mad with tenderness

TFC characters as messages i've sent pt. 2
  • Dan: i want four giant talking dogs
  • Kevin: im doin squat thrusts right outside of your room, join me
  • Andrew: if im not in bed and im not at cfa, i'll be home soon
  • Matt: let's be swolemates
  • Aaron: i feel like im when moms are going around screaming as they do things and you're like "how can i help mom?" and she yells I DONT NEED HELP and you're like "but you seem mad" IM NOT MAD WHY DO YOU THINK IM MAD?
  • Seth: kinky,,, tender (about machamp carrying you in pokemon sun/moon)
  • Allison: one day im going to meet a nice blind man and then FINALLY i will have no one to impress aesthetically in a relationship. he just wants me to smell nice and i usually do. solid. done.
  • Nicky: snapchat filter: changes the entire structure of my face // me: wow maybe i was beautiful all along
  • Renee: i'm so ready to go into battle wit u
  • Neil: if they lock me up please break me out and smuggle me out of the country with cfa and thin mints
  • Jean: at least you won't be shot in the woods
  • Jeremy: not to be that guy but that's gay

my touch
against your skin
our mouths
drinking each other’s lust
hands seizing the moment
whispers melting into screams

- PD Bates

My next play [The Glass Menagerie] will be simple, direct and terrible- a picture of my own heart.  There will be no artifice in it.  I will speak the truth as I see it- distort as I see distortion- be wild as I am wild- tender as I am tender- mad as I am mad- passionate as I am passionate.  It will be myself without concealment or evasion and with a fearless unashamed frontal assault upon life that will leave no room for trepidation…a passionate denial of sham and a cry for beauty.
—  Tennessee Williams
I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. She was only the dead-leaf echo of the nymphet from long ago - but I loved her, this Lolita, pale and polluted and big with another man’s child. She could fade and wither - I didn’t care. I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face.
—  Lolita

brief list of things I have loved about hannigram’s prison scenes so far in no particular order: 

  • the way they switch from Will’s side of the glass to Hannibal’s once Hannibal’s influence becomes more powerful
  • the overlaying of ghost-image reflections
  • the fact that literally everyone else who visits Hannibal just goes there to annoy, taunt, insult, dissect, use him, etc - but not Will
  • the brilliant use of Memory-Palace to let them both escape the four walls, walk right through that pane of glass
  • everyone who visits Hannibal comes with a game-face and agenda but Will can’t; he can’t repress his emotions, his heart’s on his sleeve; he’s the only one who gives Hannibal genuine emotion. He’s still naked before him
  • he knows he’s wearing insufficient armour but he goes anyway
  • but it hurts because professionalism and distance is the one thing Hannibal doesn’t want from him
  • Will acquits himself so fucking well compared to everyone else he maintains his dignity even when Hannibal is playing mind-games (even if he hates his attempts at disinterest damn I bet Hannibal admires this about him)
  • he must be the only person to show Hannibal deference or respect in three whole years??
  • the way Hannibal moves in relation to Will and always as close to the glass as he can get
  • the way Will doesn’t acknowledge (or even seem to notice) when Hannibal’s cell is emptied as if he only sees Hannibal, the actual physical objects around him, the exact conditions of his incarceration, are so completely irrelevant as to be beneath his notice (this is exactly what Hannibal would hope for; Mr Escapes-into-his-memory-palace. His beloved Will, the one person it would most kill him to be undignified in front of, doesn’t even see any indignity. What indignity? It’s Hannibal. Dire circumstances cannot diminish him. A tiger in a dank cage is still a fucking tiger.)
  • the way every scene begins with Will being as hard as he can but ends with him softening towards Hannibal and you can see him changing
  • Will talks to his wife and his child and his boss without gaining any comfort, keeps his rage bottled up… to show it to Hannibal, who can accept it… 
  • he remains spitting mad … until he’s under Hannibal’s tender ministrations. This is the guy that caused all this mess in the first place and he’s utterly unrepentant – but half a minute of gently murmuring in his ear and Will is quieted
  • how Hannibal’s voice changes suddenly as he’s talking about what the Dragon means to Francis, like he’s actually talking about what Will means to him: freedom, shedding his skin (i.e. casting off the current unsavoury trappings that confine him, like escaping the walls of a prison cell), the sound of His voice, his own reflection (cut to Will seen through a dark pane of glass, as in a mirror).
  • Will feels terrible, he’s distraught, he’s pushed into a corner, he’s dangling on a hook; he wants to feel better, he wants to feel good … and the one he goes to is Hannibal. Hannibal is the only one who can give him solace
  • the subtle shift from ‘you did this to me’ to ‘this fucking dragon thinks he can get away with this!!’ and Hannibal actually being the sympathetically-murderous ear. There’s a change from you + him against me to you + me against him. They go back to an ‘us.’ And there’s no Jack Crawford or Bedelia du Maurier or Alana Bloom standing in between them now!!
  • Hannibal being so fucking audacious with his manipulations again tho like he already knows Will feels good killing bad men and now he’s given him a very personal reason to want to kill this particular bad man, and set himself up as the only way he has to get at him and get that good-feeling again it’s like Will is an ex-alcoholic and Hannibal’s just given him a sip of beer and then said oh by the way I run the only bar in town. 

*and probably like a hundred other things I’m too overwhelmed to remember*

I JUST ???


Completely egocentric, trapped inside himself, incapable of empathising or identifying with others, or love, friendship, affection or tenderness. He is a completely isolated unit, incapable of rapport with anyone. He is incapable of mental passion, mental interaction. He is half-dead–incapable of giving or receiving pleasure or happiness; consequently, he is at best an utter bore, since only those capable of absorption in others can be charming.
—  Valerie Solanas

“She walks in beauty, like the night/ Of cloudless climes and starry skies;/ And all that’s best of dark and bright/ Meet in her aspect and her eyes;/ Thus mellowed to that tender light/ Which heaven to gaudy day denies.” - George Gordon Lord Byron (born: 22 January 1788)

I looked and looked at her, and I knew, as clearly as I know that I will die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth. She was only the dead-leaf echo of the nymphet from long ago - but I loved her, this Lolita, pale and polluted and big with another man’s child. She could fade and wither - I didn’t care. I would still go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of her face.
—   Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

anonymous asked:

Prompt: Mulder and Scully caught in the rain. <3

(send me prompts)

She’s more guarded these days, her shoulders always squared away, her steps steady in heels an inch taller than ever before. Her suits are immaculately ironed and tailored, and every curl of her hair is methodically placed. He hates it all.

When his life is falling apart, it shows on every inch of him. His hair turns grey, his bones creak and scruff builds a home over his face. He trips over his own feet and pulls off his t-shirt at the end of the day to find it had been on backward. He stops eating for days at a time and forgets that sleep even exists.

But she pulls herself together, builds a force against the world that screams strength.

They’re driving to a motel in Oregon and it’s so like old times that he wants to scream. Just like the first time, the woman next to him feels like a complete stranger, except now he knows what she looks like in moments of absolute joy and unimaginable despair, he knows what makes her tick and what makes her cry; he knows what each inch of curves under her suit tastes like.  

He’s spent the last week trying to stop himself from pushing her against a filing cabinet, ripping open each button of her shirt and stripping her down to the woman who doesn’t bother with defensive walls against him. It’s not about sex, but rather a plea for her to look him in the eye and say anything that hasn’t been rehearsed for minutes before.

He wants to see her smile and hear her laugh; he wants to hear her yell at him, shoot him again if that’s what it takes. But instead she stays collected and speaks as she needs to. This is work and that’s all.

He wonders what she’d do if he reached over and threaded their fingers together, in the way he would when they would fight on the run — quiet enough to say I’m still mad, but tender enough to say I’ll always be here. Instead her perfectly manicured hands are flipping through police reports and news articles, closed off to him.

It’s easier to see the dark fields through the rain on the dashboard than it is to read her right now.

He knows this isn’t easy for her, that being here with him everyday is pulling at her last bits of self control. She’ll break at some point, enough to ask if he needs sunflower seeds when she runs into the gas station or maybe place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. But right now he can’t read anymore of her. 

He’s not asking for much, he’s not pleading for her to come home to him, he just wants a sign that she’s not entirely gone.

Almost without thinking he pulls the car over to the side of the road, sending her jerking forward against the seat belt.

“What the…” she starts and he loves the flash of anger and annoyance across her face.

“C’mon,” he urges and jumps out of the car.

She follows, like he knows she always will.

“What are you doing, Mulder?” She groans, seconds from begging to get back into the car.

“Come here,” he all but orders reaching out his hands to her. She doesn’t take them, but follows as he starts walking into the field. He stops when they can no longer see the road and turns to her, burying his fingers in his pockets. He shrugs. He hadn’t figured out what to do once they got to this part, but he needed her and the spontaneity and the chance to throw her off.

She looks up at him, impatient and annoyed. She’s rubbing her arms, cold from the pounding rain that’s starting to soak through her suit. Even her hairspray can’t hold up to the weather and within minutes her hair has soaked straight, frizzing slightly at the sides. Before he can stop himself his hand is in her hair, grabbing a lock and tracing it down.

“I missed your hair like this,” he sighs.


“Natural. It’s always beautiful, but I love it when you don’t mess with it.”

He watches the wheels in her head turn to figure out how to respond and he thinks he may have gotten through a little bit. He sees irritation and frustration, and a little bit of heartbreak.

“C’mon,” she says, gently wrapping her fingers around his palm and walking back toward the car. She looks back at him for one unguarded moment to tug him along, her eyes half sad and half hopeful and a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. It’s not quite head thrown back in laughter, but it’s a start.