive dissonance and self-delusion. Opening as many windows as possible so we all have a better chance of staying healthy. Apologizing constantly about continuing to protect myself and others so that people get off my case about it and can continue living in a fantasy of post-pandemic normality.

I don’t, anymore, think I’m the fragile person in this situation, and I have realized how much this rings true for other ways in which I have navigated the world prior to the pandemic. Bringing my notes and printouts to doctor’s appointments so that doctors don’t have to properly do their jobs. Bringing my partner so doctors don’t have to look past their own misogyny and ableism. Masking physical pain so that others don’t have to feel bored or distracted by it. Masking my expressions of joy or sorrow or wonder when they don’t conform to norms. Tip-toeing constantly around a passive aggressive regional culture of toxic positivity rather than communicating frankly and directly in the manner that has always been more natural to me (for both nurture and nature reasons) to reduce friction for everyone else.

I’m really going to urge other people who find themselves marginalized or othered in some way: how are you accommodating the people who fail to accommodate you? Not just “what accommodations do you need?” Or “how are you being or not being accommodated?” What have you been doing to make everyone around you more comfortable, and how much of that is actually serving you? Some of it may, and some of it may not. How much work are you doing to unburden people of their own consciences? If no one else sees it, can you, at least, take a moment to look it in the eye?

I'd guess this is true of any condition of life (and by condition I don't mean illness, just "a mode or state or being" or "existing circumstances") that is somehow considered non-normative in its context. If you are an immigrant or you live in a racist or xenophobic culture of which you are the target, if you are a woman, if you are fat, if you are gay, if you're an effeminate man, if you are ill, if you are old, if you are deaf, if you use a wheelchair, etc. I know you've experienced something similar to the labor I'm talking about. "Accommodation" is the word we use talk about things disabled or differently abled people need or deserve to have in order to allow them to navigate an ableist world. Practically this language has sometimes been helpful to me – in getting care, in forcing professors into basic ADA compliance by not stuffing me in an overcrowded, unventilated room with 100 unmasked (frequently contagious) people, in allowing me time to catch up after I've been so ill I can't move, in providing spaces where people like me can sit and catch a breath – but increasingly I see it as something that isn't uni-directional, not just something I'm receiving (or fighting and failing to win) but something I am constantly, endlessly doing without acknowledgement, and which, if I ever stopped doing it, would invite serious penalty. I don't know how to change that except by talking about it.

[notdefendingtaylor]

the most worrying thing to me about the asylum aesthetic

aside from the clear co-opting of mentally ill and disabled people's historical abuses under a broken, underfunded, and at times deeply unscientific system....

is that mental healthcare available NOW can be a profound help, life changing AND life saving.

but the asylum/love made me crazy/'female rage' imagery of ttpd is provoking a lot of discussion about historical abuses and the actual benefits are getting somewhat lost in that discussion. (scientology, THE anti-psychiatry organization, must be thrilled.)

here are some facts about recovery under appropriate and professional help:

bipolar: "Shorter duration of illness, higher social class, and treatment compliance were associated with higher rates of recovery and more rapid recovery." (source)

borderline personality disorder: "One study found that 77% of participants no longer qualified for the DBT diagnosis [of borderline] after one year [of DBT treatment]" (source)

major depressive disorder: "Clinical and functional remission was achieved in 70.6% and 56.1% of the MDD patients, respectively." (source)

hospitalizations: "it can reduce the stress of daily responsibilities for a brief period of time, which allows you to concentrate on recovery from a mental health crisis. As your crisis lessens, and you are better able to care for yourself, you can begin planning for your discharge. In-patient care is not designed to keep you confined indefinitely; the goal is to maximize independent living by using the appropriate level of care for your specific illness." (source)

what is my point here? contributing to the STIGMA around psychiatric care, trying to couch mental illness in language of romantic shared mania (folie à deux) is not just giving 2005 myspace, it's inherently irresponsible. a 'recovery is possible' mindset is what saves lives and in the US, her home country, the stigma against seeking help works hand in hand with the systematic defunding of mental health care to dissuade people from achieving the recovery that can lead to abatement of suffering and transition into a life worth living.

here's my mental illness cheat sheet:

it's not romantic. it can be associated with creativity, but that's not guaranteed or inherent and may largely be a cliche that sidetracks real functional improvement: "Romanticizing the 'mad genius' myths surrounding bipolar disorder can also be harmful, and have negative consequences on your wellbeing and productivity." (source)

it's expensive as hell to treat, but under certain income thresholds in the US, Medicaid can pay for most if not all of the treatment you might need.

it generally leads to lower employment rates or underemployment but treatment leads to the best outcomes for employment and housing: "undertreatment can have a negative impact on occupational functioning" (source)

substance abuse is a conversation that can't be unlinked to mental illness and for some reason the US seems more ready to talk about that than the underlying mental health issues - because then an element of blame can be assigned to the individual for self-destructive behavior. but addressing the core mental health issues can certainly lead to recovery in other areas, when the substance use is linked to depression, anxiety, etc.

the US loves to talk about mental illness when gun violence occurs, but that doesn't mean those same legislators will vote to expand access to mental health treatment (source)

my #1 tip i have is this: if you don't have insurance or your insurance only covers a fraction of your psych inpatient bill, CONTACT PATIENT FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE AND FILL OUT PAPERWORK TO SEEK A WRITE-OFF. instead of that $3000 bill you can leave owing $500 (or less). literally cannot emphasize this enough! the write-off is based on income so they will need to see your financials to assess what write-off(s) may be appropriate in your case.

peer support groups like National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) may hold meetings in your area where you can discuss your problems and relate to others' who may share some of your struggles. this is basically peer-led, FREE group 'counseling'. seriously, it's effectively nearly as good as the group sessions you might have to pay for, and the frequency is often weekly. (find support)

yes, we can talk about past historical psychiatric abuses and ongoing abuses today, which tend to disproportionately affect the socioeconomically disadvantaged. but the conversation needs to also include the benefits of access to scientifically-informed mental health treatment as well.

[tavyliasin]

Urges Bared Before The Dawn - Abdirak x Gortash x gn!Durge One Shot

Enver Gortash has recently been meeting with Durge after many years apart, but they are struggling to find peace in their mind, to find any of the memories they shared beneath that. They're clearly still interested in him, but this isn't a problem that can be solved alone.

Durge recalls a priest of Loviatar, Abdirak, and how he helped them before - pain and punishment had brought about a sense of peace that they longed for, one that Enver knew in his heart should be possible by his hand alone. He agrees to pay the dark cleric for his services, and so the three find themselves in Gortash's chambers with an array of tools and a whole night to find a way through the shroud over Durge's memory. 6,341 Words

Click Here for AO3 Version Pairing: Gortash x Durge x Abdirak SPICE Rating: 5/5  Content Warnings and Tags: Power play, BDSM, Power Exchage, Blood, Wound Detail, Whipping, Chains, Bondage, Predicament Bondage, Sounding, Temperature Play (hot water, ice), Sensation Play, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Cockwarming (mild), Dom/sub, switching, biting

Spoilers Not a lot. Some reference to shared pasts and Gortash/Durge relationship dynamics Canon Compliance Loose at best. This is more interesting. Other Notes ...I made it sound nice in the summary, this is pure BDSM smut, mind those tags and don't be too surprised by the aftertaste of emotion~ And my Beta reader's assessment of that note there is that it's an accurate representation (though I may be downplaying the emotion a little)

(Youtube link click here) Song Pairing Killer Inside Of Me by Willyecho "Think you're a God Yeah but tonight Let's see if you bleed like one You call the shots, but that's all you got I'm gonna call your bluff 'Cause something happens when you fan the flames I'm like an animal inside a cage, but I'm gonna break out these chains You're gonna wish you never held me down I feel it rush through my veins Yeah, this adrenaline has kicked in now There's a killer inside of me"

Full One Shot below the cut! --- ---

Urges Bared Before The Dawn

Abdirak looked on with approval at the chains holding the pale Dragonborn. They were facing the wall, arms held above them, ankles spread apart, even their tail bound off to the side. To his side, Gortash huffed impatiently.

“Why are we hesitating? This is exactly what they requested. I am well aware of what they desire, isn’t that right my dear?” The self-proclaimed Archduke stepped forwards, running the sharp edge of a golden claw down Durge’s spine, smiling at the growl that rumbled forth through their throat.

“Yes,” they agreed, “yet also no .” 

“What do you mean no ? We have danced to this tune a hundred times or more by my memory, even if yours has decided to vacate that pretty little head - why change the steps now?” The metal bit deeper, staining pale scales red. 

Abdirak pulled the man back, a low warning. “You would do well to listen, should you care for the mind within that body. Pain without purpose…” He shook his head. “The agreement was for you to learn, and if you cannot do that you will bear your own penance tenfold.” 

“Fine, Priest. What would you have me do?” Gortash snarled, yet still stepping aside. 

“First, you watch.” He moved closer to the Dragonborn again, pressing a single pale finger against the cut that the gauntlet had left. 

Durge moaned, pressing their body against the cold stone of the wall.

“What is it you wish for, dear one? The whip? The cane? Perhaps the flat of a heated blade?” He added more pressure, deepening the cut and adding a bruise beneath. 

“I trust your judgement.” Their reply was coloured by another pleased sound echoing deep in their throat, savouring the pain until it was withdrawn.

“Very well.” Abdirak turned away picking over a table of tools to select what was best. “These should do nicely.” He handed one of the identical flails to Gortash, observing how the man took a moment to inspect the barbed tips of each strand.

“Is this not a predictable tool? I had heard your methods were more… imaginative .” Golden gauntlets raked through the flail as if caressing the hair of a lover, reverent of the potential despite his attitude. “An experienced hand can turn even the most basic of implements into an instrument of the finest art.” The whip flicked with a smooth and swift motion of his wrist, the ends of the tails snapping against the upper thigh of the bound participant, a slight whine escaping their lips. “Do not hold back, dear one, let the Maiden hear you sing to her with your pain.” 

“Let me hear you.” Gortash interjected, impatience clear in his voice. 

“You think yourself above a goddess?” He frowned, turning to observe the dark haired man whose eyes were fixed on the quivering knees of his lover. 

“And you think yourself an expert on the whims of deities?” The reply came with an indignant scoff, followed by three swift whips of the flog. 

The first drew a breathy gasp from Durge, but the other two wrought only silence from their lungs. Abdirak stayed the lord’s hand before a fourth strike could follow.

“Patience, Enver.” He warned, his grip tightening on the metal clad wrist enough for both to feel the edge of pain. “Perhaps you do have knowledge of the divine that I have yet to discover, but pain is clearly not your greatest skill. You must use finesse, draw it out properly. It is no race to be won, no prize to conquer in your haste.” 

—

The casual use of given names did not escape Gortash, nor did it fail to raise his ire, but even he could see how Durge was no longer trembling in anticipation. Instead, they had twisted their head to show him their frown, their displeasure - there were few insults that could’ve been greater. “As you wish.” He tore his hand from Abdirak’s grasp and folded his arms, glaring between the two.

The priest did not lash out with the flail again. Instead, he draped the strands over the base of Durge’s tail, drawing it slowly back so the length dragged across their scales. Their back arched, such as it could from how they were bound, body pressing against the wall with a hiss as the barbed ends caught on their pale flesh. 

Just when he was certain they would be bored by the lack of pain, he noticed Abdirak’s expression change. The flail connected with a deeper impact this time, striking the same spot that had felt a far gentler caress mere moments ago. Durge keened, their hips pressing against the wall, and when their lungs had filled once more the priest struck again on their upper back this time. 

Pricks of blood coloured white scales with the stain of violence, the thought alone leaving Enver grateful that his jacket left his chest exposed to the cool air of the room. The scant outfit that Abdirak wore was also making more sense as the heat within him rose. 

“Excellent, dear one! That’s it, let the pain flow through you!” Another pause and the whip bit into the back of Durge’s leg, a howl following it that drew a loud laugh from the wielder. 

“I see.” He mused, one hand rising to caress his chin in idle thought. “It is not simply the impact but the anticipation that is required.”

“So you can learn, despite the pride.” Abdirak doled out another two strikes, the rattle of the chains mixing with a longer moan from the one writhing within their bonds. “Then I may allow you to try again, see if you can bring forth their pain properly this time.” 

Enver paused, battling the urge to tell the priest where to take that impudent attitude. That particular fight was easily won by the need to hear that voice again, their voice. Did it matter who heard their pleasured pain? No. Not if he could be its cause. 

—

The cold of the wall and the stone floor beneath their bare feet was grounding. The intermittent screaming in their mind, a blend of the unwelcome voice and memories of torture seared into their very bones, was growing quieter. The way Gortash… Enver looked upon their naked body, bound like an animal, with that hunger glowering in his dark eyes… Durge felt his gaze like hot fire licking across their skin, searing lust held tight behind well practised poise. 

Abdirak, too, was eyeing them with some interest. His ice cold gaze was different, though. Like the first time they had met, he saw a different purpose to their game. His own pleasure was not coming from the arousal that stirred deep in the pit of their belly, but in the connection to Loviatar, and the comfort in knowing that pain had its purpose in soothing their deeper agonies. 

The breath was once again pulled from their lungs as Enver’s arm arced, unseen, to bring the barbed flail to bear on their flank. Hot and bright sensation burned into the spreading warmth of pleasure, adrenaline smothering the creeping doubts in the back of their mind. This was safe. The two behind them were both safe so long as they were bound, the voice driven back by the exquisite-

The next blow to their rear felt far more targeted as their moan almost carried the syllables of his name on their tongue. “Env- aaaah!” 

He was at their side in an instant, claws at their chin, his lips stealing a kiss hotter than the pain that lanced through them as Abdirak’s flail struck their exposed arms. “I am right here. Say it. Say it again.” 

He must have been signalling to the priest this time, as the strike hit a full second after he had prevented their reply with his lips on theirs. “Enver-” They moaned through the pain and into his kiss, tongue hot with the hint of smoke, the taste bitter and earthy like liquor and spice. It was…familiar. Intoxicating. Their tongue fought his, while his claws dug into their ribs and the whip came down on their lower back. 

—

Abdirak admired his own handiwork. The crimson blemishes were a perfect partner to the pale scales of the Dragonborn’s body. They were clearly aroused, their hips pressing towards the wall to seek even the slightest bit of friction for their satisfaction. Of course, the ambitious man by their side was obviously hoping for this result with how eagerly he devoured their tongue in a show of pure passion. No matter, Loviatar’s embrace had more strength in her grip than lust’s hedonism alone. Not that he was immune to that particular vice, either, the lower half of his robes barely hiding anything. Not that anyone’s eyes were on him, nor would he be bothered if they were. Pain and pleasure… The two were as inseparable as the Archduke and his Assassin. 

The flail was losing its effectiveness now, so it was time to change the game; it could not become stale after all. Loviatar demanded her offering as much as his own desire demanded satisfaction. Abdirak threw the key to Gortash’s feet, the slight scowl at the veiled insult pleasing him almost as much as the growing anticipation. 

“Turn them around. They must face us for what is to follow.” He turned away, sorting through his bag for the tools he wanted. “Ah, but this time leave their tail free.” 

He could hear the indignant huff from the human before the clink of chains marked that his orders were indeed being followed carefully. When he returned to the pair he carried three flasks and a narrow, hollow rod. 

Two bottles clinked on the stone as he set them down on the floor, keeping only the smaller of them in his hand with the rod. The latter he held before the Dragonborn, watching their eyes light with recognition. “Tell me, dear one, are you resistant to the cold?” 

“I am.” They nodded quietly. “And…I agree.” 

“Excellent.” Abdirak smiled approvingly, the cantrip forming easily in his mind.

“What is it, exactly, that you are planning to do with that?” Gortash was challenging him again, though this time with more curiosity than annoyance. 

Threads of the Weave answered the simple call of the spell, crystals of frost spreading up the length of the metal rod. “This will add to their pleasure.” He stated simply, glancing down to where the Dragonborn was fully erect and twitching with anticipation. “And, most likely, to your own.” 

The cork of the bottle was easily unstoppered by his teeth, the oil trickling down the iced surface that was already burning his own fingers with the cold. He knelt, almost reverently, in front of his willing prisoner, pouring a little more oil where it would soon be needed. 

“Enver. Kneel.” He indicated the space next to him, looking up at the scowl on the man’s features as he silently refused. “Or would you rather I be more intimate with your lover before you?” 

“Insolent-” Gortash began, quickly changing his mind before Abdirak’s fingers could touch a single inch of the Dragonborn’s skin. There was a slight groan as the proud Archduke sank to his knees. “They are mine . You are a guest , here by their whims alone.” 

“So you say.” Abdirak held the metal rod out, almost loath to have the aching cold leave his fingertips. He indicated the rigid and quivering tip of the Dragonborn, whose tail was tapping at the ground with nervous anticipation. “Slowly. A little at a time, but when you are done it must only leave this much exposed. Use more oil should you need it.” 

—

Gortash was not fond of taking orders, nor was he pleased with the growing ache in his knee. An old injury, one that did not trouble him much, but the stone floor was not a place of comfort. He considered if the smirking priest knew, and intended this discomfort as another offering to his vile goddess, but it mattered little. Durge wanted this, wanted him . That was not something to be ignored. He hesitated at first. One hand braced on their hip, claws barely digging into their skin, the initial inch barely slipping in as he felt their body quiver. It was their tail on his back, however, that encouraged him to push further despite the hiss of pain from above. 

Enver worked carefully, pressing in further before drawing back, adding a little more oil, soothing them with small circles drawn on their hip with his thumb. All the while the priest remained at his side, watching, muttering his approval, and denying any further touch until the hollow rod was fully placed as instructed. 

Abdirak looked up towards their captive, a slight smile once again playing at the corners of thin lips. “There. Do you feel it, dear one? The cold battling the heat of your body, the pressure within, the edge of pain tugging at your senses?” 

Above them, Durge audibly swallowed, throat dry and slightly hoarse. They nodded, and Enver felt their tail curl around his leg like an embrace, holding the area where the pain was worse… He wondered if they knew, if they remembered… Impossible. Probably. 

“Excellent.” The priest continued, without awaiting further response from either of them. “Tap it, if you so please - they will feel it.” 

Enver complied experimentally, not bothering with how easily Abdirak was ordering him around. All that mattered was how sweet the moan was as he tapped sharply on the end of the hollow rod. 

Abdirak finally stood, taking the two bottles he had set down earlier with him. To Gortash’s surprise, the priest offered a hand to help him up. “This one,” he took the bottle held out to him, its contents glowing slightly, glass cool to the touch. “This one they must drink, all of it, if you would be so kind.” 

“You heard him, my dear. It is quite safe.” Enver knew a potion of fire resistance when he held one, though its purpose was the part that he found more intriguing. He ran a clawed thumb along the edge of his lover’s lips, willing them to part as he unstoppered the bottle with his teeth. “Perhaps you would trust it more from a more fitting chalice for your station.” 

—

Durge would’ve drained the bottle without a second thought. They both knew that, but this… They did not wish to argue as Enver kissed the potion into their mouth bit by bit, moaning against his tongue as he tapped the rod that pressed deep inside against nerves that were screaming for stimulation. 

The cold would’ve burned to someone without their natural resistance, but instead, the icy magic in the metal provided a difference of sensation, the freezing fighting the searing heat of their lust and holding it back. Though not entirely…

The potion spread through their body, flooding their veins with distilled magic that mingled with the heady arousal that pulsed through every muscle, seeping into their bones, pushing aside any thought besides a need for more .

By the time the last of the potion trickled down their throat, they were breathless, twitching, pulling at the chains to reach his lips once more. But they were denied. He pulled away, his expression unreadable, his eyes drifting down to where they were left now untouched and harder than the wall behind them. 

The last of Abdirak’s flasks had steam drifting from the now open top, the priest holding a small flame beneath the bottom of the glass that charred with black soot from the fire licking around it. When the bottle tilted, the liquid that trickled across their chest was near boiling, and even through the resistance the potion provided they could still feel the burning sting. 

“More.” They breathed, feeling only the edge of pain, the keening need for greater sensation. “Please, Enver-” 

“Dear one, I shall pretend I did not hear you call another’s name again while I am the only one delivering your penance.” Abdirak’s hand tapped sharply on the tip of the rod, driving it in a short hard burst of sensation that was enhanced by the iced magic still woven through the metal. “But if you desire your lover’s attention, that can be arranged. Is that what you wish for, dear one? Do you want to see him bared before you, sharing your pain?” 

The thought of the tyrant bent and bowed flashed through Durge’s mind. A memory? A daydream? A fleeting imagination of desire? They neither knew nor cared, beyond what it might take to see him in such a position. “Yes, Abdirak. If…if that is what he also wants.” 

—

Abdirak turned towards Gortash, carefully concealing the hint of uncertainty clouding the back of his mind. Lords like him were often willing to debase themselves, but there was no guarantee his pride would allow his libido the satisfaction. He decided it would be safer to goad the man’s ego first, which would make bringing him to his knees far more satisfying. “Well, my Lord? What is your choice? You both know your signals, how to stop at any time.” 

He frowned as the man stepped towards his lover instead, golden claws caressing bare white scales. “You wish…to share the penance that you requested?” Dark eyes beneath a furrowed brow searched the Dragonborn for an answer. 

“I need the pain,” they stated plainly. Abdirak smiled. “And I need you .” They continued, his smile growing. “If we can share it, if you can feel what I feel…” 

“So be it.” Gortash conceded easily, sealing the agreement with a brief kiss, one that the Dragonborn chased with their teeth nipping at his lip, drawing blood. 

Abdirak watched silently as the man caught the trickle of crimson on his finger, pressing it into their mouth, almost goading them to bite his entire hand right off there and then…but they didn’t. The dark fire behind their eyes flickered and was silenced in the same heartbeat, violence subsiding in the simple touch of golden claws. 

“Undress yourself, Enver.” He left no room for argument in his tone, cold with an edge of intrigue as he set the steaming bottle aside, stalking across the room to his bags once more. The little lord had clearly experienced some issue in his knee - that could serve the Maiden well. Leather straps, a metal bar, a sharp edged golden collar that was an unintentionally perfect match for the man’s gauntlets. A point to consider… “Your gloves. Leave them on.” 

—

Following orders was not particularly in Gortash’s interests, but he would make an exception. The flicker of recognition in their eyes, the cracks in the glass of shattered memories coming together in new patterns… A little more and perhaps a stained glass window might show them a version of what was. What could be.  They were watching him intently as he removed his clothes, folding each piece neatly and placing it aside. The moment he finished, he felt Abdirak’s finger tracing the light silver line of a long healed scar on his shoulder. What followed was a quiet voice in his ear, whispering instructions that sent a shiver down his spine. The harness slipped around his chest easily, cool leather straps pulling taught firmly. It forced his shoulders back, just a slight edge of an ache digging at the inside of his joints. He reasoned that his bound lover likely felt a similar discomfort, their arms still chained high above them, legs still spread where their ankles were hitched to the wall. It was the cold of metal against his neck that stopped the breath in Enver’s throat for a moment. It was not constricting, but he could tell that moving too much would press the sharp little spikes into his chin and collarbone. 

As he had been instructed, he walked to the wall, standing so close he could feel the heat radiating from Durge’s body, smell the scent of sweat and the sweet tang of old blood that seemed to follow them everywhere. Abdirak tapped the back of his knees with a simple riding crop, bidding him to kneel before the assassin. His assassin.

The leather cuffs around his ankles were attached to a sturdy metal bar, keeping his legs spread apart as he knelt painfully on the hard stone of the floor. The angle was no help to the angry pulsing ache deep in his joint… He would be needing his cane tomorrow, but that mattered little. His face was so close to the twitching and rigid Dragonborn that he could hardly take his eyes off the end of the chilled metal tube protruding from their tip. 

“Pay attention, Enver.” The priest hooked a chain to the metal ring of the harness that sat between his taught shoulder blades, hoisting it to attach to the same point Durge’s wrists were secured to the wall. His chest now bore some of his bodyweight - easier on his knees, but not enough to eliminate the discomfort. To his surprise, Enver’s hands remained unbound. “You surprise me, Priest. I had expected to be left with no such freedom.”

“Freedom,” Abdirak leaned down, growling darkly in his ear, “is all a matter of perspective.” 

—

Durge could hear their pulse drumming through their head, adrenaline and painful arousal at the sight of the proud Archduke held beneath them with his legs spread. The harness enhanced the shape of his chest, dark curls of hair covering his body in stark contrast to their pearly scales. Perhaps that’s why they were drawn together, they reasoned. The differences. 

Their own body was all ridges and scales, hard edges and bright colours, not a single hair upon them. 

Enver’s body was made of soft curves, rich toned skin, the shock of dark hair crowning the man who dreamed of grandeur-

His dreams… He talked about those, sometimes.

Their attention snapped back at the feeling of the Archduke’s golden claws seeking their hips, the tip of the metal pricking into their skin with a familiar sting. Dark eyes gazed up into theirs as they felt the gauntlets raking down the sides of their thighs. “Look at me. You asked for this, my dear, do not waste it.”

“Now,” Abdirak’s voice cut between them, cool and clear. “Shall we continue?” They could see the heated bottle in his hand, once again steaming from the flame held beneath. 

The temperature would’ve been close to scalding had it hit Enver directly, even on their own flesh with the effects of the potion still resisting the damage it could do, it felt damn near blistering. The path the liquid coursed cooled as it trickled lower, flowing off the hard edges of their body to splash onto the bare chest of the man below. He drew in a sharp breath as they watched his eyes momentarily widen with the burn. 

“Do not hold back.” The priest scolded the pair, moments before a longer pour of heated water flowed across their bodies drawing out a low moan in chorus. “Good, dear one, good - show him how beautifully your pain can sing out together, be sure that Loviatar can hear your devotion!” Over the course of countless long minutes, the searing burns grew hotter, drawing the volume of their voices louder as Abdirak’s joyful laughter echoed from the stone walls. Durge’s mind grew ragged at the edges, a soft and peaceful haze settling into the intensity of the pain and the pleasure of seeing the Archduke suffering in tandem with them. Below, they were almost shivering, the hollow tube within less empty than it had been despite the bitter cold of the metal.

—

Abdirak leaned down again to address the kneeling lord, orchestrating the crescendo of the symphony he was conducting in Loviatar’s honour. “You see how they are desperate for you? Taste them, Enver. Do not let one drop spill to the floor.” He removed the collar, freeing the man to move. Next, he pressed the tip of the riding crop against the slight swelling forming at the man’s knee, relishing the pained howl it drew from his lips as he gripped Gortash’s hair and pressed his head forward to the leaking Dragonborn. 

They were gazing down, eyes almost clouding over, he could sense the soft layer of bliss wrapping around them with the lingering edge of pain. The priest stood up straight once more calling forth the Weave under the watchful eye of his goddess to shroud Durge’s vision with darkness.   His crop struck true on Gortash’s bare calf, the swift rising of a reddened welt further proof to the offering of pain as he moaned around his lover, the ice cold of the rod no doubt burning his tongue as he lost his careful composure to the impact. Durge also cried out, exactly as planned. Enver’s metal claws had dug deeply into their side. The rich crimson trickle coursing down their shaking thigh was alluring, a paint upon the canvas. Each fresh mark of the crop focused the shared pain. Gortash feeling the direct impact, still trying to please his lover even as time and time again his gauntlets pierced their flesh, transferring the pain. And of course, his tongue burning on the icy metal would be pressing it deeper into Durge, teasing forth the deeper ecstasy of stimulation.

He envied them, now. Bound together, kept purposefully on the brink of satisfying their lust but never tipping over the edge, the sweet caress of agony wrapping around them with Loviatar’s loving embrace. The push and pull of the strikes, the beautiful colour of bruising rising below dark skin, the strain and rattle of chains and bindings…

—

Gortash was quickly reaching his limit. The taste of his lover’s lust finally upon his tongue, scalded as it was by the cold of the metal, was raising his desire to a fever pitch. He wanted them. Needed them. Durge’s pulse was thrumming on his lips every time he pressed heated kisses along their length - they were about ready to tear the chains from the walls. It wouldn’t be the first time, either. 

He felt their tail wrap around his back, his arms embracing their hips as Abdirak’s crop was stayed from further impact. Their voice broke the silence, gasping and thick with lust. 

“Enough, priest. I cannot… Pain’s purpose is served, but I must have him. Return my sight, release my chains, and leave me with him.” Their tail was gradually tightening its grip, protective perhaps…or was it becoming possessive? His heart pounded at the possibility. 

“As you wish, dear one. Your penance was…exquisite. The Maiden is very satisfied by your offering, as am I.” The spell around the Dragonborn’s vision was broken, and their chains released with ease. “I shall return for my belongings tomorrow.” 

“Your payment will be sent in due course.” Gortash added, reclaiming a little of his power in the situation. Although that prospect seemed absurd as he remained naked on his knees, the harness holding half of his weight. 

The footsteps receded, followed by the click of the door opening and closing. He looked up, now, seeing Durge rubbing the feeling back into their wrists. Their body was marked with red streaks. The marks of his golden gauntlets had pierced the marble of their flesh, chiselling it back into the sculpture of magnificent violence that he longed to bow before…exactly like he was doing right now. 

Thin draconic lips pulled into a smirk, the fire in their eyes proving their devotion, their desire. And all of it aimed at him at last. Aimed like the weapon they truly were.

Durge reached up and pulled hard on the chain connected to Enver’s harness, hauling him off the ground. His ankles were still bound to the spreader bar, but his hands were free, and that was the only thing that gave him even a second of stability against their body as he was pulled until he was on tiptoes.

“There you are.” Enver muttered, almost reverently, still below the level of their eyes. 

“Here I am, Tyrant.” They ran their hands from his shoulders to his wrists, his skin prickling beneath their touch before they brought his hands up to their throat, placing his gauntlets like a gilded collar. “You thought you could hold me, chain me, tame me while I was weakened by my need?” 

“The only chains that could ever hold you , my dear, were the ones that you asked for.” Recognition flickered and left. It wasn’t all there, that was too much to hope…but their body remembered. He didn’t need to look down to know that the hollow rod was not empty, that they were twitching as their pulse increased under his fingertips, that they were not going to stop until they were satisfied. 

—

The sharp metal edges and calloused fingertips stayed right where Durge held them, Enver’s chest almost touching theirs where the harness was holding him up from behind his shoulders. Dark eyes never lost their pride, even as he allowed them to fix the chains that had bound them to his wrists this time. 

Durge didn’t remember everything he wanted them to, they knew that much, but the Dragonborn could feel a peace and clarity persisting through the ritual of exchanging power with him. The storm that raged within them quietened to a few dark clouds and a cold wind whispering between them, and whispers were far easier to ignore. 

They followed where his eyes drifted, to the rod still pressed deep within them, the magic barely fading away to finally allow the metal to heat. They carefully took hold of the end, allowing themselves a few moments more pleasure and deep stimulation before withdrawing it at an achingly slow pace. The end dripped slightly, a mixture of oil and denied orgasm. Perfect.

They brought it up to Enver’s lips, holding it level until they parted, his tongue obediently coming forth from between them to catch his prize as they trickled it into his mouth. They leaned forward over his shoulder, their lips grazing the edge of his ear as they purred their approval. “Good. Very good… That’s what you want to hear from me, isn’t it, Enver? How good you are?” 

The only response was a quiet swallow, indicating the rod was now empty. They tossed it aside. 

“You were insolent with the priest.” Their teeth grazed his neck as they whispered dark and low against his heated skin. One clawed hand drifted down, pleased - and not at all surprised - to find him fully erect and leaking beneath the first hint of their touch. They tightened their grip with a growl. “But you will not be insolent with me, will you.” 

Not a question, a statement. One that Enver did not dispute.

“Good boy.” Another twitch. They smirked, letting go of him once more and trailing their hands around his body, following them with their tail, leaving the whisper of an embrace around him. He looked so inviting, held against the wall, spread and tense as every muscle worked overtime to keep him where they had put him. 

He remained silent, as Durge padded across the room to fetch some more oil. It was easy work to pour it across their fingers, teasing Enver open as his breathing became more ragged, preparing him for all they wanted to give him. All they wanted to take . 

—

The strain was almost too much for Gortash to bear, but bear it he did. Pride might come before the fall but he had no intention of doing either. The heat of the hands prying him open with fervent desire held a slight warmth of care to them too - claws meant for rending flesh apart moved with care, pulling forth not blood but deep and intoxicating pleasure.

Their voice whispered praise close to his ear once more, breath hot, tongue following the words to taste the sweat trickling down his neck. A shiver crept down his spine as their hands withdrew, leaving him empty…but not for long. 

Durge teased him with every moment, pressing their tip to his quivering hole but refusing to enter, instead sliding their still-oiled hands around to his hips. They paused for a moment, squeezing hard enough to leave small bruises beneath their fingertips, then moving down the side of his thighs. In the next moment, Enver Gortash moaned loud enough for the city to hear. But he did not care. Durge had hooked their foot beneath the bar holding his ankles, simultaneously lifting his thighs and dropping him back in one swift motion that filled him instantly. “That sound,” they growled as they held him flush against their body. “It is…pleasing.” 

—

The echo from the walls was familiar and had stirred a different voice within their restless mind. One that further stoked their pleasure to feel themselves deep within his body, savouring how his muscles added pressure even as they kept him still. They brought their tail around to caress his chest, relishing how his heartbeat thrummed through his back and against their ribs. “I missed you, my dear.” Enver managed to murmur through ragged-edged breaths, words holding poise his voice no longer possessed. The contradiction was pleasing to their ears. 

“I would miss this too, had I known what there was to miss.” They began to move him, relishing the feel of each moment of friction, building the sensation with a slow but gradually building rhythm. “You…were made for me, Enver.” 

“I was not.” He breathed his reply between low moans speaking plainly, literally, lending further weight to the words that followed. “But I am yours.” “Do you want more, Tyrant? If you belong to me, should I use you how I see fit?” Durge didn’t need to hear his answer. They felt it, his body quivering as they sank inside him with a harsher thrust, testing if he was truly ready. “Good. Boy.” 

They braced one hand against the wall, their tail wrapping around his waist to hold him firmly, their other hand snaking around to grip him with a matching rhythm as they began to slam hard into his warm and inviting body. 

The Dragonborn’s own breaths began to quicken to gasps, overwhelmed by the pure sensation. He was tight around them, clenching down on every inch and adding further friction. He was soft against them, their sharp edges leaving bruises on the curves of his tender flesh. He was hard in their grip, throbbing and pulsing under their fingertips. He was pliant beneath their lips, his head moving to the side as their kiss tasted his vulnerable neck. He was proud, strong, willing, undignified, moaning, melting into them… 

He was Lord Enver Gortash, Archduke of Baldur’s Gate, self proclaimed saviour of the city, chosen of a God…and he was theirs. 

—

The Dragonborn’s growl was possessive, just short of feral, a bare hint of a warning before their teeth bit down hard on his shoulder. The pain blossomed through Enver, body and mind heating like the blood that trickled forth, lapped up by Durge’s hungry and fervent tongue. Moments later the orgasm he had been desperate for ripped through him like a hurricane, spilling over onto the floor, some even reaching the wall with the sheer force of the climax. Nothing compared to this, to his Assassin burying his favourite weapon deep inside him, growling against his bleeding skin again as their own end approached. There was no slowing, no mercy. Their grip was brutal, their rhythm punishing, and the overstimulation of feeling them expand within him as they toppled over the edge of bliss nearly brought him to a second peak himself. They continued, filling him, drawing out every last pulsing moment that left him quivering in their embrace and straining against the chains that still held his arms firmly above. By the time they were done, Enver could barely feel his own body. His heart beat so hard against his chest he was almost certain it would burst, spilling his blood across their pure white scales…what bliss that might be, to find an end in their arms, knowing the only person worthy of taking his life could hold his heart in their hands in more ways than one. But for now, their hands were not stained with his blood, not holding his life as it ebbed away, but instead caressing him. Long fingers curled into thick dark hair, the tips of their claws caressing his scalp. A quick cast of mage hand released the chains binding him with a few deft motions, leaving him held only in his lover’s arms.

—

“Enver.” They murmured, hearing nothing but their voice in their mind, soft with the afterglow of bliss.

“My dear.” He replied, leaning his head back on their shoulder and bringing his hand to their cheek with a tender caress.

They hesitated, unsure if they should ask the question playing on the tip of their tongue… They swallowed their uncertainty, along with the faint taste of his blood that lingered on their lips. The absurdity of being so shy now whilst still buried deep in his body was not lost on them. “May I stay? Until morning. That’s all.”

“As you wish. We both have work to do, after all.” Enver paused, kissing their bloodstained lips, a small shudder of pleasure palpable in his otherwise limp body. “But that can wait. Until the sun rises, you may have whatever you desire.” 

A grin crept across their face, mind filling not with murderous urges but entirely more pleasurable ones. “I was going to suggest that we sleep, but hearing those words…” They suddenly pushed forwards, trapping his body against the wall, the hand that was caressing his hair took a firm grip at his roots before roughly shoving his cheek hard against cold stone. “Brace yourself, Enver. There’s a long time between now and dawn.”

--- ---

ENDING NOTES So fun fact I still haven't played as Durge, I'm still absorbing lore and vibes through fandom and fan works~ I haven't even read much fic beyond those by a couple of friends, but I'm having a lot of fun writing with them anyway. Their dynamic is fascinating, so much to play with, so many little headcanons you can weave in to the story~ Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my first full length Durgetash piece with added Abdirak~ I was going to keep our dear priest around to fuck too, but the vibe leaned heavily into just having the two of them for that. We can assume Abdirak went to have a delightful evening with a certain Shadar-Kai instead, they deserve more time together anyway.

[mariacallous]

The recent conflicts in the Middle East have ignited open debate among Iran’s political elite over whether the country should weaponize its vast nuclear program. The rationale for doing so, from Iranian leadership’s perspective, appears more convincing than ever.

Above all, Iran needs to reestablish deterrence equilibrium with its longtime foes Israel and the United States. Traditionally, to deter its adversaries from attacking or implementing regime change, Tehran relied on a three-pronged approach focused on missiles, militias, and a nuclear program.

To offset its weak air force, Iran invested heavily in its missiles program, making its arsenal one of the most advanced in the region. Iran also anchors its asymmetric warfare strategy through the so-called “forward defense” policy of using militarized nonstate actors to encircle Israel and the U.S. regional military presence and to mobilize these forces to attack if required. Iran has cultivated its relations with groups that are hostile to the United States and Israel, building the so-called Axis of Resistance, providing them with arms—including sophisticated missiles and drones—as well as training and financial support.

However, Iran’s missiles capabilities and the Axis of Resistance have taken a hit in recent months. The Israeli onslaught against Iran’s most trusted partner, Hezbollah in Lebanon, has delivered a blow to its arsenal, fighters, and command and control structure. Iran was left humiliated by Israel’s ability to assassinate Hamas leader Ismail Haniyeh while he was in Tehran this summer. Following the killing of Hamas leader Yahya Sinwar this month, Israel seems determined to keep upping the ante to establish a new regional order.

Although Hamas and Hezbollah will continue to undermine Israeli security, the ability of these groups to mobilize in defense of Iran seems severely diminished while they fight for their own survival. Meanwhile, the United States has doubled down on its efforts to shield Israel, moving new anti-missile systems into the country, together with American troops to operate them, in a bid to defang future attacks from Iran and its allies.

Perhaps Iran’s biggest Achilles’s heel is its self-restraint. Over the past year, Iran’s supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, has repeatedly held back from a direct war with Israel and the United States. He has also shied away from triggering a full assault by the Axis of Resistance front. Israel has interpreted this restraint as a weakness and exploited it.

This shift in regional deterrence has strengthened the argument in Tehran favoring a nuclear umbrella. Iran has already obtained nuclear threshold status, placing it at the tipping point of weaponization. Iran can develop enough material for a nuclear bomb in just over a week, with some experts assessing that it could build a nuclear warhead to carry these bombs within several months. In the same way that India and Pakistan achieved a relative cold peace, Tehran may look to check Israeli behavior through rebalancing the nuclear playing field.

Another argument for why Iran could dash for the bomb is that the country has already paid the high cost of becoming a nuclear weapons state without receiving the perceived benefits of having the bomb.

Ever since the Trump administration withdrew from the 2015 nuclear deal, which Iran was in full compliance with at the time, the United States has imposed its largest-scale sanctions to date against Iran. Western relations with Tehran further plummeted over Iran’s abysmal human rights record, its regional posture, and military assistance to Russia during its full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Given the anti-Iran sentiment across Western capitals, the Iranian leadership would be correct to conclude that major U.S. sanctions relief of the type seen in 2015 is not on the horizon. If Iran is already being treated as a nuclear pariah state by the West, then why not secure the perceived security benefits of going nuclear?

Finally, the broader geopolitical conditions today mean the costs associated with Iran becoming a nuclear state are lower than a decade ago. Tensions between world powers now make it increasingly unlikely that Russia, and possibly China, will stand in Iran’s way. Tehran can also capitalize on the Ukraine war by pushing to trade its military equipment—which Moscow desperately needs—for Russian nuclear know-how, technology, and defense at the U.N. Security Council. The United States already fears this could be happening.

Against this backdrop, those inside Iran favoring nuclear weaponization likely see two choices ahead: either Iran’s nuclear facilities are eventually destroyed by Israel and the United States first, and then Tehran stumbles toward nuclear weapons over a longer timeframe with depleted resources, or Iran starts the weaponization now while it has advanced nuclear capabilities and Israel is bogged down in Gaza and Lebanon. Iranian strategists may be swayed for the latter option when faced with a weakened Axis of Resistance, a formidable Israeli-U.S. military force and an Israel poised to strike at Iranian nuclear sites. Despite the strong likelihood that the country will be bombed throughout this process by Israel and the United States, Iran’s leadership may conclude it can bear the brunt of military action and come out of it stronger.

Following the hits Iran has taken to its deterrence capabilities, there is an acute risk of Iran reaching for the bomb. Western governments should act now to shape the internal debate inside Iran to avoid this outcome. A nuclear Iran can act with greater impunity at home and abroad. It will almost certainly trigger a nuclear arms race across the Middle East. This outcome would make a region close to Europe even more dangerous, not just because of the increased risk of violent conflict among states but also the risk of terrorist groups gaining access to nuclear weapons.

Western governments need to warn Iran’s leaders that if they decide to weaponize the country’s nuclear program, it will backfire. Becoming a nuclear state will likely offer Iran’s leaders greater guarantees against large-scale military intervention and externally imposed regime change. But it will expose Iran to vicious cycles of military strikes, cyberattacks, and assassinations. Future Iranian nuclear weapons will not deter Israel against striking Iran—just as Tehran was not deterred against taking the unprecedented step this year of barraging Israel, itself a nuclear power, with missiles.

Over the past year, Europe and the United States have not seriously pursued a political off-ramp with Tehran. The United States has been trapped—by both Israeli and Iranian conduct—into an escalation cycle and seems willing to only play a military card. Absent a political agenda, Iran’s dash to the bomb is becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. History reveals that the more the United States and Israel carry out attacks inside Iran, the more Iran inches closer to the bomb.

The instances when Washington and Europe have shifted Iranian calculations away from weaponization involved serious diplomacy. The new Iranian government comprises technocrats who have a long history of supporting negotiations with Europe and the United States and have implemented the deals struck. Iran’s new reform-minded president, Masoud Pezeshkian, has amplified his government’s openness to diplomacy with the West—and this intent must now be put to the test.

In this diplomatic endeavor, a coalition of willing Western governments should ally themselves with Arab countries such as Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Qatar, and Iraq, which among them have notable influence with Iran, Israel, and the United States. A new track of pursuing diplomacy with Iran within a coalition of regional actors is the best door opener for the West to prevent the Iran-Israel war spiraling out of control and to wedge open wider space to reduce tensions on other issues.

While there is considerable distrust between Iran and the West at this moment, both sides need to engage in transactional hard-nosed diplomacy to make a course correction. Otherwise, the current path will lead to the worst of all worlds.

[plethoraworldatlas]

A longtime Democratic operative and current president of the Center for American Progress issued a scathing statement Tuesday criticizing the Biden administration for accepting the Israeli government's claim that it is adhering to international law with its catastrophic military assault on the Gaza Strip.

"The State Department's shocking assertion that the Netanyahu government is complying with international law in Gaza is a gross disregard of overwhelming evidence and a dangerous precedent in the conduct of U.S. foreign policy," said Patrick Gaspard, who previously served as executive director of the Democratic National Committee (DNC) and U.S. ambassador to South Africa under the Obama administration.

"The stakes here are so high that the administration must be transparent and accountable in sharing with the American people all evidence that has led to this determination and the continued sale of offensive weapons to Israel," Gaspard argued, pointing to Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant's stated goal of imposing a "complete siege" on Gaza at the start of the assault, which is now in its sixth month with no end in sight.

Gaspard said that "every aspect" of Gallant's "edict" has "been on open display to the world," with famine, dehydration, and disease spreading across the enclave as Israel persists in obstructing the delivery of humanitarian aid.

The CAP president's statement came after U.S. State Department spokesperson Matthew Miller told reporters earlier this week that the Biden administration has not found Israel "to be in violation of international humanitarian law, either when it comes to the conduct of the war or when it comes to the provision of humanitarian assistance."

Miller's remarks followed a letter from Gallant assuring the Biden administration that Israel is complying with international law in its use of American weaponry—a written assurance that was required under a new White House policy.

In a press briefing on Tuesday, Miller clarified that the administration's assessment of Israel's compliance with international law is "ongoing" and has "not reached a definitive conclusion."

But Miller reiterated that "we have not reached the conclusion with respect to Israel that they have violated international humanitarian law."

Leading human rights organizations and United Nations experts have concluded that Israel is guilty of grave violations of international humanitarian law—including the crime of genocide—and called for an immediate arms embargo.

Gaspard said Tuesday that "by its own imposed standards," the U.S. "cannot heedlessly deliver offensive weapons as the Israeli government continues to bombard and starve innocents on a mass scale."

"These actions have nothing to do with self-defense; they are clearly intended as collective punishment and are resulting in the complete devastation of Palestinians as a people," Gaspard added. "There is no time to spare in pulling back from this outrageous assertion by the State Department: An Israeli incursion into Rafah promises to bring only more death and devastation to civilians—and will make the administration complicit in one of the worst tramplings of human rights in this century."

Gaspard's statement is just the latest evidence that dissent against the Biden administration's unwavering support for Israel is spreading in establishment circles. Last week, dozens of former U.S. officials signed a letter urging President Joe Biden to consider restricting military aid to Israel, citing its mass killing of Gaza civilians.

On Wednesday, a U.S. State Department official resigned in protest of Biden's Gaza policy, saying in an interview that "trying to advocate for human rights just became impossible."

[shiveringsoldier]

I wrote an 1100-word review/essay about Dunkirk (2017) on a whim. Please enjoy.

-

-All we did is survive.

-That’s enough.

 I don’t know if I can truly articulate just how much I adore this film, but I’ll try.

I’ll start with the tone. The tension is palpable from the first frame to the last. Even in the seemingly calm moments, the unease remains. Something seems off, or you sense the possibility that at any moment things can go horribly wrong. One can only sustain a suspenseful tone for so long, and Dunkirk is the perfect length for it.

The score and sound design do a lot to maintain that tone. The first two or three times I saw this film, I quite literally jumped at the first round of gunfire. The scream of the Stukas is terrifying, and the screams of soldiers under attack are jarring. Even when things are quiet, sound is a dead giveaway for things to come, whether it’s the barely perceptible rustle of an oncoming torpedo or trickles of water escalating to a flooded ship. The score is more about mood than melody. The use of tritones and the Shepard tone illusion add to the unease and tension, and the momentary triumph in the score as the little ships arrive feels so incredibly earned. This even continues through the end credits, with the score beginning with the more triumphant music and ending with Shivering Soldier’s leitmotif.

The cinematography is immaculate, from the aerial shots to the close-ups to the lighting to the blue and yellow color palette. I like the different timelines and the way they all come together for the climax and resolution. Everyone in the cast delivers a top-notch performance. And the minimal dialogue is so realistic. I love that there are no eloquent speeches or monologues. I love that we hear Churchill’s speech not through Churchill’s mouth but through a monotone reading from an exhausted Tommy. Collins and Farrier only communicate in compliance with RAF protocol. The communication among Tommy, Gibson, and Alex is largely nonverbal, mostly through glances and nods. The most verbal characters (Mr. Dawson, Peter, and George) are the ones who have known each other the longest. The first time I watched Dunkirk, I don’t think I noticed that Gibson hadn’t said anything until Alex pointed it out, but I guess that goes to show the effectiveness of the minimal dialogue.

A common criticism of the film, at least in 2017, is that the characters are poorly defined. I have never shared that issue. Despite the lack of extensive backstory – and, in some cases, the lack of names – for everyone except the Dawsons and George, I found myself deeply invested in every character the first time I saw this film back in July 2017, and I have found myself becoming even more invested over time. One video essay I saw says the characters in the film are defined by their actions, and I think that’s a very accurate assessment. We see that Gibson is resourceful. Collins is not as experienced as Farrier. Farrier’s stoic veneer occasionally cracks. Shivering Soldier appears to have been confident and practical prior to his traumatic event. Commander Bolton is calm and authoritative. Colonel Winnant keeps his composure despite his growing stress and despair. Tommy is aware of his surroundings. Alex is prone to paranoia and low self-esteem. Plus every character is driven by the inherently human need to survive and/or to help others. All of this is more than enough to get me invested.

Speaking of help, this film is filled with small but impactful moments of kindness. Tommy helps Gibson bury a body, and Gibson offers him water once the deed is done. Civilians offer food, tea, blankets, life jackets, and words of encouragement to weary soldiers. Soldiers treat dead bodies floating in the water with deference. Collins greets Peter with “Afternoon” after Peter rescues him. Mr. Dawson’s first action after rescuing Shivering Soldier is to ask him his name. Peter later lies to that same soldier to protect his feelings. No one can do anything to make this horrible situation go away, but everyone does what little they can to make the situation a little more bearable.

And I would be remiss if I didn’t talk at some length about Shivering Soldier, my favorite character from this film and one of my favorite characters period. He had my heart from the moment I saw him crouched atop the hull of the sunken ship, and my love for him has only grown over time. He doesn’t get a name, but he does get his own track in the score. We have only a vague idea of the trauma he’s experienced, but the flashback scene tells us it must have been something truly horrific. I’ve heard a couple of people say they didn’t even realize it was the same character at first. It is horrifying to think about his journey from escape to near death to rescue only to be forced to return to the hell from which he so desperately needs to escape. And as someone who survived multiple traumatic events in a span of about 13 months, I find myself relating almost uncomfortably to him.

I can’t speak highly enough about Cillian Murphy’s performance. He may not have terribly many lines, but he tells you everything with his eyes and his body language and the way he retreats into himself and recoils at the slightest provocation. I love that his panic builds up gradually rather than all at once. You know that it’s only a matter of time before he reaches his breaking point, and there’s nothing you can do but watch. And despite his inadvertent killing of George, I adore how sympathetic the film is to him. Mr. Dawson is so kind to him and tells George (and the audience by extension) that the soldier is traumatized, not cowardly. When Peter lies to the soldier and says George will be okay, Mr. Dawson nods approvingly. And when Mr. Dawson notices him trembling after the last-ditch Stuka attack, he helps him up and gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder. I don’t know, it’s just refreshing and comforting to see a traumatized character portrayed with such humanity and treated with such compassion.

This film is about a catastrophic defeat and people trapped in this hell when attempt after attempt to escape ends in disaster, but there is kindness to be found even in these horrible circumstances. And I just find that moving. And that’s why, despite the endless anxiety this film gives me, I consider it a comfort movie. I will never tire of it.

[guvrix]

GRCgapanalysis

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[crychan]

Serizawa’s own wiki page contains a lot of un-cited information, specifically in the history section. I'm hoping to write an accurate character analysis on Serizawa, and I'm finding it difficult to when his own wiki page seems so different from the canon I read. So let’s go through his wiki, line by line, and then compare it to the actual events of Chapter 89 and Episode 12 of MP100 II, where his history can be found.

The history section of the wiki used to say:

“At age 12, Serizawa became so overwhelmed by fear of his own psychic powers that he refused to leave his bedroom for fear of hurting others.”

A nice sentiment, but it's just straight up not true. While Serizawa is a kind and empathetic person who could reasonably choose to lock himself up to protect others, his decision ultimately stemmed from being extensively bullied, outcast, and punished for the problems that his powers caused. 

It’s pretty well insinuated that he did it out of shame.

It’s only briefly mentioned that he cares about not hurting people. 

Him being bullied and ashamed is the main topic that Suzuki talks about in his backstory. While it is Suzuki saying this and not Serizawa, I don’t believe ONE intended for Suzuki to be wrong in his assessment, so I consider it true, even if it didn’t come from Serizawa himself. Furthermore, while Serizawa does argue with Suzuki in these scenes, we know that Serizawa says these kinds of things when he’s confronted with harsh truths about himself. It’s the same reaction he gives Mob when confronted with the truth of his relationship with Claw and Suzuki:

This is because he can't continue to delude himself or ignore the obvious issues in his life that he has been unable to solve.

“Lacking guidance and companionship, and not helped by the counselors his mother had hired, Serizawa remained in his bedroom for 15 years.” 

Kind of true. Doesn’t mention that the counselors often thought he was delusional, which I think was a major problem that reinforced his seclusion. He was constantly told that there was something wrong with him. What's worse, the doctors even disagree with him on what is wrong. No, the problem is not that you have powers, it's that you think you have powers, you're delusional. Nobody listens to him, nobody understands him.

What’s key here is that he desperately wanted to be understood and accepted. Specifically, he seeks companionship without judgement or shame, which he accepts in the form of other espers, i.e. people who can understand him, his powers, and his problems, at least better than normal people can. He has grown up being misunderstood and rejected by normal people.

“His self-imposed confinement lasted until he met Toichiro, who coaxed him to leave by offering him an umbrella and encouraging him to view it as an extension of his room.” 

This omits important information. [Toichiro] Suzuki initially offered to teach Serizawa how to use his powers. Serizawa, however, was still scared to leave his room, so Suzuki tried to help him further by offering the umbrella.

“Serizawa followed him, hoping to learn to control his powers and rejoin society.”

Pretty much true given what I previously said. Bad wording and the wrong order of sentences leaves this inaccurate.

“Instead, Suzuki exploited Serizawa's power to further the aims of Claw, leaving him and his well-being utterly dependent on both himself and the umbrella.”

Again, bad wording that omits/obfuscates vital info.

Serizawa has no self confidence due to his past, and Suzuki exploits that by giving him an environment free of judgement or rejection in exchange for compliance. Suzuki nurtures and encourages Serizawa and his abilities like good people should have done, for an evil goal. Serizawa is desperate to leave his room and rejoin society, and Suzuki convinces him that it's possible through him and Claw.

Serizawa might feel conflicted about serving Claw, but his desperation for love, acceptance, and companionship are what motivate him suppress his morality and join Suzuki. Serizawa becomes dependent on Suzuki because he gives him everything that he wants, as long as he follows his orders. He works for Claw and follows Suzuki's orders (despite any guilt he may feel) because he is convinced he can’t rejoin society, control his powers, or be happy without what Claw and Suzuki provide him.

“Serizawa convinced himself that Claw was a company, that Suzuki was its president, and that he himself was an employee.” 

Weird wording, because Claw is an organization/company, Suzuki is the president/boss, and he does work for him as an employee, so there is no convincing needed. It’s not a delusion to see it this way. Serizawa simply refers to this structure for his own sake and understanding. It feels more normal for him than considering himself a terrorist.

He is aware of his actions and crimes, as well as Claw’s true purpose, but is able to delude himself of guilt with Suzuki’s encouragement and his own desperation for normalcy/companionship. He tells himself "the President trusts me," and always falls back on the President's words when he feels conflicted:

All in all, Serizawa exists in an environment where love is contingent on following others, even to the betrayal of his own morals. Despite providing him the love and acceptance he desired, it required suppressing his true feelings and agency. It gave him something new to be insecure about.

Okay, this essay is great and all, but why don’t you just… edit the wiki?

As of jan 17th: I DID!!! :D

As well, I also wanted to write this for a long time, because he is my favourite character and I wanted to understand him better, so doing this was fun for me and hopefully shares a better understanding of his character with others.

Final Comments on Serizawa’s Character:

Being raised from a young age feeling like something is wrong with you, and doing things that go against your wishes, these are the two powerful forces in Serizawa’s life. They have a large impact on his character.

As a result of his upbringing and life, Serizawa is incredibly insecure about himself. This can manifest in numerous ways, like feelings of self-doubt, a fear of rejection or failure, or a need for external validation. In my opinion, Serizawa likely feels all of these things. The idea of speaking up for himself, or even being himself, are likely both frightening to him. Insecurity can result in people pleasing and social withdrawal, both of which Serizawa does, to mitigate chances of rejection.

Reigen’s support for Serizawa’s independence/agency is the entire point of the OVA, and I could write a whole second essay on it. But essentially, Reigen has become a good force in helping Serizawa overcome these difficult aspects of himself as he enters a safe, accepting environment where it is no longer necessary to be obedient to survive. Furthermore, he is now in an environment that encourages his independence in whatever capacity he is comfortable with, such as night school, making new friends, and taking initiative on the job. Serizawa is noted to deeply admire Reigen for being a person who does not judge him or make him feel ashamed of himself, and constantly encourages him to chase what he wants. This is how he differs from Suzuki. With Reigen, love and acceptance are now unconditional, and he will always be welcome at Spirits and Such. In turn, Serizawa wants to stay at Spirits and Such for as long as Reigen will have him, because it provides him with love and acceptance without betraying his freedom.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk! :)

[theinnovativeindianaccountant]

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[othmuses]

darkness scattered through the dim view of the dingy solo level apartment window. the blistering pelt of rain ricocheted off the glass in tandem. the cacophony echoing in rhythm with each thunderous roar of his heart pounding against his chest. nathan scott was in love. more than in love. each fiber of his body was made up solely of haley james. each waking thought, sleepy daydream, and consuming conversation had some inkling of her in it. yet how could he admit that he was falling for his once well acquainted tutor who fell under false pretenses? his plan of a takedown to his half brother didn’t necessarily go without a hitch. it had it’s hiccups, of course. payback for all he had worked for — or should he say, his father worked for, as he so liked to recall — that was soon foretold to be taken away. his plans of being tree hill high’s shining basketball star with all others faltering to the dust. the relationship with said brother was knowingly nonexistent in the small town gossip train grapevine. middle aged mothers flocked at the chance of assessing old, matured wounds with their sharp, twisted words. all his life, nathan had been told of the tow headed subject that paralleled his world in every single way. the only difference is dan scott was a driving force in his life, where as lucas had the shockingly fair life from the younger sibling’s point of view. it was anything but a cake walk navigating the self centered point in the solar system known as his dad. and if there wasn’t compliance, there were consequences. it was all details that were collected into the wider picture. the praise and satisfaction that lacked in the scott family.

and yet, here he was. breath to breath with the honey haired beauty whom he had entrusted with his heart. it hadn’t always been this way. prior to meeting the five-foot-four-inched best friend of his half brother, nathan was anything if not a self proclaimed jerk. his exterior had hardened as his father before him, unabashed to do much other than take the easy road. a jock to his core, he carried himself with the fragile ego that most were painted with when looking to anyone labeled an athlete. and with a sport to spill into his cup, it left next to nothing for his academics. a loophole, or so it would seem. it was nearly a match made in heaven that lucas’ best friend was one of the smartest individuals in their grade. as he sauntered into the tutoring center, feigned bewilderment followed in the crease of his eyebrow as he called out, “hey, you must be haley,”

and that, was the beginning of the rollercoaster his emotions had taken him to now. she had been his aid in mathematics, english, history; and when it came down to it, love. many months in the past half year he recollected the dawns memories of entangling with the bleach blonde curls, cherry chapstick, curved jaw of one peyton sawyer. if there was an award for the boyfriend of the year, he would have won in spades. on opposite day. two years of a catastrophic relationship that ended just how is started. a failure. the knowledge of his battered ways has weighed heavy on his heart as of late. how in the hell did she put up with his pungent ways for so long? nathan wasn’t sure. what he was sure of, in the very least, was how he felt for haley. confessing the love to her that was paired with kisses shared in the rain. the cool edge of the raindrops simmered the flames that were ignited in the depths of his chest. i want to be somebody worthy of being with you, he said. not a single syllable of a fib uttered. somehow, within the matter of minutes they had migrated from outside to the four walls of his apartment. which led to the present. eager hues drank in his opposite like a tall glass of water, within the boundary that was set of no return. nathan scott wasn’t a virgin. that was a known fact. it seemed every student at tree hill high school had knowledge of such. and with that knowledge was also that of not pursuing haley in a manner she didn’t consent to doing. the tanned teen was crafting certain perspective that entailed obeying the wishes of his tutor. no pressure, no impulse.

there he laid, hovering in delicate fashion over the silhouette of his girlfriend’s stature. the harsh light of the pitch black sky was scarcely lit with the thrum of lighting that crackled in the sky every so often. but he didn’t need the gift of sight to know how stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful haley was. drips of residual raindrops trickled off the fringe of his hair, popping into the pleats of the covers on his bed. they were wet from the rain, soaking even. and still, the teen couldn’t find a single flaw found in her. the best of brokenness between kisses led him to gaze with euphoric stamina, each breath he inhaled as dark eyes fluttered open to meet what he knew to be her own pair. rotund fingertips spread along the flush of her cheek to the bend of her ear, tucking wet strands of hair behind. his nose brushed carefully along the tip of her own, the lightest of touch before the words that flooded through his conscientious shattered into the atmosphere like a bang of a gong. “i could love you forever, haley james…” it began, forehead to her own now, the warmth of each breath she drew hitting his cheek in an intoxicating force. so this was love. where every morsel of mind body and soul swirling together like the bleat of rain now ignored in the background. where everything felt right despite the outside world had no influence of what was had in the right now.