#it's brutal it's exhausting and raw as in it strips you to your core

[thebean-17]

I think one thing people won't really fully tell you about when it comes to depression itself is that it isn't just feeling sad. It isn't just having a couple of articles of clothing on the floor. It's not about just having a "messy" desk (although most I've seen would be neatly organized and clean. I genuinely get surprised when people think their organized and clean "mess" looks like a mess to them).

Depression is having piles on top of piles of washed, unwashed clothes scattered around your room. And you don't have the energy to fold, sort, or clean the rest of them.

Depression is leaving piles of dirty fucking dishes until things rot and mould. It's about trying to "hide" your mess from people because you feel absolutely embarrassed. So, everything gets crammed and stored away rather than properly organized. You hiss at anyone who enters your area because of that embarrassment. You already know it's bad. You already know that your own space looks like a rat-infested Denny's drug den.

It's about having ZERO energy to do anything about it, or that when you do try to work on it, it saps every fibre of your being, and you have to wait until the next day to recharge. Sometimes even taking one step at a time, or taking it one day at a time doesn't feel enough.

Your hair becomes unkempt, and your hygiene falters. It just becomes hard to maintain and keep up with. It's debilitating like you can no longer take care of yourself. Your own mind, your own body becomes your prison.

[writing-in-april]

Star Wars vs. Star Trek

Spencer Reid x Female Reader

This is my entry for the secret fic swap that was organized by the ever amazing @imagining-in-the-margins 

The person I got was-  @sunlight-moonrise  who is an amazing little bunny that I love

Thankies all around to my lovely helpers @definitelynotkatesblog , @clean-bands-dirty-stories​ and @httpnxtt  Plus I was inspired by all the asks that @reidscardigan​ gets, it fuels my smutty thoughts!

Warnings: Jealous!Spencer, Rough sex, Impact play (on the heavy side), Face fucking, Light degradation, Choking, Bruising/Marking, Hair Pulling, Unprotected sex, and Orgasm Denial

A/N: I had a great time writing this I think its one of my best works! Feel free to drop a request in my inbox if you have a request (No duplicate requests please)

Word count: 3.6K

Masterlist   

  Spencer and I finally have some vacation time, and my god it feels like it’s been forever. We both worked ridiculously hard at the BAU, so Hotch had finally determined that it was time for the team’s mandatory two-week break this year.  

As soon as we got home the both of us stripped of our work clothes and cuddled up on the couch to watch some movies. Spencer had the remote in his hand scrolling through to find a movie, the cursor landed on Star Trek. I could feel his puppy dog eyes looking up at me through his glasses that he only wore at home trying to convince me into letting him choose it. “Noooo Spencer, we watched it last week” I groaned. Sometimes it felt like your relationship was Spencer and Spock, and you as the delightful third wheel. “Ok what about a different one? We don’t have to watch any of the vintage ones, the new movies aren’t my favorite but they’re still extraordinary pieces of film art!” he ranted enthusiastically. “No, why don’t we watch Star Wars?” I begged, he knew it was my favorite but still insisted that Star Trek was better. “No, because I know you’ll ask to watch the sequels and I don’t like them, the story is just a repeat of the originals.” his eyes rolled and I was surprised they didn’t get stuck in the back of his head. Spencer and I have had this argument many times. The back and forth on which series was better was exhausting but so exhilarating. “Star Wars looks better, has better music, and better plot lines overall!” My voice slightly raised, I hated it when he tried to prove me wrong about this. Star Wars was my cemented favorite just as his was Star Trek. “Star Wars has straight up inaccuracies while Star Trek has improbabilities, not outright errors.” Spencer snarked back. I could tell neither of us were going to win this debate anytime soon. We always ended up in a shouting match about  why we thought our favorite series was better. “Fuck you! I’m right, Star Wars is so much better! I mean look at Kylo Ren, he’s so much better then Kirk or Spock!” Spencer’s face turned into an expression mixed with jealousy and rage. “And look how good he looks during that interrogation scene!” I continued. “You think he’s hot?!” He accused profiling the look I had on my face as I was talking about Kylo “What are you jealous of a fictional character?” I asked mockingly, a knowing smirk adorning my face. Maybe I could get him riled up enough to get something else out of tonight. “N-no of course not that’s absurd!” He squeaked out, giving away how he truly felt. A coquettish smirk grew on my face as I got an evil idea. I deftly snuck my hands into my sleep shorts, slipping under my cotton panties and started to rub soft circles on my clit, not fully giving myself the stimulation that I desired. Spencer’s eyes bugged out of his head getting whiplash from the conversation switch. “Kylo” I moaned out with a simper, gathering my slick arousal I slid down my folds, pushing a finger inside, immediately crooking the digit to locate my g spot. I wanted to push Spencer to the edge of jealousy till he snapped. He got practically feral if I worked him up enough. I continued my descent into a selfish climax- adding another finger, as I picked up the speed of my thrusts into my dripping heat. My mind was so lost in the pleasure I forgot Spencer was there- until my hand was violently jerked from my pussy by a tight clasp on my forearm, just before I was about to fall into bliss. “What do you think you're doing?” Spencer spat.

That voice was usually reserved for unsubs, which served to further dampen my panties, his mind had switched into his dominant persona that was prevalent in the bedroom. “Just indulging myself, Spencer, since you won’t.” I bit back, irritated I’d been brought back from the edge of toe-curling bliss. He shot me a harsh look and tightened his grip on my arm, a warning if you will. I could tell I had just gotten myself into deep trouble, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to rile him up further. “Get in the bedroom and strip. You’ve earned yourself a punishment, brat.” His tone had gotten down right deadly at this point, but I didn’t let that deter me. I was on a mission. I decided to further dig myself in a hole by ignoring his order, simply crossing my arms and turning my head away. I could feel his bitter gaze boring into the back of my skull as I continued to defy his order, my excitement pooling in anticipation for the brutal punishment I’d surely earned. We sat like that for a while- refusing to break out of my sass, and him making sure that I was really ready for what he had in store for me. My legs started to squirm, the tension was almost unbearable. Just before I was about to give him another smart remark his other hand shot out to my leg, holding it firmly so I was no longer moving. A surprised squeak escaped my lips as Spencer  flipped me onto my stomach, my knees coming to rest on the floor and my chest pressed into the couch. I tried to regain my balance in an attempt to crawl away from him but he quickly moved to hover over my form, boxing me in with his arms. “Are you trying to get in more trouble, Dolly?” he asked, his tone dark and condescending. A pathetic little whimper escaped my throat. When I failed to reply quick enough by his standards, a large palm came down on my backside, forcing an answer out of me.

“Yes! I’m sorry Sir, I was trying to get in t-trouble.” “Tsk tsk. Only bad girls like punishment, Doll.” He sounded disappointed. I dug my nails into the plush and hid my face into the cushion, trying to escape from under his heavy gaze. He pulled my hands to rest behind my back, tying my hands with what felt like a drawstring from sweatpants. He’d learned to improvise during our time together; had he left to find more appropriate rope, there was no guarantee I’d be in the same position he left me in by the time he got back. He snaked his hands through my hair, yanking hard to pull my body flush against his own. “Color?” He asked quickly, checking in with me, which only made the situation hotter-what can I say? Consent is sexy. “Green” I replied with a grin. Being disciplined was always exhilarating. “What’s my punishment, Sir?” He let go of the grip on my hair, his hands swiftly moving to remove my shorts and now soaked cotton thong, revealing my bare bottom to him. I rubbed my legs together trying to get some sort of friction but was interrupted by Spencer wrenching my legs apart. “You do that again I’ll add 20 more and you’ve already earned yourself 40- plus a little extra something.” His words hummed against the shell of my ear, sending a shiver trickling down my spine. I groaned in protest and tried to wiggle myself away from him, his hand coming down onto my left cheek in response. “Doll-“ He warned sharply. “If you keep this up I won't let you cum for a week.” His words shook me to my sassy core; I was greedy and there was no way I was going to get myself in more trouble. “I’m sorry...” I muttered into the couch cushion. “Say it louder, Dolly.” The sing song tone/cadence of his voice felt like a trap- contrasted to his previously dark tone and warning smack brought down on my backside. “I’m really sorry, Sir!” I shouted. With my cry, I gave up control to Spencer entirely.  He loved when I acted like this, no matter how angry he pretended to be. “Do you mean it this time?” I could hear the devilish smile on his lips. “Yes!” I confirmed on a shaky breath. I was done fighting him. “You’re so good to me a-and I shouldn’t have tried to make you jealous.”

Although he couldn’t see my eyes, I put on my biggest, sweetest set of puppy dog eyes to really drive my point home.

“So you’re going to sit pretty and take your spankings like a good girl, right?”

I nodded sheepishly, secretly hoping that maybe, just maybe if I was good enough that I might get to come tonight. He let me stew in my thoughts for a minute before resuming his assault on my behind. His hand gripped both cheeks into his palms, kneading the tender flesh that was about to be covered in black and blue handprints. As the first strikes landed on my right side, he grabbed a blanket for me to cuddle into as he landed each smack, his full strength being used in each one, exhibiting just how much I pissed him off. My nerves were prickling, my ass had already started to sting and he hadn’t even reached the 10th strike. I’d definitely be able to feel the pain for the next week- maybe longer. Teardrops started to coat from my lashes onto my cheeks as he switched to the left cheek. By the time he’d reached the halfway mark, the blanket had become soaked by my uncontrolled muffled sobs. His rhythm never faltered as he continued to pepper the now-raw skin of my bottom with more punishing blows. “What are you?” He finally spoke as he was nearing the end of his count, my fingers digging into my palms to help me get through the last few. “I’m a bad girl, Sir” I pathetically whimpered into the blanket.

A brutal THWACK landed against my backside, letting me know he was looking for me to use my big girl voice.  A sob raked through my chest, sending more tears down the blushed apples of my cheeks. “I’M A BAD GIRL, SIR!” My bruised bottom felt like it had been burned by hot coals with welts forming as evidence, as Spencer drew out the last few at a languid pace. When he finally finished, he dropped his head down to plant kisses on each injured cheek, a sign of appreciation for behaving. “You dirty girl, you're getting off to this ” He said matter of factly, moving to run his finger through my drenched folds, his fingers probed my entrance trying to get me more worked up. Surging forward, he replaced his fingertips with his tongue stirring a fire deep in my belly, placing delicate kitten licks along my folds. My body writhed against his touch and for a moment, I thought I might get off easy. Until, again, he pulled away just as I was about to shatter into a million pieces. “Sirrrrr, please?” I begged, my clit was throbbing in tandem with the blood pounding under the skin of my raw and tender bottom. His threat from earlier became evident- he wasn’t going to let me cum easily. “No, Doll, you still haven’t proven that you’re sorry enough.” He roughly yanked me off the sofa, positioning me on my knees in front of him, his clothed cock sitting right in my eye-line. The sweatpants that he had dawned were taken off quickly, I drank in the sight of his hard cock through tear-stained eyes. “Color?” He asked while cradling my jaw. The realization hit me, and I became blissfully aware of one thing: he was about to fuck my face. “Green.” I was always happy to give Spencer pleasure, and to see all the power just my mouth had over him was insanely erotic to me. He gripped his cock in one hand, pulling my chin down to open my mouth with the other. I stuck out my tongue for him and leaned forward, wrapping my lips around the head of his erection to begin gently sucking. Precum filled my mouth as I started to bob my head, working my way farther down his length each time until I reached the base of his cock. I choked slightly, my nose nuzzling against the hairs of his waistline. He gripped my hair on both sides with each of his hands and did a shallow experimental thrust forward, giving me a taste of what was coming. My eyes screwed shut as he set a fast pace, his tip hitting the back of my throat, tears starting to prick at the corners of my eyes again. The hardwood grinding against my knees sourced a new pain, but all I was focused on was the cock  being shoved down my throat and pleasuring the man it was attached to. “Open your eyes, Doll. I want you to see what you do to me.” I glanced up with my glassy red rimmed eyes to gaze at the beautiful sight of Spencer, his head was tilted back, sweat coating his ruffled curls, with his mouth hung open in a silent gasp. Even through my tears I could see this man was an angel.  I groaned, somehow I was even more turned on, so much so that I could feel a pool forming on the floor from my arousal. He rutted harder into my mouth signaling that he was close to his release, drool was now dripping from the sides of my mouth, wetting the thin material of my pajama top. Hot spurts shot down my throat with a strangled cry from him. Tasting his salty release on my tongue, I drank him in, savoring every last drop he had to give me. As he pulled himself out of my mouth, the string of spit connecting my lips to the head of his cock snapped, falling down my chin. Saltwater still cascading down my cheeks met with the mess on my chin, creating  a messy mixture. Spencer pressed a thumb to my cheek, pushing the few drops of cum that escaped along with some spit into my mouth. “You being a cry baby, Dolly?” he cooed condescendingly, wiping away the drops that accumulated onto my cheek bones as I sent him a little pout. “You should’ve thought about the consequences before you broke the rules, Doll.” Turning me around, he pressed my chest into the coffee table across from the couch. Though I still had on my shirt, the cold surfaces rubbed against my sensitive nipples making them harden to a peak. He hadn’t done anything for a minute, so I tried to turn my head to see what he was doing. I was met with a harsh tug at my jaw forcing it to prop up facing the tv. The television flicked to life flooding the screen with the Disney+ logo I tried to glance back again to shoot him an incredulous look, but again I was repositioned roughly to stare at the screen. He clicked through until landing on the Force Awakens. My brows furrowed, but I decided not to push my luck by asking any questions. He pressed play and started fast forwarding until he landed on the scene I had been referencing that got in me trouble in the first place. Kylo Ren graced the screen, starting his interrogation with Rey. Was he going to sit here and make me watch it? Was he going to let me cum? Or was he going to edge me the whole night and hang me out to dry? I was snapped out of my thoughts by a tug at my neck, his palms wrapping around like a necklace, pulling my torso up so that my eyes locked perfectly to the moving figures on the screen. “You think he could fuck you better then I can, Doll?” he ground out. “That pathetic boy compensates with his saber, yet you have the whole package right here sweetheart.” I gasped and wriggled at his words, becoming down right desperate to have him do anything to me. He finally relented, dragging his free hand up my folds, still just barely touching me- ghosting around my clit. He sucked dark bruises into my neck, and as his teasing touches continued, I impatiently whined. “Please, Sir I need you.” “Why should I? You have Kylo don’t you?” “I already said I’m sorry, Sir! And I mean it really!” My begs filled our apartment, loud enough to completely mask the sound of the movie. I had been completely ignoring the film, focusing solely on trying to gain some sort of pleasure from the man endlessly denying it. “Ok, Dolly but only if you promise to never do it again.” I tried my best to nod against  his vise grip on the column of my throat. He deftly snuck two fingers into my pussy, fitting snugly inside of me causing my body to unconsciously move my lower half against him. He started to pump and curl them, expertly hitting the perfect spot each time making stars appear behind my eyes. Suddenly he removed his fingers, quickly replacing it with something far more satisfying before I could complain. His cock bottomed out, filling me to the hilt eliciting a surprised squeak from me. He always made me feel so full-it felt like heaven. His hips propelled forward starting a rough rhythm that left almost no room to breathe, the movie had been completely muffled by our moans and sounds of slapping skin, a heavy dose of sex lingering in the air. His thrusts were irritating the already brutalized flesh off my ass, but the stinging sensation just aided in ecstasy that flowed through my veins. “You look so much prettier with these bruises.” He grunted as I tried to arch my back to a steeper angle so I could take him as deep as possible. “It shows everyone who’s mine, even if they are a fictional character.” Spencer was repeatedly hitting my g spot sending me closer and closer to the edge, but I knew I had to ask permission before I came. “Please, Sir, Please! I’m so close! Can I cum?” “Why do you think you deserve to cum Doll?” He asked, I should’ve known he was still going to throw one last tease in before letting me orgasm. “Because- I - I don’t know I just need it!” I let out a frustrated sob as he continued to thrust with reckless abandon. “Ok. Doll. Let. Go.” he said, accentuating each word with a sharp rock with his hips. My eyes rolled far into the back of my head as I was sent careening into pleasure, the coil that sat deep in my belly snapped, sending me into violent waves of pleasure. As I rode out my delicious high, Spencer’s hips stuttered and the grip on my neck was tightened as he shot ropes into me, stuffing me to the brim. He let go of my neck letting me relax my head onto the table. I’m sure I had a messy, freshly-fucked look on my face but I couldn’t be bothered to care.“Have you learned your lesson?” He asked once he had caught his breath. I nodded meekly, knowing full well I’d be back on my brattiest behavior as soon as these bruises faded. We both groaned as he slipped his softening cock from out of my folds. He slowly padded away to grab his items for aftercare-my favorite part. I had never had a partner show so much care for me like Spencer had. He came back with everything he needed and got to work, starting by cleaning my folds with a washcloth, then switching to a fresh one wiping the tears and spit away from my face. Aloe that he had made sure to warm up was then squirted onto my cheeks, he rubbed the liquid in softly massaging the abused flesh with gentle care. My limbs still felt like jello when it was time to stand, so Spencer helped guide me into new clean pajamas, he even made sure to pick out the velvet ones I liked, they always felt like little soft caresses were being peppered against my skin when I wore them. “You ok, Doll? You haven’t said anything.” He whispered gently, as if afraid he’d startle me. “Yeah” I croaked.My voice had been thoroughly abused throughout the night making rasp harder than normal. “Just feel a little woozier than normal.” He quickly enveloped my form into a hug, drawing me in close so I could smell the cologne that made itself a part of everything he owned. Sitting us both down on the couch, he found as many blankets and as possible making a little fort of warmth around us.

“I’m sorry I was harsh, Doll.” “No no, I liked it, it was just intense.” My scratchy voice obviously made him cringe. “So you are jealous of a fictional character?” I cheekily quipped to try and cheer him up. He let out a chuckle in response and started to ghost little butterfly kisses all across my face.

“I love you,” he whispered between kisses. “Sing to me?” I asked softly. I cherished his horrible singing with all my heart, it made me  soft and mushy on the inside. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know dear how much I love you, please don’t take my dolly away.” I started to drift to sleep even though I was fighting to giggle at Spencer’s croaky singing. Despite his god awful singing in my ear, sleep found me, whisking me away to the land of sweet dreams. I drifted off in his arms, knowing I was his good girl- knowing he would love and cherish me until the ends of the Earth.

[tainted-wine]

would it be too much to ask for some more aizawa and fatgum smut bc 😳😳😳

Here’s a double-pack just for you, anon. <3

Heroes like Eraserhead handle cases too brutal for the average idealistic seeker of justice. They face villains that—although aren’t always the strongest—have twisted minds capable of committing atrocities that can break any man that witnesses them.

And tonight reminded you of how underhanded their tactics could be. “I was careless and got ambushed, but they were terrible fighters and I got the upper-hand. Don’t worry about it.”

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ he says, with obvious bruises littering his body and dried blood on his nose and lips.

After cleaning his face, you made him undress to look at his wounds, not letting him plop onto the bed out of exhaustion just yet. The sight of each angry discolored welt on his skin pricked at your worried heart.

He took your face in his hands and forced you to look into his eyes, eyes that were tired, but still full of love and life. “I just told you not to worry. You know I’ve been through worse.”

His lips are on yours before you can bite back with a retort. You’re both stripped completely in a flash, and despite the sensitive state of his body, he pulls you close to him.

This is far from the first time the two of you have engaged in sex after a scare like this, and surprisingly, it was always him that initiated it. The touches were hectic and aimless, the kisses deep and filled with yearning. He was close, warm, and alive.

Strong calloused hands move down your frame, caressing flesh that has been treated much more fairly than his.

“You’re not the only one that worries,” he murmurs between kisses. You imagine that his cut lips are in pain, but that isn’t stopping him. “I get scared too. Scared that I won’t see you again, that I’ll cause you grief. It’s not rational to be thinking such things while I’m fighting for my life, but I can’t help it.”

You want to hold him more tightly but don’t want to bring him any more pain, even if he seems to be welcoming it. “Emotions and logic never mix,” you whisper.

He gives you a small smile; surely that must sting. “I know.”

He lifts you off his lap just to lower you again, and you gasp at the feeling of being penetrated, sinking further down and savoring the slow stretch of your walls. You made sure to take him all the way down to the hilt, to be as close to him as possible.

The pleasure from each rock of your hips and every upward thrust from his is intensified by the affection and honest fears emanating from both of you. Your foreheads are pressed together, staring into the depths of each other’s eyes as you tighten around him, earning a groan from him.

Neither of you wanted to look away. You wanted to be reminded in every way that he was right here—safe, breathing hotly into your face, and accepting your love.

Your gazes are only broken when you both reach your peak, locking lips and moaning into each other’s mouths as you ride out the waves of hot bliss.

Muscular arms wrap around your limp form, stroking your back and moving up to bury his fingers in your hair. “I’m not going anywhere, kitten. There’s too much that I’ll leave behind.”

You can feel the tears pooling behind your eyes, but you don’t let them spill. Not tonight.

“I know.”

------------

“Not bad, sweet bun. You’re doing alright so far.”

You gave Taishiro the most convincing smile you could make while having your muff stuffed, but his smirk and tilt of the head was enough to tell you that it didn’t work. “This is nothing. Now give me your cock already.”

He snickered and pinched your cheeks with the fingers that weren’t sheathed inside your pussy.  “Don’t rush me, now! Did ya get so dazed that you forgot our deal? Maybe that’s my cue to stop.”

“No!” You didn’t forget at all. The little deal was simple: if you can take three of his fingers without wincing, then he’ll deem you ready to take the massive monster in his pants. You know that he’s just making sure that he doesn’t seriously hurt you, and this was his unique way of breaking you in, but you want his huge cock to ruin you. You want that throbbing dick to push so far in, it will shatter your mind and the only feeling you’ll know is the incredible stretch inside of you.

Truthfully, his thick fingers were doing a fine enough job of filling you up while you were seated on his thigh, but that just isn’t what you craved. You need his hot veiny meat. But for now…

“Alright, here comes the third one! It sure feels like you’re more than wet enough to take it, but we’ll have to see.”

His third digit squelched loudly as it began to push in, hoping to join the other two in expanding your insides. The burning stretch was almost too much to bear. You kept your breathing steady and your walls relaxed, not wanting to add any extra tension that will make his entry even more difficult.

Taishiro was watching your face closely for any sign of pain. The raw lust in his eyes was making you drip even more and clench around him. He chuckled at your reaction, the red tint in his cheeks spreading as he relished the sight of you holding yourself back just to please him.

It felt like his finger went on forever, your grip on his thigh tightening. Sweat was glistening all over your body, and all it took was the passing of his second knuckle to stretch you just a tad too far, and you released a small whimper as your eyes shut from the ache.

A wince.

The finger immediately stopped, then all three of them began to pull out and fuck, you wanted to cry because you’ve never felt this empty before.

After noisily withdrawing from your soaked cunt, Taishiro observed the slick on his fingers before shaking his head with disapproving clicks of the tongue.

“Too bad, bun.”

Your pussy was throbbing harder than you’ve ever felt, clamping desperately at the abandoned space inside of you. “No…fuck, please…I need to…” You shakily begged him to try again.

He gave an innocent peck on your damp cheek. “Sorry, sweets. One wince, no dick. But I never said that you couldn’t cum, did I? Come on, I’m not trying to be mean here!”

Your core was pulsing with excitement when he inserted a finger back inside, your ravenous pussy getting a firm grasp and sucking him in. You were just about to ask for more, that you needed to be stuffed again, but a skillful curve that has him poking your sensitive bundle of nerves leaves you moaning instead.

You hold onto him as he finger-fucks you into heaven, stroking every sweet spot inside you while his thumb pressed against your clit, reducing you to a weeping mess.

Taishiro held you gently, a stark contrast to the finger that continued to vigorously pump into you. “Don’t get sour about it, baby. There’s always next time, but for now, be a good girl and cum around my fingers.”

[thedolorous]

THE MUTINY AT CRASTER’S KEEP the headcanon

content warning: torture, death, ptsd, suicide ideation

JEOR MORMONT is dead.  long live the nine-hundred-and-ninety-seventh lord commander of the night’s watch.  after being starved and worked like dogs in craster’s keep, many of the brothers have had enough. KARL TANNER starts the mutiny, but RAST is the first to attack the lord commander. . . YOU fight but are quickly outnumbered -- men who you have served besides for years have attacked you, have pinned you to the ground, have bound you and beat you. 

you SEETHE with a rage you did not know you can access. anger consumes you as you’re dragged away to a tent, the smell of pig shit thick in the air. they keep you CHAINED to a post, and you cannot escape. grenn and whoever’s left -- the small group of you -- know that this is bad. you just don’t know how much of a NIGHTMARE it will truly be.

they starve you, and you’re freezing most of the time, trying to huddle up against grenn for warmth even though the two of you are not close enough. karl starts picking you off one by one, and you hear the screams. sleep doesn’t come easy as the days continue. you can’t tell if the screams are real or in your mind, if they’re part of your dreams or your reality. time slowly becomes irrelevant. they feed you (barely), you talk to grenn to keep your sanity, and you hear the screaming. your anger dissipates to frustration, to exhaustion, and little by little you are torn. the situation grows more dire every day. 

your day has come. they grab you violently and throw you down in front of tanner, who sits smugly on craster’s chair. he likes to think he looks HIGH AND MIGHTY, but all you see is a man desperate to be important. you say as much, and it earns you a few punches. you decide you will not go out like a coward; you are strong. even if this terrifies you to your core, you will die with your honor, with your pride. . . but tanner has no intentions of killing you. not yet. you goad him, you try to egg him on, but he tells you:  YOU WILL DIE WHEN I SAY YOU CAN DIE, DOLOROUS EDD.  DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? 

they remove your shirt, and you protest. you see a strip of leather, and then you feel it against your skin. the first hit burns you like fire, the stinging rippling through you. it’s the first hit of many. you lose count after twenty, and eventually you’re screaming, unable to hold it in when they break flesh, when they hit welts already made. tanner decides you’ve had enough when you’ve broken down into sobs. you’re thrown to craster’s women to have your back patched up, and grenn asks too many questions when you’re limply dragged back into the tent. 

you’re feverish over the next few days, barely coherent. eventually reality comes back to you, and you cry as you tell grenn what happened. he gently taps your foot with his and promises you’ll be okay.  you’re not sure anymore.  your resolve is breaking. 

they take grenn the day after that, and you’re inconsolable.  NO! NO, PLEASE --  but there are no gods, not where you are. ( and if they do exist, they don’t care about you. ) you can’t hear anything from the tent. you imagine the worst, until they drag grenn back to you. the two of you are destined to suffer the most, and you do. 

soon enough, you two are the only who remain out of the original group of loyalists, and yet you still do not die. you’ve begun to beg tanner every time you’re brought into the keep. it’s gotten to you, settled in your head like a nasty parasite. you remain on your knees when they chain you back in the tent.  KILL ME, YOU COWARD! FUCKING KILL ME ALREADY!

there’s no hope, not for you, not as the weeks have continued. no one’s coming for you and grenn, and you finally admit defeat. you sob quietly, body bent forward. you try to figure out a way to off yourself -- but you can’t. there’s no way out of this. you are BROKEN. . . until grenn talks you down. he’s got an idea that might just be crazy enough to work. 

one of craster’s wives comes to feed you -- you don’t know any of their names except gilly, and you haven’t bothered to try and know them. you and grenn sweet talk her into releasing the chains. then you promise her you’ll return, that you’ll rescue them from karl, from rast. the two of you grab little supplies as you run off into then night, your cloaks nowhere to be seen. CRASTER’S KEEP is six-hundred miles from CASTLE BLACK.

it’s a long and brutal way home. your legs give out at some point, and then grenn’s -- and you both consider just dying in the snow. it’s spite that keeps you alive; you hate when people like tanner win. you and grenn hold onto each other for dear life. you anchor each other. you are SURVIVORS. you will survive. finally, finally, you hear the horn. once. they know you’re friends. you stumble in, and jon grabs you -- and the next thing you know is darkness. 

you don’t need days to recover, but maester aemon commands you to rest. he details your injuries and cleans your back and your raw wrists. for the first few days, you are too tired to dream. the nightmares come not much longer afterward. there is a haunted look in your eyes, and you try to keep even more to yourself than you did before. you hide behind your sarcasm because it is what people want to see; they don’t look at you and see a damaged man, even with extent of your injuries. . . you hide them from the others. you don’t want to create an unnecessary burden for them. 

there are times when you crawl into grenn’s bed and cry. no one else understands, not even jon. the memories remain, and the scars are a symbol of your suffering: your back is messed up, your wrists have dark circles around them, and there are various other wounds on your person.  to you, they matter, but they also don’t. you focus on becoming a better brother of the night’s watch. you don’t trust ANYONE anymore; it’s just feels hopeless, but that goes away in time. the nightmares come less and less, but you will always feel like a part of you is missing: 

YOU MAY NEVER BE WHOLE AGAIN. 

[chasinganecdotes]

The Crow’s Descent: Winter Solstice

Coraline had to admit she looked quite beautiful. Her chestnut hair was combed in loose curls down her back, a fishtail braid- which Andrea had magiked beads of starlight through- crowning her face. It dulled her naturally severe angles, softened her cheekbones. Even her almond eyes, dabbed over with a silvery liner, appeared more in like with a doe. And her dress. Her dress was a crystalline finery that clung to her curves like a second skin, an ivory diaphanous material that was stitched with a jewel encrusted neckline that plunged to her waistline on either side. The sleeves and ankle length skirt were the only grace the gown allowed. Andrea had rubbed pale glitter onto the skin below the line of the fabric so that when the light caught, Coraline’s skin shimmered like moonlight against frozen river waters. She was a winter night incarnate- a storm of ice and luminosity. 

“Delicious,” a voice breathed against the back of her neck.

Coraline started. She had been so entranced by her own image she hadn’t noticed Niklaus slip behind the curtain. He seemed to echo around her as the mirror reflected back his devil’s smile, close enough to catch his teeth on her earlobe. Her eyes widened, the fog in her brain suddenly churning to a darkened stormcloud.

“Wh-what?” she stammered.

“The faerie juice. Sweet as sugared candy, wouldn’t you agree?” He pulled his thumb over her bottom lip. “Your lips are stained with the evidence.”

Her lips were tinted a deep cherry color, as if she had painted them so. 

If she was starlight, then he was the night canvas. His fitted jacket and button down were black threaded silk so deep in color they looked as if onyx had been melded into his skin. The fabric was tight against his torso, the collar unraveled just enough to expose a valley of muscle. Even his hair, normally cropped close to his ears, had overgrown around the edges of his face, casting shadows along his jaw. He gazed at her like a raven in waiting, handsome with a threat of sin. 

“Do you ever tire of following me into dark corners?” Coraline scolded, turning to face him.

“Depends,” Niklaus grinned. “Do you ever tire of pretending to despise me?”

Coraline lifted her chin in an act of defiance. “I do not despise you. I just happen to know what you do with girls in dark corners.”

He seemed amused by this, his cheeks dimpling. “Solstice is keen to its promiscuity. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind being my hunting partner.” He winked. 

The image of the two of them lying together beneath the stars, stripped down to their undergarments, sent heat through her cheeks. 

“If you must know,” Coraline admitted, “I opted out of the Hunt.” She folded her skirts underneath her legs, settling into the bed of velvet cushions fanning the fire pit. She watched as the flames inhaled up in a great arch and crackled back down in tiny sparks. “I am not the most...religious when it comes to these rituals.”

“You mean the pleasure part.” He didn’t say it condemningly, just as if it were simply something he had noticed. 

“Maybe in part, but not in the way that you think.” Coraline closed her eyes to the flames, cautiously choosing her next words. “I do not feel magic as the other witchlings do. It is meant to feel like a release, yet I feel it as if it were a chain.” She hesitated, but continued on. “The truth, Nik, is that I am afraid. I am afraid to feel pleasure because I know there is double the pain. Every enchantment burns like hellfire, and every spell casts destruction in a way I cannot control. That fire in the library, it was me, Nik. It was me. Everything I love seems to turn to ash beneath my fingers. It is wicked, what is inside me. And I am a monster because of it.”

She wasn’t sure she had ever said those words aloud before, the horrible, traitorous truth of them. But she didn’t feel guilty for having said them, only exhausted from the months of carrying that secret around inside her. She no longer cared if a dozen of the Matron’s dreadful crows ripped and shredded her apart for confessing it. She would bare the scars proudly, she thought. After all, what was the pain of flesh when there was much more to be burdened on the soul.

There was a long pause of silence and then, after a moment, Niklaus sank into the cushions beside her. This close, she could smell the faint undertone of magic stirring beneath his skin, the slight sickly sweet incense of a lingering enchantment. It was unlike the usual smell of magic though. There was a hint of pine...and midnight, like the exhilaration of a cold winter night; she didn’t know how else to describe it. She had never known magic to be so peaceful. She opened her eyes, his own staring back at her with such raw intensity. 

“Perhaps,” Niklaus said carefully, “it is not your magic that chains you, but your fear.”

Coraline wasn’t sure what she had expected him to say, but it wasn’t this. “What.”

Niklaus leaned in closer, his amber eyes challenging her. “It is not such a terrible thing to be fierce, Coraline. You believe yourself separate from your magic, as a slave to its master, yet you forget which role you play.” He tilted his face closer to hers so that every word was a new breath into her lungs. “There is hellfire inside of us all, us witches and warlocks. What matters is how we choose to wield it.”

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? How can I wield a power I have so little control over?”

He chuckled under his breath in that way of his that suggested he thought everything endlessly amusing. “You speak of magic as if it were a grenade. You don’t just throw it and hope it sparks where you wish it to.” He held out his palm, a pale blue ball of fire bouncing over the skin. “Magic is a double-edged sword- sharp and like to cut you if you don’t strike first.” He relaxed his fingers, and as he did the flame began to starve like a wildfire, whipping back and forth in screams of panic. It began to crawl up his wrist to the cuff of his shirt. And then his fingers curled inward again, silencing the flame altogether. “What I am trying to say, Coraline, is that we are all bred of the same flesh and bone as the Infernal God, that much we cannot change. And for it, perhaps we are all a little wicked. But do not condemn yourself a monster. Not until you truly mean it.”

Without realizing, they had leaned completely into each other. His words were like a static song in a gramophone, beautiful as they left his lips but utterly lost as they hit the air. She could notice only the heat of his skin escaping through the fabric of his shirt in all the places where they touched. She couldn’t be sure if it was the strange effects of the faerie juice or something else entirely, but as they sat there for those few heartbeats, quiet as the night, she was at peace.

Niklaus pressed his palm over her heart, her magic throbbing painfully beneath his touch. “You are more glorious than even Hell itself.”

“Niklaus- '' Coraline breathed, her eyes fluttering to half lids. She meant to tell him to stop, to tell him all the reasons why she couldn’t kiss him. His lips brushed over hers, his breath a tender escape into her mouth. It was just barely a touch, hardly even a kiss at all. But it was enough to loose all the unkempt desire she had held at bay over the last few weeks. 

Coraline tangled her fingers into the nape of his neck, the curls silken as feathers, and dug her nails into the skin there. Niklaus groaned against her mouth, twining his tongue deeper through hers. He smoothed his hand down her hair and let it trail down the skin of her open back. He kissed her like that for awhile, a desperate but careful wanting. He was gentle in a way she had not expected, each meeting of their lips meticulously and painfully delayed. He was teasing her, she realized.

In retaliation, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled softly. 

Niklaus smirked. “Fierce indeed.”

Not to be bested, he peeled back the shoulder of her sleeve and skimmed his mouth along the ridge of her collarbone. Little shivers of pleasure rippled down Coraline’s spine. She felt something stirring deep down in the base of her core, aching to break free. He roved his tongue to the line of her pulse and sucked. She pressed Niklaus hard against her. She needed to anchor herself in him, to pull herself into his bones, as if that would help her find the center of herself. 

She arched her back, allowing the delicious feeling to sear its way through her. For a moment, it felt like bliss. Stars exploded behind her eyelids, so intense she thought she might black out. A star against the night. That’s what they were, she thought.

Something damp and sticky began to trickle down her nose, the coppery taste of blood suddenly wetting her lips. She had the overwhelming sense that something was terribly wrong. The feeling seemed to trail every kiss Niklaus pressed against her neck, lashing through her like a whip slicing open skin. It was as if her own blood was trying to break free of her. Coraline gasped at the sudden pain, her chest tightening in an icy panic, tamping out any stray desire she had felt. It was not pleasure at all, but magic. 

Her magic roiled uncontrolably inside of her, like two beasts warring with each other in a death match. She tried to push it down into that vast well inside of her, but it seemed only to claw back even harder, determined to wreck either her or itself to unleash its power. There was no thread of light for her to hold on to, no beacon that would bring her back to herself. What lay before her was an impenetrable darkness, cold and brutal. For the first time in her life, Coraline felt as if she was coming face-to-face with her magic, staring it dead in the eye for what it truly was. And she was afraid. 

“I can’t do this,” she said, shoving Niklaus so hard he landed flat on his back. 

Coraline shielded her bleeding nose with her hand, scrambling away despite her tangled skirts. She did not want Niklaus to see her like this. Where he was so elegant and clever in his magic she was equally as broken and helpless against her own. Memories of the blackened ruins of the library flashed behind her eyes, memories of the destruction her magic wielded.

Coraline ran, pushing past the curtain into the revel chamber. She was vaguely aware of Niklaus calling after her, though she didn’t dare look back. The revel chamber had gone blind in a terrible darkness, save for the moonshine pillaring in from the skylight. Coraline could see nothing but the outline of moving shadows crowded around that single line of light- a gathering of witchlings, an entire coven standing between her and the outside forest. Her breath was coming hard and fast, caught in her throat. She elbowed through the ring of revelers, stumbling forward, and counted down every pace until she would reach the chamber doors. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten-

She was dragged off balance, whether by magic or her fellow witchlings she couldn’t be sure, and was thrust back through the crowd. Coraline hit the ground on her knees, gasping for the breath she couldn’t grasp. The moonlight broke around her in a halo; she had fallen just where the crowd opened up, kneeling before the Solstice altar. Mantras crashed and rose around her- hideous, serpent-like tongues that felt like drowning. Burn thy skin, fork thou tongue. Praise to glory Unholy One. Crunch thy bones, horn thy brow. Infernal God thy will be crowned. The Witchling Sacrifice. Coraline peered up through the tangled strands of her hair, half choking on her own nausea. The Infernal Trinity hung suspended in the air, heads thrown back and hands clasped together in a ring around the altar, moonlight threading shimmers of blinding magic between them. Maiden, Matron, Crone. The three heads of the covens, the three sisters of the Infernal God. And on the altar below them, naked flesh bruised deep with death, lay Stella Bridgewater. 

[ihavethoughtsaboutfilms]

Surface and symbol — a short essay on ‘Nocturnal Animals’

In beautiful widescreen, Ford’s acerbic meditation on the tension between love and ambition reminds us of the sinister nature of heartbreak.

It’s not often that a Hollywood blockbuster manages to satisfy with irresolution, but writer-director Tom Ford’s sophomore film strikes such a balance between conviction and ambiguity with its visceral account of love and vengeance. Adapted from Austin Wright’s 1993 novel, Tony and Susan, the story expounds a violent and precautionary tale against romantic betrayal, turning the ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ proverb on its head. Expertly filtered through his stylised lens, Ford transcribes the raw emotion of the source material to the screen, with all the skill befitting a meticulous fashion designer.

Susan (Amy Adams) exists in an affluent LA art bubble, in which her professional success only serves to highlight the lack of fulfilment in her personal life. Living in an ultra-modernist glass prison of a house, her ambitions to become an artist have been abandoned and have given way to the bourgeois trappings her mother warned her she would fall far. Her abandoned aspirations are accented by her loveless marriage, painting a picture of a woman experiencing a chronic weariness in life. Such torpor is pointedly articulated when, in a moment of maudlin self-reflection, Susan asks her assistant, “Do you ever feel like your life has turned into something you never intended?”

A break from apathy is signalled unexpectedly when she receives an advance copy of her ex-husband’s (Edward Sheffield, played by Jake Gyllenhaal) new book, the titular 'Nocturnal Animals’. Welcoming the distraction, Susan opens the manuscript and is immediately catapulted into a violent allegorical revenge narrative. As she reads, the story unfolds on screen.

In the book, Tony Hastings (also played by Gyllenhaal) is a somewhat placid family man, who sees his life turned upside down when he is accosted by wastrel thugs whilst holidaying in a remote desert with his wife and disaffected teenage daughter. In a portentously drawn out scene, we see Tony and his family gradually descend from panic into terror as they as they realise they are alone in the American outback at the mercy of this gang. Aaron Taylor-Johnson plays the slightly overwrought but ferociously callous ringleader, Ray, the psychopathology of whom an entire article could be dedicated.

The harrowing scene, one of the best in the film, exquisitely paced by director and actors alike, slowly crescendos, fulminating in the kidnap, rape and double-murder of Tony’s wife and daughter. This is a crystallising event for Tony. It is here that we start to see his transformation, and Gyllenhaal’s correspondingly virtuosic performance draws out the nuances of a man experiencing the abyss.

Emasculated and alone, now begins his journey from weak to powerful. As his path crosses with the terminally ill – and terminally laconic –Texas lawman (deftly portrayed by Michael Shannon), Tony’s unassertive nature gives way to a primal desire for revenge. Shannon’s maverick sheriff is the catalyst for Tony’s reclaiming control — and his ultimate retribution. In classic three-act structure, Edward’s crime-drama unfurls a story of love, loss and redemption, whereby Tony eventually asserts himself over the man who stole his life. A tragedy in West-Texan garb — Tony dies a vindicated man having brought grizzly justice upon his wife and daughter’s killer.

Edward’s novel is clearly an extended metaphor for his own sense of betrayal. In reality, his wife was literally taken from him by another man (Armie Hammer as Hutton). But there’s a secondary affront here. Edward’s own creativity has previously come under fire. In a flashback to his married days, we see Edward’s first attempt at a novel disparaged by his then-wife Susan for being bland and ego-centric: “You should write about something other than yourself”, she says.

The success of his ‘Nocturnal Animals’ script, a novel plainly about himself and his experiences, is thus part of his vindication. The double-murder in his novel symbolises the dual agonies of heartbreak and authorial criticism. And whilst Susan’s charge may not have been entirely unjust at the time (the struggling New York writer is an exhausted literary archetype), it makes the form of revenge – a novel – all the more caustic. This is Edward’s “sad and violent” proof that the language of the heart is necessarily the most unsparing. If ever the medium were the message, it is here. The novel is simultaneously his own catharsis and the knife in Susan’s heart. Ford renders this metaphor literally, the manuscript itself giving Susan a paper cut upon opening, ironically foreshadowing the pain about to be inflicted upon her.

The emotional charge of Nocturnal Animals hinges entirely on analogy, and this allegorical mode is arguably Ford’s forte. Creatively, it gives him two canvases to work with: the arid landscape of the desert, and the glitzy Americana of LA high society. The juxtaposition of these two milieus allows Ford to flex his stylistic muscles, comparing the barren wilds of the American outback (in sweeping panorama) with the hollowness of Susan’s art world (in chiaroscuro close-up). Two disparate worlds yoked together through shared pain.

Razor-sharp editing interpolates Edward’s story with Susan’s present-day life. Flitting between fiction and reality at each dramatic turn, the boundaries of each world bleed into one another through carefully choreographed cuts. Visually, Ford deploys this frame narrative to capture the emotional interplay between characters. The crucifix pendant that each of them nurses throughout the film (less a religious symbol than a memento mori) signals an inescapable connection between the two protagonists. Shots of Tony are often paired with shots of present-day Susan experiencing a parallel emotion. When Tony showers, Susan sinks into her bath (cleansing or drowning?); when Tony is found alone in the desert, Susan wanders her solitary home in the dark. When I feel, you feel.

In one striking scene, as Tony lays dying in the sand, gasping for breath, Ford employs a shot-reverse-shot tactic that straddles the fiction/reality boundary. The camera oscillates between Tony and Susan, with each sharp intake of breath inciting another jump-cut between the two protagonists, suggesting a symbolic death shared by both. Such techniques use the camera’s omniscience to emphasise the autobiographical elements of Edward’s novel and highlight the unity of the characters, almost turning them into the same person.

The final brutality (and central ambiguity) is delivered in the film’s denouement, where Susan arranges to meet her ex-husband to discuss the book. His agreeing to meet is the pinnacle of manipulation. We see Susan, now aware of her mistake, full of regret and admiration for Edward, agonise over her appearance. She meticulously removes her rings and lipstick, stripping away the bourgeois adornments she’s accrued over the years, and waits patiently in a restaurant for a chance at reconciliation. She looks around. No one arrives. The camera pans out, observing from afar as if Edward himself were the voyeur behind the lens. Fade to black. No longer is he the “weak and insecure” man she accused him of being. It seems Susan’s abortive attempt to reconcile with Edward is as futile as trying to raise Tony from the dead.

Despite this inversion of power, there is a cruel irony to Edward’s situation, one which inadvertently reveals a harsh truth: without the emotional pain, Edward could never have created such a wrenching and successful piece of work, and thus never have realised his reprisal. His victory is contingent upon an initial and heart-rendering loss. In slowly drawing together fractured narrative threads, Ford articulates the sad but galvanising role emotion plays in creating art, and the self-actualising role art plays in emotion. But because life can never fully imitate it, Edward’s own art condemns him to a more pedestrian retribution. His final act of vengeance (his absence) is petty and cowardly compared to that of his fictional counterpart, suggesting that no one, not even Edward, truly profits from revenge.

What makes Nocturnal Animals a particularly striking piece of cinema is the conflict between sentiment and aesthetic. Ford contrasts the bleak and distant subject matter with intimate, angular shots of the characters that showcase their passion. It is as if we are being reminded that such wildly discordant emotions lie on either side of a precariously thin line. This approach is utilised by other contemporary directors. Although set in an entirely different locale, Nicholas Winding Refn’s arresting 2016 thriller, The Neon Demon, shares many visual elements with Ford’s flick, from saturated colour palettes to stark compositional framing. Both pair emotive close-ups with sinister themes to great effect.

Much like Refn, Ford has impeccable control of style, with an added flair for the controversial. Both like to shock their audiences. This is evinced most poignantly in the pornographic title sequence of Nocturnal Animals, featuring entirely nude and extremely overweight women clad in cheerleading regalia and shot in disquieting slow motion. This protracted scene alludes to the core motifs before the film has even begun. We are informed we are about to watch something both mundane yet bordering on the grotesque — the banal alongside the monstrous; an ordinary break-up with an extraordinarily violent codicil.

Six years after A Single Man, Tom Ford’s second feature is yet another foray into the recesses of that complex human entanglement, love and loss. For the most part he translates that anguish to the screen with poise. But there are a few instances where we, the audience, are unnecessarily spoon-fed the symbolism. Isla Fisher, notorious for her physical similarity to Amy Adams, is cast as the fictional wife in Edward’s fable, as if the analogy was otherwise too oblique. And Susan’s modish art world is contrived to the point of pastiche, laden with overripe metaphor. At one point she even pauses in front of a giant abstract print that spells 'REVENGE’ in block capitals. Revenge? Oh, I wouldn’t have known…

I heard it said that the film made at least one viewer “[…] glad they weren’t in a relationship”. Evidently, the morbidity of its content seemed too presaging. But I disagree. The central message in Nocturnal Animals is not one of futility, it’s one of prudence. Relationships are fragile, and one should exercise reverence towards them, lest all parties get hurt. Ford strength lies in his ability convey this sentiment without once appearing mawkish or didactic.

There is one provocative lesson, however, encapsulated in the closing scene, concerning how we define ourselves inside and outside of relationships. Edward never shows up at the restaurant; his physical absence supposedly conveys his absence of feeling towards Susan. And yet he has spent the years since the dissolution of their relationship devoting his art to her, memorialising the pain of their separation. We see the break up has precipitated an existential crisis in which Edward defines himself solely by his relationship to Susan. Susan might be spurned but Edward’s victory is ultimately hollow because it betrays his inability to move on. Ending the film this way, Ford suggests a paradox for consideration: that Edward, in attempting to demonstrate his indifference, actually confirms his extant feelings for Susan. Given this knowledge, is Edward ever truly vindicated? And - by implication - is any artist ever truly free of their subject matter? Just as Susan is imprisoned by her vacuous art world, so too is Edward imprisoned by his novel.

With so much left to muse on after the credits, Nocturnal Animals is a triumph of both style and substance. Oscar Wilde once aphoristically remarked that, “All art is at once surface and symbol” — both areas Ford excels in. Despite its jarring nature, the irresolution at the film’s close forms a natural cadence that allows us to share in both Susan and Edward’s sombre epiphany: that neither one is better off for their choices. Ford manages to leave us sated, proving again his ability to handle ambiguity with empathy, and further establishing his credibility as a pioneering British director. Let's just not talk about his marriage.