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unlikelyjapan · 10 months

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Full disclosure: I wasn't a Syd/Carmy shipper until two weeks ago. Hell, I don't think I've ever been a shipper of anything up until this moment - but I've been happily married to my slow-burn best friend for eons, so this all struck a deep, nostalgic chord for me. Consider this post my coming-out party:

This whole thing came about from that well-worn Freud quote that "friendship is the art of distance while love is the art of intimacy" that I recalled from a crude psychology class.

From the most shallow, birds-eye POV, Carmy achieved intimacy with Claire (while maintaining distance/friendship with Syd) by disclosing details of his family situation, his panic attacks, expressing romantic affection, and establishing physical intimacy with someone.

He even seemed more eager to relay and express these experiences to his friends (see the cannoli conversation with Syd and Marcus) as he went deeper into the relationship. From this perspective, I empathize with people when they say they see his relationship with Claire as real personal growth, followed by a steep regression.

Claire seems to pantomime someone who is secure, but is actually pretty anxious in matters of the heart - the idealized projections she places on Carmy based on her proximity to him a decade ago, her unwillingness to walk away from the red flag of the 'wrong number' fiasco, and her unrelenting insistence to know why he tried to dodge her in the first place. I'll say nothing of the constant placating.

Claire is a sort of a faux 'sword of destiny' for Carmy - he yearned for her attention in his youth, it was loudly proclaimed to be "the good thing" by his abusive family, and so it's the only logical choice in Carmy's mind once he's beaten over the head with it for the umpteenth time - it's the love chosen for him by his family and his past self before he pieced together ways to partially escape, it's fatalism, it's the end of the weary search for "fun" and happiness.

He's never truly happy or having "fun" (as he doesn't know how to define that in his mind - that's why we're tortured with 5 grueling minutes of Logan), but he feels cared for and is going through the motions of being "that guy who is fun and in love".

Love even had to be defined for him by his inherited family friend/handyman who he didn't even know was his "best friend" until Claire relayed it to him - he blindingly accepted both assertions from Fak, falling back into his family's narrative that he can't survive or be normal without their collective help.

By contrast, Sydney is probably the first thing Carmy has ever chosen for himself without outside influence from family or employers. She was his first hired employee, his first true friend who wasn't a blood relative, and probably the first person he feels mirrors his passions without a need to compete with her over them.

Sydney is a choice - she is happiness (in whatever shape or form that you choose to define it, it can be aromantic if you'd like) that Carmy found all by himself, without the narrative being driven by outside influences. They have fun together on their own frequency, but Carmy's black-and-white thinking can't recognize it for what it is - he's still reaching for a sense of "fun" that was repeatedly sold to him as his family tried to push him along the path of normalcy (an impossible feat for a Berzatto).

Syd and Carmy share a brand of maternal grief/strife and a profound love of service that breeds a slow intimacy. By saying "you deserve my full focus" Carmen is saying that Sydney's happiness is more important than his own, which can sound abysmal in type, but is also a natural pre-req for love when given willingly - which I think he is giving willingly for her, just not willingly for the anxiety and minutiae that comes with actually running a fine dining restaurant. He needs someone he can have absolute trust in to hold his hand through that part.

That's why he could only create The Bear with her, and why he says he wouldn't want to do it without her.

They're both fearful and avoidant, which is a fatally-wounding powder keg if they were to connect this instant, but with ever-growing intimacy and self-work (which Claire - however insufferable her dialogue - probably planted seedlings in with Carmy, and his openness and absolute trust in Sydney could drive her towards, too) their coming together could heal many of their longstanding wounds.

This was more of a meandering walk than I hoped, but I think it all comes down to actively choosing happiness vs. passively chosen happiness - Sydney is the first thing Carmy has ever chosen for himself, and we were beaten over the head with depictions of how much he cherishes that agency and Syd this season. I really hope S3 is a big mess of mirroring and sharing for them.

#the bear fx #the bear season 2 #the bear spoilers #the bear #syd x carmy #sydcarmy #carmy berzatto #carmy x claire #carmy x sydney #chefs kiss

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chrissy-kaos · 1 year

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If we're too masculine then we're disgusting freaks. They collect the most masculine of us - innocent women minding their own business trying to live a life that was denied to them - and mock us, openly discussing how nobody could ever love us, how nobody could be fooled that we're women.

If we're too feminine then we're stupid men. They find the most tone deaf quotes from trans girls, usually those who have been out for only months if they're out at all. They find these quotes of girls still learning how to be women, post them everywhere as proof that we are just pantomime caricatures of women.

If we are too strong then we are violent and dangerous. We are an unfair factor in sport, evil men just trying to steal victories from real women. We could lose our temper at any moment. We are a risk that cannot be tolerated. If we're too weak then we are to be mocked. They call us failed men who ran to womanhood because we couldn't take it. We're victims of our own masculinity. Poor feminine men to be saved... In the same way that Republicans want to save those 'poor unborn babies.'

If we lose our temper we're back to dangerous men. But if we cry, if our shoulders buckle under the weight of endless, endless, ENDLESS, ENDLESS, ABUSE. Then they mock us again. They share pictures of trans women crying and laugh over it. Of course they make sure to find the pictures where our stubble is showing, our makeup has already run. It's not the way that women are mocked for weakness; it's the way men are. They find videos where are lips are trembling. Where our voice has gone deep because we don't have the energy to keep it at its heightened octave.

If we find ourselves ugly they mock us. But if we're happy with ourselves then we're disgusting degenerates. "Autogynephilic." Medicalized. They find the tweets of newly out girls who said something improper in their tiny moment of not guarding themselves. An awkward, amateurish attempt at roleplay or dirty talk becomes a meme. A woman who likely spent years growing the courage to begin sexual exploration, probably for the first time in her life, sees herself come up every so often in their replies, their threads, their gifs. What happens to these people? Is it even possible for them to ever resume that exploration?

We're trying to trick everyone into dating us. We should be required to show visible identification on us at all times; to be trans without the people around you knowing is deceit. But also, nobody would ever date us, everyone can tell, immediately, always. Everyone knows, the terfs say GLEEFULLY. Reveling in the idea that our subconscious is constantly telling us this. Basking in the thought of our depression and anxiety eating our minds until there's nothing left.

Even the terfs never stay the same for long. One moment it's a wall of 'concerned mothers' with all the passive-aggressive venom of a white woman calling the police because she doesn't want to put a leash on her dog; make ABSOLUTELY NO MISTAKE that these are the same people. The next it's anime-avatar alt righters. The next it's puritanical Christians claiming we are the natural result of the "rainbow agenda." It's lesbians saying that we're destroying lesbianism, following right on the heels of a pastor saying that anything that isn't a man and a woman is unnatural.

Half the URLs are Mumsnet and half are Kiwifarms. How many are bots? Sock puppets? How many really are just transphobic housewives accessing Kiwifarms from their phones? How many took the full plunge? The answer to all of the above is, we don't know, but it's a whole lot more than zero.

Every time we go into a bathroom, there's a chance we'll be the next screen shot pasted over reddit. It doesn't matter whether it's the men's or women's. They are equally unsafe.

If we need a women's shelter, we flip a coin on whether the person running it has already decided she hates us, because of these people.

We cannot upload a picture to facebook without this risk.

We cannot post about our lives without this risk.

We cannot appear at our work without this risk.

We cannot exist without this risk.

Every possible action we could take will be judged. There is no outcome that isn't negative. There is nothing we can do that isn't negative. Masculinine, feminine, pretty, ugly, angry, sad, sexual, frigid, proud, ashamed, strong, weak. Pre-op, post-op, non-op. Vagina, ovaries, chromosomes, fertility: womanhood is defined as whatever we aren't in that particular context.

I don't want to think about how many people this has killed. To call it a moving goal-post is inept, it is a void, an endless mass of hatred that follows us no matter what we do. Nothing is good enough. Everything, every single thing, is just waiting to be weaponized against us.

It has killed so, so many.

It won't kill any more.

If you're trans and you're reading this you already know everything I said. We've lived through it. You already know that I've spent time as all of the above because you have too. That when I get SIX HUNDRED COMMENTS calling me a man I want to swing my fists and I want to cry and I want to curl into a ball and I want to scream and I want to end my own miserable existence. The ugly beautiful girl in the mirror is so angry and sad and prideful and ashamed and violent and passive and this constant stream of abuse has torn me apart and created so many ugly things in this mind but if there is ONE. FUCKING. THING. THAT. THEY. WILL. NOT. MAKE. ME.

It is dead.

I will live. I will survive. And I don't even care about justice anymore. These people will get away with all this. Somewhere in that mix of the trans population and the infamous 40% number is a figure of how many people they've killed, but they'd never care. I'll live because all of their jeering and mocking and gaslighting and those goddamn fucking insufferable legions of laugh reacts, they don't do a fucking thing.

That's all it comes down to in the end. It's hard and it's painful and it hurts, it just ENDLESSLY hurts to weather their blows. But my name is Alexia. I am a woman.

You can hurt me all you like, but that won't change, and you can die mad about it.

- Lindwyrm Weisseritter

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rottenpumpkin13 · 8 months

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Did Zack ever ended up having Aerith cooperate on a prank on the Firsts? If so, how did it turned out?

The Drugs Prank

TW: Drugs

[Aerith and Zack are hanging out at the church. Aerith is calling Genesis from her phone while simultaneously shushing Zack's laughter]

[The phone rings four times before Genesis picks up]

Genesis: Yes, Mrs. Fair?

Aerith: Hi, Genesis! I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Zack isn't answering his phone or messages...

Genesis: Oh, I'm with Angeal and Sephiroth, so your paramour isn't here.

Aerith: No, no. When you see him, can you please tell him that he left the last of his white powder at my house?

[There's a pause. Genesis's heavy breathing is the only sound on the other end. Zack is silently dying beside Aerith]

Genesis: I'm sorry, he left his what at your house?

[There's two voices on the other end that sound like Sephiroth and Angeal asking him what happened]

Aerith: His white powder. He always brings it over, but never tells me what it is. He lets me try some of it sometimes, but I always end up coughing⏤

Genesis: White powder!? White powder!?

[Aerith covers her mouth to keep herself from laughing. Sephiroth's muffled voice is heard in the background: Genesis, are you buying illicit drugs?]

Aerith: Yup, white powder he always has in a small brown package.

Genesis: Aerith, dear, does he snort the powder?

Aerith: He does! And afterwards he always gets energetic, it's really cute!

Genesis: IT WAS COKE? THIS WHOLE TIME WE THOUGHT IT WAS ADHD! YOU'RE TELLING ME HE'S BEEN INHALING THE GOODS!?

[Aerith covers the receiver with her hand. She and Zack are silently laughing. Genesis is screaming on the other end. Shuffling and a garbled commotion are heard]

Genesis: ⏤DOING DRUGS! NO WONDER HE'S SO HYPER ALL THE TIME, HE'S BEEN COKED OUT OF HIS MIND! *shuffling sounds* No, Aerith just told me! *shuffling sounds* Well, what else could it be!? *shuffling sounds* You ask her then!

[There's more muffled back to back and then someone else picks up the phone]

Angeal: Aerith? Aerith? It's Angeal.

Aerith: Hi Angeal!

Angeal: Listen, when Zack brings over this white powder of his, does he make you take some of it?

[Zack shakes his head and pantomimes stirring a pot]

Aerith: Hmmm, sometimes? Usually he just has me cook the white powder with baking soda.

Angeal: HE'S RUNNING A CRACK HOUSE!

[Zack loses it and has to step away to laugh. Meanwhile there's a commotion on the other end that Aerith can just barely make out]

Sephiroth: Genesis he's having a panic attack.

Genesis: So am I!

Sephiroth: Genesis he can't breathe.

Genesis: I feel betrayed, SEPHIROTH!

Sephiroth: He's blue, Genesis.

Genesis: And I just found out our Puppy is the local merchant!

Sephiroth: Give me the PHS.

Genesis: Put it on speaker!

[There's some shuffling and then someone else picks up the phone]

Sephiroth: Aerith, this is Sephiroth.

Aerith: Oh, hey!

Sephiroth: Do you realize that you're recounting something which could put Zackary in prison?

Aerith: Really? I didn't know it was that serious! He says that you, in particular love the white powder.

Sephiroth: Myself? He told you this?

Aerith: Yeah! He says that every week when he brings you guys cookies, he puts the white powder in it! He even gives it to the other SOLDIERs regularly!

[Genesis and Angeal's collective screams drown out Sephiroth's heavy breathing]

Genesis: HE WAS GIVING US EDIBLES!

Angeal: *crying noises*

Sephiroth: We're all going to prison.

Genesis: SCRATCH THAT, HE REGULARLY COKES UP THE ENTIRE DEPARTMENT.

Angeal: *crying noises*

Sephiroth: We're going to appear on the news.

Genesis: I KNOW, SEPHIROTH, I KNOW.

Sephiroth: Do you have any idea how many times I've enjoyed those cookies?

Genesis: Angeal! Angeal! Breathe, man, breathe!

Sephiroth: This will be a nightmare for the PR department. Social media will have a field day. I can see it now. They're going to call him Zack-crack Fair.

[Zack accidentally snorts loudly and Aerith slaps him upside the head]

Genesis: ANGEAL STOP EATING YOUR OWN SHIRT—Sephiroth he's having a mental breakdown.

Sephiroth: They're going to call me Sugar-roth.

Genesis: ANGEAL DON'T EAT THE CARPET!

Sephiroth: You're going to be Gene-snow.

Genesis: SHUT UP! SHUT UP! FOR THE LOVE OF OUR SWEET GODDESS SHUT UP!

Sephiroth: And Angeal will be Crack-geal—Ow! Ow! Ow!

[They continue to argue on the other end while Angeal cries. And then everything goes silent]

Angeal: Guys...Isn't that Lazard over there?

Genesis: It is....And he's eating one of Zack's cookies....

Sephiroth: Stop him!

[Shuffling and the sound of running footsteps are heard, followed by Lazard's: "Good evening, gentlemen. Why are you all⏤ACK!" and then then sound of something heavy crashing through glass]

[The line goes dead]

#ffvii #ff7 #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #ffvii crisis core #final fantasy #angeal hewley #final fantasy vii #ff7 crisis core #final fantasy 7 crisis core #incorrect final fantasy #incorrect ffvii #tw drugs #tw cocaine #zack fair #aerith gainsborough #ff7cc #soldier pranks

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blacknedsoul-blog · 4 months

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Annabel Lee Whitlock: The Hypocrite, the Vampire and the Femme Fatale. A review of archetypes

Good news: I'm on vacation. Bad news: I'm on vacation.

And that means rest. A positive externality. But on the other hand, it also means that my brain, which is constantly thirsting for stimulation, has lost eight hours of activity a day that it has to fill with something. You know what happens to orange tabbies who suddenly become quiet and behave as if possessed by all the demons of Ars Goetia? Well, sort of.

So my brain in need of stimulation decided to dust off my college notes and talk about archetypes, because it's a thorough enough job to keep me away from climbing walls or checking random stuff on the Internet for 10 hours a day.

What is an archetype?

Just to make sure we're all on the same page, an archetype (a "type character") is a writing model that describes a role and has certain characteristics.

The term was coined by Honoré de Balzac, a French writer obsessed with what he called "micro-history. His life's work, "La Comédie humaine", is a massive collection of more than 80 novels, which, when read, will give you more information about that historical period than any theoretical book on the subject.

You may not know this sir or the protagonist of "Illusions perdues", but you do know the archetype that Lucien Rumempré represents: a young from the provinces, full of dreams, who moves to the city only to discover that the lights are there to dazzle and distract from the misery.

But at the same time, the characters that come to mind are likely to be very different from the good Lucien. This is because the archetype is a different construct from the cliché.

If I had to explain the difference, I would say that the cliché is a recipe, while the archetype is a mold.

If you follow a recipe, you will always get results that are very similar, even if you make small variations in the recipe. But if you have a star cookie cutter, the contents of the cookies can be quite different: no one would dare say that a chocolate chip cookie tastes the same as an oatmeal cookie or a gingerbread cookie. Even if all three are cut in the shape of a star.

So I'm going to do a little review of the archetypes that Annabel notices. The differences, the similarities, and let's see what comes out.

The Hypocrite

Not "hypocrite" in the sense of a personality, but in the sense of a way of behaving in the world: The Hypocrite is a character whose way of relating to the world is a pantomime, whose role is to build themselves up to fit into a system (which, by the way, they despise). If they don't have what you want, they will at least pretend enough to make you think they do. Usually for personal gain.

The founder of this archetype is Julien Sorel, the protagonist of "Le Rogue et Le Noir", the most famous work of Stendhal, one of the most prominent writers of the literary realism founded by Balzac.

Julien is this poor boy, but smart enough to memorize the Bible, which makes him seem educated enough to get him a job as a tutor in a rich house, and eventually a priest's cassock.

A more modern example is Nick Wilde from Zootopia. This fox has decided that if he alone can be a con man, he will be one, though he desperately wants someone to see him as an individual beyond that. He hates the system that condemns him, but he wants to be a part of it and will play by the rules he is given in order to profit.

Annabel, like Julien and Nick, has built her entire identity around being what is expected of her, in her case a perfect Victorian high society lady. Something that has given her a tremendous amount of knowledge about how people move in such circles. And from her point of view, people are the same everywhere (Miss Marple would be proud of her).

And in this oppressive context that fosters an environment where people kill each other, she knows what currency to give in return for loyalty: people will look for a leader, someone competent, someone who knows what they're doing.

Annabel has no idea what's going on, what awaits them outside the Nevermore gate, or even if there's a way to escape. But she can pretend to know. The quietest person in the room wins, and she's the one who takes the prizes to achieve her goal. The performance is justified as a means to an end.

Another thing that characterizes stories with a Hypocrite as a relevant character is the exploration of the consequences of this lifestyle: identity is consumed by the role, the line between actor and character is lost, and the Hypocrite is often faced with the reality that they have put so much of themselves into the character they are playing that once it is exposed, there is nothing underneath, or at least nothing worth saving.

In Annabel's case, this is expressed in her utter horror at not being trusted by Lenore. She puts her hypocrisy at the disposal of her lover and comforts herself with the reward of her affection, but Lenore's love for her is the only thread that binds her own identity: that Lenore does not trust her means that the role has completely consumed her, the complete confirmation that she, as an individual, is no longer a disturbed poseur.

Related to this point, we have the final transversal line in the conflicts that Hypocrites tend to have: loneliness. When all their relationships are based on a carefully rehearsed performance, the Hypocrite knows that they are alone in the world, that no one really knows them, and they are usually so deep in the role by this point that they don't want to (or can't) leave it. The longing for honest relationships overlaps with their self-destructive tendencies.

As much as Annabel insists that it's her and Lenore against the world, that her life is meaningless without Lenore, and that she is enough, these phrases indicate that Annabel is painfully aware of how she is perceived by others, and though she tells herself that Lenore's love is all she needs, it seems more like a mantra to keep her sane than a reality.

As you may have noticed, the main difference from the usual Hypocrite is that Annabel has Lenore. A bit like Nick has Judy. But Nevermore is a story that takes the psychology of its characters much more seriously, so while Nick just needs someone to reach out to in order to form honest relationships, Annabel passes because she has no fucking idea how to form an honest, healthy bond.

That Annabel is extraordinarily self-destructive, emotionally dependent, and so afraid to step outside the box she knows so well are, in this light, natural consequences of the Hypocrite lifestyle.

The Vampire

Here we must make a leap to another movement: during the Romantic period, the Gothic novel was at its best, and it was Edgar Allan Poe who squeezed out the last drops of what this genre had to offer.

Now, looking at the bibliography, Annabel does not have much in common with the gothic heroine (that is something Lenore takes care of), neither on an aesthetic level nor on a value level. To find her in the works that inspire her, one must look in a slightly different direction: the female vampires of gothic fiction.

Aurelia ("Vampirismus" by E.T.A. Hoffmann), Carmilla ("Carmilla" by Sheridan Le Fanu), Clarimonde ("The death woman in love" by Théophile Gautier), the vampire in the poem "The Metamorphosis of the Vampire" by Baudelaire, the three vampire women, and Lucy ("Dracula" by Bram Stoker).

All these characters have something more in common than their fangs: they are beautiful women capable of making anyone who sees them fall completely into their arms, as opposed to their role of making the one they have chosen as their prey "fall".

The Gothic vampire is practically a succubus, but much less sexualized than one might think. Although many of these works, with the exception of the poem by the good Baudelaire (an author who should be fed separately on these matters), spare no pages in describing how beautiful they are, neither do they overly sexualize them, nor are they particularly flirtatious: even Clarimonde is dedicated to simply being there and letting her presence alone do the work.

This is something Annabel shares with the gothic vampire: though physically gorgeous, the framing in the comic doesn't tend to focus on her as an object of sexual desire, her beauty is highlighted, but in a way that is more akin to an ethereal or unattainable entity.

This is due to a mixture of two things: the Gothic novel is steeped in Catholic puritanism, and even if it is to present a villain who uses her attractiveness as a weapon, the erotic component is subtly exposed, and the vampire's angelic beauty offers a contrast to her status as an antagonist: beautiful on the outside, insidious on the inside.

This is another thing Annabel has in common with the gothic vampire: she is aware that her appearance gives her a haughty, elegant, and dignified air, identifiable enough to earn nicknames like "Queen" or "Queenie," and she knows how to capitalize on it. This contrasts with the darker parts of her personality.

Another thing that terrifies romantics about vampires is that these fangirl succubi possess a quality that makes us 21st-century readers raise an eyebrow because it's supposed to make us uncomfortable: a deep, honest, and sincere willingness to be affectionate.

In context, this makes sense: the vampire is a representation of sin, temptation, and lust. So their affection is something that leads the object of it away from the path of morality (this is the 19th century, this is really important).

I understand that because of the vampire's role in all of this, she is a devoted lover. Incredibly devoted, in fact: Clarimonde is Romuald's sugar mommy (no, I'm not kidding, I'm not exaggerating either), and Carmilla never stops showering Laura with affection and attention, satisfying this girl's craving for companionship after living in isolation.

Annabel does something similar: there is a genuine interest on her part to reach out and connect with Lenore, and in scenes like this, she goes out of her way to show her that she is an amazing person in her own right, rather than being her brother's shadow.

All kidding aside, I think of the archetypes I could find to analyze Annabel, this is the one that fits her best, even though she is not, well, literally a vampire. She seems to have several things in common with Carmilla in particular.

The Femme Fatale

We all have a more or less clear idea of what a femme fatale is: this extremely attractive, sexually active, badass woman who is there to make the male character's life miserable and has a 50% chance of smoking fine cigarettes with a cigarette holder. This is…partially true, but also highly inaccurate.

Although these characters can be traced back much further in mythology, this archetype gets its name and very specific form from Raymond Chandler, the founder of the noir novel. I'm not going to go into too much detail on this topic, as entire books could be written about it, so let's just focus on what's important.

The thing to understand about the context to understand the Femme Fatale is that we are in the 30-40's and although she has many more rights than 19th century women, the decadence shown in these works emphasizes that she is in a macho context where every single rule of the game is stacked against her. This is something that Femme Fatale is acutely aware of: no matter how well she plays the game, she will always lose.

This is something that Annabel shares with this archetype: she is very aware of the rules of the game, she knows backwards and forwards how the world works, so she is also aware that they are too heavily stacked against her to ever win. All she can do is resign herself, play the role as best she can, and find small distractions to cling to like a burning nail so as not to lose her head altogether.

Therefore, the Femme Fatale's approach to life is this: if the rules are stacked against her, that means she has the right to do whatever it takes to survive. These tactics usually include manipulation, deception, exploitation, and, of course, making the most of her sexual attractiveness because, unlike the vampire, she knows how to flirt and use sex as a weapon. What needs to be kept in mind here is that for this character archetype, the use of these wiles comes not because she is factory evil, but as a coping mechanism within a system she cannot win against. If this ultimately makes her a villain, it's more about her role within the story in which it plays out than anything about the archetype itself.

Here's an interesting difference between the Annabel we see in Lenore's memories and the one we see in the present day of the comic: Annabel used to be willing to play by the rules, but the thing she learned from Lenore is that cheating is more than possible. As a result, her attitude has become much closer to that of a Femme Fatale, using her extensive knowledge of the rules to her advantage, going with the flow for personal gain. Her methods are much closer to those of the Hypocrite (especially since we haven't seen Annabel use her body or affection as currency yet), but there are definitely similarities.

Another thing about the Femme Fatale (when she is NOT a villain) is that, like the Vampire, she operates within a duality: an exterior built to be sexy in a somewhat intimidating way (which is why the aesthetics of many of these characters can be interpreted within BDSM culture), but with some goodness in her heart. A really clear example of this is Vivian Sternwood from The Big Sleep (the first novel on the subject published by Raymond Chandler): her own father describes her as "rude, demanding, clever, and quite ruthless," and Marlow, our detective, will have a long series of uncomfortable encounters with her. But by the end of the novel, when he is faced with the same choice Vivian must have made in the past, he cannot help but realize that despite everything, this woman would rather keep painful secrets than harm her family, whom she loves dearly.

So if you're wondering why the framing of scenes like this looks familiar, that's why.

Add to that the three layers of how her aesthetic works: an angelic appearance for when she needs to play dumb, her gaslighting, gatekeeping, girlboss bullshit face for when she needs to demonstrate authority, and framing where it should make you directly uncomfortable.

Looks are one of the strengths of Femmel Fatale's performance. And it's one of the strengths of Annabel's performance.

Conclusions

One interesting thing about looking at Annabel in this light is to realize two things: first, that many of the archetypes her character seems to take notes from are often in the role of antagonists or, for that matter, villains.

The other is that these archetypes are quite well ordered and connected: the gothic vampire is the inspiration for the Femme Fatale of Noir (her beta version, if you can call it that), and the Hypocrite shares a historical writing period with many female vampires. From her conception, Annabel is constructed in a fairly orderly fashion, and believe me, that's a huge contrast to what's going to happen with Lenore (which I'll get to soon, but I need to brush up on my picaresque novel notes).

The last thing I want to point out in this review is this: unless you're a Nick Wilde-style Hypocrite, Hypocrites and Vampires in general tend to have utter destruction in store for them. The Noir, for its part, puts us in a situation where the Femme Fatale, even if she wants to change, is generally too deep in this tangle to get out.

So what I find interesting about Annabel in this regard is:

This is actually THE scene that shows us Annabel timidly stepping out of the scheme of things. She doesn't seem to want to change, in fact I'd bet she's terrified to change, but even though she's repeating her father's toxic pattern here, she's also breaking it without realizing it.

It's too early to tell if we'll see Annabel have some sort of redemption towards less harmful behavior, or if we'll end up seeing her become a villain altogether. But I'm really curious to see where this story goes with all of these elements.

#nevermore webtoon #annabel lee nevermore #annabel lee whitlock #So this is about 3000 words long #I want to die #Spoiler with Lenore we'll talk about rogues knights and womens with tuberculosis #femme fatale #hypocrite #vampire

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marytoppins · 1 year

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All of the book owners (so far) are the fictional authors of fictional fables and stories.

Mother Goose collection has Cinderella, Master cat or Puss in Boots, the sleeping beauty in the wood, little red riding hood, the fairy (all written for Louis the XIV in the 1690’s appx… the Grimm brothers are more relevant retelling sod the stories for an 1800’s Germany

Scherezade from 1001 Arabian nights started as one thousand nights and evolved to what is is now known as titular and story content wise. Having the ebony horse, the thief and the merchant, the adventures of Sinbad the sailor, and Aladdin and the lamp.

An interesting tidbit if the most famous stories from the collection (Aladdin and the Genie, Sinbad the sailor and Ali baba and the 40 thieves) they were either independent and added in later editions or added for the French publication in the 1830’s

And Aesops fables are from Ancient Greece and contain the basis for all fairy tales and fables such as the tortoise and the hare, the boy who cried wolf, the lion and the mouse, and others.

All of these story tellers also share things in common, all of them are either historically (Aesop) or designed to be (Mother Goose and Scherezade) people who are not wealthy, do not hold a position of power but wants to help the future.

Aesop was a Greek Slave who wanted to document the oral stories being told amongst the common folk and to also make commentary on the politics happening as well. With the commentary being seen as moral lessons for the children to grow and learn with.

Scherezade is the extremely learnéd daughter of the Vizier who agreed to me the next bride for the king to stop him from killing all the virgin wives he had. She constantly gets him to postpone her execution with the fables and changes his mind so he doesn’t assume all women will cheat immediately after sleeping with him. Giving the reader an idea of what knowledge can do.

Mother Goose is supposed to be a village woman who met a goose who laid golden eggs for her and eventually spun tales for the children of the village, entertaining and imparting lessons to them.

They all have some aspect of their stories that undermines their influence on change as well. For Aesop is is his state of slavery, for Scherezade it is volunteering to try and avoid death as long as humanly possible, and for Mother Goose it is the witch connotations that came about.

All of these coincidences and similarity paints a beautiful picture of humanity and imparting knowledge to the youth reading them but to have them all be relevant? WHY BRENNAN LEE MULLIGAN! WHY?!?!?!?!?!!?! WHY ARE ALL OF THESE SIMILARITIES APPARANT?!?!!? WHAT IS THE REASON?!?!!? WHAT IS THE IMPORTANCE?!?!!?

(Hi I am a Double Major in Psychology and History currently on a national scholarship research program, I just did a research paper on how popular media in each time reflects the politics of the time, meaning I did a LOT of digging into 1001 Arabian nights in terms of Orientalism, Mother Goose fables for the return of theatre (because of pantomime and an evolving comedia del arte) and Aesop was recent boredom research. Please message with questions if present!)

#dimension 20 #neverafter #dimension 20 neverafter #aesops fables #scheherazade #mother goose #mother timothy goose #brennan lee mulligan #ally beardsley #fairy tale #fables

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cloveswifey · 1 year

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Sewer

Pairings: JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of drowning, Gun

Type: Angst

Words: 2155

My friends and I were eyewitnesses to a murder last night. Specifically, we saw Ward, the perpetrator, kill Gavin, a pilot, over a conflict that arose from blackmail. Gavin had possession of the gun that Rafe used to kill Peterkin, and was using it to extort Ward. Unfortunately, the altercation resulted in Gavin being shot in the chest.

Although Pope had recorded the incident, the camera was accidentally destroyed while we were making our escape. When we tried to report the murder to Shoupe, the new sheriff, he did not believe our story.

Our only chance of proving Ward's guilt lies in retrieving the murder weapon, which was discarded in a sewer drain.

I addressed my boyfriend who stood a short distance away, asking what our next move should be. "So, do you have a plan?"

JJ responded, "Since we are currently at the northern drain, the gun must have been washed down into the gully. Therefore, if the gun went down this drain, it would have ended up...somewhere amongst this trash." He looked at me as he finished his sentence.

I glanced down at the disgusting rubbish floating in the water, and completed his thought, "Somewhere among this mess?"

"Yeah..." JJ replied hastily.

I commented on the unhygienic sight before me as JJ and Pope started collecting the garbage. "That's disgusting," I remarked.

Upon noticing the plastic waste scattered in the water, Kiara added, "People who use plastic should be shot."

JJ, on the other hand, had a different opinion. "Okay, personally, I love plastic. Use it every day. Love that stuff," he claimed, smiling up at Kiara as he cleaned the area.

I cautioned him, "Don't piss her off." JJ shrugged off my warning, rolling his eyes.

Kiara, an ardent environmentalist, retorted, "Well, I hope you recycle it and don't let it flush into the ocean." We all knew her stance on plastic and how vocal she could be about it, so we chose not to engage with her about 'saving the world.'

Pope, being the considerate partner he is, showed Kiara the trash bags he had brought along. "Did you just proactively protect the environment?" she asked him incredulously, a smile spreading across her face.

They shared a look that revealed their mutual attraction, making JJ and me raise our eyebrows. At this point, it was blatant that the two of them liked each other, and they weren't trying to hide it anymore.

JJ made an announcement, "So, while you two do your...thing, Y/n and I are going to make out, alright?" He wrapped his arms around my waist and smirked.

"Sounds good to me," I replied, resting my hands on his shoulders. We leaned in towards each other, closing our eyes in anticipation.

However, our romantic moment was cut short when Pope abruptly threw a roll of trash bags at our heads, jolting us out of our daze.

"Get back to work," he instructed us sternly, causing both of us to roll our eyes in annoyance.

"Later?" I suggested, pantomiming firing finger guns at JJ as I pulled away from him.

"Later," JJ confirmed, giving me a flirty wink before we resumed cleaning up the area.

We completed the arduous task of clearing the litter that had washed out through the drain within half an hour. Unfortunately, we had no luck locating the gun.

"Well, that was a lot of fun," JJ said cynically as he set down the last bag of trash.

Pope speculated, "If it's not in this trash, then it must be in the storm drain." We all turned to look at the large gated opening of the drain.

JJ nodded and affirmed, "It's in the drain."

I rolled my eyes, thinking why does this always happen to us? We must really have a streak of bad luck.

But my boyfriend, quick as ever, pulled out his backpack and retrieved a crowbar, saying, "Good thing I brought the crow."

As both boys removed the gate blocking the drain, Kiara questioned, "So are we gonna do like Rock Paper Scissors?"

"No," the two boys quickly shut down.

I suggested, "How about we decide alphabetically?" I looked at Kiara and shrugged my shoulders. "Or we could let the oldest one go first?"

JJ stated dramatically, "In the sewer, there's this worm you get when you're down there. It gets in your blood and it has to come out your pecker. So that's a hard pass for me." His words made me purse my lips and give him a weird look.

Pope agreed, "Yeah, that's a no for me," as he stepped away from the storm drain.

Realizing why the two boys didn't want to do it, I spoke and nodded my head with a smile, "Oh, I see what's going on here. You guys are scared."

"No, I'm not!" JJ denied, shaking his head in defense.

"It's just the pecker thing for me," Pope stated, causing both Kiara and me to roll our eyes.

As I stood between the two boys, I laughed and teased, "You're scared and it's kinda cute, guys."

"No-" JJ began to protest.

"You should've just led with that," Kiara cut him off, shaking her head as we both chuckled.

"I'm not scared, it's just that... I'm too big to fit in there," JJ claimed, using his size as an excuse and pointing at the drain.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll do it," I stated, putting my hands up. After all, someone had to go in for John B, right?

"Watch and learn, pussies," I pointed at JJ and Pope, before getting down on all fours to crawl into the tunnel.

As I began to crawl through the small tunnel, JJ's voice echoed through it, "Be careful!"

"I'll be so careful!" I responded sarcastically, dragging on the "so" with a small giggle, swatting at spider webs and other sewage items.

"Holler if you need anything! We'll... uh, holler back," JJ shouted into the drain, earning an eye roll from me.

"Thanks, JJ, that's really helpful," I muttered.

As I continued to crawl through the small place, it somewhat triggered my claustrophobia. I tried to breathe through my mouth since the smell was horrific and burning my nose. I repeatedly told myself that this was for John B and Sarah to keep myself going, as there was no way I would be doing something like this if it wasn't for them.

"Have you found anything yet, y/n?" Pope asked while his voice resonated, reverberating off the walls.

"Not yet," I responded, glancing around the drain.

"Stay focused, baby," JJ encouraged me while I reached the end of the tunnel only to end up in a basin filled with disgusting sewer drainage.

The water appeared greenish and murky due to the abundance of trash and debris littering it. The smell was unbearable, and I had never experienced such an odious odor before.

I tentatively put my hand in the foul water, searching for any object that resembled a gun.

Out of nowhere, a sudden sensation brushed against my hand, causing me to flinch uncontrollably.

"I think I found something!" I exclaimed, hoping that the pogues could hear me from the distance I had traveled.

"Is it the gun?" I heard one of them shout back.

I reached for the object that had brushed against my hand, pulling it up to the surface of the water. However, to my surprise, it was not the gun but something that closely resembled a lifeless human body.

"Guys! There's a corpse in here!" I hollered, quickly recoiling from it. At that instant, the only thought that came to my mind was that the dead body might be Gavin's. It was possible that Ward had disposed of his body into the sewer.

"What is it? Is it Gavin?" JJ's voice echoed off the walls as he spoke, his fear apparent in his tone. "Did you find Gavin?"

"I don't know!" I yelled, feeling more and more freaked as I backed away from the corpse.

All of a sudden, a sound caught my attention. It was the sound of water rapidly gushing out. I turned around to see a tunnel where water was flowing into the bowl-shaped compartment where I was present.

"Guys, the water!" I yelled, well aware that the water should not have been filling the space yet.

"Y/n, get out of there immediately!" Kiara shouted, her voice laced with urgency.

As I looked towards the tunnel I had previously traversed, I realized that the water level had risen to half its height, making it impossible for me to return the way I had come.

"I don't have time!" I screeched, spinning around to take a glance at my surroundings. The only possible exit route was the ladder above me. Without wasting any more time, I started climbing up the ladder, but the water kept rising steadily and quickly.

As I reached the top, I pushed as hard as I could, hoping to escape, but the cap was unyielding. It was sealed tight. In despair, I looked down at the water, which had now reached up to my waist level when I noticed something floating in the water. I grabbed it and realized that it was the very same gun that was used to kill Peterkin and Gavin. Without a second thought, I tucked it into my waistband, making sure it was secure and wouldn't drop.

With all my might, I pushed against the gate blocking my only escape route as I desperately struggled not to drown. "JJ! Pope! Kie! Help me!" I yelled through the narrow gaps in the gate, hoping someone would hear me.

As panic started to set in, I heard my boyfriend's voice booming nearby, followed by the sound of heavy boots. "I'm coming, baby, I'm coming!" he shouted.

Relieved, I wiggled my fingers through the gaps in the gate, hoping JJ and Pope could see and find me. Almost immediately, they were by my side, kneeling to lift the gate.

"JJ, please, hurry!" I whimpered, tears streaming down my face as the water reached my neck.

"Don't worry, princess, I'll get you out," JJ reassured me as he and Pope struggled to lift the gate. Meanwhile, Kiara panicked and urged them to hurry.

As soon as the blonde realized that the gate was sealed shut, he whipped out his pocket knife and started chiselling at the edges with all his might. The air was running out, and fear surged through me as I struggled to keep my face out of the water.

Just then, the two pogue boys sprang into action, pulling on the gate with every ounce of strength they possessed. Their muscles bulged, and their veins popped out as they strained and grunted in frustration.

As the water level continued to rise, JJ's voice boomed out, "Pope, come on!" Panic set in as the water began to flow out of the drain, and I could feel my head slipping under the water.

Just in the nick of time, they managed to remove the lid and shifted it away, granting my release. I clutched the rim and heaved my torso out of the water, gasping for air.

"I've got you, baby," JJ offered, lending his hand as I coughed and breathed heavily, expelling the foul water that had seeped into my lungs.

"Take your time and let it all out," he advised, out of breath himself, patting my back and helping me clear my throat.

"You good?" Pope asked once I had finally stopped panting and was now calming down. I held up my hand, giving him a thumbs up to show that I was fine.

"Are you alright?" I asked JJ, gazing up at him as he regained his composure.

"Me?" he questioned in bewilderment.

"You seemed scared out of your wits," I chuckled, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips as I stood up.

"You were drowning, of course, I was petrified!" he grumbled, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. I let out a laugh before planting a tender kiss on his cheek.

"God, You smell like absolute shit" he scrunched up his nose before fake gagging.

"Looks like the scent is rubbing off on you," I retorted, playfully pushing his chest.

Out of nowhere, Pope asked, "Did you find the gun?" I turned to face him.

"The gun? Oh, I don't think so, but I did find this," I responded, holding up the weapon that I had been carrying in my shorts' waistband.

"Ah-ha! That's my girl!" JJ praised, taking the gun from me and wrapping it in his bandana. Pope and Kiara cheered and hugged me.

"Wow, you really do stink," Kiara remarked, taking a step back and covering her nose, which made all of us laugh.

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hrodvitnon · 1 month

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ACH, WEH! ANOTHER SIGNALIS FIC PREVIEW!

Let's see if I can get this thing finished and published before Dragon's Dogma 2 releases...

---

Ariane bites her lip. "So, in the interest of science..."

"Dirty science."

"The dirtiest science! But yeah, what I'm getting at is maybe we can test the hypothesis that you can, in fact, experience something along the lines of sexual arousal?"

"Now?"

Ariane considers their surroundings and finds they're standing between the reactor and personnel. Elster is still carrying her and can very easily take her to bed. The thought of it gives Ariane a thrill, but she still blushes shyly.

"Well, I mean, not right this second now! But maybe later? I uh... feel like this needs prep time?"

Which is silly because their heaviest make out sessions can happen at the drop of a hat, like that time Ariane planted herself onto Elster's lap while waiting for dinner to heat up and found herself dazing into dreamland with messy hair and multiple hickeys on her neck. Fortunately, Elster finds this option agreeable if only because getting into it right now would be grossly neglecting her duties.

"So, uh... personnel after work?"

"Personnel after work," Elster nods. "Should I do any research ahead of time, just in case?"

"What kind of research? It's not like we have porn among our video options."

"You're the one with banned Imperial smut."

"Those are banned Imperial political dramas with only some smut, thank you very much!"

"They have pictures."

Now Ariane is laughing. "Oh my god, you sound like a teenage boy!" She emphasizes it by pantomiming a jerking motion with her right hand, and though Elster staunchly keeps her eyes forward while whisking Ariane into personnel there's a telltale twitching in her lips that indicates she's trying not to laugh.

"My smut collection's right there if you want to quote-unquote study for the experiment," Ariane giggles, pointing at her makeshift library. "Don't forget tissues to clean up after yourself!"

"Enough with the penis metaphor!" Elster grouses but breaks into a grin.

"Don't blame me! Rotfront's cultural obsession with pareidolia has infested my brain."

"So if you ever get kidnapped by nefarious forces and I have to rescue you with, say, a shotgun blasting left and right, would you say that's an apt demonstration of pareidolia?"

"In that case, yes, I would say that your shotgun is long and thick and powerful."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Elster doesn't wait for an answer, bending her knees and rocking Ariane towards her sleeping bunk as if readying a battering ram, eliciting a peak of laughter while the scout officer tries halting the motion with her hands on the shutters.

"Get back to work already!" Ariane giggles. "I need to freshen up and look beautiful for you!"

"You're always beautiful."

This time she lets Elster settle her into the bunk, poses herself like an old-timey pinup. "Are all LSTR units this smooth?"

"Just me," Elster smiles fondly. "I'll try not to take too long. This experiment of ours is going to need my full attention."

Elster leans in and the two enjoy a sweet, albeit brief kiss before the Replika stands up straight, fixes her hat and marches out to complete her tasks for the cycle. But, because Ariane just can't help herself sometimes, she sneaks out of the bunk and sticks her head out the door to get one last crack in, raising her voice to a yell.

"Hey, is a silencer the gun equivalent of a condom?"

"SUCK MY SHOTGUN!" Elster shouts between guffaws from the reactor room.

#signalis #spicy~!#elster 512 #ariane yeong #preview #the pareidolia conversation may or may not be foreshadowing a future fic

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digitalfashionmuseum · 1 year

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Pink Silk Edwardian Style Pantomime Costume, 1944, English.

Worn by Princess Elizabeth (later Elizabeth II).

Royal Collection Trust.

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cumsockwoundpack · 5 months

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LAST SEMESTER: Ch. 1. (t4t boydyke yaoi)

You've known eachother for a while, since freshman year. You were both at the same dive bar for the same local punk show since you saw the same flyer. They were the only other one to get up off their stool and at least halfassedly go through the pantomime of the mosh, the collective ritual. Wiry little fucker throwing their bodyweight at you. Pack bonding.

You both went out for smokes, looked at eachothers' hands, the sharpie'd-on X marks, the veins, the knuckles. Your sight lingered. So did theirs. You promptly lit your smokes and started shooting the shit about how "Ohhh, Man, Remember When Ceremony Stopped Doing Hardcore?" and "man I wish skinheads didn't ruin being a skinhead," and "new HKFY's fucking sick, right? Can I kill the rest of your ciggie? by the way what's your-"

His name's Ted. Ted and Jack. Rolled off the tongue a little.

You were fast friends after that - genuinely! Really good friends. Like two shounen protags.

Really. Just good friends.

You were at the local community college for trade school, they were there for music. You played bass because you were a caveman, they played guitar because they were smart.

You'd jam together, hanging out, watching movies, smoking weed. Tripped together in the dorms a couple times. Did molly together without fucking, somehow. Lord knows that's an achievement.

Somewhere in the four years between then and now, you both crystallized the realizations people have after listening to Tracy Chapman and being inexorably, inexplicably drawn to other likeminded freaks their whole lives. Dykes are like Stand users.

You got on your meds, started going by Jackie, made sure to lift here and there to keep your muscles from atrophy, he got on his meds and suddenly started spending a lot of time locked in his room. You both had your flings and conquests, sharing enough locker-room chirps with eachother to brag but not enough to break the aura of mutual chivalry. He also got a lot better at guitar - you'd know, you always paid (a completely normal amount of!) attention to his left-hand fretwork, his handling of the pick, his tendons underneath the skin as they flexed so deftly-

You blink.

You're in the drivers seat of your car, clutching the wheel a little too tight in the driveway of his new apartment - he finally moved out of the dorms for these last few weeks of your shared school career. You cut the engine and poke him to wake him up (he's kinda cute when he knocks out in the car like that. you're supposed to call the homies cute, right?)

"Aw, cute li'l thing, got tired? It's a fucken half hour car ride, dude, get up."

You hit the cabin lights to drive the point home.

"Mmnh... huh? Whuh?" -- he blinks, looks a little flustered. Not just disgruntled from an abrupt wake-up. Flushed cheeks, bashful little pout. (Why did you say that?) -- "We're here? Fuckin, help me get furniture in, then grab your amp. Gotta christen the home by pissing off the neighbors."

The apartment is a 1 bedroom, bare, all cold hardwood save for necessary kitchen appliances. He brought his desk, his bike, a new mattress, his stereo system coupled with all his physical media, a toolbag (put together from your recommendations), his laptop, his guitar and gear, and not much else. Clothes arranged on the floor in various states of disarray.

After bringing most of it in, working up a sweat, you cap it off by making some ramen to shovel down your gullets before getting down to business.

You both plug in, sit cross-legged facing eachother. You tune up and play for what seems like a few minutes but what the clock says to be hours, letting your attention wander since the less you think about what you're doing, the easier it is to stay in the groove, to keep the beat, to stay in-pocket. You keep time by looking at his left hand, as always. Thinking about when the next show's gonna be, whether that one DIY venue's finally gonna get their shit together and learn to not stiff local bands, when you'll find your next drummer (If you think male drummers are drama-magnets, lesbian drummers are worse, hands-down.), what the pit's gonna look like, the way he bounces off you to get momentum going.

His huffs of frustration when he fudges a chord, when the strings rattle and buzz, his bit lip, his furrowed brow, the sway of his head, his shoulders, the tap of his foot as it swivels on the heel, the way the heel-taps make the keys on his belt rattle, the DYKE PRIDE tattoo on his upper arm all sinew and tension and sweat despite the midwinter room temp, his black-brown-stress-grey stubble tracing a line from the temples to the jaw, his bit lip again -

"Jackie, baby, you've been playing that same open E string for the past, like, 15 bars... Why's your face so red? You good, girlie? Need a breather? I know I'm hard to keep up with."

"Fuck UP, dude. Talk shit when you aren't abusing those weezer powerchords like they owe you money."

"Ahh, I'm just messing with ya. It's, uh,".-he scratches the fade on the back of his neck - "getting late. It's like 11. You should probably head back. I don't wanna make you sleep on the floor."

What a great friend! You shake off the impression of wherever your mind was wandering and gather your things, you hop in the car, wave goodbye, turn the key - Nothing.

Must have left the cabin light on.

He's still looking at you.

Fuck.

You turn the key again. Fuck. Fuck. He doesn't have a car on hand. Fuck. It's late.

Ugh. He's knocking on the window.

"My battery's dead."

He deliberates internally for a moment.

You think about reclining the carseat and saying fuck it. You don't want to intrude.

"Ah, hell, it's Friday. Neither of us have shit better to do tomorrow. Come back inside."

You grab the hoodie from your backseat and put it on. Listen, it might be hardwood flooring, it might be like 50 degrees, but it beats sleeping in the car. Once you're curled up in the middle of the living room using a couple of his t-shirts as pillows and getting ready to sleep, he comes out of the bathroom brushing his teeth. In his boxers. Fuzzy legs. Treasure trail. Sweat on the inked barbed wire covering his chest scars. Looking at you almost like you're roadkill on his tire, utterly baffled at what you're doing.

"You nnmmoww you djon't, ope," - he zips back to the sink, spits, rinses, comes back out - "you know I said I didn't wanna make you sleep on the floor, dude. You're a friend. We're good. It's camaraderie. C'mon, get in bed. S'fuckin cozy."

You lay on opposite sides of the queen bed but, y'know, not overly spaced-out since you're not trying to, y'know, employ any no-homo buffer distance, but just, cuz, y'know, you're really good friends and you're comfortable with eachother. Right. Yeah. Gosh, these are nice sheets. Good at keeping the heat in. Li'l too good.

"Ted."

"Yeah?"

"Do you mind if I strip? i'll keep underwear on or whatever but this fucking hoodie is a bit too m-"

"Woman, I have held you over the toilet by the fucking scalp when you couldn't handle a couple vodka sodas."

"Sorry, I-"

"We have both asked eachother terribly embarrassing medical questions and given equally mortifying aid in the pits of uninsured existence."

"Jeez-"

"Besides, you already know my taste in women. You're fine. No stress."

"You sure?"

"Fucking strip, idiot."

You blush. Thankfully the lights are off.

He starts snoring surprisingly quickly. How cute!

Hey. Wait. Let's examine that. What the fuck has been with you today? It's not your first rodeo when it comes to your brain insisting that you shit where you eat, but him?? Him?? Fucking "Aww, cute li'l thing"? Christ. You half-consider propositioning him at some point tomorrow just for a quickie, like getting a song out of your head by singing it. Hell, you know he'd prolly agree to it out of sheer jackass bravado. He said it himself, you've both done worse.

But you don't need that. It's a line in the sand. He wouldn't look at you the same, despite both your best efforts. There'd be tension. You don't want to fuck this up. You drift off thinking about talking to your doctor to lower your progesterone dose, maybe that's what's got you so hot and bothered. The blankets are warm.

Waking up a few hours later, the first thing you notice is that you have to piss. The second thing you notice is his snored breath flitting across your ear. The third, fourth, and fifth things in quick succession are his arm around you, the fuzz on his chest pressed against your back, and the warm, granite-carved hand placed on your breast.

It's there gently, fingers splayed across it, a pleasant weight, and he's still 100% knocked out, so you quietly peel it off, set his arm by his side, and get up to piss. You explain it away as "Oh, he's a boydyke Casanova running on autopilot, that tender scamp," etc.

Though, it felt nice.

Felt too nice.

You shake it off and go back to bed.

You settle in under the covers. He's on his back and he looks agitated. Still sweating. God, the sweat. Neither of you showered, the day lays thick on your skin and almost fogs up thicker under the blanket. It overwhelms your sense of smell, it coats your sinuses.

He's shaking a bit. Little grunts n murmurs of fear and discomfort. You wonder if he's having a nightmare. Oh, poor thing.

Before you can think about it, you have your arms around him, your warmth pressed against his. It doesn't seem to do much, though; he's still tossing and fidgeting.

"Mmnh....Hey...."

You freeze. Oh god.

He snores again and his face screws up even harder in his sleep. Oh, oh thank God, he's still knocked out. That would have been embarrassing. You think about what you're doing. You think about the inevitable scene beef, the "Oh, Jackie? That fucking creep?-" coming out of his mouth and you try not to think about how much that'd hurt.

You think about how he smells nice.

He rustles again. You pull him in closer.

"..........mff, fuuuUuuuuhhgck," he whines, eyes still closed, still lightly snoring on the inhale, face still contorted in agony, wait, no, it's, oh, you realize it's not just sweat you're smelling as you feel the damp spot on his boxers rubbing on your thigh.

"Fuck, Jackie....," He's still asleep. It's not a nightmare. And it's about you.

And now you're hard.

And he's grinding on your leg,

"Jackieeeeeeeee........"

And his face is buried in your tits, his face so taut, pressing into your sternum hard enough he's suffocating himself and you're frozen still and

His eyes snap open as something deep within the limbic system reminds him he needs oxygen, he pulls his face away, scrambles back, takes a deep, DEEP fucking breath, and now you're BOTH looking at eachothers' eyes, horrified, breaths stuck in throats. He's cute when he's scared.

And then he looks you down. Then back up. Then back down, where it's definitely too late for modesty. Then back up.

You notice you were drooling. He does too. You see him set his jaw. You see his brown eyes crystallize, noticeable even in the low light. He's hungry.

"You're cute when you're scared," he says.

And then your lips are locked.

[ch2 link] [ch3 link]

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chicinsilk · 4 months

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"Ligne Naturelle L'Ovale"

Christian Dior Haute Couture Collection Spring/Summer 1951 Afternoon dresses, “Pantomime”, “Dordogne” and “Quiproquo”. Models Alla, Angélina and Lucky. Trip from the House to Italy to Venice in June 1951.

Christian Dior Collection Haute Couture Printemps/Été 1951 Robes d'après-midi, "Pantomime", " Dordogne" et "Quiproquo". Mannequins Alla, Angélina et à Lucky. Voyage de la Maison en Italie à Venise en juin 1951.

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dagwolf · 11 months

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Trauma was the nominal subject of Vance’s gauzy 2016 memoir about bootstrapping his way out of an Ohio steel town, published before he famously became radicalized — reversing himself on Trump and auditioning for the position of new standard-bearer on the fascist right. And yet what links Vance the memoirist and Vance the politician is a continuous (if escalating) policy of nearly absolute nonconfrontation with what made him who he is — the nature of the trauma that he pantomimes exploring in his book. It’s quite the irony for a man elevated to fame as a soul-baring autobiographer. This also links him to Trump, the least introspective person who ever lived, and a politician with whom Vance shares a profound contempt toward the people for whom he imagines himself the spokesperson. Vance seems not to know that the feeling he conveys for the working-class world out of which he sprang is scorn. As his book communicates at great length, he remains a cipher to himself, and, like Trump, Vance’s transgressions clearly do some kind of libidinal work for him, expressing a need — a psychic void — that cannot be satisfied.

Normally, I would hesitate to psychologize to this degree. But Vance is himself the king of pop psychologists, and his whole self-presentation is built on the notions of willpower and self-discipline that are the heart of the pop-psych and self-help genres. There is no way to engage the problem he represents while refraining from entering this field. The mechanism of Vance’s interior contradiction is important to understand — not to argue the case against him, for which sufficient evidence was long ago accumulated, but to extract some meaning about the forces that animate and enable his ideology.

We are not without resources for such an approach. James Baldwin gets him almost dead to rights in The Fire Next Time, twenty-one years before Vance was born:

The American Negro has the great advantage of having never believed that collection of myths to which white Americans cling: that their ancestors were all freedom-loving heroes, that they were born in the greatest country the world has ever seen, or that Americans are invincible in battle and wise in peace, that Americans have always dealt honorably with Mexicans and Indians and all other neighbors or inferiors, that American men are the world’s most direct and virile, that American women are pure. Negroes know far more about white Americans than that; it can almost be said, in fact, that they know about white Americans what parents — or, anyway, mothers — know about their children, and that they often regard white Americans that way. . . . One felt that if one had had that white man’s worldly advantages, one would never have become as bewildered and as joyless and as thoughtlessly cruel as he.

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drivinmeinsane · 3 months

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i want that essay about six x k!! im curious to know what your favorite ryguy ships are because you write some interesting ones. what about your least favorites too?

Thank you for the question! I'm not sure I can ethically subject anyone to that essay, anon, it'd just be the ramblings of a madman. However, I'll let some of it slip through in response to your ask. Just for you. ♥

I narrowed my favorites down to three and provided explanations of sorts for all of them. Spoiler alert, they're not short and probably don't make a lot of sense. (；′⌒`)

»{ Driver x Ken

Ken desperately needs to be provided for. He withers and dies if not wanted, sincerely or not. He’ll accept someone’s false desire no matter how hollow it leaves him. He snaps up scraps of affection like a starving dog. He's bossy and flashy as a show of false bravado to cover up his deep insecurities and abandonment issues. There's that desire in him to be a little plaything, to let someone else call the shots. He’s very susceptible to being molded into whatever form someone else desires. He wants to be the “and Ken” even as he tries to figure out what it means to be himself. Driver has a deep seated need to be needed, being wanted is just a cherry on top. He's obsessive and territorial. He never got to keep anything for himself. The effect his parents had on him is clear. There’s traces in him of the way that his mom kept bugs trapped under drinking glasses until they suffocated rather than let them go. There’s flashes of casual brutality in him that echos when she took two knives to his father’s throat at the kitchen table. His father’s only need of him was to aid him in stealing, but found himself discarded the moment he hit his growth spurt and became too tall. He latched onto a childhood friend, carries pieces of his time with him and his family with him (his love of Mexican food among other things). His foster family didn’t need him, not really, so he left to find someone who did. He lets Shannon undercut him because Shannon finds him useful. He’s the best wheelman in the city and an excellent mechanic because it means people rely on him. He can taste being the most important person in their lives for just a moment. He's made himself as indispensable as possible, always chasing the dragon. He would destroy himself to be needed, never mind anyone else in his path. Driver latches onto Ken, because Ken needs him in order to survive in the real world. He’s needed more by him than anyone has never needed him, and oh, he revels in that need. In return for Ken’s reliance, Driver wants him, wants him so badly that he would throw any semblance of sanity out the window. He doesn’t ask questions of Ken’s circumstances, doesn’t want to know the hows and the whys, lest it break the spell. Ken can place the fragility of himself in Driver’s hands and know that Driver still wants him despite it. He can trust Driver to shape him with the careful touch of a mechanic, fine tune all the parts of him until there’s nothing else but tender maintenance. There’s no scraps here, it is a sickening feast of devotion and Ken will gorge himself. Driver will suffocate Ken under a glass and Ken will help Driver place it over him.

»{ Officer K x Sierra Six

There’s nothing truly real in K’s life. Everything is pretend, playacting, a pantomime of something greater. He is so wrapped up in the desire to be a real human being to the point where he does stop to consider the ways that he already is. He has his own humanity, his own soul, his own emotions. He doesn’t address the human quality of the drive to want. Instead, he yearns until it kills him and what is more human than that? He craves a family, craves connections. K patches together what he can. He finds a mother, a father, a wife. He collects things from replicants that he’s retired. He’s trying to make up a soul from pieces of others. He’s desperately reaching out only to hit walls. No one is reaching out for him in return. He’s nothing more than a means to an end, a tool. Six sacrifices himself, goes where he’s pointed, throws himself in the path of destruction over and over for people that he loves. He lets himself be injured, lets himself be thrown away, lets himself be used. All in the name of love and duty. He does not stop to contemplate what he is or what he might be. There is no chase for a deeper meaning of what it means to be human. He just simply is what he is because there is no time to be anything but that. He doesn’t have the time to examine his feelings. Tools don’t think. They are reflections of each other. Two men without human names, treated as objects. Their autonomy is of no consequence. They were two scared boys standing up for what was theirs only to become two scared men willing to die for what matters to them. K would be forced to see Six as a person. Perhaps he would realize that if the other individual is human, K must be as well because they are the same. Six would finally be able to open the lid on the swirl of thoughts inside him, to share a part of himself with someone who would understand. They could gather up the scraps of their lives and put them together to make something meaningful. Family. K would reach out to his mirror image only for it to do the same and meet him palm to palm. Flesh to flesh. Interlinked at last. Maybe the burden of what he has have done wouldn’t weigh so heavily on Six with someone else’s equally tainted hands on the stone beside his. Maybe the boulder wouldn’t roll back down the hill.

»{ Henry Letham x Sam Foster

No matter what, Henry is hell bound. He can’t imagine a happy ending for himself. He has woven a tangled web of destruction and self-flagellation that I think holds true even if he hadn’t been going through the events of the movie. He’s an artist with the flair for the extreme. He’s obsessive and ruminates over the same things over and over, wringing out every ounce of meaning. He assigns significance where there is none. Sam is a fixer. Despite his own mental well-being, he has to try to save others. He cannot sit by passively. It’s that kind of attitude that gets him crouching beside a dying man on a bridge at night. Outwardly, he has it all together, sensible. He is likely the model image of a good doctor, going above and beyond for those under his care. Henry would haunt Sam, consume his thoughts. Sam would let Henry infect him. They are intertwined and neither wants to truly break free. Henry finds a captive audience in Sam. He’s able to admit things to him he would never say to anyone else, couldn’t say to anyone else. Henry is Sam’s destruction in any reality. Sam will never not be too late to save Henry.

+ Shoutouts to Holland March x Jackson Healy. I really like the ship but would never write for it without my bestie, @danime25, collabing with me. It just doesn't scratch that itch in my brain in a way that makes me want to go solo.

Also, I'm not going to dive into ships I dislike here. I might be a hater, but I'm not going to hate publicly. This sideblog is for fun. We're all just celebrating the RyGos boys here so I just want to focus on what I do enjoy. ♪(´▽｀)

Feel free to share your thoughts. I'm always down to talk about these guys.

#.from you #.ask #driver x ken #ken x driver #driver #ken #drive (2011)#officer k x sierra six #sierra six x officer k #blade runner 2049 #stay (2005)#henry letham #henry letham x sam foster #sam foster #officer k #sierra six #.my thoughts #.bee speaks

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deadstoats · 3 months

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The Stargazers

There is an old forgotten legend about The Universe and The Change being friends long ago. Moreover, The God of Change eventually fell in love with The Universe, with their constantly changing nature, with their love for evolving and progression. They wanted to impress The Universe, so The God of Change collected stardust all over the world to make a gift for The Universe. However, wheither it was because of God of Change skill issues, or laziness, or just because of their nature - but the creation they made was as changable and fickle as their creator, unable to hold their shape for at least some time. The Universe perceived this gift not as a tribute of respect and sympathy, but as an evil mockery, and in anger they threw the creature of Stars and Changes to the earth. Since then, the entities/gods themselves have disliked each other, because The Change is sure that the Universe offended them intentionally, and the The Universe is sure that The Change is mocking them.

The king is defeated, time flows as usual again - but what's next? Is the world now perfect again and… Of course not. There is still one big problem, and that problem is called The Land. The Land, the one that everyone has forgotten about and can’t remember, and even trying to pronounce its name causes pain. How long does this memory loss last? Is there anyone else left on this island? Did… did it even existed in the first place?

Some say they see a strange haze in the air in those places - but is there anything other than that haze?

A very few people can remember the Land. They say that The Universe itself is pushing them towards. The Universe itself wants them to return to their homeland. Thus, our four heroes find themselves on their own path. The Universe brought them all together in one way or another. Everyone has their own goals, everyone has their own motives. But everyone has one destination. The Land.

And here is our brave cast of characters for a new adventure!

The Wanderer - Orion. They are considered the leader of the group since they seem to have the most memories of The Land and because they had a hand in everything (chuckle). Even if their comrades have never seen their face, they have already proven themselves to be trustworthy. Oh, and they know REALLY a lot about space, stars, planets, constellations, buuuut… They remember little about themself, almost nothing. Even their scarf: they remember that this is the only thing left of the person who saved them from death, but something is wrong with this story. Oh, and the tale at the very beginning? They told it to so many people, but it looks like no one really know this story except Orion.

The Entertainer - Nova. Who brought the child here? Oh, it's not a child? Or it is a child? Who knows. They remember little about The Land, since they were kidnapped long ago and taken very far from home. They fled when the incident with The King happened, but… How do you return to a place you don't remember? They never speak, using sign language, pantomimes or writing instead. They also seem to have trouble recognizing human speech, so that they can hear everything but human voices. Despite their sad past, they actually love performing.

The Priestess - Celine. A true follower of The Universe belief! She knows a lot of things about religion, as well as many legends and tales about stars and cosmos and planets. She doesn't try to convert anyone to her faith, but willingly talks about it. Despite her sad appearance, Celine is not hostile to others, she's simply tired. The right side of her body looks as if it has been burned, and she claims that this incident happened a long time ago. Oh, and she's super strong! How could it be otherwise, if she needs to carry this huge combat prosthesis with her.

The Artist - Estelle. An eccentric happy-go-lucky young man who spent most of his life in Ka Bue; but clearly not all of his life, judging by the fragments of foreign landscapes and places in his dreams, full of unknown motifs and strange shadows… He is driven not so much by The Universe but by the love for art. He is very capable not only in art, but also in the Craft, capable of coming up with very complex Crafts both in battle and in daily life. Because Craft is also part of his art! But sometimes - it's too much. He's cheerful and carefree usually, but everything should be PERFECT when it comes to art. And if it 's not perfect - it needs to be destroyed.

A SECRET 5th CHARACTER!!! Nebula - a mysterious creature that appears only in Orion's dreams. Their appearance, their voice, their emotions - it's all constantly changing. They often guide Orion on their jorney or give them useful advices, and sometimes they just like to talk.

i was working on this for past few days so... yeah. and that's all for spoiler-free version ✌

#isat #in stars and time #isat oc #in stars and time oc #art tag

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