#Neon Grisly

[badathumanemotions]

Blood Lust

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI Category: Angst, Bit of Fluff, Mostly Smut CW: Vampires, Biting, Angst, Blood Drinking, Sort of Sub Spencer Reid, Dominate Reader, Oral (M rec.), Riding, Leaving Marks, Aftercare. WC: 7,981 Reader is turned into a vampire, she tries to get by on animal until it no longer sates her. She feels drawn to Spencer wanting his blood. She distances herself from him in fear of hurting him. Spencer is insistent on finding out and fixing what's wrong. I couldn't figure out a way to differentiate the bite that turns Reader and the regular feeding bite so just ignore that inconsistency. (Not Proof Read) Master List

Y/N hurried through the quiet streets, the chilly night air piercing through her thin jacket as she clutched the grocery bag tightly to her chest. The neon lights of the convenience store she'd just left cast a faint glow, but the shadows grew longer with each step she took away from its comforting embrace.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the alley ahead, moving with an unnatural grace that sent a shiver down her spine. He was tall, dressed in black, and his eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger that was all too familiar from the cases she'd worked on at the BAU. Before she could react, he was upon her, his hand clamping over her mouth to muffle her scream.

The world went dark as he dragged her into the shadowy alley, his strength overpowering her resistance. She felt the sharp pain of fangs sinking into her neck, the warmth of his breath against her skin, and the coppery taste of her own blood filling her mouth. Panic flooded her, but it was quickly replaced by a strange, euphoric feeling that washed over her like a wave. Her body went limp, and she felt the world around her start to fade away.

When she came to, she was lying on the cold, hard ground, her neck throbbing with pain. The figure was gone, leaving only the echo of his sinister laughter in the deserted alley. She gingerly touched the bite marks, feeling the tender, swollen skin.

Her heart raced as she stumbled back to her apartment, fear and confusion swirling in her mind. The night had gone from ordinary to bizarre in the blink of an eye. Inside, she collapsed onto her couch, the groceries scattered around her. The TV flickered, casting eerie shadows across the room, but she couldn't focus on anything other than the burning thirst that had taken hold of her.

Days passed in a blur of feigned normalcy. Y/N went through the motions at work, hiding the dark circles under her eyes with copious amounts of concealer and her newfound strength with careful control.

At night, she found herself drawn to the quiet parks and deserted alleys, the urban jungle teeming with unsuspecting prey. She'd started with small animals, their blood a meager substitute for what her body truly craved.

But it wasn't enough. The thirst grew stronger with each passing day, and Spencer's scent—his warm, tantalizing humanity—was becoming an obsession she couldn't shake. She tried to keep her distance, afraid of what she might do to her best friend if she lost control. Yet, every time she saw him, the urge to sink her teeth into his neck was almost overwhelming.

During briefings, she'd stare at the steady pulse in Spencer's neck, her eyes unconsciously tracing the blue veins that lay just beneath the surface. She'd sit in her chair, her heart racing, her fangs threatening to extend as he spoke, his words a dull buzz in her ears. She'd imagine the taste of his blood, rich and potent, and the way his body would arch beneath her. The other agents didn't notice her distraction, too engrossed in their own thoughts and the grisly details of their latest case.

One evening, as they were wrapping up a particularly harrowing profile, she caught Spencer glancing at her, his gaze lingering on her neck. She'd been so lost in thought that she hadn't even noticed her hand had been absently tracing the scar from her own transformation. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she quickly turned away, hoping he hadn't caught on to her secret obsession. She was seriously starting to think she was forming a kink for his long, graceful neck. It was all she could think about—how it would feel to have her teeth sink into the soft flesh, to hear the gasp of surprise followed by the sweet sound of his pulse beneath her fangs.

But she knew she couldn't let that happen. Her resolve grew stronger with every passing moment. It was becoming too much, and she had to put distance between herself and Spencer. If she didn't, she was afraid she'd give in to the hunger that gnawed at her insides. So, she started making excuses to leave early, avoiding being paired up, and taking her breaks at times when she knew he wouldn't be around.

Spencer noticed the change in her behaviour almost immediately, his eyes searching hers for answers she couldn't give. His hurt was palpable, a silent accusation that she felt in the pit of her stomach. He'd always been there for her, through thick and thin, and now she was pushing him away. But she had to protect him. If he knew what she was, he'd be in danger.

One evening, as the rest of the team packed up to leave the office, Spencer approached her desk with a hopeful smile. "Hey, Y/N, I was wondering if you'd like to come over tonight. We could order pizza, maybe watch a movie?"

Her heart clenched at the genuine warmth in his eyes, and she felt a pang of guilt for the way she'd been acting. But she knew she couldn't risk it. The hunger was too strong, especially when she was around him. "I'm sorry, Spencer," she said, her voice tight. "I can't. I've got a lot on my plate tonight."

Spencer's smile faltered, and she saw the flicker of hurt in his gaze. "Is everything okay?" he pressed, his concern unmistakable. "You've been acting weird lately."

Y/N's jaw tightened, and she forced a smile that felt brittle on her lips. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a lot going on." She packed up her things, avoiding his eyes. "But thanks for the offer. Maybe another time."

Spencer watched her leave with a frown, his concern deepening. He'd noticed that she'd been paler than usual, and she'd lost weight. The dark circles under her eyes were a contrast to her normally vibrant features, and she'd been more irritable and distant. It was as if she was hiding something, and it was eating away at him.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done something wrong, that he'd unknowingly hurt her. His mind raced with possible scenarios, trying to piece together what could have changed so drastically in such a short time. He knew he couldn't just let it go, not when it came to Y/N. They'd been through too much together, and he refused to let her slip away without a fight.

So, Spencer started doing little things for her, hoping to bridge the gap that had opened between them. He'd slip a steaming cup of her favourite coffee onto her desk first thing in the morning, the rich aroma wafting up to greet her. He'd bring her books he thought she'd enjoy, leaving them on her chair with a sticky note that read, "Thought you might like this." He even picked up a small, intricate trinket from a local antique shop that reminded him of a case they'd solved together—a tiny, gleaming star with a hidden compartment. It was a subtle reminder of their shared history, a silent plea for her to open up to him.

Y/N's heart ached every time she saw his thoughtful gestures. The kindness in his eyes was almost too much to bear. She knew she was hurting him, and she hated it, but she also knew that the truth would only make things worse. So, she accepted his gifts with forced smiles, her hand shaking slightly as she took the warm mug of coffee, feeling the heat seep into her cold skin.

Her nightly hunts grew more desperate. The animal blood no longer sated the ravenous hunger that gnawed at her insides. She'd wake up in cold sweats, dreaming of Spencer's neck, his pulse beating like a siren's call. Each day, it was getting harder and harder to resist the urge to just give in, to take what she needed from him. She tried to focus on her work, throwing herself into the cases, hoping that the adrenaline rush would dull the pain, but it was a futile effort.

The smell of Spencer's blood was everywhere—lingering in the air around him. It was a constant torment, a reminder of what she was now. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to tell him. The fear of losing her job, of being studied and locked away, was too great. So, she suffered in silence, her strength waning as the days went on. Her body craved the rich, potent taste of human blood, and specifically, Spencer's.

One night, as she prowled the streets, her senses heightened to an unbearable degree, she stumbled upon a bar fight. The scent of blood was thick in the air, and the sound of breaking glass and grunts of pain was music to her ears. She approached cautiously, her eyes scanning the chaos for an opportunity to satisfy her hunger without killing..

Her eyes fell on a man stumbling away from the main scuffle, his arm gushing with blood from a deep gash. He was perfect—alone, inebriated, and unlikely to remember the encounter. She moved swiftly, slipping into the shadows as she approached him, her fangs elongating with anticipation. But as she was about to make her move, she saw Spencer's face superimposed over the man's, and she froze.

The clarity hit her like a sledgehammer. If she didn't get away from here, she'd end up attacking someone, and it could so easily be Spencer. She couldn't risk it. Her humanity was slipping away, and with it, any hope of maintaining the friendship she cherished most.

Y/N stumbled her way home, the thirst gnawing at her with feral intensity. She clung to the hope that somehow, she'd find the strength to resist. But the moment she reached her apartment complex, she knew she was in trouble.

Spencer was waiting outside her door, his eyes full of worry and a hint of suspicion. He'd probably noticed the way she'd been avoiding him and had come to check on her. Her heart sank. He was the last person she wanted to see in her current state, especially when the scent of his blood was driving her mad with desire.

"Y/N," he called out softly, "are you okay?"

Her eyes snapped to his, the hunger warring with the guilt and fear in her gaze. She tried to shake her head, to tell him to leave, but her mouth was dry, her voice a mere whisper. Spencer's eyes searched hers, and she knew he saw the turmoil within.

With a sigh, he took a step closer, his hand reaching out to her. "Please, let me in. Whatever it is, we can face it together."

Y/N's hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob, her eyes never leaving his. The hunger was a monster inside her, demanding to be fed, and she knew if she let him in, she might not be able to resist. But she was so tired of lying, of hiding. The weight of her secret was crushing her, and she craved his understanding more than anything.

With a defeated sigh, she opened the door and tried to shut it in his face, but she was too weak. Her body was screaming for sustenance, and she could feel the warmth of his blood from where she stood. Spencer's eyes narrowed, and he gently pushed the door open, stepping into her apartment. "What's going on?" he asked, his voice low and concerned.

Her knees buckled, and she stumbled backward, collapsing onto the floor. Spencer rushed to her side, his hand on her shoulder, his pulse beating a rhythm she desperately wanted to sync with. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of desperation and fear. "I can't tell you," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "You wouldn't understand."

Spencer's gaze searched hers, and she could see the wheels turning in his brilliant mind. "You're not making any sense," he said, his voice filled with concern. "What's happening to you?"

Y/N's eyes fell to his neck, and she swallowed hard, trying to push down the hunger that was building within her. "It's…complicated," she managed, her voice thick with need.

Spencer's eyes followed her gaze, and understanding dawned on his face. "You're not okay, are you?" He leaned in, his hand moving to cup her cheek. "You're not well, and you're hiding it from me."

Her eyes searched his, and she felt a tear slip down her cheek. "I don't want to be this," she murmured. "I don't want to be a monster."

Spencer's grip on her cheek tightened slightly, his thumb wiping away the tear. "You're not a monster," he said firmly. "You're my friend, and I trust you. Whatever it is, we can figure it out together."

The sincerity in his voice almost broke her. She wanted to believe him, wanted to confide in him. But the fear of his rejection was too great. "You don't know what you're saying," she protested weakly. "You don't know what I've become."

Spencer's eyes searched hers, and she saw the determination in them. "Tell me," he urged. "I've seen a lot of things, Y/N. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you."

With trembling hands, she reached up and pushed him away gently. "You don't understand," she whispered, her eyes pleading. "I'm dangerous."

Spencer leaned back, his eyes searching hers. "Dangerous how?"

Her breath hitched in her chest, and she forced the words out. "I'm a vampire, Spencer."

The silence that followed was deafening. Spencer's hand fell away from her face, and his eyes widened in shock. "A… a what?" he stuttered, the color draining from his cheeks.

Y/N nodded, her gaze never leaving his. "A vampire," she confirmed, her voice barely a whisper. "I was attacked a weeks ago, and now… now I crave human blood."

Spencer stared at her, his mind racing with a thousand questions. But instead of the horror or revulsion she'd feared, she saw something else in his eyes—curiosity. "Is that why you've been so distant?" he asked, his voice still calm.

Y/N nodded, her heart hammering in her chest. She'd expected disbelief, fear, maybe even disgust. But Spencer just looked… intrigued. "I didn't want to scare you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or for you to think I'm some kind of freak."

Spencer's eyes searched hers, and she could see the cogs turning in his mind. He was piecing things together, considering the evidence. "You're not a freak," he said, his voice firm. "You're still you."

Y/N couldn't believe his calmness. It was as if he was analyzing a case, not the fact that his best friend had just confessed to being a creature of the night. "How can you be okay with this?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Spencer took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers. "Because I've seen worse, Y/N," he said gently. "I've seen people do unspeakable things in the name of sanity. If this is what happened to you, if this is what you are now, I'm not going to abandon you."

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat. No one had ever accepted her unconditionally like this, not even when she'd confessed her darkest secrets. "But I could hurt you," she whispered. "I could—"

Spencer cut her off with a firm shake of his head. "You won't," he said, his voice filled with unwavering belief. "You're stronger than you think, and we'll find a way to manage this together."

Y/N stared at him, her eyes wide with shock and a hint of disbelief. Why wasn't he running? Why wasn't he screaming for her to stay away? The ease with which he accepted her new reality was unnerving, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was just trying to placate her, if he was just biding his time until he could report her to the proper authorities. But the sincerity in his gaze was too much to dismiss, and she felt the first glimmer of hope in what felt like an eternity.

"Thank you," she murmured, the words thick with emotion. "But it's not that simple. I can't just tell everyone. They'll think I'm crazy, or worse, they'll lock me up and study me."

Spencer nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I understand," he said. "But you can't keep going like this, Y/N. You need to feed, and I don't want you to hurt anyone else."

Her eyes searched his, looking for any sign of fear or revulsion. But all she saw was compassion and concern. "I don't want to," she admitted, her voice cracking. "But the hunger is so intense, and I've been trying to hold out, to not give in to the urge."

Spencer's hand slid from her cheek to her neck, his thumb ghosting over the pulse that beat steadily beneath his fingertips. "You're starving yourself," he murmured. "That's not the answer."

Y/N's eyes filled with unshed tears. "What choice do I have?" she asked, her voice raw with pain. "I don't want to hurt anyone, Spencer. I've seen what they do to people like me in the cases we've worked on. I can't let that happen."

Spencer took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew what he was about to say was risky, but he couldn't stand by and watch her suffer. "Feed on me," he offered, his voice steady despite the racing of his heart. "Let me help you."

Y/N's eyes widened in shock, her fangs elongating slightly at the thought. "What? No, Spencer, I can't," she protested, her voice shaking. "I can't risk hurting you."

But Spencer's resolve was unwavering. "You won't," he insisted, his eyes filled with a gentle conviction. "You're in control, and I trust you. You need this, and I want to help."

With trembling hands, Y/N reached up to cup Spencer's cheeks, her thumbs brushing against the stubble that lined his jaw. His eyes searched hers, and she knew he meant it. He was offering himself to her, willingly, without fear. It was a gift she hadn't dared to hope for, and she couldn't refuse it.

Slowly, she leaned in, her breath hot against his skin. She could feel the pulse of his blood, the life force that called to her in a way nothing else ever had. Spencer's eyes closed, his breath hitching slightly as he tilted his head to the side, exposing the long line of his neck. The scent was intoxicating, and she knew she was lost.

With a gentle nudge, he guided her head to the spot just above his collarbone, the vein pulsing beneath his skin like a siren's song. Her fangs ached to pierce his flesh, to finally taste the sweet elixir she'd been denying herself for so long. With trembling hands, she held onto his shoulders, her breaths coming in short gasps as she tried to maintain some semblance of control.

Spencer felt the tip of her fangs graze his skin, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine. He knew this was a moment that would change everything between them, but his concern for her overrode his fear. He took a deep breath and whispered, "Do it."

With a gentle sigh, Y/N sank her teeth into the soft flesh of Spencer's neck. The instant her fangs pierced his skin, a wave of euphoria washed over her, a sensation so intense it bordered on sexual. Spencer's blood was a symphony of flavors—sweet and warm, with a hint of something rich and metallic. She'd never tasted anything so potent, so alive. It was like nothing she'd ever experienced, and she couldn't help the moan that escaped her lips as she took her first real drink.

Spencer's body went rigid with shock, but then he relaxed, his breathing deepening. The pleasure that flooded through him was unexpected, a warmth that spread from the bite site and pooled in his groin. His eyes rolled back in his head, and a soft sound of contentment slipped from his lips. The sensation was so overwhelming, it was almost as if he could feel her hunger, her need, and it filled him with a strange, heady power.

Y/N's eyes fluttered closed as she drank from him, the warmth of his blood suffusing her cold body. It was everything she'd been craving, and she felt her strength returning with every swallow. The taste was heavenly, the rush of his life force more intoxicating than any drug she'd ever encountered. Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly, and she felt his pulse quicken beneath her fingertips.

But then she felt something else—a pressure against her thigh. Spencer's body was responding to the intimate act in a way she hadn't anticipated. He was getting hard. The realization sent a thrill through her, mingling with the hunger and the pleasure of the feeding. She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his for any sign of discomfort or fear. But all she saw was the same gentle concern, the same unwavering trust.

Y/N swallowed hard, her own body responding to the sudden shift in the atmosphere. She couldn't ignore the heat that had started to build between them, the way her own breath had quickened. Her grip on his shoulders tightened as she straddled his lap, her legs trembling with the effort of restraining herself from biting deeper.

The air around them was electric, every touch a spark that set their nerves alight. Spencer's hands slid up her back, his thumbs tracing the outline of her spine, sending shivers down her body. She moaned against his neck, the sound muffled by the mouthful of blood that she was trying to swallow.

Her eyes flew open, and she saw the dark hunger in his gaze. He wasn't just okay with this; he was enjoying it. The realization sent a jolt of arousal through her.

Slowly, she licked the puncture wounds on his neck, her tongue swiping over the crimson beads of blood that lingered there. His skin was warm and salty under her tongue, and she felt his pulse steady as the wounds closed under her ministrations.

It was so erotic to Spencer, the way she tended to him with such care, the intimacy of her mouth on his skin. His body responded to the sensation, his arousal growing with every passing second. He had never felt so alive, so connected to someone.

Y/N felt the shift in Spencer's demeanour, the way his hands slid down to her hips, urging her closer. The pressure between her legs grew more insistent, and she couldn't help but lean into it. She pulled away from his neck, her eyes meeting his, and for a moment, she was lost in the depths of his gaze. And then, without a word, she claimed his mouth with hers.

The kiss was fiery, fueled by the potent cocktail of blood and desire. Spencer's arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight against his chest as their tongues danced together. Her hips began to rock against his, the friction of their clothes providing a delicious form of torment.

Breaking the kiss, Y/N panted heavily, her eyes half-lidded with passion. She felt the desperate need to feel his skin against hers, to erase the barriers that still remained.

Spencer seemed to understand, his hands moving to the hem of her shirt. His eyes searched hers for permission, and she nodded eagerly, her cheeks flushed with arousal. He lifted the fabric over her head, revealing the black bra that barely contained her breasts. He took a moment to appreciate the sight before his gaze returned to her eyes.

Y/N felt a pang of insecurity. What if this was all just a side effect of the bite? What if Spencer didn't actually feel the same way she did? She'd harboured a secret crush on him for so long, and now that they were crossing this line, she didn't know if it was real or just the influence of her vampiric nature.

"Spencer," she whispered, her voice still thick with the aftertaste of his blood. "Do you… do you really want this?"

He searched her eyes, the intensity of his gaze piercing through the fog of desire. "More than anything," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "But only if it's what you want, too."

Y/N's heart swelled with emotion. It was real. Spencer truly desired her, not just because of the vampiric allure. She reached up and cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing over the stubble. "I want this," she assured him, her voice a breathy whisper. "But I'm afraid…afraid of what the bite does to people."

Spencer's eyes searched hers, understanding dawning. "You think it's just the blood lust?"

Y/N nodded, her heart racing. "I don't want to manipulate you," she whispered, her voice tight with anxiety. "I don't want you to feel something you don't truly feel."

Spencer's hand stilled on her hip, his gaze never leaving hers. "I'm not a puppet, Y/N," he assured her, his voice firm. "My feelings are my own, and right now, all I can think about is how much I want you."

The sincerity in his words washed over her, easing the fear that had taken root in her chest. She nodded, her eyes never leaving his as she reached behind her to unclasp her bra. It fell away, and Spencer's gaze dropped to her breasts, his pupils dilating with desire.

With trembling hands, he traced the contours of her rib cage before cupping her breasts, his thumbs flicking over her sensitive nipples. Y/N arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. The sensation was exquisite, a stark contrast to the painful thirst that had been consuming her.

Spencer's eyes never left hers as he leaned in, capturing one of her nipples in his mouth. She gasped, her back arching further, as he sucked and teased the sensitive peak. His other hand slid up her spine, tangling in her hair as he held her to him.

The feeling of his warm, wet mouth on her was intoxicating, and she couldn't help but moan as he switched to the other side, giving it the same attention. His teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, sending sparks of pleasure through her body.

With newfound strength, Y/N's hands slid down to the button of Spencer's shirt, her nails scraping against the fabric as she yanked it open. Buttons flew in every direction, and she didn't care. She needed to feel his bare skin against hers, to claim him as surely as he'd allowed her to claim his blood.

Her eyes raked over his chest, taking in the sight of his muscles, the smattering of freckles she'd never noticed before. Her hunger shifted, morphing from the need for blood to a desperate craving for his touch. She leaned in, her teeth grazing the soft skin of his neck, and Spencer's grip on her hips tightened.

Suddenly, she pushed him back with surprising strength, pinning his wrists on either side of his head. Spencer's eyes widened in surprise, his pupils dilating with a mix of arousal and curiosity.

"You're mine," she murmured, her eyes flashing with a predator's possession. "Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to…consume."

Spencer's eyes darkened with desire, his body responding to the primal claim in her voice. He didn't resist, his wrists flexing against the floor as she held him in place. The power exchange was as intoxicating as the blood they'd shared.

Y/N leaned down, her mouth hovering just above his. "And you're mine," she whispered, before claiming his lips in a kiss that was both demanding and gentle. Spencer's body responded eagerly, his hips bucking up to meet hers.

Her hands moved with surprising speed and strength, ripping his belt from its loops with a sound that echoed through the silent apartment. The leather strap slapped against the floor, forgotten as she tugged at his pants, desperation driving her to get him naked as quickly as possible. She needed to feel all of him, to possess him in every way she could.

Spencer's eyes widened in surprise, but his body responded eagerly to her urgency. He lifted his hips to help her, his mind racing to keep up with the sudden turn of events. He felt exposed, vulnerable, but the thrill of it only added to the intense arousal coursing through him.

Her tongue was like liquid fire, tracing the length of his erection with a slow, deliberate stroking motion that had him groaning into her mouth. She took her time, savouring every inch of him before finally drawing the tip into her mouth, sucking gently. Spencer's hips jerked upwards, and he couldn't hold back the low moan that escaped his throat.

Looking down, he saw her fangs poking out slightly, and a dangerous thrill shot through him. He'd never felt so alive, so connected to another being. The sight was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

Her mouth was warm and wet, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his cock as she took him in deeper. She sucked hard, and Spencer's eyes rolled back in his head. Her grip on his hips was like steel, holding him down, keeping him from thrusting into her mouth. He could feel the power in her, the strength of her newfound nature, and it was intoxicating.

Spencer's hands tangled in her hair, his hips straining against her grip. He didn't know if he wanted to push her away or pull her closer. The feeling was overwhelming, his body responding to her touch in ways he'd never experienced before.

With a low growl of warning, she removed one hand from his hips and taking a hold of his wrists. "No," she murmured against his skin. "You're mine to pleasure, not to touch."

Spencer couldn't help but whimper at the loss of contact, his body straining for more. The hunger in her eyes was matched only by the need in his own, and the sight of her fangs elongating slightly was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. He'd never felt so alive, so vulnerable, and it was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. The scrape of her fangs against his inner thigh was a delicious warning, a reminder of the power she held over him. And with every touch, every suckle, every flick of her tongue, the barrier between them crumbled a little more.

The room was thick with the scent of their desire, the warmth of their bodies mingling with the faint metallic tang of his blood that still lingered in the air. Y/N's eyes never left his as she took him deeper, her mouth moving in a rhythm that had him panting and begging for more. His hips bucked, trying to match her pace, but she kept him pinned, her grip unyielding.

And then, she began to hum, the vibration sending a shock of pleasure zipping up Spencer's spine. He arched off the floor, a strangled cry escaping his lips as the sensation grew more intense. It was as if she'd found a button that no one had ever touched before, a spot that sent his body spiralling out of control.

Her mouth grew wetter, sloppier, as she sucked him with an insatiable hunger that mirrored the thirst she'd felt earlier. Spencer could feel the tension coiling in his belly, his body tightening with every stroke of her tongue. He was so close, so very close, and he didn't know if he could hold on much longer.

Y/N's eyes never left his, the dark pupils blown wide with desire as she felt him get closer to the edge. She held her head down on him, her cheeks hollowing with every suck. The sound of her mouth on his skin was obscene, wet and sloppy, and it only served to drive him further into a frenzy.

Spencer could feel his orgasm building, his body tightening as the pleasure grew too intense to bear. He tried to warn her, his breaths coming in harsh pants, but she only took him deeper, swirling her tongue around the head of his cock. And then, with a final, desperate thrust of his hips, he came.

The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever felt before—his body arching off the floor, his back bowing as he spilled into her mouth. Y/N swallowed greedily, her eyes never leaving his, the intensity of the moment searing through any remaining inhibitions.

The sudden shift in their dynamic was palpable as she sat back on her haunches, her eyes blazing with a feral hunger that was as mesmerizing as it was terrifying. Spencer's eyes fell to her chest, the sight of her bare breasts rising and falling with each heavy breath she took, the points of her fangs still peeking over her bottom lip.

Without another word, Y/N reached down and shimmied out of her pants and underwear in one fluid motion. Spencer watched, his own arousal growing with every inch of bare skin revealed. And then she was over him, straddling his hips, her own wetness coating her thighs.

Her eyes never left his as she lowered herself onto him, his cock sliding into her with a wet heat that made him groan. Spencer's eyes went wide with shock and pleasure, his body jerking with the sudden intrusion. It was a moment of pure, unbridled passion, and he could feel every inch of her as she engulfed him completely.

He watched, transfixed, as she leaned down and pinned his wrists to the floor once again, her strength surprising him even as his body responded eagerly to her dominance.

Her hips began to move, rocking against his with a ferocity that seemed to belie her earlier weakness. Spencer felt his heart race, his body straining to keep up with the pace she set. Her eyes held his, a fiery determination burning in their depths.

The pressure built inside him, the friction of their bodies driving him closer and closer to the edge again. He could feel her walls tightening around him, her own orgasm just out of reach. And then she leaned down, her teeth grazing his neck once more. The threat was there, the promise of another bite, and it was all he could do not to beg for it.

Spencer's hips jerked upwards, meeting her thrusts with a desperation that surprised him. The pain-pleasure of her fangs against his skin was a heady mix, one that had him panting and straining against her.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice hoarse with need. "Please…"

Her fangs grazed his neck once more, the pressure almost unbearable. Spencer's body was on fire, his blood racing through his veins with the anticipation of the bite. He'd never felt so alive, so utterly consumed by desire. He arched his neck, silently begging for the release he knew her bite would bring.

Y/N's eyes danced with mischief as she leaned in, her full lips brushing against his pulse point. She kissed the spot tenderly, her tongue flicking out to taste the salty-sweetness of his skin. Her teeth scraped lightly against the sensitive flesh, and Spencer's hips bucked, his body desperate for the painful ecstasy of her fangs.

He felt her smile against his neck, the pressure increasing just enough to make him whine. "Please," he begged, his voice a raw rasp.

Y/N pulled back slightly, her eyes gleaming with a predatory light. "Patience, Spencer," she murmured, her voice a low purr that sent shivers down his spine. She kissed her way down his neck, nibbling at the soft skin, her fangs scraping against his collarbone.

The wet sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, a symphony of passion that seemed to echo off the walls. Spencer's eyes rolled back in his head, his hips bucking up to meet her with every downward thrust. He could feel her tightening around him, her walls pulsing with the need for release.

Y/N's movements grew more erratic, her breasts bouncing with the force of their lovemaking. Spencer's gaze was drawn to the sight, the way her nipples had hardened into tight points, begging for his touch.

He tried to tug his wrists free, desperate to run his hands over her body, to feel her soft skin against his own. But her grip was like iron, unyielding and unbreakable. It was a stark reminder of the power she now wielded, and it only served to make him want her more.

Spencer lay back, his body stretched taut with need, as Y/N continued her relentless rhythm. Her movements grew more frenzied, her hips grinding against his in a delicious dance of dominance. His eyes fell shut, his head lolling back as the pleasure built within him.

The sound of her moans grew louder, filling his ears and fueling his own desire. He could feel the tension coiling in his belly, his body straining towards the precipice of release. He arched his neck, baring his throat to her, the silent plea clear.

And then, with a snarl of pleasure she bit down. Spencer's eyes shot open, the sensation of her fangs piercing his skin unlike anything else he'd ever felt. The pain was a white-hot brand, searing through him, but it was quickly swamped by the rush of pleasure that followed. His orgasm hit him like a freight train, his body convulsing as he came harder than he ever had before.

He felt his vision swim, the edges of his consciousness going dark. But even as the world around him blurred, he could feel the warmth of her mouth on his neck, the way she licked greedily at the blood that flowed from the wound she'd made. His hips jerked, his body responding to the pleasure that flooded him with every pulse of his heart.

The sound of her moan was like music to his ears, a symphony of desire that matched the tempo of his own racing heart. Spencer could feel her body tighten around him, the walls of her sex pulsing as she took her own release.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she threw her head back, a keening cry tearing from her throat. The sensation of her climax was like nothing he'd ever felt before—it was as if she was squeezing him from the inside out, her body milking every last drop of pleasure from him.

And then she collapsed against his chest, her breaths coming in heavy pants that matched his own. Spencer felt the sticky warmth of their combined releases on his stomach, a tangible reminder of the intimacy they'd just shared.

Her head rested on his shoulder, and Spencer wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. The beat of his heart was like a drum in his ears, a steady rhythm that matched the pulse of the blood that still flowed through her veins.

Y/N felt the warmth of his embrace, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek. The world had gone quiet, save for their ragged breaths and the distant sounds of the city outside. It was a peace she hadn't felt in a week, not since the night she'd been turned.

Looking up, she stared into Spencer's eyes, searching for any sign of regret, any hint that he was feeling coerced. But what she found instead was admiration. His gaze was filled with a newfound respect, awe even, at her strength and control. It was a heady feeling, one that filled her with a warmth.

"Are you okay?" she whispered, her voice filled with genuine concern. "Do you need anything?"

Spencer's eyes searched hers, his chest still heaving from the exertion. He felt…sated. More than that, he felt alive in a way he hadn't since he'd learned about her condition. "I'm…good," he managed, his voice still a bit shaky. "Just…wow."

Y/N couldn't help but smile at his response. She pulled back to look at the bite marks on his neck, already starting to heal.

And then she saw them. The bruises. They were faint, but they were there—a smattering of dark purple and blue blossoms scattered across his neck, chest, and wrists. The evidence of her hunger, of the power she hadn't been able to fully control.

Y/N's eyes widened in horror, her smile fading as she took in the marks she'd left on Spencer's body. She'd been so lost in the haze of passion, the desperate need to satisfy her thirst, that she hadn't noticed the damage she'd done. Her stomach twisted into a knot, and she scrambled off of him, her eyes darting to the various points of impact.

"Oh my god," she breathed, her voice shaking. "Look what I've done to you."

Spencer's eyes searched hers, his expression gentle as he reached up to cup her face. "I'm fine, Y/N," he assured her, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped her eye. "I'm more than fine."

But she couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that had settled in her gut. She'd taken so much from him—his blood, his trust, his body. And now she'd left him marked, marred by her hunger. "I didn't mean to," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I didn't want to hurt you."

Spencer sat up, reaching for her. "You didn't," he said firmly, his eyes searching hers. "It's fine, I promise."

Y/N looked at him, her eyes wide with fear and regret. "But the bruises," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I didn't mean to leave them. I'm so sorry."

Spencer's gaze fell to the faint marks on his hips, the fingerprints standing out like dark little badges of their shared passion. He reached down and gently traced one with his thumb, his eyes meeting hers. "I like them," he murmured, his voice low and serious. "They're a reminder of what we shared."

The tension in the room shifted, and Y/N felt a swell of relief wash over her. "You liked it?" she asked, her voice tentative.

Spencer nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I did," he admitted shyly, his cheeks flushing a soft pink. "It was…different. But in a good way."

Y/N searched his eyes, looking for any hint of deceit or discomfort, but all she saw was truth. The revelation took her by surprise, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest. She hadn't expected him to be okay with her dominance, let alone enjoy it.

Spencer's voice grew softer, his eyes never leaving hers. "I liked feeling…claimed," he confessed, his cheeks flushing deeper. "It was like nothing I've ever experienced before."

The admission hung in the air, thick with emotion. Y/N felt a strange mix of relief and excitement, her eyes roaming over the bruises she'd left on his body. They were a map of their desire, a testament to the intensity of their encounter.

With a gentle touch, she helped Spencer to his feet, her vampiric strength supporting his wobbly legs. "You need to sit down," she said firmly, guiding him towards her bedroom. "I'll grab my first aid kit." She could see the marks on his wrists and hips, stark against his pale skin, and she felt a pang of regret. But she knew she had to make sure he was okay, that she hadn't hurt him too badly.

Once he was seated on the edge of her bed, she disappeared into the bathroom, her movements quick and efficient. The sound of her rummaging through cabinets was the only noise in the apartment, save for their heavy breaths. Spencer leaned back, his eyes never leaving the doorway, watching her silhouette as she moved in the light from the hallway.

When she returned, she was holding a small first aid kit, her eyes filled with a gentle concern that made his heart ache. She knelt before him, her knees pressing into the plush carpet, and took his hand in hers. Her touch was cool and soothing, the perfect balm to the heat that still lingered in his veins.

Gently, she unfurled his fingers and began to rub the soothing cream into the bruises on his wrists. The pressure was just right, firm enough to work out the tension but gentle enough to be comforting. Spencer watched her, his eyes tracing the delicate lines of her face, the concentration in her gaze as she worked.

Her touch was tender, the pads of her thumbs moving in slow, soothing circles against his skin. He couldn't help but lean into her touch, his eyes slipping shut as she worked. The cream smelled faintly of lavender, a scent that seemed to fill the room and ease the last of the tension from his body.

When she was done with his wrists, she moved down to the bruises on his hips. Spencer's breath hitched as her cool fingers traced the marks she'd left there, the pressure slightly firmer as she worked. He could feel the heat of his own arousal stirring again, despite the recent release.

He cleared his throat, his cheeks burning. "Y/N, you don't have to… I can do that," he mumbled, his voice thick with embarrassment. His cock had begun to harden again, the sight of her kneeling before him, her eyes filled with such tender concern, sending a fresh wave of desire crashing through him.

But she just shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. "Let me," she murmured, her voice a soft command. And Spencer found that he couldn't deny her, couldn't bring himself to pull away from the gentle ministrations of her hands.

He watched as she squeezed a dollop of the cream onto her fingertips, the cool gel glistening in the soft light. The sight of her touching him so intimately, caring for him in such a primal way, had his erection thickening even more. He felt a flush creep up his neck, his face growing hot.

"Y/N," he started, his voice cracking slightly. "You don't have to—"

But she didn't let him finish, her eyes flicking up to meet his before returning to the bruises she was tending to. "Spencer," she said firmly, her voice a low purr that sent a shiver down his spine. "Let me take care of you."

He swallowed hard, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "I'm fine," he managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Really."

Y/N's eyes searched his, looking for any sign of pain or discomfort. Finding none, she nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "Alright," she said, her voice soft. She leaned back, her hands dropping to her sides. "But if you need anything, I'm here."

Spencer reached out and took her hand, pulling her closer. He just wanted to hold her, to bask in the afterglow of what they'd just shared. It was a feeling he hadn't expected, a gentle peace that seemed to wrap around him like a warm blanket. He could feel the steady throb of her pulse beneath his fingertips, the reassuring beat that reminded him she was alive, that she was with him.

Her body melded against his, and he felt her sigh contentedly, the tension in her muscles easing as she relaxed into his embrace. Spencer's heart swelled in his chest, the warmth of her skin seeping into his own. He didn't know what the future held for them, but in that moment, it didn't matter. All that mattered was the here and now, the way she felt in his arms.

[mrs-stans]

Sebastian Stan’s Crash Course in Becoming Trump

After a long tour of duty in the Marvel universe, the Romanian-born actor is conquering the festival circuit, with starring roles in “The Apprentice” and “A Different Man.”

Illustration by João Fazenda

By Alex Barasch

The actor Sebastian Stan glanced approvingly at the neon signage and old-school menus at the Pearl Diner, in the financial district, the other day. He’s lived in and near New York since he was twelve—around the time Donald Trump swapped his first wife, Ivana, for Marla Maples—and has watched the city evolve. “It’s funny. It’s changed, but it’s also the same buildings,” he said. “And then you’re, like, ‘The buildings are there, but you are not the same.’ ”

Stan took off a white ball cap and ordered coffee with cream; he was jet-lagged, fresh from the Deauville American Film Festival, where he’d received the Hollywood Rising-Star Award. “Rising” is a stretch for the forty-two-year-old, who’s appeared in a dozen Marvel projects, but Stan has lately reached a different echelon. In May, he went to Cannes for “The Apprentice,” in which he plays seventies-era Trump. In Berlin, he’d won the Silver Bear, an award whose previous recipients include Denzel Washington and Paul Newman. “Everyone was, like, ‘Oh, the Silver Bear!’ ” Stan said. “Then you go back and you’re, like, ‘Do we know what the Silver Bear is in America?’ ”

The prize was for his role in “A Different Man,” Aaron Schimberg’s surreal black comedy, which nods to “Cyrano de Bergerac.” Stan stars as a man whose lifelong disfigurement is miraculously reversed; the shoot included a grisly three-and-a-half-hour session spent peeling off chunks of his face.

“The Apprentice” demanded a transformation of a different sort. At the diner, Stan pulled out his phone and swiped through an album labelled “DT physicality”—a hundred and thirty videos of Trump, which capture his tiniest gestures and his over-all mien. Marinating in Trump content was, Stan said cheerfully, “a psychotic experience.” He watched the clips so many times that when the director, Ali Abbasi, asked him to improvise in a scene about marketing Trump Tower, he could rattle off the stats: sixty-eight stories of marble in a peachy hue chosen by Ivana, because, as the real Trump put it in a promo, “people feel they look better in the pink.” (It turned out that he’d also memorized Trump’s lie: the tower is actually fifty-eight floors.)

Growing up in Communist Romania, Stan had just an hour of TV news each night; New Year’s Eve was an event because it meant twelve hours of programming. His instinct for mimicry—he had a habit of imitating family members and neighbors—was the earliest tell that he might be an actor. After he and his mother fled to Vienna, in 1989, Stan got his first credit, in a Michael Haneke film—an experience that nearly put him off show business. “I stood in line with, like, a thousand kids, for I don’t know how many hours—which I hated,” he said. “If I could fucking meet Haneke now, it would be amazing!”

When the family moved again, to America, he experienced pop-culture shock. He binged every movie he’d missed—from “Back to the Future” to “Ace Ventura”—in a pal’s basement. Another friend roped him into the school play. “My high school was really, really small, so I didn’t have a lot of competition,” Stan said. “They were, like, ‘Please be in the play!’ ” Soon he was playing Cyrano himself.

After stints on Broadway, and on “Gossip Girl,” Stan was scooped up by Marvel. “I’ve been lucky to play a character for fifteen years,” he said. The blockbuster paychecks freed him up to explore edgier material. “I, Tonya,” in which he played the ice-skater Tonya Harding’s dirtbag husband, was a turning point. “It allowed me to see that a good director will bring out more in you than you can,” Stan said. It was also his first time portraying a real person—a feat that he repeated in “Pam & Tommy,” as the Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee, and now in “The Apprentice.”

“It’s like learning a piece of music,” Stan said, of nailing an impression. “You’ve got to start out slow—it requires practice. Suddenly, you’re getting it more. You’re still making mistakes—but you’re playing the music. You’re playing the music every day until you can do it in your sleep. That’s when the fun starts.” He sliced the air for emphasis, then caught himself and grinned. “And sometimes it’s months later at a diner, and you’re, like, ‘Why am I doing that with my hands?’ ”

[ironwoodatl01]

Batman; Gotham by Gaslight

Within the annals of cultural, pop cultural, and historical crime, there are few whose macabre methods could reach the bloody depths that 'yours truly,' Jack the Ripper, managed to plumb.

Five brutal deaths were all it took for that deadly name to resound for Five centuries. The echo of the deed has so scarred the psyche of man that Man collectively found 'champions' of their own to face the blood-soaked beast on the battlefield of 'what if' in an attempt, perhaps, to find a semblance of cold closure on one of the most famous cold cases in history.

A murderer must be hunted by a detective, and there is no more excellent detective at DC's disposal than Batman to solve the mystery of Jack the Ripper. It is a contest between legendary figures, a Dark Knight on a quest to capture a monster, two ghosts playing a grisly game of hide-and-seek through the foggy alleys of a Victorian-era Gotham lit not by neon ...but by Gaslight.

Ironically, even though Batman is DC's greatest detective, barely any detective work is done in both the movie and the original comic it is adapted from. Any investigative work done by Batman in both mediums to uncover the identity of Jack is brushed over, and the reveal of the killer's identity had nothing to do with anything Batman had done throughout the narrative.

Ultimately, Batman is almost railroaded into solving the mystery, and the climax is somewhat underwhelming and blunts the effect of the twist reveal of Jack the Ripper's true identity.

YES. Commissioner James Gordon IS Jack the Ripper. This risky reimagining elevated this adaptation to a height that its original comic did not achieve. The twist shocked the system for any DC fan familiar with Batman's relationship with Gordon. It is also expertly hinted at throughout the film for any sharp-eyed viewer interested in a whodunit, as the narrative presented many possible suspects, but Gordon was the only one who would have fit all the facts of the mystery. The twist was further muddied by the inspired decision to design Jack the Ripper to be as angular as possible, while Gordon had a softer, more rounded silhouette.

This culminates in a climactic showdown atop a burning Ferris wheel, which was ironically begun by a knocked-over gas lamp. At the end of a brutally animated brawl, Gordon allows himself to be consumed by the fire of the burning wheel. He is a good man driven into hellfire by his hellish desires. Was he the last evil of a bygone age sacrificed for a better future? Or was he just the latest in a never-ending cycle of self-destruction, doomed to go around in a wheel until the wheel eats itself alive?

Whatever the case, Gotham by Gaslight turned a throwaway 'what if' comic story into a film that embodies everything that makes a Batman story great. The film shows that, even if lit by gas, Gotham is still a city that needs its Dark Knight, regardless of what the city deserves.

[year2000electronics]

Is 1 your favorite of the danganronpas? my personal favorite is 2 but I'm always interested to hear about other people's fav parts of all three main games

YES. IT IS. and the thing about that is that i got into dr around abooout... 2015 i wanna say? so like. 7th grade. little too young to get into an m rated game, granted, but you cant snitch on me because that version of myself doesnt exist anymore so ha ha. anyways

(full answer under cut. things got long again!)

i discovered dr1 because i used to find all my music through looking at MEPs (multi editor projects) and realized a lot of cool ones were labelled with this thing called "danganronpa" and the clips i saw in them just like. gripped me. there was something about them i couldnt look away from.

it was the executions, specifically celeste's, that i just couldn't stop rewinding to. this imagery of this very thick, stylized, almost paper-craft style of this MASSIVE stage literally unfolding to life around this person. it was SPECTACLE. something designed JUST FOR YOU. a DEATH TRAP designed just for you. that always stuck with me. and so, y'know, i decided to check it out, and obviously i start with dr1.

the ENG translation was out at this time but the LP i watched used the fan translation patch so i learned all their names japanese-style lol. but anyways. i fell in LOVE. hard. now, obviously the series has its problems, id argue its more famous for its problems these days than its achievements, but i think the general aesthetic and concept of DR still really grip me. to this day. the almost surreal, dreamlike environment of the school- neon-lit halls, days that start to bleed together, what is clearly a massive area devoid of any life, with rooms you've never seen before in a school, your classmates in the halls in that charming paper-2d style... it all lended itself to the murder mystery parts very well. the dreamlike parts extending to the executions, which were so... THEY WERE SO. i wouldn't call them RIDICULOUS. or IMPOSSIBLE. but they were OSTENTATIOUS. yet dark. and that really stuck with me, y'know? this emotional whiplash of dragging a confession out of someone, wanting to make them pay for what they did to your classmate, but at the same time, hearing them cry their hearts out, because their hand was forced, and then, having to see them die in the most undignified way- all as one big performance, one big joke with them as the grisly punchline.

and the characters only added to that for me. i was intrigued by kyoko's secrets, felt bad for sayaka and leon, and oh god don't even get me STARTED on taka and mondo. not knowing anything about dr, my jaw DROPPED when ch 3 started and taka just... didn't bounce back. i wasn't expecting it at all. and i watched, hungry for information, for the truth, as the illusion of normalcy slowly fell apart for the group- but so too did the killing game as the group slowly breaks the formula apart until monokuma's forced to dump an old corpse back into play to get makoto and kyoko out of his way. and then the reveal that THEY *WERE* ALL FRIENDS ALL ALONG, AND THESE STRANGERS HAD BEEN KILLING THEIR BEST FRIENDS THE ENTIRE TIME... THE APOCALYPSE REVEAL, THE FACT THAT THE CLASS TEARING EACH OTHER APART IS THEM DIRECTLY DISMANTLING THE LAST HOPE SOCIETY HAD, SEALING THE ULTIMATES IN THERE... ooooh. OOOH. the allure may be long gone, as this is now common knowledge, but in that moment, i FELT it. i felt like my entire world had been turned upside down with that knowledge.

and i came out of that like "WOW, THAT WAS REALLY COOL!! DANGANRONPA FANDOM WHAT DO YOU THINK?!" and the danganronpa fandom was like "its 2015, everyone is talking about sdr2 now." and i was like "oh." and i lowkey started getting a little resentful of dr2 for taking up all of dr1's attention. my little childbrain decided right then and there it was Overrated. and this kinda uninterested-ness i haven't really managed to shake off, ngl, even though i know it's specifically cos of those childhood feelings of mine.

i do enjoy sdr2 quite a lot these days! i think it has fun mysteries, the cast is nice, hajime is probably an upgrade from makoto NGL, but, like, nostalgia bias gets in the way. y'know? for my own emotions haha. BUT. i will say. i think it's smart the team didn't go with a confined space twice in a row, but the fact that the game is out on a big big island, even if it's deserted, that kinda did take away from one of my favourite aspects of the game- the claustrophobia. and there's also a lot of other aspects i LOVED about dr1 that kinda couldn't be recreated with sdr2, and i'm alright with that. i don't think it really makes dr1 the "superior" game. i think sdr2's clearly shown it's more beloved for a reason just based off public perception. but it's a matter of personal preference for me!

also the 2010-era grunginess of dr1 charms me more

so i guess, tl:dr childhood nostalgia bias, environment/aesthetic choices that couldn't carry over to the next game because it would be stale, and Him.

[sarandipitywrites]

Snippet Sunday

this sounds fun, so here we go! have some alchemical fuckery with Vy from Spark Signature:

Kettle: boiling. Cinnamon, hibiscus, and mugwort: crushed. Blood: muddled into the herbs. Vy pours it all into an Erlenmeyer and sets a one-minute hourglass. It’s neon red by the time it’s done; electric blood. Spark and thunder.

They lie down on their bed, the flask on the small table beside it. The sheets are soft, smelling faintly of dried lavender and chamomile. Batting down another wave of gratitude, Vy takes a deep breath, lets it out, and drinks the potion in a single swallow.

They’ve known about Spark sight for a long time—found it on a forum once, ran the calculations again and again until they were sure they’d gotten all the components down to the perfect ratio—but, considering the fact that life as a bartender doesn’t put them in contact with many corpses, they’ve never had cause to actually drink the stuff. Grisly implications notwithstanding, the flavor alone makes them want to go back to that.

Once the heady floral notes pass their olfactory receptors, the spice hits. Cinnamon and bitterness, earthy in a way that makes their nose scrunch. Then that passes, too, and they’re left with fruity, toe-curling tartness. The sensation lifts them up, off the blankets, over the mattress, through the ceiling and into the atmosphere. Then it lets go, and they’re falling into black.

When they open their eyes, the world is deeper—stranger. But this Vy doesn’t gawk at the way they can focus on the FMA office or the pedestrians milling in front of it at will; for this Vy, depth perception is normal. Which means that they can’t be Vy anymore.

They’re Doctor Hayden Poole, and they’re late.

Spark Signature taglist (ask to be added or removed): @leah-yasmin-writes, @unrepentantcheeseaddict, @ceph-the-ghost-writer, @mundanemoongirl

[anticomedygarden]

for AI-less whumptober....

WHITE ROOM for alt list. If you wanna.

(literally any pairing bc I trust your ship judgment skills the maximum amount tbt)

😁 love it! no ships but i think you'll like this...i really hope

tw slight blood and gore, mentioned suicide

Luke Castellan and how he realized the fight he got wasn't the fight he wanted.

@ailesswhumptober ao3 link

-

Luke never meant for more demigods to be killed. It's actually the reason he started on this journey. No more dead kids. No more neglected kids. No more abused kids. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

Wrong. Turns out when both sides' main fighters are child soldiers, kids die, especially when their parents are deadbeat gods. Maybe that shoulda been obvious, but hey. When a mysterious all powerful voice tells you he can stop the murder of your people, sometimes you listen. Especially when your supposed 'all powerful' parents can't step off their thrones for two seconds to see if their kids are still kicking. Every side has its drawbacks. It just sucks that demigods are always the ones to pay the price.

-

It's around this time that Kronos starts taking major control of the mind. Luke has gone through the horrible ordeal of piecing Kronos out of Tartarus, nearly killing Percy (wow, another one), poisoning Thalia's tree, etc., etc., but now that the grisly parts are over, Kronos wants the mind and body all to himself.

It must have been a test. See how far he's willing to go for the cause. Well, apparently pretty damn far, for all the lies Kronos told him. Fatal tests of will just to pass inspection, like a car. Like Agamemnon. Like Odysseus. While he let Kronos hand pick his sacrifices. Like Artemis. Like Zeus. Like-

-

Annabeth is kidnapped. Bianca dies. The best of them, being held against her will. One of the newest, body lying broken in the gods' garbage while a 13 year old wonders how to tell her ten year old brother that his sister isn't coming back. The metaphor writes itself.

-

(Was Bianca killed by the infamous pettiness and laziness of the gods, or was she killed by a quest she was only on because of choices Luke made?)

-

Everyone keeps threatening Annabeth. If he could just get her to see, to see how terrible the gods are, that he is fighting for demigods and only demigods, that Kronos can help them-

-

"Is that what you want? To go back to your dad in triumph?"

He gets pushed off a cliff for his efforts, and Annabeth still goes back to Camp with Thalia and Percy.

It hurts.

-

Must these be their only two options? Death or losing their identities to a cause that was never about them? Losing their identities as they become soldiers? Gods, he hopes not. This can't have all been for nothing.

(In the back of his mind, he thinks there's another metaphor in there somewhere. He's traded a coffin for white room torture.)

Coffin for white room torture. Coffin for white room torture.

Coffin or white room torture.

Coffin or white room-

-

After Annabeth rejects him, there's not many options. He can't go back to Camp. He can't live on the run. He has no home. That's it. He's completely isolated. Kronos is all he has left.

It's a life of threats and ultimatums, impossible tasks and even worse commands. He bathes in the River Styx. It hurts. It always hurts.

Somehow, he knows: this is the beginning of the end.

-

The white walls are nearly constant now, and that's a new torture in and of itself. Every second he spends in here is another second Kronos is out there wreaking havoc with what was once Luke's body. The regret is over flowing now, too, boiling over the sides of the pot that is his mind, scorching the bright white and bringing color into his miserable life. His people are dead. His people are dying and it's the gods' faults. It's his fault. It's Kronos' fault. It's his fault. It's the goddamn system's fault for never changing.

It's his goddamn fault.

-

White walls.

Neon lights.

No shadows. Of all the things about the little room in Kronos' mind that Luke's been granted, he never thought the absence of shadows would be what bothered him most, but of course it's another fucking metaphor.

Nothing's real. Was it ever? This whole path started with a voice in his dreams. Who was he to decide between one dictator and the next? He's a husk of a person carved out to house a monster. His life is a joke. What's next? Will anyone even live to see it?

He's never getting out of the web of his own mistakes. His legacy is nothing. There's no hope, only the harsh white light of marching time.

His goddamn fault.

-

There's a voice in the cell. This hasn't happened in-

He doesn't know. Time isn't real.

It's Annabeth.

Annabeth-

It's Annabeth.

"Luke. I understand now. You have to trust me."

There wasn't a world in which he didn't trust her.

"Your mother. She saw your fate."

His - mother? Who-

May.

There's a brief flash in his mind's eye, blonde hair - no, white - peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, burned cookies. A bitter, bitter feeling. He can't tell if it's Annabeth's voice or the images or the feelings that choke him.

"Not the end, Luke. The prophecy - she saw what you would do. It applies to you!"

Annabeth's voice is so clear - so thick and heavy with tears - that he wishes he could reach out to her and wipe away all the sadness and hurt like he did when she was little.

But nothing can fix what he broke.

"You promised. You're holding Kronos back even now."

Was he? It sure as Hades didn't feel like it - but demigods were survivors.

Maybe this box was his preservation, not his prison.

He could pound on the walls, knock the blinding panels down. He could let the neon lights fall and shatter beneath his feet - he could get out. He could run from the filthy recesses of Kronos' mind and fucking fix something for once in hisgoddamn miserable, wasted life.

He is in the throne room. His father's chair sits nearby, with its rams' horns and gray rock and goatskin. It's almost enough to send him back to the box.

But beneath him is Annabeth, and she looks terrible. Just awful. Terrified of the sword that Kronos - no, Luke - has raised above her, ready to strike. Her knife is in her non broken hand. And not even as old as Luke was on his quest that started it all.

His goddamn fault.

Then she just has to deliver the exact words that will ruin him, tears and snot on her young, pale face, looking for all the world like that seven year old he found behind that dumpster all those years ago - except, it wasn't even a decade ago. How are they still so young?

"Family, Luke. You promised."

Even though he feels it, he doesn't think he actually shudders, but within moments, he is back in his own body, nearly out of practice, like steering with video game controls. "Promise," he whispers. Family. Someone else - Thalia. Dear gods, don't let her be dead.

He looks forward again, through his own blurry eyes, and sees red. "Annabeth, you're bleeding."

Finally within reach, he stumbles toward her, unsteady on unfamiliar feet. He's grown since he was last in control.

She doesn't shy away, just mumbles, "My knife." Her arm twitches, unable to lift against Kronos' power. "Percy, please."

Vaguely, he's aware of Percy knocking Backbiter out of his hands with Annabeth's dagger. So quickly, Kronos is back in power as just the son of the sea sends anger and panic bolting through him.

Luke's barely gone for any time at all this round, and he understands what he has to do. There is nothing else. "He's changing. Help. He's - he's almost ready. He won't need my body anymore. Please-"

Another flash, and the next thing he knows, he's on the ground, hands burning, smoking, pain pain pain that he doesn't feel. All he cares about now is the knife in Percy's hand and all the demigods he let down. "Please, Percy."

The boy in question staggers over to where Luke lays on the ground, and the blond nearly groans when he hesitates. "You can't...can't do it yourself," he warns, and trips through a couple of sentences that he hopes get his point across.

It doesn't matter; Percy still looks at Annabeth for her nod of approval in the end, and Luke mourns the loss of a life where he gets to tease them for that, his little sister and the other boy she clearly has wrapped around her finger in what is surely becoming a codependent relationship. Finally, he has the knife.

"Percy? Are you..." someone else nearby says. Luke doesn't have time to care about that, or to ruminate on all the ways he's screwed over the owner of that voice. He has to hit his weak spot before Kronos can take over again, and that's exactly what he does.

It hurts. Gods, it hurts so bad. He got to choose between the coffin and the white room and somehow he got both. Somehow, he dragged dozens of others with him just to send them to the coffin. He has so many regrets and only seconds to settle them all.

Annabeth's - Hal's, originally - knife in his hands, and Annabeth, Grover, and Percy surround him, barely able to stand yet still holding on. He coughs. "Good blade." He looks at Annabeth first. "You knew. I almost killed you, but you knew."

"Shh," Annabeth says immediately. "You were a hero at the end, Luke. You'll go to Elysium."

It's got to be a pipe dream, but he's also got to trust her. "Think...rebirth. Try for three times. Isles of the Blest." Maybe with two more tries, he'll finally get it right.

That makes Annabeth smile. "You always pushed yourself too hard." She presses her fingertips to his as he coughs blood.

"Did you love me?" he asks, surprising himself, even though it is a question that he would like answered before he dies.

"There was a time I thought...well I thought..." As she looks at Percy, it hits him that she thinks he means romantically, and he can't bear the idea that he allowed Kronos to twist his mind so far. "You were like a brother to me Luke, but I didn't love you."

That's all he needs to hear.

Just then, a wave of pain hits him, and he coughs more blood.

Grover - wonderful, kind Grover - says, "We can get ambrosia. We can-"

"Grover," Luke chokes out. There's no time for this, and more importantly, Luke can't bear to hear it. "You're the bravest satyr I ever knew. But no. There's no healing-" he coughs again, more blood flooding over his lips. He doesn't have much more time.

He turns to Percy, gripping his sleeve. "Ethan. Me. All the unclaimed. Don't let it happen again." Don't let the gods slip back into their bullshit while their children go dead and ignored. Don't let this vicious cycle start until both sides are destroyed. Give them better choices than the coffin or torture. If this is to be his legacy, he is damn well making it last.

"I won't," Percy agrees. Luke knew he would. He always saw how things should be. "I promise."

It's enough. It's a pact between a dying man and a boy with more power than anyone will ever know what to do with. It's a promise to protect their people. It's a promise to never let things get so bad that a child turns countless ruined childhoods, lost lives, and horrors into a near massacre of all the wrong people. It's enough.

I'm sorry, mom, Annabeth, Thalia, young me. I tried so hard, and I still got the coffin.

He takes one last look around, and he closes his eyes for the last time, no Kronos bubbling beneath his skin or gods watching his failures, just three people that somehow still believe in him. It's enough.

-

all dialogue goes to either the titan's curse or the last olympian

[bitter69uk]

Recently watched: Italian horror maestro Mario Bava’s slasher movie Blood and Black Lace (1964). Tagline: “A fashion house of glamorous models becomes a terror house of blood!” A sadistic masked and gloved serial killer is relentlessly stalking and murdering his way through the fashion models of the chic haute couture salon run by ultra-rich designer Cristina (Eva Bartok) and her lover Max (Cameron Mitchell). (Picture a procession of fiercely elegant women wearing cocktail dresses with impeccable beehive hairdos getting gruesomely murdered one by one). I’m no expert on Bava - the only other film of his I’ve seen is Black Sunday (1960) with cult movie queen Barbara Steele – but wow, what a stylist! From the credits to the white-knuckle finale, with the soundtrack (Latin exotica, heavy on the bongos), costumes, baroque sets and lighting (characters are routinely bathed in fuchsia or green neon, even when that light source makes no sense) Bava envelopes you in a supremely alluring vision. Perhaps inevitably, there are vivid splashes of red: an incriminating leather-bound diary, handbags, telephones - and of course - plumes of blood. The victims’ grisly deaths still pack a genuinely nasty jolt. (As Slant magazine put it, “The killings in Blood and Black Lace are still disturbing yet have the vitality of pop art”). An additional bonus: the juicy overripe performances from Hollywood’s Cameron Mitchell and Hungary’s Eva Bartok, both veterans of European co-productions. (The same year, Mitchell starred opposite Jayne Mansfield in the truly wild German exploitation flick Dog Eat Dog – what a career!).

[kylo-wrecked]

@mayxthexforce sent :// 🤕 - Dress a wound on my muse. (From Voe)

{ from this meme }

—☾—

Her eyes are like ice, but her blood is hot. She gives Ren two seconds to examine the wound before swatting him away. 

"Voe." This is the third time he's said her name. "Enough."

He reproves her with a glare and steadies his hand at her side. His eyes roil in the bile of light, the gemstone brown of them black and blown wide from their grisly clash with a group of pirates. Not the horde they'd come for, but they were close. Ren anticipated the nagging sensory register of Han Solo nearby. That was before Voe was struck abruptly by blaster fire. Amid a petty argument, neither of them felt the pirates approaching, the fuzz of dim neon, the heat and the dark pressing them.

Ren should have let her die. He should have left her to rot like he did all those years ago, finished the job, avulsed the pulmonodes from her ribcage. He knew how he would do it, where to make the incisions, and instead crossed them into the soft stomach of some sentient worm. And he had to. Had to, but couldn't. Voe was the last living piece of him. 

One bolt had grazed her shoulder—something to worry about tomorrow. Another ate her thigh, through and through, and the next few hours would be vital—

"Unless you want to slow down," he mutters, "for good, let me help you."

He'd started rummaging through Ap'lek's woven sack earlier, scraping its black womb for the kit, and having fished it out and snapped it open, he now assesses the scale of damage. Ren places his bare hand on her thigh, a touch away from the ground zero of Voe's flesh pulping through broken seams. It's a nasty close-range wound. His eyes narrow at the cuff of blood developing above her knee.   

"You need to stop fighting. You can't do this alone." 

[hollow-grave-diggs]

This made me think, like, Cranes fear juice is actually really good for ghosts and can be a substitute for ectoplasm in dire times, so when Danny's seriously injured he gets transported to the nearest source of ectoplasm to heal and dropped into a mostly empty warehouse packed with toxin gas and a cackling scarecrow. Danny promptly snatches a shot of toxin and injects himself with a sigh, letting himself knit back together much to cranes shock and the bats horror.

--Word Count -- roughly 1200 words

Panting, Danny staggers another few steps to the open, swirling rift in the center of the base. He knows, somehow, deep inside, that if he can get through the portal he will be safe.

There’s scientists shouting from where they crowd around the door, staying far from him and the toxic green slice in space-time.

His injuries are bad, but he can still move around the incision that traces the length of his torso and the bruises and fractures in his ankles and wrists from his struggles against the restraints. Each step hurts, but he gets a foot in the portal, and then he’s falling through space.

---

When the acid trip of dimensional travel fades, he’s hovering in the rafters of a… warehouse?

He blinks, squinting at the scene playing out below him.

There’s a man in a strange costume cackling like a madman and facing off against a strangely colorful band of people in domino masks. He almost looks like a decrepit scarecrow or something with the way he’s dressed, but the capes aren't any better. There's one man in a black and blue suit holding sticks, a child that couldn't be older than 13 with a sword of all things, and a woman in purple.

There’s a lot of shouting and what has to be an evil monologue from the scarecrow man before the room begins to fill with a green tinted gas. The colorful group of, presumably, heroes all pull on gas masks, but Danny recognizes the gas.

Strangely enough, as it wafts up to him, it smells a lot like ectoplasm. Of course, it’s not as pure as something from the zone, and it has a tangy aftertaste on the back of his tongue, but it feels a lot like a synthetic substitute. It’s good.

He perks up as the ectoplasm floods his system, and he sighs in relief as it acts like a painkiller. It’s not enough to heal him completely, but it dulls the pain in his legs and arms and throat.

The scary man lifts a neon green syringe with another laugh and lunges for one of the heroes. If that syringe is what he thinks it is…

Danny has got to get his hands on that.

A shot of this stuff could go a long way to fixing him up, and with the way he’s dripping viscous green blood from his exposed ribcage, he could really, really use that.

It takes a second of careful breathing and reminding himself he’s had worse to actually start moving. As injured as he is, going intangible is not in the cards. Invisibility is, though, so he just floats down regularly behind the tall madman, who's gone back to monologuing.

His form flickers into visibility again, and he looms over the laughing man. It’s clear the heroes see him, but they don’t do anything, likely out of fear of drawing attention to his sudden appearance behind the villain.

He feels himself being analyzed, likely being determined friend or foe, but doesn't care. He’s only got eyes for the syringe. The villain must trace all the heroes’ gazes to Danny, because he turns around and freezes.

Danny is sure his eyes are glowing with hunger, hair floating around his face like it isn't affected by gravity, and he probably makes for a grisly sight, coated in glowing blood, organs exposed and beating heart pulsing behind his ribs. Still, he takes advantage of the clear fear the scarecrow-like man displays and snatches up the syringe, quickly injecting it into his arm where dozens of needle scars sit.

He nearly melts with the sudden wave of relief that floods his system. The glowing aura around him grows brighter, and Danny looks down to see his skin slowly knitting together, presence growing stronger and more solid.

Still, it wears off too quickly as his body uses it up to heal internal damages. He clears his throat, leans to the side to hack up a chunk of something unpleasant, and tries to speak.

At first, all that comes out is the icy murmur of ghostspeak like the sound of snow crunching underfoot. Everyone winces, and the scarecrow man clamps hands over his ears with a groan. Too close. Danny leans back and tries again.

“So-orry.'' His voice is rough and broken. His throat wasn’t fully healed up yet.

A pause.

“YOu got ANny moRE a’ that StUFF?” His voice comes out like a low hiss, and he tilts his head to the side questioningly, not noticing how some of the colorful capes in the back flinch away at the unnerving motion and crackling sounds his neck makes.

The scarecrow man’s face is obscured, but Danny thinks he must be in shock.

Danny blinks his wide, glowing green eyes again.

Finally, the gears click and whir in the villain’s head and he nods frantically, fishing a case from his pocket and offering it up to Danny.

Danny takes it gratefully and retreats up to the rafters. The ground floor below is still deathly quiet and unmoving, all eyes focused on him. He shifts uncomfortably.

Well now he feels kinda bad…

“You CAan go baCK to FIghtING noww. Doon’t let Me STOp yoU.”

He decides against giving himself a shot and instead lifts the syringe to his mouth, biting down and shattering the glass with his fangs to allow the 'diet ectoplasm' to flow down his throat.

Sure, maybe he ingests some glass shards, but as the ectoplasm heals him, he just turns intangible enough for the glass to pass through. They clink to the ground far below, where he notes that the heroes used the scarecrows' moment of stillness to apprehend the guy.

He doesn't even fight or protest, just lets himself be stiffly led away. If Danny listens extra close, now that his hearing is back and better, he can hear the villain muttering about galaxies and the passage of time.

‘Oh yeah,’

Danny thinks,

‘He did get a full look into my eyes.’

...

The halfa shrugs it off and cracks open another syringe, the thin glass a pleasant texture between his teeth, smiling slightly as his skin forms back fully and his bones snap back into their proper places. He even has the energy to open a small portal to the Ghost Zone to drop off the remaining syringes for later. Very handy!

He hums and turns invisible. Now that he's out of GIW custody, he might as well figure out where he is. This universe is definitely not his, but after his narrow escape, he deserves a vacation.

---

-Meanwhile-

Red Robin stares at the place the figure had disappeared from.

Some kind of Eldritch demon was in Gotham, and it had Scarecrows concentrated toxin. Of all the weeks for Batman to be in space, it had to be this one??

He shakes his head and turns on his heel to follow Dick and Steph back to the Batmobile.

Was this a situation for the JLD?

Another incredulous head shake.

Too many questions, not enough answers. 

# Dcu x Dp 185

Danny lived in a house that had chemicals

Danny has eaten food that had been contaminated with chemicals all his life

So his body is used to it, all of a sudden he is in a new city and has a new family and no longer eating food that is contaminated with chemicals

Danny thought that this was a good thing until he began to have withdrawal symptoms

[burn-the-white-flag]

Goodbye Bella

CW: pet death, assisted euthanasia, disability

Leading into Bella's assisted euthanasia, I found myself leaning on the Dog Heaven narrative in order to preserve a little bit of plausible deniability about what was going to happen. Death is often talked about in metaphors and euphonism-s, like or "went to a better place" or "is no longer with us". It does feel gentler to say that instead of attacking the issue head on; "Bella is going to die" and then "Bella has died". I found myself doing that too, before we took him to the animal hospital this morning to be painlessly and instantaneously put to "sleep" with medication by my sister's friend and Bella's vet, Cassie.

The process was grisly, in a quiet way. My parents and I held him as he braced against the needle being inserted into the catheter. The first injection was a test, the second was the anesthesia, and the third was a neon pink substance like Sudafed. After the anesthesia, Bella gradually went limp as his heart pumped the numbness throughout his body. After the third injection, his heart stopped.

Even after Cassie confirmed his heart had stopped, my mom continued to pet his limp body and tell him he was a good boy. The main emotion I felt was shock over how quickly it had all happened; the time between the first injection and Cassie's confirmation had only been a few minutes. The second emotion I felt as I watched my mom was disgust. The body in front of us was no longer Bella. There was no light in his eyes, no stinky breath, no reaction to us petting his neck (which he had strongly disliked). The life that was Bella was gone forever.

I don't believe our souls persist let alone move on to heaven, and now that Bella has died I feel it would do a disservice to pretend that I believe that for the sake of being "gentle" about what happened. Towards the end of his seventeen and a half years of life, much of it was suffering. Consciousness may not always be the ideal to strive for.

For the last year or so, Bella had nearly complete vision and hearing loss. As I spent this past week with him, we would take him out to our snowy front yard because he was too weak to actually go on a walk. After he peed, I would wait a bit to see if he wanted to poop (one time I accidentally brought him in too early and then he pooped in the living room). He would also wait for me to pick him up -- if he waited long enough, he would communicate to me that he wanted to go back inside by barking. I would often get distracted by something and he would have to bark a few times before I lifted him out of the snow.

Even then I was haunted by the scene; a small dog standing in a field of powdery snow surrounded by tiny paw prints, blind and deaf and only able to feel the cold through his paws, flexing the necessary muscles to bark in the way that he had once learned to do, waiting for someone to pick him up and take him back home. What if the afterlife is like that? Pitch black, silent and cold; we shout into the void, unable to hear ourselves, waiting for someone to hear us, and no one ever does? What is my soul without my eyes to see, my ears to hear, my mouth to speak, my hands to write?

I would rather my soul and my mind return to the Earth along with my body. Broken down into bits, incorporated back into a world that keeps living and moving. Perhaps my desire to think of my soul, my mind, and my body as unified is borne out of my able-ism, and I'm sure there a seriously disabled person would have a very different take on afterlife and the soul's relationship with the body.

I'm waxing drivel. I'm thankful to Bella for all the years that he spent with me and my family. He was a good dog.

[lovelyxhorrors]

The Midnight Massarce || Closed RP

At a nightclub in Boston, it was any other night. There is a line of people getting inside as the patrons are being vetted by the bouncers. Inside, the dance floor is full of neon lights and blasting music. There is a bar serving alluring cocktails for the patrons to drink and enjoy. On the dance floor,

It was one of those great nights. However, on that night, the loud beating of EDM and Pop masked the sounds of screaming, yelling, and crashes in the basement and upper floor behind closed doors. The scene reveals fast jagged transitions of open mouths uttering screams and shouts, quick movements of sharp and hacking weapons, glistening inhuman fangs and stained red claws, white animal skulls, bright red eyes, and dark red splatters hitting the walls.

Then gunshots ranged out that cut through the music then the chorus of laughter and fun turns to screams and fright. "GROOAH!!" More gunshots ranged out followed by inhuman roars and screech that prompted club-goers and the employees to run out for the door and other emergencies. People were filming the chaos as one man was thrown off the balcony and crashed through a table in the VIP section. Blood pools underneath the man. There were figures wearing animal skulls darting through the top floor as security were trying to stop them with guns only to be hacked to death. Soon, the chaos died once everyone evacuated from the premises.

The dance floor is littered with broken glass and spilled liquor, the music is still ongoing but slowly becomes distorted. But on the top floor and the bottom, there were grisly discoveries. Blood stains all over the walls even the ceiling. There were deep marks on the walls. Bodies inflicted with bloody gashes had twisted limps and looked to be mauled. There is a big hole in the basement to the outside, revealing bloody huge footprints and skid marks on the parking lot in the back.

Report - Saturday Night at 12:00am

Multiple calls from the nightclub report huge disturbances. Reports of gunshots masked men wearing animal skulls, and brawls break out. A huge number of deaths were reported in the nightclub. The infamous head of a Boston street gang, the Doberman Gang is reported dead in one of the top VIP rooms with his throat slit out and a stab in the head. There are infamous top members from the Azteca Kings who are reported dead as well.

@kaleidoscopexheartss ( Sylvia Path) investigates the case.

[draconscious]

give me fantasy verse clair + matsuba HEH

3-sentence aus // accepting (hittin you with the dystopia detectives classic hehe)

"...Holy fuck," Clair breathes as she shoulders her way into the deserted penthouse apartment, azure eyes widening at the grisly scene: a mess of blood, glistening oil, and robotic limbs strewn across the floor, lit up by her dragon maw-shaped blacklight.

Neo Saffron's sickeningly artificial ambiance--neon, bubblegum-hued advertisements flashing across skyscraper windows, alongside the dull zips and bright flashes of coordinated teleportation-trams below--only adds to the cacophony of this murder scene, a crime as old as time.

As always, Matsuba follows in his bullish partner's wake--neutral and quiet by contrast--calm eyes observing the surroundings until he paces over towards the body in question, which is still slumped over a flickering monitor and surrounded by robotic remains. He would piece together both mortal and artificial memories to decipher what's happened here...while Clair would continue her hawkish patrol, tirelessly searching the place for additional clues...

Together, they were Neo Saffron's finest detective duo--and it was time to get to work.

[twentythreemillionstories]

Sunday 10th March 2024, Sofia, 1.40pm.

#165,490 — A businessman hosts a hunting party at a remote lodge, and hires three prostitutes to take care of his clients. The anatomy of the grisly crime followed the same manic path. So he closes down doors and windows when his night is falling and lights up artificial daytime neon lights whenever he decides it is time for a new day to begin.

[qu-film-history-to-1968]

Horror Is A Popular Genre For Studios Then And Now

Julia Merolle

     Early film production companies had a history of focusing on certain genres, which still happens today. Studios primarily in the 1930s and 1940s focused on horror films, which is also known as The Golden Age for horror. These films depicted monsters that weren’t humans but rather some type of monsters or creatures. Popular early twentieth studio such as RKO Radio Pictures was known for their horror films that were both low-budget and relied on studio talents. Films such as Cat People, The Curse of the Cat People, and Isle of the Dead. Another popular studio that still Universal Studios benefitted from characters in their horror films such as Frankenstein, Dracula, the Invisible Man, and the Wolf Man.

     A popular film made by RKO Radio Pictures during this time was Cat People (1942) directed by Jacques Tourneur. This film was made during the 1940s and set in New York City and it focuses more on the unknown because of its low budget and therefore utilizes the actors more. The film also incorporates Serbian themes as the main character is supposed to be Serbian. The use of shadows in this film is important because the shadows can be seen as the real monster. One quote discusses the making of Cat People “‘We tossed away the horror formula right from the beginning,’ Lewton said. ‘No grisly stuff for us. No masklike faces, hardly human, with gnashing teeth and hair standing on end. No creaking physical manifestations. No horror piled upon horror.’ (Siegel, 31) What he counted on to frighten his audiences was something more elemental than the fear of a walking mummy.” This quote is very important because it takes away the traditional horror formula that most horror films follow.

     Another popular film made by Universal during this time was Frankenstein (1931) directed by James Whale. This film was made during the 1930s and set in the Bavarian Alps. The film focuses more on the creation of Adam, Dr. Frankenstein’s creation, and how he is perceived and treated by the town. Dracula had come out before this movie and because both Dracula and Frankenstein were such huge successes for Universal Pictures, they decided to release more films about monsters such as The Invisible Man and the Wolf Man. A quote about this film states, “This prologue attempts to instil literary authenticity to the sequel, partly in the hope that it will prevent the censorship that almost ruined the first Frankenstein film, as the cultural angsts of the Great Depression found expression in the sublimated monsters of Universal Studios. The social context of Whale’s Frankenstein films, and of the Universal production output during the 1930s in general, cannot be underestimated.” This is so important because it states that the social context of these films is so important, especially when relating them to issues that were happening in the world at that time. 

     In conclusion, there has recently been a horror renaissance returning. Once horror was seen as silly slasher films, many years after these other films came out. However, films such as The Babadook (2014), It Follows (2014), The Witch (2015), Raw (2016), Get Out (2017), Midsommar (2019), Bodies, Bodies, Bodies (2022), and Talk To Me (2023). Studios such as A24, Neon, SpectreVision, IFC Midnight, and Magnet Releasing as well as Blumhouse are some studios that have focused on the horror genre within the most recent years. Horror is being made like never seen before, and therefore I believe that this genre still exists today. These films are so important, especially because they can be seen as similar because certain studios follow certain genres, especially horror. However, it can also be seen as different because there are so many different sub-genres in horror today than there were in the early twentieth century.

Sources:

Smith, Andy W. “‘So Why Shouldn’t I Write of Monsters?’: Defining Monstrosity in Universal’s Horror Films.” Gothic Film: An Edinburgh Companion, edited by Richard J. Hand and Jay McRoy, Edinburgh University Press, 2020, pp. 21–36. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.3366/j.ctv10kmdxf.7. Accessed 5 Oct. 2023.

Vieira, Mark A. “Darkness, Darkness: The Films of Val Lewton.” Bright Lights Film Journal, 12 Jan. 2007, chrome-extension://efaidnbmnnnibpcajpcglclefindmkaj/edinburghfilmguild.org.uk/2010-11/Val_Lewton_films.pdf.

[letrune]

That is not his point. The point is that there is hope, so your story may be a tragedy, but there is a chance that it won't be.

Essentially: Orpheus may turn back and lose Eurycide... but he still had a chance that he does not, this once, he won't, and the tragedy will end with some joy.

But then he turns. We knew this will happen, we knew the story, but if ut is told well, if it is done right, we will hope that Orpheus will not turn around. Even if we know to the last page, we hope.

Hope is for the audience, so to say. It may be hopeless for Orpheus, but... maybe next time. Maybe the next retelling. Hope is still there.

Edit: i got another example. A great grimdark story I know is Catch-22. It outright states that the situation is hopeless because of the Catch. You fly and die, or you don't and then get forced into flying and die. Your characters know their situation is hopeless, but there is still a motivation - and thus, a story for the audience. It is grimdark, yes, but the reason it is not because "everything is hopeless give up", but because we see a character, learn about them, even start liking them, and hope they survive. Sometimes, they do. Sometimes, they die without fanfare.

Yossarian's story is a grim, dark, deadly serious story about a man not wanting to die in World War 2, told via the lens of a black comedy because the characters crossing his path are one way or another quirky, silly, weird, horrible or outright a villain, but they just fun to read. The story is so hopeless that one character takes on more and more suicide missions because he sees no way to get out of the Catch-22, and he dies a grisly, horrible death. However, his whole character is "well. Guess I'll just paradrop this crazy Italian woman behind the German lines, no questions asked. Anyway, here is my contractual reminder that I am meant to die, as a joke."

Like in a modern show, he would have a red shirt, a stormtrooper poster, show his family pictures and the pictures of the farm he will buy if by any chance he is not going to die, but he will, don't worry, have a giant neon sign over his intro where the letters spell out "I will die", and he would be played by Sean Bean, billed as "the guy who will die in the end of act 2". He is decidedly sure he is in a grim story and will die. He is still written as if he would be in a black comedy until his death... so the audience cares.

Because if it is so hopeless that Yossarian sits in his tent all day, there is no story, why read the book?

     “Why does the third of the three brothers, who shares his food with the old woman in the wood, go on to become king of the country? Why does James Bond manage to disarm the nuclear bomb a few seconds before it goes off rather than, as it were, a few seconds afterwards? Because a universe where that did not happen would be a dark and hostile place. Let there be goblin hordes, let there be terrible environmental threats, let there be giant mutated slugs if you really must, but let there also be hope. It may be a grim, thin hope, an Arthurian sword at sunset, but let us know that we do not live in vain.”      Terry Pratchett,            A Slip of the Keyboard: Collected Non-Fiction    

[bitter69uk]

Recently watched: Italian horror maestro Mario Bava’s slasher movie Blood and Black Lace (1964). Tagline: “A fashion house of glamorous models becomes a terror house of blood!” A sadistic masked and gloved serial killer is relentlessly stalking and murdering his way through the fashion models of the chic haute couture salon run by ultra-rich designer Cristina (Eva Bartok) and her lover Max (Cameron Mitchell). (Picture a procession of fiercely elegant women wearing cocktail dresses with impeccable beehive hairdos getting gruesomely murdered one by one). I’m no expert on Bava - the only other film of his I’ve seen is Black Sunday (1960) with cult movie queen Barbara Steele – but wow, what a stylist! From the credits to the white-knuckle finale, Bava envelopes you in a supremely alluring vision with the soundtrack (Latin exotica, heavy on the bongos), costumes, baroque sets and lighting (characters are routinely bathed in fuchsia or green neon, even when that light source makes no sense). Perhaps inevitably, there are vivid splashes of red: an incriminating leather-bound diary, handbags, telephones - and of course - plumes of blood. The victims’ grisly deaths still pack a genuinely nasty jolt. (As Slant magazine put it, “The killings in Blood and Black Lace are still disturbing yet have the vitality of pop art”). An additional bonus: the juicy overripe performances from Hollywood’s Cameron Mitchell and Hungary’s Eva Bartok, both veterans of European co-productions. (The same year, Mitchell starred opposite Jayne Mansfield in the truly wild German exploitation flick Dog Eat Dog – what a career!).