#seeing corpses of people who are very real to him and very much people and dead in excess and brutalized like that is gut wrenching

[townofcadence]

"Visiting.... probably would be easier." Artair nods. "I have something to help people get to different worlds so they don't get lost and can get back home easy. And it'd be a lot easier if we knew what each other were talking about more visually. But ah... yeah. Our forest is less-- extensively haunted looking. That much I can say." Though far be it to say that his forest wasn't haunted or filled with its own dangers or unnatural things as well. They just.... were far more subtle. Or the danger was just in the ways that any extensive enough woods could be, with how easy it was to lose your way.

"I did think... or, well, I guess I assumed there'd be different biomes." He continues, rolling the flashlight in his palm. "Though...... living surburbia is definitely not one I've seen. Or fire hydrants plants. I guess that kind of means... probably the whole world is like this? Was it like this before the change? No, probably not, or you wouldn't point it out. So maybe where I'm from's more like before everything kinda--- changed like this." It's less a question he really expects an answer from, and more an idle musing, his hand pressing against his chin and a curled index finger just brushes his lip.

He's silent even as he feels the bubble of amusement from her, at the store. Something about it elicited the feeling and-- he honestly couldn't even guess as to what, when it was so full of bodies of people. But...this also seemed normal, at least now, for her. He doesn't comment either, until they were past the stretch of pavement.

"I guess I'm wondering how you don't get lost more often." Artair augments his question. "I mean--even regular woods are easy to get turned around in, and lose your way if you're not on a trail." A lot of people died that way even without the hotels and minimarts hungry for flesh. A search party was pretty run of the mill, but how they managed to find Thursday and everything be fine was definitely a curiosity, unless they had something special for doing so. You really didn't realize how easy--

The thoughts cut away with her laugh, and then her scream. Artair jumps, fumbling his flashlight at the sudden noise; he drops it to the grass. While bent over trying to reclaim it, he hears the answering call, and he grimaces as he pulls himself up.

"Well.... given how long it's been quiet, I don't think it's a person in danger, that's for sure." He frowns, fixing his beam forward again. "I mean they're answering you, but a real person would scream more, and maybe use some words if they thought someone was here, I'd assume. And if they thought you were something else screaming, they probably wouldn't scream back, because they wouldn't want you to figure out where they were. So....."

He considers. "....I don't think it's a person in danger still, but we could probably check it out, just in case it something else? But ah... you can do the screaming. Just give a guy a little warning." He chuckles. "I'll try to pay attention to the direction and lead us that way."

Thursday can't help but let out a laugh as Artair struggles to describe his world, especially in comparison to what he's seeing of hers in real time.

"You know what? Maybe I could go see the place you're from some time! And we could study each other's worlds. Wouldn't that be cool? I think it would be. And something else - this is only one small part of where I live. There are tons of places we haven't explored yet, simply because we just haven't. Maybe not all the woods out there look like this," she says, shrugging and smiling. "I mean, we've seen all kinds of crazy shit, like suburban neighborhoods full of identical houses and lawns and mailboxes that were all alive, and I think that was just about the scariest thing I've ever seen, if I'm honest. And, like, fire hydrants that are like plants, stop signs, just all kinds of things that aren't just dead bodies covered in mushrooms, ahahaha. But I'd love to see where you're from."

The whole spectacle with the mini market with the mass of tangled bodies and graveyard fungus atop them - not to mention the very lovely tapestry of digested body splattered within the inside of the building - quite naturally draws Thursday's attention too as they come upon it. She takes her time looking at it, not nearly as disturbed by it as Artair seems to be. She's seen this all before - perhaps not this exact scene, but many just like it. And she's seen a lot more gruesome scenes too, bodies in much fresher, and further, states of decay and depravity and dismemberment and disembowelment. Even before making such discoveries she had a stomach of iron, and by now she's become so immune to it, it's no different than looking at close-ups of Hello Kitty under a microscope. It's just part of the world she lives in and not anything upsetting to her at all.

It is fascinating how the building is calling them over to it, though, and she can't help but smirk about it. She wants to talk to Artair about it, but doesn't know how he'd feel, considering he doesn't seem to keen on the bodies all over the place, not to mention the human artwork behind the glass doors of the building. So she decides to forgo that particular conversation for now and moves away from it as he does.

At his question, she shrugs, the light of her flashlight darting around the woods as she does so. "I don't know. To be honest, I don't really pay attention. Sometimes I recall certain landmarks, other times not. This direction, in the dark? I'm not really recognizing much, ahahaha. I'm just kinda wandering around aimlessly until I find something. It's not a big deal, because I can just call one of my Officemates to come get me if I get lost. Hmm. We need that person or whoever to scream again, don't we? You know what. I've got an idea."

Cupping her hands around her mouth, Thursday takes in a breath and then hauls off and lets out an enormous scream into the woods, her voice seeming to echo and echo and echo for far longer than it should.

There's a beat of silence.

And then there comes a scream, almost undeniably in answer to hers. And it sounds just like the one everyone in the Office heard earlier.

"Ahahahahaha, someone's out here screaming on purpose," Thursday laughs, seeming totally unbothered by this alarming revelation that whatever was making that noise is sentient. "Either that or it's like, a werewolf or something and they're looking for a mate. What do you think, Artair? Should we scream again? Ahahahaha."

[darkshrimpemotions]

The thing is, Guillermo being too kind and pure of heart to eat humans was always a fucking lie. Like??? Obviously, I think. And the Cannon Capital arc isn't really a departure for his character, it's us seeing all his worst traits highlighted in an environment that makes them MUCH less fun and sympathetic.

Guillermo has always been an intensely stubborn, self-serving character prone to tunnel vision who was willing to turn over pretty much every corner of his soul if it served his goals. Even if he did sometimes feel bad about it or force himself not to think about it so he wouldn't feel bad, he still did it.

He's still the guy who befriended people with the express purpose of luring them in to be killed. For years. He's still the guy who offered one of his oldest friends up to be murdered at an orgy, and only changed his mind at the very last second. He's still the guy whose version of trying to have a normal human life for once involved lying to pretty much every human in his life--his bio family and his boyfriend--about every aspect of his life but his name. He's still the guy who dismembered the corpses of his victims--yes they're still his victims even if he didn't strike the killing blows himself--in the front yard each morning with a dreamy smile on his face as he talked about the heart wanting what it wants.

Sacrificing Nandor to serve his goals at Cannon Capital is really not that different than sacrificing Jeremy to serve his goals as Nandor's familiar, except that in this case he had a lot more time to think about it and still did it, not via silence or omission but via a direct act of betrayal to Nandor's face. Perhaps it's because he never had to suffer any real consequences for his betrayal of Jeremy that no lessons were learned?

It's also really telling that when you reset Guillermo to his base state via sleep hypnosis, it's the sweetest, most wide-eyed and innocent version of him and STILL the first thing he does is offer himself up to be a vampire's familiar, all in a bid to have enough power that he can't ever be bullied again.

It's understandable. It's reprehensible. It's really ugly in a way that's harder to laugh off when you attach that to an extremely timely, familiar (heh) real-world scenario such as a venture capital firm that makes their money through shady real-estate deals that absolutely gut local livelihoods. But the Guillermo we're seeing right now is just as tunnel-visioned and stubborn and selfish as the Guillermo we've always known. We just very understandably like him less for it when it's real-world monsters we've all seen ruin real lives instead of fantasy monsters that are silly and fun to watch.

But this isn't out of character or off course or a step back. Guillermo is deep in denial and clinging to the Cannon Capital job because he can't face what he's lost as of the end of season 5. He's replaced Nandor with a master that's worse in every way, he's still clinging to the house while pretending he's separating himself, he's still sleeping on the remains of the makeshift coffin Nandor bought for him. He tells himself he is facing it and moving on, but I hope this time we all know that's a lie.

And I'm here for it when it all falls down around his ears, and he finally has to face himself. I'm really excited for it, actually!

[rene-darling]

Innocent scaramouce first time with dom fem reader?

Innocent little kabukimono

...yandere reader...red flag reader!...toxic relationships please do not imitate irl...I think.. I took way too much creative liberty with this..but-...im tired of seeing innocent readers x corrupted men. We need so corrupted yandere-ish readers!...

...kabukimono x yandereish reader...

Innocent little kabukimono who knows nothing of real life, and is just oh so naive. And you, this corrupted person who goes around doing whatever they please, leading on a man and then ditching him for good, a cruel harbinger who revels in the suffering of the innocent, and oh my is he innocent.

Kabukimono who doesn't know right from wrong, he doesn't even have life's most basic skills. The perfect man for you to corrupt.

Kabukimono who doesn't know that kisses are only meant to be shared by lovers and to be done in private, so you might be in the middle of talking to another harbinger when he approaches you and casually leaves a kiss on your lips.

The other harbinger and your underlings are left in a state of shock. He kissed you And he still has his head?? Kabukimono notices their weird stares and questions them "Hm? Do you not know? This is something friends do with each other!" he informs them proudly. He's your dearest friend.

Dear little kabukimono who gets scared when you come home drenched in blood, but you just smile at him and open your arms. He knows he can't deny you, you told him that denying your friend's hug is very rude!

So he hugs your bloody form, shivering a bit. You're so cold, like a corpse. It's okay. You reassure him, that you were just getting rid of some bad guys. Some real baddies who harm the innocent. This reassures him, wow, you're so cool! You help people by getting rid of bad guys right? Wow!

Innocent kabukimono who admires you so much. You're the coolest person out there, and he trusts you.

Pure little kabukimono who tries making you some yummy food, only to fail since for some reason it always turns out to sour, too hot, or just burnt. It was like someone was messing with him and doing it on purpose.

And when he tells you that he's messed up yet again and sees how your face falls, he can't deal with it. He's so dumb, so stupid, he can't help it! He can't do anything without you. So he starts crying, soft little hiccups turn into full-on sobs as globs of tears fall from his eyes.

Who hugs you and apologizes over and over, he's sorry he's such a dummy! He'll learn! He'll be more useful to you, he doesn't know where the dish went wrong! Please don't abandon him, he's sorry for being useless!

And it brings him so much comfort when you hug him back, holding his tiny waist as you almost feel bad for purposefully messing up his dish, not that you'll actually apologize and tell him.

When you're sitting on the couch and you pull him onto your lap, it startles him. He shifts around a bit uncomfortably, but it's fine, he'll manage. You tell him that this is what friends do! And since you both are such close friends he doesn't complain when you pull him into your lap, even in front of other people

Eventually, he gets used to it, when you assure him that, this is what friends do- and you're his dearest friend aren't you?

He's used to it. He's trained for it. He could simply be doing some work around the house but the second you pat your lap he drops whatever he's doing, crawling onto your lap like a cat.

He doesn't know any better, so while you're in important meetings with the harbingers he'll simply crawl onto your lap like it's his own personal bed. The other harbingers always stutter in their next words- they just never seem to get used to your little boytoy

Some of the harbingers find it rather amusing, questioning why you've kept him around this long. They've never seen you with one of your boy toys after the first 3 weeks. You simply shrug, perhaps it's his innocence, his naivety to the world..and people, around him. Whatever it is, he proves to be entertaining. Which is why you just can't get rid of him yet.

Cute little kabukimono who ignores any red flags. You following him around whenever you have some free time, or sending one of your henchmen after him whenever you aren't available. What do you mean that's weird? No- you just care for your friend, he's your dearest friend after all! You just wanna make sure nothing bad happens!

Innocent kabukimono who you've quickly learned has no idea of what intimacy is. He doesn't know the first thing about- love making.

Kabukimono who sits on your lap like another day, resting his head back onto your shoulder, you can hear his quiet breaths and whispers as he mumbles and rambles about his day thinking you were listening. You on the other hand were occupied by your own deranged thoughts, ...it's been long enough..hasn't it? You're sure he can handle you- fondling him further..right? You mean he should. You've done so much for him, and he can barely even cook a proper meal for you.

Biting down harshly on his neck while he was leaning it back on your shoulder eliciting gasps and whines from him. He tries grabbing your head, trying to push you away. It hurts! But you're too strong. So he sits there helpless tugging at your hair softly as he lets out little moans as you suck on his neck. He feels heat pool in between his legs... it's so weird..he doesn't like it.

Later that day he stares at himself in the mirror. Examining the big red purple-ish mark you left. Afterward, he questions you about it. Huffing as he asks the reason behind this strange good feeling mark you've left.

You reassure him, it's simply because he's your dearest friend. And you just want people to know that he's yours, he belongs to you. And no one else.

[boowritess]

notsobaddasssoldier!reader who is kinda a cunt

reader who just doesn't give a shit about the 141 rank or title.

"you think just cause your captain of some lil task force i'm gonna bend over backwards for you? be serious."

"cool you're lieutenant...and.... anything else interesting? like how you think halloween is 24/7, or...?"

"oh so it's a big accomplishment you're sergeant at your big age? tell someone who cares."

you're just so... eh about their ranks. but they get some power trip when you call them said rank. makes them feel some sort of way that depsite your snark, you still call them by rank. showing the clear difference of inferiority and superiority between you and them.

till you notice and shut that shet down.

"your so fucking stupid. it's like if i met The Pope. I'm gonna call him Pope because he's The Pope. I still don't give a shit though."

"or like meeting a Doctor and calling them Doctor. I don't give a fuck that the persons a Doctor. I'll still call em it."

"better yet. hate the king. hate the queen. but i still call them the queen and king. because their dumbassary is just linked to their 'ranks'. if you keep annoying me the same is gonna go for you."

you have so much sass and snark that it becomes a truly humbling experience. and it's like - damn. they could put you over their knee and really put you in your place but reader takes things from 0-100 real fucking quick.

"you wanna what you fucking freak?"

"excuse me-?"

"you're so fucking dumb. get a braincell dumb bitch. do it and fucking find out what happens."

"shot me in the head and watch my corpse not give a fuck because I don't."

and when the guys get a lil too fucking serious about putting reader in their place. reader suddenly has a gun pointed at their face. you see what I mean by taking things to 0-100 real quick?

"dummy. really tryna fuck with me when we're surrounded by guns? fuck outta here with that bullshit."

"matter fact I'd just kill myself-"

"NO!" *141*

it's obvious you may be young and perhaps a little too mouthy for your own good but it's clear you're not going to be pushed around.

but it's obvious you ain't here for the 'greater good' and just doing the work to get the paycheck. while the guys find your snark to be really fucking annoying.

it turns out that you definitely have some perks.

you may not be able to hold yourself very long in battle, just a very basic solider with basic skill sets- your mouth and attitude can really work wonders on people.

in particular, the egotistical rookie who things they're all that. taking their sweet time with basic tasks, belittling other recruits who can do the bare minimum. just in general, an asshole. that's when you step in.

"you ain't shit bitch cause at the end of the fucking day turdface, you ain't bullet proof. i can shoot you right now, and all your running and yapping will cease to exist. your corspe will rot. people will stop knowing you as the loudmouth rookie, and you will just become nothing. infact. you are nothing."

*the recruit opens their mouth. you interrupt.*

"Nothing."

*recruit tries again.*

"Nothing."

it's an endless cycle that ceases when your hardened glare doesn't stop and you pick up a rock intending to throw it at the recruit. the blank, dead, serious look in your eyes showing you are more than fucking serious.

what really works wonders though, is they way you aren't worried about putting a superior in their place. the other 141 have basically been beaten in and to not question anything. they have been made to believe they are weapons more than human.

that gets shut down real quick.

you all have just come back from mission, that was grueling. a couple of you were injured. everyone looked worse for wear. dirts, scratches, blood. someone no longer had their vest. a few lost weapons. barely had any inventory. needing food, sleep, and then a long shower shower.

but instead waiting for the task force, was a superior officer, holding the next mission file. a mission they were supposed to be getting ready for and practically leave as soon as they got back.

before price could grab for it, you intercept. grabbing the mission file and throwing it at the superior officers face.

"you giant fucking anal peice of dried solid dog shit. we're not fucking doing that. we just got back from hiding in a fucking forest for three weeks with enemy surrounding us to get intel from a camp- THAT WASN'T FUCKING THERE. so you better turn and take those pretty polished shoes to another task force."

"what is your name, soldier?" *superior officer growls.*

"Dolly Parton. Now Dolly has just worked longer than a nine to five and Dolly ain't got the patience for dealing with a man like you. i got two bullets left. one for you and one for me. and if you think i won't do it- well we can put it to the test now-"

perhaps it was the utter dead look in your eyes, or the gentle yet seething venom in your tone. the superior officer simply growls and turns on their feet, leaving the task force.

it's funny cause you do get the respect, you are barely a good soldier but dang you can get shit done when need be. so price doesn't transfer you. he still keeps you close.

ghost is the one who loves the feral little shit you are. gaz and you talk mad shit about everyone on base. soap just absolutely adores you, you're the little sibling he's always wanted.

a/n: inspired by the feral nature of gen z.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Monster x Reader [Werewolf]

In Romanian mythology, Pricolici is an evil spirit believed to be born after the death of wicked humans, able to transform into certain animals such as ferocious dogs and wolves. The etymology is unknown, although it's suspected to be of Dacian origin, thus going as far back in time as the 1st century BC. An ancient creature has set its predatory eyes on you.

Winner of the Folklore Monster Poll celebrating Romanian history!

TW: obsessive behavior, violence, death

[Horror Masterlist] [More Headcanons]

He can tell it's a dream. Nonetheless, it always feels unbearably real. He can smell the incense, hear the hurried trample of feet underneath him. He wants to open his mouth and demand they stop. No words ever come out, the throat is dry and flattened by heavy despair. It's a dream, after all. The priests march on, and the spears are lifted. For a moment, he's blinded by their powerful, sharp glisten. As he gazes at the sacred circle, it occurs to him just how uncomfortable the shackles are. He becomes somewhat distracted by this irritating friction, so much he doesn't register the instructions given by the mysterious men. 

Centuries later, he would stumble upon an old history book by Herodotus that detailed his misfortune:

"The Getae are the bravest of the Thracians and the most just. They believe they are immortal, forever living, in the following sense: they think they do not die and that the one who dies joins Zalmoxis, a divine being. Every four years, they send a messenger to Zalmoxis, who is chosen by chance. They ask him to tell Zalmoxis what they want on that occasion. The mission is performed in the following way: men standing there for that purpose hold three spears; other people take the one who is sent to Zalmoxis by his hands and feet and fling him in the air on the spears. If he dies pierced, they think that the divinity is going to help them; if he does not die, it is he who is accused and they declare that he is a bad person. And, after he has been charged, they send another one. The messenger is told the requests while he is still alive."

The foreign hands tighten around his limbs and he takes a deep breath in, ready for the plunge. Truth be told, he's not too anxious. The first time was terrifying, but one becomes accustomed to death if it repeats itself, night after night as the years pass and millennia settle over it, like a thick blanket of ash and bone and dust. He doesn't remember the pain anymore, only the bitterness. The wrath. He had no business playing God's messenger. He hadn't wished to be choking on his own blood, rippling violently at the corners of his mouth as his eyes dart over the excited masses. There are claps and cheers, and hope, and peace. Just not for him. 

No matter, if they long so dearly after eternity, he'll become their very proof. A tangible undead, a creature of eternity. Let them gaze at their ardent desire as it claws their bowels out for the birds to feed on. Let them sing praise before their God as their soft throats detangle under his fangs. Before he knows it, the corpses lay mangled at his feet and he notices his horrid reflection swaying in the puddles of fresh blood. 

He has become a beast. 

And just like that, the nightmare ends. It always ends here. He pats the sweat off his forehead with the monotonous vigor of habit. It's already noon and the narrow street flocks with curious tourists and natives on their stroll. Every now and then he will venture into the city, just to get a glimpse of the world. He twists the knob and opens a window, enjoying the breeze that cools his skin. His tired eyes wander around with no purpose. 

That's when he sees you. Your wide, carefree smile as you converse with your friend. You're drawing circles along the edge of your coffee cup, propped over the table, entranced by your discussion. Your gentle laugh rings unexpectedly loud against his ears. He finds himself frozen in place, unable to contract a single muscle. 

"Oh, this trail is supposed to have some really nice sights." Your friend is shuffling through unfolded maps, spread out onto the small café table. "We should leave pretty early though, otherwise it'll get dark before the return."

You groan at the idea. Your friend responds with a chuckle. 

"Remember, our tour guide joked about werewolves roaming the outskirts. Do you want to be eaten?" She inquires with a cheeky grin. 

"You know I have a thing for monsters." You answer with a wink. 

The jokes carry on until the bill arrives, and you eventually stand up and merrily make your way down the street. For a brief moment you feel a cold shiver running down your spine, so you peek back inquisitively. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Ah. By the time his focus returns, the sun is setting, reflecting its crimson rays over the old cobblestone. You've been gone for a while, so he must've been staring into the nothingness for good hours. He clears his throat, mildly embarrassed by his absent-mindedness. He isn't hungry, so he has trouble explaining his sudden captivation with a random human.

Even more bizarre is the consequence of the accidental encounter. The following nights are devoid of the usual torment. Has he ever had a peaceful slumber before? He can't recall. And yet here he is, vacantly eyeing the ceiling without the labored breath or cold shivers, faintly reminiscing about your amused expression. He frowns slightly at the realization that his recollection seems to contain less details compared to yesterday. Your face is smudged by the intense light of the noon, titled at an angle that allows no shadows to discern the features. What will he do when it's entirely gone? A faceless memory, anchored in the depths of his heart as a reminder of what could've been. Is there some universal law that dictates only misery remains unforgotten, or is he just exceptionally unlucky? Infuriating. 

The overwhelming sensation creeps upon him again. A primordial vengefulness that hasn't yet released him from its cold, bony fingers. For once, can't he be granted fairness? His jaw clenches and he marches out of the room. 

Tonight shall be a feast.

The lights are still on in the little tavern inn, and through the small windows he can make out the lively movement of the people inside. He glances at the waning moon one final time. The world may change, and the years may pass, but one thing has never left him throughout the centuries. Always bearing the same pallid, melancholic countenance, his taciturn companion rises, indifferent to the Universe. 

His back arches outwards, the bones tear and twist, the joints dislocate and the skin is giving way to coarse, thick fur. His eyes now carry an amber glow as they rest on the modest building. Without further hesitation, he pounces on the door and it folds like cardboard under his inhuman strength. The room goes quiet and all heads turn to him. He recognizes that look. A fleeting second of fear and curiosity, before true panic settles in. But they rarely have the time to scream. Just as the vocal chords contract and vibrate, their chests are trashed and limbs are tattered. Splattered visceral remains and blood coat the ground under his feral attack.

You squeeze your eyes closed and force your hands over your mouth to ensure your stillness to the massacre. You were just returning from the bathroom when you heard the wails and the wet sounds of mutilated flesh. You'd ducked behind the wall and hid under an end table. What the hell is that creature? You initially thought a wild wolf had somehow made its way into the tavern, but no animal can be this large. There is a backdoor, but on the other side of this hall. You'd have to sprint across the archway that leads into the main room. Then again, if it's this busy ripping the others apart...

No need to ponder your options much. Silence falls behind you, which means the creature must have finished its horrid sport early. His snout picks up a particular scent and he tenses up, expectantly. Could it be? 

The wooden parquet tiles creak under the weight of foreign footsteps; a human approaching you. You look up from under the table. Has someone dealt with the beast? Although you immediately regret revealing yourself. You freeze in your spot, hands propped on the ground, like prey awaiting execution. 

The man is unnaturally tall, having to crouch under the ceiling, with wild black hair and rough features. His chiseled face is painted red, and his clothing is torn apart and soaked in blood. His large hands end in sharp claws, and amid his ruffled locks you can distinguish animal ears. 

There you are.

Well, quite the irony to meet you here of all times and places. From this distance, you look even prettier. He bends over slightly to examine the details that have faded since the first encounter. A surreal experience, really. Seeing you kneel right in front of him and not as a figment of his imagination. He extends his fingers over your face and presses his nails in, leaving a vague trail of swollen, red skin. What a frail being you are.

"Your friend is alive, by the way." His deep, dissonant voice pierces the silence.

"O-oh." You gasp. You were so anxious you barely understood the meaning of his words.

"You may check on her if you so desire, however..." 

He considers it. Normally, even after allowing his anger to seep into cadavers and ruins, all he's left with is disgust and emptiness. Yet your presence seems to fill him with unfamiliar comfort. If one is drowning, is it truly selfish to hold onto the first thing that keeps them afloat? The only people who'd condemn such beggar are the ones that have never been underwater. They don't know what it's like to have your lungs tighten and collapse under the heavy pressure, waving your arms towards a surface that's never reached. 

"...You'll be coming with me afterwards."

You can only stare.

"Don't worry, I won't kill you." He attempts to simulate a smile. "I suppose I'm not too convincing like this", he jokes as he gestures towards his body, "But you have my word I'll never harm you."

"Why, though?" You manage to stutter, frowning in confusion. 

He's taken aback by your inquiry. Perhaps his statement is indeed more threatening than anything else. On the other hand, he hasn't conversed with humans in...longer than he can remember. What might pose as convincing in this case? Drawing out a rose and confessing his undying love among the bodies he murdered feels rather ridiculous. Suddenly, a passage he's once read comes to mind. At the time, it depressed him greatly. Now it feels like the only fitting reasoning.

"Do you believe in destiny? That even the powers of time can be altered for a single purpose? That the luckiest man who walks on this earth is the one who finds… true love?"

"Isn't that from Stoker's Dracula? How is it-" 

You pause and search his eyes. Golden trenches of loneliness and gloom. Your heart is heavy and your mouth curls into a grimace the longer you stare into these pools swirling with agony. 

"I understand." Is all you can mutter as you stand up. 

Have you had a choice to begin with? Not even the frothing waves of a storming ocean can come between a dying man and his only raft. 

[sematarygirls]

Living Dead Girl Pt. II — Patrick Hockstetter.

part one

pairing : patrick hockstetter x ghost!reader

summary : patrick gave into his urges and finally tested his morbid curiosities on prey much larger than just a cat or dog. little did he know his actions would come back to haunt him... literally.

warnings : patrick being a psychopath , animal cruelty , male masturbation , graphic descriptions of murder and suicide , reader being manipulative , degradation , sexual themes ,

word count : 4.5k words !

a/n : can't believe i'm finally posting this after a year and a half. also this is my first attempt at smut-ish so i'm sorry if it's ass. im not gonna say this is 18+ bc I myself am not 18+ (im turning 18 this year tho) also im not your mom and idgaf what you read.

"Finally," a voice sounded, causing him to drop both his can and his plate. The sharp sound of glass breaking followed by a loud thud echoed through the room as the plate and soda can collided with the floor.

"No, no, no," Patrick shook his head, shutting his eyes. "This isn't real. I killed you. You're not here. You're not real."

"Sorry, babe," the voice, your voice, whispered into his ear. Your warm breath fanned his ear, and he felt his whole body tense. "I'm very much real."

"That's not possible," he said through gritted teeth. "I watched you die. I buried you!" He opened his eyes, convinced that this was all some terrible drug trip. Maybe the weed he'd just got from Henry was laced, or maybe he was suffering from a temporary psychosis. Either way, there had to be some rational and logical reason that he was seeing you.

However, when he saw you there, sitting there with a smug look on your face, your presence as solid as any living person, he felt his heart skip a beat.

You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowing as you pouted. "What's wrong, Patrick?" You asked condescendingly. "Don't act so scared now." You walked toward him slowly, watching him scramble backward in a panic. A smile spread across your lips as you saw the pure fear in his eyes when he hit the wall behind him, having nowhere else to go. "You weren't scared when you stabbed me. You weren't scared when you watched me bleed out in your arms. You weren't scared when you buried my body like some animal you found on the side of the road." Your voice was seeping with anger as you stepped closer and closer, cornering him. "So you don't get to be scared now."

Patrick Hockstetter was not someone who was frightened easily. In fact, up until this very moment, he didn't think he had the ability to be frightened at all. His unique ability to remain calm and collected in situations that would often stress others out was one he was prideful of. However, at that moment, he felt all composure and level-headedness dissolve. For the first time in his life, he was scared. Not just scared—terrified.

"What- What do you want?" He asked, his voice shaky as he looked into your eyes. You no longer looked at him like he hung the moon. There were no remnants of your innocence and naivety—willing to trust that people have the best intentions. There was nothing behind your cold, lifeless eyes. It was like staring at a corpse.

"Now, what's the fun in that?" You grinned, leaning forward so your face was inches away from his. Your gaze flickered to his lips. The same lips you thought he'd planned to kiss you with, but instead, he'd stabbed you in the stomach and mocked your intelligence. "You should really watch your back, Patrick," you whispered with a devious smirk, your breath fanning over his face. "I heard the search for me is really picking up after they found my blood in the woods."

Your words snapped him back to the reality of the situation at hand. He had killed you. What you were saying was impossible though. Right? He was meticulous in every stage of his plan. There was no way they found any trace of you. "What are you talking about?" He asked, his eyes searching you for any sign of deception, but you were impossible to read like this. He was no longer able to detect everything from a single glance. He only knew what you wanted him to know.

Without another word, you disappeared, leaving the boy spiraling as he went through all the events of that night over and over again. "Come back!" He screamed, his voice echoing through the empty house. "You can't just leave like that you bitch!"

Patrick let out a frustrated yell as he grabbed the nearest thing—which happened to be a porno mag—and threw it across the room in a fit of rage. Who did you think you were to haunt him? To come into his room, make him feel that horrible emotion, and tease him just to leave abruptly?

He sat on the edge of his bed, trying to control his heavy breathing as his anger took over. You had to have been lying, trying to get into his head. He hated to admit that it was working. He was supposed to be the one in your head. This was his world. He controlled everyone and everything. You shouldn't be here. You should be dead and buried like he had intended.

He fell back in his bed and took a deep breath, letting his mind settle as he chased sleep. He told himself you would be gone tomorrow and that would be that. Your appearance to him, like something out of a Charles Dickens novel, was just a fluke. Tomorrow you would be dead and all would be right with the world.

He drifted off to sleep, having convinced himself that he would never see you again. He was able to get a few hours of sleep, but you weren't going to let him be at peace for long

At around 4 am, Patrick had a very vivid dream that he was choking. He was gasping for air, clawing at his neck as he looked around frantically. His surroundings dissolved into a pitch-black room. He felt his lungs burning, his brain growing fuzzy as the oxygen left him. It felt so vivid, so real.

He awoke in a panic, sitting up straight as he gasped for air. His lungs felt like they were on fire. Like he had truly been deprived of air like he'd dreamed about. He panted, catching his breath as he looked around at his room, thankfully finding no signs of you. However, when he finally felt secure, able to draw a breath without feeling like a thirsty man drinking water, he realized the pillow that had been behind his head was now sat on his lap.

The realization dawned on him that he may have been actually suffocating, and you were the culprit. He shook his head, trying to expel the thought as he laid back down, throwing the pillow off into the black depths of his room, so he wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. It was just a dream. Just as you were just a vision.

Patrick wasn't stupid, though many would argue to the contrary. Just because he didn't give a shit about school and didn't try didn't mean he wasn't smart. He just saved his intelligence for things that actually mattered—like planning and executing a murder.

That in mind, his refusal to accept the things he deep down knew to be true was not, as some would think, him being stupid. On the contrary, he believed himself smarter than to believe in silly things like ghosts. Dead things stay dead. He'd learned that at a very young age. He knew when he killed his brother that he would not be coming back. Just as he knew when he killed you that you would not be coming back.

Ghosts don't exist. He wasn't dumb enough to believe that.

As he laid in bed, trying to rationalize himself into a calm enough state to fall asleep again, he found himself more on edge with every creak of the old house around him. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes conspiring with the moonlight to play tricks on him. His breath hitched at every shadow dancing around the dark.

You were proud of your work, and you had barely done anything yet. You watched from the shadows, pleased as he seemed to run himself in circles trying to cope with everything going on. The mere thought of you was torture enough.

You grinned, biting your lip as a thought washed over you. As a ghost, not bound by the physical realm, you had the ability to do a lot of things. One of those so happened to be raising and lowering the temperature in a room.

You focused hard, raising the temperature several degrees, making Patrick swear at the sudden sweat washing over him. You watched with a satisfied smirk as he pulled his shirt over his head, trying to cool himself off.

He didn't have a six pack or anything, but you didn't expect him to. He had a lean, toned torso with a very sexy v-line peeking out from his jeans. A small tattoo sat on his stomach just above his v-line on the right side. You couldn't make it out in the darkness, but you didn't care much. The sight of it alone was enough.

After all, who said you couldn't mix a little bit of business with pleasure.

He had taken away the rest of your life, all the possibilities of experiencing having your first kiss, losing your virginity, falling in love. It was only fair he made up for that in one way or another before your time together came to an end.

The time passed agonizingly slowly with Patrick staring at the ceiling and you watching him, studying him like he was some foreign thing. It was so interesting to watch someone when they don't know they're being watched. Of course, he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end, his body detecting the unseen eyes on him, but he chalked it up to paranoia—as he did every other unexplainable thing that seemed to be happening to him.

His mind drifted off, the heat making him restless as his brain filled with gruesome images of his previous kills. He sifted through his memory for the most interesting ones—dismembering birds, beheading cats, snapping a squirrel or two's neck—but none of them seemed to get him off anymore.

The image of your face right after he stabbed you made it's way into his mind. Your eyes, so wide and filled with fear. He could practically hear your sweet voice crying out, asking why he would do this to you. The thought made his cock tighten in his jeans.

He reached down, palming himself through his jeans with a groan. Reliving the sounds of you choking and coughing up your own blood had his fingers working quickly to undo his belt. He tossed it to the side, practically ripping the button off his jeans as he pulled them down along with his underwear, allowing his dick to finally be free from the restrictive fabric.

He spat in his hand, gripping his cock and lubricating it. He caught his chapped lower lip between his teeth as swept his thumb over his pink head, smearing his precum across it. He let out a low moan, letting his hand travel up and down his dick at a slow, agonizing pace. He kept his eyes screwed shut, immersing himself in the memory of your murder as he stroked himself.

Patrick was not a moral man by any means but this was a new low. Getting himself off to you, in his mind, was no better than if he was imagining one of his dead animal playthings. You were nothing to him. You were roadkill.

But, for some reason, the fresh sight of you, wearing the clothes he killed you in with that dark blood stain right where he'd stabbed you, your hair all matted, and the cold, lifeless look in your eyes, made it so easy to relive that night in great detail.

It was the greatest night of his life. The biggest release of pressure he'd ever felt since he began getting those homicidal urges—those itches. He didn't think he'd ever get to feel that euphoria again, but fucking himself to the thought of it would get him pretty damn close.

He let out a strangled moan, his hips pushing into his hand as he came, and he was right, it was the second-best feeling he'd ever felt. It didn't compare to killing you, but it was enough to satiate his urges once again.

He laid there, panting for what felt like hours. The time moved by so slowly until finally, the sound of the alarm block beside his bed blaring pulled him from his thoughts.

The red numbers reading 7:30 blinked slowly, reminding him that he had to get up and get ready for school. He leaned over, smacking the top of the clock roughly to silence it before falling back flat on his bed, preparing himself to get up.

He groaned, pushing himself up and grabbing a random pair of jeans and a shirt that smelled clean enough. He quickly got dressed before making his way back downstairs. He knew Belch would be here any second to pick him up—he always woke up later than he was realistically supposed to.

He slipped his boots on, and a few moments later, he heard Belch laying on his car horn. Rolling his eyes, he opened the door, heading outside and letting it slam just behind him.

"Calm your tits," he shouted in annoyance. Patrick always had a short fuse, but after the particularly restless night in which he'd been visited by some fucking ghost of Christmas Past, he found himself particularly irritable.

"Dude what happened yesterday?" Victor asked as Patrick climbed into the blue Trans Am.

"You were totally tripping the fuck out," Belch chimed in, starting the car and peeling out of Patrick's neighborhood.

"Dumb fuck can't handle his liquor," Henry scoffed from his spot in the passenger's seat.

"Shut the fuck up, Bowers," Patrick bit back, gazing out the window. "At least some of us don't piss our pants when we drink."

"It was one fucking time you dickhead!" Henry defended quickly, his cheeks turning red from the embarrassment.

At the feeling of someone's hand on his thigh, Patrick quickly looked over at Vic. "Don't fucking touch me you-" he paused just short of spitting some derogatory remark about Victor being gay and a freak when he saw you sitting between him and Victor, grinning at him darkly.

"What the fuck are you talking about, dude?" Victor asked, bewildered by Patrick's behavior. Patrick was always an odd one, but he never acted this weird.

"He probably smoked himself fucking dumb," Henry grumbled, still annoyed about the pants pissing remark.

You held a finger to your lips as climbed over onto his lap, holding onto his shoulders to steady yourself. You just wanted to rile him up a little, make him feel suffocated by you, like he could never escape. And truly, he couldn't. You were never going anywhere until you believed justice had properly been served, and you would take that in any form.

He glared at you, but you paid him no mind, leaning to whisper into his ear: "How cute," you condescended him. "You thought I would just go away." You dug your nails into his shoulders making him sharply inhale, trying not to tip off his friends to the seemingly unwarranted pain he was feeling. "You will never be rid of me," you whispered menacingly, looking deep into his eyes with a sickening grin that made nausea pool in his stomach.

In any other situation, having someone on his lap, digging their nails into his shoulders would probably have been a pleasurable experience, but this was not any other situation. This was a nightmare he couldn't seem to wake up from.

When Belch finally pulled into the school parking lot, Patrick couldn't get out of the car fast enough. You disappeared as he scrambled to unlock the door and get out, finally feeling like he could breathe. He pulled his shirt collar to the side, looking down at the angry red marks where your nails had been. They served as a disturbing reminder that you were really there, and you could do anything to him.

"You get laid last night, Hockstetter?" Belch asked, grinning as he saw the red marks.

"That why you ran off yesterday?" Henry snickered. "You pussy whipped?"

"At least, I actually get pussy," he sneered, paling as he heard your laugh echoing around him the moment the words slipped from his lips. It was a deafening sound. Like a mix between a cackle and a scream that seemed to permeate his surroundings.

His jaw clenched, eye twitching as he resisted the urge to cover his ears. Apart from not wanting to look insane, he also didn't think it would help much. You weren't around him. You were in him, in his head.

The bell could faintly be heard going off inside the school, making Victor curse under his breath. They had two minutes to get to class or they were late.

"Mrs. Denton's gonna throw a bitch fit if I'm late again," he groaned, watching as Henry lit a cigarette.

"Kiss ass," he remarked, taking a long drag before exhaling the puff of smoke into Belch's face as Victor walked away.

"You asshole," Belch coughed, shoving Henry.

"Oh, shit." Henry's eyes widened as he tossed his cigarette on the ground, quickly stomping it out. "Let's go," he ordered, making his way up the stairs to the front doors of the school, looking behind him frantically.

Patrick's eyebrows furrowed at the sudden shift in Henry's demeanor. He followed the brunette's gaze, his eyes locking with those of Butch Bowers, the sheriff.

"Wonder if they're here for you," your voice taunted him, breath tickling the back of his right ear. He turned, preparing to come face to face with that condescending smile you always seemed to be wearing, but you weren't there.

He looked back, finding Sheriff Bowers still staring at him, seemingly ignoring whatever the deputy was leaning into his ear to say. Patrick wasn't one to back down easily, but your presence, your warnings, had him on edge. He quickly advanced forward, his lengthy legs providing long strides as he followed suit in heading inside Derry Highschool.

The sounds of his heavy boots hitting the linoleum floor echoed through the empty hall as he made his way to his math class. Victor was right; Mrs. Densen was going to throw a bitch fit that he was late, but he didn't care. He wouldn't have cared on a normal day, but on this day, with the police sniffing around and you practically breathing down his neck, he cared even less—which he didn't even know was possible.

He pulled open the door to the classroom, a hush falling over the students as he entered. Most stared at him wide-eyed, some avoided looking at him altogether, and he briefly caught Vic looking at him with sympathy. The teacher, however, was glaring at him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Mr. Hockstetter, late again I see," she said pointedly. "You've earned yourself a detention after school today." Patrick stifled a laugh as he made his way to his seat at the very back of the classroom. "Is something funny?" She asked, her tone displaying clear annoyance.

"Yeah, that you think I care," he rolled his eyes, slipping into his desk. He tuned out whatever lecture the teacher decided to give him after that. His gaze drifted to the empty desk in the front row— the one you used to sit at.

"Don't go feeling remorseful now," you said into his ear. He felt your arm around his shoulders as you leaned down, your face positioned next to his. He turned to look at you, and you turned to look at him, your faces almost touching.

your breath fanned across his face, the moment oddly intimate until you grinned at him, opening your mouth and emitting an ear piercing scream.

"Ah," he grunted in pain, his eyes screwing shut, and his hands gripping his ears. It felt like his eardrums were seconds away from bursting and causing blood to pour out of his ears. "Shut the fuck up!" He yelled, the room, and you, falling dead silent immediately after the words left him.

He peeled his eyes open, his hands falling as he looked around. "Excuse me, Mr. Hockstetter," the teacher gasped, clearly taken aback by his outburst. "Take yourself to the principal's office right this instant!" She ordered him.

His blood began to boil as he stood up abruptly, storming out of the classroom and slamming the door behind him. He was getting very very sick and tired of your little games. He headed toward the back door of the school, not wanting to cross paths with Henry's dad.

"This doesn't look like the way to the principal's office," you mused, appearing beside him. He stopped, turning to shove you against the locker. He groaned when his arms made contact with the locker instead of your body, and your laugh echoed behind him. "You think you can hurt me, how cute."

He let out a frustrated groan, smashing his fists against the locker. He couldn't stand you. He couldn't stand having someone that he couldn't manipulate or hurt but that could manipulate and hurt him. "What do you want with me?" He asked, refusing to look at you.

"To break you," you grinned. "To have you begging for it to stop."

Yeah, right he thought.

He was Patrick fucking Hockstetter; he didn't beg. He didn't bend to the will of others, especially not some dead bitch. He was determined not to let you win. You would eventually get tired of tormenting him and go back to wherever the fuck you came from. He was sure of it.

Oh, how he underestimated your patience and overestimated his resilience.

He lasted exactly a week. A week of you screaming and poking and scratching and fucking with his head. A week of people staring at him like he was insane with his random outbursts and talking to the air. A week of torment before you finally had him right where you wanted him.

"Just leave me alone!" He begged, standing in the middle of his room with his head in his hands. You had finally drove him to the brink of insanity, and he didn't know how much longer he could live like this. You, being everywhere all the time, taunting and touching and teasing, it was too much for him. He couldn't take it anymore. "Go away!"

You tsked, grinning at him, that condescending grin that filled him with indescribable rage. How could you look at him like that? Like he was stupid? You were the stupid one. You were killed by him not the other way around!

"I'm afraid that's not how this works," you told him, shaking your head slightly. "I get to stay until you give me what I want." You took a step, punctuating the next words you said with a pause between each one and another step forward. "However. Long. It. Takes."

"What the fuck do you want from me?" He yelled, desperate to get you away from him forever.

"Well," you drawled, running your index finger along his chest, making him flinch. You smiled at the effect you had on him. He talked a big game, getting mad when you left—cursing, throwing things, even—having the audacity to fuck himself to the thought of your murder— but when it came to being face to face with you, he cowered away.

Ain't nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble as Henry Bowers' father once said.

"I'll be nice and give you a choice," you said darkly. "You can turn yourself in," you almost laughed at the way his demeanor hardened. "Which we both know you're too proud and stubborn to do," you continued. The intrigue behind Patrick's eyes was undeniable as he eagerly awaited his second choice. "Or," you trailed off, grabbing a razor from his dresser and holding it in front of his face. "You can die."

"You're a crazy bitch!" He shouted, though his inability to mask the tremble in his voice made him sound less than threatening.

"Maybe," you shrugged, admiring the sharp piece of metal. "Hmm," you hummed. "I wonder how you'll feel about me in another week," you asked thoughtfully. "I bet you'll be wishing you took the chance while you had it."

His jaw clenched at your words. He'd already lost a considerable amount of sleep because of you, and the thought of you tormenting him any longer was a fate worse than death. "Why don't you just kill me?" He asked defeatedly. You'd backed him into a corner that he was positive he couldn't get out of without doing things your way.

"I'm not you, Patrick," you spat hatefully. "I don't kill people or things."

"What? Like driving me to suicide is any better?" He scoffed, challenging your sense of superiority over him.

"You have an informed choice," you told him, trying to regain your calm. You didn't like losing your temper, especially not to the likes of Patrick Hockstetter, scum of the earth. "That's a luxury you didn't extend to me."

He eyed the blade in your hand warily. He didn't like accepting defeat. He would never admit to killing you. Being confined to a tiny room, unable to satiate that burning itch deep inside him whenever he needed; it would drive him mad.

"Go on," you urged him softly, holding the razor out for him to take. "Put yourself out of your misery. End it all and be free."

He looked between you and the blade hesitantly, a million thoughts running through his mind as he tried to make a decision. Glaring at you, he took the blade. A scowl formed on his face as he observed the triumphant expression that you seemed to wear immediately after he made his choice.

"Two deep cuts, and you'll never have to see me again," you assured him. That all but sealed the deal. Patrick didn't believe in heaven or hell and death didn't scare him. Being caged like one of the many animals he's so cruelly killed scared him more than dying. He walked over to his bed, sitting on the edge.

He sucked in a breath, pressing the blade into his wrist and dragging it upward toward his inner elbow. He clenched his teeth, deeply inhaling through them. A groan of pain fell from his lips as he felt the warm blood begin seeping from his wound, running down his arms and onto his jeans. He continued the action on the other arm, feeling nauseous and lightheaded.

The blade fell from his trembling fingers, clattering to the floor as he fell back onto the bed. His head felt foggy, and the pain began to melt away into numbness. His eyes began to droop, and he faintly saw your outline standing above him.

He just barely felt you lean down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. His ears began to ring as his eyes fell shut. The words you spoke next were the last he would hear before his heart slowed to an eventual stop. He almost couldn't make them out, the sound muffled, as if he was underwater, but his mind used its last bit of energy to process them before giving out.

"Goodbye, Patrick Hockstetter," you said softly. "May you burn in hell."

tags! : @fatfagsj , @mysticalhills , @simpingforthe80s , @slasherho , @pinkpanther-44 , @slaggylemon , @kyranisnotdead , @ladydragiiss ,

[hughmanbean]

False Corpse and Supposed Defilings of a Collegue and Child

So, we all love misunderstandings and miscommunication. Obviously. So, Danny's ghost form is very much frozen at 14, and he is working with the Justice League on the basis of Ghostly MattersTM. He was able to make a duplicate of himself for class because he had to help the League with a very important matter with guidance from Vlad, but it was very much rushed and just outright died at the end after it got back.

So Vlad has to bury it, but someone sees him doing that. Anyone, really. Dash, Lancer, Val, someone not in the know. And Danny isn't seen for a while. The League do not think Danny is an immortal God, and "know" he's a dead trans boy from Illinois who wants to save people.

He makes offhand remarks about Vlad, and even if the two of them are on good terms now Vlad's actions seem outright despicable without context. Danny's used to Vlad's ridiculousness so he doesn't see him in that light and can't really conceptualize that it could even be considered.

"You know how it was, obsessed with me and my mom, despised my dad. Said I took after her."

"Oh you know, he made a daughter with me, not that I had a choice in it. I love her with all my heart, though."

"Yeah, he was a real fruitloop. Ranting about I would be his and all that."

This is very much concerning so the League, so they investigate, and the person who saw lets it slip. They also do spot Ellie, and she just chats with Danny's work friends she heard so much about. Doesn't outright say she talks with Danny still, or she knows him presently. Says how much she loves her papa, and hasn't seen her dad in forever. (A collective wince from the JL since, well, said dad is dead.) Mentions how Vlad's a bit stressed, probably from DalvCO contracts. They also see Vlad acting so goody goody with the Fentons, take that as you will.

[doctorbunny]

A little speculation about Corpse Disposal and J-horror

But I'm a little bored so sharing a part-theory, part-headcanon on Muu and Rei

So we unfortunately don't see much of Rei in "Its not my fault" but I want to point out three key times we do

The first time we see Rei in the MV, is her wet sleeve (we know its not Muu because Muu wears a pink jumper under her blazer)

Then, after a lot of bug stuff, we're finally back in the real world, where Muu has just killed her Post-After Pain. In INMF, we don't see the surroundings as well, just the dirt track and bushes. But in AP, we see this is right next to a rushing river (Muu's undercover card also features a bridge as a landmark)

The next time we see Rei after her corpse, is a flashback to the start where she turns the hourglass over. Then it cuts just further back to before Rei stood up - as she pulls herself up off the floor She's alive and absolutely soaked after a session of intense bullying (which we saw Muu insert herself into in AP)

However, I want to now switch a little to talk about cinematography and a concept called the Kuleshov effect The video I linked is pretty concise but the gist is that if you put two shots next to each other, even if they were filmed separately, the brain interprets it as a continuous scene (so if you film a character looking off screen, then a picture of an apple on a table, we're going to assume they're looking at the apple)

Therefore while we understand chronologically that the sequence of events is Rei (wet and alive) -> Rei's murder on dry land ↺ Flashback to Rei still wet and alive Which I think everyone understood as a commentary on how this power struggle was a constant cycle of the hourglass being turned over

I think visually, it also implies a sequence like Rei was bullied -> Muu kills her -> Sopping wet, Rei crawls back to the classroom

But wait! That sequence suggests a missing step How did Rei get wet again?

Well, we know Muu killed her next to a river And if you were a scrawny teenage murderer with a body on your hands, would you leave it there where someone could see it while you grab a shovel and stand in broad daylight digging a hole in tough ground??? Or try lighting a fire in public??? Of course not!

It'd be much easier for Muu to, in a panic, just roll her body into the convenient river and let all the evidence wash away!

(Of course, if Muu was panicking, she might not have been very careful. Given she ended up in MILGRAM, there must've been something tying Muu to Rei's death and in T2 Muu seems to have finally remembered losing her left shoe...)

Fun fact: this is the same shoe Cinderella loses in the animated Disney film (and the best known version of that story came into English from France)

Shoe break over, back to the Endless Queen's Game

So, if we assume Rei's corpse was thrown in the river, what does it matter? Its just a pointless headcanon

But I speculate the meaning goes deeper!

So that image of Rei, soaking wet, crawling off the floor reminded me of something: J-horror ghost girls! Specifically the most famous of ghost girls Samara/Sadako Who became a vengeful spirit after being thrown in a well and now crawls out of TVs to kill people who watched her VHS tape

Her story too is a cyclical one (its called 'Ring' for a reason), the only way to break the curse is to copy the tape and have someone else watch it, who will then become the victim unless they can themselves copy the tape and show it to another unsuspecting patsy

The story goes back further because this movie is based on a novel, which is based on the legend of 番町皿屋敷 Banchou Sara Yashiki. There are many versions but generally a maid girl Okiku is proposed to, and when she rejects the proposal, her master breaks one of ten plates and promises to forgive her if she marries him. When she declines again, he beats her to near death then throws her into a well (sometimes it's a jealous mistress instead of a master)

Interestingly, Atrophaneura alcinous (swallowtail butterfly) larvae found in Japanese wells became known as Okikumushi お菊虫 (Okiku bugs), tying back to the whole insect thing...

It's been said a bunch now, but the name 'Rei' can be read as 霊 meaning ghost (seen in words like Yuurei 幽霊, a more common word for ghost than Rei on its own)

We know Muu is afraid of ghosts too (though I must admit she says Obake, not yuurei, but both words refer to ghosts)

Remembers the i/井 in Sakurai/櫻井 can be read as 'well' I'm sure that has nothing to do with anything

Uh, I can't think of a conclusion because its 1 am and I had to look up a bunch of spooky images

TL;DR: I think Muu may have quickly shoved Rei's body into the river next to where the murder happened (maybe forgot her shoe at the scene of the crime) and now she's scared by the cycle continuing and Rei coming back to haunt her

[howtofightwrite]

How good would a whip be as a weapon? I'm not interested in it being a lethal weapon but more of it being a weapon that can defend someone long enough to get away or at least disarm or disable someone. I don't see a lot of people or character or referrals on how to use it and that's probably because it's not good enough?

Not great. The whip, like the goad and cattle-prod, aren't really designed for use as weapons. They're designed to control animals. (...and, yes, that does sometimes include humans, but again, in a non-combat, control role.) Part of the problem with the whip is, it's not much use against someone wearing armor. Or, even, heavy clothing.

Now, whips do have a legitimate military history as discipline tools, but that's very different from trying to take them onto the battlefield.

The reason reason you'll still see characters using whips, when you've probably never even heard of a goad, is because the whip is visually dynamic. It looks cool. You don't see Indiana Jones using a whip because it's the best choice of weapon, you see him using one because it stands out, and as a result, it has become iconic. It's delivering a specific vibe.

At the same time, the goad is just a pointy stick.

Whip disarms are a neat trick. And, very doable in a controlled environment. However, successfully disarming someone who's actively trying to kill you is going to be a bit more challenging, and also raises the question, “If you're putting this much effort and attention into taking away someone's weapon, shouldn't you be spending that effort and attention taking their life instead?”

This is probably little thought experiment about combat disarms. There's no point in disarming a corpse. So, why not just skip the middle step and go straight to the corpse-making? A question that Indiana Jones famously answered when, instead of dueling a sword master, simply pulled out his .455 Smith & Wesson and dropped the guy. (The real reason was that Harrison Ford was ill from food poisoning, and in no condition to shoot a prolonged fight sequence. So instead we accidentally got a character defining moment of pragmatism.)

To be clear, if it seems that I'm a bit negative on the subject, I do think the whip is a neat weapon. It's visually dynamic. It's loaded with symbolism. I think it's fantastic in a fictional context. It's just not practical.

There are fantastical versions of the whip that are better options. William Gibson's use of monowire comes to mind as an immediate example. Where the whip itself is created from a monomolecular carbon fiber, and can, as a result, cut through basically anything it strikes. Similarly, I still have serious reservations about the Lightwhip from Star Wars' old Expanded Universe, but it would carve through anything pretty effectively (including the wielder.)

Even in those cases, the whip is a weapon you choose for the aesthetic, more than the practicality.

-Starke

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[celeryb1tch]

how you and spencer meet!

receptionist!reader starts a new job at the BAU, and a very handsome coworker shows her around!

content: meet cute, fem!reader, pov you’re an idiot who’s sensitive to blood, fainting for the plot and not in the way it works in real life lol, confident-ish but pretty canon compliant mid-seasons spencer!

—

the FBI certainly isn’t the place for squeamish little pansies…

at least, that’s what you were told in your interview. and you had nodded diligently, ignoring the lump in your throat as you thought about how you almost fainted the last time you had bloodwork done. but as a secretary, how bad could it get, right? you tried to assure yourself of this when you got the job offer.

on a brisk friday morning, you were wandering through the FBI Academy campus in an attempt to find your office. everyone around you seemed to be in a hurry, and no one had given you the time of day when you attempted to ask for directions. so fifteen minutes before your first day started, opposed to the promised half hour, you entered the NSAVC building with your tail between your legs.

the bullpen was empty. you had expected to be met by a trainer, or perhaps the person whose job you would be taking over, but you instead faced a grouping of empty desks. as you peered around the open area, your eyes landed on a conference room with large windows, allowing you to see a group of agents. with a sigh of relief, you headed up the stairs and knocked on the door lightly before letting yourself in.

before you was a circular table seating five people, all with their eyes trained directly on you. “hi!” you chirped. “i was looking for-“

“i think you’re lost, miss. students shouldn’t be allowed access into this department,” demanded a man in a full suit, who seemed to be in charge.

your smile faded as you saw the various displeased faces looking back at you. “oh no, i’m not…” in an attempt to avoid eye contact, you raised your sight to the opposite wall, projector casting images of open wounds and a dismembered corpse. and in only a second, your vision was going black.

—

the white of fluorescent bulbs seared even through to the inside of your eyelids, but despite this you still blinked a few times to shake the disorientation and open your eyes.

your legs were eased up in the air with a chair, brand new pencil skirt hiked slightly up your thighs. you felt the texture of carpet against your back through your blouse and the cool of ice on your forehead. your first instinct was to sit up and reorient yourself, which you tried to no avail.

“hey, hey, easy,” an unidentifiable voice said soothingly. you scanned your surroundings, finding a man with chin length chestnut hair in your periphery who couldn’t be much older than you. he was crouched beside you, apple juice box in hand and concern in his eyes. god, his eyes were pretty, you thought. like pools of dappled sunlight.

it took you a few seconds to recognize him as one of the displeased members of the conference room, and the previous events rushed back to you, bringing a flush to your cheeks. “i am so sorry, sir. um, agent. detective? there was a misunderstanding, and that was so unprofessional of me.”

he had a small smile playing on his lips as he scanned your face. he seemed to be entertained by the fact that you were so flustered, letting you finish rambling before he replied. “doctor spencer reid, and no worries at all. a freeze response to gore is a fairly common reaction. while you were unconscious we were able to identify you as the new front desk secretary, we thought you were starting next week so we weren’t expecting anyone.”

you visibly relaxed at his explanation. it seemed possible that you wouldn’t be fired on the spot for this. you took the hand he outstretched to you, helping you up from the ground slowly. he offered you the juice box, to which you shook your head. “i’m okay, but thank you.”

“i would recommend it. after fainting it’s likely that your blood sugar is low, and fruit juice is packed with natural sugars that will allow you to feel better almost immediately.”

“doctor’s orders, huh?” you joked, to which he cracked a smile again.

“i’m not exactly that kind of doctor. but yes, i do strongly advise it.”

so you took the juice box, and spencer walked you down the few steps from the office you’d been laying in toward the bullpen. suddenly you were filled with anxiety once again as the faces you had seen minutes ago holding inconvenienced stares now looked on with concern.

the man from before who was so clearly the leader of this operation approached, offering a hand to shake. “supervisory special agent aaron hotchner, i apologize for the misunderstanding.”

you winced away from him slightly, worried that any further mistake would result in you losing the position you had yet to start. “thank you, sir. i am so sorry for interrupting a meeting like that, and fainting. that wasn’t exactly the first impression i wanted.”

he had an easy smile, that of a reassuring father. “i can assure you that no punitive action will be taken, if that’s what you’re concerned about. if we knew you were coming today we would not have left graphic case evidence up on the screen.”

oh, thank god. you exhaled deeply, feeling the tightness in your chest subside. you stepped back toward spencer, whose gaze had never left you. “what should i be doing now? i was never informed of what my training would be, not to mention where my desk is.”

“linda’s out sick today, which is why we thought you weren’t coming until monday,” said the woman sat in the desk rightmost of you. her hair was pure black, with straight, blunt bangs that suited her well.

“we don’t exactly have training for you today without your predecessor here, so i thought you could shadow my agents to familiarize yourself with the office. and i’m happy to show you to your desk, but since you’ll mostly be seeing our faces daily, we should get introductions out of the way first,” agent hotchner said.

you glanced at spencer beside you almost unconsciously, in search of reassurance. despite knowing him for about three minutes, he was the closest thing you had to a friend or ally so far. and seeming to sense this, he shot you a smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes. you felt your anxiety melt a little, and you realized that everything was going to be okay.

—

by lunchtime, you had your things at your desk and nothing to do without a computer login or training. you remembered that hotchner had suggested shadowing someone, but the idea of asking one of the agents made your stomach churn. they sat only a dozen feet away from you, laughing and bantering as if they’d known each other all their lives. who were you to butt into their dynamic? so you sat twiddling your thumbs for the rest of the lunch hour, peeking at the group occasionally to confirm that you hadn’t spontaneously gained the confidence to approach.

spencer specifically appeared to be deep in thought once he got back to work. you thought that it would be best to shadow him if possible, given you were most familiar with the tall brunette, but you really had no business to interrupt his work. still, you worked up the courage to advance to his desk.

“would you like some more coffee, dr. reid? i could go get some for you, you seem pretty busy,” you offered in an attempt at nonchalance. but uncertainty and regret crept up quickly when you received no reply.

emily prentiss, the previously unnamed woman with dark hair, noticed the interaction. with a slight grin on her lips, she interjected. “don’t take it personally. he gets so into his case readings, it’s hard for him to pick up on anything else.”

“hey, pretty boy,” cooed derek morgan from another desk. “someone’s trying to talk to you.”

spencer lifted his head reluctantly, eyes following a moment later. he looked dazed, not quite focused on anything in particular. “sorry, what?”

“i noticed your coffee was almost empty, would you like some more?” you asked meakly. it took everything in you not to run and hide of embarrassment.

he finally registered the question, shaking his head fervently. “no, i couldn’t ask you to do that. i’m perfectly capable of refilling my own coffee, but while i do i could show you the kitchenette? it’s crucial to the operation of the office.”

and with a nod, the two of you headed to the tiny kitchen adjacent to the bullpen. you stood slightly out of the way as spencer placed his mug on the counter, refilling the drip coffee maker for a fresh batch. you watched him card his fingers through his hair, looking around casually.

“so, the kitchen is important why?” you inquired, head tilting slightly to emphasize your interest.

spencer finally met your eyes again, letting out a little breezy laugh. “oh, it’s not. i noticed that you were having trouble potentially asking one of us to show you around, so i thought this was an opportune moment.”

you flushed slightly at the confession, apparently caught red-handed in your effort. “wow, you’re pretty good at reading people. or was i just that transparent?”

“is that a joke?” his eyebrows knotted as he looked at you, no air of humour on his face.

you stared back, equally confused. “am i supposed to know that? do you have a particularly well known judgement of character?”

“well yes, you’re in the behavioural analysis unit.”

and with that, you were sure that you had damaged your ego and reputation in this job position irrevocably.

—

after a brief explanation of the lack of background information provided when accepting the job, spencer assured you that he wouldn’t tell the others. he expressed his surprise that the FBI hadn’t been as diligent as they usually are, and you had to agree.

“i mean, i told them that this was my first job after graduation. i was doing my field placement two months ago, and that was in a law firm!” you stifled a giggle, feeling at ease leaning against the kitchen counter with spencer taking occasional sips of his coffee.

“that’s astounding. they hired me young, but i’d argue that i was overqualified for the position,” he admitted. “you, however…”

you gasped in feigned offence, rolling your eyes. “hey, i learned a lot in that law office! i can photocopy anything you need me to, and schedule dry cleaning for same-day pickup.”

it had been well over a half hour at this point, with you and spencer getting gradually closer until your clothed elbow rubbed against his. no one else had come in, until mid-reply spencer was greeted by agent aaron hotchner himself, who happened to also need a fresh cup of coffee.

“reid, i see that you’ve taken it upon yourself to let our new team member shadow you. but maybe you should show her some places other than the coffee counter?” he suggested with a raised eyebrow.

spencer looked caught, eyes flitting from you to his boss. your boss too, you supposed. “of course. sorry hotch, we got a little caught up.”

“i can see that. as long as you get your files finished by end-of-day, it’s really none of my business.”

“yes, sir,” spencer yelped. he gestured rapidly for you to follow him, exiting the kitchen to return to his desk.

you watched him put his mug down and shuffle some papers around before his eyes lit up in recognition. “i actually do need you to photocopy this for me,” he admitted shyly.

“of course!” you replied, just before your smile dropped. “you actually never showed me where the copier is.”

spencer chuckled with you, getting up from his chair once again. “no problem, i’ll show you.”

and as the two of you began walking down the hallway together, the others laughed upon hearing, “by the way, would you like to go for dinner with me once we clock out? i have a lot more to tell you.”

derek grinned. “i didn’t know that kid had the balls.”

—

(hi guys!! thank you for all of the love on my first spencer post!! i’m having so much fun writing these! psa tho: as i said before, i’m a lesbian i just have a weird thing for this one particular fictional man- so if u follow me, pls expect woman-centred content mostly!!)

[abdy-18]

Yor is very grateful to Loid and Anya because thanks to them she can now go out to more places to have fun, so when she found out that there was going to be a re-screening of the movie “Bambi” at the movie theater, she decided to return the favor and invite them to watch the movie.

Everything was going well until they had to leave the movie theater while Loid was carrying Anya because she started to cry inconsolably at the scene of Bambi's mother's death.

Yor's eyes become moist seeing Anya so sad and Loid so worried , she really was a fool, this was all her fault.

The death of the “real” Mrs. Forger must have devastated them so much to the point that the only way Loid and Anya can move on is to not mention her at all.

Poor Loid, he has no siblings, no parents and Franky seems to be his only close friend, before her, Franky was her husband's only support, and when he wasn't available, then Loid was alone (Sometimes she's curious about Anya's maternal family, but that's none of her business.).

So she had to have a conversation with Yuri in which she asked him to please not bother Loid by questioning him about his past.

“Please, Yuri, leave him alone. Loid is not a bad person, if he doesn't talk about his past or doesn't show pictures it's not because he's hiding things, it's because it hurts him and Anya, it's not nice to ask a widower about his past wife.”

She imagines Loid the first days after his wife passed away, having to take care of a 3/4 year old girl by himself and having to explain to her why her mom is not coming back, she understands, Yuri was around the same age when their mother died, and although she tried to stay strong, she could not keep her voice from cracking when she explained that “mom was very tired and fell asleep…forever.”

Yor had heard of people who after being widowed focus on work so they don't have to think about their loss, maybe, that's why Loid works so hard and comes home so late, deep down he must still miss his wife a lot, even more so considering that Anya looks nothing like Loid so he must look a lot like her.

And now here she was, a failed attempt at a wife that made his daughter cry.

After Anya calmed down they returned home and Loid and Yor read her a bedtime story.

Children must be very perceptive because Anya seemed to notice her distress and decided to try to reassure her by saying that “it's not mama's fault that Anya is sad” and that she's sorry she couldn't finish the movie because she was loving it and was having so much fun watching it.Anya is such a sweet girl, Yor could not help but hug her.

Loid and Anya (and Bond) have only been part of her life for a short time but Yor loves them and would do anything for them.

This was a mini idea I had for a one-shot but I don't know if I ever finished writing it so here it is 😊

I think Yor secretly must compare herself to (her idea of) the “real” Mrs. Forger, but obviously she would never say that to Loid for respect.

Anya is lucky that the lion king movie was not released until the 90s because if she sees the scene of Mufasa's death, she would cry uncontrollably because it would remind her of the future Bond showed her in which she found Loid's corpse.

damn, now I imagine Anya in this future telling Loid “papa, come on...you got to get up, we got to go home” just like Simba

[lu-is-not-ok]

So I'm going over some various Canto Finale Dungeon Events to look at check bonuses and maluses, and the first one of real interest is in Canto 3's. Linking to the wiki page that lists it: https://limbuscompany.wiki.gg/wiki/Branch_K-02/Floor_2

It's "A Rotting Corpses's Momento". Basically, there's a dead Inquisitor with something inside (a Seal you can spend later on). You gotta send a Sinner to root around and find it. Ryoshu (Loves Gore) and Rodion (willing to put in work for shiny stuff) get +2s, Sinclair and Hong Lu get -4s and if they fail, more SP loss.

Sinclair tracks. He's got a weak stomach for that kind of stuff, but I was wondering if you had any thoughts on Hong Lu getting a malus. He doesn't really have problems with violence, not like Sinclair, he's not offput by blood or gore. (If there's any more interesting Hong Lu bonuses or maluses on checks I'll send more asks later)

Oooh, now this is interesting! Let's see... I think I have two different possible interpretation. One that assumes this multiplier is fully genuine, and one which assumes it's not so much.

The latter idea is that the negative multiplier is one Hong Lu normally wouldn't genuinely have, but it's one he's acting as if he has based on his own read of Sinclair.

Consider this. Sinclair is thus far the only Sinner that is anywhere close to being of the same financial/class status as Hong Lu. He's the only other Sinner with the correct experience of being raised in a wealthy household, and as such he's in the unique position of being able to call bullshit on whatever Hong Lu might try to spin as his background.

Mind you, this isn't just my opinion - this is something that the story content following up after Canto 3 supports as well. In fact, Sinclair is shown to be one of the few people whose questioning of Hong Lu's demeanor and attitudes is a recurring thread.

Likewise, Hong Lu uses Sinclair as a springboard to make his story more believeable by implying that whatever knowledge he may have that differs from Sinclair's is just a silly little cultural difference, instead of what it actually is - him being way more knowledgeable than someone who claims to be sheltered would otherwise be.

Then there's also this moment in Canto 5, where after Hong Lu's story gets an extremely negative reaction out of Sinclair, Hong Lu appears to course correct and alter the story to be far less horror-focused.

Like, looking at the tone in which Hong Lu was telling the story before that last sentence, it's pretty clear to me how this ending is not what he initially meant to say. It's too abrupt, his tone shifts too much for it to be the natural conclusion, and everyone who follows up the story with their own thoughts and reactions makes it clear it was that odd of an ending in-character as well. It's a change he made because he realized he misjudged Sinclair's tolerance for this type of thing, and thus it could make him look bad.

All of this, to me, shows that Hong Lu is very much aware that he has to be extra careful around Sinclair when it comes to how believable his lies are. Not only because Sinclair himself has the ability to call his bullshit, but also because for the other Sinners, he's the only other person on the bus they can compare Hong Lu to. And if the two's reactions and tolerances for things start to diverge too much, this could cause the others to start asking questions he can't answer easily.

With all that laid out, I believe one of the ways to interpret Hong Lu's check modifier here is just that - him trying to align his own reactions and tolerance to that of Sinclair's. This is Sinclair's Canto after all, where every Sinner ends up with their attention focused on him and his circumstances. There's more spotlight on how Sinclair acts around things like bodies than there ever was before that point. To Hong Lu, it's the perfect opportunity to observe Sinclair and in turn affirm his position as an even more sheltered and naive person by following his example.

However, this is just one interpretation. I do have another, alternate interpretation - one that assumes the modifier is a reflection of Hong Lu's genuine feelings rather than a reflection of his act.

Because, as it turns out, there is something interesting going on here!

While Hong Lu shows no real aversion to blood and gore the way Sinclair does, and he appears to be outright immune to physical pain, he is depicted as having a very odd attitude to messing with already dead bodies.

This is primarily shown through the second log he wrote for the Pink Shoes Enchantee/Posessee enemies.

It's a very strange backpedal of Hong Lu to do. It draws attention to the fact that Hong Lu would in fact be interested in hearing things about the body itself, considering his initial instinct is to say he'd tell a servant to describe what it looks like.

It makes me wonder if it's a clue as to what part exactly Hong Lu considers to be "that gross sight". Is it really just the fact that there's a dead body, or is it more specifically the idea of messing with it and taking its things?

It would certainly explain why he'd have a negative modifier for this check. After all, if he does indeed consider the act of looting a corpse so disgusting that he would have looked away and made someone else do it, one can imagine that being told to actually do it himself would not be something he'd be happy with.

And, of course, there is also the option of the negative modifier being caused by a mix of both interpretations. It could be that it's his genuine feelings that he's further exagerrating and exploiting for the sake of making his act more believable.

[dannypuro]

how was the show yesterday! Did you see anything from the cheap seat?

Les Misérables at Le Théâtre du Châtelet was great! And yeah, I could see pretty much the whole stage (when I was leaning up against the railing) so I was happy with it! I'd only seen the musical once and it was over ten years ago, so I really loved getting to see this version. A couple of things I really enjoyed, in no particular order:

-Fantine was played by a replacement cast member that day, Myriana Hatchi. I haven't seen the show with the regular Fantine, Claire Pérot, but I absolutely loved Myriana's performance. She was the real highlight of the show for me. I believe she normally plays one of the nuns, but her interpretation of Fantine was so emotional and well performed. Her Fantine was heartbreakingly believable. At times I take issue with some Fantine's performances in the musical, but she brought so much spirit and personality to the role. I hope she gets the chance to play the role more often. No diss at all to Claire Pérot--again, I haven't seen her in the role, and I'm sure she is amazing as well! But I was pleasantly surprised to see Myriana's interpretation.

-More nuns: when Valjean is in the hospital hiding from Javert in act I, one of the nuns takes Javert's rifle and hides it in a patient's bed, while she's still lying in it. A funny little staging decision that I loved. Very Sister Simplice-y.

-Assorted amis: Grantaire (played by Ryan Malcolm) was a refreshingly suave, stylish, yet undeniably Grantaire-y Grantaire. I loved him in the part. Fashionable Grantaire representation. Enjolras (Stanley Kassa) was also a brilliantly convincing Enjolras--inspiring, beautiful, makes you want to sacrifice your life for a just cause .

-On a related note, Grantaire, Enjolras, and Gavroche: Enjolras picks Gavroche up on his shoulders, carries him, and then passes him off to Grantaire, who carries him on his shoulders. Gavroche has two gay dads.

-THEN, when Gavroche is shot, Grantaire mourns for him so emotionally. Everyone knows to let Grantaire hold his body, and he won't let anyone else touch him. Enjolras takes his hat. He lies next to his corpse for much of the latter half of the barricade, which I thought was a great call-back to the brick (where Grantaire is asleep for much of it) and yet much more sympathetic to his character.

-Among les amis was a waiter from the Musain, who (from what I could interpret) begins the work as a waiter who is friendly with les amis, and then becomes engaged in the cause. I thought it was a lovely decision to show the engagement of the people. We see him and his wife/lover (?) throughout, who is also there at the barricades, and when Enjolras sends the women and children home, the wife is the one to convince him to stay. I was thoroughly charmed. Don't know who played either of them, would love to find out.

-At Cosette and Marius's wedding, the actors who play the wedding guests are the same ones who play les amis, including the parts of Enjolras and Grantaire. Obviously the characters themselves do not attend (being dead) but the fact that they are so recognizable made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It's like what should have been, if everything hadn't gone wrong. We see the waiter and his wife dancing together as well.

-Javert (Sébastien Duchange) played his role very, very well. I like a Javert that's got a bit of mean dog in him, and this Javert was very believable as a frightening, dangerous figure, who also delivered on the more reflective moments, like in "Sous les étoiles."

Anyways, that is only a short list, but those are the the things that stood out to me the most, and that I can think of off the top of my head. Very strong performances all around, and great staging! If anyone has any other questions, I'd be happy to answer them! (Or if anyone has seen it and wants to scream about it a bit with me lmao)

[caslyra]

Remus Lupin doesn't have visible scars

In the books Remus doesn't have any visible scars that we know of (don't talk to me about the movies). It's safe to assume that Greyback's bite/attack left a scar because Greyback scarred Bill without even having transformed, but we never see Remus's bite scar. Remus himself tells us that werewolf wounds are cursed and that he bit and scratched himself. But there's nothing to suggest Remus has scars on parts of his body usually visible to the public, let alone is covered in them.

In fact, it's far more likely that he doesn't have any visible scars, or if he did, that they were very inconspicuous.

Because - although Harry can be oblivious at times - Harry notices a great deal about his appearance. Forgive me for not using the exact quotes here, but:

Harry notices that Remus looks quite young, notices his hair color (light brown), but also that it's already flecked with grey, he notices the state of his robes, he notices his pallid skin (more than once), he notices how he looks as if he had a few square meals, he notices how he looks ill again, how his robes hang loosely from his shoulders, he notices his facial expressions in great detail (e.g. shaken and pleased), he notices throughout the years how his hair becomes greyer, and his robes more patched and shabby. But he never mentions facial scars or scarred hands. And when he calls Remus to him in the Forbidden Forest, Remus - in death - looks younger and his hair is thicker and darker, but Harry doesn't notice any sudden absence of scars.

So, it's one of two things... Either Remus cast glamour charms on himself regularly (but why wasn't his corpse covered in scars then?)... or he simply didn't have any scars in places that would be visible when wearing normal clothing. Considering Harry's astute observation (that sounds sarcastic, but for once I'm not), the latter is far more likely. After all, he notices Moody's scars right away.

Why does this matter, you ask? Let the man have scars! It adds to his tragedy! Well, I disagree.

It matters because it shows that the whole idea of him (werewolves) being dirty, contaminated, stained is linked to his very being. Nothing he does can change a thing about it, it is linked to him because he is a werewolf, not because he looks or acts like a werewolf or any certain kind of way. His 'dirtiness' isn't something that you can see from the outside, it isn't slammed into your face by his looks, meaning his appearance cannot be used as proof to justify prejudice against werewolves along the lines of 'oh, see, of course the violent werewolf is slashing himself'. It matters because it shows just how deep the stigma carries (not that discriminating against people who are considered physically unattractive is okay by any means - it's not!). People are appalled by him even though there's no visible proof of his alleged unhinged nature, they simply assume once they know because that's how werewolves are, right, and don't even give him a chance. Well, the thing is, Remus serves as proof that it - unhinged and feral - is not how werewolves are. In fact, the author made a great effort to make Remus as un-werewolf-y as possible. Yes, he's poor, his clothes are in a bad state, but that's due to the circumstances; he didn't discard basic hygiene and surrender to his wolfish nature like Greyback. He's not only fighting for the side that continues to oppress him (and ffs, he's even identifying with it!), dying a martyr for them, he's constantly narrated as talking 'mildly', 'softly', 'pleasantly', and 'quietly'. Yes, Remus isn't always nice and he's not naive; he's a real warrior. But covering him in scars takes away from that alleged contradiction, it takes away from how meaningful it is when he at times loses his precious self-control, because it is already putting him closer to the feral, unhinged being he is in society's eyes.

Also, the absence of visible scars puts much more weight onto Remus's character. He is mild and pleasant and quiet although he doesn't really have to be. There's nothing on the outside he has to make up for. He's not physically intimidating, there's nothing feral about him, nothing to give away his werewolf status at first glance. And he still does it because it's just so important to him not to be seen as the usual werewolf. That must never happen. If he had visible scars he would have much more reason to adjust his behavior. So, him doing it nonetheless hits harder, because it shows us, how much he himself really identifies with being a werewolf. He's not primarily acting like that because the expectation of others he wants to prove wrong, but because he himself sees it a necessity even before others can have any expectations of him. It puts a different weight onto his avoidant behavior and his self-loathing. Because he is shunning himself in anticipation of being shunned. It's not his appearance that takes the decision away from him. It really shows how deep his self-loathing runs, how deep the mere knowledge of being a werewolf, not looking like one, not acting like one defines him. And I think that's part of the point of his condition - his own view of himself and the view of others, both looking at him through the lens of 'werewolf' first and foremost although there's no real evidence to suggest he's different from other people - at least not in a sense that should matter to others.

Moreover, his scars might - would probably - serve as a reminder of how awful his transformations truly were. Without them, it - the pain - becomes invisible to a degree. Which is part of the tragedy. It is so easy to forget an illness you cannot relate to when it's invisible. And by forget I don't mean really forget, but forgetting what it truly meant for him. No matter your compassion - a reality that isn't yours might slip your mind unless it is constantly brought to your mind. But with a lack of scars it isn't.

Focusing on the scars as much as we do also seems to drag the focus away from one aspect of lycanthropy that is canon - him being weary, exhausted, drained of energy. He's constantly pale, pallid, looks as if he hasn't eaten enough, he sleeps through the train ride to Hogwarts in PoA despite the Sneakoscope going off, the trolley witch, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle visiting, Ron knocking things over. Don't get me wrong, it's possible to show them both hand in hand - scars and exhaustion - (and I've seen it done well), but more often than not his scars/physical wounds take over the main focus. Suddenly the focus shifts to something that is cooler, more sexy instead of showing how unsexy a chronic illness feels. What should be a reminder of his suffering is used to glamorize his condition, hung as a medal of bravery around his neck, is at worst misused to serve for some sexy scar tending while other aspects of his lycanthropy are tossed out of the window. Because tiredness, exhaustion, queasiness, soreness, pain, patience running low and nerves stretched thin because of all that and feeling like a burden to those around you all the while pretending to be fine for fear of actually being a burden just aren't sexy. So... just no.

Sympathy is all good and well, but don't use his scars as an excuse to turn his condition into something cool.

[combustiblegarbage]

you know i was thinking of how remarkable it is that fma03 really dives deep into this idea of like. avoiding "respectability politics" with scar. scar is an ishbalan, and everyone is afraid of ishbalans and thinks of them as criminals, and scar kills people. he does the thing that people are afraid he will do! i'm thinking about how france here and how as a country they have made it a uniquely national crusade to be insanely islamophobic in all walks of life; and how over the past 10 years there have been several very public attacks and/or incidents which claim to be associated with ISIS or some other extremist group (i am thinking of the paris nightclub shooting and specifically charlie hebdo too because hoo boy was that an example of french white folks going "see we TOLD YOU you should be scared of muslims!")

and like. this idea is present in fma03 too, that an ishbalan person committing crimes and killing people is like a self-fulfilling prophecy, is something that can and should be used to politically justify more policies against them (the ishbalans we see are constantly being shuffled around and "resettled" to different areas by the state!). but what's extraordinary for a tv show like this, esp in 2003, is that instead of turning around and saying "so this is why you have to be careful/cautious around ishbalans/this is why these policies are justified" etc the show explicitly and quite clearly says, "these policies are what CREATED scar."

HE IS CALLED, SCAR! he is a physical representation of the painful bodily gash left in the corpus of his people, he is the embodiment of their trauma. AND HE'S COMING TO GET YOU, BARBARA! he's the boogeyman! the state is terrified of him! he is their own nightmare made real - not just an ishbalan that fights back, which would be one thing - which could easily be crushed in war - but a walking dead man, a zombie, the corpse of his own people who is not permitted to die until he has exacted his revenge. his RIGHTEOUS revenge! his revenge he DESERVES! the revenge the narrative paints, at the end of the day, as something noble and triumphant. scar! who in any other world would be called a terrorist! every time i think about it too much i really am shocked at how explicitly the show places itself on his side.

it's just crazy to me that this media from 2003 (TWO THOUSAND THREE!) refuses to engage in "look at this evil scary brown man; this is why we need to oppress the evil scary brown people, because one of them will attack us" and rather says, "oppression has CREATED this creature, and now he's fighting back." he's frankenstein's monster, created by the state! and that is exactly what imperialist policy in the global south does; it creates its own justification for violence. scar interrupts that cycle. he starts off as a dead man walking, and then slowly the audience begins to understand him as a person - as a priest, as a brother, as an injured human being in pain. as an angel of vengeance!

anyway fma03 did it better!

[noperopesaredope]

I've Finally Figured Out Why Curly's Skin-Thing Frustrates Me

I was talking to someone earlier about how people sometimes refer to Curly as "corpse-like" and why that might be offensive to burn victims, and I was trying to explain why some people might think that way. I think after that conversation, I was finally able to articulate what frustrated me about Curly's burn situation. He doesn't look like he actually has burn scars.

Here are some real life 3rd degree burn scars (sorry if some of them have a before and after photo, they were the best I could get):

Here's also a diagram of burn severity just as extra stuff:

They appear very different from Curly's scars. They are more...wrinkly doesn't seem like the right word? They do not seem to have straight lines that flow in a specific pattern, and are more vein-like than anything. A lot of them also have a more regular skin tone. Whether pink or not, they are not the shade of deep crimson red that Curly's are. They overall look completely different in many ways. One might argue that different types of burns and different degrees cause different scarring, and I agree with that. In fact, having looked into burn scarring a bit more, I believe that Curly's scars may be 4th degree or higher, as it went past the skin.

Let's look at a few:

I have found an example of a real world burn survivor with some similarities to Curly:

(Honestly really liked this video, especially since it taught me a bit more about burn survivors when I first watched it a few years ago)

He, like Curly, had a disfigured mouth and eyes and whatnot. It shows that some of Curly's injuries are realistic, such as his mouth and probably his eyelid. However, his burns still look very different. All of them look much more similar to each other than they do to Curly.

In general, I have not yet found an example of burn scarring that looks similar to IRL scarring. I believe that's one aspect of this, but there is a second, bigger part. The big issue here isn't just that Curly doesn't look like he has burn scars, but that he does look similar to one of those medical textbook muscle diagrams.

His burns are a lot more fleshy and have a certain pattern to them that regular burns (even the most severe ones) don't. They follow lines across the body and take on a certain shape, whereas usually burn scars aren't quite like that. In face, the look a lot like the actual muscle structure:

(The bandages looking a bit like bones certainly doesn't help with that)

On top of it all (and this has always drove me insane), he is specifically described as having no skin. Even the most severe burn survivors have something. They have skin, or at least some sort of layer between the muscles and the outside.

According to all my research (and trust me, I tried), it is physically impossible to live without skin. You will die.

To me, Curly doesn't appear to have actual burn scars or even look like he was burned. Hell, before I knew anything about the game, I never would have guessed he had been burned. Instead, he looks more like his skin was peeled off, not burnt off.

A metaphor I used while talking to the other person is that Curly is like seeing a character who supposedly broke their spine, but then you learn that their entire spine actually disintegrated into nothing and they have literally no spinal cord. And you're like "wtf how is this bitch still alive" because you can live with a damaged spine but you cannot live with zero spine at all.

People don't think of him as a burn victim because there are no burn scars. In fact, I often forget he's a burn victim because he doesn't appear to have any actual burn wounds. Like, all his wounds don't look like burns of any kind. They look more like those medical textbooks. Thus, people see him as "corpse-like" because no living person with burn scars looks like him (at least, not that I can find). Because he literally looks more like a diagram of muscle structure than he does a burn victim. His design is unrealistic in a way that make people horrified.

He literally, in every possible way has no skin.

And that is why so many people are freaked out by him.