#which he does! but only for a small fraction of the film :(

[nostalgia-tblr]

I watched Avengers: Age of Ultron (apart from I skipped some overly long action sequences) and I am not sure so can someone tell me whether or not Tony Stark was the baddy in that film? Because about halfway through I was sure he was but then it was maybe just an evil robot after all and I am confused because either this film was surprisingly subversive or it was about robots hitting each other.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEA

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse and more

Read after the cut...

-

For a near week your deceptive submission endures, the hours newly tightened by a schedule your host has contrived to divert you from your anti-appetite.

Days rise from the borderless veil of time like castles from a dawn mist. Made a school child again, you sit before documentaries and foreign art films, take up a journal whose pages bear but glances of your internal woe.

You find yourself wishing that you could write with any particular talent.

As a girl you’d yearned to be an author, never daring to materialise the urge with any substantial effort. Now you can’t imagine you’ll ever be allowed so loose-penned a profession, if any at all, kept covetously home and infantilised until you cannot think beyond a fraction of words.

Why, then, does Hannibal go to such arduous lengths to educate you? Surely it is only so that—before the eyes of peers—you'll be the cultured averment of triumph through therapy.

In the soirees of your doctor's hopes you cleave, willing, to his side, bewitching the throng with smirking witticisms before sucking his cock with that same clever mouth when the last guest steps, merry and ignorant, into the night.

Already Hannibal aspires to materialise that abstraction. You find proof enough of it in the wardrobe he’s amassed for you, which expands as the days progress.

Some of his choices are attractive to you, reluctant though you are to consider this— long velvet gowns in puce, umber, black, blouse and skirt co-ordinations plucked from the runway, some still in boxes emblazoned with designer names.

Others of the selection offend you, however, in their bald intent for closed-door wear. Girlish dresses in light chiffon, corseted silk in flowering lace. Short necks and hemlines, some of them scarcely reaching the knee. Then there are sheer nightclothes stored in perfumed sheets, no practicality but for the sort of sleeping in which no slumber is to be had.

You’re to dress like some obscure young celebrity, a whimsical echo of an era thirty years passed. Still, there is an attempt in this incredible closet to appease you as well as to change, adapting your preferences to a style acceptable to Hannibal’s eye.

It’s of particular note to you that the garments are each the same size, implying that you haven’t gained significant weight since your last awareness of its value. Conceivably the labels might have been replaced, but it’s so unlikely a trick that the theory is quickly thrown out.

Hannibal is inviting you to trust his process with a peace offering of equilibrium, the second-best prize to starvation.

You are not such a fool as to take it yet, though in action you may appear to have done so.

When in the presence of your keepers you remain in unwavering character, an amplified, changeling copy of the child you'd once been. In this way you're allowed your little misbehaviours—pulling a face at food you do not like, or the shrugging rejection of an idle caress.

So long as you sit at meals, and don’t speak in any manner that threatens the illusion of family you are unharmed, and laden with unending gifts. It would be a winning childhood, had you been born into it through a far less insidious violence than that which brought you here.

Still, the awareness that you must simper and lisp for another month before you venture an escape soon wears upon your tolerance.

One Saturday morning, alone in your room, the silence of that cushioned cell amplifies your every thought to a piqued tenor.

You miss when hunger bled like smoke through your skull, ridding its halls of all but its fey shape. With a scalding clarity you behold what you are now: a homunculus, the issue of diablerie, cut small by men’s black magic.

You cast yourself amidst a tide of cushions and mimic your own words upon them in a bitter snarl.

“‘Yes, Daddy’”, ‘no, Daddy’. ‘Little one’. Oh God! It’s all so stupid. Stupid!”

An involuntary laugh chatters through you like a coin thieved from a beggar’s cup, hateful and maniacal. Yet you perform this anger as you do the docile coquette, the bounds between that self and your own a gradient that softens by the day.

It’s become rather easier to be a monster’s daughter than a woman, this you cannot deny. The longer you are extracted from the world the less you’ll remember of how to live within it, if you ever knew, before.

The misery of this thought proves too much to bear.

You cry until your head is as hot about the brow as a horseshoe turned white from the forge. The sobs wrench the muscles of your stomach in two pained halves, and still you weep until you laugh again, thinking how deranged you’d sound to any eavesdropper in the rooms below.

Afterwards you sit very quietly, like an ailing bride in a Victorian novel; you are, after all, very ill, and it suits you well to behave so.

Having nothing better to do, you switch on the television and skim through the channels with neither aim nor interest.

Thin, beautiful women populate the screen, their waists like darner flies, their wrists as narrow as your thumb. Even the history programmes feature experts with trim figures in sensible interview dresses.

Perturbed, you flick on and on until you find something on eighteenth century Paris, hosted by a grandfatherly old professor marked safe from scrutiny in the absence of compare.

You watch until your lids fall, thinking of catacombs full of monk bones, the cloying scent of ancient death, each as forgotten under dust as you are by all those who once loved you, and revered by those who never have.

In the afternoon Hannibal wakes you gently by turning the television off at the set.

“Are you feeling alright, little one?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to sleep in so late.”

You hum in a noncommittal fashion, scarcely bothering to open your eyes.

Perhaps he’ll let you drowse the day away; you’d dream through all horrors like this, should your insomnia give you reprieve. A week, a month, a year sold to the sandman in exchange for peace— yet the dark would follow you there, also, antlered men in imagined night.

“You’ve been in bed long enough,” says Hannibal, peeling back your sheets with a brisk tug. “Up you get. Alana is visiting us this evening. She’ll have some questions for you.”

Weakly attempting to thieve back the blanket, you say, “I really don’t feel like talking to her. Can’t you do it? Please?”

“Jack won’t be satisfied with a second-hand report. Alana must see that you’re comfortable here. Not a particular incentive for you, but I can provide others.”

You open one eyelid, enticed by this readiness to bargain.

“So what do I get if I say yes?”

“A light dinner,” says Hannibal. “And—depending on your behaviour—perhaps another reward we’ll negotiate later tonight.”

At this you sit up; starving is a precious contraband in the doctor’s abode, worth more to you than every decadent thing under its rafters.

“Feeling better already, I see,” says Hannibal, through one of his charitable smiles. “Please stand by the mirror and allow me to dress you.”

Unbidden there comes the thought of his hand under your skirts, pressing inwards like a starfish sucking at a stone.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” you say, in flustered haste. "Really?”

“There’s a certain picture I’d like to create for Alana’s benefit,” he insists. “One of wellness and serenity. Your selections tend to imply something far more brooding and morose.”

With a testy little sigh you slip out of bed, rubbing your arms free of rising gooseflesh.

“You bought me those ‘brooding and morose’ outfits, remember, Dad? What does that say about you?”

“That I seek to please you,” says Hannibal, touching your mouth with playful thumb. “Today I hope that you’ll return the gesture.”

He holds aloft a pastel blue dress in transparent lace, a beaded line of detailing pointing downwards at the hips in a suggestive v.

“I don’t know,” you say, far more sharply than intended. “It’s short. And I don’t like the colour.”

“The shade will suit you,” Hannibal replies. “And you’ll wear a shift underneath for modesty, if that’s your concern.”

You don’t bother with reproof; he’s guiding you out of your nap-rumpled clothes and into the dress before you can think of an excuse he’ll entertain.

Unresisting, you only glance aside, breathing shallowly so as not to brush your chest against him as he adjusts your collar.

That Hannibal hasn’t made love to you since you shared a bed makes you think that he’s waiting for something, a moment fermented to sweeten the sex. He is, you warrant, as driven by pleasure as any man, being only of a tighter and more methodical restraint.

You can’t decide whether you’re glad of the wait or if you’d prefer he throw you down on your bed and ravish you now to have done with it.

Doubtless Hannibal considers an identical dilemma, turning you before him like a ballerina in a mirrored jewellery box.

“Even the greats couldn’t hope to replicate this image of you,” he says, as he inspects his work. “To attempt it would have them rending the canvas to pieces rather take credit for their failure.”

The compliment is long forgotten when, later, Alana breaches the house, her pretty face above her mulberry blouse like a lily in a violet bouquet.

Her casual manner in kissing Hannibal’s cheek at the door suggests a social visit, as does the gift of white wine under one thin arm. Still, she remembers her duty, taking you aside with a subtle professionalism within two minutes of having greeted her host.

Her kindness is a shingle in a cyclone, dashed away by the futility of its own existence.

“Dr Lecter told me you’re doing a lot better than when I last saw you,” says Alana, placing one of her graceful hands atop your own without comment as to its frigidity. “Are you feeling more positive now, or would you disagree with that?”

Slipping your fingers out from under hers, you say, “Well, I have a TV now. I’m allowed to do a lot more things I’m actually interested in. That helps. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you talked Dr Lecter into it.”

Smiling, Alana says, “I can’t take credit for that. He was already making preparations when I brought it up. He's racked up quite the shopping bill.”

The notion of Hannibal navigating the catalogues of online stores is ridiculous, somehow anachronistic, but then again you’ve witnessed him tapping at a sleek iPad, a jarring sight, on every occasion.

“How about mealtimes?” asks Alana. “I understand you’re working towards a plan that’s easier for you.”

“It’s still hard,” you mumble. “Tough. You know.”

Your eyes are on Alana’s patent court shoes, picturing a blandly organised rack of identical heels in alternate shades. Perhaps ankle boots for the colder days. Simple. Nothing flash.

Alana pauses, quickly assessing your disinterest in the exchange.

“Hannibal says he’d like you to agree to more therapy sessions,” she says. “He feels you’re opening up. I think we both know that’s probably wishful thinking on his side, but don’t shoot him down just yet.”

“I won’t,” you say. “Couldn’t anyway, right?”

Alana rearranges her discomfort into another closed-lipped smile. You can’t envision that lipstick ever moving, striped across her face as yours has been by both of the friends that she holds dear.

“So how are things between you and Will now?” enquires Alana, quite on cue. “Rumour has it you’re getting along like a house on fire.”

Truthfully Will has rather cooled since the night of the seizure, his envy retreating to the black of some inner primordial cave. He seems both caustically amused by your recent performance and cynical of its longevity, yet neither judgement is as severe as before.

The thought of your kindness sits with him, has been taken up with the cagy hunger of an orphan to a heel of bread. Piece by piece you’ve given him more of it in flirting words, but these he’s yet to take, turning each away with a smirk.

“Don’t try so hard,” he’d said, only a day ago, but when you’d thrown an idle foot across his lap as you read a book beside him he hadn’t removed it, only pretended to ignore the intrusion.

“Me and Will are okay,” you say to Alana. “That’s all.”

You must give away something of your successes in your expression, for Alana’s mouth twitches into a coy grin.

“Just okay?”

At that moment Hannibal knocks on the open door, a merciful trespass, setting you free of her.

*

As promised, you’re offered a modest salad while Hannibal and Alana make their way through numberless courses over the gifted wine.

At first you’re too absorbed in the mortification of eating in front of the other woman to pay attention to their mounting chemistry, dragging the same tattered leaf through streams of congealing oil.

It’s only as you’re making a fortress of cutlery across a lump of uneaten meat that you take full stock of the flirting at work before you.

Though attempts are made by both parties to fold you into the conversation they are mild at best, almost neglectful.

Alana glances up into Hannibal’s eyes in frequent, laughing enjoyment, touching his shoulder or forearm lightly; he, for his part, looks upon her lips and the curves of her form and speaks fondly to her, his voice hushed with a want of sex.

You’ve heard it often enough to know it, and should be glad to have his attentions otherwise distracted.

Yet your hands creep under the table, squeezing your thighs and stomach as though to claw out the matter you've ingested through your meat.

"I'm done," you blurt out, cutting across Hannibal's opinion of a recent classical performance he’s attended. "Can I go upstairs?"

It's with difficulty that you bite off the habitual 'Dad' that has replaced 'doctor' in your vocabulary.

Hannibal offers you a near invisible look of disgruntlement at the interruption, quickly mollified by Alana's fingers at his elbow.

"I'm sure we're boring you," she says. "Go on up and relax. You don't have to stick around just to be polite."

You glance at Hannibal, seeking his approval before you stand. His eyes, within so static a face, are black glass in their suspicion.

"I'll come up to speak to you later on," he says, at last. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask for it."

Rather than go immediately to your den above you linger to watch as the couple drink in the parlour, so close as to almost be in one another’s arms.

You see from Hannibal's relaxed posture that he is not ablaze with a fascinated love for Alana as he is for Will; he holds her merely with the affection of an old friend, and, too, with an uncomplicated desire.

He would never rape Alana Bloom; such violence, to Hannibal, is an entry into a cabal of which she has no part. Her value to him is as representation of his treasured comforts, and all that which Hannibal would not willingly change.

Alana is as used for her parts as you are, in her way, and oblivious to it, like some grinning scarecrow blind to the birds that snicker and creep at its back.

Yet as you watch her lean, murmuring, into Hannibal’s neck you feel a tooth of ice grind through your heart and turn away, feeling numbly for the bannisters behind you.

Almost on hands and knees you climb the steps to your bed, brought low by that astonishing cold.

Pausing at the bathroom you prostrate yourself at the toilet’s mercy, still unable to empty yourself of the pain and bile you'd evict to be naked of your jealousy.

In surrender you rest your head on the cool floor and remain there even after the compulsion to vomit subsides.

If you cannot flog yourself for your sins as the saints did then this will do, sprawled before the porcelain God of another degredation.

Presently the bathroom door creaks open, striking an unwanted rod of light across your face.

“Go away,” you mutter, wiping your face with an angry scrub of your knuckles. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Hannibal looks at you with a minister’s pious severity.

"I see. So I was correct. You object to Alana and I having a sexual relationship. Any other father would sternly inform you that it’s none of your business, and as your therapist it’s even less so.”

Raising your head, you snap at him as fiercely as you dare.

“What about me?”

“My friendship with Alana is very different to what you and I share,” says Hannibal, and you snort, wiping a stream of clear mucus across your lips.

“I’ll bet.”

Hannibal turns his head at a quizzical angle, and you perceive the very second of his understanding like the unveiling of some trick.

“You must explain yourself, darling,” he says. “What is it about this that has upset you?”

The logical answer should be that you wish to save Alana from him, that you cannot watch her beaming, black-haired head roll out from under the axe.

Instead, you blurt out, “Don’t you get it, Dad? How it makes me feel? You’re supposed to understand me, and I’m pretty sure you do. You knew that it would hurt me. You did this on purpose the way you wave me around in front of Will.”

Using the sink to right yourself you get to your feet, standing on pathetic, defiant tiptoe so that you might gaze into the devil’s face directly.

“If you have to do this, then please, just me. Just me. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick to think about you and her together. Knowing you’ll touch me afterwards. Don’t do this to me. Please."

“I see,” says Hannibal.

He speaks with such calm that you deflate from your anger at once.

“Very well,” he says. “I can make an excuse for Alana to leave. Would that please you, little one?”

This time you don’t answer, only stare at him with huge and terrible eyes until he retreats to the stairway.

“Oh, god,” you say, under your breath. “Amy, you’d really hate me right now, wouldn’t you?”

You hear Hannibal and Alana talking in low undertones, the female voice a coo of thoughtful sympathy. In time Alana collects herself to leave, but only when her car propels itself quietly from the driveway does Hannibal come to you again.

By now you’re sitting at your dresser, making a humiliated attempt to recollect your dignity with cosmetics. You know that Hannibal will not like what you’d made of your face—the eyes painted black, your lips the colour of your heart, a sinking, well-bound stone.

Yet all he says as he stands behind you is, “Look at me, little one.”

Your hand shakes, blotting your eyelid with an errant apostrophe of mascara.

“Don’t want to.”

“I know. I’d like you to, even so.”

The gentleness of Hannibal’s voice is an agony to you. You’ve never hated nor been more drawn to him than you are now, this impossible spirit in the vessel of a man.

Stiffly you turn on your chair, meeting his gaze to find it truly repentant.

“I won’t make love to Alana again,” says Hannibal, and you know as you do the reality of elements that he does not lie. “I see that this triggers your fear of abandonment too greatly. But it might not be possible for me to avoid all romantic advances.

“There are rumours abound as to our arrangement already, and it will seem suspicious if I don’t take a lover. But I’ll do my best to be faithful to our family.”

He pauses, watching you battle to suppress your disgust for him, for yourself, for all things in the bracken of his design.

“For now, I’d like you to relax,” says Hannibal. “This level of distress will make you ill. I’m concerned that it already has.”

Taking you by a hand as clammy as mermaid skin he leads you down to the living room to serve you from a pot of fragrant tea.

Though its calorific value is likely near to air you catastrophize with immediacy, unable to touch the cup, let alone drink.

“I’m not doing it on purpose this time,” you babble. “I’m not, Dad, please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Hannibal raises a hand to caress you— that, and only that, and yet you shrink against the couch in expectancy of a blow.

An appalled look tightens Hannibal’s expression, a hypocrisy of which he seems endlessly capable.

“There, now,” he says. “I can tell the difference between unruliness and genuine struggle. You and I both know that tea is only leaves and water— why do you believe against logic that it will affect your weight?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a helpless shake of the head. “I feel like if I drink it I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll eat and eat until I’m... big, and then I won’t be able to go back to the way I was. Everyone will see me differently. Treat me like they used to. People can be cruel.”

“And none crueller than you are to yourself,” says Hannibal, and he eases the cup between your hands so that you must take it or scald yourself raw. “There is nothing shameful in having a body of any kind, and any who judge you for that would wear their foolishness like a flag for all to see. Nevertheless, I’ve balanced your weight here, and will continue to do so if that is what’s needed for you to believe in my intentions.”

He aids you to drink, lifting the cup to your mouth over and over until the last drop. From the bitter taste you know it altered by some drug.

For once you do not care.

The night has left you so ashamed of your bearing that you’re half joyful to be done with it, sinking back as euphoria transforms all things that touch you into nirvana.

Your fingers drape across your body in aimless exploration, stopping only as Will enters the room with Hannibal at his side.

The younger man’s eyebrows jump as you giggle and hide your hands behind your back.

“You’re smiling,” says Will. “And I’m not sure how I feel about the circumstances.”

“Our girl is relieved to see you, Will,” says Hannibal. “A familiar face is a balm for even the most taxing day.”

Will looks from you to Hannibal ponderously.

“Alana was here earlier,” he states.

“She was, much to our little one’s chagrin.”

“Do you have to talk about her?” you interrupt, in loose-tongued irritation.

Hannibal chuckles.

“We do not. There are other topics I’d find far more engaging.”

You watch from under heavy lids as the men discuss the Lover’s case in low, library murmurs.

“Tanya Marrow was found washed up by the Patapsco River this morning,” says Will, with a grim regret. “Her wounds were fresh, meaning the Lover only mutilated Tanya and placed her into the doll when he was ready to throw her away. He was content with how closely she resembled the woman he’s desperate to make, for a while.

“But she wasn’t close enough. In the end he had to remind her that she was just a toy to him, and punish her for her lacking.”

The contrast of these dreary horrors with the rainbow light of feeling through your needy cunt should sicken you, but your mind is in disorder, barely one thought akin to the next.

“We’ve made a breakthrough in regards to the dolls,” Will continues. “The well-made ones are expensive; for one person to have so many implies that the Lover is either a wealthy collector, or that he’s able to access them at a considerable discount. Possibly for free.”

“I’m assuming the factory producing these dolls has been identified,” says Hannibal.

Will swallows a mouthful of whiskey.

“There are only four vendors known to produce the style of doll the Lover uses. Jack’s got someone looking into their customers, narrowing down the suspects to buyers in Virginia. Considering how specialised these clients are that shouldn't take long.”

The older man listens with a solemn intensity, scarcely drinking from his own glass.

“I see the Lover almost exactly now,” says Will. “He knows he has to take his bride eventually; he’s circling her, choosing women that are closer and closer to her physical proximity. The next target will be someone she knows.

“It’s a dangerous move, but by now the Lover wants someone that’s stood so close to this woman that he can taste her. Imagine her beneath him when he defiles the inferior victim.”

Fear swims, crocodilian, within you, disturbing your narcotic stupor.

Seeming to sense it, Hannibal says, “Let’s continue this line of conversation later on. I wouldn’t want to give our surrogate daughter bad dreams.”

Will glances at you, watching you fumble idly with the hem of your dress.

“You don’t plan to cast her as our daughter in tonight’s play, do you?” he asks, plainly.

“That would unnecessarily chasten the evening,” says Hannibal. “She’s the woman for whom we are legally responsible, and what we deem fit for her continued health is ours to determine.”

You recline across the couch like an empress, watching the firelight glance shadows across your skin like a garment in a dream. Hannibal slips a hand from your shoulder to your breast, teasing the tiffany lace across your nipple, and the warmth and delicacy of the touch breathes through you a shiver of ermine delight.

Only vaguely do you acknowledge your revulsion, a whisper at a keyhole on the other side of the house.

“What did you give her for her to let you touch her like that?” asks Will, curiously.

His hands play upon the sides of his whiskey glass, and the thought of them upon your thighs or between them drives your lower lip between your teeth with unbeckoned desire.

“I’ve offered her release from her spirited rebellion,” says Hannibal. “Even having promised us fealty, this act she wouldn’t easily endure. I wish for her to experience intimacy unhindered by her mental bounds.”

His fingers glance beneath the neckline of your dress and cross your bare skin as a swan's wing meets the sky, rushing a moan from you more akin to a sob in its juddering resonance.

“Besides,” Hannibal continues, “she’s had a trying afternoon. Her body welcomes this.”

Will’s face, washed honey bronze by firelight, is so neutral that even if you were not high you’d fail to extract the mechanisms of thought behind it.

“We’ve both succeeded in bringing her to climax,” says Hannibal, as his other hand folds your skirt against your pelvis. “But never her consent. Tonight, perhaps we will.”

“In this state she has no real autonomy,” Will argues. “We’re witnessing an illusion.”

Hannibal pauses, his face like that of an antiques dealer slyly unveiling some stolen wares.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Little one: you’ve described me as handsome. Do think that Will is good-looking?”

Your concentration wavers as two digits inscribe an ouroboros in your arousal. The wrongness of it all only enhances the sensation, the thought of being a lovely toy for older men to play with.

Your name on Dr Lecter’s lips recalls his question.

“Yes,” you say. “I— I do.”

You don’t know why you’re honest. Even a child, embarrassed, could lie.

Will smiles, and for a moment there is something almost sweet in his expression.

Then the dark of him slithers behind it again with predatory ease, and he leans forward, knees apart, possessed of a revelation of self-assurance.

This is the self he becomes when challenging Dr Lecter, the arrogant observer of all living things.

“I already knew that,” says Will. “I don’t mind hearing it clarified, though.”

You can’t imagine him ever admitting that you’re beautiful in return. Hannibal would, has done so already in such a succulence of language that your mouth could water with it, but not Will, not in so many words.

All that he will allow thus far is that you are not ugly. Blearily you vow to unwind from him his obsession.

“Puppy love,” says Hannibal, looking into your face with a gentle irony. “You’d like him to touch you, wouldn’t you, little one?”

This you don’t answer, and rather than press you again Hannibal makes you come with three fingers inside you, patient as you cry out and roll your head aside in conflict and delirium.

You cannot decide if he means to reward you for your participation with Will or to humiliate you for that same eagerness. It is bewildering and erotic, this envy they have for one another; to quell it you must kneel to the hierarchy, submissive always to your covetous masters.

“Join us, Will,” says Hannibal, at last.

Briefly you think that he won’t, a scoffing lord, above it all.

Then he crosses the room, sets down his whiskey and kisses you, first your mouth, then your neck, leaving the taste of smoke and almonds wherever his lips meet.

Whimpering, you kick your feet on the couch as each petal of ecstasy comes loose from a branch within you.

Sometimes Will’s teeth push against your flesh, not quite biting; Hannibal, on the other side of your neck, gently does, as though inheriting the expected assault from his would-be lover.

His fingers form a cylinder of delight in you, the pad of his thumb undoing another orgasm in a trio of strokes.

“How gifted we are to receive such delights,” says Hannibal, and as you groan he docks his arousal in your own, filling you so entirely with his cock that you think and feel only the fucking and nothing more, a witless hole.

Will brings your hand to his erection, and there is no uncertainty in that motion, nor in his lips about your breast. His rough tongue, the saliva like a paste jewel on your nipple—

Writhing, panting, you stir through pleasure upon pleasure like the layers of the earth, soft, dark, deep.

Your palm tightens on Will’s cock like a night sea about the lighthouse it yearns to bring down, working him with a knowing purpose. As Hannibal continues his pelvic rolls against you Will draws back, avoiding the early release that your cunning fist would bring.

Not once do the men make contact in a sexual manner with each other, and you don’t understand it, this avoidance of the ultimate lust. Yet perhaps it is that they fuck through you, for when Hannibal achieves his orgasm and moves away Will pushes into you without caution of the other man’s seed still warm in that same place.

He looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he does it, watching his response as he weaves pleasure from a loom of servile flesh.

But then you make some shapeless sound of need, one hand extended, not quite touching him, and Will's eyes return to you with such intensity that you forget that brief, lost woe.

He mimics Hannibal’s command of your body, hands moving, unrushed, from breast to hip as he opens you further to him. His violence is a mage’s dance, something once done around fire, and charged now through the vessel of a young and studious man.

No wonder, then, that you have neither strength nor will to repel him. You roil, loose-limbed as the dead, only your noise and perspiring response to sensation to evidence your ongoing life.

Hannibal’s arms go loosely around you, holding your head in his lap as Will makes love to you with a brooding fervour. Every touch is like the discovery of a new and indescribable existence, having traversed to some frontier of feeling only sects of pleasure have previously founded.

You know yourself wanted by both men, now, feel it through their mutterings of ecstasy, the unending pressure of mouths and hands upon your skin. They crave your wanting of them in return, lap up your slightest sign of it, tainted as it is by Hannibal’s poison.

Will pours in you his ending, his breath a kiss against your eardrum.

You come again with both men gazing upon you, their faces as close and beautiful together as stringed pearls.

Dimly you fear that they will succeed in their work with you, no matter how fiercely you defy their twofold will.

“Hey,” says the younger man, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Snap out of it. You’re bleeding. Did we hurt you?”

Your first thought is, “yes, of course you did.”

The next, having looked down at the red dart through the milk of semen on your thigh, is the same nip of terror you know from an unexpectedly high number on the scale.

The final cognition—and one almost certainly true—is that this carnival of sex has brought that crimson forth like the incitation of bacchanalian madness.

The shock of it wrings you near dry of the doctor’s drug, a bald winter sobriety.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It’s my period. I haven’t had one in years.”

[power-chords]

In fact the backstory of Tom in the film is that in the offshore world of narco trafficking cartels, they have the budgets to buy the best and they do. Particularly since the end of the Cold War, when that market has become available, people that are ex-KGB, ex-Stasi, as well as Brits and Americans from special forces; Israelis.

Since we’re only in these ten hours, we’re only seeing a fraction of a whole life. And since we’re only ten hours, the challenge is can I design those fractions that they become glimpses… that you kind of sense the person. To do that, one has to invent the history of Vincent, the history of Max, and then to choose those details to put in the ten hours of tonight. [...] The film does not do what a life experience of these ten hours would not do, which is to have exposition or to travel backwards in time via flashbacks or any of those other devices. But instead just to keep it as immediate, into this presence, and yet to have a greater degree of knowingness into their lives.

Vincent is somebody who’s decisive… who’s embraced force as a way of controlling his environment, as a way of — and I don’t think Vincent is actually actively aware of this — but it’s a way of controlling an environment so that bad things don’t happen to him. He, consequently, can be someone who’s improvisational, he’s highly trained, he takes action, he has opinions. Max is exactly the opposite.

The other aspect about Vincent’s appearance is again, and building the character, how to make these two characters be oppositional, what Vincent’s chosen to wear, it tells us things — I believe that audiences are much brighter than they are aware of, there’s a lot of information they take in on a feeling level. There’s a cut to his suit that says perhaps it was custom tailored, but not in Milan or London or New York, in my mind it was Kowloon. The thing about his hair, scars on his hand, scars on his face.

In effect he’s a rough trade in a good suit. Prematurely gray, kind of a steely aspect to him. Those are design issues that are there to tell us, tell the audience, tell YOU things about who he is on a feeling level, not anything that is didactic or spoken to you. It was tricky to arrive at some of these looks and some of these issues because — and this is also the challenge of the film that made it very exciting to me, to do it and want to do it — which is that when you compress the time frame, of a narrative and it’s under two hours, and you’re just in one locale, you’re one night, it also means there’s going to be one suit and one wardrobe change and everything’s going to become inordinately important. Driving a race car, a very small input in steering has a radical effect. So the slightest change, because it’s cumulative, becomes a big deal.

But the deep work that goes into this kind of thing is in fact how did Vincent become Vincent. And Tom and I did a lot of work in trying to understand where this guy came from. If he was in a foster home for part of his time, if he had an institutionalized childhood. And if he was back in the public school system by age 11, that would have been sometime in the 1970s. He would have been dressed very awkwardly. He probably would have been ostracized, because he would have looked odd and you know… the brutality of preteens and early adolescents.

We postulated an alcoholic, abusive father who was culturally very progressive. He was probably part of Ed Solowski’s steelworkers local in Gary. He was a Vietnam veteran. He had friends who were African American, the South Side of Chicago, the Checkerboard Lounge is 30 minutes away in a cab, Calumet Skyway. So the father in his sixties and early seventies was probably an aficionado of jazz, there was a great jazz scene on the South Side of Chicago, modern jazz quartet… it’s almost as if the father blamed the son I.E. Vincent for what happened to the mother, and the father drank and Gary was being reduced to — I mean it looked like Dresden at the end of the war. The father never tutored the boy in jazz. But the boy extolled the virtue of knowing about jazz because he heard his father talk about jazz, not to him, but to other people. And that’s why he knew about jazz, and that’s why he learned about jazz.

Now his father, Vincent’s father, never tutored Vincent about jazz because he had rejected his son. And ignored him. It was something that got constructed as backstory and the work I did with Tom during pre-production and understanding every aspect of the character of who Vincent was, much more than it appears in the text of the film so that the fractions of Vincent-ness that we have IN the text of the film, within these ten hours, could resonate with the totality of a life the same as they would with anybody you met. We all bring a whole history with us into the moment of the present.

[the--morning--room]

RESURGAM (Arthur Harrow x F!Reader) Chapter 14: I care for myself

"'Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they are for such moments at this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be.'" -Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

AO3

Being in the ushabti was like being trapped in a very small space, like a box or a coffin, only the walls themselves were made of my body. Think about that, reader. Just try to imagine. Imagine being unable to move, to shift or even wiggle. Complete entrapment.

However, you aren't here for my pitiful story. You're here for the Thorn, who, after arriving back to the digsite from Mogart's mansion, was promptly left on her own in Arthur's tent, with only a jackal and a few bodyguards for company. And the staff, of course.

The cold night air crept under her skin one layer at a time, and settled comfortably into her bones. Her hands, stiff from the chill, were paralyzed in her lap. From opposite her, the staff beckoned to her as it had done that afternoon.

She took it into her freezing hands, and the goddess wasted no time situating herself in the Thorn's mind like a melodramatic film heroine draping herself over a chaise longue.

Poor Khonshu, she purred gleefully. He never learns.

What'll happen to Marc? the Thorn asked.

Nothing of great consequence. He will no longer have access to the suit and its useful healing properties. The physical strength, speed and agility lent to him by Khonshu will have vanished as well...in general, he will be physically weaker.

That sounds like a great consequence to me.

It would be quite interesting if he died, the goddess mused coldly. His scales are neither balanced or unbalanced. Poor little Taweret—I won't envy her having to handle that situation.

Do you know something?

Are you asking if gods can see the future? She laughed wildly. How sweet—I'm beginning to understand why my servant enjoys your company.

Well, can you see the future?

No. Yes. And also, no—mostly no. Speaking of which, has my servant divulged his reason for keeping you so well preserved?

He lo—

He loves me! He loves me! Ammit mocked. If I cared to hear such melodrama, I would give my servant the dream in which he strangles you to death. I never tire of hearing him beg for mercy.

He would never hurt me.

Has a careless shepherd never inadvertently slaughtered his prized lamb? Oh, and he is growing careless, have no doubt of that. He is becoming desperate.

If you're just a fraction of Ammit, then what's the real Ammit—I mean, the full Ammit—like? If you torture him with bad dreams, what will she torture him with?

He will not be hers to torture. At least, he doesn't think so.

What does that mean?

You're intelligent enough. Mull it over, and it'll come to you. I'm frankly surprised you haven't worked it out already.

Can't you just tell me?

That would ruin the fun.

Outside, she could hear the scratchy sound of tires on sand.

Tell me! Now!

And what good would it do either of you? Even a god cannot stop the inevitable folly of humankind.

A car door slammed.

Ammit! Tell me what he's planning, or I'll—

The canvas door rippled. She flew into a panic, hurled the staff away from her, and watched it land on the ground at Arthur's feet just as he entered the tent.

There was an interminable silence.

"What did she tell you?" he said.

"Nothing."

He looked down at her with something that may have been a glower, had his face not been sunken with fatigue. "I will not tolerate lies," he said, and she thought it was the coldest his voice had ever been.

"Neither will I," the Thorn retorted. "What have you been hiding from me?"

He stiffened. "You're tired, sweetheart. Let me tuck you into bed." He moved to pull her into his arms.

"Arthur, stop."

"Come now, my lamb. Let me—"

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" She tried to shove him away, and he caught her wrists in an iron grasp.

He said her name. His face was dark with shadows. "Do. Not. Test me. You know what I'm capable of."

"You can't kill me. My scales are still balanced."

"Your scales balance because I have kept them balanced. I'm the one who shields you from the sin of doubt, who has lifted you out of the mire of your own dark past, and who will lead you into the paradise of a world cleansed of evil. I have gifted you with the stability and security you've always craved—and I can take it all away if I see fit."

"Oh my god." She had a sudden, awful urge to laugh in his face. "Do you even hear yourself? 'The sin of doubt,' 'lifting me out of the mire and the darkness,' you've got to be kidding me."

"So, it's true. You doubt our goddess."

"I've doubted her since the day I met you!"

It felt good to admit it.

"Have you?" he said. His hands, locked around the Thorn's wrists, were shaking, whether with rage, anxiety, sheer exertion or anything else, I couldn't say.

"Have you?" he repeated, louder, his top lip betraying an almost-imperceptible tremble.

She swallowed, suddenly aware of her fragility. Not since standing on a chair in front of her fifth-grade class had she felt so vulnerable, so weak and exposed. And this time, there was no Marc to encourage her with a smile and a thumbs-up.

But no—there was still a Marc, wasn't there? A broken, beaten-down Marc, a Marc with sad eyes and a family-shaped hole in his heart. A Marc who had tried to warn her away from Arthur, who looked out for her at the risk of his own life, despite having every reason to feed her to her own guard-jackal and never look back.

"Come on, I know how smart you are," he had said, as if her intelligence were a well-known, indisputable fact. And she was smart. How could she have forgotten that? She was an anthropologist, and a good woman, and she didn't need a PhD or a confirmation from a goddess to prove it.

"It's perverse, Arthur," she said. "Ammit, the scales, you and your creepy cult, the whole deal...it's evil," she told him, liberated by her own honesty. "It's sick."

His nails dug into her wrists. She could count the red veins in his bloodshot eyes.

"I don't want to be her avatar," she continued. "That's what you were planning, weren't you? This whole time, I thought you loved me, and you were just preparing me to be her slave. Because that's all I'm good for in your eyes, right? Doing what I'm told. Following someone else's lead. Never asking hard questions. That's why you were attracted to me in the first place."

In a flurry of pained noises and thumping fabric, he threw her onto her back and planted his knee in her stomach. He had a hand on her neck, the other gripping her wrist.

"You vile little thing," he seethed. "How dare you try and divine my thoughts? You know nothing of the contents of my heart. You cannot understand the torturous dilemma you've put me in by appearing in my life like a firestorm of hope, any more than I can understand why you suddenly talk to blasphemously of the goddess who brought us together. You wicked, wicked creature."

"I'm not wicked," she said calmly, "or vile, or evil, or anything like that. I'm not good, either. I'm just a normal person. So are you. So is everyone. The scales are bullshit, Arthur. There. I said it, and I'm not taking it back. If you don't love me anymore, just tell me. Tell me quickly, and get it over with."

A strangled cry came from his mouth. He released her, sat up on the cot, and lowered his face into his hands. Another silence held them like a vice.

Finally, he turned to face her. "You think if you were a sinner, I would no longer love you?"

The Thorn had propped herself up on her elbows. "I...well, I don't..."

"If you do, then you dreadfully underestimate my love for you. You are my one happiness, my one hope. Every atom of you is precious to me, and all this would remain true no matter which way your scales tipped. If you renounced Ammit, I would love you as much as I did when you praised her. If you put a knife in my heart, I would use my last bit of energy to put my arms around you and kiss you as I died. And if those roles were reversed, and our goddess tasked me with ending your life, I would hold you no less tenderly, and cry for you no less wretchedly."

"So she told you. You know about my scales, and how they're only barely balanced."

He looked pointedly away from her.

"Did you think," she said, "if you didn't acknowledge it, it would stop being true? Did you think if you forced me to be her avatar, that alone would absolve me?" She let out a trembling breath disguised as a laugh. "You're completely in denial. It's pathetic."

He reached down and picked up his cane, turning it over in his hands, inspecting it guiltily. "I begged her to tell me your sin, so I could prevent it and save you. She wouldn't. So I was left to protect you from an unknown fate. Every precious moment I spent with you was poisoned with the fear that it would be our last. I began judging you as you slept, and each time the scales took longer to make their verdict. All those nights, all those times I thought I would have to..." His voice broke, he took a shuddering breath and began again, "...It's painless. So quick you would never know. While you slept, I could just..."

"Stop."

"I dream of it. I see it so clearly."

"She gives you those dreams. She does it to manipulate you, to terrorize you. She thinks it's fun, Arthur. She told me. Will you wake up already? I don't understand why you can't see her for what she is. Someone like that isn't going to heal the world. She'll only make it sicker."

"You think preventing future suffering is a sickness?"

"I think denying human beings their free will is a sickness."

He chuckled mirthlessly. His eyes shone with panic. "Listen to yourself, love."

"I am, Arthur. For once, I actually am listening to myself. I'm learning from my mistakes—something Ammit will never allow humans the chance to do—and I'm finally listening to my own brain. Did you even know I had one of those? A free, independent brain, with its own conscience and everything? Well, I do, and it's been saying some interesting things ever since I met you."

"Of course you have a brain, my sweet," he said patiently. "What is it saying?"

"You're not the only one of us who has awful dreams. Since being with you, I've had the same nightmare over and over again. I come home to our community, and it's been destroyed. Bodies everywhere, faces all kinds of disfigured. Sometimes there's been a fire, and I can't breathe from the smoke. Sometimes I can't move without stepping in blood. But always, always it ends the same way: I think of you, and how much I love you, and how none of this destruction would have ever happened if not for you."

He came over and crouched in front of the cot, his face inches from hers. "Darling, those dreams are nothing but your own subconscious fears. Look around you; you see how our community thrives. And as for me, you have only to reach out and touch me—here, touch me now—" He took her hand and brought it to his clammy cheek. "There. I'm real, aren't I? And I'm here, with you. Is that not enough to ease your mind?"

"Yeah, I know what dreams are, thanks." She pulled her hand away. "But the thing is, I'm never afraid in the dream. I'm disappointed in myself for not noticing the warning signs when I should have, months ago. These dreams are clearly warnings, and I've been stupid enough to think I could ignore them. Well, I'm not going to ignore them anymore."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, I think it's only a matter of time before that dream becomes reality for us. And I've decided I'm not going to be there to see it."

"You're leaving me?"

She paused, then nodded.

"No. No."

"Yes."

"No. Lamb, you're not thinking."

"I told you not to call me that."

"You're tired. You're overwhelmed. It's been a long day."

"Please stop talking to me like I'm a child."

"You can go back to London. Wait there while I release our goddess. We'll get married after that."

"We're not getting married." She sat up, slid the purple jewel off her finger and held it out to him.

He shook his head emphatically. "No. No."

"You want to be a martyr for your goddess, don't you? Well, you can do that by letting me go." She kissed the tip of his head, his hair smelling like dusty sand, and started toward the door of the tent.

His hand shot toward her and gripped her arm like a handcuff. The ring fell from her grasp and lay pitifully in the sand.

"No. I won't do it," he rasped. "I won't let you go. Not even for her."

The eyes of the staff lit up, and the Thorn thought she heard a hissing bellow from deep in its metal core.

He stood. His hand slid down her arm, finding her wrist and turning it. The scales on his arm were moving.

In her past judgments, you'll remember that Harrow opened the photo album of the Thorn's life, flipping hungrily through its pages like an incredibly nosy houseguest. This time, it was the Thorn who handed him the album and guided him through it. Look at this memory, right here. See how I disrespected my own mother. Isn't that awful? Here, watch me skip class in college. Watch me with this boy, this one right here. See what I let him do to me? That was sinful, wasn't it? Sooo sinful?

The scales faltered.

Not quite sinful enough, huh? Well, what about this: Did you know I caused Randall Spector's death? Marc wouldn't have even known about that cave if not for me. So how about that, Arthur? Ammit? I'm basically a murderer. What do you say to that?

The scales quavered. They tipped.

I'm done, Ammit. Praise officially revoked.

The scales shuddered, stopped, and turned blood red.

The eyes of the cane shone greedily. Outside, the night was still. Arthur's hands were stark white against the Thorn's skin. His breathing was ragged and hollow.

"Well?" said the Thorn. "Are you going to get it over with?" Her voice came from somewhere outside of herself, independent of her mind.

Harrow's breaths came in an irregular rhythm, a catch in some of them. When the Thorn finally dared to look up at his face, she saw little pools in his eyes and a clammy sheen on his skin. A bright flash of shame hit her. I did this. His suffering is because of me.

"Kill me," she pleaded, almost in a whisper.

His hands tightened around her wrists.

"What will Ammit say if you let me live?"

He looked her in the eyes, opened his mouth, and was interrupted by a roar of celebration from outside.

"They're in," he said, looking toward the sound and relaxing his grip ever so slightly.

A chance, a narrow one, had been handed to her. She slipped one hand out of his weakened grip and placed it behind his head, clutching his hair. Rising onto her toes, she leaned forward and kissed him.

"Be a good man," she said, before breaking away completely. She slipped roughly through the door flaps and ran, followed by the jackal that had been guarding the tent. There was a general flourishing of panicked noise behind her. Voices shouting her name, Arthur's voice among them. Many pairs of running feet in the sand, silenced by the hellish tearing of jackal teeth on human skin. By the time the jackal caught up to her, fresh blood staining its satisfied jaw, the camp had shrunk into the distance and was covered by rocky hills. Everything was blue in the late desert night. Everything was still, and it was so cold.

[ruthiewrites91]

✨Pinned Post✨

📚Alrighty then... let’s go

My name’s Ruthie. I’m an author and a screenwriter, and purveyor of fandom trash. Always have been, always will be. I’ve been publishing books since I was 19 (not all of them great), and got my degree at CSUN’s Screenwriting Program and am steadily working my way into the industry. Let’s go down my currently active projects.

If you don’t feel like scrolling thorough a huge post, may I offer you my personal website? I update it regularly and there’s a lot more in depth info on who I am and what I do,

First thing’s first - Ladies of Fortune has a website! For those uninitiated, I developed a pirate show in 2017 centered around the life and times of Anne Bonny and Mary Read, my favorite historical pirate figures of the Golden Age. I approached Mr. Damien Gerard years ago to play the lead villain, Ben Hornigold, and got a resounding “yes!” Little did I know that in the Year Of Our Lord 2022, Damien would be in another little pirate show as a the fearsome father of Edward “Blackbeard” Teach in Our Flag Means Death. 

Since then, LoF has gotten some major traction among the OFMD fan community, and even helped fund us through Kickstarter! We filmed a proof of concept--basically a shiny piece of pitch material for studios--and plan on pitching the show to execs sometime in the early spring.

(that’s me in the red wig as Anne Bonny~!)

Next up, let’s chat books📚 

I write a lot of those. And hey, they’re all romance (for now)

The Kiss of 89 (currently for preorder only through my publisher) This Steddie inspired romance follows Wes Peters as he goes from Prom King to Pariah in his small town of Duffer Springs, CO, and his wild summer love with the town’s metal-head weirdo, Nicky Hoffman. M/M  🌶️ 🌶️

Blood in the Golden Palace Take 50 Shades of Grey, and make it readable. This is a spicy, BDSM mobster romance between the underboss of an Italian crime family, Angelo DiRossi and the (not so) innocent object of his affection, Penny Sweet. M/F  🌶️ 🌶️ 🌶️ 🌶️ 🌶️

The Railwalkers When does justice become revenge? Follow Violet Donovan as she escapes a wrongful murder conviction, only to fall into the clutches of The Railwalker Gang; a notorious group of vigilantes who seek out only the most corrupt and vile men the west has to offer. F/F 🌶️

Unscripted Act 1 and Act 2 A low stakes, bubbly duology between Mega Superstar and Neurotic Mess Ethan Teller and his hyped up, loving, overly affectionate secret boyfriend, Finn Phelps. M/M  🌶️ 🌶️ 🌶️

Beyond my books, I also write screenplays and spec scripts, including a spec for Our Flag Means Death and What We Do In The Shadows, respectively. 

You can take a look at what I’ve got on offer here, though most of my scripts tend to swing between horror and comedy.

I’ll be updating this pinned post fairly regularly. This is also a fraction of everything I got going on. For the time being, I’m still going to be tweeting until the Titanic meets the iceburg. Which will probably be soon...

[outfitandtrend]

[ad_1] There’s no denying that Nicolas Cage is an eccentric man; especially when it comes to shopping… Over the years, Cage has purchased a dinosaur skull, a pet octopus and several shrunken pygmy heads. But the veteran actor, best known for his iconic films Face/Off, National Treasure and, most recently, The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent, has also made some interesting real estate purchases. RELATED: Nicholas Cage Wants To Play A Terrifying Villain In The Next Batman According to CNCB, Cage once owned fifteen properties which included a US$25 million waterfront house in Newport Beach, California, two European castles – one worth US$10 million and the other worth US$2.3 million – and the infamous, LaLaurie mansion in New Orleans (AKA one of the most haunted houses in the US). Now, Cage only owns a fraction of those fifteen properties after being forced to pay the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) roughly US$6.3 million in property taxes. Ouch. However, Cage does still own a private island he bought in 2006 for US$3 million.Nicolas Cage’s private island is called Leaf Cay. Image Credit: Private Islands OnlineThe island, named Leaf Cay, is located in The Exumas in the Bahamas and is roughly 30 acres. Leaf Cay boasts three beautiful beaches as well as a small pond but, according to Private Islands Online (PIO), hasn’t been developed – meaning there are no houses on the island; not even a shack or a hut. It’s unclear whether Cage originally planned to build a property on Leaf Cay or whether he was content just sleeping on a yacht whenever he visited the island. Either way, as the island is currently for sale, it seems unlikely that Cage will now (or ever) build a house on Leaf Cay. RELATED: Johnny Depp’s Private Island: Take A Sneak Peek At The $5 Million Enclave Cage’s private island is on the market for US$7.5 million on PIO, so if you’ve got that much money lying around, not only can you purchase yourself a beautiful secluded private island, but you can also boast that it was formerly owned by the Oscar-winning actor. And what’s cooler than that? Not much, we’d wager. [ad_2] Source link

[abovethesmokestacks]

Kiss Me

Title: Kiss Me

Pairing: Captain Syverson x reader

Rating: T

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Very intense kissing? Some grinding?

I am back on my Henry bullshit, this time with the lovely Captain Syverson. As with my last Henry fic, this came about from a discussion with Brooke, which led to a personalized fic, and she graciously okayed me posting it as a reader insert for the rest of you to enjoy. Partly inspired by the video of strangers kissing for the first time. And if this guy were the one I’d get to kiss? Hold on while I go full koala on him.

The early afternoon sun had seemed blistering when she left her apartment, and the sundress had been the obvious option; light, breezy material, a pretty pattern that combined comfort and style. The sun had nothing on the man sitting down opposite her now, radiating a kind of warmth and confidence that had heat creeping up her chest and neck, her fingers fiddling in her lap.

It had been a spur of the moment decision, an audition call shared by a recent acquaintance on Instagram. Film majors at the nearby college needed volunteers for a course project, weekend appointments, no experience needed, come as you are. Sounded fun, her weekends were mostly open anyway. What could possibly go wrong. She had messaged the contact person, gotten an address and a time to show up.

The first shock, admittedly, had come as she was signed in, given a form to fill out, detailing the project. She. Was going to kiss. A stranger. In front of cameras. For a film project. 

“Miss? Are you alright?” The bubbly brunette who had signed her in, Abigail, according to the name tag tacked to her t-shirt, had looked at her, and she realized she must have made a sound.

“No! No, I'm fine, I- I just didn’t realize I’d- That this was-”

“Oh! Oh, you’ll be fine, there will be people in the room, you'll be safe as houses, darling, we won't say your names, that'll be up to you to share if you want.” The twang of her accent had was oddly comforting, but her heart was still racing, and suddenly, the handful of people lined up sitting in the corridor seemed all the more dangerous. She was going to kiss one of them. Fuck. Hastily, she'd filled out the rest of the form, handing it back and taking the number given, finding the nearest chair and trying to rifle through her purse as discreetly as she could for a chewing gum or a breath mint. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She had nearly launched out of her seat when her number was called, probably doing a credible impression of a deer caught in headlights. Abigail had smiled at her, motioning for her to follow.

“I promise, you will be fine. Our project manager wanted to explore the intimacy of the first kiss, what happens in those seconds before.”

“Why strangers?”

“It’s more… honest,” Abigail had said. “Couples know each other, know what to expect. They are comfortable. And it’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing sweeter. I still remember my grandpa kissing my grandma goodnight when my brother and I would stay over when we were kids, the absolute comfort and love between them. But strangers, they don’t know what to expect. There’s a level of trust between them, courage to take the leap.”

That’s… She couldn’t decide if that eased her mind or set it racing even more. She’d simply nodded, letting Abigail lead her to a door a little way ahead, unlocking it for her.

“You can leave your purse on the table on the right when you enter. Then go sit in one of the chairs. I’ll bring the guy in shortly. The camera will start rolling as soon as he sits down, you can introduce yourself if you want, just your name, doesn't even have to be your real one if you don't want to, and you can share whatever else you feel comfortable sharing and then…”

“Then we kiss.”

It had seemed so simple, so straightforward in all its terrifying simplicity.

At first, there is only the outline of him, stark against the light outside the room and showing a muscular frame with tensed shoulders and a wary gait. Folding her hands in her lap, she picks at the fabric of her dress, folding the skirt into tight pleats between her fingers, following the man as he inches closer. Dark jeans that reveal long legs and thick thighs, a worn t-shirt tucked into them that stretches over a chest that is… impressive. His face, though… His face is what sets her heart fluttering all anew. A strong jaw, hidden under a neatly trimmed beard, a slightly pouty lower lip and a perfect cupid’s bow. His nose looks like it may have been broken once, but it’s been set pretty well, lends character to his face, enhanced by the clear blue of his eyes that focus in on her. His hair is short, curling a little at the ends, but kept as neat as his beard, almost like a military man, but she can spot no chain around his neck that would hold his dog tags.

And then, he’d walked in. 

She barely hears the murmur to her left when the cameras start rolling.

He doesn’t speak until he’s sitting down, gaze on her, softening a little as he holds out a hand.

“Ca- Shit, sorry. No names, right?” He looks at her, almost a little scared that he’s messed up, and it is far too endearing for such a rugged man.

Without hesitation, she gives her first name, her real first name, a little surprised at herself for offering it along with her hand. His hand is calloused, warm and big, her own palm almost drowning in his clasp when he takes it. “Nice to meet you.”

The man laughs, releasing her hand and relaxing in his seat. “Sy. Nice to meet you, too. Pardon me if I'm being rude, but you don't sound like you're from around here.”

“Here for work for the next couple of months. Gotta say, you've got a pretty good ear.”

His eyes sparkle, a smile tugging at his lips, and god, the heat rises in her again, different from the apprehension that had her worked up just moments ago. He is the kind of man that draws you in, that can make you melt with a look, and she is fading fast. She is going to kiss him. He is going to kiss her.

“I won't hold it against you," Sy quips, hands resting on his thighs, and god, she wants to feel them on her.

"Me not being from around here? Or are we talking about something else?"

"Well, I was thinking the first..."

His words trail off, the suggestion hanging heavy in the silence. It feels like it stretches an eternity between them, but it's probably no more than five seconds. She's about to ask if they should start, if she should move, but Sy is looking at her, gaze wandering, assessing. The way he takes her in,i's not objectifying or greedy, not judgmental. It's… curiosity. Assessing her, planning his move, appreciating her, and she can feel it, feel his gaze move up and down her face, when it dips down for a fraction to her chest.

Everything fades with his first move. There are no cameras, no people, no one but them. Sy moves slowly, deliberately, scooting to sit on the edge of the chair, knee knocking against hers. It's electric, making her flinch and gasp, and that seems to please him. His hand comes up to rest on her knee, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb, locking eyes with her, willing her to relax.

"There we go…" Sy croons when she lets out a small sigh, his voice low and velvety. "Just relax. 'S just you an' me here. Don’t need to think about the rest of ‘em.. I'll be good, darlin', you can trust me. Isn't that right?"

She can only nod, inching towards the edge of her own chair, drawn into his warmth, the gentle timbre of his voice, the smolder behind the blue of his eyes.

"Yeah, that’s right, sugar. C’mon, come closer.”

His voice is hypnotic, not quite a purr, not quite a rumble, but it begs to be obeyed. She leans in closer, the two of them mirroring each other, and the tension is no longer in his shoulder, but sparking between them. His measured breaths fan lightly against her skin, and though everything in her should, by all logic, tell her to run, she finds herself relaxing. Sy’s thumb keeps working tight little circles, and he moves slowly, giving her plenty of time to see his intentions, and God, she welcomes it, tilts her head to welcome him.

It’s no explosion of stars or fireworks. His lips are a little chapped, but he knows how to kiss, working against her in soft pressure and the tease of his tongue along the seam of her lips. It’s not forcing the kiss, just giving her the option, showing that he is offering. When his other hand comes up to cup her cheek, she can’t help the needy whine that escapes her, and Sy smiles into the kiss, deepens it a little, swipes his tongue along her lips again.

She opens, happily surrendering, feeling him push back, soothing his thumb along her cheekbone. He kisses like she is the one thing he has been longing for, his happily ever after at the end of a long adventure. She kisses like he is the single point of stability in a storm, the one safe harbour in the entire world. Their spaces intertwine, slowly phasing and his one hand on her cheek is nowhere near enough. She pushes, Sy gives, and in one fluid moment and a happy sigh, she has straddled his lap, slinging her arms around his neck. She’s not letting go, not leaving this moment, and it’s almost like triumph when he embraces her, palms splaying on her back and she can feel the warmth through the thin material of her dress.

It’s a kiss for the ages, and they’re both hungry, both taking what the other gives freely. Sy’s hands wander, his fingertips teasing at the neckline to brush against heated skin, and she digs short, manicured nails into the skin of his neck, revelling in the groan he lets out. He pulls her closer, and oh. Her stomach does a somersault, a surprised giggle punctuating their kiss. Under her, Sy is hard, and the brief contact makes her all too aware of just how damp her panties have gotten.

There’s a less than discreet cough, and it pops their bubble, their gazes both snapping to the sound. 

Right.

The film crew are standing behind their gear, some squirming, clearly a little uncomfortable. Sy gives a laugh, and it’s hard not to follow. She still feels winded from the kiss, head swimming, and she touches her forehead to his, biting her lower lip.

“I think we… might have overdone it,” she whispers, lips brushing against his cheek.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Sy agrees, his shoulders shuddering with poorly disguised mirth. He looks up at the film crew, “So, are we good?”

“Yup, great! We’re really- we’re good, you guys can, uh… Yeah. Good. Thanks. Um. Yeah. Great.”

They both laugh again at the awkward crew member, and she slowly eases off Sy’s lap. It’s too much of a temptation not to glance down, to raise an eyebrow at the visible bulge pressing against his jeans. He gives her a mock-chiding look before getting up himself, taking care to not face the crew as he falls into step next to her.

“Look,” he says as soon as they are out of the building, wringing his hands as he walks, “I know we just met, and that… that back there was for a project. But, god, sugar, you got my head spinning all kinds of ways, and I… it would be rude to ask to continue right away where we left off, much as I… god, I would really, really like to kiss you again, and… other things… But maybe you would be okay with a date? Anywhere you want. You can get to know me better. I’ll answer any questions you have, I’ll bring character references, I’ll pay for dinner and dessert, whatever you want.”

Halting, she tilts her head and looks up at him. The steely look that had assessed her when he’d entered the room is gone, as is most of the smoldering passion when their kiss had broken. It still lingers in his eyes, simmering behind the hope that made them glitter.

“You’ll answer any question?” she asks, smiling at the way he eagerly nods. “Is your name really Sy?”

“Yes. Well, technically. Syverson’s my last name, so Sy’s just a nickname.”

“And your first name? You started saying something else when you came in.”

“No, that was… I was in the army for a couple of years,” he explained, pulling up one of the sleeves of his shirt to show an army insignia tattooed on his bulging bicep. She bites her tongue, wondering if he had any other tattoos on his body, almost missing when Sy continues speaking, “-made it to captain before I got my honourable discharge. Just became a force of habit to introduce myself as Captain Syverson.”

“So, you’d bring one of your army buddies as your character reference?” She slows down to a stop, clasping her hands in front of herself. “I suppose now that you’re out of the army they wouldn’t feel as compelled to make you look good.”

Sy mirrors her, feet shoulder-width apart and hands clasped in front of him, and yeah, now she can see it, the posture. Definitely army guy. “No, no, god no! The guys in my unit would sooner throw me under the bus if I asked them to vouch for me in front of a pretty lady.”

“Oh, then who’d get the honour?” she asks, blushing at his compliment.

“When you signed in, there was a girl, right? Brown hair?”

“Abigail.”

“Abby,” Sy says, glancing back towards the building. “She’s my sister. Talked me into coming today, said they needed more people.”

“She must have something major hanging over you if she got you to agree to this.” Her voice is light, joking a she inches closer to him.

“Well…” Sy drawls, taking a step forward and gently grasping her hand, “I was promised a really good kiss.”

“A really good kiss, huh?”

Just like before, he makes the first move, hooking his finger under her chin and holding her still while he closes the space, capturing her lips in another kiss. It’s searing, slowly setting her afire, and she wants it, wants him, wants everything he’s giving and everything he’s offering. He keeps it short, and she can feel herself get up on her tippy toes to get more, and damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him. She bites her lower lip.

“So how about that date, huh, darlin’?” Sy husks out, and fuck, she can hear the smile in his voice.

“I can pick the place?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And I can pick the time?”

“Any time you want.”

She reaches out, puts a hand on his neck, drags her fingers along warm skin and pulls him down to whisper in his ear.

“Your place. Right now. And dinner… is on me.”

[bowieandqueen11]

Lift Your Sorrows / Victor Van Dort Imagine

Request: Hey love! So I loooove the corpse bride and I was wondering if you could do a Victor x reader where it's Halloween night and they tell scary stories and the reader gets scared so he comforts her? Thanks love! And keep up the amazing work!! 

Yess my darling @denisethefangirl​ Corpse Bride is genuinely one of my favourite films of all time!

Comments and requests are really appreciated! 

Also warning, all these stories are based on true Victorian ghost stories!

Halloween seemed to come naturally to this town.

Upon every gnarled, bare branch that led down the town square and to the Everglot house seemed to sit a murder of crows, their cries warbling throughout the empty market. Children peered out from behind draped windows, gazing out through the frost and onto the street with a sigh, others being ushered into bed - those without children sitting down and getting ready for a night of supernatural games and festivities behind locked doors. As you walked by Victor’s side, away from the Church, trying your hardest to ignore the empty layer of inky cloud above you, you followed your sister back into the dim warmth of your home.

Somehow, as the three of you were walking home on this frightening night, Victoria had managed to convince the two of you in differing away from the usual fortune telling games to instead try telling stories of the supernatural - of ghosts. A chill sank into your bones as you heaved the front door closed behind you, running as fast as you could up the staircase to catch up with the lanky man in front of you, saying goodbye to the night of warm blankets and cheery laughter that you had so been looking forward to with him.

Sensing you had fallen a little behind, Victor stops for a moment, allowing your sister time to blow some cobwebs off the top of a candle holder left abandoned on a desk by the landing. She lights the stub of the candle, barely two inches long, and places the matches back on the table to turn to the two of you, being able to see only the orange glow light up the darkness of her eyes.

‘G-give me your hand, Y/n, Wouldn’t want you falling behind, tonight of all nights, of course. It’s dangerous to be alone in the dark.’

Victor smiles at you, petting the back of your hand as you intertwine it with his fingers, hesitantly leaning into his side and letting him lead you into the bedroom Victoria had just opened. Following the flickering light source, you felt the need to chide your sister as she placed the candelabra down on one of the bed side tables.

‘Victor, would you be a dear and start a fire for us?’

‘Of course, it would be my pleasure.’ He hovers slightly, almost unwilling to let go of your touch, until he finds Victoria raising an eye at his hesitancy and soon scurries away to kneel down on the dirty floorboards.

‘Do we really have to do this in one of the guest bedrooms, Victoria’, you complain, ‘or rather, do we really have to do this at all?’

Your sister only ignores you, swiping her pointer finger across the dusty piano lid that lies abandoned in the corner of the room. Blowing it off her finger, the grime clouds into the room almost in a ghostly haze, the specks nearly translucent as they fell through the air.

‘We want to set the atmosphere, do we not?’, she finally starts, settling herself down gently by one of the marble edges of the fireplace. ‘Besides, it’s not like our parents will mind, in fact I have reason to believe they’re not even here.’

Reaching her slender fingers up behind her, she giggles into her free hand as her finger dances over the ivory keys. She holds her fingers up to you once she stops, ‘see, we’re all alone. When was the last time mother and father would allow music in this house?’

‘Ah, all done! This fire should suffice for the rest of the evening.’

Victor leans back on his knees, dusting off some soot from the cuff of his suit jacket, before he takes his place beside the ample fire, its warmth and light falling far out into the darkened corners of the room, flashing red reflections and curious silhouettes onto the wallpaper. Jumping slightly at being the only one standing still near the walls, you sit down next to Victor, not noticing the way his throat moves with an anxious gulp, or the way his hands start fiddling with his collar, having seen the way your dress folded so pleasurably against his suit, your knee pressing against the side of his thigh. Thinking it rude to stare so intensely at a fine woman, he tried to stop himself from blushing by peering forward and staring into the fire.

‘I’ll start then’, Victoria chimes in, biting her bottom lip as she racked her brain for a true fright. ‘Have you heard the tale of the ghastly headless woman.’

You squeak, making Victor startle slightly and nearly knock over the poker rack as you leap and grab onto his arm.

‘The ghost was first seen by a farmer in Buckingham, I believe, during a frosty, pitch black winter night, all alone on an empty cobblestone street. There he was, near the end of his journey home from his fields when his lantern started to swing by his head, the orange glow settling enough only to show flashes of some strange, dark object lying by his turn at the crossroads.’

Your grip on Victor’s arm tightens so much, he’s afraid you’ll leave wilts on his skin if you squeeze any harder, but he’s enjoying the ever limited physical touch with you so much that he just swallows back the pain and smiles down at you.

You always found his eyes were like the colour of Swallowtail butterflies - so rare and soft, they had this look of wings flying through the sky, so quick, yet relaxed, at ease. Realising the two of you had been gazing at each other so affectionately for too long, Victoria coughed slightly, making Victor jump. He instead, as he turns back to listen to the story, shyly leans over and grabs your hand, letting it rest in the empty space between the two of you. 

‘He called out to the shape, to the strange motionless figure in front of him. There was no reply, only the braying of his horse as it flung itself away from the scene, loosening his grip on the reins, looking back at the figure in time only to see the woman slowly drift away from them, seemingly floating through the thick branches of a bordering hedge. It was only as she began to disappear, that he realised the darkness was not only the colour of her clothes, but in fact the night sky behind the space where her head should be.’

‘That’s horrible!’, you cry out, your sister only gazing into the fire in reply, and reaching up to place a stray curl of hair back into her bun.

‘Strange things do happen in this world’, Victor adds as he looks over at you, finding himself unable to break his gaze as your shaken eyes peer back at him. He feels his heart thunder against his chest in the familiar way it does every time you look at him, the only thing making him blink being the sudden strike of lightning that streaks the foggy sky outside the window. Sheets of rain began to hit upon the pavement outside, somehow chilling the air in a fraction of a second, and making you nestle closer into Victor’s side for warmth.The gloom of the autumn evening truly began to creep into your heart like the damp into bare timber, seeping into your morose pores. 

‘Victor, can we stop now?’

He didn’t have a chance to reply, before the shadowed face of your sister began its second tale of the night.

‘Another story I have been told is of a ghost, an apparition which rises from its tomb to warn men of danger. One man in Garstang, a small village far from here, was delivering letters on a deserted path leading away from the village, only to be stopped by a ghost of abnormal stature, pale as the sky above him, towering above the poor man.’

You felt your stomach lurch at her words, too afraid to walk over to the window and block out the lightening in fear of what ghastly reflection may be waiting behind you. 

Before she could continue, you finally mottled up the courage to call out a desperate, ‘Victoria, please stop!’, and to your surprise, your sister actually did. Shocked, she gave yourself a moment to collect herself by telling the two of you she would go down to the kitchen and find everyone a round of something warm to drink.

As soon as she had closed the door, Victor let go of your hand, choosing instead to settle himself fully beside you. His eyes twinkled as they settled on your face, his hand coming up to rest gingerly against your back. For a moment, you don’t move, but his breathing hitches when he hears slow, stifled sobs from your direction. With his free hand, he tries as gently as he can to try and tilt your chin up away from his shoulder so he can properly look at you in the fire light again. It breaks his heart to see your eyes so bloodshot, your cheeks so rosy and red from the crying. It only fills him with an uneasy determination as he rests his chin against the side of your head, his hair falling over your eyes and he chuckles nervously. He nearly gasps out loud as you tug on his blue tie, nearly choking the poor man until he was left gasping for breath as you pull him tighter against you. His lanky frame completely envelopes you as he composes himself, and places his other arm tightly around your shoulder.

‘It's alright, Y/n. I'll never let anything hurt you. I shall be with you, I believe, always.’

[carewyncromwell]

“How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die? It is love we must hold onto -- Never easy, but we try. Sometimes our happiness is captured; Somehow our time and place stand still... Love lives on inside our hearts and always will... Minutes turn to hours, days to years, then gone, But when all else has been forgotten, Still our song lives on...”

~“How Does a Moment Last Forever? (cover)” by Celine Dion

x~x~x~x

tw: character death, funerals, grief

x~x~x~x

The kelpie known as Ru Ollivander always knew their time on Earth would be fleeting -- at least, in comparison to the human witches and wizards they’d ended up living alongside. It was the main reason Ru had such a passion for photography, animation, and moving pictures. The thought of capturing a single moment and making it last beyond that moment...making it possible to relive that moment over and over again, as many times as one wanted...it was meaningful in a way Ru couldn’t quite put into words. 

And so over the years, the eccentric, blunt kelpie -- never the best at expressing themselves in the way more upright, classy humans did -- captured as many memories as they could of the things they found most remarkable about the Wizarding World they’d entered. They sketched the rows upon rows of disgusting-looking ingredients in jars set up in the Potions classroom. They took pictures of the way the moon looked from the Astronomy Tower after a thunderstorm. They made animations of how Venomous Tentaculas and Mandrakes grew, compressing entire months into mere seconds. And, of course, over the years, Ru used their cinematograph, Aeroscope, and other cameras to film the humans who had become most important to them -- their best friend, Galen Stagg @cursebreakerfarrier​​; their fellow Ravenclaw and Galen’s eventual other half, Siobhan Llewelyn @kc-needs-coffee​; and their “keeper”-turned-muse-and-life partner, Estrid Soelberg @thatravenpuffwitch​​. 

One morning, however, in the 1930′s, Estrid returned to the cottage she shared with Ru from a trip to the market to find the entire place in disarray. A table had been overturned, Ru’s camera was knocked over on its side, and a drawer of photographs had been pulled out, its contents spread out all over the floor. Alarmed, Estrid rushed to find Ru -- when she did, she found them on the floor, in full kelpie form, looking very restless and distraught as they huffed and puffed through their nose and mouth. Estrid hurriedly rushed over and bent down, trying to help, but it soon became clear what the problem was.

Ru couldn’t change form. They couldn’t transform themselves out of their real appearance. ...They couldn’t turn into a human anymore. 

The realization overwhelmed Ru. As much as they always knew the day would come, it wasn’t any less devastating. They’d never have hands again. They’d never have legs or feet again. They’d never speak properly again. They’d never be able to take any more pictures, or make any more movies, or make improvements to their cameras, or draw any more sketches or animations. They’d never be able to visit Galen’s classroom anymore for his lectures. They’d never be able to exchange any more friendly swears with Siobhan over a game of Wizard’s Chess. ...They’d never be able to comfort Estrid again...never be able to stroke her hair and hold her until she stopped crying...never be able to play her film reels of her grandfather, or plant flowers in the garden with her, or dance with her in the rain...they’d never be able to tell her how much they loved her.

The kelpie’s eyes fell toward the ground, darkening, as they flooded with tears. Those tears streaked down their long face in cold, deafening silence. Estrid, who’d almost never seen Ru cry in all their time together, found herself struggling not to break down completely herself as she threw her arms around Ru’s snout and hugged them, resting her face in their overgrown seaweed mane. The two sat together on the floor for what felt like hours, crying and cuddling as best they could, Ru pressing their soft nose into Estrid’s cheek and the crook of her neck and Estrid kissing their nose and the top of their head. 

Estrid wrote to the Staggs to pass along the news. Galen pretty much dropped everything to be by his friend’s side -- the magizoologist had always had a particular talent for speaking to magical creatures, and it had never been more useful than in those final weeks of Ru’s life. It seemed that what upset Ru most out of everything was that they’d had a project they hadn’t been able to finish. It was an incomplete film reel they’d stored under their and Estrid’s bed for the last year, taking out and working on only whenever Estrid wasn’t home. 

Galen had made as if to go get it, but Ru had snatched his sleeve in their teeth and pulled him back so he couldn’t leave their side.

“Not yet,” they were clearly saying. “It’s not time. Please, not yet.”

Reluctantly Galen respected his friend’s wishes. 

Within a month of them being unable to change back into a human, Galen and Siobhan received the owl they’d been dreading. Ru had passed the previous night, Estrid by their side all the way up until the end. 

As per Ru’s wishes, their funeral service was very small. They were laid to rest beside the small pond behind their and Estrid’s cottage -- Galen knew that kelpies’ bodies tended to decompose quickly, leaving only the seaweed of their manes behind at the bottom of the seafloor. There wasn’t a dry eye during the modest ceremony.

On Galen’s prompting, Estrid went to their room and fetched Ru’s unfinished project from under their bed. Inside the box holding the film reel were hundreds, maybe thousands of old photographs and drawings, many of which Galen, Estrid, and Siobhan had never seen. Some featured Hogwarts, from different angles; some were of the places they’d been to, or the creatures they handled, or the food they ate, or just cool and random things they only half-remembered. Most of all, though, the pictures were of them...and a small fraction, toward the very front, were of Ru themselves. 

It was incredible, just looking through the pictures. Forty years of memories were compiled together, documenting not just the changes in those years, but the advancement in Ru’s talent as an artist. The newest pictures were so much clearer and more life-like -- the magical ones moved with such clarity -- the drawings were more refined -- the animations more complex. The pictures placed side-by-side were an animation unto themselves: a beautiful montage of time, like a blooming flower. 

Siobhan was the one who knew Ru’s equipment well enough to work out how to set up the projector so they could play the incomplete film reel. The beginning featured Ru as the three remembered them -- very long, wavy black hair, bright blue angled eyes, and diamond earrings, dressed in a dark violet velvet suit and vest with no collared shirt underneath and a gold and emerald necklace around their neck. They were smirking right at the camera, but it seemed to be a bit strained. 

“Hi, Estrid. Galen...Siobhan...reckon you’re both here too. You are the only one who could ever figure out how to work the projector, Sha.”

They cleared their throat, snorting through their nose before continuing. 

“...I’ve...recorded this a few times already, trying to get it right, but...well, I’ll just be straight. This morning...I had trouble creating my daddles.”

They held up their right hand and flourished the fingers in explanation. 

“I woke up with hooves and it took me about a minute to conjure up my fingers. I didn’t tell you, Estrid, since I knew it’d only make you worry, but...well, I know I’ll only be doing more of that, soon.”

They forced a stronger smirk.

“So I decided to make this for you. It’s a compilation of our lives...one that you can hopefully play, when you need to remember. When you need to get away from the present, and run back to the past for a bit. Watch it every time you feel the urge to drink -- and then push away that urge.”

The moving image of Ru was replaced with the pictures, movies, drawings, and animations the three had seen in the box, overlaying Ru’s voice as they continued.

“When I first started disguising myself as Rudolph Ollivander, all I cared about was living in the moment. But the thing I found so amazing about being human was this instinct you all have to try to make moments last long after they’re over. Considering how long you all live, and therefore how short my existence is in comparison, I loved the thought of making something last. Something I made last. I wanted to plant some seed that would grow into something that would keep growing long after me. But it didn’t take me long to realize that even if I took great photographs, or made beautiful films, or made the best magical camera in the world...it didn’t matter. Because I didn’t have a family who would tend to my garden, after I left it. I didn’t have a family who would keep the things I’d made, and pass them on, and share them with the world. ...I didn’t have a family who would pass on my legacy. After Hogwarts, it’d be a lot harder to hide what I was from the world...and once everyone knew the truth, I would undoubtedly be alone again. It was something I knew was inevitable, really, so it didn’t break me or anything...but me leaving something lasting behind was still a dream I knew would never come true. And I won’t lie, that hurt like shit.

“But then, somehow...somehow or another, I ran into you, Estrid. I was steamed as all get-out when we first met, mind you...but I don’t think I’ll ever be more grateful for anything than you stopping me from eating that first year that day. The bridle you put on me? I hated it. I had to stay in one form for almost eight whole years, and that was a real pain in the arse. But as I told you before, over time, I found I didn’t mind so much. Kelpies don’t stay in one form because changing forms helps us survive. It keeps us safe and keeps any other creatures from getting close enough to eat or trap us. And sure, I couldn’t change form...but I wasn’t exactly trapped. Hogwarts was a fun place to be. There was a lot to learn and do and get into, and there were all sorts of rules to buck and dozens of lick-spittles to give a good arse-kicking to. And better still...there were even some humans that were fun to be around.”

The pictures all started to reflect Galen -- at the piano, with a tree of bowtruckles, laughing at a joke -- Galen and Ru running down the lane away from the Shrieking Shack --

“There were ones who were gentle. Pacifistic and wussy, yeah, but also...well, kind. Good at expressing their feelings and making others feel stronger. Good at being brave without being loud or obnoxious. Good at being a friend, to someone who didn’t know anything about friendship.”

The pictures then started to add Siobhan, often alongside Galen, but also on her own, or even with Estrid and Ru.

“There were ones who were clever. Too proud for their own good and prone to overthinking things that are really quite simple...but brilliant, and witty, and a blast to be around. Someone who you can share your interests with and know they appreciate them.”

The pictures then shifted over to Estrid with braids in her hair -- Estrid sitting by the pond in their garden -- Estrid dancing -- 

“And...there were ones who could change you...more than you ever thought possible.”

The pictures abruptly cut off -- Ru’s face returned to the projector. They were still talking to the camera, but it was clear they hadn’t intended for their face to be seen, as they weren’t looking straight at the lens anymore. 

“A ‘keeper,’ who became a friend, and then a muse...and then something more. An equal and a partner...someone who makes you unafraid of the future and how fleeting life is, who actually makes you think that your life makes a difference. Who teaches you more than any book, without even trying. Someone patient, and brave, and compassionate...who never tries to stuff the silence full of worthless words...whose beauty masks a greater one underneath, one that few people ever are fortunate enough to see...”

Ru’s eyes on screen had begun to flood with tears. They closed their eyes and breathed in and out through their nose to try to get a rein on their emotions.

“...Estrid...my whole life, I wanted to leave something behind that would outlive me. That thing isn’t just my pictures, or my films, or my drawings -- it’s you. You are my legacy. You and Galen and Siobhan...you are the wonderful thing I’ll leave behind. It breaks my heart that I’ll have to...and it breaks my heart more, knowing I can’t make sure you all remain as you are, in this moment. Healthy. Successful. Stupid and happy and full of life.”

They forced a smile even as their electric blue eyes overflowed with tears that streaked down their face. 

“I don’t have a family to make sure you all last beyond me...but I do have you. So, for me...I need you to tend to my garden. I need you to maintain my legacy -- by maintaining yourself. I need you to live, and heal, and grow, and do everything I can’t do...”

Ru was unable to keep themselves from breaking down into sobs. They bowed their head, clutching onto their own hair as they vainly tried to keep their voice steady. 

“Don’t throw your time away. Don’t throw your lives away. If you do, I’ll never bloody forgive you!”

For the next minute they took a few stabilizing breaths, sucking in air shakily through their nose and mouth. 

“Damn it...” they hissed under their breath. “Now I have to cut this...”

They swallowed, wiping the tears from their eyes with both hands. The tears left tracks on their face even as they forced themselves to return their focus to the camera. 

“...Make every moment count...and when you can, make that moment last forever.

“I realized, when I was looking through my old pictures, that I’ve never really taken many pictures of me. I guess in the moment, I really was a lot more focused on capturing everything I saw, rather than myself. So here are some pictures I took more recently that have me in them. Hopefully you can use them to imagine me behind every picture I took earlier, of all of you. Even though I probably wasn’t smiling or anything...I’m sure you know I was enjoying myself, right? ...I did enjoy myself a lot, with all of you...”

They forced another smile, even though the tears on their face still shone in the light from the next room.

“I remember you once said, Galen, that you could see the love in the pictures I take. I still don’t really know what the hell that’s supposed to mean...but I reckon you bringing up love made some sense. I did love taking those pictures, every one of them -- and more than that...I learned about love, through the people in those pictures. So thank you. Thank you for loving me...and for teaching me so much. And even when this film reel’s obsolete, and my pictures are ruined, and my drawings fade...don’t stop doing things that are worth remembering. Keep making more memories. I know I’ll never forget you -- all you have to do now is make sure the rest of the world won’t either.

“So live. Live, and learn, and love. Make today last forever.” 

When Ru’s film reel finally ended and faded to black, Galen, Siobhan, and Estrid were all in tears. Galen was clinging to his wife, his face buried in her hair and his hands clutching at the back of her dress as he sobbed. Siobhan herself had her eyes shut tight as she held Galen in return, unable to contain her own grief. Estrid was holding herself, tears streaming from her hazel eyes still staring at the blank projector screen where Ru had been smiling moments earlier. She closed her eyes, her hands covering her face as she cried silently. 

The grief in the room was overwhelming, and yet Ru’s final unfinished present tapped into something at the base of the grief -- the deep, bottomless love they all felt. For as blunt and stubborn as Ru could be, the depth of their feelings was undeniable. They didn’t want their loved ones to despair -- they wanted them to remember, yes, but not languish in the memories...to live with an eye on the past and feet walking toward the future. Ru knew the grief Estrid had gone through when she’d lost her grandfather, and had tried so hard to give her something to help her through her grief again even when they weren’t there to physically support her.

And so over the years, Siobhan, Galen, and Estrid maintained Ru’s legacy. The three lived their lives to the fullest and worked to make sure that no one forgot about all of the advancements Ru had made in the world of wizarding photography. Galen used Ru’s old film reels of magical creatures in his classes; Siobhan took even more pictures of her own; and Estrid fought to ensure Ru’s work was put up in wizarding museums and exhibitions all over Europe, as a testament to her partner’s talent and dedication. 

A man has no control who lives, who dies, and who tells their story...but the ones who they love in life, and who inspire them in death, are the most precious legacy they can leave behind. 

[power-chords]

Wait did I miss something, what is it you think is going on with Nate in the Heat book?

It’s not just the book! Even in the film, Mann has put him in a position that should render him intrinsically suspect: he’s a broker who trades exclusively in information and who appears to be the sole mediator of access to that information. When Neil and his crew pull off a successful score, he gets a cut of the proceeds. (From his phone conversation with Van Zant: “Because there’s no percentage in everybody getting their underwear in a twist,” emphasis mine.) He does not accompany Neil or his crew and is therefore not at any immediate risk of injury, death, or incarceration on the job; nor does he share in any of the physical labor involved. By definition, this makes him a manager, and judging from his interactions with the rest of the active “players,” he’s upper management. His role is analogous to that of a capital investor who assumes some measure of financial risk but is able to foist the mortal kind off on somebody else. The book makes it clear that he’s dialed in to some extensive international shadow-market of underworld buyers and sellers. Other than that, we know next to nothing about him or how he leveraged access to that network. According to Chris, Nate taught Neil “everything he knows.” Presuming this is true – and I would not put it past Nate to strategically withhold information, or tailor it for a particular audience – already we can infer an asymmetry of knowledge in that relationship.

I’m not suggesting that Nate is secretly malicious in the way that, say, Waingro is or Wardell is (though with the way the novel sows all that golem* subtext, one has to wonder whether Nate is in some part responsible for them). On the contrary – I think he genuinely cares about Neil and believes he is acting in Neil’s best long-term business interests. Which are, conveniently, aligned with his own best interests. After all, Neil is worth more to him alive than dead, and continuing to take on high-payout, low-exposure scores for which he will continue to charge his finder’s fee. At the end of the day, he’s still looking out for number one and his bottom line. And that includes maintaining his monopoly on intel. Whatever he tells Neil and Chris, and by extension the audience/reader, is only a small fraction of what he knows. So I love him, but I don't trust him!

*Waingro is really the more golem-like of the two. Given his name and a bunch of other textual clues, I am now leaning toward a reading of Wardell as some type of nasty biblical angel, who may or may not be an embodied projection of Vincent’s repressed guilt/longing/jealousy/self-hatred. Metatron through the looking-glass, darkly.

[mintchocolatechipnut]

the boys in a haunted house

ft. shinsou hitoshi, todoroki shouto & kirishima eijirou

Note: This came to me in a vision... okay not really but SEVENTEEN’s GoSe episode on the ghost really inspired me to write this. Hope you enjoy!

Tags: fluff, real comedic geniuses here, vague understanding of haunted houses

Word count: 2.3k

SHINSOU HITOSHI

Now Shinsou isn’t really afraid of anything in particular, as in he’s not rattled by jump scares in movies

Instead, he has a penchant for psychological thrillers, because as much as he doesn’t use his quirk for villainous motives, he does like to fuck with people in general

So when you ask to go to a haunted house with him, he’s pretty indifferent, only letting out a non-committal hum as you tell him how this new set has been getting rave reviews from your friends

When you get there, Shinsou’s reminded of the time his class set up a haunted house for the cultural festival, and wonders if he could glean more ideas from this experience should they decide to hold it again this year lmao

As you enter, you’re relieved to know that Shinsou’s interested to at least a certain extent (but for the wrong reasons lol)

When the first jumpscare appears, Shinsou doesn’t so much as flinch, even as he feels your fingernails dig into his arm where you clutch him

He just stares, as if memorising the appearance of the zombie/mummy/ghost and wondering how he could replicate the look with the limited budget his class had for the festival

You didn’t hear this from me, but some of the haunted house actors were creeped out by Shinsou himself

I mean, his purple hair sticking up all ways like that of a mad scientist, coupled with his piercing unnerving stare, while the bags under his eyes carry even more bags and stand out against the pallor of his skin? Boy is setting himself up to look like a real zombie or vampire here

Anyway, if his s/o is more on the timid side, he doesn’t mind letting them hold onto him in any way as they walk through the set

Clutching his arm so tight he wonders if his skin will break under their hold, or the hem of his sleeve being tugged so hard it might tear, Shinsou just likes that you can depend on him and that he makes you feel safe

Though do not put it past him to mess with you even though you’re afraid

He won’t be pushing you toward the ghosts despite your shrieks and wails, or giving you a jumpscare of his own while in the house, but since he likes psychological thrillers so much, he’ll play a prank once the experience is over

‘Gee, Y/N, did you see that guy? He wouldn’t leave you alone at all’

‘... wait what do you mean’

‘You know, the one who followed you around with a knife in his hand? Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. Oh wait, you didn’t? Could’ve been my imagination then. Just it was so vivid...’

You’re scared shitless when you talk to the owner and there’s no such ghost, while Shinsou stands a ways behind you and winks conspiratorially at the owner

Cue you hanging onto his arm even on the way home, but Shinsou doesn’t mind one bit

Seems like he’s up for a night of suffocation where you’ll be holding onto him like your life depended on it

Maybe then he’ll tell you it was all a joke. Or that the man with the knife seemed to have followed you home...

Whatever he’ll do, he knows he’ll have fun as long as it’s with you (and as long as you don’t get too mad and kick him out of your room)

Now, if his s/o isn’t easily scared and is more of the playful sort, he’d like doing gag commentary with you as the ghosts show up one by one

Whether your laughter is a coping mechanism, or just the result of plain unadulterated fun, Shinsou’s having fun nonetheless

If you’re really playful, and Shinsou’s feeling it too, you two cook up a plan to scare the ghosts together

While it’s only semi-successful (in which you scare one or two of them and actually earn some human-like screams from them), the both of you can’t stop cackling on the way home

Overall, Shinsou has fun, and he isn’t afraid to tell you so

‘Maybe we should do it again next time, and make a record of how many we can scare individually’

You: ‘BET’

TODOROKI SHOUTO

Given his upbringing, it’s no secret that Todoroki has never had the chance to do things normal teenagers do

So naturally his first reaction to you suggesting a visit to a haunted house is pure curiosity

He knows they exist when class 1-C did it for the cultural festival but he didn’t get the chance to visit it the last time, so why not now?

As you tell him about it, Todoroki’s already whipping his phone out to do some research beforehand, but he relented when you tell him it’s better if it’s a surprise

He doesn’t show it on his face but he’s infinitely excited to be there, in a ‘I have no idea what to expect’ kind of way as he watches you buy tickets

Cue him thinking the whole thing is like the simulations in class and actually creates flames in his hands so you can see clearer in the dark

You have to tell him amidst your laughter that he’s not supposed to do that, and he’s bewildered alright, but he complies

Now Todoroki isn’t a big reactor by any means but since you know him so well, you can tell how the haunted house affects him

Like, he’ll pretty much react the same way he did during the test of courage during summer camp last time in that he’ll flinch silently, but you can see in the dim light how his eyes widen a minuscule fraction and how his shoulders tense up during jumpscares

It’s weird, because as a future hero nothing should faze him, but even when he’s expecting to be scared it does nothing to stop him from actually being scared

Halfway through his hand would automatically reach for yours,  and when more jumpscares occur he’ll tighten his grip on it

His grip varies; when he senses a jumpscare his fingers will curl around yours a little more but when he’s actually frightened expect a violent squeeze of your hand, but nothing too painful

If you’re the timid sort, Todoroki’s glad that you feel the same way in some sorts, and feels reassured that it’s the normal way to react to such things as haunted houses (poor baby doesn’t have a clue about social norms, so he’s always questioning whether he’s weird for being the way he is and not being typical in his reactions—the answer is, of course, that he’s loved either way)

If you’re the unfazed sort, Todoroki will admire you as you march through the haunted house hand in hand, his gaze on your small but strong back as you move towards the exit. How you don’t react to anything, and instead even exchange pleasantries with some of the ghosts makes him see you in a whole new light

And then when you’re finally out in the open, where you return to your usual caring self and ask if he’s okay, Todoroki thinks that he couldn’t fall in love with you more than he already has

Spoiler alert: he’s wrong

When you cheekily tell him you’ll protect the next time you visit a haunted house, he buries his face in your shoulders while he hugs you to him tight

‘Thank you.’ You can hear him whisper beside your ear, ‘but let’s not do that again for a while.’

If you’re an absolute horror junkie, you’ll try to convince Todoroki to visit with you again

If he’s still hesitant, you opt to getting him used to jumpscares by watching horror movies together

Sometimes Todoroki can’t help but question what you find so fun about them when you yourself squeal in half-horror and half-delight when you get scared by something on the screen

But if the way you cling to his side is any indication, he likes it anyway

Pretty soon he does get used to jumpscares, in that his heightened senses from all his hero training lead him to predict the right moments where jumpscares occur

Cue him telling you ‘There’s a jumpscare at this part’ and two seconds later a monstrous face appears on screen

At first you’re in awe at his sudden ability only after watching like three films, but pretty soon it gets old and you have to break it to him that it ruins the show for you

Your heart nearly melts when he murmurs in a low voice, ‘I thought I’d just warn you in advance so you wouldn’t be scared.’

In that moment you’re eternally grateful to have someone as awkward and kind as Todoroki as your boyfriend who constantly looks out for your well-being and does his best in making you happy

You kindly explain to him what makes horror movies so good and why jumpscares are supposed to be unpredictable, but not before leaning in to whisper a ‘thank you’ and plant a kiss to his cheek

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU

Now Kirishima’s usually game for anything you want to try, but just so you know, he wouldn’t exactly consider a haunted house as an ideal date spot

What’s so romantic about getting scared by a bunch of ghosts who are also paid actors in a small dark space? But hey, if it’s for fun and you want to, why not

But just because he’s the glue of class 1-A, he’ll ask if he can bring some of his friends along since ‘it’ll be more fun that way’

The thing with Kirishima is if he sees other people enjoying this kind of thing he’d like to invite them, and when he can’t picture something being just between the two of you he’s likely to call other people to join

You might be a little disappointed and exasperated about it, but knowing where he’s coming from you can’t really get mad at him

Though if you’re truly bothered about it, just say the word and he’ll change

Sweetie will do anything for you as long as it’s within reason and he knows where you’re coming from

But anyway, you’re not against the idea of having the rest of the Bakusquad join you, since they’re a fun-loving bunch and having them at a haunted house is bound to be ten times funnier

So there’s Bakugou in his usual black skull shirt and Sero and Kaminari, while Mina’s ready to snap away with her camera so she can get some funny reaction pics out of the boys

While lining up for tickets you’re surprised by Kirishima learning in from behind you and whispering into your ear: ‘Don’t worry babe, I’ll protect you from anything you find scary in there!’

Heat immediately rises to your cheeks when you think about the utter cheeseball he is, and when you turn around to face him Kirishima has his trademark toothy grin on his face as he looks at you

How could you even be disappointed about this not being a date when Kirishima is still being his caring, romantic self?

Mina, who’s behind the both of you in line, immediately scrunches up her face in mock disgust. ‘Ew, you two,’ she says in mock disgust and you know she’d heard Kirishima. ‘Get out of here and get a room.’ The three of you end up laughing it off anyway.

When you step into the haunted house, Kirishima naturally takes your hand in his, and an immediate sense of safety washes over you when you feel his hand encapsulating yours

Going through the haunted house with Kirishima is an absolute hitch, as he knows just how to react and still have fun with you

Kirishima isn’t the kind to be scared easily, but he always acts scared alongside you because he doesn’t want you to feel alone in your fear

Jokes on him because you can tell exactly when he’s scared or not, because laughing is his coping mechanism for these things

The louder he laughs, the more scared he is, and he laughs a fair bit while you’re walking through the haunted house

When he really gets frightened though, he accidentally activates his quirk so you feel his skin harden a little in your hand

Just as quickly he retracts his hand and forgets his fear in favour of worrying over whether he hurt you, the sweetheart that he is

But the highlight of the night is really when Bakugou nearly blasted Kaminari to smithereens when he appeared behind him wrapped in Sero’s tape like a mummy, but not without Mina’s acid melting through the tape so he looked like he’d just escaped from his ancient sarcophagus

The only reason Bakugou stopped himself from yelling ‘die!’ is when he hears a ‘whey~’ escape from the mummy’s mouth, which is when he drags the ‘mummy’ by the collar out through the exit while the rest of you rush after him in hysterical laughter

Whether it’s because Kaminari instantly sobered up when Bakugou threatens to blow him up, or that Kirishima notices that Bakugou’s palms and forehead are tinged with cold sweat, you all have a great time nonetheless

When you confront Kirishima about purposely faking his fear in front of you, an embarrassed blush immediately overtakes his face

‘I just thought it’d cheer you up, so you wouldn’t focus on your own fear too much,’ he says, and his face turns even redder when you laughingly point out his own tells

‘I guess I really can’t hide anything from you,’ he then smiles after looping his arm with yours on the way back, the Bakusquad squabbling a ways in front of you so they can’t hear his next words that make you swoon. ‘But I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

[machinations-ii]

A Quote to Live by

"Every path is the right path, everything could have been anything else, and it would have just as much meaning"

Mr. Nobody (2009)

One of a lot of movies that scarred me for life. Nemo Nobody (Jared Leto) is 118 years old and reminiscing—on the time he had spent on this planet. His parents separated when he was 9-years-old and he went to live with his mother and her boyfriend, or did he? He might have stayed with his father and fallen in love with Elise. Although he remember falling madly in love with Anna (Diane Kruger), his step-sister and making love to her. His marriage with Elise was a nightmare with Elise suffering from clinical depression and Nemo might have died multiple times. Foreseeing this (Elise’s mental illness) Nemo might have settled with Joan, a girl he met at a party, and had two kids, whose names he can’t remember.

Perplexed, right? So is Nemo because he can’t decide upon the life he has led.

Oh and did I tell you that Nemo can see the future. Or can he?

You were unable to take a decision because you didn’t knew what would happen and now when you know what will happen you still unable to make a decision.

The problem with reviewing this epic fantasia by the Belgian director Jaco Van Dormael, is that you know you’ll fall short of words and ideas to write your understanding of the film, knowing still well that your understanding is probably a meager fraction of what the film is about. I’ve seen no other film, that drags for roughly 3 hours, challenges your mind thoroughly, makes you ponder about things you would've never thought of otherwise—and all these, throughout it’s playtime. Mr. Nobody is an ensemble of numerous mosaics from all the possible lives Nemo might have led, interwoven with just enough precision to not let you go: “Fuck this shit, I’m hitting the bed.” Not a single frame is a filler.

It is but the first of many decisions said above that cause Nemo’s history to fracture and diverge into multiple timelines; he gives a love letter, he doesn’t give a love letter, he becomes a photographer, and a TV personality, he marries Elise, Jean and Anne, he drowns in his car, is killed by a meteorite, and executed by mobsters. The result is a rather confusing collection of alternative realities that are even further complicated by being framed through the complex physics of time and space.

And yet, I believe that, at the center of it all, all this complexity serves one single purpose, one fundamental question; how do we make meaningful choices? To answer this question, we first have to answer several others.

We can immediately see how this one-directional movement places a burden on our decision-making; We cannot go back, that’s why it’s hard to choose. But what is the right choice? What makes one choice more meaningful over another? This question can only really be answered if there is such a thing as meaning, something to serve as an anchor against which to weigh our options and base our decisions. However, looking to the universe for such a guiding light is likely to leave you disappointed. Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect? The butterfly effect is a part of chaos theory, suggesting that a small change in one state can result in larger differences in a later state. And as we see in many of Nemo’s timelines, this causal reaction often undermines our own agency, although of course, we generally experience this phenomenon as random chance, bringing us either good fortune, or bad luck.

In the opening scene, we are also presented with an experiment in which a pigeon is given a treat every 20 seconds. The researchers discovered that if the pigeon happened to be flapping its wings when given the treat, it would continue to do so, convinced its actions are what caused it. This phenomenon, which is referred to as pigeon superstition, further emphasizes the dissonance between

how we perceive causality, and how the universe actually works. In other words, we may believe our choices and actions affect the world in a certain way, but in reality we know very little about what forces move our lives into certain directions. It is why, whenever something unexpected happens, be it good or bad, we are left wondering; what did I do to deserve this? Well, it's important for you to understand that in life, things don’t always turn out as we plan them. Life isn’t always what we think it will be.

So what does all this imply for our ability to make meaningful choices? How can we make informed decisions if we cannot even oversee all the variables? It is perhaps why we long for immortality,

for infinite time to figure out the right path and infinite chances to correct ourselves if we take a wrong turn. But I think this is where we have to consider Nemo gift, for Nemo is not like everyone else.

The point is that when faced with a difficult choice, knowing everything that will happen is just as paralyzing as not knowing what will happen. A philosopher Ruth Chang exposes a fundamental flaw in how we approach decision-making. Basically, she explains that we tend to make choices by weighing alternatives against each other, and judging whether one option is better than, equal to, or worse than another. And while this may be a reasonable approach for easier decisions, when it comes to the hard choices in our lives, where do we live? Who do we marry? what career do we pursue? This approach often falls short.

That's why the choice is hard. What distinguishes these kind of choices is that they do not become easier even if the outcomes are clearer. Nemo’s omniscience showed him every possible path,

but this couldn’t tell him if the love for his mother was more valuable than the love for his father, it couldn’t tell him if the heartbreak from Anna leaving was worse than that of Elise’s depression, in short; it couldn’t tell him which path was the right path, and here lies the crux of the problem; we are searching for meaning outside of ourselves, for external reasons to support these difficult decisions.

“Every path is the right path.

Everything could've been anything else.

And it would have just as much meaning”

And so instead of desperately searching the universe for guidance, for that one sign or reasonable argument telling us what we should do, it is we ourselves who have to make our choices meaningful. So the lesson of hard choices: reflect on what you can put your agency behind, on what you can be for, and through hard choices, become that person. This is no easy task, even if we believe we are on the right path, there will be mistakes, there will be sorrow.

We all experience moments of regret, moments where we feel life has passed us by, where we long for that reset button to give us another chance; another chance to say what we really meant, to show courage when we were afraid, to be the person we really wanted to be. But if we truly act from the heart, if we base our decisions on our innermost voices, we will also experience something else. We will find that if we want to, if we choose to, it is possible to love, to be loved, and to experience moments of genuine happiness, moments in which it becomes absolutely clear that, even if it is for a brief instance in an infinite universe, our lives can be profoundly meaningful. I'm not afraid of dying, I'm just scared that I haven't lived enough.

[early20sfailingplenty]

i saw your sweet post earlier on the house of wax tag and it made me think of my bestie

her @ is hxrrxr-films & she goes by she/him pronouns.

oli has always been a super hard worker around the house and is always working to death to finish chores and keep everything tidy for his family yknow?

i feel like a lot of that stress is building up all the time and i would like for you to send a message along the lines of “you work so hard but remember to take care of yourself too” from vincent :) thank you so much if you could do this for my bestie 🖤

This is such a sweet ask!!!! You’re a wonderful friend and it was such a joy to write this for @hxrrxr-films !!!! 💖

As previously stated in other letters I’ve written from Vincent, I take a creative liberty with him in that he writes in a poetic style of prose; he’s an artist in every way and I think his letters/written words would reflect that. I hope you enjoy this!

—-

Dear Oli,

As I write this, you are asleep in our bed. Our bed… I wonder when my possessions stopped being wholly mine and became OURS? I suppose this shift in my thoughts shows some of the depth of my love for you. Such an emotion is immeasurable; I always used to wonder why momma said that everything she had was also daddy’s. The more of my life and of myself that I share with you, Oli, the more I think I understand. Their marriage grew unhappier as we - that is, my brothers and I - grew older and momma grew sicker, but I know that that won’t happen with us. You are my muse and I aim for this small missive to do even a fraction for you what you do for myself and my brothers.

You work so incredibly hard, Oli, and the entire house and much of the town reflects your incredible efforts. Before you arrived in Ambrose and before we decided not to harm you the town was in such a state of decay that it may as well have been a graveyard for my numerous sculptures. Indeed, it is a ghost town. Dust, dirt, rot was everywhere, and this house, my parent’s house, was in a similar state. But things are almost if not entire spotless now and you take such wonderful care of my brothers and I that I can only love you more, but I think that you need to remember that you are a human, Oli.

I know how hard you work. Just because I spend a lot of my time in my workshop, it doesn’t mean that I’m oblivious to the way you rush around the house and the town to make sure that all of the chores are done and that things are cleaner than how you left them last. My brothers and I deeply appreciate you, but we do worry. Myself, especially. My muse collapsing into bed with a weary groan, body aching and mind sore from all of the work of the day and the knowledge of all that is to be done tomorrow, is a sight I’m getting too used to and I don’t like seeing you so exhausted.

I’m a hypocrite, I suppose, for I too often work myself beyond the limits of my body in the name of completing work, and you so often remind me to eat or to get some sleep. I need to do the same for you, now, because those bags under your eyes and the inward slump of your shoulders from the weight of all the stress are growing to be too much for you and for me. Please take care of yourself, Oli. You deserve to give yourself the same dedication and kindnesses which you selflessly bestow upon my brothers and I and I am aware of the fact that my brothers need to show their appreciation to you more than they already do. They’re afraid of getting attached to you, only for you to leave, and I cannot tell them that that’s not true any more than I already do.

I suppose it’s a matter of time for them.

But for me, I know well that you and I are never more to be separated and if you cannot find the time to take care of yourself, then please allow me to do it for you. You are my muse, my love, the one who understands me almost as well as Bo does, and I need you to look after yourself. Even a ten minute break here and there so you can stop, have a snack, breathe, do something you enjoy, will be enough, but please, Oli, please look after you. Don’t think I’m not above doing it for you; may this letter serve as encouragement, support and a warning all in one.

With all my love,

Vincent.

[grim-faux]

In the wake of a corrupt and uncertain time loop, the Thin Man entertains the prospect of looking after his younger-self. All children are independent to a fault and self-sufficient in a chaotic, unhinged world eager to erase their existence. Those that endure are hardwired for navigating the malicious terrain, and become especially leery of its traps, pitfalls, and especially the adults. Mono is no exception.

Despite being the same entity, the Thin Man and Mono are polarized opposites. The two now struggle to coexistence in a timeline that is cruel and petty, and does not forgive transgressions against certain ethereal laws. The Thin Man does not feel adequate to the task; whereas Mono's greatest drive is to outrun the misfortune that has plagued his entire existence.

2 _ 1 _ The Patience of Singularity

First

 The last he saw of the girl was her shaded face, under the hood of the clever raincoat. He tried to read the expression, understand what happened. In a blink She was gone.

 And he kept falling.

 But WHY?

 The air whipped past his shoulders and thrashed his coat, faster and faster through the unstoppable descent. Darkness boiled around him, crowding out the last scrap of light he would ever see in his short life. As certain as time ticked onward, unhindered by events and mortal struggles; nothing could negate the reality of his situation.

 She let go. Tore Her hand out of his grasp, and he was still falling.

 At some point in the longest, darkest, most painful plummet in all his little world, he knows nothing. Mono only knows that he was falling, then somewhere he was not, but now he is mostly awake. He was not dead or hurt, only asleep or unaware for a short time. Somehow, he survived what should have shattered him, and it felt as if a force beyond his meager grasp cackled at the pain his unscathed plunge now brought. A cruel trick, wicked and mean.

 Yes, he was all right. Oh, how he wished that were not so.

 The floors and walls writhe and churn, the air boundless in humid reek, thick with the sour stench coating this awful the place. It was alive - with massive and puffy eyes glaring out of inflamed tissue, searching, hungry, likely insatiable.

 The boy leapt up and scrambled across rolling hills of the squirming landscape, his feet generated a flat plap-plap with frantic, erratic movement when he charged one way or stumbled another, to no gain. A thick film of sweat clung to the greasy surface, preventing him from scaling in numerous directions that might’ve been safe-eR. At best they were not, but the restriction maddened him and heightened his fear. The manner in which every visible surface flexed with purpose, it was impossible to deny it was not guiding him to somewhere.

 While running with all the turmoil he could muster, he swept his view toward the above. The loathsome air made his eyes water, that was the only reason why they stung and hurt. Made his nose prick and itch, the back of his throat tightened. A little whine trilled out, but he stifled it. Tried to. His presence was known, everything here knew that he was. It didn’t matter if he screamed or shouted, wailed into the gloomiest most isolated depths. Nothing would find him here; nothing that wasn’t already aware.

 She did this. Left him. Let him… tore away. But….

 W̵̜̹̃͑H̷̥̚Y̴̱̰͆͗?̴͉̒̾!̵͈̥͘!̷͚̈́͘?̷̻̾!̷̪̯̆̍?̸̙̯̉̏

 Nothing but darkness persisted between the churning fabric, and somewhere within the wriggling depths, more of the flesh rolled inward. Folds upon waves descending. Closer. Groaning.

 Snickering.

 Time was nonexistent. He didn’t know for how far he went, let alone where he was going. What he should hope to reach. He had no idea where he was, let alone what this place was. This… this was the Signal Tower, wasn’t it? The same Signal Tower he wanted to challenge, so they could fix the world, cleave it from all the nightmares and horror which robbed him of friends. All of them. This was that very same p̸̨̋l̵̝̖̕ã̷̲̳̈c̷̖͋͒ͅẽ̷̙!

 The reflection crushed him, almost as much as it devastated him when She wrenched her hand out of his grasp. It was no grand machine, there was nothing to smash or break, no button nor a fuse. Just the gross mass of raw tissue, eyes, teeth. The putrid bloated body of a creature lodged into a tall building, a living and breathing thing that desired nothing but to feed, and constantly. Devour mindlessly whatever was cast into its pit without thought, no remorse.

 Everything he did, all the trials endured, the pain suffered; all of it so he could chance saving the most important person in the world. Risked everything, because he couldn’t live with himself if he abandoned her to this horrible fate. Only to wind up here in the pit of famine and emptiness.

 Left for dead. Abandoned. Unwanted. And he didn’t understand why. What to reason? If there was reason, and she didn’t plan this from the very beginning. None of this made sense. He didn’t understand. Why?! Why any of it!? Why stay with, if not want?

 Odd things crossed his path as he wandered aimless, lost and miserable. Items that might’ve elicited hope, if not for their bizarre situations. Partially buried window frames, lamps of every shape. The stray shreds of a door, sinking slowly. Scattered cement chunks, all fading into the pulsating tissue. Various bits and pieces of television parts, but nothing substantial, nothing he could make use of. Not that he needed a television, not that he….

 At last, he stumbled upon a chair. Unmoved and bothered by its precarious placement in the heaving flesh. As prior to the other items he dismissed, he left it and kept searching for somewhere that was not here. No matter how far he went, the direction he stumbled into.

 The chair would always be waiting.

 The flesh surrounding it, anchored beneath it – grinning – beseeching him. Safety. Sanctuary. Promises that a child would die for.

 Bugling walls lurched inward, the air became stifling and burdened by the foul odor, he couldn’t deny the chair. He couldn’t risk rejecting it a… however many times this was.

 Mono clawed his way across the steep mound and hoisted himself onto the flat, grainy, solid surface. He stood there at the summit, as a dozes eyes bore out of the rippling walls. Blinking, oozing, sweltering boils that swiveled and gawked at the child – a child unwilling to lie down and submit. They eyes rolled and the walls caved inward, chewing through the pitiful little space untainted yet, sipping greedily at the child.

  F̴͕͐̾Ļ̴̫̓͆I̶̒͋͜M̶͓͚̈́Š̵̥Y̸̗͋̚ ̴̡̎L̸͚͓͂͂I̴̮̪Ṯ̵͉̿͠Ţ̵̹̊̌L̷̼͆É̷̙̘̆ ̸̧̙̑M̷̖̈́O̷̫̔͜R̶̦͐̈́S̴̯͋Ẽ̴̢͕L̸̹̑ ̵͔̦̑̔ ̵̦̓͒

̷͚̟̉B̵͍̽Ȃ̷̛̹R̵̗̾̊Ḙ̶͇͗L̷̪͑̑Y̷̰̩͛ ̴̜̋Ä̸͓͒ ̴͇̙͝M̸͖͖͒O̸̩̜̐U̷̞̟̔̈́T̸͓͆H̴̼F̷̟͕͑U̵̯L̵̜̻̀͠ ̸̡̱́͗

̷͇͇̈W̵͍ͅH̶̬̐̆Ȁ̵͍T̷͎̈́̓ ̴͈̐Ḑ̸̫̂Ǒ̷̼̂Ȅ̶͇͜S̷̬̈ ̵̣̮͌͂ ̵̺͑̒

̴̼͆͝Ï̴̥͕̓Ţ̷̩̂̈ ̶̧̻͛͠Ḧ̸̤́Ŏ̶̰̖͝P̶͈̈͝Ė̷͎ ̸̧̖͗

̷͙̙̍T̸̫͉͋Ȯ̴̧̼̽ ̶̘͈̃

̸̧͐A̶̢̝͗̚C̷͙̫͂Ḩ̵̅I̴̫̯͛͠Ȇ̶̥V̸̖̑̆E̶̺͊͠ ̷̭̍ͅ

̷̨͙͍̜̘͖̜̃͛

 “Look at someone—” Mono threw his arms out, “—E̸͟͏̤̲̤̗͍̩̘L̡̝͉S̢̬͕̬͖̗̱E̶̮̠̟̟͓̯̰!̝̟̞̥̹͓͜ͅ”

 The whole chamber flashed in a surge of white, so blinding and intense it seared his bones within his skin.

__

 With a jolt the Thin Man realized he was no longer in that tiny cement room, secluded away from the world and all its petty complexities. He was no longer biding away the years and waiting, watching a door he barely acknowledged aside from face it. For whatever positive it allowed, he had survived all encounters with his child self. As perplexing as each of those incidents was, the smaller one did not fair the better for it.

 The rain drummed gently on the remaining glass of the rooms window, curious light distortions tinged the corroded walls. By the illumination piercing the clouds, it must have been midday; the hour was certainly not dead of night.

 A bowl of water and some scraps of food always stayed on the windowsill. A habit he came unto, while Mono recovered from another incident utilizing his… powers. That might’ve been the closest the child was willing to come to harm the Thin Man – ironically, harming his own self more than the shadow that was subconsciously drawn to his whereabouts. A fact the Thin Man felt deep shame of, given how driven the child was to avoid him, and the volatile reaction when revealed how hopeless that effort was.

 Speek of he, and he shall materialize.

 There is the child, slinking in from the doorway as if he had committed some heinous crime. His only crime seemed to be existing where he wasn’t wanted.

 From where he slouched beside the dresser, the Thin Man inched his hat up a fraction. He silently observed Mono ark out beyond his range and padded over to the furthest side of the open drawer. Likely out doing another walk of the apartment. He did those periodically, when his mind couldn’t settle. Around the small room, a few of the treasures sat out. Though, the child never took to any of them – not like the bear, which he arguably favored. Some of those gifts the Thin Man put into the drawer, even if Mono didn’t seem to care for them, the boy didn’t reject them irrefutably.

 The child wound up into his coat and propped his chin on the rim of the dresser drawer, gaze fixed on the Thin Man. As always, it unnerved him. This incessant watching. Waiting. Expectant. Reluctant to make speek, and whatever speek remained limited and simplified. He – the child – was always so proud of speek, of making his voice. It was a rare day when he could get Mono to respond to a question, but the child seemed to be coming around. In no great haste, but at least at some choice times he could hear the little voice.

 With a crackly sigh, the Thin Man leaned over and reached across the open drawer. The child twisted at his grasp and tried to get away, but the Thin Man looped his fingers around the torso and plucked him out. For whatever reason Mono resisted, and that was… odd. The child wasn't typically opposed to being lifted or moved, and more than once he had to deal with the child knotted into his side like some little... needy thing. He didn't understand this sudden contrast, or the reluctance he was experiencing now. That was all it was, mediocre objection. He had seen firsthand a panicked and terror stricken Mono, writhing upon the brink of utter desperation. Thankfully, this was not that. Annoyed more than anything.

 The Thin Man shifted the child between his palms, keeping his fingers curled carefully in case the little one tried nipping or succeeded in squirming loose. Once Mono accepted he wasn't getting away, his flailing ceased. That was better, he could view the face proper now – animated, curious, a little put off at being disturbed. So much better than lost to a coma.

 He held out hope he’d find something… familiar, in the child’s face. Someone he’d seen while staring into a muddy, rainbow lashed puddle, or the corroded refracted distortions in shattered mirrors. A ghost of a reflection in a foggy window, as he gazed out toward the Signal Tower awaiting endlessly in the yonder distance. He studied the eyes, the blank expression, searching for a spark of familiarity in those strange depths. Who was this child? Why was there such a... disconnection? No kindred tether existed between he and this boy. The face was vacant, devoid of something so instrumental to his youth. He would almost wager he – the elder – was disenchanted.

 Mono coiled his arms around his head and leaned back as far as his spine would allow. The Thin Man debated shifting the thin arms aside, but cast out the thought. The child didn’t like being the subject of such scrutiny, and the little body was quivering.

 The Thin Man leaned away from the wall and set Mono back into his corner of the drawer. The child cringed down, tightening the grip on his head when the Thin Man withdrew his hands. The Thin Man settled one of the plush toys beside Mono, and pulled a shirt sleeve over the smaller one so he could be hidden until he was ready to emerge.

 In a glitchy surge, the Thin Man stood tall. He paced out of the room, in a deep bow as always. He’s aware of the haunted face peering out from beneath the shirt, but reframed from acknowledging it.

 This was all his doing. Every ounce of it, whether intentional or not, regardless intent. Everything that came upon the child, was due to his masterful deviation from the uncontestable loop.

 What always has been, shall always be.

 An accidental misstep unhinged everything he thought he knew of the endless coiling cycle. What he knew, from his own experience of the cycle – when he was a child, racing recklessly in the same steps as his predecessor, and he before him. Etcetera, etcetera, et-cetera….

 He wouldn’t watch the child fall from a measly train cart, he couldn’t bear to witness his final plunge into the very same pit he was cast into, when he naively leapt and trusted without doubt. Without choice. He whisked Mono from that very banishment, yet he began to question if that was the most benevolent impulse. The boy knew by the Thin Man’s meddling, he was averted from certain destruction, but never saw entirely what he was salvaged from. Knew nothing of the horrible fate awaiting him in the pit, a fate worse than the certain death he feared.

 But was it so?

 Through his unintentional first intervention, he managed to deprive Mono of the initial drive and resolve he gained, which would equip his younger self to contest the Thin Man at the doors to the Signal Tower. Thus, the Thin Man’s uncontested fate was for the time postponed.

 Out of curiosity he accompanied the child to the Tower, with no promise that the stolen friend could be found. The problem being, the Thin Man knew Mono would stumble upon Her. Would succeed in tearing Her from the influence of the Tower, and liberate his friend from imprisonment. After everything he overcame, the pain he suffered, and during his most desperate time of need – the child would be cast away into the void. No rhyme or reason. It was arguably the coldest, most ruthless form of treachery.

 In the Thin Man’s second intervention, he snatched Mono from the pit, tore the child from the sanctuary he was promised. A prison for his capabilities. A cage for his rage. A shelter which would allow him to age and flourish in peace, beyond the reach of an ugly world that did not deserve such a resilient soul.

 Through his aimless wanderings of the city, mindful of items and treats that Mono might take to, the Thin Man did reflect how unfair all of this was to his child-self. How contradictory it was that he was so quick to accept his fate in the Signal Tower, yet expected Mono – unaware of the true nature of the haven he was whisked from – to resume pace in the unforgiving, petty and cruel world. Children were capable and self-sufficient, to a fault. But the boy remained confused, decimated by betrayal, hunted ruthlessly, and perhaps unfit to deal with the world and these certainties established.

 The Thin Man doesn’t even recall what he initially sought when he attended Mono's quest to the Tower. His presence was not necessary, so long as the child arrived as scheduled. The paradox continued, binding the loop – for whatever reason, the child never leaves the Signal Tower; he is sheltered, he is saved from the world, and the world is safe from him. As of yet, Mono remained cloaked from the truth of his paradoxical destiny. The life sentence awaiting at the Tower.

 In the distance, the Signal Tower loomed. The Thin Man stood at a window within a vapor of smog and sizzling particles, observing the impassive monolith through mostly intact glass. Tumescent clouds swirled the spire, as if the rainfall evaporated before hitting the surface of the unnatural structure. It seemed to sway and leer like cradle, mocking the figure studying it miles and miles away, hidden in another uninspired, mostly normal structure.

 His presence alone nearly killed the boy. Nothing in his possession and no item he could dredge up, would be enough for this… boy, he didn’t know. Yet Mono appeared very anxious by the prospect of his departure. He didn’t understand. Mono was repelled to him, while at the same time tormented by his absence. What was he meant to do? If he was not dubious for his chances of survival, he might consider returning Mono to the Tower himself. Regardless the fate awaiting him, when the boy assumed his role. The potential existed that Mono might even follow him to the place, without question. Or, if he explained the situation. If. If the child trusted him.

 The Thin Man was no fool. The child didn’t trust him in the slightest. Merely, accepted his proximity.

 Delivering the child was an option. The easiest solution by far. One to considered, before the irreversible happened. He didn’t… if it was even possible, and the worst came about, he couldn’t carry on existing if the child was…. Mono deserved better.

 Or, he could look after the smaller one himself, for the time. That was pure lunacy, a child and an adult coexisting. What would that even be? He wasn’t meant to be a part of any child’s life, much less his younger-self. He was not equipped for this debacle, the whole situation was doomed. Mono didn’t need him, nor protection (maybe from his self). The whole drama of if the child was receptive to remaining in his company, was another matter entirely. He was disinterested in chasing after the boy, given how that went when he wasn’t even trying to locate Mono.

 No easy answer existed. And in the heart of the city, in the distance, out there, its beacon light blazing through and through the storm – the Signal Tower waited. It only needed to wait, looming above the city, promising everything but relinquishing no solace. A snare with irresistible bait – unavoidable certainty.

 After a long, endless trek through the city and nothing to show for it, the Thin Man returned to the desolate little area where he stashed the child. The other apartment rooms, abandoned, and nothing to spare in necessities, he passed languidly as he made the trudge to the one door to the furthest end of the corridor. As always, the door is unlatched, should the child decide for himself to leave and go to wherever his heart desired. Anything could break in, but enough windows are available within for Mono to make his escape.

 No such event has transpired. The whole living space appeared abandoned, but once he ventured to the apartments secluded end and the desk room within, he discovered the location of the child. For whatever reason, Mono is trying to hoist himself up onto the desks top. Nothing of child interest is stashed there, aside from interesting curios and a few books he elected on a bored whim.

 Upon alert of his reappearance, the boy scrubbed the mission and let himself fall all the way to the floor. The desk was not low, but it was not a height that would harm a child. In a flash, he vanished under the table somewhere.

 The Thin Man wasn't paying attention. He sat down at the chair and propped his legs on the desk, trying to remind himself why he didn't just shut that door. Then again, remind himself not to dismiss the child with shut doors, and to permit some association if Mono was so inclined. And then come to regret that all in the same instant.

 A meek tug pried at his coat from the side, and he had to restrain the glare he wanted to inflict. At times the child was brash, and that ounce of defiance exhausted him so.

 Mono inched along the chair leg as he would a storm gutter, and reached high enough to snag the Thin Man's suit end. With this leverage, he fitted his feet upon the chair seat, then hoisted himself up to the Thin Man's midsection. The child kept his sight locked on the man in the hat, for signs of hostility or intolerance. When none are revealed, Mono crawled up as if enduring a crafty scheme and nestled into the Thin Man's coat. He was a little out of breath following the exertion, and his coiled shape trembled.

 The Thin Man tentatively reached over—

 It didn't take much to spook an anxious child. What was meant as a placating touch, was evidently deemed as something else entirely by Mono. The barest brush, and the child launched off the Thin Man and crashed to the floor. Stunned, the Thin Man sat up a little but reframed from uncoiling completely out of his posture. He glanced down in time to see the coat tail snap out of sight beneath the table. Once again, he reset his view to the doorway and leaned up, only at the instant the coat flittered out of sight. 

 No insight, no comprehension or suggestion existed to give due directions into this utter nonsense. He was not up to this, whatever it was. He flat-out did not understand, what was he meant to do?

 He pressed his hand over his eyes and hissed through the vibrating particles. It could be the child liked to torture him with random bits and unknowns. Who could say? They were devious little things at times.

Next

[lucianalight]

𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑠𝑠 2 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝐽𝑜𝑗𝑜 𝑅𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑤𝑠:

"Jojo pretends to enter the lion’s den, but lacks the courage to explore what it really looks like. And these days, the concept of Nazism has morphed into a more subtle threat that percolates in our society, sometimes in more latent ways than much of the country cares to admit. Satirizing Nazism from decades past is basically a copout.

That’s probably why some people love it. If Waititi wallowed in the bleak realities of Jewish persecution or the continuation of anti-Semitism to this day, it wouldn’t be “Jojo Rabbit.” Like much of Waititi’s work, this colorful coming-of-age comedy merges whimsy with the emotional poignance of a child coming to grips with the adult world, and on some occasions it musters real sympathy for that plight. But the adult world surrounding him plays like a half-hearted cartoon. 

The movie also portrays him as murderous anti-Semite. “Jojo Rabbit” never reconciles these competing variables, nor does it attempt to interrogate the very real paradox of a kind-hearted person with a monstrous relationship to the world.

the inanity of the Nazi character stems from a realistic core. When Waititi himself surfaces as Jojo’s imaginary Hitler pal, he’s just a child’s notion of heroism, devoid of substance. It’s believable that Jojo may be too young to grok the sheer mania of Nazism, but the movie dangles his naïveté as a joke unto itself: Kids those days believed the damnedest things!

Jojo Rabbit.premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival, where it won the coveted Audience Prize, but fewer people made time to see a very different Holocaust movie in the festival lineup that also dealt with a child’s perspective on the war. “The Painted Bird,”

The Painted Bird never aspires to make a mockery of its subject, but it takes some audacious (if not always successful) risks in how it approaches its goal. The poor kid’s struggles are so ludicrous that they nearly pitch into an absurdist comedy, with the kind of brash provocations that suggest the specter of Lars von Trier. It has the ambition missing from “Jojo,” a willingness to look directly into the void rather than sparing viewers the ugly realities of relentless struggle.

And maybe that’s why it will only appeal to the small fraction of people willing to take the plunge."

𝐼 𝑔𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝐽𝑜𝑗𝑜 𝑅𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑇𝑎𝑖𝑘𝑎 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑑 (𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐷𝑖𝑠𝑛𝑒𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑐𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑎𝑙𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑘𝑎), 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑢𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒. 𝑂𝑓 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑁𝑎𝑧𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐻𝑖𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛, ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑇𝐼𝐿𝐿 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑢𝑠 "𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑐𝑎𝑠𝑒"

"As a self-proclaimed “anti-hate satire” (or, in Waititi's words, an “anti-fuckface satire”) the apparent objects of Jojo Rabbit’s scorn are Nazism particularly, and a more generalized culture of zealous hate-mongering that is, in a modern context, productively associated with Nazism and its history. In the first respect, the film offers little beyond broad lampoonery. The Nazis figured onscreen (played by Sam Rockwell, Stephen Merchant, Rebel Wilson, and other familiar-ish faces) are depicted as utterly buffoonish. 

A major problem here is that playing this historical material for laughs feels utterly facile. This is especially true when it comes to the indoctrination of the impressionable youth, which Jojo takes as its ostensible subject. (The opening credits score footage of Nazi rallies to the Beatles’ German-language version of “I Want To Hold Your Hand,” drawing a nifty connection between Beatlemania and Hitlermania as some manic youth cult, which the film never bothers to develop.) 

But Waititi, who is seemingly possessed by the desire to make sure his audience gets it, lest his “let’s laugh at the Nazis” gambit be deemed garish or tasteless, takes pains to double-underline the jokes.

This commendation is hardly surprising given how much Jojo shares with these other certified crowd-pleasers. With its mile-wide lampooning and deliberate avoidance of the breadth of Nazism’s horrors (anti-Semitism may be front-and-centre, but the Holocaust itself is never confronted head-on), Jojo Rabbit never risks actually disturbing its audience. Instead, they are left comforted by the notion that it is bad to hate and that simply recognizing that truism is the basis of a moral life."

Thank you @loki-snape-our-hero ! This was really enlightening. I remember reading an article a long time ago saying that TW played it safe and didn’t actually explored the important and risky aspects of Nazism in Jojo Rabbit. This explains why. I just want to add my two cents about some parts that specially bothered me.

It’s believable that Jojo may be too young to grok the sheer mania of Nazism, but the movie dangles his naïveté as a joke unto itself: Kids those days believed the damnedest things! 

As if kids being brainwashed by hate and harmful ideologies is a joke. As if it’s funny that their childhood is taken from them. I don’t want to keep drawing parallels but I just can’t help it when I know and see and have experienced what this kind of brainwashing does to people and how its affects keep hurting you through all your life.

Instead, they are left comforted by the notion that it is bad to hate and that simply recognizing that truism is the basis of a moral life. 

That is never enough. It is not enough to not hate. You have to take a stand against it. You have to call it out and take action against it. Only then there is a chance that hate can be defeated.

[shypotato-translations]

QTVW Chapter 19

Showbiz* Sexy Queen (VI)

----

Ling Yi Yao finally drank the so-called "love" green bean soup. Although she didn't know why she did it, she knew very well that if she didn't do it, this strange woman in front of her would definitely do something that she would regret.

It was an instinct she had acquired on the battlefield after years of experience in the midst of gunfire, and now she felt a crisis that also sent chills down her spine.

Mei Mu Lan saw the spring smile on her face after she drank the soup.

She was already extremely gorgeous, and when she smiled, she was even more charming, and the few staff members who were quietly watching from across the room couldn't help but cover their beating hearts when they saw this scene.

Mei Mu Lan took back the thermos and packed all these things away, then immediately asked Ling Yi Yao with a serious face, saying,

“I don't know much about anything and I've never acted before, so I'm going to work very hard this coming week to learn from you, and I won't let you down!”

Ling Yi Yao: “……”

Why does it always feel like that, something doesn't sound right?

Mei Mu Lan continued,

“Good, I'm glad we've come to an understanding, so I think it's a good idea to move in with you so that we can study night and day. You see, I'm good-looking, so I won't bring down your taste when I walk with you; I have four-star hotel cooking skills, so I can make you eat delicious food; I can also talk with you to relieve your boredom, be a mood bin and so on; I can also……”

Mei Mu Lan made a mishmash of words and phrases, words that came out automatically without her being aware of them. In the end, even she believed that she was so talented that the person she was 'dating' was taking advantage of her.

Ling Yi Yao: “……”

No, it's always been you.

Ling Yi Yao smiled stiffly and said,

“It's not good for us to live together, it's not convenient.”

A very clear indication of rejection that any ordinary person could understand.

But it was clear that Mei Mu Lan was no ordinary person, as she turned pale and went from bright sunshine to thunder and lightning in a fraction of a second.

She saw her head slightly lowered and the back of her white hand wiped her cheek, and crystal drops of water fell on the back of her hand,

“I thought……,”

Her slow voice said,

“We've spent so much time together that we've at least been friends, but……”

Her voice was as mournful and silent as the autumn breeze sweeping through the hearts of the people.

Before Ling Yi Yao could react, a cry sounded again. Although the voice only had two tones, it could fully express the owner's disbelief, heartache, grief and despair at that moment.

And it is because there are only two tones that the tolerance of the owner of the voice can be expressed in a way that is so clear.

Ling Yi Yao instantly felt that she had done something unjustifiably bad, and the staff around her, who were seriously working and actually watching the show, couldn't help but tsk twice and sigh longingly to the heavens,

“People's hearts are not in the right place,”

“The times are changing,”

“Rites and ceremonies are in ruins,”

“The world is a cold place,”

Ling Yi Yao drew a cold breath in her heart and could barely keep the smile off her face, while the woman opposite her was already crying with her shoulders shaking.

Ling Yi Yao frowned, thinking that this person's behaviour was really weird and scary, but although this person was behaving strangely, as far as she could see, she hadn't done anything too out of the ordinary, and as for the previous ones, they were just the daily behaviour of fans towards their idols, which was understandable.

She frowned and said,

“I think of you as a friend, but living together, it's……”

Her words were interrupted as the woman opposite looked up, teary-eyed, but still smiling brightly, and said,

“It's convenient, right? Don't worry, I'll follow you when you're done, I won't get lost.”

Ling Yi Yao: “……”

This inexplicable chest tightness and heartache!

Just as Ling Yi Yao wanted to speak again and explain clearly, an abrupt man's voice interjected and he said,

“Yao Yao, is this a friend of yours?”

Mei Mu Lan and Ling Yi Yao looked over together and saw a dozen men and women in suits walking over, and standing at the front was the man who had just spoken, looking about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, playing with a white mobile phone in his hand, taking off his suit jacket and wearing only a white handmade shirt because of the somewhat hot weather, the corners of his mouth and eyebrows were frivolously raised, and the whole person looked somewhat cynical.

Mei Mu Lan scanned him and inclined her head, then saw the woman who was following him and holding his suit.

This woman was familiar to her, namely Bai Jieying, who had been interviewed with her yesterday, and when Mei Mu Lan saw her, she guessed the identity of the visitor.

The thought occurred to her: This man is the male lead in this novel, Ling Yi Yao's uncle Ling Tianye. It seems that the power of the plot is indeed great, the male and female leads finally met and hooked up even earlier than before, it is written in the original novel that the female lead only agreed to become Ling Tianye's mistress on the third day after the interview, but from the current situation, they should have fallen in love last night, right?

Mei Mu Lan looked at Bai Jieying, and saw that she was exuding charming beauty, her body was shaking, and she looked like she had been tortured all night, which made Mei Mu Lan grimace.

Naturally, Ling Yi Yao could see what was going on between them and asked,

“Ling Tianye, why are you free to come to the set today?”

Ling Tianye looked at Mei Mu Lan with interest and hooked out a reply,

“I came to have a look and recommend someone to try out for the crew, here……”

As he said this, he dragged Bai Jieying behind him into his arms and said,

“This is a new toy I found, it looks good, doesn't it? It's fun to play with it, and since she's making me comfortable, it's only natural that I should pay her back a little.”

Bai Jieying's face was white, she didn't expect this man to tell the truth about their deal in public, and he said it in such an unpleasant way, as if she was a cheap woman who had fallen back on him, she didn't dare to look at the expressions of the people around her, her nails were embedded in her hands, her heart was overwhelmed with hatred, thinking: when I become famous, I will kick you, this slag, immediately!

Ling Yi Yao only casually glanced at Bai Jieying before looking at Ling Tianye and said,

“This one wasn't bad, it looked much cleaner than the previous warbler, but the pay was too high.”

The director, who had been concentrating on filming the scene, saw Ling Tianye, the director’s investor and a good friend, had come to the set, so he also came over, and after seeing what was happening here, he said,

“This woman came to the audition yesterday, we were there, and her acting skills were not good at all, she was very stiff and weak, so she was dismissed. I didn't expect her to find you there, man, this is our company's annual blockbuster, the company's masterpiece in the film industry, don't mess around, if you want to play, invest in a small budget film for her, give her a chance to play.”

Ling Tianye stretched his hands and pushed Bai Jieying to the side in a bored manner, saying to her helplessly,

“As you can see, Wang Ye did not agree to your role, and what did you tell me last night, you said you were a good actress but those people had backing, so I agreed to your role, but look at the result now, this is making me look bad in public, okay, assistant, write her a cheque and kick her out.”

Bai Jieying cried out on the spot, she grew up without a father, but her mother has always been powerful and awesome, rich and beautiful, and she has always been sought after and adored by others, but ever since her boyfriend cheated on her with her best friend, everything has gone wrong for her, her mother wants her to marry a balding old man in his forties, her stepfather doesn't care about her, and she chooses to go into the entertainment industry, but has no corresponding work experience and no acting skills, so she was always rejected.

By the time she got a good chance, she was also brushed off.

Last night, after accidentally meeting this young and wealthy man, she committed herself to him for her future, and now she is in this situation.

This time, she would definitely keep it in her heart, she thought with hatred, her eyes coldly swept a glance at Ling Yi Yao and Mei Mu Lan, then looked at Ling Tianye with resentment, raised her head and left in high pride.

Ling Yi Yao's face sank, this was the first time someone had given her a scowl, and when Ling Tianye saw this expression on his niece's face, he knew she was angry now and this was how she would sulk when she was angry, then her heart would stifle and wilt, secretly she would definitely find a way to attack back.

Ling Tianye shrugged his shoulders helplessly, then waved his hand and said,

“In that case, I'm going back to the office, so go for it.”

“……”

Ling Yi Yao looked at him coldly, turned her head and walked away.

Leaving Ling Tianye to shrug his shoulders with a bitter smile and rub his brow, he led the elite men and women behind him away.

Mei Mu Lan frowned and did not go after Ling Yi Yao, but sat down on the recliner, her heart full of sorrow.

What's going on here? Why is reality completely different from the plot?

Not only the attitude of the male lead towards the female lead, but also the feeling that the female lead gives off, it's like a child who hasn't grown up, her emotions are all on her face, which is completely different from the description of the novel that depicts a happy and angry woman who is strong in social skills and has completely taken over the male lead.

Moreover, although the plot did not describe how Ling Yi Yao and Ling Tianye got along, in the middle and later stages of the novel, the two of them did have a very bad relationship, even to the point of death, but now, as far as she could see, the facts showed that their relationship was clearly very good and close.

Mei Mu Lan frowned at these anomalies and pondered the reasons for them: The villain Ling Yi Yao, the male lead Ling Tian Ye, the roadie Aunt Wen, the director…… The female lead, on the other hand, seems to be a different person, with horribly awkward methods, and she was not chosen as a cast member, so that means that her acting skills are also average.

What's going on?

Mei Mu Lan recalls the female lead in the original owner's memory, which is somewhat similar to the current female lead, who looks like she gives the impression of a noble and high-minded literary artist.

And now the female lead, although her words and actions are in line with the plot, the end result, however, produces a great deviation.

And the female lead in the novel's plot is a queen of all variations.

On-screen, she can be charming and flirtatious at the same time; off-screen, she is kind and gentle to her fans and journalists; when facing her male lead, she is very tactful, combining pampering with warmth and consideration.

And so on, which means that the root of all the anomalies is the female lead, Bai Jieying, who has something very wrong with her.

When Mei Mu Lan figured this out, she felt a cold sweat in the heat of the day.

This situation is very much like the classic situation in a crossover novel, where the all-powerful female lead enters the body of the clumsy original owner and uses her powers to make her way in the crossover world.

So, the system provides the female lead in the novel's plot, which is, in fact, a fictional world that unfolds when an outside crossover enters the female lead's body.

And as the manager of the virtual time and space, she had never understood before what made her suddenly enter the fictional world to do her mission? But after this incident, she understood the reason behind it, it was because the virtual time and space had been intruded by travelers from the real world.

Just as the truth of the crossing dawned on her like an enlightening experience, a familiar cold mechanical voice rang out in her head,

【Host Mu Lan, decipher the true meaning of the system's mission and activate the system's hidden mission to solve the arrogant travelers who have crossed over from the real world.】

【The system rewards a random prize pack, which can be opened after the completion of this mission. Wish the host Mu Lan to complete the mission soon.】