#for the unsuspecting passer-by

[originalaccountname]

for @kyouka-supremacy, with apologies for being a LIAR because I apparently remembered the second time Dazai sings his stupid song wrong. They're not that different. With notable work to take into account the new words but not ~completely~ different like I said. (always double check yourself before making claims on the internet kids)

I included the original before for easier comparison. The OG song is more noticeably different because they're trying to fit one thousand syllables in a very short time.

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ How you have contrasting personalities but they drop everything for you anyway

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche (separate) 

They say love can change anyone, but you have yet to agree with this statement. You never wanted anyone to alter themselves for you, especially if that someone is your beloved. Instead, you always believed that people should stay true to themselves while maintaining mutual love and adoration for each other. And that's how you and your beloved were - contrasting in looks, attitudes, and habits. Yet it made your beloved cherish you all the more, even if it caused unsuspecting passers to raise eyebrows in shock… Maybe it's because your beloved is actually a dreaded Fatui Harbinger, and people didn't expect him to be head over heels whenever you’re in the same room. But what can you say? He always was a softie for you. 

✧ Pierro doesn’t attend public gatherings. Period. Ask any of the high-rank Harbingers and they would tell you how lucky it would be if he were even present for a Harbinger’s inauguration, like when Arlecchino was declared 4th or when Tartaglia received his Delusion. Nevertheless, it is clear that The Jester does not squander his time with social events or benign pleasantries; he’s present only on important occasions.

If you can define what’s important in his book, that is.

An example being was a certain Fatui party. It is not uncommon for the Regrator to organize lavish evenings, especially in recognition if a Harbinger obtained a gnosis, or if another significant mission was masterfully accomplished. The grander was the task, the bigger the event would be. Of course, Pierro never attends those either. 

During one of those organized events - you, of all people, decided to come. Dressed in your finest, glittering lotus flower silk and white silver adorned your figure while you timidly stood amongst the high nobles of Snezhnaya. Your presence was not an unwelcome sight, but you did not strive to bring attention to you either. Expensive parties with Fatui diplomats and Snezhnayan aristocrats were not your usual cup of tea.

Your presence did not bring awning gasps, but Pierro’s did. 

Unannounced, the Director arrived at this sudden party, bringing hushed murmurs amongst the crowds of subordinates and colleagues. Likewise, he wore his most exquisite suit, a mantle-like cape flowing elegantly over his broad shoulders. Before guests and attendees could greet his arrival, The Jester marched straight ahead, not bothering to gaze at whoever tried to initiate conversation. 

No, the man’s attention was focused straight at you, as he passed through everyone and swiftly approached you. With an outstretched hand, a knowing gaze was cast upon you, as he spoke:

“If I may,” - he brought the back of your hand closer to his lips “Would you honor me with a dance?” 

You obliged. Now everyone in the gala was gaping at you two with grandiloquent murmurs. 

“My most cherished, why did you not warn me you’d attend the ball?” - The Jester whispered to your ear, his gloved hand intertwined with yours as the two of you waltzed elegantly. 

“Well, I just thought it would be futile to bother you. You usually hate such occasions.” - you muttered back, overwhelmed at the prospect of meeting his icy gaze; a gaze that only looked at you in tender love and yearning.   

“Then may I inquire on why you decided to attend this one? You avoid them as well.” 

“Okay, just please don’t laugh,” - you whispered. As Pierro kept a hand on your waist, he danced with you across the ballroom, using his broad form to shield you from the unwelcoming gazes of the guests. “You gifted me this fancy attire that I kept hiding in my closet for many months… I simply didn’t have a reason to wear it. So I forced myself to go out just so I could have the excuse of wearing something nice. U-um, that’s it.”  

“And that’s it, love?” 

“...Yeah,” - you nodded defeatedly “Also because I didn’t want to busy you from work.” 

“Oh, my most beloved.” - The Director emitted a hushed chuckle as you two conversed and danced, making sure his words were heard only by you. “I can make all your attires gala-worthy if you so desire. You do not need to be coy, ask and I shall accompany you on any grand occasion." 

Thus, the jester may not attend social events, as he only frequents important ones - the ones you're in, that is. As he whisked you away with a dance and a dip, he kept his hand delicate around you to escape the company of noisy guests who wished to bother you two. But what would be a ball with his lips gently grazing your cheeks at the end of each dance, telling you: 

“Besides, I cannot allow other attendees to assume you are available, now can I? Not while you look so stunning tonight.” 

✧ When Il Capitano was first spotted with you during workout practice, people didn’t even fathom you were his beloved, the only person equal to the Captain. The two of you were simply so…  opposite. The Harbinger was big and imposing, while you were smaller and approachable; which isn’t even a fair comparison, because Capitano just towers over anyone. Everyone looks small next to him! 

Nevertheless, when Capitano had his usual daily practicum along with his rumored significant other, some Fatui soldiers tried to sneak glimpses. Yet what a jarring spectacle it was to see the immovable, assertive Harbinger dismiss his commanding tone in favor of being patient and attentive. 

“My dear, you’ve already run a set of laps and tried to outbeat me during pushup exercises. You are putting too much strain on your ankles after your previous training. We should-” 

“No, we can still go for another round! Fight me!” 

“But, my love-” 

“Fight me!!!”    

Anyway, the fight abruptly subsided. Not because you lost, but because Capitano swiftly lifted you into his arms the instant you launched yourself onto him, consequently refusing to put you down. Therefore, you find yourself being carried by your partner's muscled arms while your feet dangle.

“Aw man, not fair…” - you mumbled, settling to rest on Capitano's forearms. “It's not even a duel if you're just lifting me like a toddler. Set me down, Cappy!” 

“It’s an effective tactic, one that easily neutralizes a hotheaded opponent like yourself.” - Capitano explained calmly. In reality, his body moved with pride as he held onto you securely, as if you were his prized reward for today's training. 

The captain set you down, his armored hands trailing down to your leg, sending a tingling graze onto your skin. And indeed, his punctilious gaze spotted how you tried to hide a limp when exercising. 

“You sprained your ankle,” - Capitano stated.

“Listen, it's not a big deal. Just a strain, I had worse happen.” 

You tried to defend yourself, but The Harbinger already expected your excuses. The man knew better than to argue with you, and instead settled on removing your footwear and gently checking on your injury.

“This is no condition to continue training, my dear. If I let you continue, you'd stubbornly reach Celestia with bloodied knuckles and broken limbs.”

“Yeah! And you bet I'd win!’” - you retorted brightly. At the sight of your confident smile, Capitano chuckled deeply, his pitch-black helmet pressing into your forehead with tender motion.

“I am certain you will, my love. You'll drag The Heavenly Principles by the ear, and have them weeping by your gaze alone. But now, we should get you to rest and apply some ice to your ankle. Shall I carry you?”

You sighed deeply, having no option but to let your beloved's experienced hands help you with your soreness. “Oh well… fine.”

Capitano's training could wait. There was a more crucial matter at hand, literally. With his massive yet calm form carrying you away, your gaze remained fierce but forbearing. 

If some Fatui soldiers witnessed today's event, they'd have to conceal their inconspicuous glances and smiles. After all, the sight of Il Capitano being the big, loving teddy-bear, while you being a menacing gremlin was undoubtedly shock-inducing.  

Nonetheless, who else is worthy of being carried by the 1st Fatui Harbinger and pampered by him? Only you, of course.

✧ Il Dottore is a destructive, stern man. Hunched over the examination table, his gloved hands were tainted in blood while his jaw clenched in aggravation. His hours of working in the lab easily make him irritated, and this irritation further increases whenever certain scientific experiments do not bear fruit. A tense air of suspension was now lingering in his lab; a sign of an upcoming violent outburst.

“Lord Harbinger…” - one of Dottore's lab assistants began, trying to muster the courage to speak without shaking. “This experiment requires another round of testing, w-we might need to start over,”

The Doctor remained still, but the dangerous clutch of the scalpel in his hand didn't go unnoticed. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear?” 

He straightened his shoulders, his masked expression gleaming with malice and murderous intent with each syllable hissed.

“I have given you one simple task. Bring me the results. If this experiment is not completed by tomorrow at the earliest, I will have to remind you how brittle, and puny your useless bones can be-”

Suddenly, the lab door slams open. From the heavy metal doorway, a hasty but familiar person quietly saunters in, unknowingly saving the poor soul that was about to be Dottore's next target. Of course, the person in question is - you. 

“Dottore?” A small murmur escaped you. You stepped closer to Dottore and tugged at his sleeve. “I’m sorry, I can't sleep…” 

An abrupt silence settled in the lab. 

The unnerving tension of the lab was diverted as if a switch was flipped in Dottore's brain. The man swiftly set his scalpel aside, discarded his bloody gloves, and turned into a softer tone when talking to you. 

“Hm, is it so late already? I apologize dear, time must've slipped past me. Do you want me to brew us some tea and join you in bed?”

“Yes, please… Chamomile. if you're not busy, of course.” - you nodded, a tender smile settling on your face.

The sight was fascinating. The eccentric, mad scientist was instantly replaced by a doting partner, who would lower himself to kneel before you and put his hands on your shoulders as if all his lab work and blood-stained messes were already forgotten. Dottore's assistants were indeed quite baffled when you entered the lab. But what was more confusing is that the sudden change of attitude was so drastic, that they all froze in silence and subordination. The poor, unfortunate underlings; one minute dealing with their Lord Harbinger's harsh demeanor, and the other witnessing him hugging you and gazing at you like a lovesick puppy. 

“Perhaps it’s time to wind down for today. I was about to finish for today, anyway. I'll make your tea as you like it and accompany you in bed, dearest.” - Dottore's hand gently rested on your back, as he leisurely ushered you to leave with him. 

“And as for the experiments,” - just before the Harbinger could leave with you in his arms, he sent an ominous glance towards his assistants, one that even through a mask portrayed lethal resolve - “deal with it.”  

Oh well. Someone is staying overtime in the lab. That's how The Doctor was with his work - cruel and unattached. However, unbeknownst to people, when he's back with you in bed, that man is clinging to you throughout the night, groaning about his research while burying his head against your chest. His face takes refuge against the warmth of your body, arms encircling you in a needy embrace around your torso. 

Sometimes, he just needs a good squeeze from you when you cuddle him, that's all.  

✧ A day cannot be concluded if there wasn’t a single instance where Scaramouche’s grumbles weren’t accompanied by your bright grins. Scaramouche has a reputation for his sour disposition whenever he is discontented, that much is known. What isn't known is that the only person who tolerates his cynicism is someone as bright and cheerful as you. Like two sides of the same coin.  

“Hmph, Pathetic. Just because some flowers are blooming doesn’t mean it requires a whole festival to be commemorated for.”  

“Oh, come on, Scara. You accompany me to every Hanami event.” - you smiled back in response to the Harbinger’s scoffs, but the 6th crossed his arms. 

“They are no different each year. Same cherry blossoms, same food stalls you drool over.” 

“But Scara…! The Dango!” 

That’s how the two of you wind up in a narrow cobble street, protected under the soft shadows of cherry blossom, while cascading pink petals gently fall around you. Well, that is how you wind up here, while Scaramouche was naturally dragged by you. Arms linked with one another, the Puppeteer kept his iconic look of displeasure, a huge contrast to your joyous one. One would assume The Harbinger could easily flee your torment and make you scram, but on the contrary: 

He is the one who makes sure your hand is intertwined with his, says “To keep you from running away like a child in a crowd”. 

He is the one running his thumb over your skin, his hand squeezes yours, and says “Don’t get too excited over the food stalls.”      

He is the one rushing with you to find a good secluded spot, away from the crowd, while his hand pulls you closer by the waist, and says “It’s too loud. Here, stay closer.” 

And of course, he is the one buying your favorite Hanami Dango and says “You asked for it so you better enjoy it. And make sure to chew it properly - dango is sticky.” 

For someone who underlines his disapproval vocally, he sure pampers you with no objection about your interests. You’d muse and tease, saying that it was his way of enjoying flower viewing without saying it. However, before you could utter the words, a strong gust of spring wind blew past the street, sending a plethora of flower petals blowing into everyone’s faces. You shielded your eyes, whereas Scaramouche gently tugged at his ichimegasa hat, pulling you closer to further shield you. 

“See? I told you this yearly custom is a nuance.” - he lamented, but his words came out more as a murmur than a groan, perhaps because he held you directly in his proximity. Your faces were closer, and the veil of his hat served as concealment from any public eyes. 

You’d smile. He sure complained a lot, and Scaramouche didn’t like sweet deserts like you did. But whenever the opportunity arose, he’d make sure he had you under the veil of his hat, pressed flush by the hip to him. And if he was lucky, he might taste the sweetness of Dango through your lips instead.  

Listen, I'm a sucker for fluff, okay?

[rip-quizilla]

Impossible to Hate You ~ Part 4

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!Reader

Summary: Summer brings feelings to the surface; maybe not enough to bloom, but certainly enough to grow.

Word Count: 6K

Divider was created by the lovely and talented @hellfire--cult❤️

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Part 4

Summer, 1983

Summers are for (fill in the blank).

For you, summers were for stuffing your piggy bank. For Eddie, summers were for spending his time doing whatever he wanted to do rather than what someone else told him to do.

For Robin, this summer in particular was for keeping score of every time she caught Eddie staring at you from across the corridor in Starcourt mall. He had a clear view of Scoops Ahoy’s serving counter from his checkout counter at Radio Shack, which seemed to be a double-edged sword; he could see you perfectly, with no obstructions other than the odd passers by, but this also meant that Robin could see him ogling you clear as day. 

She had bought a dry-erase board specifically for the purpose of keeping track. The words “Stalker Score” were scrawled across the top in black, sporting a tally mark for each time that she’d caught him staring at you, enraptured by the way you just…Eddie wasn’t sure, exactly. Existed? Moved? Smiled? Glowed? 

Dial it back, Munson. 

Eddie shook his head, dark curls that had escaped from his ponytail swishing around his fluorescent-lit face. The vignette that had formed around you in his mind, blurring out any surrounding details in his periphery, cleared away until he registered Robin Buckley grinning smugly at him from behind your unsuspecting frame. She glowered in the little window behind you, brandishing the white board that now showcased six tallies. 

Shit. He needed to work on his subtlety. 

So far this summer, it had become apparent to Eddie that Robin was under the impression that he had a crush on you. It was ridiculous- was Eddie really the only person at his school besides you who believed in platonic male/female relationships? Was everyone else that small-minded? 

Duh, he reminded himself, you’re in Hawkins. 

Eddie pulled himself out of his reverie when he felt a hand give him a friendly clasp on the shoulder. “You’re good to clock out, Ed, we’re slow enough that I think I’ve got it from here.”

Half-smiling with his eyebrows raised, Eddie turned toward his boss excitedly. “You sure, Bob?”

Bob- Eddie’s manager- smiled kindly, sending a conspiratorial nod towards Scoops Ahoy. “I know you’re going straight over there anyways once you’re done. If you want to thank me, you can bring me over a vanilla shake.” 

Bob was probably the only kind of manager that Eddie could see himself keeping a job for. When you’d suggested he apply for the new Radio Shack opening up across from Scoops at the mall, he’d actually cringed. Like, physically cringed when he pictured himself in a polo and khakis. However, when he thought about how nice it would be to have some money to throw Wayne- not to mention play around with for himself- he’d actually seen more pros than cons. When Eddie had actually been offered the job, he was surprised by how much he actually enjoyed the idea of working over the summer. Part time employment meant his shifts only lasted about five to six hours, and because the location was new, Bob had been happy to accommodate Eddie’s request to line his schedule up with yours. 

Because he was your ride to work. Not because he was some kind of stalker or anything. 

Eddie grabbed his things from a small cubby in the back with his name on it, hopping into the staff restroom/supply closet to change out of his uniform. Summer was a respite from daily encounters with asshats who seemed to think close proximity was the only reason they needed to beat him up. Eddie wasn’t about to stroll out of his place of work in khakis and a firetruck-red polo and give said asshats a different reason to make giving the freak a black eye their summer pastime, too.

Your smile when Eddie entered Scoops was sunlight after an afternoon bathed in artificial light. Surrounded by the overwhelming and tempting scent of vanilla and waffle cones, he wondered whether the sudden increase in his heart rate was a sugar rush he was getting simply from the sight of you. Was it possible for something to look so sweet, it spiked your blood sugar?

“Bob let you off early!” you said, cheerily. You were shoulder-deep in a tub of rocky road, scraping the last delicious bits of chocolate goodness from the crevices at the bottom before replacing the tub entirely. 

A small boy stood with his mother at the counter, waiting patiently for you to finish scooping his ice cream. Eddie didn’t miss the way the mother looked at Eddie- his ripped black jeans, his Iron Maiden tee, his bag that sported pins and patches displaying various offensive words and quite a few hellish creatures drawn in sharpie on the canvas material by Eddie himself. He saw her eyes harden in disapproval as she tugged her kid protectively closer to her leg. 

You, however, smiled at him like he was the most harmless thing in the world- and to you, that’s exactly who he was. Harmless Eddie. Familiar Eddie. Couldn’t hurt a fly even if he tried Eddie. 

He was okay with you seeing him that way. It meant that you let your guard down for him- it was like you had a fence around the real you, the parts of you that he had never really seen before this year. Eddie was harmless, so you trusted him with those parts of you- and now that he’d been allowed behind that fence? He never wanted to leave. You were becoming his favorite exclusive, VIP-access-only club. 

“Yeah, and all I have to give him in return is a vanilla shake.” Eddie leaned against the counter, batting his eyelashes at you as he gave you an award-winning smile. 

You raised an eyebrow, nestling a perfect sphere of rocky road into a cake cone and handing it to the little boy over the counter as the mother handed you a five. “Well sure thing, one vanilla shake, coming up!” you opened the register and handed the mother her change as your eyes landed on Eddie, “That’ll be $2.50.” You punctuated your sentence with the mechanical sound of the cash drawer closing. 

The mother was quick to take her son by the hand and turn tail to exit, but not without throwing one last disapproving glance in Eddie’s direction. He thought about flipping her the bird, but with you here, he felt like taking the high road. Eddie met you at the register, setting his elbows on the counter and pouting. 

“But what about the best friend discount?”

Robin appeared in the window behind the counter as if summoned on the spot. “Excuse me, the what discount?” 

You replied to Robin without looking, keeping your eyes on Eddie. “Robin, a person can have multiple best friends, this isn’t the fifth grade.” Unbeknownst to you, behind your back was an ever-so-smug Robin Buckley, adding a tally to the Stalker Score. 

Eddie shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. She was quick to hide the board when you glanced over your shoulder to see what Eddie was shaking his head about. You shrugged, smiling wryly at Eddie. “I’m assuming the ‘best friend discount’ is free?”

He smiled widely, nodding ‘yes’ with eyes that reminded you of a toddler begging for a cookie. You tried to hold your ground, you really did… but those eyes were your kryptonite. 

You sighed, shaking your head exasperatedly as you began scooping vanilla ice cream and dropping it into the blender bowl. 

This was how most days went now- without school to hinder either of you from spending your time how you wanted to, you both spent the majority of your time with each other. Sometimes Robin was there too, or some of the Hellfire guys, but you were always together. At first, the reason for that had been your lack of a car- but the third week of summer vacation, you’d received a call from the mechanic that your old sedan was finally road-ready. Eddie had driven you there to pick it up, and if he was being honest with himself, he’d been genuinely afraid that this meant the end of your constant company. He’d been surprised when he received a call from you the next day asking why he wasn’t parked in front of your house, ready to drive you to work.

“You aren’t driving yourself?” He’d asked, confused. 

Your voice was crackly over the phone, but he could still hear your frustrated sigh. “We work across the hall from each other, Eddie, we save on gas if we carpool.” 

Relief washed over him like summer rain. It nurtured the soil, helped his confidence grow taller. 

“I’m not sure you’ve ever even offered to split gas with me, ace.” Eddie leaned his shoulder against the wall, fiddling with the telephone cord as a smirk got cozy on his lips. “Is this you offering?”

You huffed out a laugh. “I walked right into that one.” 

Eddie shook his head, cheeks hurting from the size of his smile. “Sure did.” he chuckled. “But I would never ask you to pay, seriously. Just throw me free ice cream every once in a while.”

“I will do no such thing, that’s against company policy-”

“I’ll be at your house in five!” Eddie chirped, interrupting you completely, “If you can have a scoop of cookies & cream ready for me at the end of my shift, that’d be great!”

He snorted upon hearing your scoff across the line. “Oh, it’d be great, huh?”

“And do you guys do that chocolate fudge dip thing? Yeah, if you could just drench that fucker in chocolate sauce too, that’d be spectacular, ace.”

“Since when am I ‘ace’?”

“See you in five, ace!”

Even though you didn’t need to catch a ride with Eddie, you still did. Your car worked perfectly fine, and yet you barely drove it. You enjoyed those precious moments with him too much to give them up. He drove you to work. He drove you to Robin’s. He drove you to Gareth’s whenever he had band practice (you loved tagging along, even if it was just to sit and listen. Sometimes you brought a book and pretended to read it. Sometimes you didn’t have enough self control, and just stared the whole time- Eddie getting lost in the music, you getting lost in him.)

When the temperatures got unbearably hot, Eddie drove you and Robin to Lovers’ Lake. The three of you would make a day out of it, bringing towels to lay across the sun-bleached wood of the dock and a cooler filled with sodas even though you all knew you should probably be drinking water- but you were young and stupid in little, non-life-threatening ways. You let yourselves get drunk on the sun and each other’s company.

For Eddie, lake days were dangerous. 

He had always known that your body was not a difficult thing to look at- he wasn’t blind. But there had always been a barrier between Eddie and the understanding of just how not difficult to look at you were. That barrier had been clothes. 

The first lake day, you’d climbed into his van wearing trendy, high-waisted shorts and a cropped tee. Safe. Basic summer clothes. Eddie hadn’t thought much of it. 

Then, once the three of you had set up all of your things on the dock, you kicked off your flip flops, brought your fingers to the waistband of your shorts, and unbuttoned. Then, Eddie heard the sound of your zipper. And he just…froze. Because he knew what happened next, and in the back of his head he knew it made sense that you were taking your shorts off in front of him, out here in the open- you were probably wearing your swimsuit under there. You were at the lake, so of course he was going to see you in a swimsuit. Duh. It wasn’t a big deal. 

But then your ass just… popped out of your shorts. 

You brought the shorts down over your hips, and that ass… he saw a lot of your ass. You were the kind of girl that kept up with the trends, and the current trend was a very high-cut hip. You delivered. Your hips were front and center, accentuated by the cut of your suit. The morning’s movement had caused the fabric to wedge itself further…up. In? Eddie didn’t know which preposition to use, but he knew he was thankful for it all the same. Your back was bare, save for just about an inch of fabric that made up the strap of your top. He saw more skin than fabric, more skin on you than he’d ever seen. His brain was short circuiting. 

You turned. He forgot to look away. When your eyes locked on his, you smiled shyly. You’d hoped he would look at you. You had bought this suit despite your better judgment- normally you didn’t show this much skin, but for Eddie you wanted to. You wanted him to see you and want you. 

And want you he did. Eddie did everything he could to hide it, but oh… every time he laid eyes on you, he never wanted to stop looking. It was a problem. Specifically, his problem was that little fleshy part where your hip became your thigh, where your fat folded just so and formed a little sideways V-shaped crease. He wanted to touch that spot on your skin, wanted to grasp it, palm it, lick it, bite it. 

This was bad.

Eddie wasn’t supposed to see you that way. That wasn’t part of the plan- you were his friend, he wasn’t willing to jeopardize that friendship just because he saw you in a bikini and liked what he saw. Liked it a lot. Platonic, guy-girl friends were all he would ever let himself see the two of you as, because anything else came with a whole lot of complications that he really didn’t want to have to navigate. Was terrified to learn how to navigate.

Besides- friendship was simpler. Comfortable. It almost scared him how comfortable it felt, being around you. Eddie had never been good at romance; never allowed the warm fuzzies and butterflies to evolve into anything more than pulling a girl’s pigtails or swiping his sweaty palms on his thighs.

Or dressing up like Jason and scaring girls through their bedroom windows. 

Whatever. Eddie could handle this. He was mature enough to simultaneously want to squeeze the skin of your hips and know that he shouldn’t. Won’t. 

He was mature enough. Seventeen years old, practically a grown-ass man. 

Growing ass man. Definitely an ass man. Growing harder by the second, staring at that ass. 

Good lord. Horny bastard, calm the fuck down.

You giggled out a girlish squeal, shielding yourself from the splash of the lake water from Eddie’s cannonball that sprayed you where you sat on the deck. Eddie hadn’t had much of a choice- you and Robin would only see his burgeoning boner while it was above water, so underwater he went. 

When his head popped above the surface, however, he accidentally gasped water into his nose and lungs when he realized he was eye-level with where you sat on the deck, dangling your toes into the water. He hoped his coughing hid the effect you had on him, a vision of midwest summer decadence. 

Knees, shining with sunscreen that glinted in the sun. Thighs met hips. Hips met love handles, creasing into a little dip that made his dick go from halfie to hard-on.

You were not going to make this easy on him. It was almost like you were trying to get him to break his vow to keep things platonic, because the things he wanted to do between those thighs right now were not platonic. Were you doing this on purpose?

Eddie escaped underwater, and you giggled smugly in his absence. 

Yes. Yes, you were.

“He was staring at you so hard, I thought he was going to set fire to the deck.”

Ever since Eddie had dropped you and Robin off at your house, she had been spending the better part of an hour trying to get you to admit that there was even the most remote possibility that Eddie might like you back.

You’d finally admitted it to yourself before the end of the school year; you were head over heels for Eddie Munson, fallen victim to a crush of the highest degree. You were aware… but that didn’t mean you were ready to admit it to Robin, especially after an entire few months’ worth of time repeating to her over and over that you and Eddie were “just friends”.

Which was true, but that didn’t mean you wanted things to stay that way. 

“He’s a teenage boy and I was next to naked,” you said, trying not to grin like an idiot (and failing). “-of course he was going to look. That doesn’t mean he like likes me.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “He was like liking you so hard, I think I saw him drool.” Throwing herself onto the edge of your bed, she grabbed the magazine you’d begun half-heartedly flipping through and flung it to the floor. 

“Hey! I was reading that!”

“Bullshit, you’re avoiding your feelings.” Robin leaned in, burning a discerning, focused stare into your retinas. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not crazy for that dingus.”

You wanted to meet her challenge, you really did… but instead, you squeezed your eyes tight, sighed heavily, and let the words rush out at a rapid speed that rivaled your pounding heart. “I can’t, I am crazy for that dingus.”

“I KNEW IT!”

You clutched desperately at her knees, which were tucked excitedly up to her chin to frame her giddy expression upon hearing your admission. “You can. Not. Tell him.” You pleaded, desperation in your eyes.

Robin was cackling in the face of your pain, still high on the feeling of being so incredibly correct. “Oh I’m not telling him anything.” She giggled matter-of-factly. “You are.”

You blanched, taken aback and immediately defensive. “Like hell I am!” you screeched. “I am doing no such thing, thank you.” 

“What’s the harm? He is so blatantly in love with you, it’s hard not to laugh when I see his big ‘ole ridiculous goo-goo eyes-”

“Whoa, I think ‘in love’ is a very strong way to put-”

Robin’s eyes were comically wide. “Because the way he feels is very strong!” Her arms were flung out to either side, flabbergasted at how blind you could be to something that, from her angle, was clear as day. “Eddie Munson feels very strongly about you, if he feels any stronger, he’s gonna combust. You might combust.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s a massive exaggeration.”

“Or…” A smile crept onto Robin’s lips, eyes narrowing slyly. “...you both just get so pent up that you combust together-”

Whatever might have followed that sentence was cut short by a pillow thrown into Robin’s face, met with muffled cackling on her end and helpless groans on yours. “What am I going to do?” you whined, flinging yourself back onto your mattress and smacking your palms over your eyes as if applying pressure might just ease the anxiety in your chest and the butterflies that fluttered lower when you thought about her insinuation. What might that look like- combusting together? 

“Well, the way I see it,” Robin chirped, entirely too happy about your situation, “-you have two options. Either you make the first move, or you sit and wait for him to do it.”

You remained unmoved, eyes covered in your anguish. “What about a third option, where I keep on doing the same thing I’ve been doing and acting normal and just crushing so hard I want to cry while I pretend that everything is fine?”

Robin was silent for a few long moments before finally jabbing you in your side and causing you to yelp and convulse away from her. She knew you too well- your subtleties, your tickle spots, and especially when you were in denial. 

“One of you is going to crack eventually,” Robin said, “and unless you want to wait around for Eddie Munson, lord of avoiding his problems- another way that you two are a match, by the way, you’re masters of evasive action- then I suggest you make the first move.”

You considered her words- Eddie was a serial procrastinator. If Robin was right, and he did like you back, he would probably rather wait around for you to say something about it before making any moves himself. 

So the question was, were you willing to bring it up? To change your whole friendship, flip everything you two had built since the spring, based on the hope that he might return your feelings? 

“Worst case scenario,” Robin continued, “he doesn’t like you back.”

“And he stops talking to me.” you added glumly.

“I don’t think he could if he tried.” Robin smiled. “Look, whether it’s romantic, sexual, platonic, whatever-” you exaggerated a shiver at the word sexual in the context of Eddie Munson, even though the two of you knew quite well that you were anything but disgusted by the idea. “-he’s crazy about you. Whatever you think that means, it’s probably right.”

You grinned shyly, ducking your head lower to avoid Robin’s eyes. “I’m pretty crazy about him too.” 

Now it was Robin’s turn to smack you with a pillow. “Yeah, no shit!” she guffawed. 

The two of you descended into giggles, and for the rest of the evening Robin continued to pester you with quips about Eddie and your massive crush on him. Each time you pretended to be annoyed, but in actuality each joke about how you loooooved him just solidified the idea in your mind of the two of you as an item. You imagined Eddie holding doors open for you in a boyfriend way. Stopping by your work to pester you, but the way a boyfriend would. 

Boyfriend. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. 

Eddie Munson, your boyfriend.

You wanted to speak it out loud, just to taste it on your tongue. 

To capture it in a polaroid. To feel it in your hand. His hand, yours. 

Boyfriend. 

Eddie cared a lot about his clothes. 

You knew this, it wasn’t a surprise to you. Everything about him projected the type of man he wanted to be perceived as, so his appearance was- unsurprisingly- carefully curated to his tastes. 

Now, he seemed to think that his own personal aesthetic needed to extend to you as well. 

“Eds, I already have enough shirts, why do you keep handing me shirts? I need shoes-”

Your sentence was cut short by Eddie piling yet another T-shirt and a matching flannel into your arms. You were sure that whatever the limit was for how many items you could bring into the fitting room of this store at a time, you were pushing it. 

“Come on, just try them on for me? Please?” Eddie’s hazelnut eyes rounded out in a pout that you knew would be the death of you one day if you weren’t careful. “I don’t know if you’re ever gonna let me pick out your clothes again, the opportunity to dress you up like a paper doll is just too good to pass up. Humor me?”

You sighed heavily, making your way to the fitting rooms and hoping Eddie wasn’t perceptive enough to notice that you were a little too happy that he was so excited to look at you in any capacity, even if it was technically the clothes he was excited about and not necessarily you. 

If Eddie could hear your thoughts, however, he’d argue that you couldn’t be farther from the truth. He didn’t want to dress just anyone up in a wardrobe of his own design- no, he wanted to see you in clothes that he picked out. 

See, Eddie had been fantasizing about you more and more lately. Not in a weird way… just in a ‘it would be kind of cool to see my best friend wearing the kind of clothes that I like to wear’ kind of way. Was that weird? Regardless, Eddie had convinced himself that it wasn’t weird. 

So there you were, shoving a plethora of denim, flannel and T-shirts into a fitting room. Sure, you owned a flannel or two for when the weather got chilly, as well as at least one pair of black jeans. You had a trusty denim jacket. Why was Eddie so hell-bent on seeing you in these clothes specifically?

You understood once the clothes were on. 

“Eddie?” 

“Yeeees?” You could tell from his voice that he was smiling on the other side of the fitting room door. 

Unable to hold back a smirk as you assessed your reflection, you replied, “Was it your intention to turn me into the female version of you?”

Eddie’s heart just about skipped a beat. His palms were suddenly clammy, his face hot. Why did the idea of that turn him on so much? It’s not like they were his clothes. 

You in his clothes. Now Eddie was picturing it. Picturing it… then shaking his head hard enough to make the image fall out his ears. Focus, Munson.

“Bold of you to assume you look as good in black as I do, ace-”

And then you opened the door. 

Black jeans with rips at the knees. Forest green flannel tied snug at your waistband. Tight black cotton hugging your curves and puckering at your chest. A denim vest hanging loosely over your frame, allowing bare shoulders to peek out the sides. 

Eddie’s heart just… stopped. You looked adorable. Fierce. Terrifying and brilliant. You somehow took all of the things he associated with himself and had turned them into things he liked. On him, these clothes looked rebellious to Eddie; they were like armor, meant to scare- keep those who might harm him at a distance. On you? They looked beautiful, striking-

“Amazing.”

Eddie saw your eyes light up and quickly realized he’d said that last part out loud.

 “Amazing!” he repeated, this time, slightly less aghast and more enthusiastic, as if he’d known the whole time that you would rock the metalhead look even better than he did. As if the sight of you in a denim vest that looked an awful lot like his didn’t have this effect on him. “But you’re missing something.”

And then his hands were brushing the skin of your shoulders, pushing the denim vest down your arms. You didn’t fight him as he worked, focusing on the way your arms shifted behind your back, the way your chest inflated forward with the motion just enough for the peak of your chest to kiss the lapels of his leather jacket. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. You hoped that he couldn’t see the evidence that you’d noticed through the fabric of your black tank top.

Haphazardly folding the vest and placing it on the floor of your fitting room, Eddie then began to remove his own jacket. He slinked behind you and held the black leather as if to drape it across your shoulders, but stopped just short of letting the body-heated lining touch your skin. You realized he was waiting for you to reach your arm back and thread it through the sleeve, so you obliged. 

Eddie’s face was so close; you felt the stray baby hairs at his shoulders tickle your chin when you barely turned your head. As you worked your other arm into the sleeve, he exhaled a little heavier and you felt it as it blessed the back of your neck. You reveled in the goosebumps that rolled down your arms; wanted to know what that breath might feel like everywhere else- anywhere else.

He bent to pick up the vest and hand it to you, but then stopped short as he caught you looking at the new and improved outfit in the full-length mirror. You stared at yourself, decked out in black and plaid but infatuated with the fact that you were wearing a part of him. 

Eddie dropped the vest back to the floor, standing up straight again behind you. He didn’t move away, didn’t move to step back and relinquish your personal space- something about seeing the way your eyes couldn’t leave the black leather in your reflection was acting as some sort of visual pheromone. He couldn’t look away, wanted to melt into the light that he’d never noticed refracted off the surface of that jacket until you were the one it clothed. He wanted to drape himself over you the same way the jacket had, wanted to beat this jacket’s record for square inches of your skin being touched at the same time. 

You had no oxygen left when you saw the way his face had slotted itself in the right angle of your neck and shoulder, had no resolve left to put on a brave face and pretend you weren’t molten beneath these foreign clothes. Your jaw went slack, eyes wide and wanting. His gaze was…possessive, if you dared to call it that. With it, he painted you in his image and signed his name in black leather. 

You would be a willing canvas if only he asked. Was this him asking? Dressing you up like his own personal paper doll? 

Eddie Munson’s doll. You liked the sound of that.

“I’d get it if you didn’t want to walk around school in my jacket,” Eddie said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “If anyone recognized it as mine, you might get some…”

“...unwanted attention?” you finished for him. 

Unwanted. Of course that’s what you thought it would be. Eddie moved to take the jacket from you, but your hand flew up to stop him. 

Your fingers curled around his hand, a vice on his skin that begged like a child pleading for five more minutes. “Can I keep it on, actually?”

Eddie froze, confused. Hadn’t you just admitted that you didn’t want the attention that would come with wearing his jacket around?

“It’s cold in the mall.” You looked at him with wide eyes that shone in the fluorescent lights, and for a second he let himself believe that maybe you wouldn’t mind being seen with him; wearing him. Of course people at school knew that you hung out with him, but wearing a boy’s jacket told a different story, sent a different message. Did you know that? Would you mind that?

“Uh, yeah… you sure?” Eddie breathed the words like smoke, exhaling them into your air after holding them in to mull over until he was sure about them. However, the smile on your face when you answered knocked any air left from his lungs.

“Of course I’m sure…wearing it feels like you.”

His lips revealed a smirk that you’d been sorely missing. “Feels like me, huh?” his hand darted out to squeeze your side, causing you to squeak as your waist went concave, bending away from his fingers on instinct. You giggled, breathy Eddie! Stop!s bouncing out of you as you avoided his hands that made to take advantage of the tickle spot he’d long since figured out. 

“What’s the matter, ace? Thought you liked the way I feel?”

His fingers wiggled mischievously, and you retreated into the fitting room before closing the door in his face. “No,” your voice rang through the door, “I like the way your jacket feels.”

Bullshit. Eddie had heard you. No amount of saving face now on your end would be able to wipe the joy from his smile. 

Feels like you. Wearing it feels like you.

You changed in silence, Eddie separated from you only by a vinyl door about one inch thick. On your side, you pulled his leather jacket back on, pulling the collar up around your neck until it enveloped your skin the way you wanted Eddie to. You quietly inhaled the scent of the well-loved leather, smiling at the way his jacket so eagerly melted into your reflection, like it had belonged there the entire time.

On the other side of the door, Eddie leaned against the wall dividing your fitting room from the next. One tennis-shoed foot rested up against the wall, propping up his knee. Hands slotted into his jeans’ pockets, face tilted upward- he would have made the perfect picture of nonchalance had he not been smiling like a lovesick fool at the ceiling. 

When you finally emerged, the two of you walked toward the counter to pay for your new clothes until something caught your eye, bright enough to stop you in your tracks. 

Platform Chuck Taylors. Canvas dyed a gorgeous stewed-cherry shade of red, the soles still shiny and new- a whole two inches thick- with that trademark black stripe down the middle. Eddie watched as you stared at the beautiful shoes, and he could have sworn he saw the pupils of your eyes turn to little hearts.

And then he watched you check the price tag.

A pained hiss came from your lips as that little sticker on the bottom of the shoe dashed your wish before his eyes. Eddie winced, slightly afraid of the answer. “How bad?”

You shook your head sadly. “They’re $45, which is absolutely ridiculous. A regular pair is only twenty!”

Even twenty dollars for a pair of shoes was pushing it for Eddie; he was a thrifty guy, excited to find a new-ish pair of sneakers at the secondhand store for less than $5. However, Eddie wasn’t going to tell you that. He took pride in what he wore, kept his things clean and in good condition for as long as they would serve their purpose. He was raised by Wayne to be that way.

You wound up purchasing a classic white pair of Chucks instead. “They’re just shoes,” you’d said, “and how often would I really have worn platforms anyways? I’ll get much more use out of these.” But Eddie didn’t miss the way you glanced longingly back at the cherry-red dream shoes. They’re what tugged on his heartstrings enough to make him do something stupid. 

Back to school shopping with Wayne was one of the old man’s least frugal times of the year. First impressions, he’d always said, are everything, boy. Start the year fresh, and you wipe the slate clean. It’s a new year, so you’ll need a new pair of shoes, brand spankin’ new. 

Each August, Wayne would hand Eddie a twenty dollar bill. It was meant to go toward a new pair of school shoes. And this year, they would still go toward that. 

They just wouldn’t be Eddie’s.

In the middle of your lunch at the food court, Eddie pretended to go to the bathroom. He was gone a little longer than what would usually be considered normal for a restroom break, and he knew that you’d give him shit for taking a shit when he got back. But it would be worth it.

In actuality, he had the sales associate at the store hold the red shoes for him. He’d return to purchase them after dropping you off at home, and he rationalized this decision by saying he’d just give them to you in a few months as a Christmas present. He would have bought you one eventually anyway… what was the harm in spending the money a little early?

His face hurt from smiling. Funny, he’d been smiling so much more this year that he was surprised that the muscles in his face weren’t used to it by now. You did that to him- you, the girl who’d run around the playground in red mary janes. You, the girl who’d chased him down on Halloween. You, who’d somehow gotten him to think a little higher of himself and start believing he might be worth a damn. 

Looking up as he re-entered the food court after securing those red chucks in his name, his grin went from subtle to blinding when he laid eyes on you once again. 

You, the girl who wanted to keep wearing his jacket because it felt like him.

Part 5

Taglist: @emma77645, @rustboxstarr, @sheneedsrocknroll92

[cellarspider]

30/30 One last thing.

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We have come to the end of Prometheus. But depending on how you’re feeling about death of the author right now, it’s not. Not quite yet.

Because Ridley Scott had some things to say after Prometheus came out.

Two months after the movie's release, Ridley Scott gave an interview. Its original home has succumbed to link rot, but it’s still available in a couple places, in the Internet Archive and within the corporate acquisition mass that is Fandango, featuring a weird note of brand revisionism in the relabeling of the interviewer’s affiliation.

Now. Let’s begin by saying this: A movie is a movie. The things around a movie are not the movie. This seems obvious, but it’s to say that a single creative work can be viewed entirely free of outside context, and in most cases it’s best to assume that it will. If a director comes out later and tells people what their intent was, then that’s not part of the movie.

…But it can still sit in your brain for years, leaping out to ambush unsuspecting passers-by.

So! This interview. Ohhh, this interview. I’d forgotten most of it, because the final lines of it just knocked the top of my head clean off, so we’ll be discovering bits of this together.

We start from the end of the movie, with the interviewer asking about the openness of the ending to a sequel. Scott, among other things, said:

“I’d love to explore where the hell [Dr. Shaw] goes next and what does she do when she gets there, because if it is paradise, paradise can not be what you think it is. Paradise has a connotation of being extremely sinister and ominous.”

This came across well in the movie, though it was festooned with the random bit of organic bigotry from Shaw toward David. A short answer won’t capture everything, so I still have no idea if Scott intended for that to be so brayingly insensitive, this is the guy who was fine with Joel Edgerton as Ramses II. In any case, Paradise might be ominous, but Shaw’s not bringing along ideas that will improve it by any means.

This isn’t really the film we eventually got from Alien: Covenant. Is that bad? Honestly, I don’t know that either. Shaw as a character did not have a lot of depth in this movie. Noomi Rapace ended up playing her hurt very well by the end of it, but if that’s your standard of quality in horror acting, then Josh Stewart’s leading role in the grungy Saw-adjacent movie The Collector (2009) will serve you well.

I think they could have built something out of her character, but they didn’t. David is definitely the stand-out character from Prometheus, and they do at least focus on him quite a lot. But I’ve yet to watch Covenant, partly because the structure of it does not interest me. Also, because I’ve heard about what David does when he shows up on the new planet, and bad things happening to crowds are one thing that can make my brain wig out something awful.

Speaking of the Engineers, Scott speaks about their character:

“they’re such aggressive f**kers … and who wouldn’t describe them that way, considering their brilliance in making dreadful devices and weapons that would make our chemical warfare look ridiculous? So I always had it in there that the God-like creature that you will see actually is not so nice, and is certainly not God.” 

Again, we find ourselves at the casual gnosticism of the movie, in which the Engineers are kind of the demiurge in this context. Some christian-influenced people assume that if there is a true god, it must be omnibenevolent, and find the violent and threatening behavior depicted in the Old Testament to be at odds with their understanding of divinity. A lack of benevolence is seen as a sign that the figure depicted must be something else, something that may think that it is a god, but it is not truly, regardless of its role as a creator. Hence, the gnostic idea of the demiurge.

But Scott also seems to confirm my suspicion that he’s not aware he’s recreating gnostic cosmogony through Prometheus, because he doesn’t reach for any of the older sources or the language around him. He instead invokes a rather surface reading of Paradise Lost:

“ In a funny kind of way, if you look at the Engineers, they’re tall and elegant … they are dark angels. If you look at [John Milton’s] Paradise Lost, the guys who have the best time in the story are the dark angels, not God. He goes to all the best nightclubs, he’s better looking, and he gets all of the birds. [Laughs]”

Setting aside the fact that Paradise Lost ends with all the fallen angels having a bad time because God’s turned them into snakes, I will give Scott the tiniest bit of credit, there’s a bit of my brain that saw this and thought “this is a strong start”:

Scott eventually continues on the Engineers, and the sacrifice scene at the start:

“That could be anywhere. That could be a planet anywhere. All he’s doing is acting as a gardener in space. And the plant life, in fact, is the disintegration of himself.  If you parallel that idea with other sacrificial elements in history – which are clearly illustrated with the Mayans and the Incas – he would live for one year as a prince, and at the end of that year, he would be taken and donated to the gods in hopes of improving what might happen next year, be it with crops or weather, etcetera.”

Scott is misremembering some things here, which is understandable given the off-the-cuff nature of the remark, but it’s still worth correcting. This is a misattribution of Aztec rituals that would involve the sacrifice of a “teixiptla” representative of a god (such as Xipe Totec, Tezcatlipoca, etc). The Inca didn’t carry out this ritual–they did engage in a human sacrifice ritual called qhapaq hucha, but its form and function was not the same. The Classical Maya also engaged in different human sacrifice rituals, but there was also an emphasis on non-fatal self-administered bloodletting–Maya nobility in particular were often depicted shedding their own blood for this purpose.

This also, to my memory, conflates stories of european human sacrifice rituals, where crop failures are sometimes linked to the sacrifice of kings, such as Dómaldr in the Ynglinga saga, and noted in the placement and treatment of certain bog bodies. The Aztecs did sacrifice to the god Tláloc for crop for good harvests, but the rituals involved were quite different.

It should be noted, of course, that Tláloc was later syncretized with the Christian god during the Spanish conquest, likely as a result of conceptually linking Tláloc’s sacrifices to the demand that Abraham sacrifice Isaac. And, y’know, that conquest was concurrent with the Spanish Inquisition, and the wider religious belief that a heretical witch army was being organized by Satan to stand against God to forestall the Second Coming of Christ, with crop failures being the most feared result of their rituals.

I’ve added all these details not because I want to say Scott is bad for misattributing this stuff, people make mistakes. I have several hours’ access to the internet, Scott did not. However, it is worth noting: How we frame an idea can say a lot about how we conceive of it. Variations on these behaviors are found throughout history, and across cultures. Sacrifices and martyrs are powerful symbols still invoked in western culture today. There’s a potential wandering back and forth between appreciation and exoticization that Scott’s engaging in.

Then Scott says something that made me get up from my chair to find a book to shake at my computer.

“I always think about how often we attribute what has happened to either our invention or memory. A lot of ideas evolve from past histories, but when you look so far back, you wonder, Really? Is there really a connection there?”

Yes.

Yes there is. Ancient peoples weren’t stupid. Ancient peoples didn’t even necessarily have less information to work with than any one modern human, they just had different information that kept them alive and finding solutions to their problems, be it “I need to find food” or “how do I meaningfully participate in my culture’s artistic and governmental traditions, and should they even be followed at all?”

If you want a great and thorough examination of that, check out the book I gesticulated with.

Highly recommended. Graeber was an anthropologist and Wengrow is an archaeologist, and the two of them together are a force to be reckoned with. There are definitely subjects covered in this book that I’ve seen from different angles before, and I feel like their interpretation pulls in more context than I’d gotten previously. Especially pertinent to this, the first part of The Dawn of Everything is spent examining the origins of modern western thought on “primitive” cultures and their character and capacity, and then digging into what evidence we actually have on the subject.

But the movie does not, fundamentally, engage with cultures outside of westernized, christian thinking. Not to any serious extent, anyway. It has a certain worldview, and that’s fine. That can be explored intelligently, although we’ve seen that I think it squanders that chance. It’s fundamentally a christian-centric movie.

And despite Scott’s protestations in the interview that they toned it down, quite a few readers have already guessed how far Scott originally intended to go on that.

“But if you look at it as an “our children are misbehaving down there” scenario, there are moments where it looks like we’ve gone out of control, running around with armor and skirts, which of course would be the Roman Empire. And they were given a long run. A thousand years before their disintegration actually started to happen. And you can say, “Lets’ send down one more of our emissaries to see if he can stop it.” Guess what? They crucified him.”

Yes. Jesus of Nazareth was actually Jesus of Space.

This is why the movie says the Engineer corpse died about 2000 years ago. This is why they decided to destroy humanity. 

Presumably the original quote on the cross was “Father, forgive them, for they know not that we’ve got deadly black goo.” Engineer 23:34, I guess.

Now that the screams in the audience have hopefully settled down, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH.

Alright. So, this is bad. Let’s break down why, beyond the obvious questions about “why does nobody ever draw Jesus as bald, huge, and ripped.”

There’s a fake script circulating that actually has a decent interpretation of this: a human kid got zwooped up to be taught the ways of the Engineers, and sent back as an emissary. Why? Dunno. Also apparently the gospels that mention Mary and Joseph fleeing to Egypt with the baby Jesus were off the mark by a few lightyears.

This is laughable to christians, because “what if Jesus was an alien” is the sort of thing that twelve year olds come up with. It’s offensive if it’s taken seriously, because it says their literal god was actually a mortal critter from outer space. Ha! Your god is not all-powerful, or all-good. He’s not even All-Might.

But you know what’s almost worse? It implies that, sure, Christianity isn’t the inspired word of a deity. It also implies some level of exclusive factual accuracy to Jesus’ teachings, not shared with other religions. Jesus was a celestial emissary, endowed with the teachings that could save humanity, and his death doomed the Earth to the Last Judgment.

The Torah is insufficient, and all Rabbinic literature was produced following the rejection of the true way to salvation. The enlightenment of the Buddha counted for nothing, the Dao is not the way, Vishnu cannot defend or restore dharma, the Prophet Muhammad is only so valid as his acknowledgment of the Prophet Īsā ibn Maryam. 

All other faiths are superfluous under this premise. If people had just listened to Jesus and accepted him as their savior, everything would’ve been fine!

This is the one point of alien contact with western canon in the entire setting, after the deep prehistory of Skye. Every other literate culture that was contacted got the Engineers’ message wrong. Or they didn’t listen. Only christians got it right.

That’s incalculably bad. That’s not even counting the fact that the wall o’ artifacts that Shaw and Holloway presented included a notable oversight: the only two artifacts further from Europe than the Middle East are chronologically impossible, based on the movie’s own timeline. It implies the rest of the world was thrown in as an afterthought.

This whole Jesus thing is a piece, a big, jagged piece of why this movie drives me so far up the wall that I’m now residing on the ceiling. It’s not, as far as I can tell, actively malicious. It’s just dumb. It wasn’t thought through the way it should’ve been. If they wanted to do a movie like this, they should’ve gone all-in. Really dig into the implications of what they’ve done. 

And the movie seems wholly ignorant of it. There are basic questions presented to the audience, but there’s no deeper consideration that could make this respectful to anybody.

So, what are we left with?

A mess. A beautiful, stunted, confused mess that was poorly served by its script and lack of conviction.

The movie turned away from asking big questions, and focused instead on traditional horror. A genre that works best with good characterization to drive audience investment, but then it cut out most of the characterization, and what it left was scattershot. It gave us a flashback of Shaw’s childhood before we’d even really met her to understand why it was meaningful for her. The movie then failed to add any emotional weight to her.

The movie failed to give us characters with emotional weight or intelligence. It gave us a single, compelling character in David, driven largely by Michael Fassbender’s delivery and physical performance. It gave us a tactile, carefully constructed setting that was beautiful and often an accomplishment in filmmaking craft, but these spaces remained emotionally empty without a story that gave them meaning. It gave us the potential of something new, and then retreated to imitate the old.

I went into the theater in 2012 looking forward to a good film. I suppose this one has stuck with me more than a good film would have, but its primary value is as a flawed thing to critique, to learn from, and to put tooth marks on when the frustration gets to be too much.

Prometheus got one sort-of sequel in Alien: Covenant (2017), and it seems to have been abandoned. The first trailer for Alien: Romulus just came out the day I’m writing this, and it looks like it’s going to be just a monster movie.

If you want a good, modern Alien, play or watch Alien: Isolation (2014). Apparently its content was recut into a web series in 2019, though I can’t speak to the quality of that. For now, I’m done with the series. I’m not going to be rushing out to see anything new, because I don’t think it’s doing anything new. Prometheus could’ve been a chance to do that, but it failed.

Still. Writing this was fun, I will admit. My weird little obsession with this movie turned into a month and a half of writing and prepping this thing, totaling–Jesus E. Christ, over 82,000 words. I wish it could’ve been about something that hid more intellectual heft or careful thought than Prometheus did, but hey! There’s always next time.

And there will in all likelihood be a next time, as I’ve already started on another document. It won’t be for quite a while, though. This was a lot of fun, but a lot of work as well. I’ll be taking a break, and only releasing more stuff once I have it fully written ahead of time, as opposed to how I handled this one.

Thank you, brave readers, for making it this far. 

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Citations for alt-text rambles:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2023%E2%80%932024_Sundhn%C3%BAkur_eruptions#Eruptions

https://tubitv.com/movies/314320/the-collector 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dettifoss 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Codex_Magliabechiano 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tollund_Man 

https://youtu.be/nT2ueyFrVgk 

https://www.deviantart.com/pretty--kittie/art/Prometheus-Engineer-407316113 

https://nebula.tv/videos/hellofutureme-is-netflixs-avatar-any-good 

Overflow Ramble 1

Hey, does anyone else remember Stephen Speilberg’s War of the Worlds (2005)? I saw that in the theater, and I cannot watch that thing again. Yes, I was younger, but the overall content of that movie absolutely shredded my nerves to pieces. Even though I’d grown up knowing the full H G Wells story and reading things like The Tripods book series as a kid, Spielberg managed to make a movie that felt so viscerally unpleasant to me that it gave me nightmares for years.

My main theory is this: You know in movies that the protagonist is almost certainly going to survive what happens, doubly so in War of the Worlds because it was goddamn Tom Cruise. But my brain did not treat Tom Cruise as my viewpoint character. Something in me says “well, I’m not Tom Cruise, I’m one of those other people around him, and they’re all gonna die horribly.” 

This tends to happen with me in disaster films and similar stuff like that. I have to be real certain I want to be there if I watch a kaiju movie, for example. I can do Godzilla (2014), but I’m not so sure about Godzilla Minus One (2023). Shin Godzilla (2016) is off the table.

Horror movies have to hit a balance of giving people a rickety feeling of potential safety they want to preserve, rather than letting them feel too safe or too screwed. Too far either way and you lose people, either to apathy or just pure bad vibes. The paradox of enjoyable horror is that it can’t scare you too much.

Overflow Ramble 2

I personally don’t think the tone of Fede Álvarez’s horror fits with what I’m looking for in an Alien movie. The xenomorph life cycle worked best and most subversively when it was deliberately targeted, to take the sexual/reproductive menace usually placed on female characters in horror and forced it onto a male character instead. Álvarez has historically played that trope straight instead. From a horror perspective, that’s boring to me. The xenomorphs also appear to be aggressive monsters here rather than animals, more like Aliens than Alien. Not my favorite interpretation.

And to be honest, when I saw the trailer, my first thought was “Oh, it’s Sevastopol Station.” The setting looks exactly like Alien: Isolation, and there’s not a chance the movie’s going to outshine Isolation. That game’s only narrative sin was a bit of slow pacing toward the ending. Romulus’ trailer makes me think it’s going to go too far in the other direction.

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[mrs-starkgaryen]

My Marauder Melody

A/N- I had this poem in my notes for ages, i wanted to share. Its about the four Marauders from Harry Potter. Its unedited so its choppy and please be nice 😂

When they were eleven, they all became fast friends,

They pranked and messed around to no end.

Four little boys with laughter upon their faces,

When you see them coming, everyone braces,

For they are a whirlwind of silliness and joy,

But what do you expect? They are little boys.

Even though they seem to ignore every rule and chide,

They laughed to disguise the dark secrets they hide.

With the war and personal problems erupting, these boys were frightened and scared,

Knowing dreadful things from which they should've been spared.

Instead of innocence and joy in each young heart,

Their lives were crumbling and falling apart.

The bookworm who was quiet and sweet,

A lover of sweatshirts and chocolate to eat.

But Remus hated himself, a secret he tries to sneak

He hates the thing he turns into every four weeks.

Another with his name a constellation amongst the night sky,

With a sparkling personality too, Sirius is a popular guy,

However, at home, his life is quite the opposite,

Being the family 'disappointment', he wants to quit.

Shy and skittish, the third member is Peter.

Compared to his friends, he's low on the popular meter.

Though he has no hidden secrets, he does stand out,

For no good reason. His loyalties you should doubt.

And lastly, the leader of the group, James Potter.

To him, he thinks you could find no one hotter.

But he becomes a reformed man who gets his girl,

We don't know more, as he dies, protecting his world.

But when they met, they became the best of friends who always cared,

For each of the boys understood the others' problems which they shared.

They all got on and were there for the others.

They loved, they cared and they were like brothers.

Years passed, the boys became men,

But this is where their story comes to an end.

A war came and it changed all of their lives

For the worst. And not one of them survives.

They all died instantly, physically or psychologically, one by one,

When the nught on Halloween arrives after the setting of the sun,

Peter, the one who was timid and seemed protection,

Pointed a mass murdered in his friend's direction.

James thought to be safe and hidden, so he was unsuspecting,

So he died with his wife due to his friend's infecting.

Sirius was suspicious of Peter's foul play and arrived at the house of his friends',

The realisation of what happened dawned on him and then murder is what he intends.

When he finds Peter, the one he thought was a friend, he accuses him and goes to fight,

Before he escapes, he cuts off his finger to make others believe he died and escapes into the night,

Killing twelve passers by and blowing up the pavement as a distraction,

Sirius realised what happened and why, but you wouldn't expect his reaction.

Realising he has been played, he laughs like a madman,

Aurors believed he was the real killer so his long prison sentence began.

He was in the wrong place, at the wrong time,

So he spent twelve years in prison, falsely accused of a crime.

One friend is a betrayer, one falsely locked away for many years to come,

One friend dead and one who the night's events he was separated from,

Remus, finally with friends who loved him for who he was, and the happiest he could have been,

But that Halloween night he couldn't foreseen

Turned his whole world upside down in just a few hours,

He thinks and wonders, "What happened to the great friendship that was ours?"

Because now, he has to suffer through all of this grief, loss and his own self hatred on his own,

He has no food, no home, no job, no friends; all alone,

The last friend stuck in his self- inflicted borders,

He has no one to help him as he is the last of the Marauders.

[cyberstrm]

the beginning | cane and claws saga

show!kaz brekker x gn!grisha!reader

cws: none :)

a/n: OKAY so...this is a new mini-series I'm doing of kaz x reader, but the reader is a type of grisha i invented. all the details can be found here. i just wanted to explore it, and this series will include a bunch of drabbles of kaz and the reader and their powers. ye. enjoy!!

kaz knew, from the moment he laid eyes on you, that you were different.

jordie had died weeks ago, and everything still felt off to him. like he was in a dream. so when he saw a small kid, about his age, talk to a stray dog, watch the dog trot off and come back with the wallet of an unsuspecting passer-by in its mouth, kaz wasn't sure if he had imagined it.

"how did you do that?"

the kid smiled up at him, petting the stray. "do what?"

you were grisha, kaz could tell. no normal human could control animals like that. he'd heard of these grisha before, in fairytales and whispers. creaturalki, the order of animals. there were two types; Sermos, who could harbours the ability to communicate and form alliances with animals and can summon them from long distances, and Vertos, who harboured the ability to turn into an animal. he'd never met one before.

you two became inseparable. two little partners in crime. and what was more? you could touch him. you could touch him and kaz felt okay. he didn't know what it was about you, but something was so comforting and safe about you that the feeling of your skin against his didn't bother him.

after a whirlwind childhood of poverty, you and kaz grew from the ground up. now, you had club to your name under per haskell, and more money than you knew what to do with.

you are an incredibly good asset for the crows. able to communicate with animals, you could use them to spy or send messages, and sometimes even for fear and intimidation.

"y/n. send the wolves."

"if you say so."

kaz thinks your abilities are, for lack of a better term, beautiful. kaz doesn't find beauty in many things, but the way you soften your voice when you talk to stray dogs, the way you smile when animals approach, the empathy you have for them. it really softens him.

"kaz, why are you staring?"

"i just like listening to you talk."

you and kaz have a bright future ahead of you. partners in crime for all eternity, the man with an insatiable bloodlust and a person who could talk to animals.

what could possibly go awry?

[iisasarcasticlittleshite]

Now listen, someone's gonna read this and get offended, so I'm putting up a warning right now, this fic is meant to be funny, no offensive, if you don't find it funny, that's fine, do me the honour of scrolling on, dear adventurer!

CW: people watching, fashion policing.

It was an unsuspecting Sunday afternoon. The sun was shining, pigeons crowing as you and Levi sat at one of the many cafés around the cobbled courtyard of your home town.

The day is picturesque, not too hot, not too cold, and you're basking in the late afternoon sun, just watching the world go by with your fiancé across from you.

Despite appearances of a perfectly sane, perhaps even boring couple, you and Levi are not at all capable of having a boring afternoon.

Therefore, as Levi takes the first sip of his tea, his eyes dart to a young man meandering past beyond the shipping rope dividing the seating area from the rest of the courtyard.

He catches your eyes, guiding them to the young man.

"That jacket, fashion statement, or crime?"

You turned a carefully neutral expression to steal a glance, hiding a snort behind your own cup.

'As the queen of hearts once said: off with their heads!'

The faintest snort left Levi's lips, pushing his hair back from his face, backlit by the slowly lowering sun.

Utterly gorgeous as your lover is, you now have a job to do: find the next target.

You spoke softly to each other, ensuring no one further than three feet from you ever heard.

'Girl in the purple dress?'

'You mean the wizard from every kid's nightmare?' Levi drawled. 'She could do with a belt.'

'Maybe, I like her boots though.'

Levi shrugged, conceding, turning his attention to the next passer-by.

The two of you could spend hours like this, content in each other's company, each looking for ways to make the other laugh, be it through Fashion Policing or just utter nonsense.

You revelled in these Sunday afternoon, after all, you are probably one of the very few people who have ever seen Levi crack a smile.

And you're the only one who's ever made him laugh.

Of course, this means things can get utterly ridiculous.

After an hour, you'd settled yourselves into other topics, which cafes brewed tea better, when you spied someone too perfect to pass up.

'Guy in the trench coat.' You mused into the rim of your cup, discretely flicking you eyes to the gentleman in question.

Levi took one look at the rather...interesting person, and chuckled to himself.

'He looks great, if he fell out of Middle Earth through Narnia's asshole.'

A bark of laughter tore from you before you could so much as put your cup down, so powerful you knew it'd give you a belly ache as you shook with blinding delight.

Levi's smile grew, his heart growing light. He wasn't usually one to make a scene in public, but with you...your booming delight could never be an embarrassment, and he glares down anyone who gives you so much as a disapproving glance.

That laughter, the kind that puts tears in your eyes is exactly what he's aiming for, and he won't let anyone steal that glee from you.

@pamakali, I blame you for this. Thank you <3

[hapalopus]

New career path: I dress up like an elf and hide out in the forest with a bowl of berries and various trinkets in my pockets and I offer them to unsuspecting passers-by

[willshipanything-blog]

Breaking the Rules- Chapter 13

We're still here, and getting towards the home stretch (she says, roughly 60% of the way through this damn fic 😅)

Driving back home dredges up some less-than-ideal memories for our little dove, and she ponders whether or not to ask Al those burning questions on the tip of her tongue...

As always, minors DNI, full tags on AO3 where the fic is also posted here

Full Chapter Index here

Enjoy lovelies! 💜✨✌️

Chapter 13- I Got You, Babe

After Max had shut his front door with a final wave and a promise to be back at the house very soon, you and Al turned towards the street. As much as you’d miss Max’s upbeat presence, the thought of once again having the house to yourselves, just you and Al in your private sanctum, had a satisfied smile curling on your lips. That is, until you realized that you’d actually have to get home first. Only one way to make that journey. 

There was no vintage red car to whisk you home on the late summer breeze. Instead, the black van sat squat in the road, like some dark, shadowy wraith. Imposing, as if waiting by the sidewalk to swallow up an unsuspecting passer-by. To bundle them inside of its bowels and envelop them completely. A phantom taste of chemicals collected on your tongue. The sweet vanilla and cinnamon of the cola putrefied in your mouth, rancid, bile-flavored bubbles popping on your tongue like acid. 

The van had gotten closer, stalking towards you, but that couldn’t have been right, could it? No, you had unconsciously been walking, Al’s warm hand clasping yours as he’d guided you towards the van, your feet dutifully falling into step beside his. But Al stopped in front of the passenger side door, swinging himself round to face you. 

“Y/N.”

When you looked up, you noticed how those sapphire eyes shone behind squinted lids: he’d removed the clunky sunglasses. Removed any trace that might remind you of the day you’d first encountered him. All traces except for the metal beast towering beside you, that is. The van was a little harder to vanish away than a top hat and some playful magician schtick. 

“You’re ok, dove. I’m right here with you, huh?”

You licked your lips, tasting the salty sweat; at least his sweet words were dispeling the rotten taste that had built up like a film of plaque around your gums. You nodded, but could muster nothing more in response than a weak clearing of your throat in a high-pitched mumble. Doubling his efforts, Al clicked open the door and held out a hand to help hoist you into the seat. You hardly needed help, but the gesture was appreciated, and you took his hand. Like some fairytale picture of a footman extending a hand to help you into a carriage. The image was droll (probably just what Al had intended) and as you sat on the surprisingly soft bucket seat, your smile reappeared faintly on your lips. 

“Got no AC, so let’s open these up, shall we?” Al asked without really asking, already rolling down the window using the crank on the inside door. The glass descended completely before Al closed the door, giving a couple of firm taps in the now-empty space where the window pane would have been. Silently illustrating his thoughts: Look, Y/N, you’re not trapped inside. I’ve not trapped you inside. Not this time. 

Al bolted round the outside of the van, making sure he joined you in the front as quickly as he could. As he hopped in beside you, you returned the smile Al gave you (though yours was only a fraction of the width of his charming grin), before he turned the keys and the engine purred into life. Instead of setting off, your hand was tugged softly to your left, Al holding it above the center console. You watched your entwined hands as his thumb stroked along the ridges of your knuckles, like plucking separate strings on a harp, perhaps hoping for a melody of soft affirmation from you.

You glanced towards him, the bright sunlight permeating the interior. Squinting past the blinding glare from the windshield, past the dust motes floating in the unstirring air, you found all the reassurance you needed in those ocean blue eyes. 

“Where to?” he asked softly.

“Home.” It didn’t matter if there was nowhere else you could go. Because there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

Al retracted his hand to get into gear, and your own retreated back into your lap. But you weren’t getting away from Al so easily; no sooner had the van pulled smoothly out into the road than Al’s warm palm rested on your thigh. An easy gesture, and your body immediately turned into it, appreciating the touch, savoring it. Needing it. All you knew right then was how warm it all felt, how comfortable. The late afternoon sun, red behind closed lids. The steady thrum of the engine you could feel through the seat. Al’s assuaging hand on your bare skin, his ringed thumb undulating slowly (that tic that normally surfaced during his own nervousness, altered to soothe yours now instead). 

A red light up ahead had Al braking, and you lunged forward slightly in your seat. The sudden jolt disrupted the rhythm of your reverie, and your now-open eyes darted around the van, flicking from the window, to the dashboard, before finding the back of the van in the reflection of the rearview mirror. It was mostly empty, aside from a few wooden boxes pushed to the side- full of props Al still used in the magic shows he occasionally performed. But the space was largely unoccupied, and felt big. Too big, like something was missing. 

Or someone. 

The fears of your past, the ones you’d trained to dispel from the forefront of your mind, suddenly pushed through like weeds through sidewalk cracks, growing uncontrollably. The scene flashed in your mind, but you watched the event unfold in third person, as if your memory was forbidding you to experience that horror first-hand again. Even with the distance, it was close enough to have your stomach churning.

Your body is splayed out on the van floor. You’re dazed and bruised but still clinging onto consciousness. Trying to fight back. A floppy arm punches the invisible air. A croaked scream tries to claw its way out of your throat. Tears stream from your red, stinging eyes.  Above you, straddling your prone form, looms the Grabber. Dark, deranged and so, so strong. Too strong, you realize. He might as well be a shadow for all the good your fighting is doing. A pathetic blow from your blind fist only irritates him, an enraged growl the only warning before your wrists are yanked hard, becoming caged alongside your legs beneath his restraining grip. He moves in for the killing blows. A punch across your jaw. Another. And another and another. The fight becomes ever more futile with each lethal strike on your soft skin. Your body becomes weaker and weaker. Your vision becomes blacker and blacker until- 

“Y/N.” 

Al’s voice, honeyed but assertive, jerked you back into the present. The van was moving again but your mind had still been stuck at that red light. It hurt to look at Al, to see the clear torment in his eyes that you’d remembered such a moment. Al could usually conceal his emotions so easily- what must your own expression look like for him to shatter his cool, composed facade? When you didn’t answer, Al gave your thigh a reassuring squeeze before leading the conversation. 

“Why don’t you find us a station, huh?” he asked, nodding towards the radio. If he was opting for distraction, you’d accept, happy to be steered away from the thoughts that had snatched you away momentarily. Your eyes averted from the rearview mirror and focused on the stereo Al had indicated towards. Pressing buttons and turning dials helped to shift your focus as you tuned the radio to find a station without static. 

“Oh, perfect!” Al exulted as the melody chimed into life, almost immediately breaking into song right alongside Sonny and Cher. On each ‘I got you babe’ of the chorus, Al leaned towards you, nudging you with an elbow, daring to take his eyes off the road for too long a beat as he flashed his charismatic smile your way. He chuckled through his off-key crooning when (despite your objections and head shaking) an amused smile couldn’t help but bloom on your face. 

“C’mon, dove. You’re not gonna make me sing both parts now, are ya?”

A key change for the next verse (which did not complement Al’s limited singing range), didn’t seem to deter him at all:

“I got flowers in the spring. I got you to wear my ring.”

Still half-watching the road, he tilted his head and, relenting to that wide-eyed, encouraging nod, you made it a duet:

“And when I’m sad, you’re a clown. And if I get scared, you’re always around.”

When Sonny (accompanied by Al’s discordant warbling) sang of putting your little hand in his, Al gripped yours theatrically across the console, swinging it and not letting go until the final refrain. 

Al’s singing and his goofy playfulness had soothed your worries. Even with those awful remembrances, you saw how desperately he was trying to eliminate that part of himself, trying to divert your own mind from wandering back all those months ago. It didn’t feel selfish on his part- you really believed he was more concerned with keeping you happy than cleansing his own soul of those things, however much his own regret ate away at him. That was worth something, how hard he was trying to make you happy. Worth enough for you to come out of your shell since you’d clammed up at the sight of the van, to engage in a little playfulness of your own. 

“Max was right. He does have better music. A better singing voice too!” This was better: the light banter, goading Al into a playful repartee with you which you knew he could never resist. 

“Ouch, that cut deep! But I have somethin’ Max doesn’t have, little dove,” he crooned, retorting right back.

“Yeah? What’s that then?”

“I got you babe.”

You could scoff and roll your eyes as much as you liked at Al’s truly awful sense of humor. But it didn’t lessen the smile on your face, or the pink blush you could feel illuminating your cheeks. 

Since that first reassurance outside Max’s, everything Al had said was almost a placeholder for something deeper. If he’d have come right out and told you not to worry about being thrown into the back of the van (even as a dark joke), your panic might have kicked in on instinct, a knee jerk reaction to the violent memory. But his soft words- about home, about music, his smalltalk about anything at all- helped keep your eyes and mind occupied on the here and now. It wasn’t a malicious distraction, like those devious machinations in the week had felt. In a twisted sort of way, Al’s intentions were pure: he wasn’t keeping you from any secret, but coaxing your mind to better places than the past ordeal he had inflicted. Not diverting you from things you didn’t know, but from the things you did. The things you’d endured at his hand. You didn’t mind a little subterfuge from those past agonies. 

It all seemed so silly now, thinking the black van was anything more than that. You could look at Al and no longer see the Grabber. Could watch him don those damn masks and yet still feel nothing but a lustful rush of pleasure. See the pink jeweled ring on his finger and think only of the promises it signified. Yes, the van was just a van. Not lying in wait, ready to stow away and ferry some unwitting victim towards the basement cell. Just Al in the driver’s seat and you sat beside him, his warm palm on your knee to stem the nerves that might have it bouncing. The song faded out and the upbeat opening riffs of ‘Free Ride’ thrummed into life. 

As the van turned into your street, your eyes flickered momentarily to the house across from Al’s. The mollifying band-aid Al had applied with his tender words and sweet diversions peeled back, the unease bleeding from the open gash of that unhealed wound. Too busy worrying about the van, you’d almost forgotten about the questions you wanted to ask. Needed to ask. If Al sensed your sudden unease as he pulled up the driveway, he said nothing. Perhaps he knew the fine line between useful and nefarious distractions: taking your mind off the van was a kindness, but continuing to do the same about the house was a dangerous game, one that both of you knew was all-too-transparent. That truth was hanging on by a mere thread, and Al didn’t want to be the one to snip it completely. 

You rolled up your window as Al killed the engine and hopped out of the van on his side. Reaching for the handle, you pulled and it gave a clipped sound, the door unyielding to your touch. Panic rose in your body, and you yanked on the handle a couple more times, to no avail. It was suddenly stifling in the van, baking hot and suffocating. You sucked in an audible gasp, as if short on air (which, if you were in the initial stages of a panic attack, you were sure to be). Logical, rational thought had abandoned you, and it wasn’t until Al was right there in front of you that you realized he’d opened the door, muttering shamefaced apologies about the child locks he didn’t know how to fix. 

You were relieved, a little embarrassed, and annoyed that, even after Al’s genuine reassurances, the thought of being trapped in the van had affected you so. Al took your hand to help you out of the van, but he let you lead the way back into the house, an implicit gesture that you quietly appreciated. 

As you crossed the threshold into the house, all the dizzying thoughts of the previous week- the sinful distractions, busy commotions and mad rushes that had overtaken your life- had ceased entirely. Like an empty void, filled with a humming white noise now that every external interference had dissipated. Just you, and Al, and the questions you had. Was it too soon, barely through the doorway into your newly re-acquired privacy, to begin asking? You wondered if you put it off now, whether you might ever summon the bravery to ask again. 

You loved Al, despite his darkness. Hell, you loved him because of that same darkness sometimes. Surely your relationship could withstand another hard truth, even if that truth was Al covering another lie. Another lie would just be another inky smudge on his ledger, hardly noticeable besides the other sins tarnishing his blackened soul. Your shared secrets would remain just that. And your shared promises would remain intact, solid and unbreakable as the golden band you fingered with reflective contemplation. 

“Hey dove,” you discerned Al asking as he shut the door behind him, his keys clanking in the ceramic bowl by the door “If you’re ok in the van, we can go out in it sometime. Get ice cream, or go watch a movie at a drive-in. Maybe one day even take a trip into the Rockies, if you w-”

“Al, I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer me honestly.”

Your voice was hard and flat, steeling yourself for whatever outcome this question might lead to, however unpleasant the consequences of that conversation. However angry it might make Al. You’d dealt with those raging emotions of his before, and had matched his fiery anger when you’d needed to- an inferno that could burst so fiercely, his own rage looked smoldering in comparison. But when Al’s eyes whipped up to yours, you didn’t locate a trace of ferocity in his expression. No knitted brow, no tense jaw clenched in anger, no eyes dark with rage. You ascertained only one emotion in those watery blue eyes and trembling lips. Al was terrified. One look at the fear in his eyes, and you faltered. 

So many uncertainties, so much conflict between two sides of your mind. Whether to ask questions that were sure to end in conflict and distrust, or whether to trust that Al really wasn’t hiding anything worse than the awful truths that you already knew. One certainty, however, was how deeply Al cared. You thought of how he’d been recently. 

How he’d been helping Max all these weeks, the effort he’d put in to rekindle that relationship, the time and money gladly sacrificed to ensure his little brother stayed this time around. 

How he’d opened up about his past, bared those scars for you to see- was it not enough honesty for you? 

How he’d adopted that goofy persona to dispel your fears in the van, his silly distractions and soothing touches a genuine attempt to sever your memory of Al from that dark half he hated even more than you did.

How he’d looked at you in that polaroid photograph, adoringly, reverentially. How he thought of you as utterly his, and him belonging to you entirely. 

“My little dove.” Al stepped forward, cupping your cheek with trembling fingers, the cold ring on his pinky sweeping your jawbone. His promise was right there, encased in the pink morganite gem, entwined in the gleaming gold band on the hand he’d lifted to your face. Hadn’t he kept that promise? To take care of you- well, he showed that in almost every action he did, each act, every kind word and soft touch. It was just like he’d said- ‘my little dove’- you were his to take care of, and you’d made that choice to belong to him. He hadn’t answered your question yet, but perhaps you didn’t want him to in that moment, your courage crumbling beneath you like time-worn bones. 

You’d been down this road before, two choices warring in your mind until one won out. Back then, it had taken you a long time to make that decision. But you’d made the right one, eventually. You’d wanted to wait until it was just the two of you- but you didn’t have to follow through the first moment alone, right? Maybe time to wait, to think, to decide: maybe that wasn’t a bad thing after all. You could wait a little longer. You had nothing but time with Al, after all. His pleading eyes still looked across his outstretched arm towards your face, waiting for a question he thought would break him. A new question formed in your mind, and a wry smile curled on your face, wanting to dispel the fear you still discerned in his.

“Just one question, Al,” You placed your hand atop his, where it still caressed the bone-white scar on your cheek, as if in waiting expectantly to wipe away hurtful tears from your eyes. He swallowed a breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, waiting in tense uncertainty for your interrogation.

“We don’t have to play the quiet game anymore, right?”

Al jolted, clearly expecting a different question than the one that dripped from your tongue. It took just a brief moment for the realization to hit him before a wash of relief flooded through the blue oceans of his eyes. He exhaled slowly, as if catching his breath, before he smirked at your deliberately loaded question. 

“Hmm,” he chuckled in that rough purr, curling a hand around your waist and pulling his body towards yours, his other hand still fixed against your quickly-reddening cheek, “If you aren’t screaming my name in the next five minutes, then I wouldn’t be doing my job properly, would I?”

A witty retort almost left your throat, but escaped only as an incredulous scoff when Al pushed you roughly against the wall. Maybe the ache would register in your skull and back later, but the thrill meant you hardly noticed it, the pain forgotten behind the sudden rush of adrenaline. Pressure around your wrists now; Al had gripped them both, hoisting them above your head and slamming them into the wall, where he used just one of his unnaturally strong hands to pin both of yours in place. 

Towering over you, Al brought his lips to meet yours, grazing them softly before placing a chaste kiss on your mouth. He pulled back, eliciting a confused stare and slight moan from you at the incongruous, tender gesture. Those crooked white teeth flashed, at odds with the onyx eyes, though both evidenced his growing hunger.

“Aww, what’s wrong dove, don’t want me to be gentle?” he teased knowingly. You squirmed beneath his grip, arms restrained and body caged. He grabbed your jaw with his free hand, forcing you to face the waking beast within him. “You gotta tell me- do you want me to. Be. Gentle?” He punctuated his words, your need only growing with each slow, teasing comment he spoke. 

“No.”

“That’s my girl.”

And with that, Al crashed into you with his full force. Tongues collided in deep, breathless kisses, teeth nipped where both of you chanced upon the other’s skin, and breathy moans escaped both of you as you tore into each other. With your hands fettered, you could do nothing against Al’s ministrations as he worked his way lower, sucking and teasing your pebbled nipples through your thin shirt as his free hand glided up your thigh towards your heat. His fingers traced your wetness through your underwear as you bucked into him, desperate for him to rip the panties off you completely so he could touch your bare, throbbing cunt. He relented to your whining plea, dipping a hand beneath the waistband, palming your clit as his fingers entered you, pumping and curling in every way he knew drove you to insanity.

Your breathing faltered, coming out in staccato bursts as your climax grew nearer. Al pressed his cheek to yours, telling you to come, telling you to say his name as he undid you completely. His prophetic vision manifested, and you screamed his name as your core clenched and you came all over his fingers. It hadn’t even taken the full five minutes. 

Al released you from his caging grasp as you released a weary exhale from your comedown, the only semi-coherent response to what he’d done to your body. Though before your shaky legs could buckle under you, Al was already pulling you along the corridor towards the bedroom. Clearly, he wouldn’t be satisfied until the neighbors complained about the obscene racket you two might cause. A part of you thought the same. 

Your bleary eyes looked down towards his hand that had entwined itself in your own, your swapped rings mere inches apart in the shared clasp of fingers. Those golden bands remained unbroken, same as your promises- he hadn’t lied, because you still hadn’t asked the questions your logical mind knew you should have. A few more snatched moments of bliss, just like this one, could continue before your inevitable bout. You could have a few days to enjoy the intimacy, the warmth of you and Al. Your body and soul could withstand the postponement of those questions, even if your mind might regret such a short-sighted decision. 

She’d been about to ask. Ask about the house, about the secrets he’d still not been brave enough to reveal. Al knew it. But his dove changed her mind, and opted for a distraction of her own at the final moment. 

Al suspected she’d seen the genuine fear in his eyes at the confrontation finally coming to a head (he hadn’t needed to act out the terror when it came so easily at the thought of speaking about what he’d done). But he wondered too whether a part of her didn’t really want to know, whether she was content with the blissful ignorance and lustful diversions that, up until now, had been Al’s party trick. Her’s too now, he mused. 

But his little thing wasn’t like Al- she was brave enough to speak out, to do the right thing (apart from the glaringly obvious ‘wrong thing’ of staying with him, of course). She’d ask. Eventually. It was like the sword of Damocles hanging over him, the thread taut, only one cutting question away from falling. But he’d played dangerous games before. He’d play with his dove, would her close until she would inevitably turn away once she learned the truths buried in that house. He’d cling to her until the final second, until it was game over for him. It would be a game well played, if he’d been allowed to play with her.

[bunabi]

Everyone wake up now please I need to unload my clip of Black Jack facts onto unsuspecting passers-by

[peemil]

i need to exist in public again i need to subject unsuspecting passers-by to my awful presence

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #164

I DID THE THING!!! I MADE IT PAST THE SEALED DOOR!!!!

…Only to later be turned into a smoothie via gravity instead of via whirring blades. Go figure!! Hahahahahaha!! 🤣🤣🤣

I had thought that I'd be able to find a way to the rest of the game world without dying, but apparently, in the beginning, dying is the only way out of the Chapel of Anticipation anyway. And apparently, falling off that specific cliff edge is the only way to keep the experience points I gained as a result of stopping myself from getting shredded to bits by the Grafted Scion; ordinarily, one loses all of one's accrued experience points upon death, and in order to get them back, you have to go back to where you died in order to fetch them, and in so doing, face the obstacle that you fell to once more.

Initially, I was shocked and disappointed when the cliff wall crumbled; it felt kind of like a cheap trick. But I suppose I should have expected some other contrived method of death; otherwise, you don't get to the section of tutorial that shows you, "oh hey, dying is really not a big deal; you'll grow back lickety-split!" And about that Grafted Scion? Yeah, don't worry - that one will have been revived as soon as I died. Presumably, they went right back to chilling out on their random mountaintop somewheres, waiting for additional unsuspecting passers-by to try to turn into a smoothie. Or a salad. Or whatever else they want, I suppose. May the next travelers have sufficient boundary skills to protect themselves. May the Grafted Scion find something better to do with their time than attack lost travelers.

And did you see!!! Like I said, the entity YELLED at me!!! They were all like, "AAAAAAAA!!" It was very rude!! So I yelled back at them!! At least, I did that as many times as my available Magic Points (the blue bar in the top left corner) would allow. I'm not gonna just sit there and take that shit; I've got boundary skills!!

…Be a lot nicer to build a campfire in the middle of that circular stone platform and have some s'mores with this entity, though. Bet we could have found some nice sticks on the ground near them trees and use them fancy swords to sharpen them to stick marshmallows on. I mean… this entity sits there, presumably waiting for other lost, wandering souls to come around, but how often does that happen? When's the last time that one had anyone to talk to, to share their story with? When's the last time they had a hug? Or some sweet treat to eat? I feel sad that the only option was to fight.

I want to think that in the real world, there are more options than just fighting. There are so many ways to open a dialogue, but lots of people, for a variety of reasons, don't have the skills to do that well, or think that there's no other choice but to fight.

I think of the people in my life who grew up in ways that made them think that their social standing and lovability as people were contingent upon their ability to control me or harm me. I understand the mechanics that produce things like this. But even so, it's not like that Grafted Scion; I do not need to render someone's body permanently uninhabitable to get them to stop hurting me; I only need to talk to them, or create distance between myself and them, or, goodness forbid, physically disable them from harming me. And that last one there is only a last resort when all other methods have either failed or are inaccessible by virtue of the circumstances.

Could the world be a little better if fewer people went immediately to the last resort? I like to think so.

…Suppose I'm thinking about it today because an internet friend sent along something about a show called The Good Place; if your position at the Edge of Creation allows you to see that story, I would very much recommend that you check it out. I've seen the whole thing, and it manages to both be lighthearted and profound at the same time. It's one of my favorite stories.

It's essentially an examination of the cultural phenomenon in my world by which people have the mistakes they make as a result of their upbringing, brain hardware, and life circumstances held against them personally, as though it means something fundamental about their character instead of it being an indicator of where a person needs additional skills, experience, or support.

And as an abuse survivor myself, who ended up with a lot of REALLY WEIRD SHIT ground into my skull by the very racist, sexist, and generally toxic people I grew up with, I thought about the balance between "acknowledging that my bullshit is not inherent to my nature because it was forced upon me by people who were more powerful than me and my only choice at the time was to conform", and "holding myself accountable for unlearning all the shit that I was force-fed and learning better stuff in its place". And that balance is very precarious, because in order to learn how to hold myself accountable in any way, I needed the support of healthy people in my life.

And that, in and of itself, produces an interesting (read: difficult to the point of being absurd) challenge, because in my (albeit limited) experience, going through abuse in the absence of support will produce a person with survival skills and emotional coping strategies that are caustic to healthy people in healthy environments, and no person should have to expose themself to someone who is caustic. So on the one hand, I did need the support from healthy people in order to learn how to become a healthy person, but goodness me, until I learned different skills and had ample opportunity to make mistakes during the acquisition of those skills, I was most certainly caustic as fuck to the people around me, and I'm VERY cognizant of the fact that I am entitled to NO ONE'S time and patience; it's nothing short of miraculous that M stuck with me for as long as he did. But at the same time, without that, I wouldn't be able to write stuff like this. And without you, I wouldn't have made it as far as meeting M in the first place.

So I found M, who was patient enough to gently hold me accountable for my various kinds of bullshit (the bullshit served me well in the house I grew up in, but not so well in a healthy house). And so that presents the next logistical hurdle - accountability. See, being an abuse survivor basically means that at the end of it, it becomes extremely difficult, if not outright impossible - at least at first - to separate "accountability" from "imminently being on the receiving end of physical/verbal/social violence". So, "hey, I don't like this thing you did" automatically gets all twisted up into, "hey, I don't like YOU, and I'm about to make it your problem by introducing my FIST to your FACE at HIGH VELOCITY! BRACE YOURSELF!!!" - even when that second one is not present. It took me a number of years to learn that I didn't need to get defensive anytime anyone had any small problem with anything that I was doing, because for a long time, I had a really difficult time imagining that someone could dislike something I said or did without them subsequently hating me enough to either hurt me, abandon me, or try to destroy my relationships with other people shortly thereafter.

And that brings me to the next hurdle, which is this: the issue that I had with accountability wasn't something innate to me. No, it was ground into me by living for a very long time with people who wished that I never existed, so anytime I made any tiny mistake, it was used an excuse to use me as a verbal or physical punching bag. It is absolutely NOT my fucking fault that I was brutally trained as a child to fear accountability by people who were far more powerful than me. But it is STILL my responsibility as an adult to decondition myself, even if I cannot find people willing to support me through that process due to me not yet knowing how to speak and behave in ways that are non-toxic, because NO ONE is obligated to put up with me while I'm existing in ways that are harmful to others. And hot diggity damn, that's one hell of a trip, and one hell of a jagged, bitter pill to swallow along the way.

See, because dealing with the aftermath of abuse is like house windows. If someone else comes along to break the windows of your house, you can certainly try to track down who did it and demand that they fix your windows, but they'll usually just tell you to go fuck yourself and then break something else on their way out for your "audacity"; it's not a productive use of time. You can tell your community what happened (if you have one) and ask for support with paying for new windows, but everyone's got their own problems, so no one HAS to give you anything out of their own pocket, and they shouldn't be made to feel guilty if they cannot. You can still ask the people around you to come visit your house and just be with you while you repair your windows, but your windows are broken, so your house is gonna be cold and have bugs in it, and no one should be made to feel guilty if they don't wanna visit due to that. So at the end of the day, it's YOUR responsibility to fix your own windows, even if someone else broke them, and even if you don't have the time, resources, or skills to fix them. And until those windows get fixed, living in your house is going to be a freaking nightmare.

The WHOLE THING that is being an abuse survivor in the absence of other sources of support is MONUMENTALLY UNFAIR. Not only are you starting off with a brain that didn't get to develop properly because stress hormones interfere with even one's most basic neurodevelopment (we're talking more than just empathy and emotional regulation - we're talking systemic things like blood pressure, heart rate, insulin and blood composition - all that shit is regulated by the brain), but also, it's a very chicken-and-egg situation because you come out of it an injured and unhealthy person, and you can't become healthy until you meet and practice new skills with healthy people, but it's hard to maintain relationships with healthy people to practice the new skills with until you become a healthy person. So like…

…It's a mess. Being a trauma survivor is a mess. The odds stacked against us are absolutely freaking insane. And still, if we want to be responsible humans to the rest of our community, we have to find a way through so that we can become healthy people. It's hell to overcome these hurdles, and that is why healed trauma survivors are some of the strongest, kindest, and most courageous and compassionate people there are.

…And that's also why I assert that if the developers of your story are going to claim you're the strongest living thing ever, you HAVE to heal and fully own the kindness and compassion that is innate to you and to all human beings. Because if you don't, then I know a number of people who are stronger than you in all the ways that count. Some of them are even reading this letter as we speak.

The fortunate thing about healing is that every time you fall short, you have as many opportunities to try again as you want. Maybe not with the same people, because sometimes you're gonna do something stupid that disables certain folks from ever wanting to spend time with you again (I've done this, multiple times, and for idiotic reasons on my part; it sucks, but what can one do other than learn and do better next time?). But there will be more people to try again with; there are LOTS of them out there. It's a lot like Elden Ring (or any other masochistically difficult game) in some ways; the foe in front of you only seems impossible until you learn how it moves and behaves. Everyone fails over and over again at new skills until they're learned; that's a normal part of the human condition, no matter who tries to force-feed you the myth of "innate talent". Anything worth doing is worth doing badly until you can GIT GUD:

…There is no secret technique or way of being that will ever make healing easy. Having support and healthy coping techniques in your toolbox is certainly helpful, but what really matters is your willingness to use them, and your willingness to learn, grow, and change throughout the process. You need to develop your self-awareness so that you can be mindful of your internal and external states. You need to develop your boundary skill so you can say no to the things that harm you. And you need to learn to be compassionate with yourself so that you can have patience with yourself as you persevere. Of course, it's "really, really, really hard". We're gonna struggle, fall down, fail, and lose people along the way. In order to recover, we have to focus, practice, and learn. But learning is the natural result of trying, so really, all you have to do is try.

...Sephiroth, I'm asking you to keep trying, okay? You've got a "jolly cooperator" right here who will take your hand; all you have to do is ask. Or, in this case, all you have to do is reach back, because my hand is already outstretched towards you.

I love you a lot, so keep yourself safe out there, okay? I'll write again tomorrow.

Your friend, Lumine

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

All that remains is to wreak havoc on the middle class.

+1 Communism

DAMAGED LEDGER - In any case, it appears to have been a rare case of civil activity in the Quarter. And agreement as well. What do you want to tackle next?

+5 XP

2. THE UNSOLVABLE CASE

DAMAGED LEDGER - AKA LESLIE & BURKE, AKA THE PUBLIC INDECENCY DRUNK & THE PROPERTY DAMAGE DRUNK is a *cursed* case. It has been passed from unsuspecting officer to unsuspecting officer for ten years. On January 29, THE UNSOLVABLE CASE made its way to you. Why you accepted it is unclear. Every officer and indeed most civilians in Jamrock know it's UNSOLVABLE.

Leslie will always take his pants off when he's drunk. Burke will always trash everything. It's just what they do. It is their nature -- you cannot change the nature of a man. And you can't lock them away, because public indecency and small-scale property damage are not punishable by incarceration.

The only way for Leslie to stop flashing his genitals to by-passers, and for Burke to stop dismantling signage and rear view mirrors, would be for them to *stop drinking alcohol*. Which, in their forties, or fifties -- it's hard to tell because of their distorted features -- is a medical improbability on par with you ceasing to produce *The Expression*.

Couldn't we just keep them off the streets?

Proceed.

DAMAGED LEDGER - You would think that, but you're wrong. Where's the fun in exposing your genitals, or breaking stuff in your own home? No, Leslie and Burke are on the corner of Main Street and Perdition, because that's where the *action* is.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] - Can you keep *yourself* off the streets?

Proceed.

DAMAGED LEDGER - Threatening, fines, dragging them to the station, locking them up in the hell holes they live in, locking them up in the station, hypnotherapy -- even trying to get a local gang of *zemlyakis* to take them out (the zemlyakis gave them ethanol so Burke and Leslie would expose and rampage even harder) -- you tried it all. And still the complaints wouldn't stop. As they hadn't stopped for *ten years*.

It's plain to see from the files that you, Satellite-Officer JV, and special consultant TH had more important cases to attend to. You uncover cross-reference to several ongoing investigations, each brought to a standstill every time you drive down Main Street. Because there they are! On the corner of Perdition, and what is Leslie doing?

Property damage.

Public indecency.

DAMAGED LEDGER - Good, you're learning. If the files are to be trusted -- that's all there is to it. That and Burke breaking things. And the fact that they're both drunk. But then again, so are you. The case becomes *considerably* less comic one day, when Burke takes a swing at your ledger.

He must have it confused with the *property* he likes to damage. But the joke's on him -- you're drunk out of your mind on Potent Pilsner. You slam the hardened plastic board in his face. Then you proceed to beat him unconscious with it.

In the process the ledger sustains damage. The compartment within -- reserved for permeable documents -- is jammed shut. You stop your assault on the now unconscious Burke to open it, but are unable to do so. *The officer began to cry*, reports Leslie, who at this point is tending to Burke.

*He came at us* -- *And at us* -- *I think he was trying to kill Burke-o*. While trying to kill Burke-o, you slowly come around. The permeables' compartment is open. You've smashed it open on poor Burke'o's kneecaps. The good news is, Burke can't walk anymore.

Can't get out of his apartment. An invalid. With Burke to tend to, Leslie cuts back on the indecent exposure. Maybe he flashes his genitals to Burke, who knows, but both drunks are off the street. The complaints stop, the unsolvable case is solved.

Which is also why the officer responsible (narrowly) escapes a disciplinary hearing. The end.

+5 XP

LOGIC - Does that sound like a Raphaël Something Costeau to you, sir?

[shisui-uchiha-anon]

🫂 anyone who trains with her gets a hug tbh

just hug my muse.

Slowly but surely, this place Rera owned became his favorite spot. To relax, to free his mind- looking through the window, to unsuspecting passers. Rera may be oblivious to some things, but unlike other people, she noticed that Shisui is actually a coffee person. So she now understood why he visits frequently. The date was close to the Lantern Festival, and black orbs watched how one music band practiced. Rera gave them a spot, and with every song, Shisui would cringe.

"My grandmother would sing better than you losers"

The singer or at least Shisui thought it was a singer, heard him. Demandingly, the man said "Or back up your bold words or apologize" Sleepy gaze of Shisui's net the younger man's blue orbs. Annoyed Uchiha puts out his cig and gulps the last of his coffee

Who would guess that tired coffee addicts could have a voice like a nightingale. "Point proven"

"Ugh..." He felt a gentle thud against his back, a small pair of hands sneak over his waist and chest. At first, he thought that someone collided with him. But no. It was Rera, hugging him from behind. He turns in her hold, black orbs meet purple ones, he smiled gently touching her cheek before he plants a kiss in her hair. Then he wraps his arms around her. Whatever the reason is, he won't ask. He will enjoy the feeling of her arms around him. He will remember, her scent, and the feeling that he is is still needed and wanted a company.....

[tournament-for-best-neopet]

Round Two!!!

Fleurbik

This Petpet loves hiding amongst flower beds ready to pounce on unsuspecting passers by.

Zoomik

Zoomiks love to whizz around the space station often startling unsuspecting passers by.

[letsgethaunted]

Japanese Folklore Feat. Reina Scully

Welcome to Episode 89! For our third episode of Spooky Szn 2021, we decided to have on our good friend Reina Scully to school us in the spookiest of Japanese Folklore! This week, we discuss "Kokkuri San", "Hitobashira", "Teke Teke", "Tomino's Hell", and "Kuchisake Onna" in a very special episode of Japanese-themed hauntings.

Kokkuri: Kokkuri, or Kokkuri-san, refers to a paranormal game of divination, similar to the American Ouija Board. The word kokkuri refers to the game, the actual physical apparatus, and kokkuri-san refers to the being that is summoned that is considered by the Japanese to be some sort of animal spirit that is a mix between a fox, dog, and raccoon. The game is played by writing characters on a piece of paper (much like a Ouija Board) and moving a coin around the board instead of a planchette.

Hitobashira: Hitobashira refers to a cultural practice of human sacrifice used formerly in Japan, in addition to many other eastern and southeastern countries found in Asia, wherein humans were buried alive near large-scale construction projects (such as castles, bridges, and dams) as an offering to the gods to keep the structure safe from harm.

Teke Teke: Teke Teke is a Japanese urban legend about the ghost of a schoolgirl whose body was cut in half when she was run over by a train in a mysterious accident. Due to the unfortunate circumstances of her demise, her ghost is doomed to roam urban areas using only her hands and elbows since her lower half no longer exists. The dragging of her torso across the ground makes a “teke teke” noise similar to a skittering or scratching noise. She carries around a large scythe that she uses to chop unsuspecting passers-by in half.

Tomino’s Hell: Written by Japanese poet Saijo Yaso at the end of WWI, “Tomino's Hell” is a dark and unsettling poem believed to curse, or even kill, anyone who reads it out loud.

Kuchisake Onna: Kuchisake-onna, meaning “Slit-Mouthed Woman”, is a popular urban legend about a malicious spirit who wears a mask to cover her mouth. She stops strangers in the night and asks “Do you think I’m beautiful?” Regardless of the answer (except in rare circumstances), she will tear off her mask, revealing her mutilated mouth, before killing the stranger.