#something something reaching catharsis through fiction something

[astramachina]

working on House of the Setting Sun has been delightful because writing an "american gothic" out of time as a bastard child of two very different cultures will have me writing a scene, stopping, and going "wait, is this how funerals go out west??" and "how far can i push the cult programming of evangelicals deeply entrenched in the so called nuclear american family?" and you know what.

maybe said cultures aren't as different as i grew up believing.

[temporalhiccup]

There are many different reasons to play ttrpgs, and sometimes creative catharsis is one of them.

Certainly it's a reason's Bluebeard's Bride is one of my favorite games, or why it's fun for me to play emotionally vulnerable characters in Bite Marks and Apocalypse Keys.

A couple of months ago I started playing DIE with some close friends, and a couple of new players I haven't had a chance to play with much. But it's a group that's played with each other often, and DIE has a really emotionally rich and complex premise we were excited for: "In DIE, you play a group of authentically flawed and desperate real-world people (Personas) who are sucked into a cursed roleplaying game and take on the form of heroes, villains and power players (Paragons)."

So I made a conscious decision to create a transmasc character and delve consciously and deeply into the act of catharsis. I have played trans characters before, (arguably ttrpgs are one of the ways I explored if I was trans but that's another story), but this was the first time I wanted to pull at the threads of my own confusion and sadness, trauma and regret. To work through my grief.

In real life, it's difficult to put into words the grief I am going through with my parents. It's a complex issue, but one of them is that my parents have always seen as me as their daughter, and all three of us cannot imagine me being anything else to them. My father has always pointedly interacted with my brother as a son, and has always faltered when I failed to act like the daughter.

It's hard to grieve because there are thousands of subtle nuances—their love for me, borne from endless sacrifice and hope, also places chains on me. To break those chains is to break them, to keep those chains on is to break me. I have broken myself over the decades, again and again, and there is never a shape that will please us three.

So for DIE I created a more intense caricature of fatherly trauma. Almost cartoonish in his abuse, with no room for nuance. Somehow in describing the black and white nature of this fictional father, and how it shaped my character, it's easier for me to see the shades of grey that my real father is. It's easier to find the shadows of me there too.

I realized today that in DIE, this traumatizing figure also contains the fear I had. Conditioned to be a woman, where my very existence can trigger violence from men. There are many reasons it took me so long to know I was trans, but one of those reasons was that I could not imagine taking on the shape of an oppressor.

It didn't matter that I knew many men who were gentle, loving, and kind. It didn't matter that what men are does not have to be defined by the patriarchy. Men were dangerous until I knew better. Men could betray my trust and become dangerous once they got to know me. Why would I want to take on the shape of something dangerous and harmful?

Today I explored a part of that. As an Emotion Knight my character draws upon the emotion of loathing—what better way to draw upon an aspect of gender dysphoria? To become strong, to fight, I had to give in just enough to my father's voice, its whispers from the war hammer in my hand. I had to take on his cruelty, the loathing I had for him and myself. I described the danger of falling into unthinking violence, to protect what matters to me. I was standing on the precipice, knowing I was a breath away from going too far.

All of this made it easier to see my real father, standing at the end of a corridor I will never reach. It feels like if I walk towards him, the corridor will stretch on and on, made of all the doors of all the daughters I could have been for him. One of them, any of them, would be better than what I am now.

That moment of catharsis felt breathless. I could feel myself falling towards the doors. Then I looked at the other players, and I could see all of them feeling for my character. Feeling for his pain, for his hope. Watching him stumble towards the edge. I could feel their hearts surrounding mine.

I don't remember what I said to Sherri, in character. I know I wanted her to pull my character back into this fictional moment. I know I wanted Sherri to pull me back into this reality, with her. Away from the corridor. It was enough that I saw the corridor for what it is, that I knew all its doors. That I knew they could never be opened.

This dance of catharsis feels safe. It's hard to describe how it's still fun, and wonderful, to connect to my friends' characters. To check-in and feel out if we were still having fun, trusting in the play, trusting in each other.

The game session ended hours ago, and we'll play again next week. But the corridor is still with me, and I feel it stretching behind me. I feel all its doors. When I close my eyes, I see my father's back, walking away from me.

Maybe next week I'll try walking down that corridor. Maybe I'll call out to my father, knowing he won't turn around. Maybe I'll leave it behind. Maybe I won't do anything for now, because grief takes time. I don't know.

I just know that I'm very grateful to be here, to be loved, to play. I'm grateful for the stories we tell together, and how it can help us retell our own stories about ourselves.

This story of grief is hard, but I'm grateful. It means I chose to survive, to live, to be me.

It hurts to choose myself over my parents love for me, but I'm glad I'm doing it. I'm choosing all the people who love me, who see me when I cannot yet clearly see myself.

[pettyprocrastination]

Silent Treatment

Word count: 941

Warnings: angst, lack of communication within a relationship, that's about it? Anyways silent treatment is bad communicate with those you love this is purely for fiction purposes don't do this in real relationships.

An: wrote this on my freewrite for a word sprint whole heavily sick on the couch (still am🤧) so if there are any major spelling or formatting errors blame my Samsung and the tumblr app.

Pairing: Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

If there's one thing Simon Riley can't stand it's the silent treatment.

He's used to anger. Knows it well and knows his own. Something nasty and rotten that boils inside of him, festering until he can extract it from his veins through the catharsis of violence under the command of his captain or splitting his knuckles open in an empty gym late in the night.

A man who spent his childhood fed insults and violence at the hand of his father has no qualms with a belly full of rage.

But oh, your silence all but starves him.

It isn't passive aggressive avoidance. There's no tight lipped smile as you insist everything is fine when the truth is standing before you both, because that'd give him plausible deniability. There'd still be that surface level communication no matter how empty it rang.

You offer him something so much worse.

Absolutely nothing.

At first, he's content to roll his eyes and let you stew. You want to act like a petulant little child? Fine by him. You can't beat Ghost at a game of solitude, he'll win every fucking time, sweetheart.

But then you slip by him in the hall, turning your shoulder to avoid his own brawny frame when before you would reach your hand out by just a millimeter so your fingertips would graze his own if only for a second.

By Christ, you might as well have backhanded him.

It makes him feel something ugly knotted deep in his chest. His body begins to itch down to the very bone when days past and you've yet to speak or for fuck's sake acknowledge him in anyway.

It's stupid and immature and childish.

YOU are stupid and immature and childish.

He's content to simply sit in his own silence and be done with it. He's left men and women for less than a passive aggressive attempt at an apology.

But while you slide into your stoic silence like a hot bath after an exhausting day, Simon singes his skin down to the bone on his. 

Perhaps it's ironic. That a man called "Ghost" is so uncomfortable with his own silence being gifted back to him that he turns to mild annoyances to gain a reaction from you.

Knocking your shoulder as you pass by one another, looming over you to grab something off of a shelf, entirely invading your personal space when it's unnecessary to press his body to yours in some hope of a twitch, a sigh, anything for you to show him that you're still in there aside from a closed mouth and empty eyes.

He'll find himself scratching at his scalp until the skin is raw and his fingers are tinted red.

Scream at him. Insult him. Hit him. Use him. All that is familiar territory.

Anything but silence.

When you return back to your apartment and find the entire place overwhelmed with the stench of cigarettes, he hopes it's the catalyst. That was your cardinal rule afterall, no smoking inside. One he could only get away with after he's fucked you to exhaustion and you're too comfortable to lift your head from his chest to scold him for indulging his self-destrictive habits in your own bed.

The pack is three quarters finished by the time you get home, the cigarette between his fingers is all but crushed flat as he watches you slip off your shoes and take soft steps towards him until you stand between his knees.

A myriad of comments sit behind his teeth, ready to be spit in your face. Wanting to ask if youre done with your childish charade and gotten it all out of your system, or maybe you've finally cracked because youre so lonely you can't help but come to him for a proper fuck because nobody will make you feel like he does.

But he says none of it. Simon Riley simply waits, and stares at you with tired eyes like a discarded shelter dog.

"I'm tired, Simon."

Your voice, my God had he missed it so much, sounds almost raw to his ears. A rasp to it that makes him wonder if you'd been crying.

Beneath the guilt, a sick part of him, just big enough to whisper above his conscience, feels a satisfaction in knowing he matters enough for you to shed tears in his name.

"I know."

"I don't like this. I don't like feeling like-" your words die in your throat as your face begins to scrunch up, forcing the whine in the back of your mouth to halt so you can uphold the facade of strength and resilience you told yourself you would on the car ride over here.

But then you look down and see the tired eyes of the man you don't know what to call to you and feel yourself wanting nothing more than to crumble in his arms.

“I know.”

A scarred hand gently grasps your thigh, slowly guiding you closer until you fold into his lap. Your own hands rise to cup his face, savoring the way he leans into your touch.

"We can't keep doing this."

"I know."

Despite his lack of words, you hear him perfectly.

You know he'll say sorry. He knows you'll say it as well. He'll tell you he's going to try and you'll accept it.

He knows he'll fuck it up again. As do you.

But now, as you tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder and pretend to not feel him shake and tremble in your arms, he vows to himself to make sure he never drives you to silence again.

[satcnus]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ       𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐘

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. ex-military widower ✖ runaway stray

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒. older protective male x vulnerable teen fem. widower x runaway. paternal elements within romance. male saviorism. size differences. opposites attract. ride or die. hurt, comfort, healing. v-rginity loss. dead dove do not eat.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! The following original fiction contains potentially triggering content, including: extreme age gap, homicide, child and spousal death, kidnapping, s-xual as-sault (background only), r-pe recovery, child abuse (background only), post-traumatic stress disorder and disabling mental illness, and mild ddlg themes (clothing, nicknames). Read at your own discretion.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓.  CH TWO:  253  CH THREE:  1.8k

𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗:   𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐎𝟑. 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑.

It was happening again. 

All of the wood he’d just chopped was sitting in wait by the fireplace, ready to be added, log by log, to sustain heating the cabin. Reuven was staring at the meal he’d made. Potato latkes, a side of roasted carrots, a hunk of seared venison. He was staring at it and unable to make out its details. 

All he could see was his daughter. His toddler, Kuna, and her big, giggly smile. Her bushy, dark hair, so similar to his own. Her gleeful, innocent squeal, as she hugged around his neck. He could almost still feel her tiny hands, those sharp, toddler fingernails, digging into his shoulder. He could almost still feel her curls, too fluffy for their own good, pushing into his nose and mouth and him smoothing it all out of the way. 

It could have been a happy memory if not for the implication. If not for the fact that he would never hear her laugh again. Or her toddler’s mumble english. Or her comforted, happy sigh of I love you, Papa . 

Never again.

To take a man’s children from him was nothing short of torture. 

And Reuven was not a surrendering man. 

The plate of food was left to go cold on the dining table. The front door slammed with a thud. His rusting, deep green Chevy roared to life. 

And he went out barreling into the night, in search of resurrection, again.

The night goes on forever, flanked by rows of towering pines that blur into smears of green and midnight as his truck barrels through the nightfall. Headlights divide fog like the call of a lighthouse on the murky shore. Entrenched in darkness, so little can be seen. The sun has long since lowered and resigned to its successor—or, perhaps, predecessor, depending on who was asked. Reuven considered the moon, high and mighty in the sky, to be something holy. Independent of all other existences, and concomitantly, soul-tied to the same. 

Its power dragged the waves of an ocean insurmountable in its plane. The moon—to Reuven Aronov, was the tether that held him together on nights like these, where he threatened to unravel right before its spotlight. It kept the seams of his being tugged tight and withstanding, until he could reach his destination, and fall into that resignation of his plight. No more fighting. No more redirecting his thoughts and speaking silent hymns to lull his resent. No—no more mitigating. No more holding it together.

Just giving in. Just finding rapture, beneath the moon’s knowing gaze—the only gaze of witness—while he unraveled. All wild huffs and rabid blows. It was not delight—it was catharsis. It was spiritual. The splatter of blood back on his face. A fist that ached and pummeled anyway. A dying breath. A triumph, a relief, a resurrection. 

He had not seen the nameless victim yet. He had not heard his voice. Or perhaps it would be a woman, though it never was. 

Still, he could feel the relief of it so close, lingering beneath his fingertips as they clutched the steering wheel. One hand at its 2’o’clock. The other loosely, unconsciously, clenched at his side. 

It was a meditation. Better—a trance. There was nothing but the forest, him, and the moonlight. And that road—it stretched on forever. Not a single other car had passed for miles. His ETA was somewhere around thirty minutes, maybe less. He didn’t need a gps to tell him so. This commute was burned into his psyche; etched into the grooves of his downtrodden mind. Hazy, and yet, fang sharp. 

It was only a glint in the fog.

He was listening to the wind’s rage, battering against the sound of the truck’s engine, rusted and worn and growling for retreat. He was listening to the wind, and his breaths, and the symphony behind his eyes, of sweet consequence. The kind that felt more nourishing than anything he’d ever felt wash down upon him before. The kind of karma that only Gods and the algorithmic universe could deliver.

And himself, on nights like this. 

But then there it was—that movement in his peripheral vision. 

He thought it was a deer, and automatically, his boot found the resistance of his brake pedal. Enough to slow his barrelling inertia and allow him to see that the figure he’d seen was not that of animal, but of a human. Meandering down the side of the road in the pitch dark, a billowing of cold, pale breath to offer the only contrast against a dark silhouette. 

At first he thought it was a shorter man, but as he squinted he noticed a mane of dark hair, whipping around feminine features in no protection from the elements. She was hidden under an impressive layering of fabrics—two hooded jackets and a backpack was all he could definitely make out. 

Then, in the last second, where his headlights caught the trajectory of her grimace—a haunted, dark gaze. Hollowed out and stripped of all its worth. His abdomen tensed. 

Should he stop?

He never stopped. Not while he was on his way to the bar. Not for hitchhikers.

But was she? A hitchhiker? 

She didn’t have her thumb out. In fact, she didn’t look like she had even registered another human was on the road at all. And that road—it stretched on for miles. 

How long had she been walking?

Snow piled up in heaps at the edges of where asphalt met sediment. The person’s legs were dragging as they tried to navigate around the largest of them. Reuven, for a moment, tore away from his dissociation and landed sturdy in the present. 

For just a flash of a second, he remembered his Chedva, dejected and dragging her feet after a loss at her soccer game, cursing the world for being so cruel. He remembered his nurturing retort, and the shift in her expression, from something that made him ache wretchedly with empathy to something thankful and replenished. 

His own breath found the cold air that had leached its way through the closed windows, once, twice. And then, he slowed down.

He didn’t have to offer much, he bargained with himself. He told himself he’d offer her a ride, somewhere on the way, and be back toward his original destination in no time, and his conscience wouldn’t suffer. He wouldn’t be up all night, haunted by that look in the girl’s eyes, knowing he could have done something. Knowing she could have been thankful, and replenished. 

The man pulled in beside the stranger in a slow crawl, his truck rumbling loudly against the night. She had not seemed to realize he was there at all, until he rolled down his window and called out to her. 

Maybe he would get lucky, and she would reject his offer.

“Hey! You alright? You need a ride somewhere?”

She lifted her head, finding his eyes, with those hollow, haunted orbs that matched his so well. 

Her lips were chapped to the point of bleeding. Her mouth dry—he could see it in the way she swallowed, tacky, at her own tongue. Her skin was pale, despite its tan. And for a long moment, they shared this pregnant silence, where there was nothing but the sound of his truck, and their eyes, staring into one another. 

Then, she tried to say something, but it came out so quietly, he couldn’t hear it. 

“What?” he asked, yanking his gear into park. She was trembling beneath the layers of clothing she wore, which he quickly realized were drenched after he took a glance down from her eyes. He didn’t register it, but she was still staring, unyieldingly, at his face, and at his hands. 

Something suddenly came over him. This… protectiveness. This need to help her, strong enough to leave him abandoning all concept of continuing his trip down past Quinalt. He driver’s side door swung open harshly with the drag of the wind as he stepped out, and rounded around the front bumper of the truck, where he only then realized she had taken an automatic step back from him. That hallowed look in her eyes had quickly transformed into fear.

He halted.

Lifted his palms up, in armistice. 

His breaths came out as puffs against the cold, just as hers did, though his were stronger, from lungs that were already long warmed. 

“I ain’t gon’ hurt you. I just—” Fuck. He didn’t know how to do this. It had been so long since he’d even had a conversation. When was the last time he’d spoken to someone? A couple weeks, at least. His own baritone, deep and husky, sounded foreign to his ears.

His tongue swiped at his lip, and then he momentarily bit at his top lip, his arms falling harmless at his sides. Then he suddenly shrugged off his jacket, and extended his arm forth, offering it to her. “If you don’t want a ride—at least take my jacket. It’s—it’s barely twenty degrees out here.” That was putting it generously. The wind chill had brought the temperature to an arctic real-feel of eleven degrees. It lifted the dark, disheveled curls from his prominent profile. It whipped her dampened, dark tresses against her throat. 

She stared only at the jacket for a moment, trembling and buckling under the weight of her pack, before she tried to reach out for it, but some force other than her body seemed to hold her back. The girl made this noise—some strained, high whimper, and seemed to crutch down into her ribs, curling her abdomen into itself, her pack higher onto her shoulders. Her breaths came in sharper. Noticeable. Gasping.

Reuven quickly found himself throwing caution to the wind, and closing the distance between them to all but haul his fire hose jacket around her form, which he only realized was quite a lot more petite than what met the eye when his jacket weighed into all of those wet clothes.

“Come on. I’ll take you wherever you need. You shouldn’t be out in this cold,” he found himself ascertaining, as though he weren’t just wagering whether or not to pull over at all just moments ago. 

The girl nodded, numbly, and he nodded back, readied, and took it upon himself to yank open the truck’s door. As she tried to take a step, her arm planted securely around her abdomen, she seemed to buckle beneath the weight of her bag, which he quickly helped take the burden of. In the revelation of his headlights, he realized two things: she was filthy, like she’d been weathering the elements for days, and… she was young. Young enough to still have a layer of baby fat upon her cheeks, despite the gauntness of everything else. Young enough to have eyes that held an innocence, somewhere deep within, that hadn’t been scratched out and stomped away by the world like his had. It reminded him of his daughter. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

The girl, frail as a baby bird, staggered into the passenger seat until she buckled under the weight of her multitude of jackets and what could only be properly described as tattered, dirty rags. Like a kitten, who’s voice has gone hoarse from crying for so long, the stranger’s limbs seemed to suddenly go limp at the first opportunity of relief. He could see her shivering beneath the wet slop of mismatched clothes she was buried beneath; trembling from a cold that had nestled down into her bone marrow and coiled around her joints. The rush of warm air cascading from his truck’s vents must have felt like salvation.

He felt a sudden tug in his chest, of something that had been so lost to him for so long. What exactly—he could not pinpoint. It was something of human nature. Something that expelled all thoughts of his previous plans for the night. 

With a sense of urgency, he tossed her bag in the back seat and rounded back into the driver’s, back into the sanctuary of heat, where he glanced over to find her curling into herself against the comfort of the objectively firm seat. Her breaths were leaving her chest in these struggling huffs that somehow sounded enduring and relieved all at once.

She only found his eyes again after a long moment of struggling for that homeostasis between oxygen and carbon dioxide, and when her breaths slowed, and she found her voice again, she whispered. “Just the next fill-up is fine.”

Reuven stared back, incredulously.

How long had she been out here?

[nerdraging4point0]

Mad Hearts and Temptations // Chapter Two // Wonderland Romance AU

Tropes and Tags: Wonderland romance, instalove, too much sex, destiny, fated lovers.

Content warning: 18+ only minors DNI. dark themes, gore themes, gothic themes, PinV, PinA, oral (f!recieveing, m!recieving), voyeurism, exhibitionism, angst.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

Taglist(click to be added): @poisongirl616 @ladyveronikawrites @shilohrosechicken @th0ughts-pr4yers @meliferafaerie @itsafullmoon @viofcrows @letmeadoreyoux @latenightmusiclover @transparentwitchnightmare @darling-millicent-aubrey @badomensls @cookiesupplier @concreteemo @mysticdoodlez @srorgana1 @in-another-life @broken0mens @somewhere-diamond @celestineveil @littlefoxkota @silentglassbreak @hayleylatour @sundamariis @lma1986 @thatchickwiththecamera @lilhobgobbler @missduffsblog @asilentsiren @catharsis-in-darkness @dsireland86 @skulliecadaver-blog @laurpartyprogram @faceless-mirror @somebodyels3 @jakeygvf21 @badomensls @thisbicc

It’s different this time. 

As I walk down the long, dreary corridor lined with identical doors, I feel a sense of weary familiarity. How many times have I made this journey, desperately seeking the door at the end that always seems to remain out of reach? My footsteps echo off the cold tile floor, the sound bouncing back at me mockingly. Yet something feels different. There's a charge in the stale air, a shift in the energy propelling me forward. 

“You’re late,”  her voice catches me off guard, I turn to see a striking, surreal sight. The pretty girl from the coffee shop stands there, only now with white bunny ears twitching above her cascade of perfect curls. Her ensemble seems plucked from a fairy tale, from the lace gloves to the ruffled corset and tulle skirt. She consults the pocket watch in her hand, it’s chain softly wrapped around her delicate wrist. Sweet caramel eyes meet mine as her lips curve into a smile, pointing down the hallway I've become so familiar with. 

I sense this is no longer the hopeless cycle of before. The static has lifted, rules rewritten. My quest down the corridor feels destined, each step bringing me closer to the door I've always sought. Something has unlocked within the universe's machinations. The end, once perpetually out of reach, now feels attainable. 

Racing down the twisting corridors, my feet barely touching the ground as I move with haste. I round the last corner and there it is, waiting for me. I approach with purpose, my hand outstretched. This is it. As my confident fingers close around the cool metal knob, a bright light suddenly floods out from the keyhole. I freeze, squinting against the harsh glow. A voice emerges, disembodied, yet clear. It calls my name, beckoning me. I stand transfixed, pulse racing, unsure whether to turn the knob or run. The light is warm against my skin, the voice soothing, but caution wars with curiosity.

I squat down, one knee touching the cold tiles beneath me as I brace myself on either side of the keyhole. I line up my eye with the bright light and it dims as I get closer, looking through the gaping hole to see what lies behind it. As the light fades, I can see the silhouette of someone. Whoever they are, they are tall, wearing a long tail coat and trousers with their hands clasped elegantly in front of them and a top hat placed neatly on their head. The voice carrying my name sounds miles away but just the same, clear as a bell - it's a man. 

Ember.

My name has never sounded so haunting and yet so beautiful to my own ears before. I open my mouth to say hello, to call out in response, but before any sound escapes, on the other side of the door, an eye flashes before me, looking back at me from the other side. I jump back in fear as I'm met with the deep realization that it's Alice's blue, deranged orb staring back at me. The icy blue iris bores into me, surrounded by veins spider webbing outwards across the white. Her heavy-lidded gaze feels menacing, hinting at the madness brewing within. I shudder, unnerved by her unblinking stare as a chill runs down my spine.

I wake startled and sweating, the dream leaves goosebumps over my skin as I pant trying desperately to catch my breath. Heart pounding, I scan my familiar bedroom but can’t shake the lingering sense of danger. My eyes dart to the front door and I am gripped by fear when I see it is unlocked. Propelled by raw panic, I leap from bed scrambling to the door on shaky legs. I turn the lock and slide the chain into place, reinforcing the barrier between me and my imagined pursuer. Only after double-bolting the door do I begin to calm down, the cool wood against my back restoring my senses. 

I try desperately to slow my heart, to calm my heavy breathing by holding my breath, letting it out in slow exhales. My eyes search the dark wildly to make sure I am alone, scanning every corner available without moving from my spot. I swear I can see someone in the shadows resting in the corner of the apartment; tall, dark, and ominous, top hat and all.

 "Help me, Ember. Set me free." The voice is wistful and melodic and I'm drawn to it. The way each word is articulated slowly, the deep tenor of it. Rationality has me bringing my knees to my chest, holding them tight as I keep my eyes on the shadow. Outside, a car passes by and it casts light through my window, horizontal lines dancing across the clean walls of my studio apartment. With them sweeping away, whatever shadow I think I see in the corner is gone, leaving me reassured that I am alone.

 Yet a lingering unease remains as I stand up crossing the room, curling up on my bed, heart still racing as I struggle to slow my breathing. The voice seemed so real, almost seductive in its plea for help, and I can't shake the image of that tall, shadowy figure in the corner, top hat and all. 

Was it just my imagination playing tricks, or something more sinister? I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing for the morning light to banish the darkness and the strange visions within it. But until then, I cling to my knees, listening intently for any further sounds in the still of the night. The encounter has left me rattled, and I know that sleep will not come easily tonight. 

–

I am only offered a couple of hours more of dreamless sleep before it is interrupted by an early morning call from Tori. 

“Hello?” I answer the phone groggily, not even opening my eyes. 

“I need help!” she whines. I hear shuffling and then something crashes on the other end. 

“What else is new?” I tease giving a tired giggle at my own joke. Tori is sweet but she is a chaotic mess sometimes. 

“Ha, ha. No, I have a shoot next week and have no props for it. I repeat no props!” She wails. Tori and I were hired at the shop around the same time, and you could say we built sort of a workplace friendship. She's been diligently building up her photography side business as of late, and ever since I offered some creative suggestions after perusing her portfolio a while back, she's enlisted me to join her on prop scouting adventures. We've scoured high-end boutiques with ornate mirrors and vintage furniture, dingy thrift stores bursting with kitschy knick-knacks and retro dishware, even dusty antique shops filled with weathered books, faded maps, and tarnished silverware. 

“So, will you please go with me?” When she asks again I realize that I have drifted off in the middle of her conversation. I sigh, rubbing my face with my hand, turning over in bed. I look into the corner where the shadow loomed last night, empty and clear. 

“Pay me in coffee and you’ve got a deal.” 

–

Entering the store, we seemed to be the only two people other than the cashier and the customer he was occupied with at the cash register. Despite being busy, he glanced up and offered a polite, welcoming smile as the bell on the door announced our arrival. Since it was just an antique shop I didn't think I had to overly dress for the occasion, black leggings and tank top and with oversized white cardigan paired with a simple pair of stylish cream boots seemed fitting. Overall, my outfit achieved the ideal balance of comfort, flexibility, and presentability for an afternoon spent digging for hidden gems in the cluttered aisles.

The place is a chaotic jumble of items from various eras, crammed together on shelves and stacked in teetering piles that threaten to topple over. Mismatched antique furniture, including ornate Victorian chairs with worn velvet upholstery and chipped mahogany tables, are shoved into every available corner. 

The wooden floorboards creak under the weight of the haphazardly arranged clutter. Navigating the narrow aisles requires contorting your body to avoid bumping into precariously placed porcelain vases and stained-glass lamps. Some items are caked under layers of dust, evidence that they've sat undisturbed for ages. Others appear practically new, though still decades-old – vintage comic books with crisp pages, classic toys in their original packaging, kitschy 1950s kitchenware in pristine condition.

“It’s gonna be dark, I need as many gothic things as we can find.” Tori says her voice trailing off as she starts to pick through the shops inventory. Her pretty brown waves gathered into a loose ponytail, white tank and highwaisted jeans accent every curve she had, her red plaid jacket tied around her waist. I nod along, half-listening as I note the diverse array of products. 

My eye catches a purple love seat in the back with buttons all along the back. It looked like it belonged in a vampire's cottage. It was perfect for her. 

"Why don't you start with the chair in the back, it looks like it would fit what you're looking for." Tori's eyes immediately pop up finding the chair and her feet carry her toward it. I laugh a little as I follow behind her. The loveseat truly did look like it belonged in a Gothic vampire's lair, with its deep purple crushed velvet upholstery and ornately carved wood frame. The buttons marching down the back were large and shiny, looking almost like black pearls. It had curved wooden arms and clawed feet, adding to the overall sinister Victorian aesthetic. As Tori rushed over and sunk into the cushions, I could imagine her hosting a vampire tea party on that loveseat.

I pause to gaze at the intricate display of antique timepieces, the faded faces and tarnished metals speaking to their age and history. Though motionless now, I can almost see the second hands sweeping around the numbered dials when first purchased long ago. I imagine the gentlemen who once carried these watches, checking the time with a flip of the enameled case, the steady ticking marking the passing minutes. Now they sit preserved behind glass, the once polished chains artfully draped. Yet as I lean in, the ghostly echoes of multiple ticking movements seem to sound in synchrony.

Tori busies herself examining the dark wooden furniture adorned with intricate carvings and velvet upholstery, I meander through the rest of the store without much purpose. My eyes drift over an assortment of antique items, ranging from ornate lamps to faded paintings in gilded frames. Tucked away in a back corner, angled to reflect the ceiling, sits an elegant mirror atop a gold stand. Unlike much of the shop's inventory, not a speck of dust mars its glimmering surface. As I stride past, a flicker of motion suddenly grabs my attention. I freeze, pulse quickening as I glimpse a blur of long white hair in my peripheral vision.

I set my coffee down and squat in front of the glass reflection. My eyes scan the mirror intently, searching for any imperfection or oddity that could explain the strange flash of light I thought I saw. I lean in, my nose almost touching the cool surface as I examine every inch, looking for a reasonable explanation. But the mirror seems completely normal, its smooth glass surface flawlessly reflecting my puzzled face staring back at me. I stand up and take a few steps to the left and right, carefully observing how the light hits the mirror at different angles. But no matter how I position myself, I can't recreate that brief, bright flash. It couldn't have just been my imagination...could it? 

Perplexed, I lower myself in front of the mirror once more, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. As I peer deeply into the glass, the surface seems to swirl and blur. I feel an odd sensation like the floor is tipping beneath me. Gripped by a sudden vertigo, I tumble forward as if falling into an abyss. The mirror envelops me in a grey vortex, its cold tendrils wrapping around my helpless form. Icy darkness consumes me as I spiral into the unknown depths beyond the glass.

[soleminisanction]

I deleted this ask because I'm not interested in engaging with people who aren't reaching out in good faith, but man, people on this site really need to get more comfortable with the fact that historical gay men have long been associated with and explored their own sexuality (in an abstract sense) through fictional characters who are explicitly young and associated with the concept of youth, like Peter Pan, Dorian Gray, the cast of The Wizard of Oz, and, yes, Robin the Boy Wonder.

This is a known Thing in queer literature, people have done papers. And yeah, a bunch of homophobes looked in on that sort of thing from the outside and cried pedophilia, the same way that a bunch of dumbass modern puriteens look in on a whump fic and cry rape apologism or incest or whatever other buzzword they can misuse. Because they're deliberately reading it in bad faith to paint the people who read that material as bad instead of considering where their emotional investment actually lies and what catharsis they're receiving.

With Robin specifically in the 40s and 50s, what few records we have from the time indicate that young, gay boys were projecting onto him specifically because they found themselves attracted to the idealized hyper-masculine presentations of characters like Batman and Superman, and Robin was the focus of Batman's care and attention. He filled the narrative role of "The Beloved," the one that Batman cares for, whose safety can be used to raised the stakes of a scenario -- a role more commonly filled by the hero's opposite-sex love interest, ie, Lois Lane or Steve Trevor. Bruce did occasionally and often save beautiful young women who were in love with him from peril, but at least as often he was rescuing and protecting Robin, and Dick would return the favor.

At a time when homosexuality was pathologized and you just didn't get portrayals of men loving each other openly and fully, it was a central part of the Batman & Robin partnership that they cared for one another, deeply and loyally. And while that bond was neither sexual nor romantic in the comics themselves, it still represented something desirable for young gay boys who didn't have many other fantasies to latch onto.

Which isn't to say that anybody has to start shipping the pairing or anything, it's just, I'm not incline to give up this fascinating intersection of literary analysis and queer history just because some people decided to be squeemish and/or homophobic about it. This was important to people. That means something.

[aheathen-conceivably]

i just wanted to thank you so much for your darlington story! ive been rereading the entire thing and rosella has absolutely broken my heart! ive been dealing with grief over a loved one recently but reading her loss was therapeutic in a way, and it really hit home. thank you so much again!! <33

Oh, wow, Nonny. I wish there was a way for me to possibly express my gratitude and love toward you through this little screen.

First of all I’m sorry to hear about your loss. I wish it was something none of us had to go through, and it hurts like hell every time. I’m sure a few of you have heard me say this, but I lost someone very close to me not long before beginning The Darlingtons. I didn’t quite mean to at the time, but I now realize that I wrote a lot of my own grief in the character of Zelda, particularly when she loses Oliver.

It’s quite funny how fiction works in tangent with grief. Sometimes it can bring up bad moments, and other times it can function as a catharsis. By watching/reading someone else go through it, I find it can help contextualize and put words to something that can often feel bottomless and unending. It also makes you feel a bit less alone, you know? Realizing that feeling of loss can be so personal but also universal.

I am truly touched and honored that the story helped even a little bit, and that you reached out to let me know. Please know I’m sending you the biggest hug across space and time 🫂

[cryptid-jack]

While in the shower this morning I was trying to determine just what it is that makes me love Mass Effect just that little bit more than Dragon Age and decided that it probably comes down to my inherent (though admittedly slight) bias towards sci-fi over fantasy as a genre.

Don't get me wrong, of course, I love Dragon Age and I think it actually does a lot of things better than Mass Effect (integrating it's lore into its story, the races feel more fleshed out, etc), but Mass Effect is the one that makes me tear up a little bit when I fire it up for the first time in awhile and that menu music starts to play. You can hardly put it down to nostalgia, either, as I only played Mass Effect when LE released two years ago (jfc has it been two years already???) and followed up with Dragon Age late last year and into this one.

While fantasy is a fantastic medium for exploring the human condition and many other things─ I feel like science fiction is uniquely positioned to explore our hopes for the future of our species.

In times of turmoil a writer can look forward to the great blank canvas of the future and paint with words their most fervent wish for humanity going forward. We dream of a utopian future where no one wants for anything and we travel freely among the stars, learning from the people we find there, no longer alone in the wide and empty universe. We can also write our greatest fears, our downfall, our last gasping breath as a species that burned too hot too fast only to vanish─ unknown and unmourned in our brevity. All for the sake of warning our contemporaries in the one way we know how.

Something that's always really impacted me is that I will never leave this planet. The vast majority of us never will. Most of us, however, admire the people trying to make it happen─ NASA, rocket scientists, astronauts, and the many, many people that support them and make their work possible. Astronauts reach the moon and the stars beyond not just with rockets but by standing on the shoulders of humanity at large through our massed resources and collective knowledge painstakingly gathered over thousands of generations. Together, all of human history lifts them up and out of the fragile bubble that surrounds our planet and into the vast unknown with the hope that while you and I will never follow in their footsteps, they will carry our memory with them and leave signs of us in places we will never tread. Some small testament to our fragile existence in spite of all the odds conspiring against us having ever existed to begin with.

And I think that's beautiful.

Mass Effect and Dragon Age are both involve a hero uniting many disparate peoples against a larger foe, but Mass Effect is about humanity taking its place in the larger galactic community just a handful of years before insurmountable forces try to wipe out not just humanity, but all life. For all its flaws playing the ME trilogy has a catharsis for me that the DA trilogy doesn't. It scratches a very particular itch that feels like it needs scratching more than ever these days.

TLDR; I think I'm going to go play some Mass Effect today.

[junietuesday]

5, 20, 29 for the ao3 wrapped ask game?

ao3 wrapped ask game here if anyone wants to send in more!

5. What work of yours got more feedback than you expected?

hmmm.... well i didnt expect my super niche fics like letter to morena or a tale for the ages to get any comments at all lmfao, so maybe those? or maybe illuminate, i didnt think anyone would still care abt this fic more than a year after the last update lol

20. Which work of yours have you reread the most?

this year, definitely a petal on a stream lmfao. i wrote it bc i wanted to read pre-act-2 suicidal gale having desperate sex w astarion to feel like an actual person lol. its like filtered emotional catharsis bc its all filtered through astarion's pov. microdosing on human emotions by reading a fictional work that i wrote abt a guy witnessing another guy repress his feelings <3

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

favorite stand alone line would be. maybe this one from the ghost goodbye:

Revali felt…something. A cold wash of sensation, not quite nausea, spreading out from his chest to his wingtips like frost on glass. He knew what Mipha was going to say even before she opened her mouth.

favorite passage i think would be this one from a petal on a stream:

At last, Astarion rose to his feet. Only now did he get a good look at Gale. Gale’s hands were curled, knuckles pressed to the sockets of his eyes. His breaths were ragged, shallow, shuddering. He was shaking with the aftershocks. No, not aftershocks. Astarion watched, and realized Gale was crying. “…Gale?” Astarion asked carefully, his stomach dropping out from under him. He’d been so sure that Gale was enjoying it. What else could those impossibly sweet ramblings have meant? Why else would Gale have clung to him so desperately, begging Astarion to stay with him every step of the way? Astarion had been trying to help Gale feel better. Well, what had Astarion expected? That he’d actually do that right? He started to reach out, uncertain. Wondering if he should rest his hand on Gale’s arm, brush it against Gale’s cheek. But he froze with his arm halfway up. For all that they’d been touching moments earlier, it felt like there was an invisible barrier, stretching between them like gossamer. His touch had already brought countless others to their doom. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Gale was marching down that path regardless. Astarion let his hand drop back down to his side. Gale swallowed, shaking his head. He ground the heels of his palms harder against his eyes. When he finally gathered himself enough to respond, there was the wet sound of his tongue unsticking itself from the roof of his mouth. “Sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m sorry, forgive me. I mean— Thank you, for… Thank you.”

[peachdues]

So I’m 38. As someone who honestly has a lot of past trauma which we won’t get into, I personally take fandoms I’m in serious because it’s honestly all I have. I prefer being alone after a event happened in my life and honestly I feel my safest when I’m alone with fiction. I am in therapy and my therapist said my lifestyle is okay as long as I’m not a danger to others or myself.

The point being even if a person is online and dedicated to fiction it’s not normal for them to act like this.

Many people like me exist. We do not act like this. I worry people like this give us who are like this a bad reputation. My therapist gave me a statistic years ago forgive me for not knowing, essentially some people are online a lot and read and watch series as a way to forget serious real life trauma. It’s why I hate the phrase chronically online because some people are like this because of serious trauma.

The point of this I suppose is me explaining that not all of us are like this as I feel it gives people like me a bad reputation. I rarely see behavior like this I can assure you it’s not normal. Even for me with series issues in my life I have never done this.

I’m so sorry you dealt with this

Thank you for sharing this, I understand it can be a touchy subject.

For the record — I very much understand the value of fandom, and of finding community online — after all, I’m an active participant in it. I’ve been very open about how I came to the Demon Slayer fandom, and how much it has helped me since I endured one of the most traumatic things a person can endure in their lifetime, so trust me — I get it.

I’m sure that somewhere in all of this, amidst my snark and eye-rolling, my original message has been a bit distorted (by the OG anon) — which is, everyone is going to make their fandoms/faves/etc., what they will. Not everything I think or say will be everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s fine. I don’t write for a majority, or for anyone, really — I write for myself, as a creative catharsis. My husband collaborates with me, and it’s something we enjoy doing because we’re both voracious readers.

I don’t post on here because I want to satisfy people — I post what I want to write because it’s expression, and making it public is a way to ensure I don’t ignore this hobby of mine. The fact that a single person on here then takes the time out of their day to read what I’ve written — let alone, like/comment/reblog it — truly astounds me every single time it happens. I’m so grateful to each and every person who does that; and clearly, it resonates with a few people.

My point is, and has been through this whole shitshow, that the source material means something different to everyone — so live and let live. When I say “it’s not that deep,” I’m saying it because (1) I’m an asshole, and (2) because how we personally engage in and consume media shouldn’t be affected by how others choose to do so.

Thank you for reaching out and for being so open. And thank you for being kind. I truly hope that anon realizes that no one is backing them up, so maybe they take the time to reflect and consider why they feel the need to flood other writers’ inboxes because they want attention.

[flamechasr]

i want to know every single thing in the world i swear

okay. bladie info dump because i am thinking of him and i wanna yap rn (tw suicide and self harm because of how he is.)

he suffers from ptsd, chronic pain, and psychosis: mara fucked him up both mentally and physically as he is often constantly in pain, and it is worsened by the ptsd as symptoms of mara flare up when he remembers too much of his past. besides the fictional illness though it's also the wounds that couldn't be healed, as he does have a past where jingliu stabbed and killed him 1000 times over in a torture-brainwashing method until he was so fucked up that he just can't think about anything anymore besides his revenge and the pain and rage he feels, specifically for the three that needs to pay the price ( dan feng, jingliu, and himself ). and speaking of the reason confuses dan heng for dan feng is because he quite literally can't make the distinction between them. due to the hallucinations. jingliu made him believe that dan feng is responsible for his pain and, faced with his reincarnation, he only sees him as the person he once loved but brought him all this suffering. his mara flares up just by seeing dan heng and there's never really a moment he can even think about him without him hurting and going literally crazy.

his relationship with death: he grew up very close to death, with how his homeland was destroyed and his parents and everyone there was killed, only to then live among immortals as the only mortal. he was very aware of his own mortality and embraced it, yet, faced with death, he feared it too. when he was given the curse of immortality, jingliu tortured him by killing him over and over until his mind was literally broken. on one hand, death is his final escape from the never-ending torture of mara and the pain and the Visions, and yet death is now the furthest thing away from him, a paradise he can't reach, and his only motive to stay alive right now is the revenge he seeks. what's more, even temporary death is a comfort to him. it numbs him, removes him from his pain. kafka killed him and he is so attached to her, he asks jingliu to kill him one last time in her story quest, and she did so as a mercy instead of as torture this time because he's reached the point where that brief moment and feeling of death was almost like a high for him, catharsis.

his relationship with himself: among the long-lived species, yingxing grew up to be very arrogant in spite of his mortality. it's true that he was a talented and famed craftsman at his time, and he prided himself to be basically better than all the immortals despite having such a short life. he even swore that he would never give up his mortality, it was all of this that gave him the sense of individuality, and yet tragedy happened where he was reborn as an empty husk, infected with life. his eyes burned red, his hair regained vitality, his body will forever be intact despite the damage it suffers. he walked through life aimlessly, destroying civilizations in his wake because he has no purpose, he can't craft anything anymore, he can't think anymore, everything that made him feel alive was ripped from him and yet he can't just choose to die. more than that, he is incredibly dependent on kafka to keep him sane as her spirit whisper temporarily suppresses the mara. something something consensual mind control. she tells him not to think about anything and he doesn't. it's the one kindness that the universe gives him, and yet he will never have "himself" back. he's going to live like this forever until he meets his ultimate end.

his relationship with the stellaron hunters: he looks after silver wolf as seen in the lightcone 'before the tutorial mission starts' ( one of my favs ever ). he is also considerably gentle and indulgent with her, letting her use his phone to game and promising her that he would game with her one day although he doesn't know when. he is noted to get along with elio, it's not explained why but i believe it has to do with his own dependency on elio's promise that he will give him a proper burial when he dies permanently. he is very attached to kafka in several ways. he is often exasperated of her and is prone to chiding her due to her nonchalant fearless behavior, but his character story made it a point that he understands kafka ( no one understands her ), he lets her call him 'bladie' ( he threatened the traiblazer when they did that ), he allows himself to be vulnerable with her ( seeks her when he is in pain ), he goes out of his way to look for and protect her, and he is never under her control in those moments - kafka never makes him do anything for her, it's of his own volition that he does things for her, if only to save her from her own recklessness. he fears her mortality as she puts herself in dangerous situations for fun and he wouldn't fare quite as well without her.

his signature lightcone 'the unreachable side' features the story of how he would go to a certain place with the swords of his victims and wonders when someone would bring his sword here, and it's actually the same place as seen in the trailer 'nightmare' where there was his sword, dan heng's spear, and jing yuan's glaive put together. likely foreshadowing an "end" that they will all meet together.

speaking of his sword, it is called the shard sword and it used to belong to jingliu. yingxing specifically made it for her and it ended up in his hands after the whole torture-brainwashing when the sword shattered and jingliu would from then on use a sword made of pure ice, meanwhile blade picked up the sword he created and made it his own, broken like himself.

one of his idles is him hugging the sword and i just think it is so cute that he finds it comforting, as there is also a chibi art where he's sleeping while hugging it and silver wolf and kafka mess with him.

if you look closely his technique is literally him cutting himself to use his blood as sword fodder which is why he loses hp. the sound effect is really eugh to me. least to say i don't use it a lot.

the chinese instrument suona is featured in his trailer, which is commonly used in funeral processions. it's the screeching kinda sound at 1:16. his talent name 'shuhu's gift' references how he got his self-healing ability from consuming the flesh of shuhu, though to him it's more of a curse than a gift.

[very-grownup]

Book 42, 2023

Volume 6 of "Heaven Official's Blessing" contains the White-Clothed Calamity arc (or the start of it) which is both so rough and so needed to help cement Xie Lian as a character who has been through a lot that's had a real impact on him.

(Cut not because of spoilers but because I tangent into some things about sexual violence in fiction.)

The previous flashback arcs have made some of the hardships Xie Lian's endured clear and the core of his morality, but the fact that there seems little difference between mortal Xie Lian and present Xie Lian beyond his change in status, has made him seem almost too good. It's become obvious why Hua Cheng is devoted to him, why the established hierarchy of the heavens would have difficulty with him, but how could someone so good remain so low for centuries? Why are all his relationships so eroded?

Then you reach White-Clothed Calamity and a lot falls into place.

When Mo Xiang Tong Xiu lets things get ugly in her books, they're /really/ ugly. She doesn't play in the same sexual menace and violence arena that's come up in the Rou Bao Bu Chi Rou novels I've read, which keeps dark moments from being muddled with an element of grossness -- I can handle the grossness, for the most part, but when it's there it can be like a bit of a bump on the road to a really fucked up emotional place that, I think, is more compatible with catharsis than it is when violation is present.

It's something I've been thinking about in the same space as reflecting on my different reactions to the violence in Golden Kamuy versus Vinland Saga.

Maybe I've just been conditioned to view sexual violence as cheap or easy path to trauma or discomfort in media in a way that's at odds with its reality, as opposed to effect of stacking plot elements, character choices, and political situations seeming more crafted, although it's all a constructed fiction.

Anyway, the chapters collected in this volume were really missing something like the giant rats infested by the screaming souls of the dead.

[familyabolisher]

it’s interesting what this appeal to ‘porn’ is expected to do as a qualifier to the mere presence of ‘misery’ or ‘trauma’ in a text (which are not in themselves necessarily condemnatory properties—that they are pornographic in nature is the appeal to narrative failure being made); drawing on reactionary presuppositions about who makes and consumes erotica and why to position the (satisfied) audience as voyeuristic & somewhat licentious & the text itself something intended to titillate & the creator as similarly participating in/enabling this effective orgy of spectacle. & this criticism is deployed to in part push back against the sort of accusation of audience voyeurism that that framework makes; like, paradoxically applied to at once position and resist the positioning of oneself as titillated & implicitly condemned consumer (like: "this pornographic affect is bad, and anyone who enjoys this work is in effect bad by virtue of being positioned as the unethical consumer; my condemnation of the text removes me from this category.") whilst at the same time communicating particular assumptions about the intentions of the creator. (imo, a criticism which rests on unverified appeals to creator's intent or lack thereof is often flimsy at best, but that's not the only dimension to all this, so.) like, a criticism whose bedrock is that eroticism is a de facto debased and condemnatory state.

but, like, the suggestion seems to be that a narrative in which a series of traumatising / upsetting / violent etc. events take place with little, let's say, "point" to them, such that their emotive drive never reaches a state of catharsis (with the caveat that catharsis is highly subjective and many would say that the Misery Narrative, as it were, is generative of catharsis on the part of the audience!) or some other kind of narrative tapering-off wherein their presence feels justified is one which can only then be engaged with through the framework of voyeurism and titillation that the 'trauma/misery porn' claim provides. which i don't think is true! and i think harboring suspicion towards anyone compelled by such a narrative is an easy slip into reactionary thinking.

i guess i just don’t buy the suggestion that the presence of trauma or suffering that can’t be made edifying or otherwise placated in-narrative is de facto a narrative failing, or that a person's engagement with narratives that deal heavily in trauma or suffering is fair cause for them to be be painted as some kind of lecherous voyeur (or even that like, what you could call the Sickos Response is bad, or one that needs purging from one's critical faculties. not to state the obvious but fiction isn't real, in the sense that what is happening in a narrative is not a literal transposition of actual real-world events taking place coterminously.); like, just calling something 'trauma/misery porn' and calling it a day does not make for a substantial critique. it's a very mathematical approach to narrative; anything that doesn't factor into an imagined equation wherein the narrative is made critically legible (ie. you found the 'answer') is superfluous, and that perceived superfluity is problematised when it invokes discomfort in its audience such that it has to be explained away via a gratuity that we then have to position as odious.

i'm not arguing universally in favour for these sorts of narratives, because i think that would be as reductive as attempting to write them all off under one umbrella of very broad and specious claims about their morally suspect character; i'm just like, thinking about the conditions that giving 'trauma porn'/'misery porn' that particular critical currency begins to set & the assumptions (about porn, about eroticism, about what it means both to create & engage with erotic works) that go into the claim that a work being pornographic is indicative of its being bad. i think spectacle and exploitation (and the question of how + where/whether we can we draw hard boundaries between spectacle that exploits our emotional faculties & spectacle that appeals to and enhances them & whether the latter category could fairly be called spectacle—i could follow this train of thought for hours frankly lol) are highly valuable touchpoints for evaluating art, but i'm very suspicious of the language used to effectively skim the surface of what could be far more interrogative conversations.

terms like "trauma porn," "misery porn," etc as presumed indictments of a text are like ... such unserious gestures towards "criticism" lmao

[satcnus]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ       𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐘

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. ex-military widower ✖ runaway stray

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒. older protective male x vulnerable teen fem. widower x runaway. paternal elements within romance. male saviorism. size differences. opposites attract. ride or die. hurt, comfort, healing. v-rginity loss. dead dove do not eat.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! The following original fiction contains potentially triggering content, including: extreme age gap, homicide, child and spousal death, kidnapping, s-xual as-sault (background only), r-pe recovery, child abuse (background only), post-traumatic stress disorder and disabling mental illness, paternal elements within romance and and mild ddlg themes (clothing, nicknames). Read at your own discretion.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐎𝟑 - EARLY RELEASE. 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑.

So quickly did his nurturing return to him. So violently did it sear through the unstable and rocky waters of his emotional state. So quickly did it smooth salve over that cardinal wound of his—that need to be a man, to be a father, to be a protector, stifled down and suffocated by the cruelty of the Gods. And he wasn’t sure why he did it, or what had come over him. One moment he was fine, and the next he was sobbing.

The tears came darting down in a torrential pour, finding halt at the edge of his beard, and sinking into the dark hair. His chest ached something vicious, something violent and otherwise untouched for so many years. Something so agonizing it drew nausea up his abdomen and into his throat. 

His body tensed and wracked with it all. An upending grief, splicing him into barely distinguishable fragments of himself and who he once was. It reign on, until finally he’d run out of tears to release, and that was the only reason he’d stopped his catharsis at all. He lay there in bed, the residual ache in his chest slowly dulling, and drew his palm over his eyes, and dragged it down his face with a coughing, nasally groan. Some frustrated, pained noise. And then he rolled over, and reached to flick the bedside lamp off. 

-----------

The night came blanketing in on him fast. All of the day’s work, the events that happened afterwards, the memory of holding his daughter in his arms, so similarly, still lingering within his tired, sore muscles. 

Yes, sleep did come urgent and consuming. He was dragged into its depths by the rush of an adrenaline’s fading, and found himself in some sort of Purgatorio, where there was no reality and no nightmare to experience through the night. Just unencumbered, slumbering rest. 

When he awoke, the room was warm; the air crisp. Specs of dust were suspended in a ray of sunlight casting onto the hardwood, dancing in its beam. His head was pounding gently with a brewing ache, its throb low in his brow bone and ears, and amongst it all he felt this strange grogginess. Just a moment later, he decidedly chalked it up to sleeping so late, grinding the tackiness from his eyes with the base of his palm.

Reuven had never liked to sleep in. In some ways, it made him anxious, perhaps not because of daylight lost but because of a trip in his routine. Keeping a routine had been something life-saving for him. Perhaps, it was the only reason he was able to function at all. Some days he would have a glimpse of what life without that saving grace would be—when the morning came and he opened his eyes and found himself drenched in a terror’s sweat, his mind and heart raging with the agony of his losses and the reliving of them in his subconscious’ reign. 

On those days, he thanked himself immensely for having thought ahead and stocked up on meat and firewood, because his limbs would somehow, inexplicably, feel like lead. His body would become totally useless to him, and instead served only as some anchor to reality that barely felt real. It would take tremendous effort just to brush his teeth, let alone cook a meal and get to the physical labor of the day. 

Sometimes he would have these states of mind, like an aura, that preceded those episodes . He would be just a little bit off. A bit out of it. And would keep seeing their faces, expressionless, pale, interrupting his vision. The widower would try everything he could to make it stop, but always to no avail, until his grief brought him to his knees, and forced him to stop all his running from the grim truth.

Today, he felt like he was on the precipice of that hour, yet again. 

The last time had been three months earlier, and had not lasted just one day. 

These episodes… they were getting worse. More frequent. More intense. His heart pounded with an anxiety of no apparent origin as he sat up in his bed, and stared out the expansive full-length windows into the deep evergreen forest’s abyss. 

He, sometimes, felt just like that forest. 

-----------

The water struck his skin, hot and curing and pooling in his edges. His hand, roughened and calloused, went kneading into the knotted flesh of his shoulders, trying to massage out all the overuse and aging. It was an often enough ritual of his to avoid looking in the mirror, if only to not have to confront the distinctly haunted, aged look in his eyes that his body only mirrored. So infrequent were his glances at his own face that his reflection would sometimes surprise him, as it did this morning, and most mornings he caught a glimpse. 

Every year, he looked more and more like his father, and less and less like the man he’d known back in New York. No, this man who stared back at him was not that same man by any means. Reuven had changed in such fundamental ways that it all touched his features in this harsh, imposing countenance that he could not stand to witness contorted up in his own features. All traces of his internal peace, gone and stomped out and scraped off. It served as the front-and-center reality that he was changed now. That everything had changed. That he had lost everything.. 

No. He did his best to avoid his own eyes as he brushed his teeth, scrubbing hard and urgently, as if it was a task to be gotten over with as quickly as possible. But when he rinsed out his mouth, he did stop, and stare, briefly back into own pupils. 

Dark, almost black, like the night. Beside them, growing lines etched into the thinning skin. His cheeks, harboring spots from the sun here and there, worn and growing tighter around his facial structure. Beneath it all: that thick, unkempt beard that grew and grew and he spent far too much time hiding from his own demons to even think about trimming it. 

After a long moment of fixating on the deep stretch of gray that took host in two bilateral lines within the dark brown hair, he grabbed his clippers from the cabinet, and brought them to life with a harsh buzz. 

He did his best to get the lines straight. It sure had been awhile since he’d last bothered to even attempt taking care of his appearance. Why he’d chosen to this morning, he would not allow himself to ponder. 

If he did, he might find some desire, down there at the vortex of his human needs, for company. A lasting company. It was only right, to be presentable for company.

No. He was just getting ready for the day, and it was about damn time. That was all.

A haircut, however, would have to wait for another day, when he could get down to Quinalt and bother Odina for one. It had been awhile since he had checked on her anyway. Maintaining friendships was not Reuven’s strong suit. Not anymore, at least. 

The past fifteen years had been largely spent with only his own mind to break the silence. Packs of wolves and flocks of geese, too, occasionally. Dealing with other people had become so much more exhausting; navigating the waters of his anger while concomitantly trying to play nice with others had proven to be quite the feat. One that he had not yet mastered, and, truthfully, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to bother. 

No one understood. They never did. They would give him this soft look, full of enraging pity, if he ever disclosed how he’d even wound up out here, in the northwest mountains. He wasn’t even sure what to do with his grief himself, so how could he expect anyone else to know how to respond? That fact still did nothing to solve this fatal conundrum of his, though. He would just find himself growing increasingly more and more agitated and eager to leave, as whatever stranger he was talking to went on and on about their menial lives. Bitched about nothing of importance, and Reuven would be left seething silently, perplexingly, afterwards. He would grip his steering wheel with knuckles gone white, and ask himself how anyone could be so lucky to have their daughter not getting into the college she wanted as the largest problem of their decade? He would fester and compare and imagine what life might have been like for him, if Chedva had been able to grow tall and mature and sign up for college. What school would she have wanted to go to? What would she have studied? What if, what if, what if. And he would drown and sputter against his own anger.

Reuven hated talking to other people because it always ended with this. 

Somehow, someway, it always ended with this. 

So he stuck to talking about the weather, and didn’t often afford anyone more than a few words of his deep, husky voice, and he let others judge him as standoffish, so long as they left him alone, and he could survive existing in his grief another day.

Perhaps, that was why he hadn’t insisted on waking the girl. 

She might want to… talk to him. And he wasn’t ready.

He had tried, but only just so. His knuckles had rapped on the hardwood, carved door and waited for signs of life and when they didn’t come, the man stood there awkwardly, trying to decide if he should peek in. And then he remembered how the girl had backed away from him when he’d gone to give her his jacket, and decided against it. 

He told himself he wouldn’t bother her until she came to bother him, and that absolved him of some of the obligation to be a good host, and to surpass the threshold of his comfort zone. 

-----------

It was almost noon by the time he’d made it downstairs to make breakfast. The sun was nearing its highest height, and he would need to race it if he wanted to stock up on more meat before the impending storm. It was due to hit within the next day, 

As he cooked, he stared into the reflective, greasy surface of the cast iron, between a bed of frying scrambled eggs. He imagined that his mind was like that pan—reflecting everything off of it, any light that struck upon the baked-in outer surface of polymerization. Beneath that surface was just a hard, gripping hunk of metal. 

It was only after a bird flew by the window, squawking loudly, that he snapped out of it. Suddenly, the memory of the girl’s frailty dawned on him again, and became urgent again, and he went to pile the eggs on a plate until he paused, remembering an instructor some thirty-five years prior. When Reuven was just a scruffy, lanky new recruit, sitting in a classroom to prepare himself for the quote unquote real world and a fancy new uniform. 

Refeeding syndrome.

If she had been starving for awhile, then a high pile of food might do more harm than good.

He took a scoop off of her eggs.

It felt strange to be plating more than one meal. Strange and… nice. He had been alone for so long. Human connection, no matter how menial, was a basic need, of course. And perhaps, the way in which this differed from his half-distracted talks with his acquaintances down in Neilton and Quinalt was that he was… providing. For the first time in what felt like forever.

So perhaps, then, even further, that was the explanation for why he felt so nervous about it—rapping his knuckles gently on the door again, and then carefully placing the plate on the floor before it when he did not hear even a rustle.

In some peculiar way, this felt to him as giving a gift to a new lover might feel. Foreign, exciting, and riddled with the worry of I hope they like it. And he did. He really, really hoped she liked it. His kids had never liked his cooking. He’d never been as naturally gifted with it as their mother had been. 

  Still, he was certain it was difficult to go wrong with butter and potatoes.

-----------

The girl lingered on his mind all day.

He began to stew in his thinking, wondering if she had maybe snuck out in the middle of the night, and his gift of breakfast would go untouched because she was not there at all.

But just as he pushed thoughts of his children out of his mind, he pushed thought of her, too, back and away, to busy himself with the tasks of the day. While the sun was still high, he pulled on some under armor and slung his sleek, black rifle over his back and set off. 

By the time he’d returned, deer slung over his shoulders, it had already begun to get dark again. The winter, of course, was not so forgiving, even with daylight saving’s time. He’d have to butcher it tomorrow, which was not the ideal, but the temperature was cold enough that the meat would sustain the elements.

He stepped back into the house, peeling off his jacket and throwing it on the porch to be cleaned of blood later. The warmth of the foyer greeted him, and he hung up his rifle, set down his gloves, and stepped out of his boots.

Again, the house was as silent as he’d left it. 

Reuven palmed at his face as he ascended the steps, anticipating to see the plate of food still left on the floor in front of the door, food cold and untouched. But, as he rounded the corner into the hallway that looked down upon the living room, he saw the plate was indeed still there, but it was devoid of food. All but licked clean. 

His heart leaped. 

With what, he wasn’t so sure. But he was goddamn thrilled to bring the plate downstairs and wash it, only to fill it back up with chicken and rice half an hour later, and return it before the door, with another tap on the door. 

He would leave her be. Surely, she must be exhausted. For a brief moment,m before he was about to walk back downstairs, he remembered the state of her last night. Her nested hair. The piles of wet clothing she was draped under. It took him a long, pivotal pause to decide to do it, but he took slow strides to the hallway closet, where its wooden door squeaked on its hinges. He hadn’t looked in there since he’d stocked the closet. 

On the topmost shelf was a box. On its side read a name. Chedva.

He pulled it down, his heart pounding something wretched, and tried to cough at the lump growing in his throat as he pulled out some of his baby girl’s old clothing. 

A slow, deep inhale allowed him to take the shirt and pants out. This girl needed them. Of that he was certain. 

They were left, neatly folded atop a towel, beside her dinner. Taped to the fabric was a note.

The shower is down the hall to the left, the last door by the railing. Help yourself.

That night, Reuven slept easier, knowing she was finally fed.

[heywriters]

What's your thoughts on New Weird fiction? And do you have any advice on how to write in that genre?

(If the second answer is against your ask policy, it's alright if you only answer the first one. Thank you.)

"New Weird"?

Didn't know that term, so I had to look it up. Turns out, that's the genre of one of my favorite book series, The Southern Reach Trilogy!

It's like nightmare fiction. Trippy, angsty, which-way-is-up fiction. I could not put the first book, Annihilation, down. When I did, my brain was messed up, I felt abnormal and unsafe, convinced my reality was actually crawling with strangely hostile energy. It was awesome. However, I would have to prepare for the melancholic anxiety it put me through if I chose to read it all again.

I know it's "new" but tons of old weird stuff is coming to mind now. First, stuff from the '60s my mother would describe as "nightmarish" or "you had to be high to enjoy it." Then the grim nightmare of Metamorphosis by Kaftka, the opium-addled adventures of Alice in Wonderland. Can I throw "Miss Peregrine's Home..." into the new weird pile? It is perhaps more fantasy than new weird, but it's also more horror/freak-show than magical. Plus, I loved the first book and my tastes are apparently quite weird.

There are so many movies I'd label new weird too, like Jupiter Ascending. So much stuff I can classify now!

Advice for Writing New Weird

It's described as a genre that flips science fiction and fantasy tropes on their heads, sometimes satirically. From that, I say be a reader of spec fic first. Know your tropes so you can twist them into terrifying and absurd shapes. Be willing to commit to the most ridiculous, strange ideas that come to mind. Then take them seriously (or ridiculously).

Be comfortable with discomfort. New weird is often dark and disconcerting. Establish an air of eeriness that will have no rational solution. Unlike horror and thriller where we know we will see the monster at the end or that the trauma will be resolved, new weird stays weird and rarely supplies a come-down. If anxiety is something you struggle with, have ways to come down yourself after each writing session.

New weird stories do not need to explain why they are weird. They use logic sparingly to suspend disbelief in places where reality must be hyperreal to contrast the dreaminess that will follow. Places that hold the story and theme together may need a semblance of stability and relatability to the reader, but mostly the point is that there is no logic, at least not a familiar one. Logic in new weird is entirely up to the author, like their own private language. The reader has to accept that there may never be a satisfying resolution, and be satisfied with open endings and unexplained phenomena.

Emotional catharsis is in high demand. At least, that's what I enjoy about new weird. Experiencing intense, galaxy-brain-meme levels of emotion seems to be a thing for new weird characters. Describing those emotions and what causes them may be difficult for some writers, or great inner exploration for others. When logic, reality, and other factors normally used to tether readers to a story/character are missing, emotion becomes the most relatable tool a writer can employ.

There are worse things than death. Characters in new weird typically go through bizarre transformations, horrifying circumstances, and mind-altering states. The question is often asked, "Is it worse to fall asleep in death, or to live forever as a lonely, deformed monster with warped memories of being human?" and the answer is always "Deformed monster of loneliness! With tentacle wings! And a drinking problem! And distant memories of a happier life where they were a human mother! And those aren't even their memories!" (Now I'm thinking of Lily from Fallout: New Vegas and it's making me sad).

TL;DR --- Be prepared for anxiety and chaos and strong emotions. Stick to a storyline, please, but overall go where the weird takes you.

—

+ Please review my pinned Ask Policy before sending in your ask. Thank you.

+ I'm moving to another state and the process is taking up all my time and money 😥. If you'd be so kind as to Buy Me a Coffee on ko-fi, I'd really, genuinely appreciate it. Trying my best to stay on top of this blog, but might need to take a break for a while...

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

INTERVIEW - Actor Toby Stephens, who plays Damian Cray on Alex Rider: "Fortunately, people need entertainment. I'm very lucky to be able to make a career out of it."

BUCHAREST, Written by News.ro

Actor Toby Stephens, who plays Damian Cray, a tech mogul, in the series "Alex Rider", talks in an exclusive interview with News.co.uk about "extremely interesting espionage, by nature secretive", how series writer Anthony Horowitz created a "more complicated and nuanced version of what it means to be a teenager" and what it was like to film.

Season two of the spy thriller "Alex Rider" airs every Monday night at 10pm on AXN.

The series follows the story of Alex Rider, a London teenager who has been unknowingly trained for the dangerous world of espionage since childhood. After the death of his uncle and the near-death mission to destroy the Point Blanc boarding school in the first season, Alex is eager to put the past behind him, resume his normal teenage life and heal his trauma by enlisting the help of a therapist.

His plans to put his life back together are turned upside down when a close friend is the target of a horrific attack. So Alex finds himself drawn back into the world of covert missions, where he must stop a sinister plan afoot that aims to destroy the US defense system.

"Alex Rider" is produced by Eleventh Hour Films and Sony Pictures Television. Otto Farrant ("The White Queen"), Brennock O'Conner ("Game of Thrones"), Vicky McClure ("Line of Duty"), Ronkẹ Adékọluẹjọ ("Doctor Who"), Marli Siu ("Dixi") and Stephen Dillane ("Game of Thrones") reprise their roles, while Toby Stephens ("Die Another Day"), Rakie Ayola ("Harry Potter and the Cursed Child") and Charithra Chandran ("Bridgerton") join the cast for season two.

Toby Stephens is Damian Cray, a tech business mogul and the main villain in the new adventure in the young spy's life. Damian has created hugely popular online games that have made him rich. With a strong motivation rooted in a trauma he experienced when he was the same age as Alex, Damian is, in fact, a lonely person who sets out on a desperate search for his own catharsis.

Why did you accept to be part of this project?

Toby Stephens: My son is a big fan of the books and I know Anthony quite well through Jill, his wife, who I've worked with several times. It was nice to do something that my son enjoys. I also played a level-headed, solid dad on Lost in Space for three seasons and found it fun to play a sociopath.

When is it not fun?

T.S: Well, yes! He's a misunderstood sociopath. It just seemed like a fun thing to do. And also, I had spent a lot of time working away from home and it was really nice to do something here.

Why do you think books are so popular too?

T.S: They're pure action. The plots are complex, but not over the top. They're very, very gripping. I would have loved it if I was a kid. I mean, I enjoyed reading them as an adult. I like that Anthony Horowitz ups the stakes and builds the villains quite truthfully. There are real stakes and people die. Alex Rider's uncle died and there are moral ambiguities and complexities there. I think a lot of books in the children's fiction area go in that direction. It's not a super clean, sterile, kid-friendly world. It's slightly edgy and paints a picture of a violent and morally complicated world, but without it being too adult. It's like a half-way nice house.

The fact that we see Alex doing therapy seems like a very modern way of looking at teenagers.

T.S: It's definitely contemporary. We live in a very complicated age for young people. It's great to show kids that this is okay, that it's part of life and that you can reach out and get help for things. If Alex Rider can do it, then anyone can. Anthony Horowitz has created an inspirational guy rather than a stoic man. He's a more complicated and nuanced version of what it means to be a teenager.

Tell me a bit more about the character you play in this show. Who is he?

T.S: Damian Cray is a tech mogul. He has created online games that are extremely popular and has made a huge amount of money from them. Hyper-intelligent and incredibly driven, obviously. He draws his strength from a tragedy that happened to him when he was 17, around the age of Alex Rider, and that shaped his world. He was a pretty lonely kid; his parents were pretty absent. This tragedy then leads him on a search for catharsis.

How does Alex get to meet Damian Cray?

T.S: Alex gets to know this journalist who is injured in Cornwall and realizes that he was writing an expose on Damian Cray. Alex tries to find out what Cray is doing and whether he was, in fact, responsible for the journalist's injury. Cray doesn't really know who this kid is and mistakenly thinks he's the world's best player, an anonymous player named K7.

How did you find working with Otto, Brenock and Marli?

T.S: I loved it. It made me feel very old though! I love working with young people, it keeps you in touch with things. Actually, they are much more mature than me, more "together". I love doing this job, period. It's so much fun. I feel very lucky at this point to be working in this climate. Fortunately, people need entertainment. I'm very fortunate to be able to make a career out of it at the best of times, but even more so at this time.

How do you prepare to play a billionaire, do you draw inspiration from real life?

T.S: I didn't want to build it based on anyone specific, but yes, the way he dresses, the way he is, there's a kind of - not arrogance, but the assumption that everyone works for you. It's about control. These people have massive control issues. Part of it is assuming that everyone is there for your benefit, to be used by you, and that everyone is a tool that you can use. There's a very specific mindset you have to have to be that successful, and when they lose control, it's huge for them. It's devastating. So I didn't want to mimic the physical aspects, but rather what drives them, what gives you solid ground to work on.

Have you played any video games to understand this world?

T.S: My son plays a lot and I like to observe him. It's incredible stuff. However, I don't think Cray spends that much time playing games. He designs them all, but they're there for a greater purpose. He wants The Feathered Serpent to be the best in the world, but I don't think he spends a lot of time playing it. Other people do that for him.

In terms of it being an action show, did you personally get involved in any of the scenes?

T.S: Cray is simply telling people what to do, being extremely bossy and obsessed with being in control! Towards the end of the show I have a big action scene, and I've done that in other productions, but my body is less forgiving than it used to be. It certainly pleased me that I didn't have too much action in this production!

Why do you think the spy genre productions still remain so popular?

T.S: It's interesting because all these professions like detective, spy, doctor, have a built-in drama. In real life, there's probably a lot of boredom, so obviously these are romanticized versions of what really happens. But espionage is extremely interesting, because of the secretive nature, because of these shadowy organizations, these powerful villains. All of that creates these very compelling worlds. It's fantasy, but it's also fun. Violence, suggested violence or danger is always great when you're sitting by a fireplace, reading a book. It's the same with crime novels, Agatha Christie or whatever. It's that slightly tame version of something that is, in fact, horrible. It's somehow safe in the pages of these books, so you can curl up and discover it. They're great stories, especially since they tend to be quite labyrinthine.

Would you make a good spy, Toby?

T.S: I'd be terrible. I just couldn't keep any secrets. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm on this secret mission!". I guess I could carry off the disguise part or pretend to be someone else. Otherwise, I'd be terrible.

Translated via DeepL Translator from News.ro