"–Don't be afraid."

A few Head canons in this piece I’m not too sure about, I just wanted to a post to go along with the picture which is basically my idea of a possible romance that happened before Barbara.

Stricklander woke in an almost fit, his eyes scanning his surroundings quickly with abject precision, dilated and aware that he had been vulnerable asleep. He would have risen immediately and taken a better look around his current environment to see what threats might have been there, had he not realized sooner what was curled up underneath his arm, or rather who was curled up underneath his arm.

Keep reading

I hope we get a scene after the Grand Prix finals (assuming Yuuri wins) where Yuuri tries to awkwardly talk to sulky Yurio and tell him he did a good job and that he’s definitely improving really fast.  But Yurio just stubbornly ignores him and glares at the wall until Yuuri starts to feel bad for bothering him at all.  He’s about to give up when suddenly Yurio just grits his teeth like-

“You’re inviting me to the wedding, right?”

And there’s a beat of silence before Yuuri basically bursts into tears because its been kind of an overwhelming day and Yurio does care. Then he starts nodding really rapidly because he’s too emotional to say anything beyond some increasingly incoherent babbling.

And Yurio basically stares at him in abject disgust for a few moments before finally rolling his eyes really dramatically and hugging Yuuri; still trying to make it incredibly clear how exasperated he is- no he doesn’t care about katsudon at all, and he’s certainly not happy for him, okay?

Except he does. 

Don’t tell anyone.

There is so much one could say. Take everything that follows as provisional. I may change my mind or mood. This is just where I am at right now. And I’m tired. It’s late.

In truth I didn’t hate all of it. I kind of wish I did. Because the glimpses of stuff that felt like they worked were still building on the relationship - the heart of the show.

The synchronicity between John and Sherlock, the constant checking on each other. They were sexy as hell in moments. This felt like a new them. Tighter. Sure of each other. Without a quiver of doubt. But the coldness of the episode - the abject callous cruelty. It was so bleak.
For the first time this is an episode I don’t like the thought of revisiting and it retroactively taints the entire story before it. All the way back to ASiP and makes the whole thing tragic and under a dark looming cloud. Really horribly tragic.

There were seeds there of the unfolding love story - of them moving on into a new happier more secure place together and all it was was glimpses. Clearly there. But overwhelmed with this horrifically morbid tale. In which a family finds redemption in sitting together in an ultra maximum security prison. With no real chance of healing. No way to ever get back lost time.

All our emotional energy was being told to go to that story but meanwhile Martin and Ben have never been this in sync. It feels a shame to think if there’s no more to follow we don’t get to see them play crime fighting lovers. For flashes of it you could see it. How it would work.

But if this was the big finale why not go there now? Just say it. No more subtext. It works. These two really work. And instead they had to pull Mary in again when we’d already had her “blessing” on the relationship in TLD. Why bring her back from the dead again? It felt like we were being told to focus on the “boys” but it was pulling us to look at her. Which is what kept happening - the thing to watch was them. The center of the show but we were expected to put our emotional investment elsewhere. When it was screamingly obvious that John is now family to Sherlock. His family of choice. Non negotiable. And so we weren’t allowed to revel in that. Enjoy that after such a long arc of pain since TRF. Instead it was even more pain.
And meanwhile they were right there. Partners. In cahoots. Creating a new life.
That speech of Mary’s - it felt like it was meant to be an olive branch of inclusion to all kinds of fans. But it didn’t feel groundbreaking. It wasn’t historic. And they could have done it so easily. It would have taken very little to have visually acknowledge the clearly shifting relationship in an unambiguous textual way. There were multiple missed opportunities.

I feel like we were on the brink but lacking the necessary conviction. The calm surety and boldness. It could have worked. In spite of the plot holes and other critiques there were lines and pictures we were missing that could have so easily been there.

What a lost opportunity.

And it wasn’t just Donald Trump who won last night—it was his supporters too. The Klan won last night. White nationalists. Sexists, racists and buffoons. Angry young white men who think rap music and Cinco de Mayo are a threat to their way of life (or are the reason for their way of life) have been given cause to celebrate. Men who have no right to call themselves that and who think that women who aspire to more than looking hot are shrill, ugly, and otherwise worthy of our scorn rather than our admiration struck a blow for misogynistic shitheads everywhere. Hate was given hope. Abject dumbness was glamorized as being “the fresh voice of an outsider” who’s going to “shake things up.” (Did anyone bother to ask how? Is he going to re-arrange the chairs in the Roosevelt Room?) For the next four years, the President of the United States, the same office held by Washington and Jefferson, Lincoln and Teddy Roosevelt, F.D.R., J.F.K. and Barack Obama, will be held by a man-boy who’ll spend his hours exacting Twitter vengeance against all who criticize him (and those numbers will be legion). We’ve embarrassed ourselves in front of our children and the world.
—  Aaron Sorkin

Tumblr has such an abject hatred of anime tiddy they snubbed an anime about a lesbian dragon just because her human form had big boobs.

Their disgust with tiddy trumped their love of lesbians. That’s a lot of boobyphobia.

I’d argue that the most devastating device in the actress’s arsenal is her right eyebrow, her most versatile, irrepressible anatomical feature. When arched, it serves as a semaphore, communicating disdain, dismissal, dread, or desire—sometimes all at once. That flexed ridge signals that no matter how abject the circumstances that Grahame’s characters may find themselves in, they will always maintain some core of dignity. I never take my eyes off her eyebrow but just sit waiting for her to raise it, as she does in this scene: in an early conversation between Dix and Laurel, occurring in his apartment shortly after she’s provided an alibi for him at the police station, that spidery, sculpted strip of hair transforms into an instrument of weaponized flirtation.

Read Melissa Anderson’s ode to Gloria Grahame’s performance in Nicholas Ray’s heartbreaking noir, In a Lonely Place.

  1. Psycho by Alfred Hitchcock, 1960.
  2. Lorna the Exorcist by Jess Franco, 1974.
  3. Possession by Andrzej Zulawski, 1981.
  4. The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Miss Osbourne by Walerian Borowczyk, 1981.
  5. The Living Dead Girl by Jean Rollin, 1982.
  6. The Fly by David Cronenberg, 1986.
  7. Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me by David Lynch, 1992.
  8. The Witch by Robert Eggers, 2015.
  9. The Neon Demon by Nicolas Winding Refn, 2016.

Films that end with a woman’s sublime or abject experience. Inspired in part by a post by batarde.

“Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling.”

A Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful by Edmund Burke, 1757.

“The corpse, seen without God and outside of science, is the utmost of abjection. It is death infecting life. Abject. It is something rejected from which one does not part, from which one does not protect oneself as from an object. Imaginary uncanniness and real threat, it beckons to us and ends up engulfing us.”

Powers of Horror by Julia Kristeva, 1980.

“A wound with blood and pus, or the sickly, acrid smell of sweat, of decay, does not signify death. In the presence of signified death–a flat encephalograph, for instance–I would understand, react, or accept. No, as in true theater, without makeup or masks, refuse and corpses show me what I permanently thrust aside in order to live. These body fluids, this defilement, this shit are what life withstands, hardly and with difficulty, on the part of death. There, I am at the border of my condition as a living being. My body extricates itself, as being alive, from that border. Such wastes drop so that I might live, until, from loss to loss, nothing remains in me and my entire body falls beyond the limit–cadere, cadaver. If dung signifies the other side of the border , the place where I am not and which permits me to be, the corpse, the most sickening of wastes, is a border that has encroached upon everything. It is no longer I who expel. ‘I’ is expelled. The border has become an object. How can I be without border?”

Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror