#the thought itself is terrorising

[shadowchargertomyyoong]

with the pjo show's season 1 over and everyone having mostly positive reviews... im scared, really fucking scared.

ok lemme be clear, im not against the show, but with its success, the heroes of olympus series will also be most probably adapted, and i don't want it to be!!

ik it a stupid selfish notion, but you don't realise how sacred the HOO series is to me, and i don't want anyone to touch it.

there might be a possibility that the adaptation improves upon it but i so fucking love the imperfectly perfect book series it already is that i don't want it to change.

it's great that the stories are finding a new medium and reaching a newer audience but, what if, with the changes, it doesn't feel the same, HOO is such an integral part of my teen years that idk if i can bear seeing it change.

And if the adaptation is worse....oh god the horror!?!?THE AGONYYY!!!

i won't get through it okay.

ik it's irrational but it's how i feel. ffs leave it be, PLEASE.

(it might break my heart)

((and and also also, if i do end up liking the show better, it feels like betraying the books that formed my childhood))

[captainsantiagos]

oh…. okay?

[wolken-himmel]

In which Floyd's transformation potion wears off, causing him to be stuck in his eel-merman form in a large tank.

Now (Y/n) has to entertain him.

Request by anon.

You had always admired the Mostro Lounge's interior design. Large tanks that lined the walls, some that connected to the vast ocean outside the building and allowed little fish and other creatures to pass through. You used to spend a lot of time watching all these adorable and innocent creatures swim past the glass facade. But now, all of them had been chased away by a vicious predator.

Floyd.

You exhaled and watched as he terrorised the last remaining guppies until they fled the tank. The large eel-merman was left alone in the tank, now bored out of his mind. There were no more little fish to torment. So he turned to you, who stood outside the tank and watched him swim around. He flashed his teeth at you, you poor little fish.

"Shrimpy!" he cried out once his head penetrated the surface of the tank. His arms were resting on the upper edge of the tank, the water from his skin dripping to the ground. He shot you a sly smile. "Come a little closer. I don't bite."

You wrapped your arms around yourself, making sure your blazer was still dry. Despite his pressing gaze, you didn't move a centimetre. "I don't wanna get wet. You splashed Azul when he gave you your lunch earlier."

Floyd let out a groan at your reply. "Shrimpy, don't be such a guppy!"

His words caused you to quirk an eyebrow. "I'm not a guppy. I have good reasons not to trust you," you said, a tad bit of playfulness lingering in your voice. You chortled softly, knowing better than to come closer to him.

"What?! I'm as innocent as those little spikeballs from the Heartslabyul garden, the ones you like to cuddle! I deserve appreciation too, don't I?" the merman whined, as if your words had offended him. He pulled his arms away from the ledge of the tank and sank to the bottom of the tank, so he could face you properly. His long tail curled around the floor as he glared at you, the glass wall being the only thing separating you two.

You shrugged softly. "Who says you won't pull me into that tank if I get closer."

"I would never. I swear on Jade."

His words drew loud laughter from your lips. You almost doubled over from how intense the wheezes were that shook your body. "You'd swear on your own brother?" you asked and held your stomach in pain. As your laughter faded out into chuckles, you gazed around the empty Mostro Lounge. "I hope he didn't hear that..."

Floyd chuckled along, but his laughter quickly turned into grumbles of annoyance again. "Come on, Shrimpy. I'm bored!" he complained again and swam circles in his tank. It was large enough to allow for vast movement, but it was empty of any entertainment. "I wanna walk again, poke your side and annoy you."

You chuckled and crossed your arms. "Yeah, you're a real menace. Maybe it's good you're stuck in that tank for a few hours," you teased him. Unable to help yourself, you stuck your tongue out at him.

Floyd clutched his chest dramatically and sank to the bottom of the tank, where he remained motionlessly. "Shrimpy, you're so mean to me..."

Laughter spilled from your lips, and you couldn't help but tap your finger nail against the glass wall. "Stop it, Floyd. You're so dramatic."

"You're breaking my heart..." the eel-merman whined before regaining life again. At the speed of light, he shot up from the ground of the tank and zoomed off into a dark corner.

You brought your face closer to the glass, your eyes scanning the vast tank. The back was littered with large stones and tall kelp plants. Even though his tail was long, he somehow managed to easily hide amongst the flora of the tank. A worried feeling made itself apparent in your stomach. "Floyd? Where are you? Come out again," you yelled out nervously.

Did your playful banter go too far? Did you actually manage to insult him.

Your head began to spin with thoughts of how hurt he must feel. Feeling awful, you desperately searched for any sign of life from him. But your eyes never managed to see past the plants and rocks in the tank. He was nowhere to be found.

With each passing minute of your fruitless search, guilt and dread weighed down your conscience. You began to feel bad about what you had said to him. Any attempt of calling out to him was met with awful silence. With Floyd gone, the empty Mostro Lounge became eerie and lifeless.

Your guilt got the better of you, and you climbed up the ladder that led to the upper ledge of the tank. Your eyes scanned the crystal clear water, but even from up there, you couldn't manage to find him amongst the kelp. With your hands tightly gripping onto the ledge, you leaned over the tank.

"Floyd... I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said," you murmured softly. "Please come out again. I'm worried about you..."

You're met with silence again. He still seemed too hurt to reply you. Or that's what you thought at least. With all the feelings of guilt that plagued you, you didn't notice the threatening shadow that approached you from below. Your torse continued to lean over the ledge, desperately trying to find your friend in the tank.

That was until a webbed hand shot out from the water and grabbed your arm. A scream escaped your lips as you were pulled into the tank with ease. Your body toppled over the ledge and plunged into the water. Strong limbs and an even stronger tail constricted most of your panicked movement.

Your clothes felt heavy and your eyes burnt as you were finally able to open them. You came face to face with a mischievously grinning Floyd. He held you tightly, but making sure your head remained above the water. An unsettling giggle escaped his lips. "I never was mad at you. I just needed you to feel guilty and come closer to the tank so I could pull you in."

You glared at him, but your anger was only half-hearted. "You sly eel..."

Your struggling is met with carefree laughter from his side. "That's what we're known as. Smart, sly and slippery!" he exclaimed smugly and swam around the tank with you. A bright smile was plastered onto his face, akin to that of a child that had just received a present.

"I should have known this was just another one of your ploys," you murmured in dismay.

Floyd pressed you against him until you could only wheeze out your complaints. "You're like a rubber duck! So easily squeezable and cute," he cooed playfully.

"Hey, let me go!" you cried out with red cheeks.

His laughter turned louder, until it filled the entirety of the Mostro Lounge. "Sorry, no can do, Shrimpy. You're my little rubber ducky until I get my transformation potion."

"Azul! Hurry up with the potion!" you yelled out at the top of your lungs.

Before you could say more, Floyd pulled you underwater to shut you up. After a few seconds of having his fun, he pulled you up again. A giggle escaped his lips at your disoriented state. He merely soothed your strangled whines by pulling you closer, his arms circling around your waist.

An eerie smile decorated his face as he patted your head. "Oh, he can take his time. I don't mind...."

[strangeracrossthestreet]

You know, it's very curious how every time Hamas' freedom fighters do something, Israel just bombs Gaza Strip as a response, targeting civilians and civilian infrastructure.

Isn't that curious?

I think it's very curious.

It's almost like they are using Hamas as an excuse, or something.

Israel does not even try to disguise how much they don't care about Palestinians. Israel does not try to hide how it thinks that Palestinians do not deserve human rights and self-determination.

Where was Hamas during the Great March of Return where people were shot by the thousands, losing limbs, being killed for having the nerve to protest, the nerve to want to be free and go back home. (wanting to go back home...now isn't that ironic? In their oh-so-righteous quest for a home, Israel destroys the homes and lives of the Palestinian people.)

Where was Hamas when you detain children and beat them and humiliate them?

Where was Hamas when journalists and medics are killed?

Where is Hamas in the West Bank where illegal settlements and settlers constantly threaten the lives of Palestinians? Constant harassment, constant threats, constant destruction of property.

Where is Hamas in Jerusalem where homes are being demolished? Where people do not have the same rights as those who come from the other side of the world to take their homes as their own.

Hamas is the Boogeyman in your minds, so you can feel at ease terrorising, killing, assaulting, displacing, ethnically cleansing hundreds of thousands of people.

The word "terrorists" is an excuse to let it all happen.

The word "Hamas" is an excuse to let it all happen.

You are disgraceful.

A vile regime that cries wolf again, and again, and again.

And the world lets them.

Disgraceful. Shameful. Disgusting.

All the atrocities, allowed in the name of profit.

The very notion that Hamas is doing any of this out of their own free will is disingenuous, fueled by racism, and it ignores the 70+ years of continuous violence brought upon the Palestinian people by the illegal occupying force of Israel. It ignores what the Gaza Strip is, it ignores the mental terror Palestinians live through and are born into.

The collective trauma of the Holocaust, the collective trauma of an apartheid state itself, is being used to go through with Genocide of an entire peoples.

I hear people talking about this being a cycle. It is not.

Early on, I too thought it was a cycle, as violence begets violence, but it is not.

Palestinians are resisting their very annihilation.

I will not ask of them to be merciful, even though they are.

I will not ask of them to be gentle, even though they are.

I will not ask them to die slowly and quietly for my peace of mind as Israel chokes them of their lives, chokes them of their lands year after painful year.

I will not condemn their struggle.

Israel was not merciful to them. Israel was not gentle to them.

Israel is a state that exists on the backs of countless Palestinian deaths. That, I condemn.

[colourstreakgryffin]

Hello! May I request some Tanjiro and Child! Reader headcanons? Like Tanjiro rescues a young child and raises them as his own?

This one is stupid cute! I love it so much and I’m totally doing it with so much pleasure! Papa Tanjiro has a lot to offer in all honesty! Aged up and Hashira AU!

Kamado Tanjiro- Golden Child

Tanjiro is a sweet, compassionate young man and as the older brother of five siblings, he was practically the king of of young childcare and his empathy would never let any little kid run around without supervision

When Tanjiro found you, a poor lonely child being terrorised by a demon, he immediately intervenes and slays the monster attacking you so he can check to make sure you’re okay. He is so loving and affectionate, you’re immediately drawn to him like a magnet

Tanjiro is very protective over the people he cares about so when he adopts you, as his child, his protective nature is elevated, rather you know how to fight or not. He can’t lose you like he lost his family and he much prefers to keep you away from demons altogether

Tanjiro loves decorating his child in the most adorable kimonos and accessories he can possibly find as he wants you to look so cute, you’ll outshine the sun itself. He has plenty of funds as the Sun Hashira and he knows how to style a child, thanks to his past

Tanjiro spoils you rotten. He cannot say no to you and he wants to make you happy as much as he possibly can. He loves you so much that it hurts, giving you nice gifts and your favourite meals on the weekends he is home is his way of both saying sorry and expressing his love as your adoptive father

Whilst Tanjiro gives you everything you want, he will always teach you rationality, gratitude and humanity. He won’t let you grow up ungrateful or bratty, he will shape you into a wonderful person and spread on his own family behaviours to yours. Always be kind, help others, share all the time

Tanjiro will always be there for you. For emotional support, for physical support, for comfort. He will drop everything to make sure you’re okay. He is not a bit at all a bit attached to you so he has you on his mind 24/7 and he always wants you to be happy and healthy

Tanjiro will happy brag about you to his fellow Hashira, he talks about you to anybody who will hear him out, at least, twice everyday. You are his joy and lifeblood, in only a short time and now, he strives harder and harder to come out missions alive to be able to come back to you and care for you

“My sweetheart! I’m home! Daddy slayed so many demons with you in mind! Come, take a look at this cute kimono I bought for you! Do you like it? It’s so pretty, I thought you’d love it”

[shares-a-vest]

@flufftober Spring Edition Day 3: Spring Cleaning

wc: 518 | Rated: T for Canon-Typical swearing and language | cw: None

Tags: Spring Cleaning, Eddie Munson is a Menace, Steddie Dads, Discarded Toys, Childhood Toys

'Goodbye, Mr. Furby'

Steve opens his daughter’s double-doored closet only to be greeted by her demonic Furby. A formerly beloved and sought-after plushie that also terrorised the family with late-night chirping for far too long until he had worked out how to remove the batteries.

He shudders at the thought of the manual Eddie had managed to track down, filled with faceless Furbys being exorcised and deprogrammed. He reaches forward with giddy glee and plucks the toy from its quiet resting spot.

“We can finally get rid of this thing,” he beams, turning to Eddie who lingers at the door, “Goodbye, Mr. Furby.”

“That’s Abernathy Furby, to you,” Eddie quips, frowning.

He takes a swipe for the toy but misses when Steve swoops his arm out of reach.

Eddie stumbles back in, clutching his proverbial pearls and his eyes glisten with worry. He stands there shellshocked, utterly scandalised by the prospect of cleaning out this mess of an apartment.

Steve knew this wasn’t going to be easy. He had to gently suggest such a task throughout the winter months, exercising pain-staking patience until Eddie and Joanie would at least hear him out.

“Eddie,” Steve begins, pinching his nose with his free hand, “You promised you’d let me do some Spring Cleaning this weekend. Besides, you hate this thing as much as I do.”

He plays keep-away just to be safe, watching his partner intently as he palms around to open the designated donation box he hopes to fill today.

“Adios,” Steve grins, taking one last look into the soulless, mechanical eyes of the plush before he drops it into the dark abyss of the labelled cardboard box.

That cursed thing can be some other parent’s problem...

“What’s happening?” Joanie yells, poking her head in from the hall.

Steve freezes, his arm now midway between reaching back into her closet for another forgotten toy – this time a grey tabby cat that got chewed up by a very real cat mere moments after Nancy had gifted it back when Joanie was two.

He glances at Eddie for backup, only to be met with a raised, judgemental brow. His partner pointedly folds his arms and leans against the doorframe in defiance.

Steve can’t help but roll his eyes at himself because, yeah – of course, his family would put on a united front against him. And he was foolish to think Joanie’s homework obligations would outweigh her infinite curiosity that borders on nosiness.

“Uh…” he hums, floundering immediately as his heart races a mile a minute.

He watches as his daughter walks to the box and peers inside. She gasps and dives in head first, her haste almost tipping her into the box completely.

“Not Abernathy!” she shrieks, holding the demon spawn up as she rocks herself and the box back upright.

The toy chirps and blinks away earning a high-pitched yelp from Eddie.

“St-Steve...” he stutters, whimpering as he points a shaking hand at the sentient being.

Steve grimaces at the toy held firm in his daughter’s grasp, looking like it has risen from a cardboard grave, readying itself for the kill.

[justforbooks]

Shelley Duvall

Film actor who starred in The Shining and made seven films with Robert Altman

Toothpick-thin with bingo-ball eyes, a Modigliani face and a tremulous, broken-doll voice, Shelley Duvall, who has died aged 75, would have been an unforgettable screen personality at any point in history. That she began acting in the 1970s, when the unorthodox and the eccentric enjoyed a brief window of opportunity in US cinema, was fortunate. Falling into the orbit of the maverick director Robert Altman was even luckier.

Altman said she could “swing all sides of the pendulum: charming, silly, sophisticated, pathetic – even beautiful”. She became part of his unofficial repertory company, appearing in seven of his films.

Her most widely seen performance was for Stanley Kubrick in his adaptation of Stephen King’s The Shining (1980). She played Wendy Torrance, the terrorised wife of a psychotic aspiring novelist (Jack Nicholson). Almost as famous as the film itself was the emotional battering she took on set under the director’s regime of relentless, punishing takes – 127 of them in total for the scene in which Wendy is pursued by her taunting husband up a vast staircase, limply swinging a baseball bat in his general direction.

“It was gruelling – six days a week, 12- to 16-hour days, half an hour off for lunch, for a year and one month,” she told the Los Angeles Times in 1991. “The role demanded that I cry for, whew, at least nine of those months. Jack had to be angry all the time, and I had to be in hysterics all the time. It was very upsetting.”

The film tips into irony and even outright comedy at times, but one shot of Duvall’s pink, frazzled, tear-stained face is all it takes to be reminded that the stakes were high for her at least.

It was Altman, though, who tapped into her complexities, promoted her adoringly and helped extend her range. In the same year as The Shining, for instance, audiences saw her inhabit a character who seemed to come from another planet entirely.

Duvall’s physiognomy and physicality made her the ideal choice to play the gawky string-bean Olive Oyl in Altman’s delirious live-action musical Popeye. The director, who called her casting “a deal-breaker” when studio executives suggested hiring the Saturday Night Live star Gilda Radner instead, reflected that “nobody else could have played Olive Oyl like Shelley. Nobody else looks like that.”

But it was Duvall’s bottomless empathy that helped make this cartoon character far from cartoonish. Her mastery of slapstick, as well as the pathos in her delicate, wobbly rendition of Harry Nilsson’s song He Needs Me, resulted in a performance of Chaplinesque sublimity.

Altman first met her when he was casting the wacky Brewster McCloud (1970). Associates of his had run into Duvall at a party in Houston, which she was throwing to sell paintings by Bernard Sampson, who was soon to become her husband.

The director called her in for a meeting, and thought she was feigning bewilderment when she seemed not to understand why she was there. He asked her to read for him. “What’s that mean?” she said.

“She had these eyelashes painted on her face, weighed about four pounds,” he recalled. “I decided to shoot a test, so I took her out in the park and put a camera on her and just asked her questions. I was really quite mean to her, as I thought she was an actress. But she wasn’t kidding; that was her. She was a truthful, untrained person.”

The producer Lou Adler, who was also at that meeting, noted that she “looked like a flower”, and said: “She had the most amazing amount of energy I’d ever seen in anyone.”

Altman cast her as a Houston Astrodome guide who sleeps with and subsequently betrays the film’s title character, a young dreamer yearning to fly. A small part as a mail-order bride followed in the elegiac western McCabe & Mrs Miller (1971). Duvall was taken under the wing of that picture’s star, Julie Christie, who, Altman said, “taught her a lot”.

It was on the Depression-era crime drama Thieves Like Us (1974) that Duvall first proved that she was more than just an unusual face. Adapted from the same Edward Anderson novel that inspired Nicholas Ray’s 1948 classic They Live By Night, it starred Duvall as Keechie, the unwitting moll of a goofy amateur gangster (Keith Carradine).

She was raw and uninhibited, her eyes crowded with love-hearts, her nerve endings seemingly exposed. The critic Pauline Kael fell hard for her: “She melts indifference,” Kael wrote. “You’re unable to repress your response; you go right to her in delight, saying ‘I’m yours’… she seems able to be herself on the screen in a way that nobody has ever been before … Her charm appears to be totally without affectation.”

Lily Tomlin, who starred with her in Altman’s next film, Nashville (1975), where Duvall played a country music groupie, called her work in Thieves Like Us “transcendent. She’s sitting on the porch drinking a Coke in a swing, and Keith Carradine is coming on to her, and she’s so innocent. The way she played that – so sweet and funny and heartbreaking. It just killed me.”

She had a minor role as the wife of President Grover Cleveland in Altman’s irreverent western Buffalo Bill and the Indians (1976). But it was in his woozy psychological drama 3 Women (1977) that she did her most layered and mysterious work. She plays Millie Lammoreaux, a bossy-boots carer at a Palm Springs rehabilitation facility for elderly people. Taking the innocent Pinky (Sissy Spacek) under her wing as co-worker and room-mate, Millie is a picture of delusion, fancying herself a gal-about-town and the belle of the ball. A narrative fracture midway through the film heralds an abrupt reversal that puts Millie in the submissive role.

Duvall, who wrote extensive diary entries, letters and meal recipes in character as preparation, won the best actress prize at the Cannes film festival. It was this performance, too, that inspired Kubrick to cast her in The Shining. “I like the way you cry,” he said.

She was born in Fort Worth, Texas, to Bobbie Ruth Crawford (nee Massengale), who worked in real estate, and Robert Duvall, who was a cattle auctioneer before working as an insurance salesman. The family moved around constantly during Shelley’s early years; by the time they finally settled in their first house in Houston, the five-year-old was so used to living in hotels that she asked her mother where the elevator was.

Her father trained as a criminal lawyer and eventually became a judge. Shelley was educated at Waltrip high school where she showed an interest in performing at an early age, but once fled the stage during a talent contest after forgetting her lines. She later heard her parents outside her bedroom door, speculating that she may not be talented after all.

“That was definitely a turning point in my life,” she said. “I guess that might have inspired me to be an overachiever. I never felt the need to prove myself out of revenge; I wanted to contribute something, to make my life count.”

She pursued an interest in science at South Texas Junior College, but dropped out after a fellow student held a vivisected monkey close to her face.

Most of her first decade as an actor was dominated by her work with Altman, although she also made the occasional television appearance, including the lead role in Joan Micklin Silver’s adaptation of F Scott Fitzgerald’s Bernice Bobs Her Hair (1976).

In Annie Hall (1977), she had a memorable bit-part as a vacuous rock journalist who describes sex with Woody Allen’s character as “a Kafka-esque experience”. She was bags of fun in Terry Gilliam’s century-hopping comedy-adventure Time Bandits (1981), in which she and Michael Palin formed a daft double-act playing two pairs of upper-class twits in different centuries.

She also became known to a new generation as the creator and host of Faerie Tale Theatre, which ran from 1982 to 1987. The series reinterpreted classic stories, helped popularise cable television, and featured performers such as Joan Collins, Carrie Fisher, Mick Jagger, Liza Minnelli, Vanessa Redgrave and Christopher Reeve; among the directors Duvall hired were Tim Burton, Francis Ford Coppola, Roger Vadim and Eric Idle. As well as introducing each episode, she appeared in a handful of roles, including Rapunzel opposite Jeff Bridges as the Prince and Gena Rowlands as the Witch.

The show was the first in a string of projects for children – including albums, further series and the 1990 TV special Mother Goose Rock’n’Rhyme – which were all originated by her.

She starred in Burton’s morbidly inventive short film Frankenweenie (1984), which put a canine spin on Mary Shelley, and was a joyful addition to Roxanne (1987), Steve Martin’s comic update of Cyrano de Bergerac, in which she played the hero’s confidante.

She had despairingly little to do in Suburban Commando (1991), a vehicle for the wrestler Hulk Hogan, but later appeared in Steven Soderbergh’s thriller The Underneath (1995), Jane Campion’s film of Henry James’s The Portrait of a Lady (1996) and the Canadian avant-gardist Guy Maddin’s Twilight of the Ice Nymphs (1997).

After that, there were no roles of note, and no screen credits whatsoever between the comedy Manna from Heaven (2002) and the horror film The Forest Hills (2023).

It was during this two-decade gap that articles on the theme of “Where Is She Now?” surfaced periodically. Curiosity was replaced by pity and horror after her appearance in 2016 looking confused and bedraggled on the daytime talk show Dr Phil. The episode, widely regarded as exploitative, was titled A Hollywood Star’s Descent Into Mental Illness: Saving The Shining’s Shelley Duvall. She was heard claiming to have received messages from her late Popeye co-star Robin Williams. She said: “I’m very sick. I need help.”

It was true that she had serious problems, including diabetes and mental health issues. In the absence of more concrete explanations, rumours that her fragile state could be blamed on The Shining began to fill the vacuum. But a New York Times profile from earlier this year made it plain that Kubrick had nothing to do with it, and that a likelier explanation for her protracted disappearance and decline was a series of shocks and traumas including a 1994 earthquake that had damaged her home in Los Angeles, and the pressure of having to return to Texas to care for one of her three brothers, who was ill.

She is survived by the musician Dan Gilroy, her partner of more than 30 years. Her marriage to Sampson ended in divorce in 1974.

🔔 Shelley Alexis Duvall, actor, born 7 July 1949; died 11 July 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[johannestevans]

Crimson Peak: A Love Letter To Gothic Romance

Adoring thoughts on Guillermo Del Toro’s 2015 masterpiece.

On Patreon / / On Medium.

This review and bit of analysis is related to the talk I’ll be giving on Crimson Peak tomorrow, responses to misogyny and marginalisation in and around Gothic fiction, and how much of this social conservatism is mirrored in BookTok and modern retorts to problematic fiction.

All proceeds from the Romancing the Gothic Goths for Breakfast talks go to charity, feeding school children free breakfasts! You can sign up for tickets here.

Edith and Thomas in bed, via Cap-That.

Crimson Peak (2015) frustrated me when it came out, and often frustrates me today — I was desperately excited about it when it was released, loved it the first time I saw it, have loved it every time I’ve watched it since. What frustrated me was not the film itself, but its advertisements and the way it’s filed and tagged on sites even today is that Crimson Peak is not a horror film.

Crimson Peak is a Gothic romance.

Yes, Gothic fiction — Gothic horror — might be classified under traditional horror tags and descriptors, but gothic romance is a different and more complicated kettle of fish.

Gothic fiction is typified by its associations with the most visceral of human emotions — with fear and horror and terror; with disgust and anger and rage; with want and jealousy and envy; with lust and love… and grief.

We see in Gothic fiction what we see in the the Gothic architecture for which the genre is named, inspired by its traditional settings — the darkness that lingers thick and impenetrable amidst the ceiling arches, untouched no matter how many candles are lit; the long shadows cast by figures silhouetted against windows and fireplaces; the endless corridors, the haunted attics, the cold and shadowed cellars, the strange and troubling shapes of the house around us.

What do we find in Gothic romance, then?

In Gothic fiction we find the most macabre and grotesque of happenings, of settings, of events — in Gothic romance, we find those who love and lust for them.

Some of the most famous Gothic romances are Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre; Deaphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca; Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights (Stephenie Meyer’s favourite book, and an inspiration for Twilight, by all accounts: no more damning comment can be made of it).

When I was describing my affection for the genre to my partner the other day, I also mentioned Bram Stoker’s Dracula — Dracula lacks the female protagonist that these three classics have, but I would argue that the want and lust (and even love) between Dracula, Jonathan, and Mina (in each direction) more than amount to enough to fit the book into the genre.

It’s not as simple as desire or want or even love for another whilst horrific happenings go on around their heads — Gothic romance’s unique allure is in the darkness of people’s romantic desires, their sexual desires. Wanting what they should not want — wanting the pain and the grief and the fear as much as they want the sweetness, the comfort, the pleasure of love.

This stands out most of all in those Gothic works that delve into proto-feminist explorations of female empowerment — in Jane Eyre, in Wuthering Heights, in similar works that largely centre the horror of a young woman (or women) entering into marriage with a man that leads her to doom of one type or other, supernatural or mundane, what is ultimately being explored is the horror of these women’s lack of choices and agency.

If she will be terrorised either way, if she will live in fear, if she will be controlled no matter what she does and whom she’s married, why would she not seek out a controller, seek out a ghost or monster, whom excites her? To whom she is most deeply attracted? A man who she can — and will — terrorise in turn?

I think it’s why poor Jonathan Harker stands alongside these Gothic heroines in my mind, not merely in line with Mina because he’s her husband, but part of the line-up in his own right— he is desirous of Dracula and, like many of these women stumbling, or rushing headlong and passionately into, dangerous matches, he is heedless of every warning as he allows himself to be trapped in the faraway manse of this hypnotising man who will feed on him, and whom at the same time Harker feels a sort of hunger for even as his intentions and his nature become clear.

What is it, then, about Crimson Peak?

Here’s a Gothic romance that stands on its own two feet — like the best of pastiches, it near perfectly echoes the tone and the hypnotising ache of the best and most impactful stories in the genre, creating a story that could well have been penned centuries ago alongside contemporaries like Wuthering Heights.

In Crimson Peak, there are so many references to different staples of the genre — apart from the basic staples of the isolated manse in the middle of the dales, the strange and dark family with the sordid past, the young ingenue, intelligent and driven but at the same time naive, we see small references or direct mirrors to particular tropes or archetypes present in some famous Gothic tales.

Finlay, for example, the Sharpes’ elderly caretaker who seems confused and scatterbrained, is a mirror to the long-winded and sometimes incomprehensible Joseph of Wuthering Heights; Edith compares herself to Mary Shelley, a stalwart creator in the Gothic genre and one of its defining authors.

Like the best of pastiches, it is filled with its love for that which it’s imitating, delving into classic tropes of the genre — the sprawling and crumbling manse on the hill, apart from all the other houses, filled only with ghosts; the once rich and splendid family, now rendered impoverished and preying on others to survive; the aspects of natural horror, insects feasting on one another, the presence of this red in tooth and claw violence and the desperation to survive; the horrors of lonely, isolated children developing inappropriate and disgusting, incestuous intimacies with one another, those intimacies carried on into their adulthood; ghosts that at once horrify those they appear before and yet on some level crave to help them, to save them, or at least undo what has been done.

At the same time, every character but Lucille Sharpe (Jessica Chastain) is desperate to escape the genre they’ve been born into.

Edith (Mia Wasikowsa), naturally, wants for a romance, but she also wants more for herself than her role as a woman in the society she’s in — much like the Brontë sisters did themselves, she wishes to disguise her gender so that her work is not immediately dismissed, exchanging her father’s gift of a pen for the machinised genderlessness of a typed hand, that she might be an author and create things for herself, just as her father built things before he owned them; Thomas (Tom Hiddleston) wants for a romance himself, craves the love and sweetness of a marriage whilst untangling himself from the horror it’s attached to with his sister, but he is also trying to drag himself out of the hole his house is creating with machinery designed to dredge out clay.

Edith and Thomas both reach for tools of the industrial age, reach with grasping hands for modernity, as if these can save them from the classic ghost story they’re trapped in.

And yet there are further depths to this gift — in giving Edith the gift of this pen, Carter (Jim Beaver) is giving her a sort of phallic symbol. He is a patriarch giving his daughter a metaphorical extension of masculinity and masculine power — in essence, he is saying to her: “Edith, you are not just my daughter, not just a woman as in the eyes of the patriarchal society around us, but you are my firstborn. Uncaring of the gendered nature of your position, and the ways in which this dispossesses you, I am giving you an appropriate tool for your trade.”

And what does Edith do? Immediately reject his pen, because his approval and his extension of this power to her is not enough — she exchanges the tool for the typewriter because she craves the anonymity it will give her, and its modernity.

Appropriate, that Carter Cushing should take such a dim view of Sharpe’s prototype and dismiss it as little more than a child’s toy, whilst talking about his own hard work leading to the empire he later built — talking about hardening his hands before he built larger structures, before he owned property himself.

This is the same opportunity he is attempting to offer Edith in giving her that pen: for her to have a tool to build with before she owns his empire, and yet she rejects it. In turning down this offer of power from Carter Cushing, representative of his allotting her more personhood than one might expect to be offered to a woman in this period, her head is then turned by Thomas Sharpe’s proposal.

She is, in a way, taken back to the past when she returns with him to England — social mores are not so flexible in England as they are for a woman like Edith in America, and even if they were, she is isolated from anybody but Thomas and Lucille (and the ghosts in their home), so she is robbed entirely of opportunities for self-empowerment or agency.

In Allerdale, it is Lucille that carries all the power, Lucille that holds the a ring of metaphorical phalluses on her belt, taken from all her victims — Lucille holds the keys to the house, and denies them immediately to Edith, who by all rights should now be lady of the house as Thomas’ new wife.

She holds power in her hands, wielding these keys, and of course, Edith takes the one that had belonged to Enola Schiotti to unlock her trunk — the same ghost who unlocks another door for her, no key needed, to give her some power within that home on the sly.

It’s appropriate that Edith finally wields her father’s pen when Lucille pushes her to sign the contract that will sign her life away — a concern Carter no doubt always had about Edith marrying any man, even were Thomas not so suspicious a character — and uses it as a weapon to attack Lucille and defend herself, to allow herself to reach once again for freedom.

There are so many layered meanings and ideas within the text, and it’s so richly written and developed compared to many contemporary films I might think of — it’s miserable to think of, but Crimson Peak really is one of those films where you feel that every part of the story has its place, where the whole thing has been wholly considered, carefully mixed and edited, where every scene, every line, every movement of the camera is for a reason, and adds to the greater narrative, elevates that narrative.

In the beginning, for example, we hear Edith say that her mother died of cholera, and that it was a closed casket, that her father begged her not to look — when Carter himself is on the block in the morgue, she is compelled to look although she doesn’t wish to, and seeing him dead there, she cannot conceive of the reality of the situation. She never sees her mother dead, but she understands she is dead, and then sees her as a ghost — never able to fully digest the death of her father, she denies it even as she touches his cold hand, and she is never haunted by him.

Edith mentions that she sees Thomas Sharpe as a parasite with a title before meeting him, and she is entirely right to think of him as such, because that is precisely what he is — there is a continuous and constant theme of living things feeding off one another. Lucille compares Edith to a butterfly, the two of them sitting side by side, one brightly yellow and the other dark and pale: Lucille tells Edith, distant and dreamy, that the moths she’s so familiar with eat butterflies (like her).

Edith and Lucille, via cap-that. “It’s a savage world of things dying or eating each other, right beneath our feet.”

Even the house itself at Allerdale is being consumed by the mountain below, being devoured by the red and bloody clay that had once given the family within it their fortune — having been fed upon by this family over generations, it now feeds on them in turn, both in the absorption of Allerdale House, and incidentally in the drowned victims of those the Sharpe siblings feed into the cellar vats.

Edith as a protagonist notes details — she’s keen and clever, investigates, considers; she notes that Alan keeps Arthur Conan Doyle on his shelves; she speaks on the specificities of Thomas Sharpe’s wardrobe and how its dated appearance reveals that his fortune is waning or has entirely waned; she follows clues, she researches, she deduces. Like her father, she reaches for information, arms herself with it.

We see her horrified again and again by the ghosts that plague her, and at the same time, she works so hard to understand them — she works hard at every opportunity to comprehend the incomprehensible, to know the unknown, to understand everything that cannot be understood.

There are so many other wonderful elements to the film — it’s beautifully shot, of course, and has some of my favourite costuming that I could name in any period piece. Every dress, every suit, is perfectly tailored, effortlessly lit, every piece moves and flows, every piece of jewellery or accessory is set to fit the period, the setting, each individual character.

Even the ghosts, with their smoky essence, with the unnatural shift and angularity to their movements embroiled in a constant and preternatural fog, seem so real, have such a texture to them that makes them so easy not only to visualise, but to imagine you can feel, that you can reach out and touch — or not touch, even as you reach.

And like any good Gothic piece, but especially a Gothic romance, Crimson Peak is a film that exudes sex.

Every glance between Edith and Thomas is full to the brim with want and lust and desire — Thomas’ gaze lingers on Edith’s face and her body, on her hands, on the movement of her skirts and the shift of her waist; Edith follows after Thomas where he moves, leans toward him like a candle flame drawn to a draught, and you can see her hold her breath whenever he draws closer.

Whenever there is a distance between the two of them it feels fraught with electric tension: when that distance is slowly closed, bit by bit, and yet repeatedly denied and interrupted — by Alan, by Carter, by Lucille, by everyone around them — it seems that it should crackle and pop, flash and burst into flames.

Lucille’s desperate control of Thomas is in part dependent on their sexual dynamic, on the older Lucille having groomed him into a partnership when she was only 14 and Thomas even younger at 12 — and Thomas’ soft murmurings, almost to himself, with Edith, are so revealing of his vulnerability.

“You’re so different,” he whispers in one scene, and quickly brushes off Edith’s bafflement at the comment; he is frightened to lay hands on Edith, even to be alone with her at times, for fear of Lucille’s wrath, and when finally permitted the opportunity to fall into bed with her, he’s desperate in his desire for her.

His most sympathetic moment is no doubt where he says to Alan through carefully gritted teeth that Alan is a doctor, that Alan knows where to direct Thomas’ blade, that he might finally do violence upon someone — what Lucille has always wanted from him — and yet still save himself from having committed a murder.

Lucille damns everyone she touches, kills everyone she can — her mother; Carter Cushing; the dog; each of her brother’s wives; Thomas Sharpe himself.

And yet she’s not unsympathetic.

We see Lucille’s desperation — under her cold demeanour is an agonisingly lonely woman, isolated and abused for the whole of her life, robbed of any real and obvious power of her own, and forced to wield power only through her brother’s name, her brother’s movements, her brother’s actual, legal power, which as a woman she cannot wield.

Lucille and Thomas were locked alone in their attic and denied access to anywhere else in the house, apparently denied any other companionship or loving contact — their mother was also an abuse victim, and became isolated after what their father did to her, but she just carried on the cycle in abusing her own children. Is it any wonder she should grapple so desperately for purchase in a world literally slipping out from under her, the sliding stone and brick stained red with crimson clay?

Is it any wonder that she should mix blood in with it, when she has nothing in the world, as far as she sees it, but her brother?

As cold and brutal and violent as Lucille is, she acts on instinct to protect herself and who she holds most dear — even in killing Thomas himself, it’s a desperate action in the hopes of keeping him bound up with her, terrified of his rejecting her when he has been the one constant she has ever been able to rely on.

God, what a film.

[into-september]

"Maledictator", thoughts

Flipping through the channels at later at night than the target group should be up gave me the tail end of "Frozer" (Luka had a different voice, the ice power-ups are weird) and then "Maledictator".

Did this happen before or after Chloé revealed herself to be a dancing prodigy in LB cosplay that had a wig

Sure sure S5 might go on and on about how she's too lazy for school, but you don't get those dancing skills at one of the toughest ballet schools in the world without dicipline and dedication. If we're supposed to treat anything that happens on this show seriously after all, "Frighteninggale" suggests that Chloé's illiteracy stems from some learning disability left undiagnosed thanks to a system too afraid to be frank about her academic performance to her parents

No helping the complete lack of reality on display as the episode starts, though

Marinette's explanation for choosing Chloé for the fight is something like "doesn't get intimidated by power" (would've been so cool if this was ever followed up on), but it's pretty clear that it's really because she keeps blaming herself for getting Chloé upset. I can't remember if she did that before Adrien refused to join the party because he was upset, but the one most ruthless at tearing Chloé's superhero delusions apart at the start of the episode wasn't Marinette, no matter how much both Marinette and Chloé keeps saying that it was. It was Alya.

Not sure what to make of Chloé's repeated accusations that Marinette made the class "gang up on her" when Chloé demonstratively doesn't care what the class thinks of her

And yet she later grieves that "nobody likes her" and she "has no friends"

And she goes to the party, unaware that it is to celebrate Queen Bee, because Marinette asked her to

The most interesting part of the episode is how she at the end refuses the Butler's help to clean up, insisting to do it herself

"BUt she neVEr wAnted to Be betTER" #surejan

Speaking of things it would've been so cool if they followed up on: Adrien's statement that he "can't" celebrate Chloé's departure. This empathy-to-the-point-of-the-absurd (and it is empathy, not just loyalty) is such a contrast to Gabriel who uses the same skill set to terrorise Paris on the daily - and also to Marinette, whose judgemental ways are usually justified, but who also demonstrates a distinct lack in the empathy department on some very notable occasions (Kagami on purpose, Cat Noir are a side effect of weird writing). Adrien's insistence on sympathising with the other's pain, no matter how misplaced said pain is, would've been such an interesting angle for the show to pursue to cast light on the two others in our central conflict triangle

Chloé's VA aced this one and oh my god whoever wrote these scripts deserves a little medal. Gabriel Agreste is absolutely the kind of man to use the word "hustru"

The most important takeaway is that this episode probably only exists because someone wanted to animate Cat Noir taking the catboy existence to the ultimate level

The simultaneous clever and absolutely careless nature of the writing and directing of this show keeps giving me brainworms and today's is the fact that Queen Bee's weapon is the visually closest to Ladybug's in look and non-special function, and how this episode had one very conspicuous shot of Ladybug and Queen Bee moving in fully synchronised movements. Why would you do that if you're not either going to establish Chloé as a special ally, or as Ladybug's ultimate nemesis?

See also: with S5 explicitly taking on the political system of France, how dare not having a Maledictator repeat there. did we really need an episode about how even an AI can de-akumatise itself these days, or two about Lila getting Kagami akumatised over the same bloody problem that you were too chicken to make for real anyway

[sugdenlovesdingle]

So I just read an article in the paper about the UK government wanting to ban the (and I quote) "dangerous American super-bulldog" - the American Bully XL. Please excuse me while I roll my eyes at this bullshit.

The reason for this is apparently a man in Staffordshire being "mauled to death" by two dogs of that breed and according to Rishi Sunak it's a pattern in the breed's behaviour.

Even though apparently those specific dogs had attacked another dog before this incident and people had expressed their concern about them to the police.

That sounds to me like a problem with those specific dogs and even more so the owner. But the dogs get euthanised and the guy gets to go home on bail.

The article also quotes Bojo saying the problem in most cases is the owner and not the dog itself - and I never thought I'd say it but - listen to Boris!

I worked as a dog walker for four years and yes we had a staffie that became too much of a problem that we had to drop it as a client (because the owners wouldn't get it neutered even though the hormones were making it aggressive to us AND THEM) but we also had a dachshund that would terrorise the other dogs and tried to bite your face off if he was in a face-height crate in the bus. And we had a chihuahua who only wanted to ride in the front with my boss - and he'd also try to bite your face off if you tried to put it in a crate in the back. Same with a Jack Russell. Most of the big "dangerous" dogs were gentle giants. (my boss' wife used to walk 3 Dogues de Bordeaux when she was pregnant with their first and she'd always tell me she never felt more safe).

First it were German shepherds that were dangerous, then rottweilers, then staffies and everything that looks like staffies, and now the American Bully XL.

My old neighbours have a dog like that and I swear to god it was scared of its own shadow. It would run and hide before attacking anyone.

Banning a breed doesn't solve the problem if the assholes that own them "train" them to be fighting dogs, forcing ALL bullies to wear a muzzle in public won't solve the problem if people still don't train their dogs normally (and may cause medical issues because of their brachycephalic faces - the flat noses). Your dog is your responsibility. If you know your dog doesn't get on with other dogs, keep it on a leash and away from other dogs. If you know your dog might snap in certain situations, it is your duty as an owner to make sure that doesn't happen. To your dog and the rest of the world.

The only ones who will benefit from this ban will be the manufacturers and sellers of muzzles for dogs with brachycephalic faces.

Sorry for the rant but this pisses me off.

[season4steve]

We’re in this together --- Steve Harrington x female!reader

chapter 1

❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎ ❤︎︎

The peaceful morning sunrise did little to ease your panic. You’d awoke suddenly, immediately suffering a familiar feeling of bile rising up your throat. “Great” you thought as you finally finished throwing up in the bathroom. “Another morning of cleaning”.

For the past week you’d started the day by spewing your guts up in the toilet. Inevitably having to disinfect your bathroom afterwards. Everyday you’d try to convince yourself that it was just a stomach bug. The likelihood of this had started to decrease as you’d put the pieces together. Number one: you were only sick in the morning and number 2: it had been an entire week.

You knew deep down what the situation was but couldn’t bring yourself to accept it. For the next few weeks you pretended like nothing was wrong. You couldn’t bring yourself to actually acknowledge the fact that you were 19 and pregnant.

——————————————————————————

It’d been a few days since you’d last thrown up, you were hoping the morning sickness stage had passed. As you entered family video for your shift you were met with the one person that had been terrorising your mind. Steve Harrington.

You and Steve had been best friends since elementary school when your family had moved onto his street. You had bonded over your absent parents many times over the years and he had been your rock through everything. Each year when the upside down would uproot itself into your lives he had been there like a lantern guiding you through. Back in 1983 he had saved you from a demogorgan, in 1984 he had pulled you out the way and into him as the demodogs charged at you both in the tunnels and only last summer in 85 you had both been tortured by russians together. That shit brings people together.

You knew you loved Steve. You had fallen for him a long time ago. A platonic love transformed into something more. The thing you didn’t know though was if he felt the same way. You had been through hell in your mind trying to decipher his behaviour, constantly questioning if he was just being nice. You even shared your internal conflicts with Robin who was you and Steve’s number 1 supporter. Robin had gushed over the fact that she could tell Steve loved you. Even bringing up Steve’s reaction to the russians dragging you away from him. “He went completely insane when they took you y/n, he looked broken and wouldn’t stop screaming your name”. The assuring words of Robin had echoed in your head for months.

Eventually one drunken night at Steve’s your feelings had acted upon themselves. “Drunk actions, sober desires” or something like that you thought.

You had both been extremely drunk and….yeah well shit happened.

When you had woken up the next morning in his bed you were alone. Steve had already set off to work, he probably didn’t want to wake you up that early. He had always said you had an adorable sleeping pout so he most likely didn’t want to get rid of it. You had seen him again only a few hours later at Lucas’ basketball game where he had acted completely normal. You didn’t ask about it, you didn’t speak about it. It happened and that was enough for you at the time.

As the days turned into weeks though you began to question what it had meant to Steve. Did he enjoy it? Did he want to do it again? Did he want more? Does he even remember it?

Of course he remembered it. He wasn’t any drunker than you when it had happened but the fact he hadn’t even acknowledged it concerned you. A part of you was terrified that he was regretting it. Did he wake up that morning next to you and think “shit that was stupid”.

You were still completely in the dark towards how he felt about it and it had been almost 2 weeks. Steve’s attitude towards you hadn’t changed. He still hugged you when he saw you, laughed with you, called you just to hear your voice and now here he was in front of you again.

He was slouched at the store counter fiddling with a rubix cube you knew he would never solve. As the bell at the door signalled your arrival he quickly straightened up and beamed at you. "Hey y/n you finally made it. I was about to send out a search party or something". You giggled at his effortless attempt to make you smile as you went on your way to the staffroom to put down your bag. "Sorry I'm a bit late, there was a great deal on at that little bakery you know I love". He smiled at this. "Yeah yeah, your literally obsessed with it I'm aware. He followed you into the staff room.

"You didn't come empty handed did you? I could kill for a cookie right now".

“Of course I didn't". "Your lucky though because there was only one left of your favourite" you exclaimed pointing your finger at him.

You pulled the iced caramel cookie out of the wrapping and Steve's face lit up as he quickly took it from your hands. You smiled as you watched him greedily munch down the small cookie. "You literally eat like a child you know". Steve's eyes darted up from the cookie as he mumbled an apology. You patted Steve’s shoulder as you left the room and began your shift.

♡︎♡︎

The shift had gone fine, you and Steve had chatted the entire way through. Things could never be awkward between you and him, no matter the circumstances. You had simply known each other too long.

As the clock finally reached 11pm you both headed out together. Steve locked the door up as you waited behind him. “You want to ride home together?” Steve offered, knowing you didn’t really like being alone in the dark anymore.

“I should probably take myself home tonight because my cars already here and I won’t be able to get to work tomorrow without it” you sighed. You really didn’t want to be by yourself but you knew you couldn’t just leave your car here as you would need it in the morning.

“Just stop at mine itl be fine.” We’re both working same time tomorrow so we can just go together”. Steve unlocked his car as you stood there and weighed up your choices.

“Yeah okay then, that works i guess” you decided as you climbed into your reserved seat in Steve’s car. Before you knew it you were on your way to his house. You hadn’t actually been to his house since you had slept with him. You wondered if the topic would come up…

♡︎♡︎

Part 2

[rockingrobin69]

In celebration of joy

This is actually a snip from a wip (700 words) and also a ‘hey I’m alive’ and most of all, it’s a (humble!!) present for my pride and joy @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm who is out there being the best in us etc. etc. Joy, I love you, I love you, I love you. And so does this special lil guy.

The coffee machine went on a strike on a Tuesday, roughly around nine. A big notice all over the screen, CHANGE FILTER that didn’t relent no matter what Draco attempted. He changed the damn filter, three times. Changed the water. Emptied and reloaded the bean tray. Nothing worked: the notice remained, and the smell of coffee pervaded the kitchenette, made his eyes water.

The manual was in Italian, which, according to his CV, shouldn’t be a problem. Apparently there was a world of difference between chatting up pretty boys in the Piazza and fine mechanics. Apparently, Draco was equally rubbish at both. And the coffee machine, blast it to high hell, kept at its pouty, childish rebellion.  

He didn’t even like coffee. Did have an espresso every once in a while, half in punishment, half-reward. Drowned it in sugar until no flavour was discernible, went on a glucose-fuelled paperwork rampage, terrorising the office till the inevitable crash. But he liked making coffees for some of the others—liked being trusted with a task he could perform. The coffee machine was tricky, needed a gentle touch: the frothing settings, the roast, all had to be perfectly calibrated. Usually he had it. And now, change filter, and no coffee in sight.

He's going to have to go back to Harry empty-handed.

Going to have to look him in the eye and say, hey, so, remember when you hired me, all that long month ago, and I promised I’d do my very best? Right. Yes, failed at the most basic of tasks today, what else could you expect. Also, please don’t fire me.

Draco rubbed his eyes a little harsher than recommended. Bore the angry flashes behind his eyelids, tried to breathe. Why must everything be a panic, why couldn’t he just. Be normal about this. Be a man, not a muppet, for a change.

Opened his eyes, grit his teeth till the world un-blurried itself. Took a deep breath. Went back to the manual, skimmed till he found the right place, and tried again.

In the end he ran down to the Costa across the street. Took him exactly forty minutes and twenty-three seconds to get back at Harry’s office door, red-faced and soaking wet, but with the flat white he’s promised. Tried not to look too smug about it as he sauntered through, gently laid the cup (still hot, he thought, he hoped) next to Harry’s computer screen.

“Thanks,” murmured Harry, not even looking up from the folder open on his desk. “Mm, that smells nice.”

Draco allowed himself a little smile. “No problem, Mr. Potter.”

As he knew, that zapped Harry’s attention back to him. He flushed so easily, and so sweetly too, fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose for an excuse to use his hands. Calling Harry Mr. Potter always had the same effect—sometimes, when Draco was feeling rather cheeky, he even threw in a Sir, just to watch him flail.

“Erm. Yes. Thank you, Draco. Are—why are you wet?”

“Hmm?” looked down, remembered. “Oh. It’s raining again.”

Harry turned his head to the window, stared for a moment. “Yes,” he said, chewing on a poor lower lip. “Yes, it is indeed.”

Winding Harry up sure was one of the biggest perks of the job, but Draco actually had work to do. “Anything else, Mr. Potter?” (couldn’t help himself, he just couldn’t). “If you wouldn’t mind, the paperwork for Mr. Dougherty’s case requires further attention.”

More of the fidgeting. “No, no, that’s quite all right. Certainly, er, important that you get to it.” Draco nodded, and was already at the door when he heard, “Wait, why does the cup say Costa?”

Rushed out of Harry’s office without closing the door behind him. The prat never did anyway. Went back to the kitchenette, opened the manual, and a pocket dictionary from the shop right next door to blasted Costa. (The Dougherty dossier was compiled and completed two days ago. Not his fault he was good at his job). Stared the machine down until it bowed before him, spilled its mechanical guts.

He’ll get it, eventually. He thought. He hoped.

[no-side-us]

The Invisible Man, Ch. 26 - The Wicksteed Murder

The Wicksteed Murder chapter is probably the most interesting chapter in the story. Out of nowhere, we have our previously removed narrator give their personal thoughts and opinions into the narrative, for this chapter alone, because it's the one where Griffin kills somebody.

There are a few layers to it also. First we have what actually happened between Griffin and Mr. Wicksteed, which is left unclear. The chapter isn't written like the others so we don't get a straight narrative of how Mr. Wicksteed died or why Griffin killed him. And then on right on top of that we have the narrator suddenly telling us their interpretation of Griffin killing in cold blood, despite them also giving us so many reasons to doubt that assumption. And then we have what the story itself wants us to know, which is to say those doubts are true and Griffin was most likely cornered and acted out of self-defense.

I just think it's a really interesting way to tell us this information. The story wants us to know that Griffin isn't some wanton murderer, so by presenting that information to us through a narrator who doesn't care to believe that version of events, we know it's probably true. By doing it this way we also get how people within the story would probably be reacting as well, which is to say just like the narrator. They're going to assume Griffin's some crazy killer also despite the evidence to the contrary.

And then there are some small bits I like, such as this line here:

Perhaps something of the stunned astonishment of his Oxford Street experiences may have returned to him, for he had evidently counted on Kemp’s co-operation in his brutal dream of a terrorised world.

The mention of Griffin's time "On Oxford Street" reminds us that the narrator knows Griffin's backstory, which also explains why they can be very sympathetic towards him, to a degree. Cause despite those sympathies, in the end the narrator still depicts Griffin negatively, which is almost more insidious if they know his backstory:

for in the morning he was himself again, active, powerful, angry, and malignant, prepared for his last great struggle against the world.

That last line, about "his last great struggle," is also pretty good foreshadowing for the end of the book.

Anyways, I'm not sure I explained my thoughts on this chapter very well. I just thought it was really interesting.

[vigilskeep]

You are my fellow vampire lover dragon age person who knows far more than me so I need your wisdom. Are reavers always aggressive? Do they have to be warriors charging into battle and being the centre of a fight? Or can they be sneaky? Can they hide in the shadows picking off enemies, drawing power from the blood that flows down their neck at the cut of their dagger? Can a reaver feed off the fear of its enemies as their laughter echoes thought haunted halls fallowed by screams? Can they become more than men as they take life after life and feed off the blood they spill in the shadows? Granted, a blood mage would work just as well but the whole drinking a dragon's blood and ritualistism and making a choice to become a reaver really appeals to me for my idea of a vampire inspired DA character. Sorry for getting carried away as well but I wanna hear you talk about potential DA vampires hehehehehehe

BEAUTIFUL QUESTION THANK U. i myself have been given to exploring the concept of a reaver rogue...

the reasons reavers are most suited to a warrior’s skillset are threefold: 1. they sacrifice their health to utilise many of their abilities, and thus should have a large pool to draw from; 2. they have abilities that derive from terrorising enemies and projecting an aura of pain upon those surrounding them, for which it’s helpful to be in the middle of the fight, and 3. the rage-fuelled frenzy into which they sink in combat, and supposedly eventually lose themselves into long term, doesn’t naturally give itself to subtlety

but considering they are fuelled by fear and they are designed to do as much damage as possible fast, i think a reaver rogue could work conceptually. they would need higher constitution than your average rogue, but that is possible, and the legionnaire subclass in awakening shows that high con rogues are trained by some groups. a reaver capable of cooling their rage into an icily precise blade and glorying in the terror they cause seems reasonable to me. you can just imagine them getting stronger and stronger as they stalk through the dark. reavers revel in death! :D i would combine it with some of the assassin spec, as zevran mentions that organisations like the crows use similar blood rituals to increase their abilities, and dao dialogue treats the assassin spec as on par with blood mages and reavers in that regard

as an aside, reavers would also make good spies and assassins on the grounds that they develop an immunity to pain by damage because it only strengthens them, so they should be extremely resistant to getting any information beaten out of them should the worst come to pass, to the point that tallis once completely dismissed the possibility of it being useful to attempt

as an aside, vampires do exist in dragon age as mentioned in one (1) codex, but they are a result of hunger demon possessions which... might not be what you have in mind

[adventure-showdown]

What is your favourite Doctor Who story?

The Rescue and The Ice Warriors tied. These are the 10 stories that were closest to making it through and so have been given a second chance

ROUND 2 MASTERPOST

synopses and propagnada under the cut

Marco Polo

Synopsis

Arriving in Central Asia in 1289, the Doctor and his companions join the caravan of the famous Venetian explorer Marco Polo as it makes its way from the snowy heights of the Pamir Plateau, across the treacherous Gobi Desert and through the heart of imperial Cathay.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Keys of Marinus

Synopsis

The TARDIS arrives on the planet Marinus on an island of glass surrounded by a sea of acid. The travellers are forced by the elderly Arbitan to retrieve four of the five operating keys to a machine called the Conscience of Marinus - a machine capable of influencing all minds on the planet - of which he is the keeper. These have been hidden in different locations around the planet to prevent them falling into the hands of the evil Yartek and his Voord warriors, who plan to seize the machine and use its originally benevolent mind-influencing power for their own sinister purposes.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Rescue

Synopsis

The Doctor, Ian and Barbara arrive on the planet Dido. They find a crashed spaceship, the only two survivors of which are terrorised by the monster Koquillion. But who is Koquillion?

Propaganda

god I love this story, its short and sweet, but the implications, the everything of vicki’s life before the doctor, the firey passion with which I hate bennet is boundless, as is my love for sandy. ITS SO GOOD! VOTE FOR IT! (@sandymybeloved )

The Space Museum

Synopsis

The TARDIS jumps a time track and the travellers arrive on the planet Xeros. There they discover their own future selves displayed as exhibits in a museum established as a monument to the galactic conquests of the warlike Morok invaders who now rule the planet. When time shifts back to normal, they realise that they must do everything they can to avert this potential future.

Vicki helps the native Xerons obtain arms and revolt against the Moroks. The revolution succeeds and the travellers go on their way, confident that the future has been changed.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Massacre

Synopsis

The TARDIS materialises in Paris in the year 1572 and the Doctor decides to visit the famous apothecary Charles Preslin. Steven, meanwhile, is befriended by a group of Huguenots from the household of the Protestant Admiral de Coligny. Having rescued a young serving girl, Anne Chaplet, from some pursuing guards, the Huguenots gain their first inkling of a heinous plan being hatched at the command of the Catholic Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The War Machines

Synopsis

The TARDIS arrives in London in 1966 and the First Doctor and Dodo visit the Post Office Tower. There they meet Professor Brett, whose revolutionary new computer WOTAN (Will Operating Thought ANalogue) can actually think for itself and is shortly to be linked up to other major computers around the world — a project overseen by civil servant Sir Charles Summer.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Moonbase

Synopsis

The TARDIS arrives in 2070 on the Moon, where a weather control station under the command of a man named Hobson is in the grip of a plague epidemic — in reality the result of an alien poison planted by the Cybermen. Jamie is knocked unconscious and lapses into a delirium, leaving the Second Doctor, Ben, and Polly to fight off a massive Cyberman attack.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Macra Terror

Synopsis

When the Second Doctor, Ben, Polly and Jamie visit a human colony that appears to be one big holiday camp, they think they have come across a truly happy place. Yet a shadowy presence soon makes them realise that the surface contentment is carefully controlled.

The colony's inhabitants have been brainwashed by giant, crab-like creatures — the Macra. Insidious propaganda, broadcast by the Controller, forces the humans to mine a gas that is essential for the Macra to survive, but fatal to them.

The colony must be saved — but how? The Doctor and his team are up against it, particularly when Ben falls under the influence of the Macra. Can he be rescued from their evil clutches? Can the gas pumping equipment be destroyed, getting rid of the Macra for good?

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Ice Warriors

Synopsis

The TARDIS arrives on Earth in a new ice age. The travellers make their way into a base where scientists, commanded by Leader Clent, are using an ioniser device to combat the advance of a glacier.

A giant humanoid creature, called an Ice Warrior by one of the scientists, has been found buried in the nearby glacier. When thawed, it revives and is revealed to be Varga, captain of a Martian spacecraft that landed on Earth centuries ago and is still in the glacier. Varga sets about freeing his comrades and formulating a plan to conquer the Earth — Mars itself is now dead.

 Propaganda no propaganda submitted

The Seeds of Death

Synopsis

The TARDIS lands in a space museum on Earth in the late 21st century, where the Second Doctor, Jamie and Zoe learn that contact has been lost between Earth and the Moon. In this era, instant travel — T-Mat — has revolutionised the Earth. Its people have lost interest in space travel. The Doctor and his companions travel to the Moon in an old-style rocket and reach the Moonbase, control centre for T-Mat, only to find a squad of Ice Warriors have commandeered the base and plan to use the T-Mat network to their advantage.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

[noforkingclue]

Hey! I’m not sure if you write for Ledger!Joker, but I was wondering if maybe you could do a “loyalty scene” type thing like Leto!Joker did with Harley? But instead of acid, it could be like branding his initials into the readers skin or something? And then maybe some fluff like comfort and reassurance that even though it hurts, he gives reader little kisses and then wraps up the wound and tells her it’s going to be ok! And that he’ll take care of her even with his psycho ways.

(Quote from the dark and dirty prompt list) “It hurts.” “I know.”

Just something along those lines! I hope that’s ok!! Ledger!Joker is my number one favorite DC super villain and I haven’t see many stories of him:)

Note: requests are currently closed

So I didn't make this fic really soft because this is the Joker. So this is still a very fucked up and unhealthy relationship.

Title: Marks

Warnings: the Joker, unhealthy relationship, branding, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Stockholm Syndrome

DC tag list: @mxacegrey

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

All you could think about was the pain.

The searing pain in your arm that coursed through your veins and turned your blood to fire. Your mouth was open in a scream but you couldn’t hear anything. All your focus was taken up by the metal searing itself into your flesh.

You were vaguely aware of a surprisingly cool hand brushing itself against your sweat covered forehead. You opened your eyes a crack but all you could see was a white blur. You rested your head against something warm as you felt yourself once again slip into the darkness.

However, a light tap on your cheek dragged you back into the waking world. You were once again forced into opening your eyes only this time your vision cleared. You were lying on a sofa, your arm dangling limply off the side of you. You let out a groan and when you tried to sit up you couldn’t. It was like your body had been filled with lead.

A strong hand placed itself on your shoulder and pushed you back down against it. You looked up into the face of the Joker. A face that terrorised so many people and yet, and yet to you had shown you nothing but a twisted kindness. You didn’t know why the Joker had chosen to save you all that time ago. In the beginning you thought it was just some sick joke he was playing but now you had hoped it had developed into something more.

Hands that had caused so more pain and misery gently raised your arm as he started to clean the brand. Mutters of how he wouldn’t allow this to get infected, not after he put so much work into you.

Work into you.

See, he did care! In his own way, the Joker was capable of caring for others.

You were too weak to do anything but let him clean and dress the branding. A permanent reminder of who you belonged to. Of who you promised to remain by his side even if it killed you or you ended up in Arkham. That was a risk you were willing to take. After all, the Joker had risked so much by making sure you survived, even through the times you wished you hadn’t. Surely that should inspire some loyalty?

A sudden grip on the branding had you crying out in pain and shock. The Joker leant down and grazed his lips against the side of your cheek. A mockingly intimate gesture. He only really did that when he wanted you to do something for him. You forced yourself to look up at him, unshed tears swimming in your eyes. As one slipped down your cheek the Joker raised a hand and brushed it away.

“Just reminding you who you belong to,” he said, “So you’ll never forget.”