#after wanting his body to just spontaneously decompose

[mydemonsdrivealimo]

jensen sitting on the floor eating cherries post autism meltdown

[2-dsimp]

omg zombie?? Rotting companion when?? I wonder if he's the slow type or the "I may be decomposing but I can sprint at a full 20 km/h" kind of guy

I luv zombiesss

-andwy tiddy hater

Cw: Heavy angst, obsessive/possessive tendencies, your boyfriend turning into a lovelorn zombie.

Synopsis: Soma, your boyfriend, happened to be the number one gamer in the world due to the fact that nobody could beat him at video games. Nobody except for his Lovely player two who he absolutely adores. One day during a zombie mob flash he sacrificed himself and got bitten in your stead so that you may live another day. Now as time passed, he was set to roam the streets as an undead zombie. Waiting to see you again to ensure that he won’t ever let the both of you be separated again. Not over his half dead body.

☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡..｡.:

Soma, your boyfriend, is always so eccentric but sweet at the same time. He’d always make sure to mark down your important days on his calendar just to make sure he never misses a moment in his darling’s life. Which is everyday, from the moment you wake up down to the moment you close your eyes goodnight.

The Pro Gamers journal is filled with borderline obsessive scribbles of him recording the way that you sleep. And listing a bunch of observations about how adorable you looked curled up or sprawled out like a starfish. Not only that he takes the time to analyze and document every bit of your habits as if you he’s a biologist and you happened to be his precious specimen.

Either way no matter if you’re asleep or awake his hands won’t grow tired of drawing portraits of you. Within his sketchbook he used as an excuse to highlight gaming mechanics to his team. He’s pretty freighting when it comes to it, if you ask anyone on his team. They’d tell you to not even try and reach out towards it for a better look, since you get an automatic knee to the face.

“Oh my bad didn’t ya say that you wanted a close up of my combo breaker? Hmm? Not in irl? Well you Shoulda been more specific my guy”

Fast forward a few months, It all happened so suddenly when your part of town got hit with an unknown anomaly from a parasitic animal. That escaped from Devildom into the human realm. Successfully kickstarting a disease which made those who aren’t familiar with its origins. To fall into a frenzied state of loss consciousness and inability to control of one’s body.

During the earliest stages of the infection that spreading through your quaint city. Which was thankfully isolated from the rest to prevent even more of an outbreak. You were on a date with your boyfriend who was such a advocate for being spontaneous. Soma loved to surprise you with fun outings like going to amusement parks, para gliding, bungee jumping, kayaking, you name it.

But this time he wanted to give you a breather and take you on a lowkey cute date at a nearby cafe. Soma had an arm around your hip squeezing it lightly while he leaned against you like an over grown puppy.

“Lovie I’m so lucky to have you~ I don’t ever wanna live a day without being able to hold you, love you, kiss you, n fu—“

“Oh we’re here already! You excited to try out those cute menu items you’ve been fangirling about hun?”

Your boyfriend exclaimed giddily oftentimes having a habit of rambling on about how much he adores you on a daily basis. He went to open the door for you right after pressing a hungry kiss to your lips. It was something he always did before he had to leave your side even for just a brief moment.

Since he was paranoid in the fact that anything could happen to his cherished relationship with you. And he’d rather not it happen without him kissing you one last time.

You guys had just entered the door only to be met with a the rabid eyes and foaming mouths of the former patrons that dined there. It wasn’t any help that this cafe was jammed packed due to their popularity so it’d only take a split second for you to get snatched up by one of the infected standing in line.

You could barely register the way you were shoved out of the store by your boyfriend in an attempt to guard you from being taken by the horde. You stumbled outside the glass doors eyes wide with shock as you witnessed. A different side of Soma that you’ve never seen before, one that had him going batshit crazy.

Seeing how those filthy hands tried to take you away from him. Had him going off on a tangent about how he’d kill them twice over, for even trying to touch a single hair on your head. Claiming how you were his and his only and that nothing on heaven nor earth would change it.

Despite being outnumbered he put up one hell of a fight knocking the parasites down one by one into eventually one of them took a chance to bit his fist that he used to sucker punch their teeth out.

“Man you guys sure are tenacious for a bunch of deadweight…Shit just my luck”

Soma sighed, as if it was only a minor convenience that he’d gotten bitten. But nonetheless he kept letting his fist and legs fly not stopping until every single undead bastard was on the ground. Thanks to his self defense classes in karate.

It was only a matter of time before they got back up again so he turned around to give you a relaxed expression. A bright loving grin on his face as he asked you a simple question. While his veins became more prominent on his skin appearing in an abnormal pigment.

“Would you still love me as a zombie babes?”

You could only sob saying yes frantically as you watched your loved one turn into a different being. At your answer he let out a flippant sigh of relief before continuing to lock himself inside the restaurant. Using the key that was hanging off the hip of an employee he stunned.

“Good, then you’d better watch your back since whether im dead or alive I’d still be crazy in love with you baby.”

The gamer said in a soft tone that had a darkened edge to it, almost as if he wasn’t just trying to lighten up the mood with one of his lighthearted quips. But was issuing you an actual warning to beware of if you ever came across him while he wasn’t in control of himself.

Now go, your eyes should see only good things. And I’m afraid it’s gonna be ugly for me, Ah wait! Before you go…Give me kiss?”

Soma asked with a boyish grin pressing his face against the glass door with his lips puckered. As he waggled his eyebrows at you. It made you pissed off to say the least at how he was treating this a some kind of joke.

But you couldn’t help but notice his body twitching sporadically which was a telltale sign of how anxious he was. How scared he was of losing you. And how terrifying he’d be once he turned knowing that there’d be nothing to hold him back from showing his purest form of love for you.

Your boyfriend was already internally battling the urge to pull you against him. So you’d never leave his sight, that you two would be together forever regardless of death since nothing could ever change the way his heart beats purely for you. So just one more kiss, no matter if There’s a thin glass barrier, he just wants to be close to you, to somewhat feel you before his body shuts down on him.

You scrambled to press yourself against the door your palm on top of his. You gave him one last longing gaze, beforehand pressing your lips against the glass. Not noticing how he was just unblinkingly staring at your reflection. Burning the image of you so deeply into his mind that even if his critical thinking perished he’d never ever forget you even in death.

You were hesitant to leave him wanting to stay until his final hours but he childishly shooed you away. Claiming that he doesn’t want you to see him become an uggo version of himself. Since glowing down in front of his beau would be immensely embarrassing. He couldn’t help but feel a cruel twist of satisfaction seeing your reluctance to leave his side and those pretty eyes of yours welling up with tears meant only for him.

“We’ll meet again soon Lovie, mark my words, if you think I’d ever leave you alone then you’ve got another thing coming�� So make sure to do your best until I come to make you mine once more permanently”

A few days later, the infection took hold of him but not in a way he was expecting. Sure he may have lost some of his humanity, but for a strange reason. The pro gamer still retained some fragments of his consciousness. His head was pounding from your name, invading his headspace. With every pulse of his brain that was fried at the moment.

Soma chuffed with a crooked grin, as he suspected not even death would take away his inherent need for you. Nor could it ever make it cease to be. He had to find you, sure it was selfish but he can’t stop from obsessing over your very being ingrained in his hazy memory. Where only the images of you were clear as can be.

Breaking the lock with his newly found inhuman strength, he became a half mindless zombie. Who actively searches for his you like a moth to a flame. Tearing everything and anything apart that stands in his way.

☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡..｡.:

A/n: if you want to see more of your undead boyfriend feel free to send in an ask 👀

[princess-of-the-corner]

Okay but, I just realized something that is disturbingly possible: Springtrap might not be an issue for Charlie until AFTER she hires Mike.

Because the ENTIRE reason she ran into Springtrap in the books is because she went back to the old Pizzeria to make sure he was actually dead after a bunch of people who look like her started suffering from spontaneous Springlock failures.

No Twisted Animatronics means no girls who look like Charlie getting killed while they're hunting her means no investigating the Pizzeria to make sure he's really dead means Afton is now a homeless zombie in both a rabbit costume and unimaginable pain.

So imagine Afton, desperate, in extreme pain, and wanting revenge on Charlie for putting him in this situation in the first place, fighting against Spring Bonnie's path-finding AI to get back to his workshop, only to find a bunch of empty shells and a pile of decomposing organs instead.

What I'm saying is that Springtrap is PROBABLY going to be in some pretty poor condition by the time he catches up with Charlie.

So Charlie /does/ go back to the pizzeria at some point post-Silver Eyes. She doesn't question the lack of Spring Bonnie/Afton's Body since she assumes the police dragged him out and to the local morgue.

This is when we have Charlie scavenging the original Animatronics (other than Springtrap) for parts, realizing they're still haunted, and working to put the Spirits to rest before she opens up a new diner.

[thewestern]

Chapter 26

Do you believe in magic? 

Somewhat akin to splitting the atom, spontaneous fermentation brewing is an alchemic practice, bordering on straight-up witchcraft. (Which is to say, they’ve burned ladies at the stake for less.) One wherein man simultaneously assumes and resigns control o’er the forces of nature, albeit for the benefit of all humankind. Or, would it be to his and hers great detriment? What was it Mark Twain said about drinking? That it’s the cause and solution to all of life’s problems. (Words which had sometimes been paraphrased in chalk on the sandwich board under the awning on the curb out front from the Newfy.) I am become hungover.   

Back on the farm, not terribly long after the Stone Rock Boys had bedded down for the morning, the Gang of Four from the New Frontier had themselves awoken on the early side of reason. Before their as-yet unscheduled rendezvous with the boy Wolff, the Mick had quite reluctantly agreed to lead Grace and Zeke on a partially guided tour of the coolship room and the accompanying barrel cellar that Hank had converted from the previous homeowner’s survivalist bunker. Grace was delighted to have her suspicions confirmed regarding the subterranean room’s origins. 

(In a freak occurrence of fatal irony, the previous homeowner sadly passed away in his own survivalist bunker. And would you believe it was on account of he locked himself down there by accident? Most survivalist bunkers lock one way, from the inside, so as to keep any marauding bands of dystopian looters from burglarizing the canned foodstuffs and cache of seeds, which would all but certainly soon become the new currency. However, here was such a hardcore survivalist, that he equipped his bunker with a double-cylinder, computer-activated deadbolt mechanism, which would also seal him from the outside in. His reason being that he didn’t want to be tempted to resurface prematurely into a world that was sure to be hostile to human life. So, anyway, one Saturday afternoon he was down there tinkering on a few things, some routine grouting, mostly — doomsday prepping is a lot like homebrewing, or any other hobby, in so far as there’s a lot of busy work — and he must have pressed the wrong button or something because damned if the titanium-reinforced door didn’t airlock above him. Twenty-five years, the timer was set for. And he hadn’t stocked but a single bite of food, nor a drop of water. That’s supposed to be the final step. [Even if the food is non-perishable, you’d prefer it to be as fresh as possible.] Would you even believe if his AV guy had been scheduled to come by that very afternoon to install the full comms setup, as well as the entertainment system, but damn if nobody came to answer the front door. So it was that our intrepid survivor died twice. First of boredom. Second of thirst. For all we know he might still had been down there, if it weren’t for his then soon-to-be-ex-wife discovering his decomposing body some days later. [It’s the smell that’ll haunt her.] On account of they had been undergoing a trial separation, his now-widow was only just stopping by to get his signature on the last of the divorce papers. If he wasn’t in the house, flat ass planted firmly on the sofa, then she could bet the farm he was down there was playing in his fucking fort. Boy how he hated when she called it that. She never took him or his apocalypse planning seriously. Maybe it was for the best. Their marriage could have never survived the bunker. He would have written her out of the will altogether, had he made one to begin with. [When one has reoriented one’s life entire around the steadfast belief that the world is going to end, like in the fairly short term {nigh}, what then is the use in settling one’s affairs?] On the bright side, though, it would stand to reason that as his legal wife at the time of his untimely demise, wouldn’t she stand to inherit the estate entire? Not so fast, on account of since our story is taking place in a separate property state, rather she had to split the pot four ways with his two asshole daughters and one dickhead son from a previous marriage, which divides out to half of the half she would have gotten in the divorce! Mercifully, she did get the farmhouse, which she promptly put on the market for to cover her considerable loss. As a general rule of real estate, the presence of a level-five survivalist bunker increases the home value least twofold. That is, of course, unless somebody fucking dies in it. [In some states, including this one, sellers must disclose any death{s} that have occured on-property over the previous three year-period.] Then it’s basically moot. Because well it must be some lousy survivalist bunker, ain’t it. Hence in part how come she sold the place to Hank for a song. Some guys are just lucky.)  

Therein the ancient secrets of the ten thousand-year brewing tradition would be fully revealed, firmly placing our pilgrims on a time continuum that spans the millenniums, with the Dawn of Man in the Cradle of Civilization, the Sumerians of Southern Mesopotamia (SoMo), mercantilists in the glorious reign of Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, peasant farmers in the seventeenth century Senne Valley, Hank and Russ in Hank’s garage and so on and so forth to the sixteenth power.

Meanwhile, Kitty would make waffles.

Although she seldom cooked — again, the kitchen was Mick’s dojo — when pressed, she could make a more than passable breakfast, particularly one for soaking up a hangover. Nothing fussy. The breakfast necessities. Some or other such menu of dairy, swine and starch. The latter preferably starting from a box with precise steps and measurements printed on the back. A control recipe from which she may slightly deviate with variable ingredients as so dictated by the scientific method. A dash of cinnamon, a dollop of sour cream or a splash of vanilla extract. 

She paroused Hank’s walk-in pantry for anything semi-perishable which could be combined with the outside groceries they brought along — a half dozen-carton of eggs and a vacuum-sealed package of bacon in a tent-pop cooler. For a presumed-dead man of going on a year, his wares were surprisingly well-stocked. Right at her eye level, beside the spine of a lone cookbook �� The Joy of Cooking … For One: Big Flavor in Small Portions — was just what the doctor ordered: an unperforated cardboard container of pancake mix. And there staring back at her was the familiar face of an antebellum mammy with the Yessa Massa smile. Comma get ya griddle cakes while dey’r hot off the stove top nah. Mmm-mm, get’cha sum wahrm syrp to drizzle all up on ‘em. Y’all hurry up nah befuh I battuh dem cheeks wit mah wooden spoon nahu. (The beloved Big Momma Maybelline character is the trademarked intellectual property of the Amish Grains Corporation, a division of ​​Cyclospora Brands. Any reproduction of her likeness without proper consent is expressly prohibited and will be punished with commensurate lashings.)     

Diligently, Kitty checked the expiration date, which they were coming up on a month past. Hank himself used to deride the practice of labeling foodstuffs with so-called By-Dates. Best By, Sell By, Use By, Buy By, By and By; Bye, Bye, Bye. He considered it criminal behavior on behalf of the CPG Cartel to encourage recurring purchases. Next to nuclear proliferation and all these damn boy bands, of course, it’s Food Waste that’s the biggest crisis confronting humanity, he used to say. You know how long it takes a head of lettuce to decompose, in absentia of oxygen? Twenty-five years. About as long as you’ve been alive, young lady. Quarter of a century. And by that time it finally does disintegrate, that leafy green’ll leave behind a methane that’s twenty-something times more powerful a greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide. I mean for crying out loud, Kitty, there’s a floating trash patch two-thirds the size of Texas bobbing around the Pacific as we speak. You can see the damned thing from outer space!

Notwithstanding the existence of an garbage archipelago, Kitty had done enough failed volcano science projects to know that baking powder does lose its potency, eventually. But the blood suckers at Big Food would have no doubt accounted for that fact and as such conspired to give themselves a grace period whereby unsuspecting shoppers would have to buy more storebought mix than they would ever possibly need. For heaven’s sake, how could Hank have ever finished a box this large to begin with, not that he’d even started. How many pancakes even is this? The Nutrition Facts (/Datos de Nutrición) say each serving size makes two units of four inches each, diameter she assumed. That radius squared multiplied by pie would make a mega-pancake fifty square inches in area, twenty-five inches the way round, talking circumference. Imagine that. Okay — Earth to Kitty — serving size is a quarter of a cup, or thirty-six grams. Box is thirty two-ounces. That’s nine hundred-some (seven) grams. Over thirty-six is — long division, f’n, f — twenty-five. Times two makes fifty. Fifty flipping pancakes. General Ulysses S. Grant. Half a hundred flapjacks. Oh, farts … it says so right on the back.  

  Anyhow, when and over how long a period was this Single Man supposed to consume fifty pancakes from this Family Size box. He hardly spent any time in that second house anyway. Kitty remembered when she and Mick first stayed for one of her three-day weekends. President's Day, or Was it Martin Luther King? One of those bank holidays they give you on the other side of Christmas, in the grayest stretch of winter, if only to keep postal workers from drive-by shooting their mail routes. Hank had been off scaling up or traversing across or spelunking down some four-dimensional plane in a faraway land for two weeks’ time, and insisted they Use The House, he said, as a token of his thanks for minding the store in his stead. Yea, as if his being here makes any fucking difference anyway, Mick would scoff. By then Hank’d been spending more and more time away, either planning the new production facility, or else off on another of his solo old dude adventures. Indiana Scones, Mick took to calling him to his face, because he loved traveling and breakfast pastries. He’d left the lonely farmhouse key — no chain or even a ring — on his desk next to the ship in the bottle off the starboard bow. On top of a yellow pad of post-its whereupon he’d left a rare-for-him note. 

K+M

Thanks for minding the store. 

XOHO  

At the risk of perpetuating this cycle of gratitude everlasting, whenceupon they returned, Kitty wanted to get Hank a little something to say thanks for letting them Use The House. Casual gift-giving was an important component of her personal culture. Yet what do you get for a man that has at once everything and nothing? A man who has enough expensive wheelie toys to round the curve of a mid-life crisis onto life’s home stretch, no matter the terrain. Who has every book ever written about any adventure ever over or undertaken. (Beside, getting someone a book as a present is poor etiquette, Kitty believed rather staunchly. Awfully presumptive, isn’t it?) Someone who saw his favorite band play on four continents before its founder and reluctant leader died a past-timely death. A man so devoted to his hobby he made it a profession. What do you get a man like that? A bottle of wine? He never drank the stuff. Only skeletons in his cellar. Maybe fetch him another from the janitor’s closet.

  That Hank was hard to shop for was no big deal to Kitty. For a fact, the challenge made the thrill she received from gift-giving all the more fulfilling. You know, she’d read something in a magazine recently — must have been in a waiting room at a doctor’s office, the only place she could have possibly encountered print media — about how experiences were the new possessions. Obviously she couldn’t afford to buy him another first-class round-trip ticket to Timbuktu. (One Wednesday Hank had casually dropped to Kitty that he was Diamond Status, whatever that means.) Nor could she bring Jerry back to life. (Hank had been one of the pious few holdout deadheads who’d outright refused to see any of the GD’s incarnations, PG, which he considered heretical.) But she could make him a breakfast treat. A baker’s dozen cinnamon rolls. The buns themselves came from a dough pre-rolled, canned and mascotted by a claymated Frankenstein’s monster with a crystalline blue male gaze, and the haunting falsetto chortle of a childlike ghost. (The prototype was painstakingly rendered via stop-motion, requiring its five bodies and fifteen decapitated dough heads be rearranged in the frame up to twenty-four times to shoot a single second of real-time footage. Since the early nineties, the beloved advertising character has been brought to life digitally, with the miracle of CGI.) But, Kitty frosted them herself with a homemade, Irish Cream-infused glaze, and topped off with a garnish of glittery green sprinkles. He was so heart-warmed by the kind gesture that he insisted Kitty stay for a toast to their good health over the first half pint of the new More Perfect Double IPA — as so christened by Mick … Hank had wanted to call it, God Exists — freshly kegged this very morning by her betrothed. Never mind that Seven AM is a tad bit on the early side for a Eight Percent ABV, or that you’re on your way to teach the Periodic Table to sixth graders. O, c’mon, Kit. It’s a half of a half. A quarter. 

And so they did.

What a fine memory it was.

###

Although she was blissfully unfamiliar with the term mise en place, Kitty did prefer to have her ingredients, utensils and other cookware prearranged in advance, like how a surgeon would have their instruments pre-sterilized and set out just so, with the corresponding donor organs at the ready for transplant in a little cooler not dissimilar from the one Kitty and the Mick received lightly used as a wedding present from Skip Engel, the Newfy delivery driver. That cooler is there on the marble counter, next to the waffle iron — which one more commonly receives via their wedding registry … although they were one of those meant-to-be type of couples who already proudly owned a waffle iron, so they left it off — with the mixing bowl, whisk, two shapes of spatula (one for flipping, the other for miscellaneous spatulate), measuring cups and spoons organized in descending fractional volumes. Griddle with the nonstick teflon coating that’ll be sure to give you bone cancer. Center-cut bacon strips and a stick of butter which will hopefully do you first. From Hank’s aforementioned refrigerator, Vermont maple syrup that you’d more than happily drown in. (She remembered he’d had that from there last visit.) And from the icebox, wild, Maine blueberries. For our dish this morning, a culinary romp through ye olde New England. The breakfast world is flattening. Two brown eggs, XL Organic. Pair of Free Rangers. Mama Maybelline, bonded there on the cardboard box in a lithographic phantom zone for all time. An additional pinch of baking powder for a little extra leavening, just in case. Her variable ingredient, lemon zest for which to compliment the blueberries. And lastly but not the least— oh fudge, I forgot the mother fucking milk. 

Kitty flung open the fridge in desperation, breaking off the vintage handle clean off its moor, and looked deep into the recesses of the shelves for some variety of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Dairy alternative Hank would no doubt have had stocked. Oh bother … either way it would long since’ve soured. Or does fake milk even have a shelf life? As she considered the potentially broad implications of plant-based pasteurization, basking in the cold hum of the refrigerant vapor, Kitty yet again began to weep. And not for the waffles that never were, neither, should it go without saying. 

Tears in her eyes, Kitty closed the now handleless door and turned back toward the kitchen counter, and promptly dropped the carton of quite possibly expired hemp milk on the Spanish tile floor, whereupon it exploded. 

Seated atop a barstool on the other side of the island, sipping a hot cup of coffee out of one of Hank’s hand-made ceramic mugs, as if she’d brewed the damn pot herself, was Ms. Hildy Wolff. Yep, that’s her alright, styled all immaculately in her country best, riding boots over jeans, a wax canvas coat over a cable knit sweater. Off on a cantor were you, Duchess? Is what it looked like anyway.  

My goodness … I hope I haven’t ruined brunch. Oh, don’t cry, dear. You know the saying. 

I wasn’t. And it’s hemp. 

Ah, how like Henry. Indeed. Always high off something.

Did you know him? 

Henry? 

Yeah, Hank.

Well, yes, of course. Also quite like him, to have never mentioned me. I’m sorry, but do I know you? 

No. I don’t think so. I saw you at his fun—ehr—celebraish— memorial thingy. You’re—

—Yes, but please don’t mention it. When we were already on to talking about you, who must have known him too, if you likewise attended his little gone away party. And I gather you’re staying here somehow in accordance with his will and testament. I saw no sign of a forced entry, anyway. I suppose squatters don’t typically make pancakes. 

Waffles, actualy. And we worked for him, at the Newfy. Well I didn’t. Sometimes I did. The Mi—my husband is the head brewer. Actually, I think I work for you.  

Is that so, actually, you think? How lovely. And in what capacity, may I ask? You’re obviously not one of mine on the fifth floor or elsewhere in marketing. And you’re far too handsome a girl to be an accountant. Human resources, then? No, that too would be a waste. 

English. 

Oh? The humanities. I was close then I suppose. Well, wonderful. I wasn’t aware we had a Department of Literary Studies at Wolffenbrew, Inc. 

Teaching. I’m a teacher. At Collegiate Acade— 

—Oh at SciTech! Of course … well, that truly Is wonderful. But I’m afraid you don’t work for Me, darling. Alas, you work for the public school system. And I’m not a city taxpayer, thank heavens. So in no such sense am I your boss, to be clear. I suppose that would be the principal. I am his boss, however. Such in my capacity as Chairwoman of the Board. May she long live, and he never forget it. In any case, as a fellow female educator myself — or at the very least as your devoted champion [clasping her hands, right over left, to her heart] — I always do try to make the effort to express my utmost gratitude, for what it is you do. So, sincerely, thank you, for all that it is you do. 

You’re welcome?

Kitty never knew quite how to respond when well-to-do types thanked her for being a teacher. It happened more often than you think. 

And you said your husband, was he, was one of Henry’s boys? The teacher and the brewer. How very— quaint. American Gothic, a revival. American Bohemian, maybe more like it. Anyway, sort of an odd couple are you? Compatibility-speaking. Now, I don’t mean in terms of dual income, although— oh, Hildy, stop it. What I mean is strictly from a practical standpoint, in terms of scheduling. As in, you’re off early; he’s hoe late. Well, who am I judge? Especially with regards to an accounting of one’s time spent with her family. Better appraised by quality over quantity, is all I’ll say on the matter. I beg your pardon, but are you expecting? It’s only— I couldn’t help but notice a certain, glow. I can’t imagine the compensation at SciTech is stellar, but the benefits for working mothers are particularly first-rate. You have me to thank for that, personally, not that I’m one to boast. 

How was this very rich lady making such a poor first impression, Kitty wondered. Something in the manner she spoke, like she was trying to talk her way out of a straightjacket. In that way she was faintly reminiscent of Billy, her excitable boy. She even affected the hint of an accent, albeit borderless and cosmopolitan. Suffice it to say her son’s island boy beatboxing had much more soul to it. As to the status of her uterus, Kitty ignored the question.

Have you come for Billy? 

No. Although I understand he also paid a visit to your brewery. 

You could say that. He drove his car through it. 

So I hear. And for that I’m terribly sorry. 

Apology accepted. 

How gracious of you. Motherhood is a lifetime appointment, I’m afraid. If it is indeed so, that you are … with child, then I hope you’re prepared for one excruciatingly painful day, physically, followed by pangs of psychic pain every day thereafter. 

So, I guess the glow wears off, Kitty gathered.  

As for your wall, of course, I’d be delighted to reimburse you for the full cost of repair. However, as is the purpose for my calling on you unannounced, I’d prefer to pay for all four walls and everything within them. I furthermore suspect it’s for this very reason — my stated intention to make you this offer — that Billy attempted his little car stunt, although his logic escapes me.  

I don’t understand. 

Which part? I aim to acquire the New Frontier, darling. The business and, more importantly, the brand. 

Why? 

What do you mean, why? 

Why do you want to buy it? To buy us. 

Oh, yes. Please excuse me. Why, would be the obvious question, wouldn't it? It’s just not one I’m quite accustomed to being asked. Hmm. Why, indeed. Yes, well, as it happens, I myself am being bought out, as it were. Don’t weep for me, though, as this is an outcome I’ve long since courted. I’ll be compensated handsomely, as so will you be I can assure. Originally I had justified this transaction — our mutual — as a means of one ensuring the other by way of exploiting a tax incentive loophole. It’s since been clarified to me they are not correlated. Actually, the takeover of Wolffenbeir by a Chinese concern has nothing at all to do with our storied brewing tradition, nor our beer at all. Are you familiar with Doctor Lupus?  

Sure. He’s up on our wall. Right next to Bertha. 

Ah, the bison! Perhaps you’re not aware of this, but she also belonged to me at one time. What a magnificent animal. I always admired how the cows have horns of their own, which is actually typical of most bovids. Of course, I grew up on a ranch, not terribly far from where we sit. Whatever livestock we had — however perfunctory it was — was dehorned. An abhorrent practice. The cowboys burned them off the calves’ skulls with a red hot iron. But not the bulls. They could keep theirs, if only for appearances I suppose. 

Unable to tell if this was a lament for animal rights or some form of country-fried feminism, Kitty disregarded it thusly.   

But, as for Ezekiel, while his cultural relevancy has regrettably been defanged somewhat stateside, abroad apparently he is an icon of sorts, particularly in the Orient. As such the time value of his intellectual property far exceeds that of the current market capitalization of the legacy business itself, lest depreciation. Can you even imagine? Perhaps I should be flattered. After all he was my creation. Giving birth to him was the career achievement of my life. Still, I can’t help but feel … 

A pregnant pause now. 

Empty? 

Kitty offered her armchair analysis, free gratis, to which Hildy’s brow furrowed — no easy feat for someone of her bone restructure. Not to cast assumptions, but Kitty was pretty sure that Hildy’s kitchen had undergone some remodeling. Wondering as such, she at once felt bad about feeling judgy. Kitty would often offset the private opinions she considered to be toxic by thinking something positive about the person or thing she had thought poorly of just previously. As for Hildy, she looked stunning for a woman her age, a complementary observation albeit backhandedly so, but nonetheless the best Kitty could do considering the circumstances. It was true, Hildy was of the rarified air for women of means who could afford to have work done that had the appearance of effortlessness. 

No, I wouldn’t go so far as to say Empty. Unwhole, how about. 

A cornerstone of Hildy’s success as an executive was her uncanny ability to conversationally agree in principle, without making any due concession.

Did you know him?

Did I know whom, dear? Do you mean Henry? 

No, Elvis. Yes, Hank. Kitty thought. To whom the heck else would I be referring? The presumed dead man whose second house we are occupying presently. She expressed her thinning patience with a facial gesture of her own in the affirmative.  

Hmm. Henry, as I knew him. Although his given name was John, did you know? John the Brewer. Once we were lovers. But only very briefly. Who could ever know him, beside?

You gotta be kidding me, Kitty snickered to herself. Hank could always pick ‘em. And, I mean, the nerve on this woman. We were lovers once! Ha! Who says that? As for the being unknowable part though, Kitty thought, point taken.

So, what do you say? 

As to what? 

I’m sorry. Here I thought I was being obvious when apparently I was being rather opaque. What do you say — saying as they do in a dealmaking scenario — as to the possibility of being acquired. You, by me. 

Kitty didn’t respond right away. There was no repartee to be had between these two people talking over, under and around one another in conversation as somersault.

So …

I’m sorry. I forgot where I was for a second. Does that ever happen to you? 

No. I’m cursed with a constant awareness of my surroundings, I’m afraid. 

Well, Mrs. Wolff,— 

Hildy, please. You know the first name policy at SciTech is another of my brain children. So as to create Buy-in, pupils should feel a sense partnership with their instructors. 

Guiding principle number seventeen, Kitty recited.

Yes! Perhaps it should come as no surprise I had a hand in framing the SciTech Pyramid of Principles. In large part because I’m passionate about ensuring that all stakeholders feel adequately engaged. In point of fact, rather than an outright acquisition, try to approach my proposal as a potential partnership of sorts, between our organizations, and as well between us as female professionals. Not to mention, women in STEM and working mothers, I presume, or otherwise expectant. 

No one’s ever referred to me a professional woman in STEM before. I’m flattered. However, Hildy, I’m not in a position to enter into partnerships on behalf of the brewery. My husband is the proprietor. Like I said, I’m just a teacher. 

And don’t we encourage a mindset of entrepreneurship our among students and educators the same?

GP number three. Why are you doing this? 

You asked me that already. 

But you didn’t answer. 

Does it matter? 

I guess not. 

So, then. What do you say? 

Kitty expected the Mick would have accepted her offer sight unseen. Since Hank, he had talked increasingly about Getting Out. About just such a scenario as This, being their ticket. Oh, yeah, huh? A ticket to where? 

I don’t know. I could get a straight job. I’ve done it before. We could use the money for grad school? Preferably yours, but potentially mine. Who knows, maybe we could both go back? 

No, my dear, we can never go back, she thought. Kitty loved the Mick infinitely — sometimes more than she thought she could bear. That being said — beware of the old, I love you, comma … whom among us — the prospect of investing the meager savings resultant of their modest dual income into his postgraduate education seemed of the low yield, high volatility category. Not the quadrant you want to be in, to be sure. And for her part — having spent, best-case-scenario, a quarter of a lifetime in a classroom — school was out. As in, of session, and as well the question. At least so far as Attending It went.

Which isn’t to say that she had any tangible objection to moving on from the Newfy. When Hank— went away, so to did the essence of the place dissipate, so to speak. The very idea of the New Frontier. It was always His. The man with the business plan. She wasn’t sure if Mick could Sell It with the same … feeling. So why not, then, Sell Out altogether? 

Well, because … maybe I don’t fucking feel like it. Uprooting my entire status quo. Is mine an identity entirely predicated upon a presumed missing gu— oh, what the hell, he’s dead. Hank’s as dead as a doornail. He’s disco, baby. So, is mine an entire identity predicated upon a dead guy’s stupid pipe dream to fuck off to drink beer with people he underpays to be his friends? Perhaps so. But It Is mine, and It’s Not for resale on the secondary market. So, because, maybe go fuck yourself, you, you bitch, Kitty thought.

What if I say no, was how Kitty said it, out loud. 

Momentarily, Hildy considered this. 

I hadn’t considered the possibility.

To reiterate, Hildy was in uncharted territory. As an executive her interactions were most always vetted in advance for certainty of favorable outcome. Short circuiting upon experiencing resistance, she changed subjects.

I’ve only ever tried to be a friend to my son.

That’s funny. Kitty’s first impression of Billy was precisely, here’s somebody who probably doesn’t have so many friends.  

Mine was a Difficult childhood. You may presume otherwise, that it would have been easy, because of who I am and all that I have. 

I don’t think that at all.

Bless you, then. But my mother, after my father’s passing, she became … quite unfriendly. So I tried to be the opposite to my little boy Billy. My only son. My mother wouldn’t just say No. She would chant it, like a mantra. She would almost hiss it. So I told my son: Yes, dear. 

(In many respects, Hildy considered her approach to motherhood similarly to her career as a marketer. As that of an Innovator. Today’s mothers talk of positive reinforcement like they invented it, but Hildy had been positively reinforcing for going on three decades. And in the face of all evidence to its ineffectiveness, she persisted.) 

Empower him the tools and the freedom with which to grow, I firmly believed. And I still do, by the way. There were variables we simply couldn’t account for. He was born at the wrong time, for one thing. Clinically speaking, that is, he was a patient in a period when the whole of psychiatry was gun-shy over the backlash to lobotomies and shock therapy, albeit deserved. Still, it stifled our imminent discovery of better living through chemistry. Pediatric pharmacology in particular has advanced by leaps and bounds in the decades since. If only he’d been born just ten years on, we might have had the tools with which to sedate him, compassionately. Alas, I had to make some difficult choices with regard to his mental welfare. Seeing those brutish orderlies grab him from the bed in the middle of a pitch-dark night. Blindfold him. Toss him into a windowless van. That was traumatic for me. Nevermind redundant. But I had no choice! His entire life, he was an escape artist. A Tiny Houdini. Have you any idea the strength of a rope ladder one can fashion from seven hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton linens? One could belay the El Capitan entire! So they were adamant, he had to be taken by force. Enrollment via the element of surprise.

I stand by my decision. No, in point of fact, I believe I believe I’m entitled to some recognition for having the courage to make it. After all, being a mother doesn’t allow for second-guessing one’s self. As you’ll soon see for yourself. Now, yes. Certainly, their methods are unconventional. That I’ll grant you. But, don’t we as educators know … the only way forward is through. And sure enough, out he came the other side, a different person. Of an improved disposition. One who at long last, wanted reasonable things for himself. Lo, they seem just out of reach. Oh, how I’ve tried to hand him them! They did say to expect a period of adjustment. Of course, I didn’t think it would last well into his twenties.

 Listen to me piddle away. I’m terribly sorry. What was your question again? That’s right: Why! And you rephrased it, as if the answer would reveal itself upon repeated asks. What if — was it? — in reference to your hypothetical refusal. So I’ll once again repeat myself, regarding these questions that I don’t often receive. They’re also not questions I would dare ever ask of myself. There is only the wish and its fulfillment. As per the dark matter between those two points, it simply does not exist. Or, at the very least, it’s none of my concern.   

Kitty could sense that it was her turn to talk now. And yet, her words had been sumarily sucked out of her. Whatever melancholy wind it was that Mick so often pissed into, a chronic exasperation she so often drafted off of, Kitty now felt herself head on. It was a considerable strain. Thus Hildy resumed. Now I’m going to do something I’ve never had occasion to. Perhaps you’ve seen this scenario played out as trope in television or film. I’m going to write a number on this hot pink pad of adhesive note paper, our informal substitute for a term sheet. The figure you see before you constitutes my offer, that is final. You may accept it, which I strenuously urge you to do. Or else, you may refuse it, thereby accepting the consequences for postponing my gratification, which are dire. Before we begin, do you have any questions? 

Why?  

[hanibalistic]

#5B52AD | NA JAEMIN. NCT DREAM.

genre | fluff, friendship

word count | 2835

warning | a fever, mention of pain

note | i got kind of sick after my first dose of vaccine and i think about is my mother used to sit and rub my tummy whenever i get tummy ache even when it’s 3am.

your body felt heavy, you could not walk without an awkward arch of your back and at an annoyingly slow pace. you haven't gotten a migraine in so long that the gentle ringing in the back of your head now felt like a gradual decomposing of your brain. your tummy gurgled obnoxiously from time to time, confusing your body and mind with hunger and pain.

long story short, you were sick. you got sick, unfortunately, after a streak of good health for the past years, and you barely knew how to take care of yourself now because of how unusual the occurrence was.

you suspected it was the pouring rain you walked under the other day, or the multiple cold nights you've stood through in the unorganized tent area backstage during award shows this past few weeks. either way, since there weren't any other possible reasons, bad weather was the only thing you could blame your sickness on.

you had contacted the team manager about taking a few days off, leisurely estimating your return date while the manager told you to take your time and make sure to only work once you have fully recovered to avoid spreading your sudden fever to the dreamies when you get back. another thing you also asked of, with more grit and firmness this time, was to make sure the manager leak not a single word of you being sick to the boys.

it was true that you have not been sick in a long while, but so far you have gotten a grip on how it works and adapted to being uncomfortable and alone. reminding yourself to take those over-the-counter medicines was annoying but doable. moving around the apartment so you could cook and clean was exhausting but also doable. you did not need an extra pair of hands; it would definitely be good to have one, but you could survive without one.

you knew very well if the boys knew that you caught a fever, they would insist on visiting and taking care of you.

they would probably try to pull up to your apartment with some homemade soup and old movie discs, rambling on and on about sneaking out and forcing the driver to come to your apartment estate, complaining about you keeping everything a secret from your friends. then they'd get unreasonably mad at you for not visiting a doctor, and they'd force you to stay in bed while promising to take care of everything. they would be loud, and destructive, and annoying and—ugh! everything you do not need when you have a fever burning on your head!

"oh, finally!" you groaned in tired delight when you heard the doorbell ring. you have been waiting on the jajangmyeon takeout you ordered about fifteen damn minutes ago (to be fair, it felt like two hours with that migraine in your head).

shaking the shiver off your back when you stood on the cold wooden tiles with your bare feet, you grimaced at the pair of fuzzy socks you previously pulled off out of spontaneity, not wanting to bend down to get them from the ground. you stepped on then as you moved begrudgingly from the messy couch, where your blanket and tons of pillows resided, to the front door.

you unlocked your door with some trouble, finding it hard to stand on your legs and twist the lock. when you slowly swung open the door, you muttered, "sorry for the delay, it's kind of hard to–huh."

you cut yourself off when you saw the sight of renjun handing cash to your delivery man and patting him on the back as he bowed and left your house with your jajangmyeon. your eyes pulled back to look at the bigger picture—four people present before your apartment door, all wearing the same reaction to your figure uncared for.

renjun has turned his attention back from your delivery man and his grimace deepened when he saw your red face. donghyuck pulled a face at you when he saw your terrible posture and dead expression, and he tightened his grip on the small bag in his hand. jeno was frowning in disapproval with one brow raised as if you were spreading the bacteria to him but he was too polite to cover himself up. jaemin looked like he didn't want to be here, like always, but for a moment you saw his eyes flicker with soft concern over your visibly sick posture.

you sneered. that bastard! the manager snitched on you and here came the power rangers of the 2000s judging you at your front door! you would not take this absurdity!

"goodbye," you muttered blandly before you went ahead to close the door on their faces, but a hand swiftly reached out and blocked the door frame from meeting its end.

jeno smiled casually at you from the side, his arm muscle flexing as he, with no effort against your sickened strength, pushed the door open. you attempted to struggle against him, but obviously you were of no match for him, riddled with a fever or not.

"lee jeno," you warned.

"[full name]," he returned.

you clicked your tongue. you were too dizzy to get angry, but the rumbling inside your chest sounded anyway so you wouldn't be so overwhelmed by the boys' relentless care that you forget you didn't like this nor want this, that this wasn't ideal for you.

"please leave," you asked. "i don't need help."

"no. we're coming in whether you like it or not, [name], so give it up," donghyuck mentioned as he gently brushed past you into the apartment. "and before you ask–no, we are not leaving. we got our phones, and we brought movies. we also have to take care of you, so we got plenty to do here. we won't get bored."

you rolled your eyes as the rest of the boys followed behind. kicking their shoes off and placing them neatly to the side, they slowly began acting as if they were back in their humble abode.

donghyuck headed over to the coffee table before your couch. he grimaced at the sight of falling blankets and unorganized pillows as he placed the bag on the surface, then he turned to renjun, "renjun, where do we put the soup?"

"not on the coffee table, take it to the kitchen!" renjun exclaimed as he pointed aimlessly at a spot.

donghyuck listened. as he made his way to your open kitchen, he began rambling off. "you know, i can't believe you didn't tell us you were sick. i knew something was up when you were absent for more than a day!"

renjun nodded in agreement as he crossed his arms, looking to you with a semi-displeased expression. "he is right. we are all friends here, you should tell us if you need some help."

just having them around your apartment was enough to make you want to jump out the window. it was nothing personal against the boys, though. you would have felt the same with just about anybody who dared enter your territory when you felt uncomfortable. but the way they never stop talking—ugh, it made you want to end it altogether so you didn't have to listen to their voices overlap each other in such annoying frequency.

"if i needed help, i would have asked," you dragged out through gritted teeth.

donghyuck snickered from the sink, rolling his sleeves up and getting ready to do the unclean dishes. "oh yeah, that's why you have no clean bowl and spoon to use!"

"also, why are all your stuff here on the couch, [name]?" jeno complained as he picked up your heavy blankets in his arms. he popped his head out from the side and eyed you. "i'll take them back to your room, you should stay in bed!"

jaemin leisurely approached the coffee table, his face was bland with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants. despite acting like he didn't want to be here, his curiosity to know whether you were doing well alone was killing him inside; you weren't, it appeared. he gazed around your apartment with feign disinterest before an opened box caught his eyes.

bending down to pick up the medicine, he furrowed his brows and turned to you. "these aren't doctor prescribed medicine."

ignoring the drowsiness in your eyes, you looked at the displeasure on jaemin's face before you sighed, "i didn't see a doctor."

"you what?" jaemin exclaimed in disbelief while the rest of the boys gasped in what sounded to be disapproval.

there it went. there came the wave of complaints and disagreement piling out of their mouths like rainwater flooding into the ditch. the migraine in your head magnified the more frustration built up inside you, trying to force you to explode on the boys who only meant well.

"yes, i didn't visit a doctor. stop making a big deal out of it," you retorted, straining your voice to make yourself heard. "do you know how expensive an appointment at the clinic is?"

"still! it's always better to visit a doctor!" renjun pointed out softly.

the others agreed with him like dominos, opinions falling on top of each other in the form of noises. you closed your eyes in hopes to cancel their presence, but they've been talking nonstop it felt impossible to ignore them.

their voices were adding to your nausea, too many words to understand and to process that you felt useless not being able to retain their words as quickly as usual. it made you want to vomit, it made your chest tighten, it made your tummy hurt.

"god... please... shut up," you muttered under your breath as you glared at the floor. "shut up... stop talking... stop talking!"

the heat burst.

"[name]..." jaemin began cautiously, dropping the empty box of pills on the table as he eyed you sturdily.

you grimaced; your lips quirking down in guilt and your eyes darting elsewhere but their faces. seeing their innocent, good-intentioned, widened eyes would just make you feel like a bad person more than anything. shaking your head, you waved your hand at them dismissively and proceeded to turn away.

"thank you for coming, but please leave because i don't need your help," you said, "i'm gonna go to bed. lock the door when you leave."

the boys watched you move back to your room slowly, still surprised at your sudden outburst. they half-expected something like this to happen, but not exactly the way it turned out. they did come here fully prepared to be kicked out kindly knowing well your inability to accept aid from others, but the event has taken a turn for even worse, it seemed. they had not expected you to yell at them.

donghyuck turned away from the sink, his confused gaze darting between the door to your bedroom and the rest of his friends. "we're not actually leaving, right?"

"no, but we will leave them alone," jeno mumbled, fiddling with his fingers. "for now, at least."

jaemin's eyes trailed after your steps and they have yet to tear themselves away from your bedroom door.

he knew you well, better than the rest of his friends if he could say so. even though you might have meant what you said, you wouldn't do anything if they refuse to listen. and the consequences of adhering to your request and leaving you alone when you just did something you didn't want to would outweigh those of them not listening to you.

you don't need help, you never ask for them, whatever reason that was. but you do want them when they were presented to you. he knew that much, at least.

"jaemin, where are you going?" jeno asked when he saw his friend shuffling across the small living room.

nobody talked when jaemin moved to your room and knocked on your door. he pushed it open without waiting for your permission, and the stifled cries stayed beneath the walls unknown to the outsiders. he softened at the sight of you helplessly rubbing your tears with your forearm, wanting nothing more than to coddle you, but he leaned against the door instead.

"feeling bad now, are we?" jaemin said to catch your attention.

your head hurt, the pain was piercing. but nothing shattered you more than realizing you were a bad person for refusing help from good people who cared about you, realizing the mortifying cycle of loneliness you cannot thrust yourself out of because you could not accept any form of good social interaction. you were never one to cry from those whimsical things, you were used to it, but the thought of your friends shuffling out of your apartment and leaving the area dead cold made you cry.

you still have them now, but for how long, really? how many more "leave me alone" and "i don't want your help" would they take until they truly leave you alone for good?

you sobbed out breathlessly, your words continuously getting cut off against your will. eventually, you made out a sentence.

"jae-jaemin, my head hurts."

like a sharp shot through his heart, jaemin wavered and crumbled. he wasn't sure if this kind of melting was good, but he was taking the ache along with him. he approached you swiftly and sat down on the edge of your bed, a spoiled gaze dawning within his eyes while he moved his hand to your head, threading his fingers through your hair and messaging your scalp.

"try going to sleep, it'll help," he coaxed.

the more you cried, the more he sunk himself onto your bed. he kept his head high up against the headboard of your bed, and he let you snuggle close against his side for comfort. your head hastily leaned against his chest, fat tears rolling down your cheeks as you tried to focus on the rhythm of which he scratched your head dotingly.

"shhh, it's okay," he hushed, reaching his free arm over you to pat your back. "it's going to be okay."

jaemin was always so kind. everyone was always so kind. with their homemade soup, their refusal to abandon you at a tough spot, their snark remarks against your constant attacks, their nagging and coaxing—they were your friends.

you never knew why it took so much effort to get it into your head that they were going to be here whether you wanted them to or not. when you pushed them away, they would push back ten times harder, however many times they needed to. they knew you hated blatant affection so they never show it, nor do they make you show it, but it was here. flowing between their heads was love, discreet love, love that sat in patience, understanding, and stubbornness.

you pack a mean punch, but they could take it.

"jaemin... how are they doing?"

jaemin looked up from your sleeping face to find donghyuck at the door. his hands were wet from messing around in the kitchen, and he wiped them clean on his pants as he quietly approached the bed to take a peek at you. he raised his brow when he saw your face smushed against jaemin's chest and hidden under your arm, then he signed.

sleeping, huh. good. he heard you cry from outside a while ago, everyone did. nobody said anything about it and the living rooms were hushed quieter until your sobs gradually calmed down.

"are you going to stay here?" donghyuck asked after he pulled away. "you might get sick."

"yeah," jaemin nodded down at you, "i might."

donghyuck pursed his lips together, then he shrugged. "alright, i'll leave you then. do you want me to turn the lights off?"

"no, i don't want to fall asleep," jaemin said, stroking your head gently. then he nudged his chin toward donghyuck. "i do want my phone though."

donghyuck scoffed when he was by the door. he was only gonna turn the lights off because it would help you, so if that wasn't needed...

"interesting," he said. "i'm not your errand boy, though. you can stay bored."

jaemin held back a hiss when donghyuck ran out to the living room. he grimaced after the opened door, eyes wide in annoyance that donghyuck left the lights on and the door open, that irresponsible bastard! and he wouldn't even run to get a phone, which would only take a couple of steps!

turning his attention, he glanced down at you instead and breathed out a sigh. he wasn't going to be on his phone for long anyway, he just wanted to tell jisung and chenle you were doing okay. other than that, he has the plan to stare at you until you wake up—your scrunchy nose and closed puffy eyes were abnormally adorable, he has to admit.

"yeah, i'll get him," jaemin whispered playfully down at you. "we'll get him when you wake up."

[gothamslittlejester]

Obsessive Ledger!joker x reader

I’ve been spoiling you all recently with all this Ledger!Joker, so you’re welcome 😎 (but also so sorry because I did go on a hiatus without saying anything for half a year 😬). Let me know in the asks if you want something in particular, I love writing for J so much! I have a few already that I am working on as we speak, so stay tuned for those 💜

Below are headcannons for a more yandere and darker joker than I usually write 👻 nothing abusive here because J is still very much my comfort character, but it definitely includes over-possessive, protective and stalker themes, as well as encouraging reader to join in on his murderous chaos

Warnings: morally ambiguous reader, joining joker on his “fun” i.e. mentions of torturing others, blood, weapons, severed body parts as gifts, implied seggsy time

· Before adoration, fondness or love, the first feelings Joker had for you was pure obsession. Obsession with what you thought and felt, what you liked to do and why you liked to do them. Obsession with your safety and the need to protect you, which led to jealousy and possessiveness very often. It was primal, and longing, and left him thirsting after your presence like a greedy, hungry wolf. He wanted you- needed you- and he was going to get you

·In spite of a period of flirting, suggestive jokes and hinting touches, Joker made it clear pretty quickly what his feelings were for you. Because of his lifestyle death is like a waiting shadow, and wasting time on what he wants is just not his style  

· Quite soon into the beginning of your more romantic relationship, you move into his hideout for the sake of your safety, which calmed J down with some of his possessiveness and paranoid thoughts. He knew his home was the safest place in Gotham, excluding Bruce Wayne’s cave, and with you in it that meant you were safe too.

·When he’s gone, he’ll leave a huge shotgun behind for you to use in case of emergency, as well as Chechen’s Rottweilers. You’ll find some stray knives and pointy objects hidden in your coats too, “just in case”, but its more heartwarming to you than annoying

· He loves to lay on you at night, whether it be right on your chest to hear your heartbeat, or on your belly where he can feel your soft skin pressed against his scared cheeks. Not only is it pleasant and lets his touched-starved soul get some attention, but it also makes him hyper aware of every shift or move your body does while asleep. It also prevents you from sneaking out of the bed to run away, which is one of his more paranoid thoughts. Don’t try to move away or push him off, he will smack your hand back and snuggle in deeper, wrapping his arms around you like a snake

· He doesn’t care what insecurities you have regarding your appearance; he admires every single piece of you and will cuddle with whatever he wants, so push your anxieties aside because Joker hungers for all of you

· His gifts can sometimes be very macabre. Generally, he loves to spoil you with an array of things, such as new clothes or lingerie, plush toys of your favorite animals, snacks you said you’ve wanted to try, or even just random knick-knacks he stole from his victim’s homes. However, if he’s feeling adventurous or extra flirty that day, he will bring you certain body parts to symbolize his feelings for you.

· You’ve definitely found your fair share of human hearts in your fridge, because he adores how your heart races when your scared. You’ve found a pair of lungs stuffed in there too, because the little gasps you make when frightened or anticipating his touch are delicious to him. You went to get milk once and right behind the carton was a tongue, symbolizing how much he relishes your little talks and midnight conversations

· Once, he brought over a whole corpse, the body decomposing and gnarled, skin ripped to shreds and a face pummeled so brutally it had concaved. “Don’t need to worry about them any more doll,” he giggled, spitting on the body with a fervor that thrilled you. It took a few minutes of intense staring- why did they look familiar?-  but then it clicked in your mind; it was the very person you had fumed and vented to Joker about last night, right before he had spontaneously left

· “J,” you began, eyes nearly popping out of your head. “Did you kill him... for me?”

· “ ‘Course I did, sweetheart.” He rolled his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You know I’d, uh, kill anyone for you. Nasty fucks like them especially-ah.”

· If you have to leave for longer periods of time, whether that be for school or work, Joker will always have a few of his men stalking you from a distance, making sure you’re safe and that no one dangerous is within a 1 mile radius of you. They also have explicit instructions to take photos and send them to J, because he likes looking at your oblivious little face.

· He’d do it himself if he has the time, which he sometimes does, but he too is quite busy with his own things (when anarchy calls, as they say), so hiring lookouts is the next best thing. If he could, he’d have you right by his side at all times… how pretty you’d look in a soft purple leash... but that’s just daydream fuel for now

· Speaking of photos, Joker knows his ways around a camera. He makes... lovely home videos that he sends to news channels in his free time (rip fake batman) and he continues to practice at his craft from time to time. He even won a deepweb award for best snuff film of the year, which boosted his ego to ungodly heights. He’s absolutely delighted about it and hints that you should watch it on one of your movie nights, but he does warn it’s not for the faint of heart

· Taking videos and photos are one of his favorite hobbies, and if you’re down to clown… he’d certainly bring it in the bedroom

· Speaking of his more thrilling hobbies, Joker will constantly suggest you join him on his escapades or help out behind the scenes, especially if he picks up on any sort of interest from you concerning his ‘job’. Joker is an observant man, and he reads you like a book. He knows you likely have some dark, sinister thoughts running around in your head - you must, if you’re with him- so he does everything he can to encourage you to let them out. Joker will never judge this side of you, no matter how grim. He’ll try and harness it, bring it to light. He hates the thought of you shying away from your true self, embarrassed of your darker nature, but what he hates even more is you thinking he’ll be disgusted with you or disappointed. How can you think that?

· “No no no, bunny, not me. You’re my muse, so give me some inspiration hmm? Tell daddy exactly what’s going on in that mind of yours...”

·  If you do show interest in the darker side of his job, he’d smile so big that his scars take up his whole face. He’d teach you everything; how to fire a gun, how to stab someone, how to hide a body and how to torture one. He’ll spread out all his weapons on the floor and let you choose which one calls to you, like a deranged ceremony, informing you on the pros and cons of each one. He’ll even invite you into the warehouses he designated just for torture, which are just as gruesome and sinful and they sound

· J let’s you watch as he hurts his victims, whom are purposefully rapists and killers to make you feel less guilty, and let’s you join in on the fun whenever you gain the courage. He even went as far as to buy a whole torture set off the black market, from scalpel to needles, just to give you options. Joker loves to see how creative you can get, and it’s one of the few times he lets you take complete control

· “The floor is yours, bunny. Impress me.”

· He is down for pretty much anything, and that mindset is not exclusive just to the bedroom

·Any couple activity you fear might be too far or creepy for other people… is right around J’s alley. Weird kinks or foreplay games you want to try? No problem. Making love in abandoned houses or cemeteries? Now that’s his type of romance. You want to carry a small vial of his blood around your neck? He is all game, but only if he gets one of you as well. Matching knives? He’s blushing. Satanic blood ritual from a sketchy website that’s supposed to bond your souls for eternity? Perfect, his weekend plans were centered around you anyways

· Now…If he feels that you’re not giving him enough attention or start to push him away, he will resort to crazier means to obtain your love back. He’ll set off random bugs, rats or even henchmen into your home to scare you, gleefully waiting to hear you cry out his name in fear. Like a small, dependent little kitten, mewling for their protector. He’d come in, guns ablaze, looking for whatever scared his darling angel, killing them on sight. You’d run into his arms, tears streaming down your face as you cling to Joker like your life depended on it- just how he liked it. He’d coo mockingly and pull you closer, rubbing your back as he unashamedly basked in your physical touch.

· In general however, your soft caresses, kisses and reassuring words are enough to keep him very pleased. He knows you adore him and are head over heels obsessed just like he is, and that truly does put a smile on his face.

[sanguinechaos]

Okay finally Freyr has a reference. Okay half of a reference, theres a slightly more naked one half where you can actually see his tattoos in progress. Only took me like 90 million years.

Name    Freyr, doesn't have a last name but his fake ID says Sinner. Age    Indeterminate age. Probably around 3000 to 3500. Lost count after the first few centuries really. Height    6'5''/198cm normally/7'2''/219cm with peets/9'2''/280cm in full demon form. Gender/Pronouns    Can shapeshift, but most commonly presents as cis male (he/him). Sexuality    Anything as long as it has a pulse.

Profile

❖ You know, he's a bitch.

❖ Can use magic and quite skilled at it but not going to resort to it for problems a good old shotgun can fix. Prefers an AA-12 as far as models go.

❖ At least trying to make sure the universe doesn't blow up.

❖ Immortal and not very pleased with it. To clarify: has an absurdly high regenerative factor and can shrug off most wounds like it's nothing. Considerably more reckless because of it. While seemingly mortal wounds won't incapacitate him, they're not enjoyable. Also that shit's really not very fun in case you get tortured.

❖ Parts of his body that are severed from the "main mass", so to say, demonstrate the opposite effect, instead going trough rapid spontaneous degeneration. It's impossible to profile his blood type or DNA signature due to this, since his cells also spontaneously combust when removed.  Someone once thought it would be easy to harvest organs from him ad infinitum since he just grows them back, but didn't take that into account. Can't drain his blood for transfusions either, all you're gonna get is the equivalent of contaminated plasma.

❖ His blood cells contain scintillions, which make his blood glow blue/cyan due to a luciferase-catalysed oxidation of luciferin. Since his cells decompose outside of his body, the blood loses it's bioluminescent properties and reverts back to a dark red after a short while.

❖ It's all fun and games until you have a brush with the inevitability of losing someone or something you love. Life is fleeting, everybody dies, and the older you get the more you understand that. It's why he prefers not to get attached to any one person or place, instead treating his life like an endless stream of strangers and indulging in seemingly playful nihilism. He WANTS things to matter to him, like they did in the past, so pushing people away is more of a defense mechanism than anything. Is love worth it if the loss of it will plague you for eternity? History is marred in the rise and fall of empires that thought they would last forever, and nothing is sacred to the sands of time. Sometimes all it takes is a couple hundred years, or even less, just one disaster, to come back to ruins of some place you might have once called home. Time is, unfortunately, an arrow, it might not fly by at the same speed everywhere, but it doesn't go backwards. You know can't go home. Because it's not there anymore.

❖ Pain is a temporary emotion but Doom is Eternal.

[trustsalvatorewriting]

queendom || hope mikaelson - chapter seven

Summary: In which a tribrid falls in love with a human girl

Word Count: 1,982

Preface | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight

-

"DO YOU WANT TO explain what you're doing outside of school?" Rebekah questioned as the three girls entered a small motel room. She set her things down on the nearest bed and approached Hope, arms crossed over her chest.

    Hope's eyes wandered away, almost refusing to look at her aunt's disappointed glare. "I was just going on a date."

    "Hope, you can't just throw a temper tantrum and commit grand theft auto every time you want to meet up with your newfound lover. This isn't a romance novel." Rebekah glances at the young girl standing by the door, whom Rebekah had compelled to remain calm.

    It was odd. They were all the same age, appearance-wise. Rebekah was sixteen, nearly seventeen, when was turned into a vampire by her mother. That had been a thousand years ago, when the Vikings had taken over American land and proclaimed it the New World. Her appearance had stayed true to the day she was turned. Her shiny blonde hair had never faded to gray, her pale freckled skin never wrinkling, her crystal blue eyes never wisening.

    So many years alive, yet nothing to show for it but a few supernatural abilities and the ache that came with the death of her brothers. Ones whom she'd once promised "always and forever" to, still wrapped in the idea that they were immortal.

    The silver-haired girl standing before her was human. Her porcelain cheeks were lightly flushed, likely due to a mixture of the chilly wind and Rebekah's red convertible. Her heart was beating quickly as she avoided eye contact with Rebekah. Understandable, considering it seemed as though the two Mikaelsons had just kidnapped the poor girl.

    "Well, now, don't be afraid, little bird." Rebekah took a step forward, brushing a stray hair from the girl's face and tucking it behind her ear. "I'll simply have a stern talking to with my niece, and we'll send you on your merry way."

    "You're not compelling her, are you?" Hope asked nervously, following Rebekah as she went to look through the bathroom of the motel room, checking to make sure that everything was in order. "Aunt Rebekah, you can't."

    It stung a bit knowing that Rebekah would be the one giving Hope a stern talking to regarding her first real relationship. Niklaus had always been more experienced with those -- he'd managed to kill several of the suitors that had chased after Rebekah throughout the years. She'd hated him for it, it's true, but Klaus had had the right intentions -- regardless of how poorly he'd carried them out.

    Rebekah didn't wish to raise Hope as her own daughter. To discipline her and compel away the memories of a girl she'd clearly come to fancy; but what choice did she have? Kol and Davina were halfway across the world, and although Kol meant well, he wouldn't be able to provide the same patience and discipline that Hayley and Niklaus would have given her. Rather, his first instinct would have been to congratulate Hope for the mess she'd made, followed by a visit to the nearest theme park.

    Freya, although she'd chosen to remain in New Orleans -- the closest thing Hope had ever gotten to a home -- had her own family to stand with. A son, named in honor of Niklaus, of whom shared the blood of two powerful witches and a werewolf.

    The Mikaelson bloodline would remain supernatural for the upcoming generation, and for generations after that. The magic of the Original witch, the blood that carrys the werewolf gene -- with great power came great danger. Hope would know several heartbreaks before she found the one she would be with forever. This would have to be one of those several.

    "You can't be with a human girl," Rebekah argued, taking a step towards the stubborn tribrid. "Don't you understand how foolish that is?'

    Hope shifted her weight. "It doesn't matter."

    "Of course it bloody matters, Hope," Rebekah spat. She could see all of the boys Nik had taken from her. Drained of blood or thrown from great heights -- he always did fancy spontaneity -- in order to protect her. "You're a Mikaelson. An Original. You can't afford to love someone so vulnerable."

    "I can't afford to be vulnerable," Hope hissed. "Everyone I love dies so long as I accept that I'm an Original. Maybe I don't want to be an Original."

    "Hope!" The blonde vampire rested her arms on Hope's shoulders. "Listen to me, all right. I know as well as you how hard it is to be a supernatural creature. I understand how badly you want to be human, but you can't put your heart on the line purely to live out a fantasy in which you are human. You're not."

    The young witch's eyes lit with flames. She took a step forward and for a moment, Rebekah could have sworn she'd seen Nik's face. "You're not my mother. You can't tell me how to live my life."

    "Then who will?" She raised her eyebrows. She turned, heading towards the young girl standing by the door. They locked eyes as Rebekah began to compel her to forget. Forget everything that she'd seen or heard, and that Hope had never shown up to their date, and her best bet was to forget that Hope Marshall ever existed.

    It'd be best to keep as much of her memory as possible. She'd likely told her friends about Hope, and it would create lapses in her memory if she had a date with a girl she didn't remember, at a place she'd seemingly forgotten.

    She followed the compulsion by suggesting that Angel call a friend to pick her up.

    "We can't even drop her back off at the fair?" Hope snapped, her teeth gritted together in anger. "Or even at her house? She could get hurt."

    "You weren't worrying about her safety when you brought her into our world," Rebekah growled. It hurt a bit. She wanted to protect both of the girls, not just Hope. For a moment she could look at the young girl, and see a bit of herself. Vulnerable, young, naive. Completely unaware of the monsters that lurked in the shadows. Sure that she would live the rest of her life human.

    The girl had a right to be human. No one could take that away from her.

    "What's your name, love?" Rebekah asked after a moment.

    "Angel," The girl responded calmly. It was almost robotic. "Angel Nguyen."

    Rebekah nodded after a moment. "Vietnamese ancestry, Americanized first name. Interesting. Were your parents first generation immigrants?"

    "I... " The girl blinked, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. "I'm not sure. They always speak fondly of Vietnam, but they've never shown me any pictures of them there. Just pictures of the villages in black and white."

    Hope took a step forward. "Angel, you said you've never been more than an hour outside of Statera. That you've never even stayed out of Statera for longer than an hour. Have your parents?"

    Angel's heart rate increased. "I don't know."

    "Are you lying?" Rebekah questioned, crossing her arms. "Tell us the truth, Angel."

    "I am," She responded, beginning to panic as she realized the situation around her. It was as though the compulsion had worn off completely. "Please don't hurt me."

    "Wait," Hope paused. "Angel, you said you're from Vietnam, right?" Angel nodded in response, and Hope continued. "And you've never been outside of Statera for longer than an hour." The young human continued to agree, until Hope came to her conclusion. "What happens if you stay outside for too long?"

    As if on cue, there was a bang on the door. Rebekah glanced at the time, only to realize it had been an hour since she'd picked Angel and Hope up from the fair. Quickly, she grabbed hold of Angel's wrist and pulled the girl behind her. Her heart began to race as the door began to shake, the hinges weakening with each hit.

    'A wolf. A hybrid. Mikael.' The Originals thoughts drowned her, her mind separating from her body for a few moments. It was as though she'd floated away for a few moments.

    Hope pushed past her aunt and muttered a spell under her breath. The dresser flew towards the door, blocking it from opening. "It'll hold it, but not for long. We have to find a way to get out of here."

    "Can you do that thing from Wizards of Waverly Place where you flash us to a different location?" Angel asked, oddly calm. "That would work, right?"

    "Not how magic works," Hope responded, only slightly amused. She pulled on Rebekah's jacket as she and Angel ran into the bathroom, likely searching for a window. Rebekah took a few moments to herself before she saw part of the door burst amount, only the arm of a seemingly human man trying to push its way into the room.

    Rebekah turned, breaking off a piece of the dresser and throwing it in the direction of the monster's arm. She watched as it impaled its wrist, but continued to push it's way in, as if nothing had happened.

    "There's no window!" Hope yelled as she returned from the back of the motel room. "What do we do?"

    The three girls watched, paralyzed with horror, as the hinges of the door gave in and the monster pushed its way into the motel room. It looked nothing like a human, but rather, a deformed creature. Its limbs were decomposed, peeling as if it were that of a zombie. The body, impaled with swords, arrows and ancient weaponry -- created before even the dawn of the Original vampires -- moved as though it felt none of it.

    Immune to physical pain, to blockades, to even something as obvious as death itself. A monster with no ability to die, and no way to be stopped.

    "You've gotta be kidding me," Hope whispered under her breath. "I've read about these. Foetoribus Careat. Latin for 'unsullied.'"

    Rebekah raised her eyebrows at her niece. "And what the bloody hell are we supposed to do with that?"

    "I don't know," She admitted, taking steps back as it fought its way through the blockade of dressers. "They're supposed to be extinct. They haven't been seen in centuries. They were made to protect people living inside the cities of Indo... China."

    Angel. It wanted Angel. The teenage girl who'd done absolutely nothing, who was seemingly protected from the supernatural world, was being hunted by a mindless, immortal corpse. And by an unsullied monster.

    "So it wants the girl," Rebekah stated. "It was meant to protect her. Maybe it won't harm her."

    "He doesn't look very harmless!" Hope yelled, pushing Angel further behind her. "Look, maybe we could take her to the Salvatore School. Maybe we could protect her."

    "That's not an option, Hope, that means endangering the lives of more innocent supernatural teenagers -- all of whom are not protected by this stupefied corpse." Rebekah grabbed a lamp and through it at the monster, watching as the glass shattered and pierced through its arm. Still, no blood, no sign of weakness. "Our best bet is to let it take her. At the end of the day, it's protecting her, right?"

    "She didn't obey their commands. They might kill her to punish her!"

    "Well, sometimes teenagers have to learn some bloody discipli--" The monster reached for the blonde vampire's throat, wrapping its fingers around her neck and squeezing. Rebekah felt the air leaving her lungs, followed by a burning sensation as she began to lose air. Vampirism didn't protect you from the death that came with a mortal body. She clawed at its hand, feeling its flesh tear off as she did so, but it was no use.

    Seconds passed, and it felt like centuries as her senses were consumed by darkness.

[mortythesp00k]

Reaction: TG:re Chapter 161

First Impressions: Hello everyone! I hope you all have enjoyed the beginning of a great week. There is a lot to discuss for this chapter, so I am eager to get into it. I’ll give my first reactions here and some analysis later on.

I am not ashamed to admit that I farm reaction images from TG. This one is going to be a fine addition to my collection:

Okay, this panel of Hide is when my sense of extreme nervousness first began. He just looks so concerned:

I have seen lots of posts about the interactions between Urie and Mutsuki in this chapter, but oh my goodness! They are too precious:

This page only got me more nervous. I did a triple take when I saw Saiko’s eyes:

This is completely unimportant, but how gross would this sound?:

This panel gave me some serious Root A flashbacks:

I won’t lie, the entire end of this chapter had me completely confused:

Up next, read my best attempt at making sense of it.

Analysis:

First I want to talk about the ghoul transformations. Our first evidence we get that something isn’t right is Saiko in this panel:

It seems like she has suddenly developed a second Kakugan and her Kagune has also been affected somehow. It is also worth pointing out that the starry pattern behind her might represent some kind of spore or mist being released from Dragon’s decomposing body that is responsible for the events we see later in the chapter. Speaking of transformations, something is clearly wrong with the people of Tokyo:

This information helps clear up some of the mysteries surrounding the 24th ward. It also might mean that Tokyo is screwed. A sudden influx of ghouls that have no understanding of or ability to control their hunger might make for a real mess. Maybe the turmoil that will cause has been part of Furuta’s plan all along (more on that later). One other interesting implication of the ghoul conversions is that the reverse might be possible as well. However, we will definitely need some more explanation of what exactly is going on before we can invest too heavily in that theory.

In terms of theme, there are some interesting directions Ishida could take with the spontaneous ghoulification. Most obviously, we have an idea that TG has been exploring since the very beginning: the question of whether or not ghouls possess humanity despite not being human. I would argue that the series is presenting the ghouls as just as human (with all the good and bad that entails) as the actual, biological humans. Mass ghoulification of the citizens of Tokyo might be the final blow that knocks down the wall between the two groups. It might represent the prime opportunity for true empathy between humans and ghouls. On the other hand, it could just make the situation worse. We’ll see what Ishida has in store for us in the next few weeks.

Next, I want to talk about Kaneki. In this chapter, we saw that getting him out of Dragon was no easy feat:

I read this as an unconscious act of defense (much like the rest of Dragon’s actions), rather than representative of a desire on Kaneki’s part to remain within the monster. When Urie finally cuts him free, Kaneki remains unconscious, but his massive kakuja begins to break down:

I know that a lot of people are discussing whether or not Kaneki is dead, especially after seeing this panel:

I will cover both a narrative and thematic argument for why I think that interpretation is incorrect. Narratively speaking, Kaneki’s character arc just isn’t complete. It would make little sense to me if Ishida decided to kill off Kaneki right after giving him a major revelation. I know virtually nothing about the Tarot card story structure, but it seems like an odd choice to kill the fool before he finishes the journey. I do think that a “fake out” death is a possibility (wherein most of the characters and potentially the audience are made to believe Kaneki has died). I think having Kaneki return from the dead could be a decent parallel to the ending of the original TG and it would also have some nice thematic resonance.

Speaking of themes, we need to consider Jesus. If Kaneki is currently “dead” then him returning to life in the middle of these apocalyptic conditions would be about as biblical as possible. I’ll also mention that this situation is reminiscent of the end phases of Hero’s Journey (more specifically the Crossing of the Return Threshold). To be completely honest, Ishida might just be baiting us all and we’ll find out that Kaneki is just a sleepy boy (the speculation and analysis is still fun though).

Finally, I want to discuss the chapter’s ending. On my first read through I had no idea what was going on. We start off with Furuta and his V buddies finding this egg-sac:

Before I go on, I would like to point out the protrusions behind the egg, which remind me of a crown. Many others have discussed the connections between these scene and The Black Goat’s Egg. I can’t really rap my head around Rize being the murderous mother for Kaneki who becomes the murderous mother for the new Rize, but that might be what Ishida is going for. Rize hatches from the egg in a fairly dramatic fashion:

If this chapter smothered Kaneki in resurrection symbolism, it definitely did not go easy on the rebirth symbolism for Rize. I also think that her bursting free from the egg might set up her bursting free from imprisonment in a more general sense (that is how she spent almost the entirety of both the original TG and Re). On the last page, we get this remark from Furuta:

This comment really got me. Generally speaking, these last few pages almost completely derailed my impression of where the story was going to go next. I guess this is all going according to Furuta’s plan, but I have no idea what that plan is. I am not sure how this can be the real Rize (is this even the real Rize or is there a second Rize still in a tank somewhere?) or what Furuta wants from her. I am also unclear on what the utility of Dragon is moving forward (is Furuta going to try to have someone eat Tokyo again?). Also, I am not sure if Rize was Dragon all along and Kaneki was just part of the process, or if they are both Dragon, or maybe Rize is the second Dragon??? Hopefully we will find out next week.

That is all from me today. I hope you all enjoy the rest of the week and I look forward to reading more discussion about this chapter in the next few days.

[imaginarybabies]

kyle-dobbs​:

He shook his head when she mentioned a gun. “Nope. Good ol’ down the road.” Moving his arm closest to her, the left one, he upturned it. The scars were there on his wrist, an ‘across the street’ attempt that cut deep in certain places and left short, raised bumps to this day. “I don’t even remember that one. Was OD’ing when it happened.” He had woken up in a hospital with Tyson and Angela hovering over him, that’s all he remembered. Didn’t even remember trying or wanting to, or making plans to. Most of them, in fact, had been spontaneous. This was the only planned one. The only one that would stick. 

He took another drag, exhaling, ashing in their shared ashtray. 

He debated it for a while, long after his cigarette butt sat stamped out in the ashtray. He didn’t reach for another cancer stick, too bad they never gave him actual cancer. That could have been a fun way to go. Or AIDS, if he didn’t die at the hands of his mother first because he strangled Tyson for stupid, tasteless jokes about it. A thought spared to his brother he didn’t usually spare thoughts for, at least on the precipice of a moment like this. He felt bad. Maybe a touch. Maybe he’d write a letter for him come Monday. 

“I’m going to this forest,” he said. “Don’t know when they’ll find my body. Maybe days, maybe weeks. Maybe never if I’m lucky and I can just decompose in peace.” That would be the dream. Ideal. “I’ll be where no trail goes. Wanna get one last look at something nice while I bleed out…” It was visceral, he felt something now, speaking his plans out loud. Making them real. His eyes stayed glued to her low ceiling and he kept on speaking.

“I got a twin brother. He’s better than me in every single way. Maybe a little stupid, or okay, a lot. He was probably oxygen deprived at birth,” a faint smile at that thought, the amusement held in it, in 28 years worth of memories. “He’s got a good heart though. He’s not like me.” He flicked the 7-eleven lighter on, watched its flame climb high. Flicked it off. “There’ll still be a me when I’m gone, a better me, so it’s not like any big loss.” He didn’t feel anything as he said this either. He flicked the lighter on again and licked his lips.

She finally tore her eyes away from the wall, turning to look at where he was pointing. She hadn’t touched the tattoo on his back when she saw, figuring it wouldn’t be very different to asking questions, but now she reached for his wrist, examining the slices like she’d never seen similar before. Sasha leaned back against the headboard, holding his wrist and listening. If she could cry she would, or so she thought. Something in her soul felt heavy and foggy like a rainy day. “That’s nice”, she said in the end. “A nice way to go.”

Don’t do it anyway. Stay in this shitty, doomed world. Come again next week.

He kept talking, about his twin brother who was dumber but better and all Sasha could think of was Kyle with all the colors turned up to eleven. “It won’t”, she said in the end, and it wasn’t an argument to keep on living, not a feelgoodism no one who has spent more than a couple hours in real life would believe, not a compliment. Just a stating of a fact. Another drag, followed by a slow exhale. “Dunno why but I wish I could stop you. But that’s okay.” It wasn’t, but neither was anything else and that negated the fact a little, right? “I’ll think of you. I’ll remember.”

[mothearthbound-blog]

A Sudden Realization I Had -

(Ooooookaaaay, this got dark, so premptive trigger warning for some pretty detailed description/discussion of cartoony but gross dead bodies)

Remember Chapter 2 from M3?

More specifically, remember this particular moment from Chapter 2? When you’re walking through the cemetery towards Osohe Castle and some zombies just kinda... casually resurrect and start attacking Duster?

Well, even ignoring the obvious horrific nature of that fight, given the spontaneous rising of the undead that immediately begin attacking and attempting to eat the nearest living being... there’s an extra layer of horror to it.

Look at those lines of dialog one more time.

Zombie Man: Ohhh... Duster... Ggg... ggggg...

Zombie Lady: Oh, my! Gggg... Is that you, Duster?!

They clearly recognize Duster, and address him by name. Notice, it’s not even in a vague acquaintance way, like “Oh, yeah, I think I know your name” or anything; the lady acts pretty familiar with him. She even goes on to comment on how much he’s grown (then adds that she could eat him for three days and nights and still have leftovers. Yikes).

Undeniably, they knew Duster when he was alive; enough that, even though they’ve clearly lost their minds enough to crave human flesh and see nothing wrong with that, they still recognize Duster, of all people.

That’s horrifying enough if you think of it from their perspective―how much control, if any, do they have over their actions? How aware are they of what’s happening, despite their actions? Will they be able to feel guilt about this later?―but we barely know them and they die right after this, so let’s focus on a more pivotal character’s perspective. Mostly because I have a physiological need to milk any situation for as much angst as possible.

Think about this from Duster’s point of view. Like, really stop to think about it.

You’re heading towards a huge, looming castle, tasked with the supposedly imperative duty of retrieving an unspecified item from it that you’re apparently supposed to recognize instinctively. Which means either you’re going to have a very hard time finding the object in question, or it’s valuable/relevant enough that the slightest damage to it is worth more than your life. Either way, a very stressful scenario to be put in by your overbearing father who already expects too much of you.

But you’re a fully grown adult, so you’re handling it pretty well. Still, you’re probably distracted and distant as you’re walking through the cemetary. It’s the dead of night, and this is the Nowhere Islands, not modern day, which means little to no ambient light or noise. Just moonlight to guide you; moonlight, starlight; maybe a few strategically-places torches, but, then again, maybe not.

Suddenly, you hear a noise. It’s probably very easy to hear in the otherwise dead silence. You look around, perhaps a bit warily. There’s no one else in the graveyard, but you already knew that. Where could the noise have come from?

In front of you, the ground breaks open. A hand shoots up, grasping at the dirt.

Out crawls not just a moving, moaning, half-decomposed corpse, but the moving, moaning, half-decomposed corpse of someone you once knew. It―he breathes raspily and speak in slurred tones, as if he were not dead, just drunk beyond belief. He says your name, amid the incomprehensible noises he can produce with his lolling tongue and slack jaw.

Maybe you try to run. Maybe your first instinct is to turn on your heel and hightail it out of there as fast as you can. Or maybe you’re frozen in place, almost transfixed by the grotesque sight. Maybe your horror is borne of the sheer disrepair of your old friend’s body; it’s hardly pleasant to look at. Maybe it’s the sheer improbability of the situation that roots you to the spot, denial and reality warring fiercely in your head. Or maybe―maybe it’s the way this―this thing―this thing, your friend―looks up at you with bulging, bloodshot eyes, pleading with you; calling your name. Almost as if it wants―as if he needs your help. But, whether or not it’s what he wants, help isn’t what he needs, and help isn’t what those eyes are searching for.

More come.

They’re behind you, now, and on either side; boxing you in, whether intentional or otherwise. Trapping you. You probably smell them before you see them; rotting bodies aren’t pleasant, after all. They call for you. They reach for you. They need you.

“I could eat you for three days and nights, and there’d still be some left over!”

They come closer―lunge closer, their teeth snapping, reaching for you, skin sickly green. There’s a zombie on every side; no clear escape route.

They don’t need your help. They need you.

They attack.

You have no choice. You strike back. In fact, you kick them; that’s how you fight, after all. By kicking. It can be a messy art, sometimes, if only because it’s so brutal; so intimate in such a savage way. You feel their brittle bones snap when you attack. You see, you hear, you smell, you feel their rotted flesh yield all-too-easily under the soles of your shoes. You smell their rancid breath; see their mouths stretch open; hear them screech in pain; feel the vibrations travel through their gaunt frame and up through your foot, through your leg, into your core.

You have no other choice. You remind yourself that you have no other choice.

You should probably wipe off your shoes, if not for cleanliness’ sake, then for the sake of the smell. You don’t. Wiping them clean would require acknowledging that there’s something on there that you don’t want to be.

When you return from your mission, your father is furious that, surprise surprise, you’ve returned with the wrong item. He scolds you―again, big shocker―but this tongue-lashing is severe, even for his standards. How could you be so stupid? How could you be so thoughtless? Weren’t you even paying attention to what you grabbed?

You don’t say that your father should’ve just told you what you were looking for. You don’t say that you can hardly be blamed for grabbing the thing that grabbed your eye when you were given no further instruction. You don’t say that, if you’re so incompetent and your father so wise, perhaps he should’ve simply gone in your stead.

You don’t say that you couldn’t stop thinking about them.

You don’t say that you wish you could have helped them.

You don’t say that it’s hard to count that battle as a victory.

You don’t say that you wish they could have stayed.

[theonyxpath]

The upcoming Signs of Sorcery is about all forms of Supernal contact with the Fallen World. One of the topics it covers is Artifacts and related magical items. You’ll have to wait for the book to read about Eidoforms, Astras, and Manteions, but here for your reading pleasure is the section on Sariras.

First mentioned in Awakening’s first edition corebook as “Crystal Dragon Bones,” but not fully explained until Imperial Mysteries, Sariras are the after-effects of a mage Ascending. They’re highly prized by the Awakened, both as inspirational relics and for their use as powerful Artifacts. They’re written up in Signs by Mage freelancer extraordinary Malcolm Sheppard. In this example, I think Malcolm hit “Peak Mage.”

Some willworkers believe that when a mage Ascends, her soul discards her body for the Supernal Realms, but dedicated scholars know that Ascension takes body and soul. An Ascension might appear to leave a body behind, but it’s actually a Sarira: a duplicate made of solidified Resonance and traces of the departed mage’s Nimbus.

A Sarira doesn’t look exactly like a corpse. Its bones turn to crystal. Its former Path or strongest Arcanum influences its appearance, so that an Ascended Obrimos might faintly glow, and an Acanthus’ hair turns into thorny metallic vines. Jewels decorate its chakras. A Sarira might take the form of a weathered granite statue or humanoid tree. Tellingly, it doesn’t decompose and can’t be affected by Death or Matter spells. Despite its solidity and appearance, it registers as a bundle of potent Resonance, not a corpse or inanimate, material object. Many believe Sariras explain myths about crystal skulls, incorruptible saints’ relics, and Atlantean “dragon bones.”

A complete Sarira possesses the powers of a 10 dot Artifact as well as the following systems, which may change or override the usual rules.

Supernally Incorruptible: No spell, Attainment or supernatural power can directly affect a Sarira or its Resonance. The sole exception consists of spells that can siphon Mana. These can withdraw Mana from its Tass-like matrix but can’t replace it. Supernaturally triggered or enhanced external phenomena function normally. You can conjure a ball of fire to throw at it, but can’t make it spontaneously combust.

Divisible: Despite their resistance to supernatural powers, Sariras can be chopped into pieces and even destroyed with steady hands and sharp tools. An intact Sarira possesses Structure 50, Durability 5. Each dot of Artifact power maintains the same Durability, and 5 Structure; a 3-dot portion possess Structure 15, for instance. A piece’s power and relative toughness isn’t related to its Size, but its symbolic importance. A leg might be less potent than a petrified pineal gland.

Every 5 points of damage reduces a Sarira’s Artifact powers by 1 dot, and releases its Mana portion per dot (see below) back to the Supernal Realms.

Separating a Sarira into pieces in any methodical fashion requires a successful Dexterity + Occult roll, with a risk of Dramatic Failure, for a process that requires one hour of careful work. Dramatic Failure inflicts 5 points of damage, with the aforementioned consequences. Successes scored indicate the maximum Artifact dots that can be separated, with an absolute limit of 5, though the mage can opt to cut away something with a lower rating of her choice. Having at it with an ax, a prayer and no dice roll, automatically inflicts 5 points of damage and the attendant consequences over the course of an hour, and separates a piece as powerful as the Storyteller wants it to be. (By default, roll a die and halve the result, rounding up. The piece has that many dots.)

Chopping up a Sarira is a Low Act of Hubris. The mage mars a physical sign of Ascension and risks destroying it.

Dynamic Artifact: As noted, an intact Sarira possesses the powers of a 10 dot artifact. If divided into portions with lesser dot ratings or damaged, the Sarira’s powers change to accommodate the new dot rankings of each surviving portion. The altered Sarira will manifest powers as close to their original forms as possible. For example, a Sarira with two five dot powers split into two five dot parts might transfer one power to each part. If one of those parts is damaged and reduced to three dots, the power might change to one from the same Arcanum. The Sarira’s powers usually emulate the personality and magical specialties of the Ascended one who left it behind.

Calculate the inherent Gnosis of a Sarira separately for each component part, based on its current state and powers.

Body of Mana: A Sarira resembles Tass, and its matrix binds Mana. Use the following guidelines instead of the Mage core’s rules for Mana in Artifacts. Each Sarira dot encompasses 10 points of Mana. An intact Sarira accumulates 1 point per dot per century. Once the Sarira has been divided or damaged to the point where it loses 1 dot or more of value, this process ceases. Spending an Artifact dot’s “share” of per-dot Mana eliminates the dot permanently, and part of the Sarira crumbles or evaporates. Dot loss halts Mana accumulation permanently. Mages interested in preserving a Sarira avoid using its stored Mana.

Resonance: Each dot value in the Sarira possesses one Resonance Trait linked to the Nimbus and character of the Ascended mage it represents. This Resonance can’t be magically suppressed or altered, but can be used when the mage siphons Mana from the Sarira or makes bare-skinned contact with it.

Supernal Tool: A Sarira provides the benefits of dedicated magical tool for any mage who belongs to the same Path as the Ascended, but doesn’t require attuning or impose a closer sympathetic connection. Consequently, as the manifestation of another willworker’s Ascension, it cannot be dedicated for any additional benefit.

Sample Sarira: The King Who Is a Throne (10 dot Sarira)

Structure 50, Durability 5, Size 5, Gnosis 5, Mana 200

One of the few intact Sariras known to exist, the King Who Is a Throne sits beneath an apartment complex in Ordos City, China. Before that the King stayed in Nepal, in a cave reserved for ascetics who practiced body-warming yoga. The Mysterium explorer Yang Zenli sensed its mighty Resonance, gathered a team to acquire it and overcame… Nothing. It was just sitting there. That scared the shit out of him, so he dumped it in a place he figured nobody would look, in a neighborhood built by real estate speculation but devoid of inhabitants except for security guards and maintenance workers. He now owns that corner of Ordos. Most days, he tells himself he’ll build an Athenaeum there, and develop a community where the Awakened can study in peace. Of course he can’t, because he doesn’t know what to do with the fucking King. He’s read the right scrolls. He’s interrogated monks and archeologists at length. They say that a thousand years ago, the King decided to take the path the Buddha refused and become a Chakravartin, or universal ruler. He became the power behind the Pala Empire but vanished after promising to return with divine weaponry and a plan to bring the world to heel. After 108 days, his servants found his Sarira, seated on a stone stool.

Yang worries about the many, many people who’d kill him for the intact King, but he’s also terrified of attracting the interest of the Ascended being itself. For all he knows the King is an Exarch, or plans to come back, just as he promised.

But he found the King performing a humble service, as a seat for the odd yogi to relax in between periods of exercise. The King Who Is a Throne has fused with his stool. He sat up straight, hands on his knees but elbows out, and he was a big man, too. Throw a cushion on there, and he’d be quite comfortable to sit on. Yang’s research uncovered a history of petty occultists and feudal lords who used the King this way for special occasions. Many of them burned to death. So did their palaces. So did forests and farms surrounding the palaces.

The King has a skull face with sapphires for eyes but he’s a muscular man. Lines of iron trace yogic nadi (energy channels) across his body. This flows into the black scale armor covering his torso and thighs and a spiked crown unlike anything an Asian potentate would wear.

The King Who Is a Throne possesses the following Resonance Traits and their associated keywords: Ambitious, Bright, Burning, Crackling, Domineering, Martial, Raging, Terrifying, Tempestuous, and Thunderous. It possesses the power to cast “Celestial Fire” (Prime ••••), “Psychic Domination” (Mind ••) and “Transform Energy” (Forces ••••). The King was an Obrimos, and lends his Supernal Tool benefit to members of that Path.

Sariras in the Chronicle

As material evidence of Ascension, Sariras assure mages that it’s real, attainable — and mysterious. They also signify the fleeting nature of truth in the Fallen World. Use one, and it diminishes, eventually vanishing forever. The fact that they can be split up tempts sorcerers to compromise them for selfish or politically-driven reasons.

[battybat-boss]

Doctors Who Claim Osteoporosis is Scurvy of the Bones – Vitamin C Supplementation Needed not Calcium

by Paul Fassa Health Impact News

Osteoporosis is a bone-weakening disease caused by an inability to produce bone mass after bone cells die off naturally. This renders bones so brittle they can be broken by minor falls or even sudden harsh coughs. As our population ages, the conditions that create osteoporosis increase. 

Pharma-controlled mainstream medicine offers prescription drug bisphosphonates, such as Alendronate (Fosamax) Risedronate (Actonel, Atelvia) Ibandronate (Boniva) Zoledronic acid (Reclast). These drugs create even more brittle bones that break under normal loads. 

Reports had piled up so much from long-term bisphosphonate users' spontaneous bone breaks in 2011 that they made mainstream TV news.

These drugs can also cause atrial fibrillation, leading to heart attacks and strokes. Supplementing with calcium can lead to calcified blood vessels, arteries, and heart valves without the proper balance of nutrients needed to ensure the calcium goes into bone matter and doesn't remain in the blood.

Most doctors continue to prescribe bisphosphonates, sometimes cautiously. And they erroneously advise supplementing calcium. Some doctors disagree with the calcium depletion theory and the necessity of supplementing calcium.

They have scientific evidence that osteoporosis is scurvy of the bone, and vitamin C is the supplemental solution, not calcium. 

Three Doctors Who Claim Osteoporosis is Scurvy

Dr. Thomas Levy, MD, PhD, is a board-certified cardiologist and vitamin C expert with a long history of administering mega-dose IV vitamin C treatments for various ailments, including cancer. He has also authored several iconoclastic books, including Death by Calcium. He states unequivocally:     

While osteoporotic bone is certainly very deficient in calcium, the administration of calcium does not resolve or improve this disease, not even a little.

Osteoporosis is a focal scurvy of the bones, and a restoration of an appropriate balance of antioxidants, lead by vitamin C, is essential to the reversal of this disease and the subsequent growth of new, healthy bone. Appropriate mineral intake is also essential for the optimal function of these antioxidants in the bone. (Source)

Another MD who has broken the barriers that the pharmaceutical industry and conventional medicine use to protect wrong understandings of diseases and their treatments, Dr. Suzanne Humphries, agrees with Dr. Levy. While lamenting the use of  “problematic” bisphosphonate drugs for osteoporosis, she adds:

I saw numerous patients suffering from vascular disease while taking the recommended doses of calcium. X-rays revealed perfect outlines of calcified blood vessels and calcified heart valves. 

Dr. Humprhies has been a part of the “Vaxxed” touring crew showcasing Dr. Andrew Wakefield's controversial CDC-vaccine corruption documentary and taping vaccine injury testimonials. She also authored Dissolving Illusions, which discloses the vaccine lies most accept as gospel. 

She has also become a strong advocate and promoter of vitamin C's use for preventing and treating diseases that mainstream medicine chooses to ignore or minimize. She points out:

Studies have shown that elderly patients who fractured bones had significantly lower levels of vitamin C in their blood than those who haven't fractured. Bone mineral density- the thing that the tests measure, is higher in those who supplement with vitamin C, independent of estrogen level.

Dr. Marc Micozzi, MD, PhD, also views osteoporosis as bone scurvy that requires supplementing vitamin C. 

In his article The REAL nutrient deficiency behind America's osteoporosis epidemic, he reminds us of vitamin C's history for preventing and healing scurvy with the British Navy during the 18th Century and how it has been “forgotten” today using dietary guidelines that are woefully insufficient for vitamin C daily intake.

…mainstream medicine currently refuses to recognize that osteoporosis is scurvy of the bones-and not calcium deficiency. And that means that unfortunately for American women, the mainstream osteoporosis medical treatments remain “lost at sea.”

Citrus fruits with vitamin C carried on board handled the scurvy crisis among British Navy sailors during the days of wooden ships and hemp canvas sales. 

Dr. Levy compares bone oxidation with its resultant inflammation to burning wood. The increased oxidative stress in osteoporotic bones decomposes it just as fire decomposes wood. The powerful antioxidant vitamin C helps put out the fire in our bones. 

Dr. Levy adds that claiming bone density loss is caused by insufficient calcium is like saying burnt wood is caused by a loss of ash and smoke. Calcium deficiency and burnt wood are actual, but both are caused by oxidative stress. (Source)

It's known that vitamin C contributes heavily to the synthesis of collagen. It is also involved with mineralizing bones to improve or create bone density, as demonstrated by a 2012 animal study Vitamin C Prevents Hypogonadal Bone Loss, which cited several references of earlier similar studies.

The muscles that connect and help support our skeletal structure are also positively influenced by vitamin C intake's support of collagen production, as demonstrated by a 2013 New Zealand human study.

Ample vitamin C stored in skeletal muscle tissue may act as a storage pool to restore depleted vitamin C in bone matter.

Supplementing Calcium Is Worse Than Inefficient      

Without an army of certain cooperating nutrients, calcium remains a free agent and will remain in the blood where it can accumulate and calcify in blood veins, arteries, and heart valves.

The three doctors mostly agree with the types of nutritional soldiers that are needed to escort calcium into bone matter are. There are only slight differences with minor details among them with the following list:

Vitamin C – from ascorbic acid supplements at 1,000 to 5,000 milligrams daily, liposomal C, and organic veggies and fruits. More on vitamin C's benefits here.

Vitamin D – from sun exposure to bare skin, pristine cod liver oil, or cholecalciferol D3 supplements.

Magnesium – from certain selected organic foods and/or supplements magnesium citrate or glycinate.

Vitamin K2 – The optimum form of K2 is MK7, but K2 is sufficient for guiding calcium out of blood and into bone matter. More on K2 here.

Omega-3 fatty acids from healthy fats are encouraged while eschewing processed oils, margarine, and processed carbohydrates. A couple of the doctors offered additional nutrients to the list such as supplemental amino acids lysine and proline and the micro-nutrient mineral boron.

Dietary silica is another mineral that's involved with supporting bone density.

Silica has several food sources. You can add cucumbers and high silica content mineral waters to the list. Silica also binds with toxic free aluminum to eliminate it from the body.

Organic unsulphured black-strap molasses and real maple syrup are mineral rich foods that also compliment the bone building process. More on them here.

Moderate exercise is also recommended, especially walking and some mild resistance training. A sedentary lifestyle with improper nourishment will lead to softer bones as well as saggy muscles. 

Any decent diet that allows saturated fats such as dairy products and high amounts of green leafy vegetables, such as the ketogenic diet, will provide enough of the calcium this nutritional army can handle for escorting it into bone matter and avoiding organ and arterial calcifications. 

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[andr0med-a-blog]

Spontaneous Human Combustion - Explored & Debunked

I first saw spontaneous human combustion (SHC) mentioned on buzzfeed unsolved and I found the whole concept fascinating and slightly terrifying. In fact, I started writing this post with the full belief that SHC was real, so whether you believe in the phenomena or not, please continue with an open mind.

SHC refers to cases in which individuals have died due to combustion despite having no obvious external source of ignition. It is thought that the source of the fire is the human body itself. There have been hundreds of suspected SHC cases since the first recorded case of a knight in 1470 by Thomas Bartholin. The knight, Polonus Vorstius, had too many glasses of wine, belched fire, soon became engulfed in flames and died.

A typical case involves a victim in their own home having their torso and head completely incinerated yet leaving extremities such as arms and legs intact. In some very rare situations the internal organs also remain untouched. The surrounding room also shows little signs that of a fire having been in the vicinity. Coroners have reported a sweet, smoky smell in the room where the suspected SHC occurred. Not everyone who experiences this phenomena dies, some may have burns or smoke emanating from their body.

SHC has never been caught on camera and appears to be very rare, the causes of it are unknown. There are many images of the aftermath of SHC, which I won’t include here, but they are pretty spectacular. You can find them with a simple google image search. An article online claims that it may have video of SHC, however the footage only begins when the man has is already on fire so it is difficult to draw any conclusions from it.

Cases

1951- Mary Reeser (67 y/o)

After finding that the doorknob on Mary Reeser’s house was extremely hot, her landlady called the police. Upon entering they found the remains of Mary’s body in her armchair. Her body was ash except for one leg remaining, untouched by the flames. Her chair had also been destroyed. It is estimated that the temperature her body reached was 3500 degrees Fahrenheit for her body to be turned to ash. This bemused investigators considering that the rest of the room was completely in tact. Some theorise that she may have fallen asleep (due to her sleeping pills) and dropped a lit cigarette which caused the fire. However, this doesn’t explain the strange circumstances around the fire, such as it only burning her body.

1966- Dr. J Irving Bentley

All that remained of the 92 year old Dr. J. Irving Bentley was a part of a leg and foot still wearing a slipper. His entire body was ash beneath his walking frame. His house was left intact and the only resulting fire damage was a hole in the bathroom floor.

1982- Jeannie Saffin (61 y/o)

Flames reportedly came out of Jeannie Saffins’s mouth while she was sat in her fathers kitchen. Her brother’s son-in-law, Don Carroll, who was present in the home stated that she made roaring noises like a dragon. There were no sources of ignition in the kitchen, except a pilot light on the gas stove. No fire or smoke damage was found on Jeannie’s clothing or in the house.

2010- Michael Faherty (76 y/o)

“Mr Faherty was found with severe burns, lying on his back with his head near an open fireplace. Despite the blaze, the sitting room was untouched apart from burns on the ceiling directly above him and on the floor beneath him. Forensic experts who investigated the scene at Mr Faherty’s home concluded the fireplace was not linked to his death, and Dr McLoughlin said: "this fits into the category of spontaneous human combustion, for which there is no adequate explanation.”” source

There are many more cases which are suspected of being SHC. I would recommend reading them as they are very interesting, however there are just too many to write about in detail here. It is actually quite astonishing how many suspected cases there are.

Theories

#1 Methane and Enzyme reaction

“One of the most popular proposes that the fire is sparked when methane (a flammable gas produced when plants decompose) builds up in the intestines and is ignited by enzymes (proteins in the body that act as catalysts to induce and speed up chemical reactions). Yet most victims of spontaneous human combustion suffer greater damage to the outside of their body than to their internal organs, which seems to go against this theory.” - source

#2 Static electricity and ketosis

“Other theories speculate that the fire begins as a result of a buildup of static electricity inside the body or from an external geomagnetic force exerted on the body. A self-proclaimed expert on spontaneous human combustion, Larry Arnold, has suggested that the phenomenon is the work of a new subatomic particle called a pyroton, which he says interacts with cells to create a mini-explosion. But no scientific evidence proves the existence of this particle.” - source

“British biologist and author Brian Ford has another theory for the source of the enigmatic blazes. In a condition called ketosis, the human body produces small amounts of the flammable substance acetone (a component of nail polish remover). Ford believes that when a person is ill, they may produce enough acetone that a tiny spark — perhaps due to static electricity — could cause the person to catch fire and burn.” - source

#3 Ball lightning

John Abrahamson proposed that ball lightning may be the cause of some suspected cases of spontaneous human combustion. This phenomenon is also unexplained. It refers to balls of light, from pea-sized to several meters in diameter which have been associated with thunder storms. Unlike lightening, the balls of light last significantly longer than a split second flash.

"This is circumstantial only, but the charring of human limbs seen in a number of ball lightning cases are very suggestive that this mechanism may also have occurred where people have had limbs combusted,"  - Abrahamson

#4 Self-immolation (suicide)

“SHC can be confused with self-immolation as a form of suicide. In the West, self-immolation accounts for 1% of suicides, while Radford claims in developing countries the figure can be as high as 40%”- source

#5 The Paranormal

“In his 1976 book Fire From Heaven, UK writer Michael Harrison suggests that SHC is connected to poltergeist activity because, he argues "the force which activates the 'poltergeist' originates in, and is supplied by, a human being". Within the concluding summary, Harrison writes: "SHC, fatal or non-fatal, belongs to the extensive range of poltergeist phenomena."- source

Debunking

Many dispute the concept of SHC, as the situations in which is it suspected of being the cause tend to involve elderly people near open sources of flames such as cigarettes or an open fire. Therefore it could easily have been an accident.

In 1984 Science investigator Joe Nickell and forensic analyst John F. Fischer researched many historical cases of SHC. They realised that in many cases there were sources of open flames such as candles or lamps which may have caused the ignition but they were omitted from the recordings in order to make SHC appear to be a likely cause.

Later research by Joe Nickell debunks the case of Jeannie Saffin. He found that her clothes had in fact been burnt. Also, the medical evidence does not seem to support the claim that flames came from her mouth as no fire damage was found.

“Nickell outlines a plausible explanation, that Jack Saffin knocked out used tobacco from his pipe in order to refill it, and that while doing so, caused lit embers of pipe tobacco to land on Jeannie's clothing. Nickell suggests this is even more likely, because at the time of the fire, the kitchen window and door were open, causing a cross breeze” - source

Overall I don’t believe that Jeannie’s death is an incident of SHC, but it is an interesting case nonetheless.

However, dismissing all cases as an accident does not account for the suspicious circumstances surrounding them. It certainly seems bizarre that all of them share similar characteristics, such as leaving arms and legs and the rest of the room intact. Not to mention the fact that many were not near any sources of fire to begin with.

One of the most puzzling factors in these cases is that the rest of the rooms are completely untouched. If you know basic fire safety, you’ll be aware that it only takes 3 minutes for a room to be completely engulfed in flames from a small fire.

The fires in these cases are extremely hot to be able to incinerate the body to the same level as an oven in a crematorium. So why do these fires leave the rest of the room untouched and only incinerate the human body?

Nickell and Fischer have an answer for this too. There is a phenomenon known as the ‘wick effect’ in which the body acts like a candle. The clothing, blanket or chair stuffing acts as a wick to the candle and (quite grotesquely) the fat of the human body acts as the wax of the candle. The materials help to retain the melted fat which in turn creates more liquid fat to burn. But why is the rest of the room left perfectly in tact?

Fire burns vertically and as most of these cases occur within a room, no breeze was able to move the flames into a horizontal position. Therefore the fires did not spread. Also, the other objects in the room were not close enough to catch fire either.

An interesting point comes from Benjamin Radford:

“If SHC is a real phenomenon (and not the result of an elderly or infirm person being too close to a flame source), why doesn't it happen more often? There are 5 billion [The world's population reached 5 billion in 1987] people in the world, and yet we don't see reports of people bursting into flame while walking down the street, attending football games, or sipping a coffee at a local Starbucks."

Overall, I think SHC is more of an exciting and frightening concept to entertain, that many want to believe in. However, there is no scientific evidence to back it up. Like many things in life, the answers are often simple and unremarkable and coincidences are more common than we admit.