#doctor blood's coffin

[weirdlookindog]

Doctor Blood's Coffin (1961)

[schlock-luster-video]

On October 18, 2011 Dr. Blood's Coffin was released on DVD by MGM Home Video.

[gummi-stims]

Daniil Dankovsky stim board with red but otherwise muted colors and an overall dark academia aesthetic

No slime or needles

knifes, scalples, etc are fine though

Maybe one with crows/black birds, and something about his doctor's bag and fancy doctor clothes (they're my favorite part, but I totally understand if that might be a little hard)

Also I just really like this image bcos it is funnee

Here you are! Hope I did okay, sorry I couldn't really find any for clothes like his and only one gif with a doctor's bag in it, I thought there would be more to work with for those tbh. c:

Also, love me a funnee image too lol

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⚰-x-⚰

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[movieposters1]

[mediumgayitalian]

“Oh, gods.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Oh, gods.”

Nico scowls, wrenching just eyes away from Will’s poorly-covered grin and shaking shoulders.

It’s not that bad. It isn’t.

Sure, the complete lack of lighting except Greek fire torches makes the cabin look like a little piece of the Underworld, right here on the surface. But that’s comforting. Honestly. Nico knows the Underworld. It’s — familiar.

And, yeah. It would, probably, be pertinent to have some furniture, or something. At least somewhere for him to store his clothes, because he has more than one set of those now, and maybe a shelf, or something. And, admittedly, the obsidian altar could take up a little less space than it currently does.

But it’s not that bad.

“Are those. Coffin shaped beds.”

The tone of Will’s voice is unlike he’s ever heard it. He turns back to face him, slowly, and finds him biting his fist, hard, every muscle of his body tense as live wire.

“I was twelve godsdamn years old,” Nico snaps. “Forgive me if interior design wasn’t my passion.”

Solace loses it.

In his defense, not that Nico is too worried about defending him, he does appear to try very hard to not lose it. When the first giggle slips out of his lips, he clamps his jaw shut tighter. When his whole body begins to shake with the force of repressing his laughter, he curls inward, as if making himself smaller might reduce the chance of a lapse in control.

But then he glances back inside and looks, really looks, at the dreary, stone walls, the lone skeletons standing guard, and the plush, teakwood black coffin bunk beds, and he collapses to the floor.

“I’m going to open a chasm beneath you,” Nico threatens. “You are going to fall and crack your spine into a million pieces on the bank of the Styx, rotting there with every other forgotten hope.”

“You are a Black Parade lyric personified,” Will wheezes.

Nico doesn’t know what that means, so he kicks him. Unfortunately, he only laughs harder.

“I mean it, Solace. It’s a long way down to the Underworld. You will spend the entire fall petrified with the knowledge that nothing can save you.”

For added effect, Nico makes the floor under the medic’s body shake, makes the tip of a skeleton hand peek out from the earth.

Ironically, this stops Will’s laughter, but not for the reason Nico was aiming for.

“Hey!” A bright blue flipflop-clad foot darts out and collides With Nico’s ankle, sending him sprawling. “I said no spooky magic for the next two months! Put that skeleton away!”

“Fuck off, Solace! It’s barely half a bone! You are so annoying!”

“That’s my specialty.” Will pushes himself upright. He waits until Nico sits up, too, so he can catch his eye before his face splits into a dazzling grin. Actual sparkles seem to flicker beside his face. “And you are ever so easy to annoy.”

Nico stares, unimpressed.

“Anyways.” Will coughs. “You can’t stay here, Neeks —”

“Don’t call me that.”

“— it’s straight-up too depressing.” He peers inside. “It’s also cold, and, like…borderline unliveable? So. As your doctor, I can’t allow it.”

“You’re a medic,” Nico says, raising an eyebrow, “first of all, not a doctor. Second of all, you can’t tell me what to do. Third of all — where am I supposed to sleep? The woods?”

“Hm. Good question.”

Will gets to his feet, brushing the dirt off his shorts and offering Nico a hand. After a second of hesitation, he takes it, allowing Will to haul him up.

“C’mon!”

Nico snatches his hand away, face burning. (Gods. Why does Will have to be so…touchy-feely? And why does it always do weird things to Nico’s stomach?) But it hardly takes a look over Will’s shoulder before Nico’s feet are following after him, without his permission.

“Where are we going?”

“Well, my dad’s kind of a hoe,” Will says matter-of-factly. Nico chokes. Will’s grin widens. “And our cabin was built with that in mind. I know we’ve got an extra bunk or two for ya. Hurry up!”

This…cannot be allowed. Nico doesn’t have a ton of Camp Half-Blood experience, or anything, but as far as he knows, Hermes is the only cabin that can really do that. He doesn’t want to incur the wrath of Apollo, or whatever, by staying in his cabin uninvited.

Well. Will’s inviting him, technically. And there’s a confidence to his offer, like maybe this isn’t the first time he’s done it.

“What if I don’t want to live in your stupid sunshine-y cabin,” Nico grumbles, trying to cover up his nerves. “Holding hands and singing about how much I love being alive isn’t really my cup of tea.”

Will snorts. “Oh, di Angelo,” he says dramatically, shaking his head, “you are in for a world of discovery. Welcome to the Cabin Apollo. Take your shoes off at the door and remember that Kayla bites.”

———

Living in the Apollo cabin is strange.

Four days in, and Nico is only just starting to get used to it. He’s not entirely unused to sharing space with people — he’s had two sisters — but the Apollo kids argue like they enjoy doing it. One minute, Will and Kayla will be screaming at each other at the top of their lungs about touching each other’s shit, then they’re teaming up to pull Gracie off Yan’s face for the exact same argument, only now they offer sage advice on respecting boundaries and compromising. It’s bizarre.

(Austin is pretty chill, actually. Nico has noticed him starting quite a few fights — it was he, in fact, who moved Will’s shit and then gracefully framed Kayla — but he has a very powerful eyebrow raise and a very powerful image as Unproblematic. He has quickly become Nico’s favourite.)

He’s only just barely beginning to understand how they work together, and the struggle comes in because everything is so chaotic. When Nico spent time with Hazel in New Rome, she was in the barracks. He never really had to worry about squabbling over counter space in the bathroom with her, because she had her own little toiletry caddie like everyone else, and bathrooms were public. With Bianca — well. There’s no one alive who knows this about her, but she was bossy. She was sweet and wonderful and self-sacrificing and brave and kind and the centre of Nico’s life, but by the gods, did she take her authority as a big sister seriously. She ordered Nico around all the time. He never had to worry much about when he would have the chance to use the bathroom they shared at the Lotus, or who got the T.V. remote, or who go to sit on the bus instead of standing, because he was not the one deciding. He could stick his tongue out and whine all he wanted, but she was boss. He knew that.

The Apollo kids are not like that.

As well as Nico can figure, it’s kind of a free-for-all. You want first shower? Either wake up the earliest — a strategy only Will every manages to employ with any success — or manage to jab an elbow in someone’s rib and sprint. You want whoever’s humming to shut the hell up so you can sleep? Make sure your threats are quick and believable, or just straight up start throwing shit until they finally stop. You want the coveted middle of the bench spot at breakfast? Well, tough shit on that one, actually. Nico has yet to make that one happen for himself.

He won’t admit it, but he has kind of learned to enjoy it. It’s annoying, and the Apollo siblings do indeed sing at all hours of the day (although the content usually skews more towards diss tracks and delighted insults, if not straight-up curses), and it is so godsdamn bright in there, seriously, is it a gimmick or what, but there’s something to be said about the fact that he’s so surrounded by people and chaos that he hasn’t even had the chance to feel lonely. Not even at night, panting to himself after a nasty nightmare, because all it takes is a particularly loud snore from Will one bunk down to remember where he is. To remember that he’s safe — by demigod standards, at least.

But, still.

He kind of misses his privacy.

“Will,” he whispers urgently, on his fifteenth day of rooming with the Apollo weirdos.

The medic hums noncommittally, attention very focused on the test tube in front of him. Nico has been fighting the urge to try and launch a piece of dust inside it for forty minutes, just to make him explode.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Sounds good, Nico.”

Nico narrows his eyes. “You’re ignoring me.”

“Uh-huh. Agreed.”

“I can say anything I want right now.”

“Sure. Maybe double check with Austin.”

“…I’m going to put a colony of ants in your pillowcase.”

“Good idea.”

“Then I’m going to douse your hair products in gasoline and set them aflame.”

“Baller.”

“After that I’m gonna read your super secret diary to the entirety of camp at singalong tonight.”

“You betcha.”

“And then I’m going to shadow travel to Russia.”

Will blinks, frowning. “Hey, no shadow-travelling. What’s this I hear about shadow-travelling?”

Nico rolls his eyes. “Nothing, stupid. You were just ignoring me.”

Will smiles guiltily. “Aw, I’m sorry, Neeks. Got focused on this. I’m finished in twenty, then I’m all yours?”

“…Don’t call me Neeks,” Nico grumbles, furious with himself for how quick he’s relented under wide blue puppy-dog eyes.

“Sorry, Neeks.”

Huffing at Will’s quiet laughter, Nico slides off the nurse’s station counter and wanders around the empty infirmary. Things have luckily finally cooled down in here, nearly three weeks after the end of the Giant War. Some of the exhaustion has faded from Will’s features now that he’s had time to sleep properly.

Not that Nico has noticed, or anything.

“Okay,” Will says a few minutes later, holding his hands up protectively in front of his geeky little setup. “I just gotta do this last step, so long as I calculated it right, it should be fine…” He squeezes a drop of something into the liquid bubbling over the burner, freezing immediately. One, two, three seconds pass and nothing happens, so Will relaxes, sighing in relief and turning to face Nico fully. “Okay, we’re good. What was it you wanted to —”

The text tube contents explode in his face, dousing him in slimey green goo.

Nico bursts out laughing.

“Great,” Will says darkly, swiping the stuff from his eyes. “The one day I don’t wear goggles. Great.”

Nico gasps, sides aching. “Oh my gods —”

“Feel free to help, di Angelo.”

“— you look like a cartoon! Your face!”

It takes Will twelve cloths and seven whole minutes to clean himself and the nurse’s station off of the goo. Nico cackles at him the whole time, and tastefully does not mention the many globs of goo that remain caked in his hair.

“Whenever you’re done.”

Will is very, very bad at being stern when he doesn’t really mean it. And he doesn’t really mean it now, because every time he tries to glare at Nico, his mouth twitches.

“I’m good,” Nico finally wheezes, forcing his face back to normal. “I’m good, I’m good.”

He very pointedly does not look at Will’s hair.

“Dick,” Will huffs, fondness bleeding into his tone. “What did you want?”

He must notice the change in tone at his asking, because he clears the bench fully, hoisting himself on top of it and patting the spot next to him. Nico hesitates for half a second, then crawls up, sitting criss cross applesauce, knees touching.

“I need to move back to my cabin,” he manages, finally.

Will’s face betrays no judgement or emotion. “Oh?”

“Yes.” He picks at a loose thread in his jeans. “I need — space.”

The thread loosens, allowing Nico to tug on it. A hole begins to unravel along the seam as he pulls and pulls and pulls. He stops himself before it gets too wide, tearing the thread off and winding it around his fingers.

“I can tell everyone to tone it down,” Will offers softly, eyebrows creased. “We’ll be more quiet, we’ll —”

Nico places a hand on his knee, cutting off his sentence. “It’s not about that, I promise. You guys have been great.”

A wounded look still pulls at Will’s strong features, as much as he visibly tries to pull his face back to something more supportive. “It’s not?”

“No, no. It’s just —” He frowns, trying to articulate the tangled mess of his thoughts. “I have my own cabin.”

“So?”

“And I can’t stay in yours forever.”

“I mean, you could.”

“Chiron’s been giving me looks, Will.”

“So what! I’ll — write you a doctor’s note, or something!”

Nico snorts. “A doctor’s note letting me sleep in your cabin?”

Will nods fervently, although he seems to acknowledge the ridiculousness of his suggestion, if the grin on his face is any indication. “Yes! For medical reasons, you know.” He mimes writing. “‘Patient’s cabin is dank and sad. To avoid bouts of misery, patient must sleep in the presence of the coolest and best and prettiest and most uplifting people in camp.’”

“Hm. Not sure Chiron’s gonna buy that last part. Not sure I buy that last part, actually.”

“Hey.”

Nico dodges Will’s shove, chuckling.

“Seriously, though, Will. This was never a long term solution, right?”

“I know. You’re cabin just — sucks so bad, man. No offense.”

“I take great offense to that, actually. My cabin is art.”

“Sure, Eddie Cullen.”

“I don’t know who that is, so that’s a horrible insult.”

“Travesty, honestly.”

Outside the open infirmary windows, Nico can hear distant, triumphant screaming, laughter, and the clang of metal. Today’s a good day. The weather’s balmier than usual, for late August, and some of the gloom that’s hung over everyone’s head for the bast few weeks seems to have lifted.

“You can’t go back to your cabin like it is,” Will says into the silence, startling Nico, “but —” he grins when Nico begins to protest, holding up his hand. “We can definitely change it up.”

He slides off the bench, botching his landing and almost sprawling on the floor. He holds a dramatic hand out to Nico when he rights himself. Nico ignores it, rolling his eyes and getting to his feet by himself.

“C’mon,” Will says, grabbing his hand anyway. Sparks shoot up Nico’s arm. “We need to go ask Chiron for the van keys and approximately five hundred dollars.”

———

Three hours is too fucking long to be in a vehicle. Especially when Will is driving, because all he does is play nonstop country music and let everybody cut in front of him.

“I’m driving us back,” Nico informs him as they (finally) get out of the stupid van, snatching the keys from his hands.

Will shrugs. “Sure.”

Nico had expected more of a fight, honestly. But he supposes neither of them are legally allowed to drive, age-wise, and besides, Nico technically has seventy years of driving experience on Will.

(…The Lotus had a racetrack.

Nico was very, very good at it.)

“What is this place, anyway?”

“This place,” Will says grandly, throwing an arm over his shoulders, “is essentially the mortal version of the Labyrinth, minus, you know, the soul-sucking terror.”

“Okay. All that’s telling me is that you have horrible ideas and we should leave immediately.”

Will rolls his eyes. “It’s a furniture store.”

“Well, then —” he punches Will’s shoulder, huffing when he only laughs. “Say that, then!”

“But then what would I do with all the drama in my heart?”

“Choke on it, hopefully!”

Ikea is weird.

Since Will did not tell him what the plan was, he didn’t draw up any plans. Luckily, Will has the dimensions of his cabin — although where he got them, Nico does not ask — so they spend an hour or so in the cafe drawing out a plan.

“You need more than two beds, Neeks.”

“Uh, no I don’t. Unless my father has something very important to announce to me, I need a bed for me, and a bed for Hazel.”

“What if I want to sleep over?”

“You can sleep on the porch.”

Mostly, they wander around the sets. Nico isn’t really sure what he wants his cabin to look like — he has to remind himself that yes, actually, he cares about the space he’ll be spending at least the next three years of his life in. It’s a startling reality, to have control over his own space. He must’ve had some say in his childhood bedroom, but he has no memory of it. He spent the most time in his and Bianca’s room at the Lotus, but that was already furnished when they got there, and besides, it only felt like they were there for less than a year. It always felt like a hotel room, never his room. Westminster was no different. His room in his father’s palace had already been designed, too. In fact he’d based his cabin on it.

What does Nico want his bedroom to look like, without someone else deciding for him?

“I’m not getting a fucking Lightning McQueen bed, Solace.”

“But it would be so sick! And look — it’s got little cubbies!”

“I’m going to ditch you, and shadow travel back to camp,” Nico threatens. “And I have the van keys, so you’ll be stuck here for real.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Will looks at him sternly, hands on hips. “No shadow travelling for you, Death Breath. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t fade into nothing on my watch.”

“I’m joking,” Nico says, exasperated, but cannot deny the warmth that fills him up at Will’s concern.

In the end, he decides on a pretty normal bed. It’s bigger than Will’s bunk (“Or anyone else’s bed,” Will grumbles, “you lucky asshole.”), but not ridiculously designed. He picks a similar size for Hazel, only the frame is white, not black, and the bedspread that comes with it is a soft, coral pink that he knows she will like.

“Wanna see if they’ve got a Mythomagic bedspread for yours?” Will teases.

That would be the coolest thing ever in the entire world, Nico thinks, and is so embarrassed that he shoves Will, shrieking, into a giant basket of pillows for making him think it.

“Obviously I don’t want that.”

“You are such a turd! I’ll get you, di Angelo!”

He does not. Nico is way too sneaky for him, and after the fifth time Nico manages to give him the slip, he gives up, sulking in a display for a bedroom of a nine year old girl.

“Fitting,” Nico teases, gesturing to the princess wallpaper. “You drama queen.”

“Buzz off.”

Next, they look for furniture. It’s pretty easy — Nico doesn’t need much, and he’s not too concern with cut or style or anything. He quickly picks out two dressers, one to match Hazel’s bed frame, and one to match his, and then a couple bookshelves.

Four hours into their trip, Nico is exhausted. They have a three hour drive ahead of them, they’ve been out all day, and he wants to go home.

But Will stops him before they go get all the boxes for their furniture.

“This is still pretty bare bones,” he says quietly, then grins at his own accidental pun. Nico shoots him a venomous look, warning him against making it more obvious, and for once he actually listens. “You know, we’re still under budget. We’ve got around $200 left — we can get a motel, stay the night, then we don’t have to drive back right away. And tomorrow, maybe we can check out some other stores, look for smaller decorations and stuff. And if we don’t have to drive back tonight, we’ve maybe got another hour in here, if you wanted to get a couple more pieces.”

Nico opens his mouth to refuse — that’s way too much effort to spend on one person’s cabin, c’mon — then pauses, thinking about it.

Chiron hadn’t even thought about it before handing them the money. Will had barely gotten the words out before he’d started counting out the bills.

“I want you to make a home here,” the centaur had said, touching his hand. There was a pain in his kind eyes, stopping any protests. “I made a mistake, Nico, the first time you came here. In another life, you felt welcome enough to stay the whole time. Take what you need.”

What does he need? What does home look like, to him?

“There was a beanbag chair, in our room at the Lotus,” he says, pushing the words past the lump in his throat. “Me and Bianca used to fight over it.” His voice shakes. A tear gathers at the corner of his eye, and he blinks it back. “It wasn’t real fighting. When I called mercy she’d — scoop me up and throw me on it and squish in after me, and we’d sit together and play video games. Or read. She liked to read.”

Will squeezes his trembling hands. “We can get a beanbag chair.”

“And I — don’t like the blackout curtains. The dark makes me think of — the pit.”

“Okay. They sell lotsa lamps here, too. Might be nicer than the Greek fire.”

Nico nods. There’s — more, far more ideas, now, flooding his brain; Hazel crowding over him on a rug-covered floor, shrieking as he teases her about Frank; a desk tucked in the corner where Will sits, mouthing along to his textbooks as Nico sharpens his sword; Jason running his fingers along rows of books on a big, cluttered shelf; Reyna with her fist curled around her mouth, studying a chess board across from him, hair shining under the natural light from the window.

He can have that. He can have that.

Thankfully, all their stuff fits in the back of the van. Despite his insistence earlier, Nico hands Will the keys, and he drives around until he finds a shitty motel with a vacancy sign flashing out front. He pulls into the farthest corner of the parking lot, killing the engine, then waits.

“You okay?”

Nico shrugs. “I’m…not sure.”

“That’s okay,” Will assures, pressing a fleeting touch to his shoulder. Nico grabs his wrist before he moves away, tugging down his hand and linking their fingers together.

For once, it doesn’t make him feel all sparky. The warmth of Will’s hands is grounding, and so is the gentle squeeze, the smile he feels pointed in his direction.

“C’mon. Let’s check in and sleep, huh?”

Nico’s exhaustion compounds in the walk from the car to the lobby, so by the time Will is speaking quietly to the host, he’s half asleep, leaning on Will’s shoulder. He vaguely feels it when Will shifts his weight, sliding a hand around his waist to hold him better. He blinks and they’re standing in front of a door.

“Almost there, Death Boy,” he murmurs. “Hold on a sec.”

It takes him six separate tries to make the keycard work. He gets huffy when Nico snickers tiredly at him.

“Finally, yeesh.”

He guides Nico in, dropping the backpack he brought somewhere near the door. As soon as the bed is within Nico’s sights, he makes a beeline, barely remembering to shuck his shoes and jacket.

“Please do not sleep in your jeans.”

“Mmmfuck off,” Nico groans, already sliding under the covers. He’ll regret it in the morning, but whatever.

“Goober.” Callused hands brush through his hair, resting lightly on his forehead. “Goodnight, Nico.”

Nico’s out before he can even think to respond.

———

He wakes up, in the middle of the night, scream caught in his throat and heart pounding in his ears. The air smells like smoke and fear. The rushing of the Phlegethon is so loud it’s overpowering.

A loud snore knocks him back to reality.

Crawling desperately towards the source of the sound, he hangs over the bed, eyes adjusting rapidly to the dark to see a curled lump on the floor, head resting on his own hands. A quick glance behind him confirms the other half of the bed has been left untouched.

“Stupid,” he mumbles, tiny smile chasing away the last of his fear.

He tugs the blankets off the mattress, pulls off the two pillows, and joins his dumbass, selfless friend on the floor.

———

“Question,” Will asks, swallowing the last of their disgustingly delicious greasefest of a breakfast. “Were you alive when Walmart was invented?”

“I was alive before your great grandmother was.”

“No, I mean — were you out and kickin’. Have you strolled the endless aisles of corporate soullessness, basking in the wonder of American overconsumerism?”

“…You’re such a weird, particular person.”

Will looks delighted. “You’re a Walmart newbie!”

He pulls into the dead, cracked parking lot way too happily for this hour in the morning. Nico would even say he takes the nearest exit to get to the store gleefully. He is embarrassed for him.

Walmart is…underwhelming.

As stupid as it is, Will had hyped it up so much that Nico was almost a little excited. It just looked like any other basic superstore. Will, for whatever reason, seemed delighted by that fact.

“I do not like this store,” he explained when Nico asked, expression not matching his words, “it just means so very much to me that you are joining me in the misery of having experienced it.”

They spend more time than they mean to just dicking around. At one point they nearly get thrown out by management, because Will finds a pair of NERF guns that some child dug out of its packaging and no words need to be spoken. They gear up and scamper off, hunting each other through fluorescent-lights hell.

“Please just get your shit and leave,” says the very tired looking manager, and they have the good gall to at least appear embarrassed as they mumble, “Yes, ma’am.”

It doesn’t take long when they have their head on straight. They get some fairy lights, a couple cool posters, dorky little trinkets that Nico probably doesn’t need, per se, but what was he supposed to do, leave the little plastic crow skeleton behind?

Unlikely.

With his own money, Will buys several cans of paint and a CD. He explains neither of these purchases. The look on his face gets steadily more infuriating as they make their way through the line, and Nico really, truly considers leaving him behind.

The purchase of the CD becomes very obvious very quickly. Even though Nico is driving, and therefore Nico should get music control, Will pouts and pleads until Nico gives in and lets him play his stupid country album. He justifies his decision in his own brain by noticing the radiance of Will’s smile as he belts out the words, badly, at the top of his lungs. He then spends the rest of the drive back to camp convincing himself not to be embarrassed for having said thoughts.

They get back to camp about lunch time, and Will destroys any attempt for a subtle reentry by whistling the second they cross the property line.

“Austin! Kayla!” he hollers, making Nico jump. “Come help us unload!”

“We coulda done it ourselves,” Nico grumbles.

Will pats his head condescendingly. “It has been twenty-four long, long hours since I’ve bosses my siblings around, Neeks. I need this.”

It does go by quite a bit quicker with Austin and Kayla’s help. Lou Ellen, Cecil, Yan, and Gracie come to help, too, but Gracie’s too little to carry much more than a small desk lamp. Instead, they lay down the biggest box — Nico’s bed frame — and let her climb on top of it, carrying her like she’s a queen atop a throne back to Nico’s cabin. She has the time of her life, giggling to herself like a madwoman.

By the time everything’s unloaded, a couple hours have passed, and the Hades cabin looks like a clusterfuck.

“Maybe you stay in Apollo a couple more nights,” Will suggests.

“Might have to,” Nico agrees. Will looks inordinately pleased with himself.

All in all, it takes about two days to disassemble the old furniture, get rid of it, and start putting together the new stuff. Will helps for most of it, but he has a few shifts in the infirmary, so Nico ends up trying to do a fair bit on his own.

“May the wrath of Zeus come down upon this fucking piece of shit, no good, poorly designed garbage-looking idiotic mother fuc —”

“Maybe time for a break from furniture assembling?” suggests a voice, accompanied by a quick knock in the open door. Will leans on the doorframe, grinning, box propped up on his hip.

“Will, thank the gods,” Nico sighs, relieved. He angrily shakes a tool in his direction. “Allen wrenches are fucking useless. I’m three seconds away from throwing this through the window.”

“Definitely time for a switch, then.”

Will’s smile is wide and crinkles his eyes. He’s got dimples, too, Nico is now noticing, and then very rapidly un-noticing then because gods above that is a dangerous path.

“Did you and Rachel get into another prank war?” he asks, praying the flush on his cheeks goes away.

Will glances down at his paint-spattered clothes. “Nah, this is just my painting outfit. Why ruin more than one set of clothes, you know?” He sets down the box in the middle of the room, then heads for the half-built furniture sprawled all throughout the cabin, tugging it all towards the middle. Nico inches towards the box, curious, and finds it full of dozens of paint cans and brushes, including the ones he got at Walmart.

“I didn’t know you painted.”

He flashes another grin in Nico’s direction. This one has a little mischief to it, a little teasing. His stomach swoops.

“Gotta have at least one artistic talent or my dad would disown me. Help me tape down this tarp, will you?”

It takes them twenty minutes to prep the room, protecting the floor and the furniture. Once everything is ready, Will jogs over to the CD player he gave Nico a few days ago, flicking through the stack of CDs and choosing one at random. Soft opera music begins to float around the cabin.

“Okay,” he begins, clapping his hands, “first we need a base coat. Get the white paint and the rollers.”

It takes them the rest of the day, painting until dinner, then waiting past sunset for it to dry. Nico follows Will back to his cabin that night — he wouldn’t let him sleep around the paint fumes — and the two of them return the next morning, re-donning their paint-spattered clothes. Will braids his hair, this time, tucking the little pigtails behind a kerchief. It makes Nico smile every time he looks at him.

As much as he’s in painting clothes, Nico doesn’t really do much of the painting. He stays in the centre of the room, half assembling furniture, half watching Will bring his walls to life with more colours than he’s ever seen in one place.

Will doesn’t ask what Nico wants him to paint in his murals. Instead, Nico watches as the streets of Venice begin to unfold on one of the walls, bright and blue and exactly as he remembers, even though he knows for a fact Will has never been. The shining fruit of his stepmother’s garden is next, with a notable absence of the pomegranate tree, and then the hills of New Rome, the sunflower field in rural New York Nico used to visit, the Chinese mountainscape from the first big shadow travelling jump he ever made. Even the poplar forests of the Underworld, looking much kinder and livelier in Will’s rendition than in real life, with Mrs. O’Leary and Cerberus chasing each other through the flickering leaves. Beautiful, colourful, breathtaking scenes; Nico’s favourite places, Nico’s many homes.

“I get a lot of dreams,” Will admits, dragging a smear of rich purple near the ceiling. “You’re in a lot of them. These are the places you’re smiling, the most.”

“They’re beautiful, Will.” Nico’s throat is drier than any desert he’s ever been to. “Gods, they’re more beautiful here than they are in real life.”

“Liar,” Will teases, although his smile is shy.

Nico has never seen him smile like that. He’s seen a lot more of Will in these past few days, actually; his softness, his kindness, his love.

He has only knows Will for a little over a month, he thinks. But Will loves him. That much is obvious.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

His eyes are still trained on his work. He is on his tiptoes on a step stool, one leg extended precariously, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. The curve of his brush is careful, meticulous. Only the best for his friends, for Nico. That’s Will.

“Hey,” Nico says again, more urgently. He steps forward, wrapping his fingers around his wrist.

“Just a sec, Neeks, as soon as I’m done we can —”

Nico pulls until he loses his balance, falling into Nico’s arms. He stares into wide, blue blue eyes, for one second, two, then presses their lips together. Will’s squeak of surprise is swallowed by his mouth, hands sliding up his arms to cup his face, tilting his head to the side.

“Oh,” he sighs, eyelashes ticking Nico’s cheeks as they flutter close. “Oh.”

He melts into Nico’s hold. There’s a thunk and a crinkle as his paintbrush falls from his loose fingers, splattering onto the tarp, and paint-wet hands tangle into his hair. Nico finds he doesn’t mind.

“You love me,” he murmurs in between breaths, lips brushing Will’s with every word.

“Yes,” Will breathes. He kisses Nico again, and again. “A lot.”

“Good.” He’s not sure if it’s the paint fumes making him lightheaded, or the odd, slightly uncomfortable position, or the intoxicating, delirious feel of Will’s warm skin. He’s not sure if he cares. “Good.”

It’s not quite an I-love-you-too. The words won’t form on his tongue, so instead he tightens his hold, sending them that way, and presses closer, closer, closer.

Will smiles into the kiss.

He understands just fine.

[ghouljams]

PLEASE DON'T HOLD BACK I WANT THE COWBOY AU INSIDE OF THE COWBOY AU!!!!!!! PLEASE IM ON MY HANDS AND KNEES!!!

(also can I be 🐇anon if it's not taken???)

You hear the shots before you can stop the duel. You’re just in time to see the dust settle on two bodies as you grip the handle of your kit. Two dead, what a waste. The mortician is already measuring one for a coffin. You sigh and push your hair back, start making your way to help before movement catches your eye. You whip to face the apparently alive deputy, and watch him push himself up to sit, gripping his bloody arm. That you can fix.

You hurry over to him, dropping to your knees to start pulling the needed supplies from your bag. “Almost had me worried, Price,” You tell him, cutting his shirtsleeve at the shoulder seam to yank it down. He hisses, grips his elbow to keep from flinching as you work.

“Can’t even spare me a ‘Deputy’?” He asks, watching you prod at the wound.

“Deputy is for winners,” You dip back into your bag and whistle at the saloon patrons for a stiff one. 

“Only you would consider this a loss,” He sighs, reaching for the glass the barkeep brings out. You grab it before he can and dunk your instruments in it. He grimaces, no longer interested in the drink. You hand him a strap of leather to bite as you shake the whiskey off your tweezers.

“You got shot didn’t you?” You tilt your head for a better look at the bullet lodged in his shoulder. Bullets lead to infections. You click your tweezers a few times to warn him before pushing them into the wound. You always hope the pain will be enough to deter any more duels in the future, but Price hardly does more than grunt. He’s got an iron will you suppose. 

You pull the bullet free and drop it in his waiting hand, a souvenir. Your fingers feel around the entry point, checking for any bone chips or loose lead. Price lets out a long breath through his nose, exhaling the pain. Seems shallow enough, and you don’t feel anything but the oozing of blood around your fingers. You grab the whiskey glass and tip it over the wound.

“Mmmmmmfuck.” He groans, and you can’t say you blame him, but you need to get some of the blood off. The alcohol works just as well as clean water at washing blood away. Even if the sting of it makes Price’s muscles tense, his breath shaky. You do your best to ignore it while you grab bandages from your bag. “Fuckin’ sawbones.” He grumbles.

“If you don’t want me to hurt you stop getting shot,” You give him a quick raise of your brows. You’re quick with the bandages, it’s better to be quick before the wound bleeds too much.

“Then how’d I see you?” He smiles, and you try not to smile too much in return.

“You could come to the clinic for once,” You tell him, tying off the bandage. His hand moves to rest on your knee, a comfortable weight you know well. He better watch that hand, you still need to get a sling on him.

“God I’d be good to ya’,” Price sighs.

“Yeah?” You tuck your supplies back into your bag and stand, offering a hand to help him up. He grasps your forearm with his uninjured arm and grunts as you haul him to his feet. “How’d you be good to me, when you can barely be good to yourself?” You twist to duck under his arm and wrap it around your shoulder. You think the way he leans against you may be slightly exaggerated as you help him towards your family’s clinic.

“I’d be good to ya’!” Price laughs, “Build ya’ a nice house and all the furniture in it, keep ya’ well stocked with patients.”

“You’d let me keep workin’?” You aren’t going to comment on how happy that makes you. Most men would be more insistent on their partner staying home, popping out kids, you like your work too much to give it up. Probably why you’re still single.

“Can’t deprive the town of their best doctor,” Price huffs out a heavy breath as you sit him down in the front room of the clinic.

“I thought you said I was a sawbones,” You set your bag down and go to dig through the clean clothes for a sling.

“And I’ll let you hold that against me the rest of my life, God I’d be good to ya’,” The way he says it, the explosive admission of it, makes you shake your head fondly. You focus on bending his arm into the sling, trying to keep the pain to a minimum. He grabs you and pulls you down onto his lap when you finish, both of you careful not to bump his arm.

“I think the heat’s gettin’ to ya’ deputy,” You tell him, making yourself comfortable on his lap.

“When’re you gonna say ‘yes’ to me?” He asks, and you wonder if most engagements happen like this. You don’t think so, Price is one of a kind.

“When you win a duel without a new hole to show for it,” You reach to brush some of the dust from outside off his beard, he kisses your fingers as they move over his lips.

“Might take a while then,” he relents, though you know he’s lying. You know better than anyone he’s never this careless when you aren’t on duty. It really is his best excuse to see you. You’re the only one he lets patch him up, and that’s just fine with you.

“Gives you plenty of time to build me a house.” God, you’d be good to him, you already are.

[deadpresidents]

After President Abraham Lincoln was shot during a performance of Our American Cousin at Ford's Theatre, several doctors who were in the audience and also enjoying the play rushed into the Presidential Box and began attending to the President. It was clear that Lincoln's wounds were almost certainly mortal, but the doctors still attempted to save his life. Originally thinking that the President had been stabbed, they soon found that he had been shot behind the left ear and the bullet -- a 43.75 mm ball which had been fired by John Wilkes Booth's .44 caliber Derringer -- had sliced through Lincoln's brain and lodged behind his eye sockets without exiting the skull. When Lincoln's breathing became more shallow, Dr. Charles Leale used his finger to remove blood clots from the wound, which immediately improved Lincoln's respiration.

The doctors decided to move Lincoln from the theater, but felt that the President's condition was far too weak to risk taking him back to the White House, which was several blocks away. A nearby saloon was considered just as unseemly of a place for the President to spend his last hours and likely die in as a theatre, so Lincoln was carried across the 10th Street to William Petersen's boarding house. When they brought Lincoln into the boarding house, they realized that the 6'4" President was too tall for the bed they found for him, so they laid him diagonally upon it.

It was obvious that Lincoln could not survive his wound, so the attending doctors simply tried to keep him comfortable in his final hours by clearing the blood clots in his skull that caused his breathing to become more labored. Throughout the night, the President never regained consciousness, but witnesses said that he looked peaceful as his life was drawing to a close. The only visible evidence of his mortal wound were the bloody pillows that his head rested on and the raccoon-like bruising around Lincoln's eye sockets due to the orbital bones fractured by Booth's bullet after it passed through his brain. Nine hours after he was shot, Lincoln died in Petersen's Boarding House at the age of 56.

Shortly after the President was pronounced dead, his body was placed in a coffin and transferred back to the White House in a carriage. Just a few hours later, one of the residents of Petersen's Boarding House, Julius Ulke, took a photograph (seen at the beginning of this post) of the room and the bed -- including a pillow soaked with the President's blood -- where Lincoln had died earlier that morning.

The room in Petersen's Boarding House where Abraham Lincoln died, pictured in 2007.

[sadderdaazee]

when the the surgeon described the procedure of your kidney transplant to toji, how the only left kidney in your body would be transplanted, every word was fleeing above his head. the only thing he caught was that he wasn’t allowed in the OPD. so he waits outside.

he’s reluctant to let go of your hand as you lay silly on the stretcher. he struggles to let your palm wither away into a cold bag of blood, bones and flesh.

“jiji,” your voice is embraced in a coo, anesthetics and drugs rendering your tongue delirious.

“mm, yeah?” he presses a small peck to your knuckles. the skin under his lips are scorchingly cold.

“i love you s’much,” you giggle. “will y’take me on an ice cream date when i get better?”

he crumbles.

“yes,” he says, words mingling somewhere in between croaked breaths and resigning whispers, “wherever you want.”

you smile, still so silly from the drugs. yet, your fingers find their last way into his hair, pulling him into yourself. your eyes are closing, opening — somewhere in between running between consciousness and slumber.

the last thing you feel before is the human in toji’s tears, ones that fall from his eyes to your skin. you cannot sanely tell if its his tears or yours but the sentiment only flows.

“toji zen’in.” you say, like a memory you never want to forget.

toji shakes his head.

“toji fushiguro.”

you smile.

“it has a nice ring to it.” you tell him, unsure if your words were spoken or just said in your mind. “don’t cry… jiji…”

toji swallows, shaky uncertain breaths passing his lips, a kind of uncertainty only he would wear against his sleeve for you.

and when he presses his lips to yours, you’re bare. quiet inviting you in its home. the nurse tells him you have to go. he has to let you go. let your body be cut open and be filled with a new organ.

your head lulls to the side, drug finally embracing you in its delirium.

—

your body rejected the new invader.

somewhere, he always knew your body would never live without what it has built on its own.

he wasn’t the first one to crumble when the doctors served the news. it was your mother.

he wasn’t the second either, or the third.

he didn’t cry. not when your coffin was lifted into the deep, scary ground. not when your mother clung onto him as he soothed her the best he knew.

not when everyone had mourned their part and left for their lives by the evening, and only he stood in black. not when the sky started to sob her own tears.

everything that belonged to him had withered. so, when he’s kneeling and fiddling with the stray grass fallen against your stone, he’s only staring.

“I love you too.”

or maybe he was crying. he couldn’t tell.

toji zen’in found himself to be falling into a treacherous void. found himself to be lonely, when he’s walking back home and the streets sound so empty.

and he doesn’t sleep in the same bed anymore, the mattress smells too much like you.

and toji fushiguro felt a part of him die along with you.

✩ PART 1 of toji angst series.

✩PARTS 2, 3, 4 and 5 of toji angst series.

[lisafication]

Digging Graves for your Morals; Or, The Ethical Problem of Outlawry

Hello, yes, I am here again. This one is shorter, I swear (it’s under four thousand words, even). If this is the first post from me you’re seeing, this is a follow-up to my prior essay posted here on the game The Coffin of Andy and Leyley, although it should be able to mostly stand alone.

At the end of my last essay, I touched on both the game’s nearly uncompromising moral scepticism and relativity, but I didn’t really dig into it. I outlined that the game only textually frames actions as ‘morally bad’ in the context of a morality set by the society and the world that has treated them as no better than farm animals raised for the slaughter. Well, I have a lot to say on the topic of ethics on the topic of The Coffin of Andy and Leyley, so buckle in, this one’s going to talk about the social contract, moral scepticism and everyone’s favourite topic: Mrs. Graves.

As usual, this was originally posted and formatted for on Sufficient Velocity and you can perhaps more easily read it there. Spoilers abound, and my content warning from last time still applies.

She’s not too hot on either ethics or her mother

The Meat of the Matter

Since a lot of this is optional or otherwise missable information, let’s review the premise the game gives us. If you’re already aware of all of this, I apologise, it won’t take long.

First off the bat, the quarantine at the start of the game was a hoax-driven money-making scheme of which you can pick up more-or-less all the relevant details of. This is entirely missable and by the time it’s possible to discover, our protagonists have better things to dwell on and have dialogue about, so I’ll give you a summary of what you can deduce from reading the notes and thinking about it.

The quarantine is an organ harvesting operation, as per some documents you can discover in the wardens’ office. They entrap the residents, test their blood types and starve to death those they deem surplus to requirements — alternatively the starvation itself could be their method of ‘preparing the harvest’, there’s evidence in both directions and it hardly matters — harvesting the organs of the others for sale. As our protagonists are AB-typed, the ‘universal recipient’ or ‘most selfish blood type’, they’re some of the first on the chopping block.

If you read through the newspapers and the documents in Mr. Washing Machine’s car, you can discover that ultimately ToxiSoda are responsible, and a similar thing is happening in a different city under the guise of a ‘chemical leak’.  Should you further investigate matters, you will find mentions of the ‘man behind it all’, the doctor, or the Surgeon, as the fandom have been referring to him — you may recall Mrs. Graves mentioned someone similar! Yeah, he’s the guy who runs ToxiSoda, who are themselves partners with the water company that faked the parasite outbreak in the first place.

It’s all a life insurance scam, apparently

How much the details of the operation matter is something open to interpretation — it might just be something for players to figure out and Episode 3 will not cover the Surgeon at all, or he might play a major part; it's not particularly relevant to this essay. What matters is that it happened at all — indeed, it’s fairly easy to justify Ashley and Andrew in everything they did in Episode 1 (flashbacks aside), arguing that if they’d made any other decisions they’d have died — an argument that the victims dug their own graves, even if the Graves siblings put them in them. How correct that is is a matter of debate, but that you can make the argument at all matters, and we’ll be returning to this later. In my last essay (and again in the introduction here), I made an analogy to farm animals, raised without love and for slaughter. Let’s put a pin in the ‘for slaughter’ part for now and take a look at the ‘without love’ part. 

That’s right, it’s time to meet the parents.

As Andrew notes, there are significantly more compelling reasons for you to say that

They Fuck You Up, Your Mum & Dad

They really do. 

Our charming protagonists are, as with many things depicted in this game, an exaggerated, almost farcical example of this phenomenon — one that’s just grounded enough to still feel very real, just like the siblings themselves. 

The late and lamentable Mrs. Graves is just the same: originally a teen mother, hopelessly out of depth with two difficult children — even if one was good at masking it — and an unreliable, emotionally unavailable (at least to their children) partner who can’t hold down a job, ends up foisting them off on each other and doing a Parental Negligence because she simply Cannot Cope. That’s the real part. The part where she gets paid off by an organ harvesting operation to leave them to die, that’s the borderline-farcical exaggeration that throws all the nooks and crannies of her character into sharp relief.

Mrs. Graves does not have a good relationship with either of her kids. Having self-admittedly fobbed the job of raising Ashley off on her son, to the degree that they did not even celebrate her birthday as kids, both of them hold differing degrees and types of resentment for her.

For Ashley, it’s hate — perhaps not quite so clear cut as that, as it’s her that calls for the eulogy and she shows some potential signs of discomfort while cleaning up her parents’ corpses, but by and large, it’s fairly simple and straightforward, as usual for Ashley. The sentiment is not exactly unreturned, either.

This brings Ashley’s heart great delight!

The most clear incident raising her from everyday ‘neglectful’ to ‘wow she wanted nothing to do with this kid’ is the optional ‘birthday cake’ scene, obtained by finding the present in Ashley’s first ‘transitory world’ dream, in which we see Ashley’s birthday  and the founding of a lemon cupcake tradition between Leyley and Andy. She has received nothing from her family, notes that her ‘friends’ would say they were busy before she even told them the schedule and Andy takes her out to buy cupcakes with his pocket money.

This scene gets a callback in Andrew’s dream later. Just remember to Ask Nicely, rather than Kill Her.

Parents of the year, everyone.

So with Ashley it’s as straightforward and obvious as she herself is — she hates her mother, her mother hates her. With Andrew, as with Andrew himself, it’s a fair bit more complicated. His mother is a much more nuanced figure, who is believable in her role as an unfortunate teen parent who was trying her best. He has a degree of trust in her against, seemingly, his own good judgment In her conversation with Andrew, she acknowledges her fault in raising him and seemingly sincerely tries to offer him a ‘way out’, an olive branch.

I think many people have had relationships where they might say this

This scene in particular intrigues me, because she is acknowledging fault in a way that Andrew strictly avoids doing — and well, there’s nothing Andrew likes more than a good way to avoid acknowledging any fault of his own. With her dominant relationship over their father as a model for Andrew to draw comparisons to his own relationship with Ashley with, it’s no surprise that the narrative resonates with him to the point of ‘Accept’ being many people’s first completion.

Of course, that’s not all there is to it. There is a fascinating contrast with her later conversation with Ashley, where she — despite accusing Ashley of brainwashing Andrew — refers to Leyley and Andy as ‘two psychos’ and states that she always knew they were responsible for Nina’s death and that, implicitly, they owe her for not turning them in. 

There's something about mother-daughter relationships here that I just do not have the time or reading to dig into, unfortunately.

Meanwhile, when Andrew interrogates her on her possession of their death certificates, she has… an interesting, plausible story about a life insurance scam and claims that she really did think they died in the fire, implicitly denying the claim that she sold them. It’s entirely possible that she’s describing the details of the ‘scam’ correctly — you can even buy that she genuinely does care for Andrew in some way, if not Ashley, but her claim about being an honest, grieving parent shocked at their deaths… doesn’t add up?

This is a very normal reaction to your supposedly dead children showing up in your house.

As Andrew himself notes after hearing her story, she’s full of shit. This gets into speculation, because there are a few ways to read this, but the most plausible ‘gist’ is that she and her partner were paid off in money and jobs to not raise a fuss — the surgeon she mentioned is almost certainly the founder of ToxiSoda, remember?

The overwhelming difference in presentation between how she speaks to Andrew and Ashley invites investigation — and when Andrew turns down her offer and tells her he isn’t interested in her offer in Decline, her reaction isn’t… despair, it’s shock — and well, there’s a good reason for that.

Why do you think she did it in the first place?

This is the happiest we see her

Well — it’s so she can finally fit into society. That white picket fence, that idyllic 1950s life — hell you can call it the American Dream. She wants that, or as close to it as she can get — the working-class teen mother, living in poverty, aspiring to the middle-class. It’s a very common, very real and very grounded motivation.

And to that end, she effectively sold off her children. It’s no wonder she can’t fathom why Andrew wouldn’t choose the same.

That’s the part that makes you think — just like the deaths in Episode 1, well- maybe the siblings are justified here, too. It’s a weaker argument, but it’s still one you can make under many common moral paradigms today — what goes around comes around, all that jazz. Just look at how awful she was to Ashley.

She’s finally found what she’s been striving for.

Here’s the thing, here’s the thing though — what, reasonably, could she have done? Andrew and Ashley briefly highlight this in conversation about Ashley’s ‘friends’ in Episode 1 — was she supposed to fight gunmen to try and break them out? Throw food to the balcony from four stories?

Moreover, as she herself says to Andrew… would anyone really have been able to do better than her in her position? She was seventeen when Ashley was born, living in poverty with a partner who couldn’t even remember Andrew’s name when he was a kid. Anyone would have had difficulty, let alone with these kids.

Her evils are — they’re not any deliberate action, but rather… prompted inaction. She didn’t have the emotional energy, resources or plain capability to properly parent her children, she didn’t have any solutions to their murder of Nina in a state so blatantly hostile to its underclass, she didn’t have a way to connect with Ashley and she took the money rather than fight a futile and likely suicidal battle against a corporation and its armed goons in a dystopian setting.

Ashley, notably, does not deny this.

Her sin is the one we’re all, I think, guilty of — that of not trying hard enough, that of inaction in the face of difficult tasks, of not standing up on principle because it’s just too much that day and you don’t have the spoons, you’ll do it tomorrow (no you won’t). It’s a petty, everyday kind of evil — that of not doing enough. 

Is that enough to condemn her? Certainly, there’s a pretty manipulative read of her that likely has some truth to it — in the locked door in Ashley’s dream in ‘Decay’ you can discover that she has a ‘not-hatched’ tar soul — but consider that lens — the game won’t make up your mind for you, so you’ll need to choose that for yourself.

The dad is interesting in terms of negative space — but he’s mostly important in that he doesn’t matter, so I decided to not fit him in here. He has art, though — just no sprite, because, well, he’s never mattered to either sibling.

The Contract We Call Society

Right, it’s time to get a little bit Theoretical in here. Not much, but a little. Social contract theory is a complex topic with a lot of nuance, much of which I will be eliding in the name of not writing a twenty thousand word paper on semiotics, law, and anthropology, but the short analogy is… the idea that as long as you play by society’s rules, as long as you are a good citizen, a good person, the state, or the community, will take care of you.

In a number of ways, the harshest penalty levied by many historical states and legal codes was not death, but rather the criminal status of outlawry, a practice that’s cropped up a number of times in history — the practice of no longer being protected by the law. This meant one could be killed or worse with impunity — you were no longer protected by mob justice and, while overexaggerated as a term of reference, certain texts from Medieval England refer to outlaws as bearing a wolfshead, ‘for the wolf is a beast hated by all folk’. Never minding that wolves are actually delightful, this was a time when wolves were actively hunted and sold by people — and the same was intended to happen to outlaws. They were ‘fair targets’ as far as society was concerned, no longer to be treated as your fellow citizens.

This was the gravest punishment on the books, for most of these legal codes — something saved for those who had broken the social contract so completely that there could be no turning back (civil outlawry is… a bit different, that’s not the topic here). Among others, a modern critique of the concept is that it offers no incentive for improvement, no incentive to change or to cease harming society — if an outlaw has none of the social contract’s protections, what reason do they have to obey… any of the social contract? If that seems familiar, well, let me ask you this:

What if the state or community fails its end first? What responsibility does the innocent outlaw have to that contract?

It’s an interesting phrasing, that the world is better off.

It’s time to talk about the incest, and part of why it’s there. The cannibalism too, but that’s less impactful here. If you’ve seen me elsewhere, you might have seen me say that the incest is a load-bearing narrative pillar — in large part due to it being a critical facet of the siblings’ relationship, but in another large part due to it being an equally critical part of how the game uses taboo.

A taboo is in this context something that is considered repulsive and to be avoided by society. It’s a more complex term than that — you can also use it for certain sacred actions or utterances that are only permitted to certain people, for example — but that’s what it is here. Swearing, premarital sex, BDSM and murder are, approximately from weak to strong, some example taboos held in modern Anglospheric society. 

Strong taboos are a staple of horror — they shock, they disgust, they draw people’s attention and it’s that last one that’s critical here. Incest is a very strong taboo — while I am absolutely not segueing into its historical context, the very well-established Westermarck effect gives it a certain timelessness and immunity to desensitisation that most other taboos don’t have — murder, to contrast, is a taboo we’re largely desensitised to in modern media and works of modern media have to put in actual work to make a murder seem horrifying — through atmosphere, cinematography, evocative prose etc.

And this is important because the use of taboo I’m covering in this essay is that the incest is used to invite judgment — it is so ingrained as a ‘wrong thing’ in people’s brains almost regardless of background that it forces the player to engage with the work morally. And that’s where the fun starts.

I’ve mentioned before, very briefly, about the juxtaposition of tone between the Burial & Decay endings, contrasting with the very monstrous difference in morality. Burial is remarkably light-hearted — they play around with the drain blockage, they joke about their mother’s personality and this is further exaggerated on the Love path, where Andrew is much more comfortable with casual contact and the two make a game out of how far they can throw their parents’ skulls, the humour is directly contrasted against their abhorrent actions.

I’ll be real Ashley is far more merciful than I, I’m shuddering at the thought of that gunk in my hair

In comparison, Decay is… bleak. I’ve seen it being referred to as being ‘emotionally sandblasted’ and, yeah I think that’s fair — it’s uncomfortable, it’s heavy and it’s just not fun. And this is the route in which, if you chose Trust into Accept, Andrew has bought into the narrative that his mother’s offered — that he can fit just fine into society if he wasn’t stuck, if not for Ashley — the route that ‘fits’ most closely to the social contract, to Andrew feeling the guilt that we think he should and hating the monsters that they’ve become, as the social contract deems them. Given the pains the game takes to attach the player to the protagonists, this normative moral ending is very easily interpreted as the bad ending.

And well, isn’t it?

Thing is, as mentioned above, the social contract has never held up its end for them. The game takes careful pains to point out to a viewer that they’ve never had the life that society promises people, so why do its moral standards apply?

The game invites you to judge the characters, and in the same motion, asks you from what principles you judge them, making a pretty good guess in that, like most people who haven’t spent a large amount of time navel-gazing and reading some very boring books by very dusty old men, they come from the society around you.

Love even has Ashley express this sentiment directly after the incestuous dream — she asks you — well, Andrew, but this is also something for the player to mull over — why this is what’s engaged your morality or sense of revulsion, rather than the desecration, cannibalism or murder.

Andrew and Ashley are both very funny and very fascinating in this scene.

And that’s the framing that it casts all of its own moral judgement in — even the ‘tar-soul’ aspect is… well, it’s unclear what it even means. Mrs. Graves was a ‘not-hatched’ tar soul, after all. Other than that, it’s society and the world being better off without them, rather than any kind of assertion of objective morality. Due to the present of ‘soul colour’, we’ll presumably see the game make some moral statements in Episode 3, but as it stands?

It’s nearly completely morally sceptical, in and of itself — it’s not interested in moral assertions or education, it’s interested in making you question your own morals. Deconstructive (not that kind), rather than dialectic, to be mildly pretentious.

It uses taboo and shock to invite moral judgement, but then uses tone, charm and our instinct to look for the happiest end for our blorbos to get you to recognise that these are principles you yourself brought into the game, rather than any it’s handed you. 

To summarise: you’ve brought these principles in from society, but what do the siblings, the protagonists, the villains to the world, owe society? Enough that they should follow them? It failed them first, after all.

Closing Thoughts

This one is a bit less energetic than the last, tragically — my sleeping schedule is the stuff of nightmares recently, I love windy weather. Wait, no the opposite. Huge thank you to everyone who commented on the last one, you are the wind beneath my wings and the main reason I managed to get this out this week.

This essay is a bit more interpretative than my last one — certainly, there are alternative readings and I’ve been toying with the idea of deliberately taking a reading I don’t like very much and writing from that perspective as a demonstrative exercise recently — mostly that you shouldn’t just take my word for things!

Otherwise, if the last bit at the end seemed murky, I apologise — I did try to write a more detailed version, but firstly, it was three thousand words and secondly, I re-read it the next day and I could not understand what the fuck I was talking about. Personally, I blame Derrida — suffice to say that I strongly recommend playing through it with an eye towards considering culpability, morality and why you think certain characters are more or less forgivable than others, and for what deeds. See what you get out of it.

I managed to keep one particular thread open to wrap up with here —  I try to keep speculation on Episode 3 content to a minimum in the main essays, but it should be fine here — you might have noticed that I refer to Episode 1 and Episode 2 being on something of a spectrum of justifiability, with the siblings’ actions being ‘more’ justifiable in Episode 1 and ‘less’ justifiable — but still justifiable if you try — in Episode 2. 

To continue the thought of the happiest ending being the one in which they step the furthest away from common morality and to further jar the viewers’ sense of morality by contrasting societal morality and blorbo-oriented morality, Episode 3: Burial could continue this trend in having a major victim be someone who, well, has done nothing wrong and isn’t even guilty of bystander syndrome.

I wonder if there’s any good candidates, someone who’s sweet, harmless and will indisputably be an innocent victim…

…I’m sure she’ll be fine

[abibliophobiaa]

Eddie Munson - hands

eddie munson x afab!pregnant!reader.

——

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

You were meant to be gallivanting across California. Celebrating the successes of Corroded Coffin’s newest album release. Enjoying their skyrocket to fame. Meant to be clinking champagne glasses and toasting to future endeavors.

Meant to be enjoying your new marriage, officiated by an Elvis impersonator on an impromptu visit to Vegas. Instead, you’re laid back on a crinkly bed of paper, staring up into a tiled ceiling, arm slung low over your hips, a colorful bandaid curled around the hitch in your elbow from the blood drawn only moments ago now.

Clutched in your other hand is the tiny little picture of your baby. Twelve weeks, based on the measurements the doctor had taken. Twelve weeks, and you’d been none the wiser. Chalked missed periods up to life on the road, to the adjustment in moving into your new home, to the chaos of life at present.

But no—no, it seemed fate had other plans. Plans of tiny hands and equally small feet. Little onesies and diaper changes, morning feedings and the sickness in the pit of your stomach for the past few weeks that definitely wasn’t only confined to mornings like some would have assured you.

You drove home in silence. One hand clutched tight around the steering wheel, the other over the small curve of your stomach you’d assumed was bloating from an oncoming period. Turned out it was only the little jumping bean dancing away within.

The door to the car slammed behind you, laughter from your backyard carrying over as you approach the side gate, slipping onto the patio with a exasperated sigh, the small bag of groceries and other necessities you’d grabbed at some stores on the way home thumping against your thigh.

Eddie jumped to his feet, telling the rest of the band who waved in greeting to hold on a moment before they continued in whatever they’d been talking about so he could help you. Normally you’d grin, lean over and kiss him soundly, thank him for the help. But anxiety crawled up your throat, robbed you of the excitement you’d normally feel for the man you’d loved since high school.

He waited until you were both inside your new home to say anything. Dropped the bags he’d taken out of your hands onto the kitchen island and dragged you closer by the belt loops on your jean shorts. Nudged his nose against the curve of your cheek until you grinned and finally leaned up to kiss him softly.

“How was the doctor?” he asked, rubbing a hand up and down your arm.

“I don’t want to talk about the doctor,” you groaned, slipping out of his arms. The refrigerator door was opened and you poured yourself a glass of lemonade, Eddie’s eyes narrowed on your form. “What? It wasn’t exciting. Normal stuff.”

Lie, lie, lie.

And you didn’t even know why you did it. It wasn’t like Eddie and you hadn’t dreamed up your future. Wondered what it would look like. Thought about if it involved a little Eddie or miniature you.

You just hadn’t expected it now.

“What did they say about you being sick?”

They’d said it was normal given your ‘condition.’ That despite you already being in your second trimester, sometimes women proceeded to be sick throughout the entirety of their pregnancy. A thought that made your stomach turn again, back of your hand pressed to your lips, inhaling deeply though your nose.

The momentary distraction proved enough to keep your eyes off of Eddie as he maneuvered around the kitchen island. Reached into one of the paper bags on the counter and accidentally knocked your pocketbook down with it. It was a brief moment. Thirty seconds passed, at most. But it was enough for him to notice the darkened edge of the photo the doctor had given you.

The little profile of the baby was unmistakable. Rounded head, curved back, little arms and legs tucked up near its face.

“Sweetheart…” Eddie lifted himself upright, the photo shaking in his trembling hands.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, stepping into the circle of his waiting arms as he pushed the photo onto the counter beside him, welcoming you into the safety of his chest.

“You’re sorry?” he questioned against your hairline, kissing the skin there. Tipped your head up until your eyes met his. You could see the tears collecting on his bottom lash line. Caught the subtle tremble of his bottom lip. “I—why are you sorry?”

“The timing. The album release. The upcoming tour,” you began, sniffling noisily. “The new house. And the fact we literally got married a few weeks ago. I haven’t even gotten used to thinking of myself as a wife and now I’m going to be a mom and I—”

“You’re pregnant.” A statement. Not a question.

Confused, you nod. “Yes, I guess that’s what I’m trying to tell you right now—”

“Are you happy about it?” he asked.

You hadn’t really thought about it. At the time you’d found out, your thoughts had been a whirlwind. Fears of potentially having put the baby in danger because you hadn’t known about it running rampant through your mind. Wondering if they were okay, if everything had looked normal. Wondering how to care for your body now that it was housing another human, what to eat, what to do. Thinking further down the line about swollen feet, aching back, and birth.

But now?

Eyes drifted over to the photo once more. Your fingers reached out to grip it in hand, holding it in the space between your husband and yourself, shoulder pressed into his chest, his hand curled around your hip. His ringed finger traced the profile of the baby’s head, and you allowed yourself the brief fantasy of Eddie a few months from now holding a newborn in his arms, cradling it like it was the most precious thing in this world.

A part of you. A part of him. Treasured and loved.

Even now.

You could see it in the waver of Eddie’s eyes. The softened look in that chocolate brown stare.

“I am,” you said, more so to yourself than anything else.

“Then everything else doesn’t matter,” he promised, drawing your gaze back to his face. “We figure it all out together.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he promised, hand coming down to rest along your midsection. “I’m gonna be a dad, huh?”

“Crazy, right?” You wrinkled your nose and he kissed it, then kissed your forehead lovingly. “You excited?”

“Scared as all hell. But I’m excited.” He led you toward the side patio door, beaming so bright he mimicked the sun looming above. “Can I tell the guys?”

You nodded and Eddie slid the door open.

“Hey assholes!”

Three heads turned his way, brows arched high on their foreheads.

“I’m gonna be a dad!”

They whooped and hollered and clapped their hands like you’d both won a prize. And you laughed until your cheeks hurt, your husband’s band mates coming up one by one to congratulate you on the littlest Munson.

Later, you lay sprawled on your living room couch, your head on Eddie’s lap and his hand now where it permanently rested across your stomach.

His smallest friend, his newest little sheep, his child.

It was quiet, the sounds of your television lulling you into a welcoming sleepy daze.

And then, “What do you think about the name…”

——

[weirdlookindog]

Doctor Blood's Coffin (1961) - British Quad

[schlock-luster-video]

On July 15, 2007 Dr. Blood's Coffin star Kieron Moore died.

Rest in Peace (1924 - 2007)

[madelynraemunson]

CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club series)

(strip club owner!eddie × fem!exotic dancer!hargrove!× reader)

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ minors get out of my kitchen

Chapter 010: The Freak

A fight breaks out at the Hellfire Gentlemen’s Club.

* = somewhat smut

** = smut

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013**, 014**, 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

word count: 4.4k words

warnings & disclaimers — mentions of seggs tr@ff!ck!ng, lots of blood, violence, physical altercation, profanities, glass shattering, screaming, jealousy

“I feel it coming, my soul cannot be found. I feel it coming, don’t fucking tie me down.”

♡

Eddie is glued to Nina’s hip during her orientation.

You can hardly watch. You can’t even listen. All Back of the House seems to be talking about is the fact that the cute new girl pulled up to work with Eddie. Apparently she skipped out of the passenger side of his van stoned out of her mind, waltzing in absentmindedly while Eddie opened the door for her.

Nina’s excuse was that she didn't have a ride to work. And while that may be true, your jealousy was projecting itself...hard. The times you were in Eddie’s van sitting right where she was were completely unrelated to work.

But Nina is a pretty girl. Eddie does love doing favors for pretty girls who flatter him.

You still couldn’t figure out why no one will talk about anything else. Like how Henry has evidently been spiraling into a lonely, seasonal depressive episode and could snap any minute. Or how whoever is closing isn’t sweeping the aisle all the way through. Also, one of the lights keeps flickering. Totally throws off the whole vibe of VECNA’S LAIR.

But no, the hot topic of today’s shift is still Nina and Eddie.

It's an awakening for you though. Now you really understand and have accepted that you are no different from everyone else.

Eddie’s jokes? He recycles with everybody.

Food? Makes for everybody.

Smoking and drinking in his van? With everybody.

Calls on Henry to fight off the bad guys? Yes, for everybody…

You are not special.

Speaking of Henry…he’s off task again. Luckily lunches are usually not busy so he can afford to be away from the door.

Henry is at VECNA’S LAIR with you, chatting away with Eddie’s buddy Gareth while you give Gareth a lap dance. And you can tell by the eagerness in Henry’s eyes that he’s anticipating his dance that you agreed to do for him to combat his loneliness.

“You gotta let me know how your dance goes, Creel,” Gareth grins. “Shy Girl is one of the best.”

Gareth is one of your regulars. He went to school with Eddie, played in his band Corroded Coffin when they were younger, and he also tips well. Eddie usually stays and chats with him, but today he is off and aloof, avoiding any type of eye contact with the both of you.

Screw Eddie. He’s seemed to have forgotten about you already now that there’s a new toy for him to play with.

“I love how you move your hips, babe,” Henry comments, snapping you back into reality. “And how you bond with every customer. I had no idea men pay you just to talk to them sometimes.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” you nod all while grinding yourself onto Gareth, hands combing through his wavy hair and trailing down to graze his neck. “Some guys just come here just to vent. Business men, teachers, doctors...”

“That’s really nice,” Henry blushes.

“Bouncers too,” you wink at him. “You know, when they’re not clocked in and supposed to be working.”

Henry’s eyes widen as he realizes, and soon he’s back up and starting towards the door. You and Gareth share an innocent chuckle about it before carrying on with your business.

"I can tell that dude is lonely," Gareth makes the same observation. "He doesn't have that many friends outside work."

"I wonder why," you ponder aloud, doing a little dance on Gareth’s lap. "He's so nice."

"From what Eddie told me, it's hard for Henry to open up to people," your patron explains. "Dude had a fucked up home life when he was younger. Dad was a piece of shit to him and his sister. Abused the shit outta 'em and their mom."

There's a pattern here. You try not to think about it.

"Anyways," Gareth says pulling out a $20 bill. "Can you give me scratches on my back? Trying to make an ex flame jealous."

"You manipulative fuck," you banter, snagging the $20 from him anyway. "I'm sure you have your reasons though."

So you honor Gareth's requests and leave some sharp etchings on his back, one large scratch in the shape of a heart.

You scan the club as you work, searching for your sister. Max is spotted near the entrance of the club, acquainting herself with Lucas and Dustin. She also met Steve earlier today and admitted to you that she has an innocent crush on him.

Of course she would. Who wouldn’t have a crush on The King?

You smile at how easy Max makes friends. She tries not to look at you while working but sometimes her curiosity takes over.

Gareth nods towards her.

"I see your sister knows the big secret now."

"Yeah, one less thing to worry about," you shrug sheepishly.

"She's supportive, I'm assuming?"

"Very."

"That's good," Gareth rubs your back. "I'm happy for you."

“Thanks,” you smile.

You catch sight of Steve next as he walks over to you. He greets you with a warm kiss and rests a hand at your waist.

Eddie watches you with Steve and Gareth, attempting to remain composed and professional with Nina as he spots her on the pole.

"What is going on here?" Steve asks you.

"I'm trying to make one of Gareth's ol' lady friends jealous," you explain. "Leaving him scratches and all."

"I love your sharp ass nails," Gareth swoons. He hands you a five.

"You are just spoiling me today,” you coo. “You can pick out my nail color next, Gare.”

"Green," Gareth answers right away.

"Yeah, I second that," Steve agrees.

Steve leans in to kiss you. You kiss him back, affectionately, relishing in how beautiful Steve always made you feel. Meanwhile, Gareth watches, running his hands softly across your thighs and muttering a soft, “fuck…”

And then you hear Eddie clear his throat closeby you.

"Jesus H. Christ," you hear Eddie grimace.

Eddie sounds uncomfortable. Good. It is not until someone else speaks that you realize he was shaken up about something else.

“Well well well,” comes a voice. “Looking just as skanky as you did when I last saw you.”

You look to see the patron standing by the entrance. He’s the scariest he’s ever looked. Your heart sinks to the floor.

It’s hard for you to find the words. “You...”

“Boo,” he grins, amused at how startled you are. “Kinda insulting that you think all these men can give you more than I can.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you demand.

Frantic footsteps sound not too long after, and Henry comes spilling in. He looks mortified, panicked. He had one job and he failed to do it.

“Hargrove, I’m sorry!”

“Henry!” you scold him, almost at a scream-whisper. “You weren’t supposed to let him in!”

“I didn’t know!” Henry exclaims.

“I thought Eddie told you!”

“I forgot!” Henry says. “It all happened so fast.”

“Yeah, security here sucks,” the man you’re tempted to throw something at smirks.

A crowd starts to form, which is odd because no one said anything that inherently stood out. But energy doesn’t lie. The tension in the room is noticeable.

“You can’t be here,” Eddie’s voice darkens.

Eddie makes his way down from the stage and to the front of the club, Nina watching in confusion as everyone huddled around. Eddie clears his throat and stands with his chest propped forward, chin raised along with his gritted teeth.

“You’re not welcome here,” your boss snaps.

“That’s no way to talk to a customer…”

“I know who you’re here for and you can’t have her,” Eddie growls.

Eddie looks over at you. Making his way into the crossfire, Eddie creates even more space between the two of you. Henry stays where he’s at on high alert.

“And I own this joint. So I can refuse service to anyone… Billy.”

Your twin brother flashes a dangerous, amused smile. “I see I’ve become a household name.”

Billy inches closer to you, leaving you paralyzed in place.

He looks different from when you last saw him. A lot more muscular. His beer belly is gone, and he finally shaved that obnoxious porn stache that he swore drew in all the ladies. Billy looks more satisfied at your horror than angry at who you’ve become.

A million thoughts are racing through your head. How could your brother have possibly known where you are? Did you leave your location on? Did you butt-dial him? Was it 'twintuition'?

Then you remember he's Billy. And a sociopath like Billy always finds a way to win.

“Eddie Munson,” Billy continues. “Owner of The Hellfire Club. Drug dealer. Car jacker. The town FREAK who’s notorious for sleeping with his employees before attempting to sell them into a sex trafficking ring in the outskirts of town.”

“That is SO NOT TRUE!” you hear Chrissy scream from behind the boys.

“Oh, hey Cherry!” Billy chimes. “Huge fan of your work. So is Eddie, though. And a million other men, so what makes me special huh?”

Henry is hovering, lingering between Eddie and Billy with a stance you knew all too well. The angled torso, a hand floating ready to butt in. The memories come flooding into the room in the form of burning tears against your waterline. Your throat is tight.

“How…the fuck…” you choke. “Did you find me?”

Billy flashes you his phone. Looking through his cracked screen, you see that the evidence is all on Reddit. Sure enough, there you were, doing your thing in a video surrounded by tons of men, exposing your birthmark that’s oh so similar to Billy’s.

“This girl is so fucking hot!” a Redditor comments.

“What’s her name?” someone asks.

“She goes by Shy Girl,” another answers. “Hellfire Gentlemen’s Club in Hawkins, IN.”

It’s no surprise that Billy follows the ‘stripper’ Sub-Reddit. You’ve gone viral, so of course he was bound to see it.

“Ever heard of a digital footprint?” Billy questions darkly. “Shy Girl?”

You gulp. In the age of technology, you should’ve known that your cover would be blown if you stood out well enough. How could you be so stupid?

“Oh look!” your brother chuckles. “There it is, the biggest giveaway of all. Right front and center… your birthmark."

“You win,” is all you can say. “You can stop now.”

“I’m not trying to win anything,” Billy jeers. “I’m just saying, if you had a brain, you would’ve at least thought to cover it up with makeup or something.”

Eddie looks over at you with sad eyes. It’s the first time he truly looked helpless. A part of him also looks like his own cover is blown too. You can’t help but wonder why.

“Yeah, you could say I did my research,” Billy draws on. He shoves his phone back into his pocket. “It kept me occupied on the plane. The news articles aren’t hard to find either. Hawkins is pretty small. A whole shoebox compared to Leucadia.”

His eyes dart back to Eddie. “And I’ve read up a lot about you.”

“You know the media loves to twist things,” Eddie hisses. “Especially if everything about me fits the narrative they’re trying to sell.”

Billy decides to challenge him. “So you’re saying everything is fake news?”

Eddie doesn’t comment. It strikes you odd that Eddie doesn’t even try to defend himself. What could he and Billy possibly be talking about it?

“Funny, I on the contrary believe you’ve earned your reputation,” Billy insists.

“What is he talking about Eddie?” you ask.

“Just forget about it,” Eddie shuts down.

“Yeah, forget about it,” Billy somewhat agrees. He turns to you. “You’re coming with me.”

You turn to Max. She watches, terrified as Billy ushers you in the corner. You’re too drained to fight back so you let him. But when you finally meet his eyes, Billy looks like your brother again.

“Seriously, WHAT were you thinking?” his voice shows genuine concern.

Billy sounds more disappointed now than vengeful.

“This is all because of YOU,” you snap. “I had no choice.”

“That’s your bullshit excuse?” Billy demands, eyes welling up with tears. “You’re a fucking waitress! I’m sure Benny’s down the block would’ve sufficed.”

Billy’s an asshole, for sure. But at the end of the day he’s still a multifaceted human. When the trauma doesn’t take over, he’s a level-headed individual. A clear thinker with good critical thinking skills and an ability to read the room. Something you’ve spent your whole life second-guessing yourself over.

Your brother continues his tangent.

“YOU HAVEN’T DANCED IN YEARS, first of all. The only ‘stripping’ you know is when you go skinny dipping with your little hoe friends at Black's Beach. You don’t have a permit to dance, which I’m pretty sure is illegal somehow because EVERYWHERE ELSE in Indiana requires a stripping permit. You don’t even know anything about what this industry entails, yet you cannonball headfirst into it like it’s just easy. This industry is a hotspot for sex trafficking. Millions and women and little girls are kidnapped every year and forced into sex work, don’t you know that?”

Billy nudges the ribbons in your hair.

“Child-like ribbons in your hair too. You disgust me.”

He pauses. It’s like he has an epiphany. The devilish smirk returns.

“But maybe Eddie knew that,” he tuts, waving a stupid finger of his in the air. “BINGO! With the little experience you have, Eddie must’ve known you were naive. Desperate. A little bit of a slut. Eddie knew he just HAD to get his hands on you. Take advantage of you. Exploit you.”

“Shut up.”

You knew Billy was being dumb. But what he says makes sense. And in the depths of your wounded heart, what he said felt true in a sense. Because there was a time you did feel betrayed by Eddie. Meanwhile Eddie has gone pale.

All eyes are on you now, and not for the reason you want. Sure, it’s a strip club. But never have you ever felt so naked. Never has your soul ever felt so exposed.

“Yeah…” Billy grins. It’s like you can see the gears grinding in his head. He flashes Eddie a disgusted look. “That’s exactly what it is. You know, you give me the creeps, Munson. Sure you hear that a lot.”

“You give me the creeps…Hargrove,” Eddie counters. “With how IN LOVE you seem to be with your sister.”

Eddie takes a few steps towards him to elaborate.

“Showing up to the place she strips at…causing a scene when you see her on someone’s lap… and then proceeding to tell her no one will love her like you do?”

Eddie scoffs.

“Yeah. Totally not creepy.”

“We’re family, Eddie,” Billy sighs. “Families love each other. Of course you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Hey, douchebag—” Steve begins but Chrissy stops him.

“Too fucking far, Billy,” you plead. “Stop.”

“You know what else I found out?” Billy smiles. “Your boy toy Eddie comes from a long line of crooks.”

Billy turns to Eddie. “Your half brother Eagan is a con man in Montauk, New York. And your other brother Ansen Wayne back in Memphis got arrested for, guess what? Arson! Funny.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Chrissy roars again.

But Billy proceeds. “And if I’m not mistaken, your dad Al is a drug dealer who married one of his clients, your mother. And guess what? When she wasn’t bringing him any money? He pimp slapped her in broad daylight and eventually slit her throat.”

Billy looks you in the eyes when he says that.

“How tragic,” Billy breathes. “Dad killing Mom.”

Billy turns back to Eddie.

“One dysfunctional ass family. And a poor excuse of a son.”

“Takes one to know one,” Eddie spits.

Billy laughs and nods. You’re surprised that doesn’t set him off.

“I’m not entertaining this,” your brother refuses. “I’m trying to be a better person, but Munson you are pushing it. Nah, my family is where I draw the line. Come on, sis. You’re coming with me.”

Yanking you by the wrist, Billy pulls you along with him.

“No,” you refuse.

But his grip is too tight. Now you’re just along for the ride.

“I would never do anything to hurt your sister,” Eddie says, running after you both. Henry follows closely behind Eddie. “Surely that’s something you can’t say.”

“You’d never do anything to hurt her?” Billy halts challenging him with the most satisfied grin on his face. “You’d never do anything to hurt her?”

Eddie nods. Billy releases you, sending you flying forward into Max’s arms. She’s shaking when you wrap your arms around her for comfort.

“What happened to Isabelle then, Eddie?” Billy taunts him. “Court records are also public, you know.”

Isabelle. Eddie’s ex-girlfriend. How does Eddie’s ex-GF fit into Hellfire’s narrative? In your mind you always thought Isabelle was a random chick.

The whole room is silent. It’s like a wave washed over everybody. Eddie simply stands there, no visible reaction besides the look of defeat.

Something tells you something is very, very wrong. Finally, Eddie speaks.

“Don’t you EVER bring up my wife again,” Eddie’s voice is breaking. “I loved her with my whole heart.”

Your world stops. Everyone else’s keeps going.

“Your wife?” you exclaim. “You have a wife?”

Billy exudes a Joker-like laugh as he watches the lore unravel.

“Ex-wife,” Eddie corrects himself. “We’re separated.”

His gaze burns into Billy.

“Since you’re such a historian, Hargrove,” Eddie hisses. “I’m afraid you missed the part where Isabelle used me to get her hands on my business and then weaponized the fact that she’s a woman to try and tarnish it during our separation. But of course, it doesn’t feed your narrative about me so you’re purposely leaving it out.”

“That’s what you get then,” Billy’s tongue glides against his inner cheek. “For getting involved with an employee. They’re all the same. A bunch of gold-digging whores.”

It all makes sense now. You look over at Eddie. Plastered on his face is the same haunted eyes he had the night he tried to resist your advances. Now you know why Eddie was so hesitant to pursue you. He wasn’t playing hard to get. He was guarding his heart. And his business.

“So, you wanna tell us about the trafficking ring?” Billy questions.

“I didn’t try to sell her,” Eddie spat. “God dammit. Our marriage was bleeding into work so I had to send her to a different club. One I thought I trusted. But the owner stabbed me in the back also.”

“Yeah!” Chrissy adds. “He was an undercover pimp! Didn’t you read the court docs on the plane like you said?”

“He’s not exactly book smart, Chris,” Eddie smirks. “Too many big words for his big brain to handle.”

There’s nothing else for Billy to say. His failed attempt to paint Eddie as the bad guy and him as the hero did not go to plan. But as usual, Billy wants the last word.

“Stay away from my sister.”

And soon your wrists are suffocated by his grip again. You whimper in fear as Billy drags you along, angrily pulling you towards the exit while resisting your kicks and shoves.

“This is what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna go put your fucking clothes on,” Billy’s voice shakes. “Grab your shit, and you and Max are gonna come back home with me. Away from this shady bullshit.”

You can tell Billy is also terrified for you. But this is your story to write now. Not his. This is a narrative he cannot control.

“No!” you scream. “My new life is HERE.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” Billy denies. “Your life and Max’s lives are in California.”

“Are you deaf?” Steve demands. “She said no. Let her go.”

“Aw, now Walmart Ashton Kutcher has something to say!”

“Leave me alone, Billy,” you wail. “We are not going with you.”

“It’s all an inside job,” Billy is shaking now. “He’s no good for you, sis. Don’t you understand? How can you be so blind?”

“It’s my journey!” you roar. “And my life. You don’t get to control me anymore, especially since you’re part of the problem. And I’d rather be provided for by men like you than live with you ever again.”

Billy can only chuckle. “You’re delusional.”

He grabs Max on the way out.

“Max come on.”

“NO!” Max refuses.

Steve jumps in front of her and pulls her behind him. Billy rushes to grab Steve but is pushed back by Henry.

“Why are you grabbing Harrington?” Henry demands.

“Why’s he grabbing my sister?”

You’re waiting for Billy to face Henry’s wrath. He’s already trying to create space between the both of you so that you can wriggle free.

“HEY!”

To your surprise, the fist that meet’s Billy’s nose isn’t Henry’s.

“EDDIE!” Chrissy shrieks.

“WHOA MAN!” Steve screams, trying to run and stop the fight but Henry tackles him.

“EDDIE WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Dustin demands. “EDDIE, STOP!”

Billy is blindsided by Eddie with little to no time to react. Eddie gets two good punches in when he’s sprawled on top of him.

But Billy is quick to bounce back. Already accustomed to punches, Billy allows Eddie a few more blows to tire him out. When his hair gets in the way, Billy grabs Eddie by the wrist and tosses him off, hoisting himself over him to get him in a headlock.

“Son…of…a BITCH!” Eddie elbows him.

And as Billy scrunches to block his ribcage, Eddie gets him with a good left hook and a right cross-jab.

Blood splatters from Billy’s nose onto the surrounding area.

“HOLY SHIT!” Dustin shrieks.

“BILLY!” Maxine screams.

“You guys, STOP!” you order.

You rush over to your brother and attempt to pry him off. Steve rushes to Eddie and tries to do the same.

Billy’s stumbling back, unusual since he always wins fights. This is causing you to stumble back and lose your grip on him. Eddie gets a few more good punches in.

Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab-cross. Upper cut. Upper cut. And a seismic kick to the solar plexus.

Eddie Munson is strong.

“EDDIE, LEAVE HIM ALONE!” cries Chrissy. “YOU’RE GONNA KILL HIM IF YOU DON’T STOP.”

“Yeah?” Eddie mutters. “Well that’s kinda the plan.”

When he hears that, Henry stops whatever he’s doing to charge towards Billy and Eddie. You feel yourself grow lightheaded because of the amount of blood that has been expelled. You can almost smell the iron.

“Nope. That’s enough,” Henry declares, dragging your boss away this time.

Eddie has the advantage now during this time, and he uses all of it, punching Billy mercilessly into the ground. Billy tries to get up, but fails, and just when he’s not looking, Eddie sneaks a few roundhouse kicks to his head and neck.

The blood starts to pool.

“EDDIE, STOP!” everyone continuously chants.

“EDDIE, LET IT GO MAN!” Gareth begs.

“EDDIE, GET OFF OF HIM NOW!” Chrissy pleads.

“IT’S NOT WORTH IT!” Steve says to him.

“YES THE FUCK IT IS!” Eddie roars. “IT IS WORTH IT!”

The sound of glass shattering fills your ears as you look over at the boys. Henry managed to tackle Eddie in one brisk movement, unfortunately taking a small table that housed some beer bottles on it with them.

Now it smells like rust and Corona.

Gareth and Steve take over now, pulling Eddie away while Eddie cusses Billy out through his bloody nose. Meanwhile, Max rushes to Billy’s side and urges him to get out. Henry runs to her aid, dragging out your volatile twin brother so he wouldn’t harm anybody else. Billy’s out of sight now, but the thought of him still lingering in Hawkins until he sees you two again is unsettling.

“Whoa,” Steve exhales.

“What?” you ask him, crossing your arms in frustration.

“Eddie just fought someone,” he pants. “Your brother, Billy at that.”

You try to shrug it off. “Big deal,” you say. “Fights happen all the time here.”

“You don’t understand Hargrove,” Henry says, walking up you. “Eddie never fights anyone.”

You turn to face Henry.

“That’s what I’m here for,” the unscathed bodyguard explains.

———————-

The first person you go over to is Max. Consoling each other, you both hug one another and rock back and forth.

You look off into the corner and see Dustin with a tampon, trying to shove it up Eddie’s bloody nose while Nancy watches in amusement. Eddie swats Dustin’s hands away, mumbling, “Get that shit away from me” and setting for Kleenex instead.

“Shy Girl,” Nancy calls out. “Please come and get your man.”

Confused that she’s even talking to you that way, it dawns on you that Nancy is talking about Eddie. You walk towards Nancy, who is behind the bar, supervising Eddie and Dustin from a distance.

“Do you have some ice?” you ask her.

She holds up a pack she had been preparing.

“Way ahead of you love,” Nancy says.

You chuckle and thank Nancy as you take the ice from her. She gives you a nod, you’re welcome.

“He’s not my man, by the way,” you add, correcting her. “Just did something really sweet.”

“Well does his ass know that?” Nancy raises a brow. “Only a dumbass in love does shit that crazy and stupid.”

You look over at Eddie. His eyes find you at the same time. Chrissy is over in the corner with Nina, talking her down from the anxiety witnessing a fight that bloody must’ve caused her. Steve is over at the lair still, thinking. You can’t read the expression on his face.

Your grip on the ice pack tightens as you walk closer to Eddie. He gives you a nod and a terrible excuse of a wave, slowly wincing in pain after the slightest raise of his left arm.

“You are vile,” you say in his voice from the day it all fell apart. You extend your hand with the ice pack in it to him.

Feeding into your truce, Eddie looks up at you with a faint smile. He takes the ice pack in his hand.

“I prefer the term protective,” he parrots you.

———————————

🏷️ tag list: @battymunson , @the-fairy-anon , @ali-r3n , @corrodedcoffincumslut , @bebe07011 , @mmunson86, @eddiesguitarskills , @chelebelletx , @imonhereforareasonsadly , @eddies-trailer-babe @hideoutside , @motherfckerr, @jxpsi , @munson-magic , @lindseyj23, @sidthedollface2 , @manda-panda-monium , @elvendria , @micheledawn1975 , @hereforshmut , @siriuslysmoking , @nymphetkoo , @m-chmcl-rmnc , @justinelittlewoodsworld , @ahoyyharrington , @keepittoyourselftellnobodyelse @kellyxo1 @emsgoodthinkin @winchester-angel @chloe-6123

[ebongawk]

"Chrissy used to wait until her parents were out of the house and then dance around her bedroom to Corroded Coffin and sing into her hairbrush. It felt like a huge rebellion in her mind at the time." for @storiesofimagination

More than anything else, Chrissy hated being late.

It was unlike her. Even despite her mother drilling the entire family on being punctual all her life, Chrissy knew that being on time would have defined her. A flower planted in a vase could be just as beautiful as one grown in a field, after all. Just not quite as free.

Despite having a doctor's appointment as an excuse, Chrissy still took the stairs up to school two at a time. The excused absence in her hand for her first two periods felt meaningless – just more wasted time she'd have to use, taking it to the front office. She stormed through the hallway, swinging by the front desk before headed to her locker.

And she stopped all at once. Taking two broad steps back to absorb that which had attracted the attention of her peripheral vision.

A crystal tape case had been dropped on the ground. Innocuous enough, she leaned down, picking it up and turning it over in curious hands.

Songs she didn't recognized were scribbled onto the back fold. The front was hand drawn, as well, featuring a creepy, disembodied hand. Like someone had taken macabre liberties with Thing from The Addams Family (a lovely series of which she'd only been allowed to catch episodes at Vicki Rosenbaum's house during weekend sleepovers). A mixtape?

Without thinking about it, Chrissy tucked the case into her backpack. Wondering if she could figure out who it belonged to later, she regained the time she'd lost in her distraction by practically sprinting to class.

Later, after finishing out the rest of the day and walking home – breaking up with Jason, while the first act of liberty she'd taken for herself in some time, was almost met with regret when school let out and she didn't have a ride home – Chrissy found herself in a commodity of an evening.

She was home alone.

Her little brother was off at a friend's house, and her parents had a dinner event for her father's office. Chrissy was in pajamas, taking the stereo out from her closet with every intention of having her own Risky Business moment as she flipped idly through her small collection of contraband tapes her mother could never find out about.

And she stopped.

What about that tape from school?

It'd fallen beneath her pen case in her backpack at school. Chrissy dug it out, taking in the details of the case art she hadn't before allowed herself to see. Blood dripped down one side of the disembodied hand, with scars etched into the flesh. A hand freshly chopped for Frankenstein's monster, the blood still warm enough to flow.

For the first time, Chrissy also recognized a little brand in the corner of the case.

Corroded Coffin, she read. Why does that sound so familiar?

Only one way to find out.

Chrissy popped the tape into the player.

The sudden, grating sound of guitar feedback screeched through the speakers, and Chrissy slammed the stop button with a little cry of surprise. Her chest heaved, heart hammering against her ribs at the sudden noise. Gosh, but that was unexpected. Her own tapes usually started off with a gentle easing into the music. The steady drumroll or techtonic beat building up the artist to launch.

Turning the volume dial down a few dozen notches, Chrissy paused for a moment before leaning back and hitting play.

The wall of sound that hit her was far easier to manage at a softer level. She listened, waiting for recognition to wash over her, but the seconds ticked by with screaming bass and heavy drums, and Chrissy was no closer to recognizing the song. Even the singer, with his deep, gravelly voice, was an unknown.

The volume came up a few notches. Then a few more. And Chrissy found herself falling into the music.

It was different than anything she'd ever listened to before. Deeper, angrier, with grating sounds and heavy lyrics that pulsed a new heart in her chest. It was music that contained all these dark, terrifying emotions she didn't normally allow herself to feel. All the stuff she kept locked away and buried, only to rear up as monsters in her dreams she couldn't escape.

Even the instruments sounded angry. The drums marched and the bass crooned, but the guitar. It kept going off on these long, intricate tangents, accentuating the point of the lyrics by emphasizing the terrible, wonderful passion. The quality wasn't great – a little too echoey, like it hadn't been recorded in a studio – but the songs were beautiful.

Chrissy lost her will to return the tape back to its original owner. Instead, it found a half-permanent home in her Walkman. Pulled only from the anonymity of her headphones during the limited alone time she was awarded at home.

Every time, the songs greeted her with their energetic shouts. The lyrics embraced her like an old friend.

Chrissy learned them all. She screamed them into her hairbrush, falling dramatically to her knees on her mattress as she extended all of her own deep, dark emotions out into the ether of existence. As her Corroded Coffin album took them in, nurturing them and verifying that it was okay for her to have them. That negativity didn't equate bad, only new.

There was a risk, she knew. Her parents could come home early one day. Her mother could discover the tape case, on the rare occasion she accidentally left it at home. The tape would be disposed of, and Chrissy couldn't exactly buy a new one. She'd checked the record store downtown – the grumpy cashier had never even heard of Corroded Coffin.

She almost thought the tape had been dropped through a wormhole. Like there was another, luckier dimension out there where Corroded Coffin was a well-known band, but here, she would be the only person who would ever know their ingenuity and raw brilliance.

The thought was private and insane, but it made her sad. It made her selfish. It made her desperate to prove herself wrong.

And, completely by chance, she was.

Chrissy walked into Benny's the first Saturday of spring break to meet her friends for milkshakes before they made a trip to Star Court to start browsing prom dresses. Chrissy had to steel herself against their gentle, pitying looks when they talked about their own dates, knowing Chrissy had every intention of going stag. Like that was something to be ashamed of. (Going with Jason would've been much more shameful, considering she'd caught him cheating on her during winter break, but that didn't seem to matter in the eyes of her friends.)

As soon as she walked through the doors, though, something extremely familiar caught her eye. Chrissy had to do a double-take, because no way.

It was that same bloody, disembodied hand from her tape. With huge, boldly printed letters advertising Corroded Coffin's Metal Friday Bash! from the night before at some bar called the Hideout.

The night before.

"Oh, nuggets," Chrissy breathed in disbelief. She'd missed it? She'd missed it. Without warning, her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and Chrissy immediately turned and walked back out the door, much to the startled shouts of her friends.

They were real. They were real, and they'd been here, just the night before, and she'd missed it, and now she'd never find them again. She yanked her Walkman off her belt loop, holding it tightly to her chest like it alone could support her weight as she floated blindly through the vast, endless ocean of the parking lot. The salt spraying her eyes and making them tear up, and was it any wonder that she missed the broad-chested boat out in the middle of all that nothing?

"Ugh," she pitched, her voice drowned out by a startled, "Oh shit." Her Walkman went flying from her grip as she fell backward, two strong hands managing to hold her wrists and keep her upright but completely disregarding the flying tape player. She felt the tug of her headphones as they dislodged from the jack, the thing making a loud crack against the pavement upon impact.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

"Shit, fuck, sorry, sorry," the person still holding her wrists repeated over and over again above her. "Shit, Cunningham, I–– Fuck, I didn't see you–– Oh, shit, here, lemme get that."

Wrists suddenly released, the blob of black she'd barreled into headfirst suddenly swooped down. Chrissy turned at the same time, body operating separately from brain as she searched the ground for the Walkman that had already been collected.

"It doesn't look––"

"My tape," Chrissy gasped, reaching toward the hands holding her player. The bony wrists becoming her new lifeline. "Is my tape okay?"

"Uh, lemme check––" A pause as the hands holding her Walkman hostage popped the cassette lid open. Chrissy held her breath, anticipating the worst, and the mass of person she hadn't quite acknowledged let out a barking laugh. "Holy shit. Holy shit? Christ, dude, uh. What the fuck?"

It was only then, impossibly, that Chrissy looked up and finally registered who it was she was hanging onto like a buoy.

Eddie. Eddie Munson? Eddie Munson had her tape. Eddie Munson was staring down at her, his eyes twinkling in the mid-morning sunlight, with raised brows and a disbelieving grin stretching his cheeks.

Oh, she thought. When did Eddie Munson get so pretty?

"Cunningham, where the fuck did you get this tape?"

Blinking, Chrissy looked at the tape in his hands. Confused. No one knew who Corroded Coffin was. Why was he questioning her?

"Um, it's mine?" she answered, suddenly, just then, remembering that it wasn't actually hers. That she'd found it. That it likely had not fallen through a wormhole, because the band existed, proven just behind her in the Benny's entryway by a hand-drawn poster for a concert she'd missed.

"Uh, no it's not," Eddie laughed. "It's mine."

What?

What?

"What?" she squeaked out, fingertips tensing against his wrists. She couldn't let go, because if she did, he might take her tape. He might destroy it, or step on it, or kidnap it.

"It's our demo tape," he said again, still grinning. Still in obvious disbelief. "Uh, my band's, I mean. I lost it, like, two months ago. Now how, may I ask, did it end up in the dainty little paws of Hawkins' own Queen, Chrissy Cunningham the First?"

His. Eddie's. His band's? Eddie's band? Eddie was in Corroded Coffin. Why wasn't she more surprised? His tape? His demo tape? What was a demo tape? Was he gonna take her tape?

"Um," she said, still blinking up at him. "I-I found it. At school?"

"No shit?" Eddie laughed. "Well, fuck, Chrissy, that's–– Okay, but wait. Why were you listening to it? Why didn't you, like, throw it away?"

She let out an indignant noise of affront. Her own shock slowly succumbing to an accepting sort of anger.

"'Throw it away'?" she asked. "What? Why would I do that? I love it, Eddie!"

His eyebrows had disappeared behind his fringe, he was so shocked. Shaking his head like he couldn't believe it, though his eyes never left hers. After mouthing a what the fuck to himself, he looked over her shoulder. Seeming to remember where they were.

"Uh. I-I mean. Have you, uh. Have you eaten?"

"What?" Her head reeled with the sudden jump of conversation.

Scratching the back of his neck, Eddie shrugged. "I mean. Obviously you, like, listened to the tape, yeah? And, y'know, you're, like, the first, besides the fuckin' band, to do that. I'd, uh. I'd love to know your thoughts?"

Another shrug, bashful, and Chrissy watched in amazement as a flush crept its way up his neck.

"If you've got some time," he tacked on after a few seconds of silence.

Time. Time to talk about Corroded Coffin. Time to talk about Corroded Coffin, with Corroded Coffin.

"I, um, do," she answered. "I have time."

Oh, nuggets, the grin that split his face was brighter than she had ever seen the sun. It softened his features, displaying dimples as his eyes crinkled with warmth.

Chrissy couldn't help it. She smiled right back.

"Fuck yeah," he responded, snapping the case of her Walkman back in place, tape still stuck inside, and handing it back to her. Never breaking the skin contact they'd somehow maintained this entire time. "Well, uh. After you, then?"

She didn't end up going to Star Court that afternoon.

But she also didn't end up going to prom alone.

(inspo ask)

[honeyhotteoks]

i genuinely can't stop thinking about yunho as a fallen angel... like...

yunho’s catholic confirmation name is stefano, which is i believe a reference to saint stephen. saint stephen is the patron saint of several different things, but the one that caught my eye was the patron saint of coffin makers. ive had that knowledge churning around in my brain for a long time, especially after watching the kdrama doom at your service, but after seeing these pictures my mind is absolutely spinning with fallen angel soulmate yunho brain rot……… so come along with me

•

fallen angel yunho. he's been wandering the earth for years, passing through life and people and history and he's never known the reason that he was cast out until he meets her, you. he hears you first, a distant voice in the back of his mind, a prayer to his saintly name, a name he hasn't heard in what feels like a millennia. a whisper to saint stephen, the man he used to be, many years and many bodies ago.

no one prays to him anymore, not really. certainly not a voice like yours, ringing clearly and angrily in his ear, a bitter request for a coffin to be ready in early spring. he thinks about the way it's almost winter now, the air turning crisp, and he wonders what in your life has you so angry and yet so practical about death.

he thinks of you for days, weeks, idlily waiting to hear the voice again. he dreams of it, sometimes wakes from a stone sleep to your bitter tenor, the clear catch of tears in your throat, but it's always a memory. he finds himself wandering the city for you, searching through churches, reverent houses of worship that you might be hiding away in. he doesn't expect to find your voice ringing out clear as day across the crowded room of a museum, full of life and joy and the picture of health.

he finds a way to speak to you, he's practiced in the art of conversation, of seduction even when the end goal isn't sex. he just wants to know you, to hear your pretty prayer in person, to understand your voice just a little and why in the world you were praying to him and not god himself like everyone else. in the midst of many, he makes a space for you both alone, the connection and the pull immediate and essential.

for a while, you make him smile, laugh, relax, he feels more at ease and more like a person than he ever would have expected. he doesn't understand you or your prayer though, not until you cough painfully, fitfully into your sleeve and he sees the bright kiss of blood at the corner of your lips. he never imagined you sick, but he supposes it makes sense. in all the versions of meeting you he imagined, this outcome wasn’t one he ever entertained.

he's never watched someone he's loved die before, at least not since his first life, and shamefully he barely remembers the names of his family from then. but somehow he knows he'll remember yours, the way he aches is altogether new and even though he knows it would be better to watch over you from afar, he just can't. and it doesn't help that you keeps finding your way to him around every corner of the city, coincidence after coincidence. so easy to joke about how it must be fate when it is in fact fate, pulling you tightly together and tying the knot tight.

he allows himself to love you then, and you allow yourself one last, good thing. he never lies about who and what he is, and you never really believe him, for all you know he's just a figment of your imagination. a hallucination from one of your tumors like the doctor warned you about. you think if cancer can give you one gift before dying, at least it's him.

for a little while yunho thinks his purpose in falling from grace was to love you, after all you prayed to him, no matter how bitterly. but he understands the truth the moment he meets your daughter, the moment he realizes his purpose for you is much more than momentary, final happiness.

and so he carries you forward through those final months, easing your pain and your giving you one last chance at real, lasting love. and he helps ease you into the other side, his promises whispered tearfully into your hair, that he'll see you again but only after he stays by her side. your child's own guardian angel, happy to watch over her and guide her until it's her time to come home too.

and of course, that means he has to wait. you both do, but he's already waited, even when he didn't know what he was waiting for.

[yan-lorkai]

From the Yandere list, can I ask you for D, G and J, with Alucard, please?

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

It's Alucard... I had to turn this question back to you and ask you what he wouldn't do against his darling's will? He already kidnapped them, he can do worse when you're being difficult. Pulling you into his coffin when you try to escape when you think he is sleeping, trapping you inside his arms, pretending he doesn't hear you complaining. Feeding you with those hands that are always covered in blood when you try to starve yourself so he take you to the doctor.

But truly he is much more well behaved when you are behaved, though he still hover over you, trying to decide if he should kiss your neck or bite it.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

Oh he enjoys very much watching you scheming, planning and playing pretend, and yet never succeeding to escape him. Alucard likes your frustrated face at every failed attempt, likes how you pout and glare at him, he likes how you scream and punch him so pitifully before being dragged to his room again. He does treat this like a game, for a while. You're like a little bunny he is training to be perfect to him, of course he is entertained by your determination and he likes how you try yet again. In the end of the day you will find your way back to his arms.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Very jealous and he doesn't try to hide it nor does he try to control it. He wants you to see every facet he has and every emotion his dead heart can express, he may control himself to not hurt you but the person that made him jealous? Dead, a bloody mess beyong recognition, he kills them in front of you, in front of everyone, he doesn't care about the audience, even liking his bloody fingers to taste their blood.