#i like to think he finds someone who is just rather basic and ordinary in a sense. in his twisted eyes.. if a girl like you went missing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kiryoutann · 1 month ago

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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

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TRIGGER WARNING: the aftermath of surviving a suicide attempt. SUICIDAL IDEATION, DEPRESSION, possible past-eating disorder. depersonalization-derealization, detailed writing of vomit.

This story is written from the perspective of a biased omniscient narrator, keep this in mind as you read and don't take everything they say as absolute truth.

Please proceed with caution and consider your personal comfort and wellbeing before continuing.

Nine months of your inception. Within your mother's womb, you were cradled in warmth, your arrival anticipated without reservations—it seemed to matter not if you were nobody, if you were just you. What mattered was your very birth, the fact of your existence. Milestone after milestone was marked—your first word, your first stumbling step—each met with joy, creating an illusion that despite still grasping the basics and balancing on two clumsy feet, you would always be loved.

Lies. They are all lies. As you grow up, you realize the world is not as it seemed, and love is not that unconditional. You have to be something, someone, in order to be loved.

Being human means wanting to be unique, but not so different that it results in being deemed "troubled." Being human means having people insist you have dreams only to be forced to bury them deep and never revisit them. Being human means standing between two contradictions that ultimately make you a hypocrite. Being human is reaching for something and nothing. Being human is always wanting to be loved, loved, and loved.

You long to be an ordinary daughter, with no talents, no remarkable qualities. Just you. With a father who would take you out for ice cream simply because he loves you, not because you got an A in class; with a mother who cooks your favorite meal simply because it brings you happiness, rather than as a means to keep you confined at home during the weekends.

But that doesn’t get you anywhere, you know. There’s no celebration in being ordinary, no celebration in breathing another day. So you turn your life into one long series of attempts to be something worth staying for, worth loving. What a pathetic woman, one might say—always harping on about love, love, love. Shallow. Cliché. But I can’t help that that’s me.

You tried many times to persuade that little girl—who persisted inside you as you grew older, blowing out candles without a cake, with hopes that were gradually pared down until only one obstinate one remained: God, please, just once, I want to be happy. She lives somewhere inside you, permanently; you can’t get rid of her even if you wanted to (there’s something absolute about humans always trying to burn away their past selves—which, you think, is to fool the world that they were born this way).

You dislike her. That girl and her curiosity to keep searching for the light. Like a trapped baby animal, her little hands clawing at your pancreas every time you neglected her dreams—the old, worn-out dreams that you had buried to the depths of your soul. Made only to be forgotten. Unfortunately, she would never understand this—still believing that the world was so benevolent to give her what she desired.

And unfortunately, you don't have the heart to tell her either.

So, here you both are—you and the little girl—dancing in a denial created by one or the other. She in her naivety, you in your rejection of her. A deadly, dissonant duet; a bleak and morbid song that gnaws at your flesh. The burden of her hopes for the future bends your back; your sternum pops as she tries to find her way out of the confines of your ribs.

You dislike her—the girl—but you endured the sting her nails left as she carved red crescents into you. You also refused to let her leave—scooping her small body from the ichor-covered floor as gently as her father had done to her. This was your distraction for her, your coaxing to keep her. So she could only see you through the lying mirror in the bathroom. So she wouldn’t see the reality of who she was growing up to become.

Maybe it's shame. Maybe it's guilt. How she dreams of softer days—with flowers and citrus stains on her dress while basking in the glow of the spotlight, but you've become a rotting fruit, sour, bitter at the end. The blood inside you clots; black ink pours from your heart. Never will you reach that house. She dreams of being the brightest star while, once again, you let her down and-

You left the stage.

Your own consciousness feels like a tidal wave, pulling you back and forth between sleep and reality. The world around you feels hazy, the edges of your vision blurring as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings.

Something wet brushed against your cheek. Confused, you tried to jerk your head back, but the movement only spread the dampness further. You can barely recognize your own voice as it came out as a pathetic whimper of pain. Forcing your burning eyes open, you blinked into consciousness. You shifted again, your brow furrowing as you felt something rising through your gut and throat.

Without warning, you find yourself retching, your body convulsing as you expel the contents of your stomach onto the bed. The acrid taste filled your mouth, and you could smell the vomit staining the sheets beneath you.

It was at that moment that all of your senses rushed back to you. You hold your throbbing head; your body feels weak, and yet, your heart is beating so very fast. Extending your hand, you try to reach the glass sitting on the nightstand and finish it in one go. You no longer care where the glass ends up. Waiting and waiting, you hope the water can do something to alleviate every single pain you're feeling.

To your dismay, it does nothing more than ease your throat of the remaining bile. Your heart is still racing, your hands are still shaking, and your stomach feels like it’s being twisted and stabbed from within. Curling up into the fetal position, disregarding the pool of vomit you're lying in. Your fists are pressing into your abdomen, trying to dull the suffering, but all you get is another of your cries.

You feel like a stinky mess. Your hair is damp, matted, sprinkled with tiny particles of foul, sour smell. For an hour, you lie there like the dead, occasionally letting out a small groan from how torn your stomach is. The nagging feeling of needing to vomit keeps crawling up your throat, but time after time, it would pass, and nothing would come up, just a release of pent-up gas.

An hour later, the pain finally gives in, dulling. You scramble out of bed, walking towards the door, using the wall as support for your wobbly limbs. Reaching the bathroom, you try as hard as you can to ignore the empty pill bottles scattered on the floor and yank the cabinet open. You pop a few activated charcoal into your mouth, hoping it will at least do something. To make the pain go away.

You sit on the bathroom floor, leaning your back against the tiled wall. The coolness of the surface is a welcome sensation on your sweaty body. You are aware of the thoughts brewing in your mind. You try to avoid them and look for distractions around you—a crack in the wall, a thin spiderweb at the corner.

But you’ve never been known for being a good escape artist. One thought slips out, and you’re left crying in the bathroom. You cry for yourself—you think this is the first time you’ve ever genuinely felt sorry for yourself. Funny, to feel so guilty when you’re the one who brought this on yourself. You feel like a narcissistic, self-pitying woman who somehow always manages to paint herself as the victim.

Knowing that you don’t deserve this—everything that led you here and the way you’ve treated yourself. In the rare moments of self-compassion, the many previous versions of you come running to you. You could almost guess what they’re thinking: "You erased me just to create this wretched person you’ve become?"

A chuckle escaped you, devoid of humor, yet full of the arrogance that only humans can possess. But it was short-lived, as tears quickly filled your eyes and broken sobs wracked your body. The untamed flame crawled up and licked your throat, preventing you from speaking. In fear that if you did, you would string together another word you would regret. You guess that's what you are, a human full of nothing but regret.

From how hard your heart beats, you can follow its rhythm without putting your hand to your chest. Thump, thump, thump. You wonder if the sound of its beats is bouncing off your rib cage, broadcasting as if it were an announcement.

The owner tried to kill it, but it survived.

It's unsettling, this feeling. The awareness that you are owed an apology, and yet you are the very person who caused yourself pain. Always looking at your imperfections with a magnifying glass but never acknowledging the good you try to offer. Always yearning to be someone else when it was you who brought yourself here. Despite your disgrace, you should have tucked yourself in as gently as you would have done anyone else.

The silence of your lonely apartment holds up a mirror that has been forced upon you. It demands that you face yourself—to stop seeing what isn’t there, to accept who and how you are. Your virtues and your vices. Your virtues. Your vices.

But with your black-and-white vision, you don’t have that ability. If you're not entirely good, then you're a terrible person, and vice versa. You consider half measures as crime, as inconsistency. Since when did you developed this perspective you didn't know. Given your mother, you suspect it’s hereditary—or if not, perhaps taught at an early age. This makes you realize that you will never make up for how horrible a person you are.

You sat in the bathroom for two hours. Once you feel a little better, you try to find your footing and stagger into the kitchen. The light from the refrigerator you opened casts a parallelogram of light into the dark room. You reach for whatever leftovers are inside, scooping up the cold pasta you made the other day with your bare hands and stuffing it into your mouth. A frown forms at the unfamiliar temperature, but you keep chewing. You quickly swallow, then move on to the next unheated meal.

You don't even know what to hope. You're unsure if stuffing your belly with food will help to calm your racing heart and trembling body, just as it did in the past when you purposefully denied yourself meals.

By some miracle (or perhaps some intricate bodily mechanism that you don't understand), it worked. After two more hours of dozing off in front of the television, you’re no longer sweating, and you no longer feel like you’re going to die right then and there. But not much else had changed. The silence in your apartment lingers on, and the numbness inside you is still there, if not yawning to the point of conjuring your brain into a state of stasis.

Getting up, you make your way back into your room. The sight is almost normal, except for the stains on your pillow and bedspread. You strip the sheets off the bed and throw them into the laundry bin—to your relief, the vomit hasn't seeped into the mattress underneath. You quickly replaced them. Everything seems normal, as if you hadn’t just tried to take your own life.

You always have the same way of arranging your four pillows—the plain one in the back, the two with floral covers in the front. You spread a new blanket on your clean bed before placing a warmer one on top.

Walking to the nightstand, you gather up the used tissue balls and your empty glass. You grab basically any trash you see and carry it out of the room. Reaching the main living area, you scan the room—by the window, at your stretching area, at the brown chair at the far end of the room, at your ivory couch, in between the piles of pillows, and at the perfectly square coffee table.

You lowered your eyes to the overflowing ashtray sitting in the middle. The object looks strangely out of place in your home because you don't smoke. You don't, but someone else used to.

With caution, you approach slowly like one would a wild animal. You stood right in front of the table. In front of the ashtray. The accumulated cigarette butts sit on the ashes that have long since cooled.

You pinch the edge of the ashtray with three fingers and pour the contents into the plastic bag you carry. Tilting the ceramic, you can see how it has gone gray underneath from the embers and cigarettes that were rubbed against it. There will never be another use for it. You tossed the ashtray in with the rest of the rubbish.

Finishing your frenzied cleaning, you step into the shower and rinse yourself under the cold water. Normally, the steady rhythm of the water flowing would relax your body, and it would be a signal for your mind to wander—to give you something to fret about. But today, there was nothing—just a vast, empty expanse of plain white, awfully quiet like the aftermath of a storm.

You ran your fingers through your hair, searching for a sensation. Nothing. There was nothing. It was as if your hands couldn't even touch your head—like a phantom unable to hold anything because it was from another world and did not belong in this reality.

Though as unusual as it is, you’ve experienced similar experiences before, leaving you somewhat used to it but still not able to deal with it. So, you accept it unwillingly, watching yourself go through your routine: “You” scratched at your scalp with your nails, digging deeper. White suds from your shampoo pooling in the shower drain. “You” finish your shower, wrapping a towel around yourself, and head to the bedroom to get dressed.

“You” sat down on the yoga mat, taking a moment to look in the mirror to ensure you're in the correct position for stretching. Next to the mirror is your duffel bag, filled with your ballet necessities – which has been sitting there for days, untouched because ballet has become nothing to you.

But “she” touches it—the “you” in your body. After finishing her stretches, she stands and rummages through her bag like you always do before class and rehearsal. A meticulous doppelganger, this one. She ties your hair into a bun with the same efficiency as you; glancing in the mirror a second time to make sure everything is perfect before she shoulders the duffel bag and heads for the door.

Wait, what is she doing?

Where is she taking you?

No ballet today—and there will be no ballet in the future. So where is she heading?

A skilled copycat. She knows just which subway line to take and precisely when to get off. You watch her climb the steps you've ascended countless times before, proceeding straight ahead and then turning onto the sidewalk where the crimson-painted flower shop is located. She walks and walks, seemingly unaware that her presence at the opera house will be questioned and unwanted. You want to scream at her to stop, to spare herself and you the embarrassment of rejection, but this invisible glass wall is so thick, it smothers your voice, preventing it from reaching her.

She continued down the deformed corridor, ignoring the surprised looks from the other dancers. At the end of the hallway—right where the open door to the prima ballerina’s dressing room was—stood Henri, his expression not much different from the others as he watched her barge in and immediately sit down at the dressing table like a long-gone queen reclaiming her place.

You hear Henri say your name, but wait for her response. He shuts the door behind him for more privacy before dropping his voice to almost a mumble, “What are you doing here?”

Unbothered, the doppelganger began to arrange her powders and makeup on the vanity table. She glanced in the mirror, making eye contact with the director. “Isn't tonight's show day?” she asked, remaining calm and composed as if she belonged here.

Henri stood there, baffled, the wrinkles on each side of his mouth accentuated by a frown before he called you again. The more he said your name, the more foreign it sounded to your ears.

“We’ve talked about this—Claudine is going to be the one playing the Swan Queen for tonight’s show and the next few performances.” He said in a no-nonsense tone, not up for discussion, not up for full-on defiance.

“You” averted her eyes back to her own reflection in the mirror, then dragged her foundation-stained fingers across her face, leaving a paler shade of her natural skin tone. “Just because I failed at the first show,” she pumped another dollop of the product, “doesn’t mean I can’t redeem myself.”

At her words, Henri opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but didn't. In his silence, the doppelganger saw the obvious cracks in his “inviolable” decision—it carved a smug smile on her face.

“So, where is Claudine now?” she questioned, a rhetorical one.

“She’s…”

“Late again?” she guessed (though it sounded like she was finishing the sentence for him), and his subsequent expression confirmed that her hunch was correct. She arched a brow in a “told you so” manner. “Claudine’s always got a problem being on time, didn’t you know?”

A sharp exhale escaped Henri. He pinched the bridge of his strong nose, muttering a curse under his breath in French. “You’re on,” he said, then approached the chair where “you” were sitting. “But for God’s sake, don’t disappoint me. I have a lot at stake here, and I don’t want any more disasters from you or Claudine.”

Leaning down, he brought his head closer to hers, their gazes locked in the mirror. “Perfection itself is imperfection,” he told her.

Having stated his piece, Henri straightened his back and turned to leave the room, leaving your doppelganger alone. The woman continued her makeup; applying contour according to the White Swan makeup portion, tapping the bristles on the blush and bringing it to fill in your cheeks, and finishing with a setting spray to set everything in place. It was all your exact routine.

Even though you weren't in her body, you could tell what she was thinking as she put the white faux feathers to either side of her head. She smiled at her reflection, proud of the end result of her appearance.

You’re not sure how Henri relayed the news to Claudine, but somewhere out there, she must be grieving for the opportunity that once again slipped through her fingers. Her dream was just a reach away from her—an almost—before it was cruelly snatched away from her. If you were a better person, you would feel sorry for her. You would also find similarities between the two of you.

But you and “she” both know that there is only one person eligible to play the lead role—the story of a swan floating aimlessly can only be played by a bloated corpse of a dreamer girl.

Nothing happened. And you are the Swan Queen.

Around twenty minutes later, a knock came at the door. “White Swan is up in ten!” a voice called out from the other side. The doppelganger turned her gaze in the mirror, examining her reflection one final time. Satisfied, she rose from the vanity chair and left the room to the backstage.

You watched as the swan flocks exited the stage in a graceful, synchronized glide. And then, without hesitation, “you” jumped into the spotlight, and the audience burst into applause at the entrance of the White Swan. Odette, with her arms spread wide like wings, opened her chest and pulled her spine back. She stood on pointe; her long legs took step after step, all in time with the harmonious plucking of the string instruments.

The pale light of the moon cast a silvery hue upon the solitary lake, a place that she and her flock of “swans” had been forced to call home for so long. During the day, they gather under the sheltering shade of the weeping willow tree that stands at the end of the lake. But when evening falls and the shadows grow long, they try to adapt to the unfamiliarity of the soft earth and the limbs of the girl they once were.

It was supposed to be yet another night of her cursed existence. So, when a man revealed himself from the darkness of the shadows and approached her, Odette couldn't help but feel terrified and flee, extending her arms as if she was about to take flight.

Who are you, stranger? She wandered in her thoughts. Was it coincidence that brought you here tonight, or is there another intent behind your appearance? Do you intend to harm me, just like the others who have come before you?

The crossbow in his hand should have spoken volumes (in another life, it would have been a worn and faded all-black leather jacket), should have been enough for her to stop wondering and run. To spare herself from more agony, to spare herself from piling on another curse she would have to endure. She ran—but not too far, still within his reach if he were to pursue her further. The only attempt at defense was her shielding her face with her hand—forgetting that she was no longer in swan form.

The man set down his crossbow and approached her slowly, stating that he meant no harm. Despite his reassurances, she still tried to elude him. Curious, he asked her why she was here. She halted her escape and attempted to stand still, explaining to him that she was the queen of the swans and that there was a lake nearby that was created from her mother's tears. And not far from here, there was a powerful evil sorcerer named Von Rothbart—it was he who cursed her into becoming a swan.

But—

You observed as your doppelganger placed her hand over the spot where her heart beats. "If the one who loves me marries me and swears to be faithful, then I will no longer be a swan.”

So gentle was his touch as he held her, as if she would perish if he were to apply any more force. She had always seen herself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of her—devoid of hope since her dreams had already been extinguished. Long had she borne the weight of this curse, believing that no such man—or such love—could ever prove her wrong.

But being in his arms now reignited the dwindling ember in her. She fell to his feet, her frail bone like brittle twigs. Before she knew it, his name spilled from her lips in a plea—for him to save her—for him to love and save her.

When he protected her from the sorcerer, she perceived him as a kind of savior. Were you the one written in the prophecy? To soothe her aching joints and tell her that she was worth saving—that she was not as far gone as everyone had led her to believe. Wide-eyed, she watched him declare his love—his promise to return for her. The scene came to an end, leaving the enchanted lake alone again.

(My heart is an overripe pomegranate; will you be the one to harvest it?)

The crimson curtain fell, signaling the end of the act. You watched as the doppelganger rushed off the stage. She passed by Henri, who stood in the wings, his expression full of concern as his head turned to follow her as she disappeared behind the door.

Entering the dressing room once more, the doppelganger shut the door behind her. Slowly, she approached the vanity table, sitting on the chair. She stared back at her image in the mirror, but her expression was similar to that of someone offering it to a complete stranger. Carefully, she began to remove the pristine white headpiece, placing it on the table's surface. She opened her eyeshadow palette and prepared to do her makeup for the Black Swan.

The white costume had been replaced by a lustrous black ensemble, adorned with sequins on the torso. Her makeup was bolder now, with heavier and more pronounced strokes around her eyes that would be visible even from the farthest reaches of the theater. On top of your head, a new headpiece rests, fancier and heavier.

It didn’t take long before a knock came at the door, and “you” left to return backstage.

With the heavy castle doors opening to the sound of trumpets announcing her entrance, Odile was confident she would win the favor of this prince. In her fiery blood that boiled like bubbling potion in a cauldron, she was well-versed in such things—gracing elegant balls in a flashy black dress that contrasted sharply with the unfortunate girl suffering under her father's curse and captivating everyone's attention without even trying.

Odile was made to be a social butterfly, albeit borrowing Odette’s appearance.

It was a mere game to her, nothing more than a side pleasure. When she caught sight of the unsuspecting prince, she struggled desperately to suppress a victorious smile. Even before she danced, this callow man seemed ready to offer her his heart on a silver platter. No wonder her father was so worried—this prince truly loved the white swan girl.

Poor soul, indeed. To perceive love as something lavish, rather than something to be used and thrown aside at will. How naïve. Odile would never be like that. If she were to speak truthfully, they would make a good pair—this swan girl and this prince.

And no, she had not come here in hopes of his love. Such a thing wasn’t in her lexicon. Love was a repugnant thing. She saw it as nothing more than a tool to manipulate, to control someone—like a rein on a horse, a whip on a cow. Love was a repugnant thing; it left you fretting about what someone thought and felt about you. She wouldn’t allow anyone to define her.

Under no one's critical eye, Odile flourished into who she wanted to be—dancing in whichever direction she desired. Agile, sharp, seductive. Brimming with confidence. Immune to the murmurs and jeers of others—let the dog bark, she wouldn’t allow anyone to define her. She wanted to be a star and she knew she would become the brightest star in the universe.

The red lip of that doppelganger curved upwards into a smile that was almost identical to the one the girl from the club had. If she were speaking verbally instead of in pantomime, you were sure her voice would sound exactly like hers.

Odile danced and danced, eluding the prince's grasp. But, unlike the timid Odette, she seemed to indulge in the thrill of the chase—a prize rather than a prey, toying with the man who so desperately desired her. Love was a repugnant thing, indeed. She continued this dance of cat and mouse. This game in which she knew full well who would emerge victorious.

(Instead of her falling at his feet, it was he who knelt before her.)

The doppelganger launched into the 32 fouettés, her body spinning with speed and precision. You hear the applause of the audience. The muscles in her legs rippled beneath the fluffy, black tutu as she spun and completed the variation.

You couldn’t remember how you made it backstage, but you find yourself on your knees—your stomach twisting itself into a painful knot. It's the same sensation you experienced hours ago—the unfinished consequences demanding your attention. Your knuckles turn white from how tightly you're clenching your fists, and your face turns a deep shade of red as you grimace in pain.

The sound of multiple footsteps is heard as several dancers and crew members rush to your side, including the director—Henri. You can hear their concerned voices, one of them asking if it was cramps and another already rushing to find the medicine box they keep on hand. The backstage area turns into a chaotic scene, with you becoming the focus.

“Mon dieu!” Henri exclaimed. “What is happening? Tell me, where are you hurt?”

Trying to hold back your pained voice, you spoke in a breathless tone, “It's—it's nothing. I… I just… I need a moment.”

But Henri wasn’t buying it. Turning to one of the other dancers, he said, “Get Claudine. she’ll have to take over the rest of the performance.”

“NO!” You screamed, face flushed with a mix of pain and anger. How could it be so easy for him to replace you? How could he abandon you and find someone else who doesn't even know him as well as you do, thinking that is enough to fill your place? After hours of feeling empty, you almost forgot how burning anger can be. “I can do this. I know I can! Just give me a moment. I can finish this.”

Forcing yourself to get up as you had done a thousand times before, you bit your lower lip to hold back the excruciating burn. You clutched your abdomen, focusing your brain only on putting one foot in front of the other as you made your way down the corridor and into the dressing room.

When you turn to face the mirror, there you are waiting—you in your body. Slowly, you walk to the vanity, sinking down in the chair and hunching forward. You allow yourself a maximum of twenty seconds to steady your breathing, as well as to allow the suggestion to convince your mind and body that the pain isn't as excruciating as it feels, so it can stop exaggerating it.

Gritting your teeth, you reach for the cotton pads and makeup remover, wiping off the heavy, dark eye makeup of the Black Swan. The white is stained with black, tossed aside in a nearby trash bin. Then, you grab the same eyeshadow palette and use the brush to apply it across your eyelids.

As you lean in toward the mirror, your eyes narrow at a small patch of black that you missed—a stubborn remnant of the Black Swan makeup. Instinctively, you try to scrape it away with the tip of your nail. The action stings, causing your eyes to water. You try again, but the stain remains as a blemish on the supposedly pristine White Swan makeup. It will never be as clean as it was at the start.

At that moment, you did the last thing you thought you would do. You laughed. Tortured by the agony in your stomach and the stubborn black stain that marred your appearance, you laughed. You’ve never felt so alive—pain made you feel truly alive; anger made you feel real. Throughout your existence, you’ve seen yourself as a girl full of resignation, moving through life bearing only what remained of you. But now? Now, you’re filled with resentment, with betrayal. Up until now, you've been grieving, but now your grief has turned into anger.

Staring at your reflection, a mix of loathing and pity fills your heart. Why did you make me like this? What did I do wrong that you made me like this? Is it because I am a horrible person? Who made me a horrible person? Why did you let me live if I am such a horrible person? If I am truly irredeemable, why did you let me live instead of letting me die?

You laughed again, as if daring yourself to find a trace of real amusement in it. There was none. You kept laughing, your eyes locked on your own gaze in the mirror, waiting for that genuine spark of joy to ignite it—it never came. It was then that you realized that every time you performed this little “act,” the only person you had been fooling was yourself. Your lips began to wobble, a shaky breath escaping you as you lowered your gaze, your head bowing slightly. The stinging tears dripped onto the surface of the vanity table, dampening it.

When you stepped back onto the stage, the world was inundated in an overwhelming light, so bright that it almost burned your eyes. The flocks of swans around you scattered in pandemonium, aware of their imminent doom. You dance the dying swan—feeling every flabbiness of her joints, the trembling of her limbs as the curse seeped deeper into her blood – forever transforming her into a swan. The infamous Tchaikovsky score swelled around you as everything grew more intense.

In the hope of a happy ending, you find yourself scattered. If this were a pain of your own causing, perhaps you would find satisfaction in self-destruction. But this is not the case. The betrayal inflicted upon you is flaunted—paraded as a display of how foolishly you placed your trust. The artificial moon hanging overhead seems to gloat in your suffering.

You felt your steps lighten as you made your way up. As you reached the edge, the orchestra played to a climax, the drums echoing throughout the hall. Turning to face the prince, you met his gaze one final time before launching yourself off the surface.

The drums reached a deafening volume as you hit the mattress. Instantly, your surroundings seemed like a fever dream, with phantom sensations all over your body. You could hear the hurried footsteps of someone rushing towards you and the touch of something warm against your cold, sweaty forehead. “Something’s not right,” they said, “call an ambulance!” they shouted. It was odd how panicked they sounded when all you could think about was that empty chair in the front row—the one reserved for the man you were still waiting for even now.

Deep within your consciousness, a memory surfaces from your first recital in elementary school—where the younger you stares at the empty chair right next to Mother’s. It should've been occupied by the man the eight-year-old you had been waiting for—Daddy. He had promised to bring you flowers, to come and watch. Yet, the chair remained empty.

In both of those broken promises, somehow you find consolation. There's a peculiar reassurance in knowing that you’ve survived through something similar before, so you’ll overcome this one too. This is how most humans continue on, accumulating wounds atop wounds.

When you open your eyes, you blink against the blinding fluorescent light that illuminates the unfamiliar white ceiling above you. Confused, you sweep your gaze around for answers, trying to make sense of your situation. It takes you a few minutes to finally realize that you are in a hospital, on a patient bed, and connected to a dripping IV hanging from a steel pole next to you.

Memories of what had happened flood back into your mind, and instinctively, you search for any traces of pain. Strangely, it's nowhere to be found. You're unsure if this numbness is a product of another episode of detachment or if the pain has been dealt with. Nevertheless, you're grateful for it.

You furrow your eyebrows and reach for the call button. Within moments, a nurse appeared with her tired face, making you wonder how long her shift has been. It's just the two of you in the room, provoking the "stranger danger" in you until she flashes you a warm, kind smile that instantly dispels your concerns. She slowly approached your bed.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

Shifting uncomfortably in the hospital bed, you wonder how to answer the question. “I feel strange” is the best you can come up with. “What happened to me?”

The nurse's expression shifted. “Well now, it seems you may be suffering from a touch of… medication poisoning, love.” She meets your gaze, indifferent to the awkwardness you feel. “Luckily, it appears your liver is still in good shape—if we'd gotten to you even a bit later, the outcome might have been different.”

It wasn't hard to understand what she was implying. The difference. Of course it was poisoning, you scoffed inwardly. There was no way you had taken those pills and mixed them with alcohol and not expecting this. But you couldn't bring yourself to admit it out loud, not with the nurse watching you so intently so you just nodded wordlessly.

“Now, while this may have been unintentional, I’m afraid the psychiatrist will still need to have a chat with you, just to make sure everything is on the up an’ up.”

Your head shot up at her words. “Psychiatrist?”

“Yep,” the nurse emphasized the ‘p’ with a pop. “We've seen cases like this before. Sometimes it's an accident, sometimes..." She paused, considering whether to continue, but ultimately decided not to. “Anyway, we just want to be absolutely certain you're getting the proper care and support you need so you leave the hospital healed an’ happy.”

Forcing a chuckle, you tried to play it off as nothing more than a simple silly mistake. “It was just a bit of a mix-up, that's all. I took some pills and had a few drinks; nothing to worry about, really.” You give her a sheepish smile, hoping it will convince her.

But then again, you know that being here means there’s little you can do to avert the truth. They have their ways of uncovering the real story—they had access to all sorts of analyses and evidence, and you’re sure they've probably already run tests on your bodily fluids when you were brought in unconscious. These people have spent years studying biology and chemistry, yet you believe you can fool them with half-baked excuses and foolish smiles.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I… I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” you murmured, voice lowered to a barely audible whisper. “It was just an accident, I swear. I never..”

The poorly constructed lie might seem very obvious to the woman—especially with the way you’re behaving right now. Fortunately, she didn’t call you out on it directly. If she suspected something, she didn’t voice it.

“This is just standard procedure, a’igh? Nothin’ to be afraid of, I promise!”

Fairly speaking, since she entered the room, this woman has displayed nothing but kindness and non-judgmental advice. She is a good, reassuring person, and you wish you could be a better patient for her. But you are not.

The immeasurable fear inside you has spread and seeped too deep for someone to pull you out. A psychiatrist. The thought of someone competent to dissect your head like an organism under a microscope—to effortlessly pinpoint every sore spot and chronic abscess, uncover the roots of your actions, and link them to your past and present selves. To have them write down a diagnosis of what's wrong with you, a label that ties everything together, fills you with both dread and impotence.

And what if, on the flip side, there was nothing wrong with you at all? What if this was all just a product of your own design—a wounded person’s need for another wound?

Out of concern, the nurse offered, “Would you like me to have her come in?”

“Her?”

“Sorry! Uh, seems when you came in, the first emergency number we had on file was disconnected. So we had a go at the second one on the list. Sabrina, right?”

At the mention of your cousin's name, you're reminded that you've listed her as your second emergency contact. While the thought of disturbing her honeymoon period is met with a pang of guilt, you find yourself nodding in agreement.

“Yes, please,” you murmured. “I… I would appreciate that.”

“Alright, love, I’ll fetch her for you straight away.”

As the nurse exited the room, a hush fell over the space; the only audible sounds were from the soft purr of the air conditioner and the muffled voices from the hallway outside. You adjust the pillow behind your back to find a more comfortable position. Waiting, your eyes keep darting towards the door for Sabrina to come through that door.

When the door finally creaks open, you feel a surge of relief, expecting to see Sabrina's blonde hair and cheerful presence. For her to rush to your bed and hug you just like she used to when you were children.

But when it dawned on you who the person was, your sense of relief dissolved as you sharply inhaled. It wasn't your cousin—it wasn't Sabrina. The middle-aged woman stepped through the threshold, the shape of her eyes bore a striking resemblance to yours. It was, you prayed, the only trait that you had inherited from her. From your mother.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull @olives10 @cricricorner @idrkman @strrynigghts @mims900

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

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honeycreammilkshake · 7 months ago

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Yuji can finally have his own Human Earthworm with blobkuna haha

it seems to me that gege is really fond of metaphors and stories within stories, so i took a closer look at the human earthworm series that was given to us in the anime/manga and i found a lot of interesting things that, as usual, i'm going to turn into a sukuita essay. (sorry for the overly long rant coming up, anon ;-;)

the basic plot of the 4th movie is that an ordinary man is transformed into a half-worm, half-human creature by an evil scientist/doctor. the human earthworm manages to escape but is forced to hide from the outside world as he will be perceived as a monster because of his appearance. however, his hiding place also enables him to meet an animal rights activist who ends up falling in love with him. she is a very understanding, compassionate, and empathetic person (remind you of someone?) and although she is scared of him at first, she looks past his "monstrous appearance" to find the true person within, and he is ultimately more human than other humans are.

in the end, though, he is killed by the girl's friends, who only see a monster. before they attack him, though, she tells them that they will be the monsters for killing him.

this theme of the humans being more monstrous than the actual monsters themselves, such as in literature like frankenstein by mary shelley or the metamorphosis by franz kafka, is a theme used to invert and reframe the popular myths and stories of monsters both looking abnormal and being unnatural.

so... what does this mean in relation to sukuna and yuuji's story?

i think it's pretty clear that sukuna was perceived as monstrous from his birth onward. in historical japan, during the heian era, there was a lot of conflict between different religions and very rapid changes in culture and lifestyles as people began breaking away from chinese influences. this era is sometimes called the "golden age of the imperial court" because of the court's growing power and cultural prosperity, and a lot of this power resided with the Fujiwara clan who had intermarried with the imperials. however, for the majority of ordinary people, this era saw a lot of suffering, hardships, low quality of life, and a high infant mortality rate.

sukuna was born into this starving world and would have died had he not eaten his twin in the womb. but he was unwanted and unwelcome from the moment he was born. i've written this before (so i'm sorry if it's getting a bit repetitive) but i think a lot of fans don't realize how much more demanding and cruel life was during this time (compared to modern day japan) in terms of life expectancy and quality. and those factors shaped sukuna into what he is, or at least make up a part of his becoming a monster.

in sukuna's own words his existence itself is anathema. the literal definition of this is "vehement disliking" and is a synonym of abhorrent. in religious usage it means "exclusion from the society of the faithful because of heresy" and it is described as being "cursed."

sukuna was perceived as being a curse before he even became cursed objects. whether or not he was born with extra limbs and/or lots of cursed energy, he was still seen as something unnatural and inhuman.

in other words, his unusual appearance and origin is monstrous to others. and i think he took this to heart and decided to just go with it, because he refuses to be seen as human by anyone even though he was in fact born one. he would rather be feared and despised as an imaginary demon than treated like a real person who was essentially cast out of the normal world.

but yuuji doesn't treat sukuna like just another monster in the end. instead, he offers him such selfless acceptance and honest empathy. and i don't think sukuna can take something like that.

sukuna is very aware of his own nature. he seems really proud to be an unfeeling, indifferent entity of chaos.

hm.....

lots of thoughts on this one panel alone. but i'll try to keep my ideas short. i believe that sukuna embraced what others saw as his "cursed nature" and became the strongest so he could be above all the hatred and ignorance that made others perceive him as being a monster. so he matched his actions to what people feared from him.

he became the monster so he could look down on those same people and also so he could isolate himself from ever being affected by those feelings again. after all, those others are nothing more than weak prey who shouldn't lament their own suffering, just like he shouldn't lament being seen as cursed from birth on. just like he claims he isn't lonely because only the most selfish can be on top.

but still. people want to destroy him for just being the role they more than likely forced him into. he never became more than what people saw him as, and yet they still hate him.

he claims to be above that hatred, but i think it might actually get to him. while else would he reflect so much on it during his fight with yuuji. yuuji, who he lived inside of, who he looks down on for being "weak" because he is far too emotional and caring for others, yet that's one of the biggest reasons for yuuji's strength. strength sukuna tries to undervalue because he can't stand the idea that strength can ever be compassionate as well.

yuuji hates sukuna's ideals and his indifference to the value of life. but he still accepts sukuna. he sees past the monstrous appearance and realizes sukuna was made into a monster by chance. what if someone was there for him, like wasuke was there for yuuji? even though wasuke still pushed yuuji away and was all that yuuji had, he still kept yuuji tethered to being a good person and caring for others. wasuke served as both a lesson in what not to become and a reminder for yuuji to realize the importance of life.

sukuna probably didn't have that, or if he was given that chance, it was far too late for him.

yuuji actually wanted to live with sukuna. he wanted to the animal rights activist to sukuna's worm monster, but in the end, sukuna chose death.

the humans killed the monster they made, yet again. sukuna would rather live and die as a curse than be anything different. yuuji loved him even as a worm, but sukuna couldn't take it.

and yuuji looks so heart-broken and disappointed for it.

also. i didn't notice this until now. but yuuji cradles sukuna's remains so so gently... in the hand that looks monstrous.

monster to monster. yet yuuji was so tender. he didn't seek to mock sukuna. instead, he said that they were the same. that sukuna is him.

yuuji was created for the purpose of housing sukuna inside of him, for being his vessel. he was made into a "monster" but instead of letting that turn him into something evil, he used his abilities to save other people. and he even wanted sukuna to come back to him!!!

again, i'm sorry for making this into yet another paper-long incoherent rant. i probably should have stuck to my original reply which was "sad we couldn't see their halfling children ;-;" but then this happened instead. thank you for bearing with me if you read through the mess of my thoughts. ty for your wonderful ask anon <3

#honey posts #sukuna ryomen #itadori yuuji #sukuita #meta #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #sukuna should have said yes so yuuji and him could have little monster kids together #but gege loves tragedy #im going to forever cry about this ;-;

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boileddemon69 · 22 days ago

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BEN 10 UNSOLVED

Ben and friends (and sometimes enemies) join up to make a ragtag group of ghost hunters with the help of the Ectotrix; a device that allows the wearer to see and interact with ghosts!

Ben

Ben is an energetic 11 year old who's had a lifelong interest in the paranormal. He's pretty much the same as Classic Ben. Just switch out the sumo slammers obsession with ghosts! He's the self-proclaimed "leader" of the group, though he ends up getting them in more trouble than anything

Gwen

Gwen is practically the same as Classic gwen, though she shares the same paranormal interests as Ben. She's more interested in the spiritual side of it, obsessing over tarot cards and horoscopes. She helps guide Ben through figuring out which ghosts are good and which ones are out to get them LOL

Lucy

Lucy isn't an alien in this au, she's just an ordinary girl who just so happened to be visiting her cousins when Ben found the Ectotrix, now she's just along for the ride. She's kind of the shaggy of the group LOL

Cooper

Cooper's the nerd of the group (as expected). He helps build gadgets for everyone and even invented glasses the others can use to see the ghosts as well. He was skeptical at first, but after seeing some pretty convincing evidence, he agreed to join their group, while shaking and crying cuz he's a scaredy cat HAHAHA

Kevin

Kevin is the school bully. He's a grade above Ben and yet he's his number one target. He's a big ol jerk who thinks the group is dumb and tries to prove them wrong by going into a haunted house. When ben finds him he is like "okay yah no you were right what the hell" and now he's an occasional ally!! He still bullies ben, but they're starting to get along... sorta.

Jonesy

Jonesy is Bens tutor. He's the oldest of the group and joined against his will when he went looking for Ben and stumbled upon them fighting a ghost. Now he's getting dragged along with them even though all he wants to do it study for his history test.

Zs' Skayr

Zs' skayr is the big bad in this au! He's not an alien, rather the king of the undead. He wants to get his claws on the Ectotrix so that he can use it to take over the overworld and turn every living thing into his army of ghosts. He sends his groups of henchmen to attack Ben yet all of them are unsuccessful because they suck at their job lol

Albedo

Albedo was the assistant to Azmuth, a well-regarded scientist who mastered in answering the world wide question "what happens after we die?". After a scandal was revealed to the public, Azmuth went into hiding and framed Albedo, causing him to be imprisoned. After he dies, Zs'skayr recruits him and uses him to get the Ectotrix since he worked with the man who invented it. At one point, he disguises himself as Ben to infiltrate their group, but he gets caught and defeated (old man gets jumped by a bunch of preteens LMAOOO)

Azmuth

Azmuth was almost a celebrity in the science world back in the early 1900s. He was known for his thorough research on the topic of death and the existence of an afterlife. He created the Ectotrix, a device that could help someone interact with the undead. But after a private investigator exposed his rather devious experiments, he pushed all the blame on his lab partner and went into hiding after putting the ectotrix somewhere secret. (And then like a 100 years later some twerp digs it up out of his backyard.)

Anyways that's basically it for now, I'll make another lore post soon after I rattled my brain for more info but yeah BYEEE

#ben tennyson #ben 10 #gwen tennyson #kevin levin #lucy ben 10 #cooper ben 10 #albedo ben 10 #zs'skayr #azmuth #ben 10 unsolved

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unlikeable-female-character · 1 month ago

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What are your thoughts on the Blake vs Baloney thing?

I believe her.

I don’t think she would have gone down this route if she did not have good reason and a strong case. No woman, be they a-lister or ordinary person in the street, would do this to themselves and their family if they didn’t have to. The woman rarely wins even if she actually wins. Because the precedent has been set that allegations do not ruin men’s lives. I mean....look at who is currently president of the United States....him being a felon and adjudicated rapist was not enough reason for people to not vote for him.

As we have seen by the insanity surrounding Blake's case, people are falling over themselves to not believe her, to diminish what she went through, to deny that it could possibly be true because of whatever thing she did years ago. The narrative is that if you're not the ‘perfect victim’ then just don't bother and that is so damaging. Because if you complain then someone will dig into your past and if they find even the smallest sliver of you not being, I don’t know, basically the Virgin Mary, then you aren’t to be trusted and aren’t to be believed. It’s sick. What should matter is what happened in that moment when she experienced that harassment and nothing else. Being a bit rude years ago is - or should be - irrelevant.

Her amended complaint states that other women in the production also had reason to raise issues at the time and they are willing to testify. I don't know who those women are but I applaud their bravery in being willing to testify especially after seeing the way that Blake has been treated since the original complaint.

The online/media circus surrounding it is absolutely gross. I can only admire Blake and Ryan for biding their time and letting the legal system do its job. Unlike him (who lest we forget seems more focused on making sure everyone thinks she was trying to steal his precious film from him and is concentrating rather less on disapproving the sexual harassment 🙃) and his lawyers who seem all too happy to continue perpetuating the smear campaign, this time with even more people online willing to jump into the fray. From what I can gather reading posts from actual lawyers who understand how to break this all down their belief is that he's trying to win in the court of public opinion because he doesn't stand a chance in a court of law. Like I said, even if she wins, she still loses.

The fact that he has right wing grifters like Candace Owens on his side…Jesus. If I see one more comment saying ‘oh but Candace has a great breakdown of it…’ No love, Candace just wants your clicks and if you stick around long enough you’ll find yourself being driven down that alt right pipeline to MAGA-ville so fast your head will spin.

The conspiracy theories are all ridiculous. The 'she was in love with him and he rejected her' one. The 'Ryan was jealous and so he's taking revenge' one. The absolutely vile 'Ryan is controlling her and making her do this and she's in an abusive relationship' one. I even saw something on Threads today where a person was trying to say that Hugh and Sutton's relationship was the catalyst for all this because Ryan saw what could happen between two people who worked together...like...what? How that translates into him somehow persuading his wife to file a complaint of sexual harassment i have zero clue. I'm also pretty sure Ryan knows what can happen between two people who work together since that's literally how he met Blake!

The one thing that did make me laugh because it was absolutely THE biggest self own was when they tried to say that Nicepool was based on him and oh my god. Firstly, pretty sure parody isn't illegal (otherwise wouldn't SNL be being sued on a regular basis?) but also - if I was watching a film and I saw a character who was unbelievably insufferable and annoying and recognised myself in that character...you couldn't torture that information out of me. Because i guarantee when everyone was watching DP&W in the summer not a single person was looking at Nicepool and thinking 'you know who he reminds me of...' BUT THEY ARE NOW. Idiot.

The braying mob online, riding so hard for a man who would never do the same for them, are so hypocritical and vile. They screech about Blake being a bully then go to the comments section of basically anyone who has anything positive to say about her or Ryan and write the most heinous shit imaginable. They don't recognise that the mean girl they are railing against is basically in the mirror looking back at them. Multiple fan pages on IG have either had to limit their comments or have posted to please stop bombarding them with hate. Ryan has limited comments and even Hugh's posts get their fair share of pro-Baloney crap on them and he's not even involved or been named in any of the complaints, he's just their friend. I don't know how any of it helps. It certainly doesn't make him look any better. I've seen multiple people say that if he really was the 'feminist' he claims to be he would have released something by now asking people to please back off, stop harassing women and let the law do it's work. So easy to do and costs nothing, and yet and yet....

One would hope that at some point the insanity of it all will calm down but I can't see it happening any time soon. I hope that Blake is able to have her day in court and I hope that the other women who say they will testify can screw their courage to the sticking place and not be scared away by all of this.

#blake lively #i stand with blake lively

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thenightfolknetwork · 6 months ago

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im worried i might have ruined my friendship with my best friend?? we've known each other since we were little and we've always been close, when i got turned he was the first person i told and he's been SO supportive. he's a member of the community (though he wasnt turned, he was born into his genus) and he introduced me to all his creature friends and really made me feel welcome.

but then, here's the thing. we were hanging out the other night and i guess one thing led to another and i kind of ended up…. feeding on him. he asked me to!! he was really into it and so was i... at the time.

but the next morning…. idk it was just weird. everything was so awkward. we havent spoken about it since and i dont know what i should do. i dont mind if he doesn't want to do it again - it was fun, but not fun enough to ruin a friendship over. only now im worried we might have ruined the friendship already… what should i do??

I think you may be jumping the gun here rather, my dear. I don't see anything in your letter to suggest that you've already ruined the friendship. This is certainly a complicated and delicate situation, and you will need to navigate it with kindness, honesty and respect. But it is navigable, and I have every faith in your ability to find a way through.

Feeding on another person is naturally a very intimate experience. This is especially true when one feeds for pleasure rather than need, as seems to have been the case here.

But intimacy is a part of friendship. Who you speak to about this problem or that, who you share this secret with, who you hug upon meeting and who you kiss on the cheek, whether or not you feel comfortable sharing a room or a bed – these are all questions of intimacy, and are an ordinary part of any friendship.

The details of this situation are, of course, different. The physical intimacy of direct feeding is compounded by the emotional intimacy of being so open about your liminal nature, all mixed up with the profound importance this friendship has for you. But the basic steps are the same.

Take some time to reflect on your own feelings. Give yourself permission to be entirely honest. It's alright that you enjoyed yourself. It's alright if you'd like to feed on your friend again. And it's alright if you don't! There are no correct answers here – only honest ones.

Once you're clear about what you want, you need to talk with your friend. Arrange a time to meet somewhere that you'll both feel comfortable, and let him know what you want to talk about. This isn't the sort of conversation you want to spring on someone without warning.

From there, you need to listen carefully and work together to find a way through. It may be an awkward conversation, but better one awkward conversation than letting your silence swallow this friendship entire.

[For more creaturely advice, check out Monstrous Agonies on your podcast platform of choice, or visit monstrousproductions.org for more info]

#answered #the nightfolk network #monstrous agonies #urban fantasy #speculative fiction #writblr #short stories #short fiction #fantasy #advice

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that-foul-legacy-lover · 2 months ago

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It's me, I'm back, hope you and all fellow mothlings are enjoying December!

Love and Deepspace consumes my TikTok feed lately, and while I don't play it I've been reading stuff and had this idea –that probably someone else has requested already–

What if Reader, like Love and Deepspace MC, it's bound to reincarnate? I'll elaborate on this...I've read (again, I don't play it) that MC reincarnates across lifetimes but doesn't retain any memories from the past, only has foggy memories that come to her in dreams. I won't elaborate much on this one ask because I would love to do so in other future ones for this AU but basically that sums it up.

So the situation is...Reader met Foul Legacy in the past, maybe as a fellow denizen from the Abyss. Their relationship? Probably close, but I'll leave how much in your hands. However, a curse or whatever causes Reader to die and be reborn again and again. This cycle has been going on for a long time, leading to this latest reincarnation who's just a simple human with a vision, if you may.

Reader has always had dreams that feature some sort of abyssal monster that they actually don't feel afraid of, quite the opposite, yet they can't really see clearly who this creature is, maybe just specific traits. They have ignored these weird visions for a long time, of course something it's strange about it because it's not that common to dream of the same thing over and over again but they have been brushing it off ever since they were young...until the met Childe and subsequently Foul Legacy. Bonus points if Reader it's extremely oblivious and keeps ignoring the dreams but connects it to anything but reincarnation, thinking maybe it's clairvoyance or any other magical shenanigan going on.

—🕯️ Anon

*quietly* every time i hear things about Love and Deepspace it gets more and more confusing and i'm terrified ALSO SORRY ANON THIS IS REALLY LATE AAAAAA

Childe- or rather, Foul Legacy- knows it's you the minute your eyes meet, just a quick glance when you're dashing past on the streets of Liyue. really, you were just trying to watch the annual fireworks show for Lantern Rite, only to run right-smack into the Eleventh Harbinger. he steadies you easily, patting your arm and holding back a grimace- not from you. no, from Foul Legacy practically howling in his head, scratching at the edges and shrieking, trying desperately to reach you, to pull you close and wrap you in his arms because he's finally found you again, after so long. you- his beloved, the only one to stand against the horrors of the Abyss with him, you're here, you're here-

you're gone, shouting your thanks to Childe as he releases your arm, watching you run off into the crowd. Foul Legacy almost takes over their shared body in dismay, Childe's will just barely holding him back. not in public. never in public. he wrenches control back and makes a hasty retreat to the Northland Bank, locking the door to his room and sliding to the floor, his head in his hands. memories sear their way into his skull, Foul Legacy's, no doubt. he's seen you before, met you before, years and years and years ago when the world was younger and covered in stars. his Abyssal half weeps, curling up and crying into his claws, and Childe instinctively winces, a bit guilty

he has to find you again. for Legacy's sake, if nothing else

you meet the Harbinger again seemingly by chance- an ordinary day this time, with people milling around the streets. he waves cheerfully at you, apologizing for bumping into you that other night. strange, it was most certainly your fault, but he smiles a bit sheepishly and asks if he could perhaps talk- in private, preferably. you blink, tilting your head, but nod in agreement. surely, nothing could go wrong. and if anything did, you knew how to scream loud enough to deafen anyone's eardrums. Childe ushers you politely towards Northland Bank, nodding towards the guard at the door and leading you somewhere quiet. he turns, almost nervously, and tells you not to panic

your questioning words are cut off by a flash of violet lightning, leaving behind a towering, beautiful monster wrapped in armor and cold starlight, and your eyes go wide

your dreams have come true

#genshin impact #childe #tartaglia #foul legacy #foul legacy childe #genshin tartagalia #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia #no seriously i know so little about that game but it terrifies me #also isn't it made by the same people who did infinity nikki #the range is truly astounding #although they both seem to have insane lore so they have that in common #i would be very happy to expand on this too #short scenario #other's stuff #good evening #chit chats #🕯️anon

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zac--zappy · 11 months ago

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🆅🅴🅻🆅🅴🆃🆃🅴 × 🅲🅰🆁🅼🅸🅻🅻🅰 (♂️)

They are certainly a problematic couple, based on Velvette teasing Carmilla and Carmilla frustrated giving in to provocations.

However, I see a lot of potential tenderness, once an effective relationship is made.

🗡️ `📱⇢︎ #Velmilla

It's Carmilla who has the gender change, I see her better.

Velvette is the kind of person who takes what she wants, she doesn't care if he's a powerful man who can't stand her, after all it's not like she imagines she wants more than one fuck.

‌I don't even know how to get it started, because the only thing I can think of is that during the song, when they come face to face, both times, Velvette feels like she's lost her breath, for some reason she scrambles him from head to toe, finding him attractive despite the prying words he just formulated.

‌So, confused, she decides to leave the scene, especially after the debate, returning to the tower with the mood under her shoes and the desire to make someone, but not someone by chance, she realizes it when among all Valentino's sluts she does not find a single person to her liking and doing it alone she finds herself thinking about that Hispanic Carmilla, paralyzing herself in frustration after coming fantasizing about him.

She wonders how the fuck is possible, he's never liked bigger men, not to mention that he in particular is on her nerves. Look to Valentino for advice.

‌Really bad choice, she asks him how it is possible that sexual tastes can change suddenly, but he answers something like a fucking dog, with vulgarity, but maybe he also hints at something logical and credible.

‌❝ Let's say it can vary, from how the said person treats you, from the physique or body language, we can say that sexual appetite is extremely subjective and instinctive, you can't control it, it's your arousal that slams you in the face that you have no choice you would like to fuck yourself on ❞.

Val doesn't say anything out of the ordinary, he basically tells her that if she wants to get someone she shouldn't have any problems and go for it.

‌❝ Hey, Come on... You're one of the three V's, do you want to come and tell me that this asshole isn't dying to be inside you? Should I gouge out his eyes and give him new ones?! ❞.

‌As Val begins to get caught up in her ego, she sighs, thanking him more or less, going off to work without having understood much about the situation, only somehow, she wants and needs to have a night with that arms dealer.

‌She tries to get away with it, thinking about something else, working, trying to fuck someone, but her head always comes back to him, from the exciting smell she smelled when they were close, to his hands squeezing her, to his voice that could take on a Spanish accent at any moment.

‌But how do you organize a fuck with a person with whom you have been fighting for less than two days? Simple!

‌YOU HAVE TO BLACKMAIL HIM WITH SOMETHING OF HIGH RELEVANCE!

‌So, having used a Vox contraption as a bug camera, she too is aware that he was the one who ended the exorcist's life and rather than make this information a step forward in the war against heaven, she uses it to approach Carmilla and ask to be received, she alone.

‌Carmilla, although wary, accepts, finding himself face to face with the demon of social media, who immediately reveals her cards, saying she knows what he did and why, leaving him stunned and without aces to play.

‌❝ What do you want from me? ❞.

‌ “ Nothing that any sinners wouldn't want ”.

‌ Carmilla doesn't understand, Velvette sighs, pinching her own nose desperately, heading to his side of the table. Suspicious and angry, he immediately gets up from his chair, but a second later he finds himself pressing his hands on the desk to avoid bumping into our faces, having been pulled by the tie.

‌❝ What the heck ?! ❞

‌ Carmine realizes he's on top of her, her ass sticking to his own cock, leaving him shocked and perplexed.

‌She is so small that she almost disappears under him, who just doesn't know what to say.

‌“ I want this, Mr. No War, or have you forgotten how to do it? ”

‌❝ No way ! ❞ He pulls himself up but, suddenly, Velvette brings him back to the desk, rolling his slender legs to Carmine's hips, again towering over her figure.

‌ “ Do you really want to risk your daughters for a ride ? ”

‌He gnashes his teeth, bringing up his daughters was the right move, and so he starts in fifth, throwing his hands at her hips to put her at ninety, but being stopped by a little kick that throws him back on the chair.

‌“ Take it easy sample ”. Velvette moves his chair closer to the desk before plunging onto his lap and running her fingers from chest to throat, while laughing, pinching his cheek.

‌“ I want you to give me your best, if I'm not satisfied I might as well reconsider my offer of silence, so avoid that disgusted face and stick your tongue out, now."

‌He reluctantly sticks out his tongue and she immediately runs her tongue over it, sucking it before actually kissing him, while she plants her fingers in his shoulders and he clings to his chair, his nails clawed to the arms of the same, shaken and out of shape in the context.

(as he hasn't had sex in years, busy with his own business and the responsibilities that come with his every choice).

‌Velvette flusters as she hears the guttural moan rising from his throat as she unrolls her tongue into his mouth, but gets irritated that his hands couldn't be in a worse place, not on her.

‌She snorts, "Put those fucking hands on me."

‌Despite the opposition, Carmilla can't lie to himself, he realizes that he feels a confusing mix of anger, chaos and excitement, but he also feels wanted, not to mention the fact that Velvette is not ugly at all, quite the contrary.

‌So he resigns hisself and slides his hands behind her back, continuing the kiss, but V is not satisfied, she wants more and takes it, placing his hands on her own butt while she starts to sway the same, looking for some interesting reaction from the man.

‌The situation is getting complicated, at the moment they don't have the right physicality, but it doesn't matter. He tells himself that the sooner he does it, the sooner she'll leave, so when Velvette goes to his neck he teases her nipples, inducing her to take the next step, which is to slide between his legs as soon as she senses Carmilla's daughters coming.

‌Now on the ground she rubs her cheek against his member through his pants, when his daughters enter he panics giving her an excited look; He tries to hold her by putting a hand on her face, covering it all. But she is not easy to restrain and taking Carmine's hand she gives us a slow, eager lick, meandering her tongue between his fingers.

‌The daughters talk but it's as if he doesn't exist, now provoked and exasperated, feeling Velvette's lips on his own length and then a light bite on his thigh. He almost gasps.

‌Somehow the man gets rid of his daughters and as soon as they come out, he pulls Velvette to her feet with blue fur, but remains seated.

‌❝ What pops into your head?! ❞ In response, she snorts and points to his very visible erection.

‌“ Stop preaching daddy, is it really that exciting to be discovered by your daughters ? Pervert... ”.

‌He can't help but look away, frustrated, feeling like his own executioner.

‌❝ N-It's not me... Is it you ❞

‌Velvette smiles mischievously, placing her hands on his knees. “ I... Do you want to tell me that I'm good enough to make you hard unwillingly ? ”.

‌He growls but before he can open his mouth Velvette starts with another kiss, suddenly ripping off the front of his bodysuit and then unbuttoning his shirt, being able to admire his muscles and fiddle with his pecs and abs.

‌Carmilla acts indifferent but by now it is clear that a part of him wants her, so while she enjoys teasing him, Carmilla grabs his face and kisses her, Standing up only to turn her around and make her feel it against her back.

‌ Velvet suddenly shudders, for the first time since the beginning of that game she is not in charge. This is particularly exciting.

‌ Camilla starts by taking off her fur, running his hands along her back, moving her hair around so she can admire her better.

‌ Velvet, for her part, lies completely on the man's desk, dangling her hips to encourage him to continue.

At this point, Carmilla tears off the upper part of his bodysuit, already crumpled In any case, being able to comfortably take off his pants up to his thighs, grab Velvet by the thighs and place her on the desk in such a way as to leave her with her legs dangling.

‌She protests that she can't do much.

‌ Carmilla places a hand on her back, helping to remove her pants and underwear. It's not long before the actual sex begins, and neither of them knows what to say anymore except panting.

FROM HERE ON YOU CAN IMAGINE..

Art by @hawkeyyee

#velmilla #hazbin hotel #hazbin velvette #hazbin carmilla

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the-original-skipps · 9 months ago

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I desperately crave for a trope where the reader heavily despises Suo because he's basically the embodiment of perfection, and perfection is literally what reader hates the most.

She thinks people who portrays themselves in such way is nothing more than an illusion because underneath that perfect facade is nothing more than an individual who fears no one would accept them for their flaws. Reader thinks Suo is a coward for not embracing his true self, but there is also a theory that perhaps Suo is simply the perfect man everyone makes him out to be. He doesn't find the need to hide much things (aside from the reason why he wears an ugly-ass eyepatch) because Suo genuinely seems like the type of person to understand his flaws, embrace them, and reflect on them to become a good person.

But, that is what makes the reader hate him EVEN MORE. She despises how everyone praises his name. She despises how everytime he speaks, the room would be quiet so they could hear him. She waits for the day where he would make a mistake and be punished, just so he won't be this perfect person anymore.

Until arrived the day he DID make a mistake. Suo fell in love with the reader.

An ordinary girl who has probably made more memories in her head rather than reality.

An ordinary girl who could disappear from a crowd without being noticed.

An ordinary girl who never wishes for more because she's naturally always given less.

Suo, being the teasing master that he is, treated the reader as someone nothing more but a plaything to make fun of. Someone he could bully in front of his friends. Being Suo, he is certainly aware of the hatred reader bares towards him.

He was alright with it at first, after all, you're nothing special. The more he knew about reader and her past traumas, the better he understood.

It makes sense why reader would hate him, and it was slowly starting to hurt. Soon, he started to see himself the way reader sees him. He realized that being perfect is what makes you a very flawed person.

The reader and Suo are stuck between this one-sided love/one-sided hate relationship.

Suo started teasing Reader less, but instead, treated her with unconditional love and care. He wanted to fulfill what the world has failed to give her, even if she pushes him away plenty of times.

His perfection is what made her hate him, but her flaws is what made him love her.

WOW thank you for sharing this with me 🤍 you literally wrote an entire one shot plot hahaha I LOVE LOVE THIS TROUPE really reminds me of a shoujo manga reader be like

reader: I hate the way that you talk the way that you walk I hate the way that you dressー

suo: :D

enemies to lovers? hehehe

#love love loveee #amazing muah #skipps chat #eyepatch man discussion

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talenlee · 2 months ago

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The Two Conversations About Animorphs

A body of Animorphs discourse, the conversations we engage in because they’re fun and we want to engage in them, seemingly can be split into two basic camps:

Boy those kids did some war crimes! and

Why didn’t these kids commit more war crimes?

These are two forks of conversation that, often, when you scratch at them, seem to concentrate around two similar-but-not-the-same conversations, eventually:

Wow, Marco sucks

Wow, Cassie sucks

These two positions are seldom pit directly against one another and I’m not accusing anyone of being silly when they’re talking about the kid’s book series from the 90s. Rather, I think it’s interesting to talk about for the ways that Animorphs fans talk about the books in ways that may show something about yourself, and the way you think, that you haven’t realised.

Note this is not to say you should like Cassie and Marco. I don’t. I mean I like Marco to the extent that he has been a sort of future projection of someone who I consider one of my best friends, but like, I know that my love of them is going to influence my opinion of Marco when I go back and reread those parts of the books. But I don’t think of Marco as my favourite character, I know that Marco didn’t connect to me in the way that, say, Tobias with his crush on an idealised woman did. Marco had things about him that made him harder to connect to, like this trauma around a missing mom and a sad dad, things that didn’t make sense to me, in part because I thought being a parent down could rule, and I’d been raised in an environment that imagined divorce as both a sin and functionally impossible.

I also hadn’t been given a lot of reason to sympathise with people of colour because my upbringing was painfully racist.

But anyway.

Cassie, I still don’t have a deep love of Cassie. I think her unwillingness to engage with violence doesn’t fit my own willingness and my own imagined much greater willingness to do so when I was that age. I also think that I never really got the way that she was a black girl engaging with a world that made her second and triple guess all the ways she could behave and be treated, even in the world made and maintained by non-black authors. I do not find her arguments compelling and I think that I’d be more okay killing people than she would be.

But that’s… messed up right?

Like, I’m aware that I was traumatised as a child and that resulted in a relationship to violence that isn’t healthy. My being able to think ‘well, I bet I could have killed someone at that age,’ is not a good reason for the story aimed at twelve year olds to show their characters behaving that way.

What I am really concerned about here is that people feel comfortable talking about Cassie and Marco’s two perspectives in ways that are more okay with saying some things in a way that’s weird. Cassie is a pretty ordinary girl doing a pretty extraordinary job while trying to maintain a hold on complex issues that most adults don’t really grapple with as much as they give up. Accusing her of hypocrisy is so common in the fandom that it seems strange when people don’t level the same complaints against Tobias or Rachel. Now, I think that can be – can be – because people see those characters’ inconsistencies and bad decision making and see the way it integrates with a stated inner life, and therefore they’re not hypocrites, they’re just people with a point of view and a willingness to act on it.

If you don’t consider Cassie’s interiority, her humanity, if you hold her to some really high standard, like she should inherently know more or be more mature or somehow be wiser than the other characters who are all also children, then it can be a lot easier to see the hypocrisy as a thing. Otherwise it’s just a person who doesn’t have perfectly consistent ethical answers to a complex moral framework that is still working itself out because the person in question is a child who wants to make sure she doesn’t do anything she can’t take back.

Not to say that you’re racist for not liking Cassie. I’m saying that the kinds of things people seem comfortable accusing Cassie of, and the way they feel comfortable talking about her, are indicative of a racist pattern. Think about what it is that upsets you and if you’d talk about another character this way. This could just be a pattern you’re contributing to because you haven’t looked at Animorphs like this in a long time.

I on the other hand, am old. I am not a thirty year old turning to the things of my childhood and reflecting on an old thing that I can contemplate anew, a series that I loved that was at the edges of my reading comprehension and formed a foundational element of my childhood, I was a teenager who picked up this book series because I had literally no social skills and I was encouraged to read it by a child much younger than me which meant I had something of a friend in a time in my life when I was still building my mind anew after leaving a cult. What’s more I have never not been willing to indulge these older loves, at this point, because my life has been one of appreciating these ‘childish’ materials.

It is 2025. I am thinking about Ranma 1/2 and Animorphs and Dragonball. It is 1999. I am thinking about Ranma 1/2 and Animorphs and Dragonball. It is 2010. I am thinking about Ranma 1/2 and Animorphs and Dragonball.

There is nothing wrong about pursuing these questions or finding the answers that satisfy you. All I ask is consider if there are trends or patterns in what you notice, what matters to you, what you find as a trend in the work, and if there’s something to what that is.

(In making the bullet points at the top of the article, I at first typo’d war crimes as war cimes, which strikes me as an appropriately cute uwufication of the term. )

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#Animorphs #Media

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saintmeghanmarkle · 9 months ago

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Pat McAfee on his ESPN talk show really sticks it to Harold for the Espy Award by u/Von_und_zu_

Pat McAfee on his ESPN talk show really sticks it to Harold for the Espy Award In case anyone still wonders what ordinary Americans think about Harold, here you go. Pat is a former NFL player and is, in my opinion, represents rather well the views of mainstream and everyday Americans. Link to the videohttps://www.dailymail.co.uk/video/sport/video-3221775/Video-McAfee-disapproves-Prince-Harry-receiving-Pat-Tilman-Award-ESPYS.htmlhttps://preview.redd.it/t5bsu61cse9d1.png?width=1042&format=png&auto=webp&s=fac9c06059f9ddd092f97f82b665d747c025d7f9Here is the DM article that goes with it. https://ift.tt/ak4OWdt lot of conversation about Pat Tillman's name. American hero... Now there’s an award named after him, as there should be in the sports world because that is somebody who is the definition of selfless,' McAfee said at first. 'It's going to Prince Harry, who I don't even think is a prince anymore... He said don't call me that,' McAfee then quipped in a subtle dig at King Charles' estranged son, later adding: 'See, why does the ESPYS do this sh*t?'After 'Boston Connor' - a member of the cast on the Pat McAfee Show - described Prince Harry's nomination for the award as 'probably the most embarrassing thing I've seen in my entire life,' McAfee questioned whether the ESPY Awards' committee even did its homework on its candidate search in the first place.'When you do something like this, you know the immediate reaction from humans and sports fans and like people with common sense and brains is going to be like ''Hey, don't be putting our f***ing guy with that guy,' McAfee said before sharing his perception of Prince Harry, who founded The Invictus Games and served in the British Army.'I don't know anything about him except for the South Park episode and what I've learned from the Crown. 'But like did his people know like ''you publicly put me up for this award. You're just asking basically ever person that considers themselves American and saying ''this is bulls***'''. Especially at a sports award type of thing... I assume he knew that. They didn't expect that?'**A second member of McAfee's cast on-air - Ty Schmitt- also added fuel to the fire on Friday, calling the ESPYS Awards 'a gimmick.''It's like you couldn't find an active US military member or someone who can't serve anymore because of something they did while serving, Schmitt further said. 'There are probably hundreds, if not thousands of people who they could have found who could have benefitted from this award. But instead let's give it to Prince Harry...' Replying to his buddy's point McAfee suggested to just 'make up' an award for Prince Harry. 'How about it's like ESPY for royal family member who doesn't want to be called ''royal family member'' who loves sports,' he said. post link: https://ift.tt/IePjCU0 author: Von_und_zu_ submitted: June 29, 2024 at 02:59AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

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mllemaenad · 11 months ago

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The Magnus Protocol: Pet Project

This one seems to be about the illusion of control in almost the opposite direction to Futures. In Futures you were looking at someone who was obviously deluding themselves from the start. Even without the supernatural aspect, Darrien's little plan was almost certainly going to crash on him eventually – and with it, he was always, unquestionably, monster food.

Alyssa, though, has reason to think she knows what she's doing. This is her job, and the first half of the statement is just a cool, competent assessment of what she finds, and what she needs to do about it. It's only when the situation turns weird that she finds herself flailing and out of control.

What's especially interesting, though, is the inference, never outright stated, that maybe she should have known how to deal with this. She just missed the signs and treated it as an ordinary squirrel problem, rather than a supernatural snake-vomiting problem.

Chester/Alyssa Dad, this is for you, for everything you taught me, everything you shared. I need you to know what happened and I know you’ll believe me. Don’t blame yourself for not answering the phone. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. – The Magnus Protocol: Pet Project

First, the implication that Alyssa's father is somehow especially qualified to understand what has happened to her, and the fact that she seems to have called him first when she knew she was in trouble. The police are her fallback option when she couldn't get through to her dad. And honestly, what are the police going to do, even when they get there? She's already infected.

That was such an odd little piece that I hopped over to the wiki to see if there were any Becks I had forgotten in The Magnus Archives. There don't seem to be, but a) Beck could be Alyssa's married name, or she could simply have a different name to her father for other reasons or b) this is a new universe, so it's entirely possible this is the introduction of an entirely new dynasty of monster experts.

The whole thing feels like something of an homage to the Jordan Kennedy and Jane Prentiss situation, though: the exterminator turning up to a normal job that abruptly turns into a horror story; the whole range of potential contaminants in the place (rodents, mosquitoes, spoiled food, ants); the spread of infection by a scratch, like poor Harriet; the itching; someone basically dissolving into an animal mass.

I don't necessarily mean that there's the same kind of entity at work here – presumably the ones in this universe don't work exactly the same way – but the similarity is nevertheless striking.

So, what then? Well, the noteworthy thing about Jordan Kennedy is that he eventually came to work for the ECDC.

Jordan Kennedy At the time, I didn’t really connect the two. I was too busy trying to comprehend what had just happened. And when trucks from the ECDC showed up to put me in quarantine, it slipped my mind entirely. They were surprisingly forthcoming about Jane Prentiss and what had happened, and after an extensive debriefing, they actually offered me a job. Apparently, disease control and pest control often go hand in hand, and I’ve been working for them since. Most of the job’s been mundane – a couple slightly weird, but nothing like those two. – The Magnus Archives: Pest Control

In The Magnus Archives, the problem of monsters and eldritch gods was at least well enough understood that major institutions had some mechanism to deal with it, even if it wasn't discussed openly. Everybody needed at least one person on staff who wouldn't freak out if some many-headed sharp-toothed horror careened down the corridor toward them.

In The Magnus Protocol we know that (for good or ill) the OIAR fills a similar function, and presumably there are other examples we haven't yet got to. Should Alyssa have known about this, because her dad was the guy who won't freak out?

Chester/Alyssa When I unsealed the shop floor, the shopkeeper seemed obsessed with continuing his sales pitch to the pair. He was adamant that they purchase a snake and pretty much ignored me entirely. It made me a bit uneasy, so I hung back to watch. Thinking back, I should have noticed he was… off. – The Magnus Protocol: Pet Project

Second, Alyssa berates herself for not noticing that Anthony Walker was "off". But the thing is ... she did notice.

Chester/Alyssa Requested shop to be cleared of customers for full inspection. Client’s agitation increased, presumably due to business worries, resulting in a brief altercation. Kept mentioning “his burden” and grabbing at my sleeve. Received slight scratch by accident, but no escalation or violence, so no need for full incident report, although anyone following up should be advised there may be a mental health problem. – The Magnus Protocol: Pet Project

Things Alyssa noticed about Walker:

He had a bunch of weird scratch/bite marks on his neck

He said things that made no sense ("his burden")

He was excessively agitated about the whole situation, which, from Alyssa's side of the job, boiled down to "squirrel got in through open window"

He became violent when Alyssa requested that he ask the customers to wait outside

Alyssa saw all of this, but attributed it to mundane problems (mosquitoes, money woes, mental illness). Is the suggestion perhaps that she had all the information she needed to make a very different kind of assessment? That "off" does not mean "mentally ill", but rather "infected with something supernatural". And had she put it all together earlier, would she have perhaps called her father (or someone else with the right toolkit for this) much, much earlier?

She didn't seem to recognise The Magnus Institute, though, although it would still have been up and running when this happened.

So whatever Alyssa should have known, she got it from a different source.

And it's all relevant because, when Chester finishes speaking, it becomes apparent that he was probably telling this story to Gwen.

Sam (quietly, to himself:) No. No. Could be any institute. Gwen The letters, you mean? Sam Jesus! (catches his breath) Don’t sneak up on people like that! Gwen (putting bags down) I didn’t “sneak up.” It’s not my fault if you’re distracted. Sam When did you get here? Gwen Just now. (swivels on the chair) Seems pretty straightforward to me. Snakes, not sure what the collective noun is, horde, maybe? Cross-link with infection, too, probably. I wouldn’t have thought the letters have any bearing on the classification. – The Magnus Protocol: Pet Project

She's clearly been there for most, if not all, of the case: she knows how to classify it, and she can state with confidence which bits are relevant and which aren't.

Chester's got a point to make, here, it seems. Gwen, too, knows her job. It's a point of pride with Gwen that she is very good at reviewing and classifying the cases.

Alice Zombies would have been fine. Gwen A) no it wouldn’t, and B) there’s at least three pages of subclassifications for zombies. He’d be here for hours. Alice And I’m guessing this dedication to detail is why you’re so behind? Gwen It’s why I have the highest accuracy rate in the office. – The Magnus Protocol: First Shift

She's also an old hand at the OIAR, and aware that there is something, well, off about the place.

Gwen What do you think we’re actually doing, here at the O.I.A.R.? Alice Apart from mortgaging our mental health for a wage packet? Gwen We’ve both been here long enough to know this place. We’re not doing good. We’re not just – sifting random data. There’s something wrong here. Alice What are you getting at? Gwen You never wonder what the point is? Who benefits from all this awfulness? – The Magnus Protocol: Getting Off

She's been meeting with Externals, and people have died. And in this episode, specifically, Lena is unhappy with her. What has Gwen done now? It sounds as though Chester is saying that Gwen has all the information she needs to make a determination on something – the OIAR, the Externals, monsters in general. She knows all the classifications, and their sub categories. She's seen the monsters with her own eyes.

And maybe, just maybe, it's important that her last name is Bouchard.

Then there's Alice. And ... well, I hope they go somewhere with her soon. I mean, I get it. This is deliberate. It's not simply that she deflects with humour, it's that she's obnoxious about it. Her jokes tend to be slightly cruel, or at least mocking. She's overbearing with her wit. I honestly don't find it charming at all. And I don't think I'm supposed to.

People do small talk with Alice, or some light banter, but they don't really talk. If the conversation goes in a direction she doesn't like she'll turn it into a bit. And then you have to put up with the bit until she gets tired of it ... which is frankly exhausting to contemplate. You also have to put up with this at 3 AM because you work a night shift. So best not to risk it.

The trouble is that it works. I also tense up when people try to talk to Alice, because it's going to be awkward and irritating.

It's a contrast with John back in The Magnus Archives. He was undoubtedly also quite obnoxious, specifically in the early seasons, but you spent a lot of time in his head, so the process of understanding why was smoother. We never hear Alice's internal monologue – only the rubbish she talks to avoid saying anything.

I don't mean that I'm unsympathetic. Alice is a main character, she seems to be in some distress, and she's intriguing in many ways. Just ... ohhhh I hope they do something with her soon, or I'm just going to die of second hand embarrassment.

#the magnus protocol #the magnus protocol spoilers #the magnus archives

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tiger-moran · 1 year ago

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I'm still thinking about Moriarty: The Devil's Game and sorry this isn't going to be complimentary about it.

One of my fundamental issues with this is just Moriarty is so 'nice' and ordinary effectively, aside from his mathematical brilliance he's just... some guy, until shit happens to push him into criminality. Just... I don't like the way it's gone to the extreme of 'what if Moriarty was a nice totally innocent and actually rather boring guy while Holmes is absolutely depraved'.

And why can't Moriarty just... be a criminal because he wants to be? Why has there got to be some 'deeper' reason for it and, worse, the same sort of bullshit reason that often gets ascribed to Holmes too to explain why he's the way he is, namely it's some tragic incident involving a woman (either by breaking his heart or also like in Young Sherlock Holmes for instance, where the girl the young Holmes loved was murdered). There doesn't have to be a reason for Moriarty being a criminal, he can just be one anyway? And that reason certainly doesn't need to involve killing a woman or having a woman 'break his heart' (or you know, not, as the case may be).

I like alternate takes on Moriarty that paint him as something other than the 'depraved evil villain' (though incidentally he isn't even that in the canon), I like stuff like Kurland's stories, even though I have issues with them and how Moran was largely replaced in them in particular, but the basic idea that Moriarty is not simply the 'evil villain' people assume he is but at the same time he is still someone who breaks the law and can be morally questionable at times is something I genuinely really like. But this story went so far to the other extreme, not only with Moriarty but also with Holmes and some of the other characters too, and I just... don't get what I'm supposed to find interesting or enjoyable about that.

And Moriarty is just so nauseatingly and heteronormatively romantic in this, not only going on and on and on about how much he loves 'Rose' but also about the marriage and having kids in the future (plus that ending. God, that ending, urgh). What is there in that take on Moriarty that I'm supposed to recognise or care about? There's nothing in that I, someone who loves Moriarty so much, can recognise or care about. Moriarty is just far too 'nice' and basically ordinary and also so romantic and sentimental it doesn't feel anything like Moriarty to me, and once he's basically pushed into criminality... he's still too nice about it even then. Yes I appreciate Moriarty having some morals and some limits on his behaviour and I absolutely agree he does have these even canonically, but in this he's still too conflicted about it, too obviously pushed into it rather than freely choosing to do this, and I just think that's a very boring take on the character. Moriarty can be a complex villain or antagonist or protagonist depending on the story without... all of that, without making him sickeningly romantic and 'lovey-dovey' (and straight) and basically a nice (and actually rather dull) man.

There were a few elements that I liked. I did kind of like Watson, though it's a very dark take on Watson and unpleasant in some ways, but while he was one of the 'bad guys' in effect, he was much more nuanced than most of the others and I found him far more interesting than Moriarty or Moran (or anyone else) but I do think a big factor in that is... he felt more like Moran than Moran did, really.

I liked that Moriarty had respect for a woman who characters such as Holmes just dismissed as a "whore" and I liked Charlotte whenever she wasn't being shoved in as Moran's 'love interest' (which was most of her appearances/references to her unfortunately).

I liked Moriarty's brother being brought in including with the train stuff, even though he sounded like a kid so it was hard to buy him being a stationmaster.

And I appreciated them actually calling Moran Moriarty's partner and friend, actually using those words. But... even that was still done in a way that let it down and ultimately that was wasted on me, it still wasn't enough to make me like them or care about the relationship.

And Moran... Moran was just... he's fine? But that's all. I don't feel anything much for him beyond... yeah he's OK. I mean for one thing I cannot register him as being Moran with that accent, I just can't, and another thing was again with him we got too much emphasis on him liking women (because god forbid anyone suspect Moriarty and Moran might be queer I guess).

And Irene Adler, who I love so much in the canon, well... the less said about her in this the better I think.

I just don't really get who this was aimed at, it made both Holmes brothers absolutely hateful and villainous (but not even interesting in their villainy), it made Watson practically one of the villains even if he was better and more interesting than others, it killed off one of the police inspectors and basically ruined the life of the other main one from canon. It completely screwed with Adler. So... was this aimed at people who actually hate the character of Sherlock Holmes? Or who hate the stories and all the characters in them? Or was it aimed at people who already care about Moriarty and Moran? But that's not many people really, and I already care so much about Moriarty and Moran and I didn't like it at all so...?

And I'm feeling like it was aimed mostly at people who don't care or know anything about Sherlock Holmes overall at all? Like the Adler thing, like Porlock's identity, these are SO obvious if you know anything about the canon and that does spoil the ~dramatic twists~ many episodes later. But what was the point of doing any kind of Sherlock Holmes adaptation in that case, if they were basically catering for people who don't like or know the stories?

AND ANOTHER THING

Yes they used the words partner and friend to describe Moran in relation to Moriarty and had him being very loyal to him (although with that shit ending it doesn't exactly make it look like Moriarty cares so much about Moran after all) but a lot of their relationship was just... us being told stuff, not actually being shown anything, like we're told they're friends, we're told Moran is his "partner" but it's like... it started off at point A where they've never met before and jumped to point Z where they're apparently partners and best friends and we barely saw anything in between, it skipped right over most of the other points. Whereas we got endless bloody 'James and Rose' flashbacks, we got other scenes that dragged on pointlessly for no reason, but there was almost nothing shown of Moriarty and Moran interacting as friends, or developing an actual close bond, it was just... said to exist and that was it. And that was really not enough to make me care about them in this universe. So Moriarty didn't leave Moran behind when he could have done so when they escaped from the prison which I guess is partly why Moran latches on to him but that only goes so far I think, and most of their scenes together are action scenes or them dealing with business stuff or whatever, there's very little to show them becoming close, coming to care about each other. There was so much bloody 'James and Rose' stuff that I absolutely hated and so much of Moriarty being nauseatingly romantic over 'Rose' but realistically almost nothing actually shown for Moriarty and Moran and their personal relationship.

I'm sorry I just did not like any of this or understand realistically who they were trying to target it at but whoever their target audience was it clearly wasn't me, despite me being one of the biggest fans and champions of Moriarty and Moran in existence, the one who has poured my heart into writing many, many thousands of words about both of them, of fic and character analysis and meta and all of that. I still wasn't the target audience for something that was meant to be about Moriarty and that actually not only remembered Moran exists but made him a major character and explicitly called him Moriarty's friend, and I didn't like it at all. And that just really sucks.

#James Moriarty #Sebastian Moran #Sherlock Holmes #Irene Adler #Dr John Watson #Professor Moriarty #Moriarty The Devil's Game

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