#dissecting horror

[neptunesdyke]

hello! ✨i’m obsessed✨with your commentary on jennifer’s body. (is it out of line to ask to read it?? 👀 if so, please disregard.) you’re just so right about this! would love to hear more about your thoughts on the matter❣️

omg im so sorry this is MONTHS late i’ve just been extremely depressed this year and it’s been a bit. continuously overwhelming for me but i can’t explain how much i appreciated getting this ask!! i want to pursue a career in writing and teaching about horror and feminism so anyone showing interest just!! means the world to me!!

anyway,, long overdue analysis under cut….

TW: discussions of SA and murder/violence against women (lemme know to add anything else please)

the main points i was arguing were: the differences between the soundtrack and the original score for the film serve as tools to elevate the comedy and horror respectively while also subverting ideas of femininity, and how they interact with the actual narrative/narration itself.

(also there r many feminist readings of this film obviously so this isn’t going to look into that but it did serve as a basis for my paper/analysis)

the relationship music has with the film in general begins with the title coming from the Hole song of the same name. both the song and film are rape/murder allegories for a girl named jennifer, and anyone familiar with the song before seeing the film is given an indication into what is to happen to jennifer. the title itself centres the story on jennifer’s actual body, what it means to the plot, how it is viewed, by who, and the power jennifer has by wielding it. the title also removes a layer of personhood from her as this is not a story about jennifer, but her body, again relating back to the origin of the title which tell the viewer jennifer is bound to be another body, another victim, another girl to become just a body at the hands of men.

speaking of men, music is central to the plot as it’s a band who commits the act for fame and glory. they also sing to mock jennifer as they (attempt to) kill her and their song replays throughout the film, something jennifer cannot escape even after escaping them. and i think placing musicians as instigators tells the viewer like hey..maybe pay attention to the songs in this..they might tell u smth

and this idea is reinforced throughout the film so many times. a great and early example in the film is when I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You by Black Kids plays during needys introduction of her friendship with jennifer. the song is a one sided love song that has spanned since childhood, which begins hinting at needy and jennifer’s deeper relationship.

also fun to think like whose jealous of who and whose the friend left behind in the sandbox so to speak

this subtext found via the soundtrack is also used often for levity or humour. most of the soundtracked scenes are shot at school, often the brightest, and funniest compared to the dark homes and roads of devils kettle. scenes that are supposed to be scarier such as needys encounter with jennifer after the fire, and when she later jumps on needys car, have an original score. it lets the viewer know when the humour is being set aside in favour of horror, which helps balance the films tone and guide the viewer.

but also serves to trick the viewer. the scene that actually made me write the paper originally was when jennifer approaches jonas on the football field in her very 2000s mini skirt while Scared Heart by It Dies Today tracks over the scene. it made me like. cackle out loud but also had this moment of this is really smart. it’s playing off of megan fox’s sex symbol status with gratuitous camera work, playing into humour with the song choice to leave an image that’s funny bc it’s juxtaposes what people know. why is this pretty girl strutting to heavy metal? it’s l the deeper implication of what’s stored inside jennifer, not only hidden by her physically or by the narrative, but in the expectation of what the audience will take from this scene.

it banks on people finding it funny and maybe a bit strange so when she goes full cannibal on him in the woods it’s definitely a shock but..maybe not really! the story plays a lot with what ppl expect, something horror comedies are known to do obviously, but needys narration also does this too

the one time the viewer gets to hear jennifer’s side in all of this is when she explains what happened after the fire, how she was sacrificed and the powers she gained. yet needy constantly interrupts her—interjecting herself into the story as the true narrator but also removing a layer of Personhood from jennifer just as the title does.

she cannot even tell her own story without needy, the OST, soundtrack or narrative structure controlling her in some manor and i think that’s a rlly powerful use of sound on physical and thematic levels!

okay this is kinda a random point to end but i don’t wanna keep going forever so yeah this isn’t everything and tbh if i do end up editing my paper properly i’d b down to share!! and again tysm for sending this in and for ur patience omg <33

original post

[snowspot]

blindspot

[hinamie]

subject, specimen, spectacle;

should i say that you're dead?

[strangemonochromes]

Fragments of Horror ("Dissection Girl") // Junji Ito

[orengejoshi]

Paperhatober Day 17: Mouth

Flug is gonna get his fingers chomped off... for science!🧪

[merakiui]

fellow noncon potential has me drooling 🤤💖

After reading THIS LINE???? I absolutely see the vision now…….

Everyone else can be sold off as puppets, but maybe he'll keep you. A pretty doll who won't protest or try to escape, who is nothing but obedient and always accessible. Perfect stress relief. It takes a lot of effort making money, you know? Have a little sympathy for how hard he works! Besides, aren't you lucky he didn't sell you off with the rest, even when he knew you'd fetch a high price? You won't have to spend your days warming some gross, creepy old man's dick who only fucks to break you in and then discard you once you've lost your value and shine.

But Fellow... see, Mr. Honest always takes good care of his things! Sure, you might not have any agency over what your body does and so it essentially becomes a cage that houses your conscience. All you can do is watch on as your body moves of its own accord, lowering to your knees to wrap your lips around his dick or lying back on the bed so he can join you. But at least you're safe, right? Isn't that good? And he was even kind enough to keep Grim around. He's not heartless.

Fellow makes sure to dress you in pretty outfits every day, sitting you in front of the mirror and draping a lovely necklace around your throat, flattery falling from his lips in plentiful amounts. You're never debuted to the public. You're all his, a doll meant for him to enjoy in private. It can be quite stressful trying to meet shipment deadlines. You understand, don't you? A beautiful, intelligent soul like yourself would surely be the first to understand and sympathize with his plights. And relief from stress comes in many forms, some more intimate than others as you've now learned.

[blackkatdraws2]

I have a lot of leftover drawings in my gallery. [Blank Scripts AU]

[Content Warning: Images below contain Gore, Death, and Disturbing/Uncomfortable Imagery]

I find it a bit cute knowing they start out as crazy and then slowly settle into something calmer and relatively healthier after learning to adapt to each other's lust-turned-love. [Stanley did it first but hey :3]

[loveincoldness]

DISSECTION - Storm of the Light's Bane - Reaper (17 November 1995)

[royaltea000]

He’s like the worlds shittiest Madonna to me

[dyinglikeicarus]

The Anathemas_08 The Unloving

Last of the love trio <3

[inkie-does-whump]

Some of us float (And some of us sink to the bottom)

A Tango and Docm oneshot

Word count: 3100

Trigger warnings: drugs, needles/injections, drawing blood, body horror, dissection, human experimentation

Author's note: Oh, it's a long one guys! And worth it! But, uh, if you hate needles or body horror this might not be the oneshot for you.

Aka: Tango has an experiment with Doc scheduled, and it goes exactly as Doc planned it

Tango knows something is wrong when he doesn’t receive his medication.

Again.

The first time he assumed it was a mistake. A fluke. He quietly enjoyed his day of energy, sticking to his room in hopes that the Watchers wouldn’t notice he was awake. And then he second day it got suspicious, but Tango still didn’t mention it. He ventured to the lobby, had a lovely, full and awake conversation with Impulse, and then enjoyed the rest of the day in the practice room. It was nice.

But this was day three.

And something between suspicion and dread was boiling in his stomach.

He knew exactly why when he checked his schedule for that day. No rental, but he did have an experiment. Just one. Just one experiment scheduled from one in the afternoon, all the way into the evening.

Just one experiment.

With Doc.

Oh.

Tango hangs his schedule on the back of his door again, and sits down on his bed. He resists the urge to curl his knees up to his chin.

Doc had talked the Watchers into another experiment? And of all the subjects here, Doc wanted the experiment with Tango?

Nausea churns in his stomach.

It was rare to run into Doc around the lab. In the early days, Doc had taken over almost half of the practice room, turning it into his own little laboratory where he continued to conduct the science he’d apparently been working on before his capture. But his work was disruptive, and prevented the other subjects from using the practice room, so the Watchers gave Doc an extra unused room to move his equipment into. Nowadays he spends all his days locked in his little lab.

Doc is always so passive with the Watchers. They never bother him, except to monitor his work and sometimes praise his progress. He’s like their favorite pet, and he know it, preening under their gaze.

And because of this, he holds a terrifying power over everyone else.

Tango nervously stands up, if only to release his newly pent-up energy. He opens his door and paces feverishly down the hallway. He pauses in briefly in the lobby to check the single clock that hangs over the door to the practice room.

Bdubs is sitting directly in front of the door, watching the clock like it might betray the time if he looks away from it, counting, murmuring each number under his breath. Tango is convinced Bdubs thinks the time will stop if he doesn’t keep track of it himself.

Lunch, Tango thinks. Lunch before the experiment because Tango isn’t sure when he’ll be able to have dinner, and he doesn’t want to be hungry.

In the end his lunch goes unfinished, because the Watchers come looking to take him away. Scar and Cub watch them warily from the other end of the table, but the Watchers are there for Tango and no one else.

Tango let’s out a sigh, and stands up obediently. They walk him out of the room with little white remotes clutched in their hands, able to trigger a remote traq. Tango knows it’s because he’s no longer drugged. They’re taking extra precautions.

Tango is taken to an operating room, and that is worse than meeting in Doc’s lab.

The Goat sits up on the operating table casually, waiting for him when Tango pushes open the door.

“Tango Tek.” He greets, slipping down from the table to approach him.

Doc is a monstrous person. Tango doesn’t know if his body modifications are from himself or the Watchers, both possibilities unnerve him. He doesn’t even know what Doc was originally. He’s covered in green fur, and massive, although part of the size difference might come from the cyborg parts, the wires that crawl and twist along and under his skin.

His height is aided by the glossy black hooves he stands on. Twisted horns break the skin at both sides of his head, curling around his skull and framing his grin. His mouth is full of teeth, violent canines that Tango can’t mentally justify with any of the other creatures Doc seemed to be crossed with.

Disturbing pink insect wings flare behind him, acting as the most menacing backdrop Tango can fathom.

Doc takes his hand and shakes it, “we’re going to have a lovely time this afternoon.” He promises. Then he turns to the Watchers, “Thank you for bringing him, you may go.”

And just like that the Watchers leave.

Tango is alone with Doc.

“Have a seat.” Doc drawls, still smiling. He gestures to the operating table. “Have they skipped all your meds like I requested?”

Chills rush across Tango’s skin. His throat is dry, and he swallows.

“Yeah. No meds.” He confirms, not able to work up the confidence to move, let alone climb up on the operating table.

Doc nods pleasantly and notes something down on a clipboard, “Wonderful, wonderful.” He hums. Glancing up at Tango and seeing he still hadn’t moved, Doc nods at the table again, “Sit, please.” He repeats.

Tango shuffles over to the table, and with his heart pounding, pushes himself onto his deathbed. The table is covered in a thick foam, with old pinholes littered across the surface. His stomach churns anxiously. He’s going to throw up.

“It’s good to have you, Tango, I’ve been wanting to take a good look at you for a while now.” Doc says, leaning against the head of the table, “it’s good to know that the Watchers are finally starting to trust me with their…” he prods Tango with his pen, “…more valuable assets.”

Tango can’t help but curl away from the touch. He echoes, “valuable assets?”

Docs nods, turning away to fetch something from the nearby countertop, “not counting the tribes in the nether, blazeborn only make up five to eight percent of the general population. It would be difficult for them to find a replacement for you if I were… irresponsible.”

Tango laughs nervously, “but you’re responsible. Right?”

Doc doesn’t turn around to look back at him, “you’ll survive.”

There is a beat of silence, in which Tango contemplates how far he’d be able to make it if he tried to sprint out the door. Would the Watchers just drag him back here?

“your rarity, of course, is exactly why I wanted to examine you.” Doc continues, wings buzzing softly behind him. “My old laboratory didn’t have anywhere near the resources that this one does. I haven’t been able to dissect a blazeborn yet.”

Tango doesn’t like the word “dissect” or the way that Doc has now turned to look at him with a hunger in his eyes. His mechanical parts click as he paces back to the operating table, carrying a few tools. Tango can see the antifreeze that pumps methodically inside the tubes along his metal arm. Tango doesn't like that either.

In fact, Tango dislikes most things about this situation.

Doc sets his supplies on the cart next to the table Tango is on, “Hold still. This shouldn’t hurt.”

Tango stiffens as Doc grabs a jar and a pair of tongs. Doc uses the tongs to carefully grip each blazerod crowning Tango’s head, and put them into the jar. They resist, clearly wanting to stay in orbit around his head, but Doc pulls them out with a tug.

“And you have no allergies? No medical deformities?” Doc asks, screwing the lid right on the jar and putting it on the bottom shelf of the cart.

Tango hesitates, “Not that I know of.” He says at last.

Doc chuckles, “you don’t have to be nervous. I ask so we don’t have complications. I want you alive.”

Alive, Doc says. But not unharmed.

Doc takes a syringe from the cart, with a long tube attached that curls and dips down to a collection container on the bottom of the cart. “Arm?” he prompts.

The unease that has been turning in Tango spikes. He instinctively shrinks away from the needle. Doc looks as though he’s both annoyed and amused.

“Just drawing blood.” He says, “I need a sample.”

So Tango holds out a shaky arm and allows Doc to put the needle to the inside of his arm. There is a click and hiss, and Tango has to will himself to not flinch when he feels the metal bite into his skin. Doc hums as he disconnects the needle from the tube, and puts a sticker over the injection site to hold the tube in place.

“Don’t remove that.” Doc instructs. “Are you prone to fainting?” Tango shakes his head, while Doc bends to turn on the blood pump, “Okay. If you feel yourself getting lightheaded, lay down on the table.”

The suction of the blood drawing can be felt immediately. Tango watches the red as it flows down the wire in his arm and to the cart. He feels dizzy within a few seconds, but he’s not eager to lay out on the operation table, so instead he takes several deep breaths and tries to distract himself.

“What tests are you running?” He asks.

Doc is reading over some charts he has on the counter, “Various things. I’ll run the standard blood tests later, since I can do those without you present. We’re going to record your height to weight ratio too, and I’d like a sample of your hair.”

Tango feels like he might pass out soon, but he manages, “my hair?”

Doc holds up a piece of paper, and looks back and forth between it and Tango, “It has curious physics.” He says, putting down the paper, “Do the Watchers cut it often?”

Tango would explain to him that blazeborn hair doesn’t need to be cut, and that the length is based on his environment which is why the blazeborn tribes in the nether had such long hair. But he was sleepy, and slumping, and sweetly falling into soft nothing.

Doc catches him before he hits his head on the table. It’s difficult to think straight, but he can feel Doc laying him out on the table. He can see his shadow, his twisted horns, in the corner of his vision.

“Careful.” Doc chides. Tango can hear the gentle whir and clicking of the fans inside Doc’s mechanical arm. It sounds like the hiss and crackle of the fire at home.

Despite Tango fainting, Doc doesn’t turn off the pump. He stands over Tango, passively monitoring as the collection vat fills.

“I feel sick.” Tango mumbles.

“I know.” Is all Doc answers with.

When the vat is full, Doc turns the pump off. Tango blinks sleepily at him, watching as the container is removed from the cart and taken to the counter. Doc labels it “Blazeborn – Tango” and sets it next to several other glass vats labeled with other races and names.

“One thirty? Is that normal?” Doc asks, and Tango struggles to comprehend the question. Doc writes something down on his clipboard and then eyes Tango, “Ready to stand?”

Tango groans, and pushes himself upright. Doc helps him to his feet.

“Stand to the wall by the door. Against the measurements.”

Tango walks to the wall, forcing himself to move through his slowly easing vertigo. He puts his back to the measurements on the wall, and Doc makes more notes on his clipboard. He pushes Tango’s hair down with the tongs from before so he can see the correct measurement.

“Five six.” Doc mumbles, and Tango is guided back to the table to lay down. “Are you experiencing any dietary issues? You don’t weigh enough for your height.”

Tango stares at the bright lights above him as the world slowly comes back to him, “That, uh, that’s normal.” He makes out, “I’m… blaze- uh, normally light.”

There is a pause. Tango can hear Doc shuffling and writing, and then he comes back over to him. His hooves click as they strike the tiles. The cloud over Tango’s brain lifts enough for him to notice Doc is gently wrapping restraints around his wrists and ankles.

“mmh, don’t.” Tango muffles, pulling away.

Doc just holds firm to his wrist and says, “You’ll hurt yourself if you thrash like this.” And waits until Tango’s limited energy fails him again. And then Tango is tied down arms over his head. Doc goes to the head of the table. “look up at me?” he prompts, and when Tango instinctively glances at his voice, Doc wraps another strap of cloth around his forehead to keep his head still. His skull is cradled by the foam of the table.

“The Watchers would kill me if I let you get a concussion.” Doc grins down at him, but the joke isn’t warm and his smile is hungry.

“What now?” Tango asks. His pulse flutters weakly in his fingertips.

“Now is the best part.” Doc lifts something from his cart that he can’t see.

He waits a few beats of awful suspension before there is a pitch at his arm, and the hiss of an injection gun. His nausea returns full force.

“Going to give that a few minutes to set in.” Doc says sweetly, “Don’t worry, you shouldn’t feel a thing.”

Tango dreads to know what he’s been injected with. It doesn’t take effect very quickly, but as the minutes tick by he realizes with dull dread that he cannot feel his fingers.

He’s numb.

“Feel that?” Doc asks.

Tango can’t tell where he’s been prodded, and his anxiety from earlier has eased. He tries to shake his head, but finds he’s still trapped in place, so he sighs softly, “No.”

“Fantastic.” Doc murmurs. He’s quietly cutting Tango’s shirt open. “Deep breath for me.”

Tango takes a slow, deep breath, unable to stretch into it when his hands are restrained above his head. Doc hums in approval.

He continues to cut away, pausing temporary to reach for another tool. Tango tries not to think about what Doc might do to him next. It’s easy. The drug he was injected with makes his brain cozy, in a way that his daily meds don’t. Normally his exhaustion only weighed on his body, but this is easy to lean back into.

Doc moved back to his cart for something else. As he moves back to Tango’s shirt, he can see several pins. From the angle his head is strapped down, he can’t see what Doc does with them. He can’t feel anything, but it sounds like Doc is pinning the front of his shirt open, pressing pins into the foam of the table.

“Deep breath in.” Doc prompts again. Tango complies, and Doc mutters, “Interesting.” Before scribbling on his clipboard again.

“What are you doing?” Tango mumbles.

Doc peers at him with a frown, as though contemplating how much Tango should know. “Dissection.” He says at last.

Tango frowns, “dissecting what?”

“You.” Doc makes another note on his clipboard, “Your insides are fascinating. Do you know what this organ is called?” he points near Tango’s sternum.

Tango thinks he would feel ill if he could feel at all, “My insides?” he manages weakly. He strains to look at himself, but he is firmly stuck in place.

“This one attached to your lungs,” Doc clarifies, realizing that Tango can’t see where he’s pointing, “Its moving when you breathe. What does it do?”

Tango is going to be sick. He’s going to throw up. He’s going to pass out. He will, he will.

“…Filter.” Doc decides, prodding at it a final time, “For all the nether ash.”

He takes another tool and investigates lower inside Tango’s chest. Tango’s breathing comes out rough and anxiously. He can’t breathe. He can’t. He can’t think. He fights against the restraints, but they hold steady.

Doc has him pinned open, and exposed, and he’s dying and weak and drugged and freaking terrified.

“Stop.” Tango chokes around his tight throat and panic, “please, I don’t-”

“You don’t need to worry.” Doc soothes, “The Watchers would end me if I killed their…” he searches for the correct world for a moment, before simply settling on, “Blazeborn.”

“Please.” Tango struggles to breath. His tears prick in his eyes, “please.”

Doc writes another note, and continues, “You won’t die. Can you give me another deep breath?”

Tango shakes through his panic, fighting his body. Deep breath. Deep breath. Please, please, just breathe.

“Good job.” Doc murmurs softly, “just like that.”

He pokes around some more, writing little notes in his clipboard and making small comments that Tango can’t make out. It’s all he can do to just breathe and breathe and hope Doc will be done soon.

Please be done soon.

Please.

“Kidneys are struggling.” Doc mumbles, “probably the heavy medication…”

Tango shutters, “how long?”

“Just a little longer.” Doc promises, “you’ve been so lovely and cooperative for me. You should give notes to Cleo.”

“…Okay.” Tango breathes.

The last several minutes pass in numb agony. Tango focuses on his breathing, suppressing the crushing panic that’s ever closing in. His cheeks are cold from crying.

He isn’t paying attention anymore by the time Doc starts to sew him up again. The pinch of the needle is hidden under the wave of drugs Tango is still floating in.

“The Watchers won’t schedule you for at least three days so you can heal. No extra medication, and be sure to eat plenty.” Doc is saying, as he ties the last knot into his skin. “I’ll see you again in a few days to check on the healing. Ask the Watchers for extra painkillers if you need them.”

Tango blinks at him though the haze of numbness. His heart is still panicked, and breathing is hard, but he’s so weak. So weak.

Doc gently undoes the restraints, “don’t stretch when you sit up.” He instructs.

Tango pulls into himself the moment he’s free. Everything is numb, and empty, and vulnerable, and weak.

“You’ve done a wonderful job, thank you.” Doc praises softly. “there should be Watchers right outside to take you back to your room. You’ll want to sleep for a while before you move much.”

Tango mumbles and nods, struggling to push upright. He’s got pale stitches in a capital “i” shape along his chest and stomach. Nausea rolls over him harshly. He gags.

Doc just nods, looking over his notes, “The numbing will wear off before tomorrow.” He says, discarding his clipboard and easing Tango off the operating table.

His legs give out immediately. Tango clings to Doc with the last of his dying strength, trying not to fall.

He’s walked to the door as Doc continues his thought, “if you heal up quickly, maybe the Watchers will let me take a look at their demon too…”

Tango is helped to his room by a Watcher, and then by Impulse and Pearl when it’s clear he needs more help.

He crashes on his bed, and is out almost immediately.

Meanwhile Doc begins his tests.

[sevenswansinatrenchcoat]

Haha what if you pushed a single line into my heart? And then what if you only let through a drip drip drip to flow through the glyphs and gears? And then what if through the pain I kissed you? Haha jk.....unless?

[phantomwithbreakfast]

𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝙰𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚃𝚘 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝙰𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚃𝚘 𝙳𝚒𝚎

×͜×

Prologue.

⟢ Danny Phantom Phan Fic • Genre: Angst / Tragedy / Psychological / Horror • Overall TW: Strong Language — Mental Health Struggles — Suicidal Ideation — Violence — Parental Neglect — Emotional Abuse — Graphic Content • M rate (+16!) due Graphic Emotional Intensity — CW: Character Death

Summary: “It’s the end of me. I didn’t want to feel and kiss your lips, I wanted to feel and see you suffer instead.”

AO3.

FFN.

Other Phan fics here.

Under the ‘read more’ line you’ll find the full art piece at the bottom + more. TW/CW: Gore — Vivisection (But we’re used to it by now, aren’t we?).

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦.

It’s the end of me. I didn’t want to feel and kiss your lips, I wanted to feel and see you suffer instead. I saw him. Me. Him. My own reflection. You didn’t do this. I did. But that wasn’t true. We’re the same, aren’t we? Two halves of a broken whole. This wasn’t about them. It never was. This was about me all along.

☻% x ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

I stood there. Frozen.

My eyes locked onto my white-gloved hands, stained in deep crimson. Blood seeped into the fabric, dripping in slow, deliberate drops that echoed louder than they should have. My eyes drifted down, following the deep red river that spilled across the floor.

She wasn’t moving.

Her body lay still, sprawled on her back. Her eyes—lifeless, glassy—staring unblinking at the ceiling, delving for something that wasn’t there.

My chest heaved, gasping for air that refused to to come, as my mind spiraled into a storm of chaos and despair.

What…

What the fxck just happened?

My whole body trembled, shaking under a burden. The effort of standing was too much—my knees gave out, hitting the ground with a hollow sound. I collapsed, crumpled like a broken doll.

Devastated.

I changed—transformed.

Human.

My body felt heavy, mortal, fragile. The tears fell unbidden, carving warm, fragile paths down the frost of my hollow cheeks. A guttural sob broke through, followed by another.

I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop breaking.

Whimpers tore out of me—feeling like little pieces of my soul being ripped apart. My breath broke in jagged gasps, each inhale a blade slicing deeper into the hollow ache of my chest.

With the last shreds of strength clinging to my shattered body, I dragged myself forward, smearing her blood beneath my hands and knees. The trail of crimson followed me, marking my every trembling inch. My arms shook, my knees scraped against the slick floor.

Her blood was everywhere—on me, around me. Just… everywhere.

I reached her side and stopped.

The world spun in a blur of red and black. Everything felt too quiet. Too empty.

In that silence, I crumbled. Her absence crashing until I was nothing—just broken sobs and trembling hands, drowning me into an endless ache of what I… of what I could never undo.

…

“You really don’t want to do this. Trust me. Who’s going to protect this town after all, if you shoot me?” Danny said, forcing a grin that felt painfully fake.

“What use would I have for you if you’re… dead?” Her tone shifted slightly, dipping into something that sounded almost sinister. “No. If I killed you, I couldn’t examine you. I couldn’t study you the way I need to. You have to be conscious for that.”

Danny’s grin faltered and swallowed. His stomach twisted at her words, but before he could say anything else—before he could even move—there was a flash of light.

And then... there was nothing but darkness.

⟢ All this time that I was working on this art piece, I had a pang feeling in my chest. Guilt. Empathy. Compassion. I even cried at some point. I blindfolded Danny for a while, and did the eyes as final.

⟢ The art piece itself is a mix up from my dissection—vivisection stories. Plus, other ones that are about to follow, like this preview of the prologue.

⟢ It’s possible I might still change the prologue up a bit.

⟢ I’m so, so, so fxcking sorry Danny. (╥﹏╥)

♫ ▸ MOMMA’S BOY. :3

“You’re a ghost. You can’t feel pain or experience any emotions. But you? You’re so… Fascinating.”

“Why did I… deserve this? Why? What is it that makes me… interesting? That you have to… vi—vivisect me?”

⟢ Only the bad memories will last.

[goatsica]

[wingheadshellhead]

tony stark vs the flesh is a prison and being put through every cosmic horror trope known to existence when he's forced to live beyond his mortal lifespan. he is schrodinger's silly rabbit, marvel's little lovecraftian babygirl

[nectardraws]

"Thank you for teaching us the insides"

From MAG 34, statement of Dr. Lionel Elliot, regarding a series of events that took place during his class, Introduction to Human Anatomy and Physiology