#i eat your skin 1971

[awesomephd]

Watching Through My Collection: Day 16/36

I Eat Your Skin (1964) aka Zombies aka Zombie Bloodbath aka Voodoo Blood Bath

Day 15 / Day 17

Now, not only does this movie have so many names, but the 1964 date on my copy is actually when it was filmed. It didn't get released until 1971. Even still, with all the names it got after release, it was filmed under the working title Caribbean Adventure to keep potential investors from catching on that it was a zombie film.

So, truly, it's a painful gem of low-budget horror.

It even made it big in an episode of Elvira's Movie Macabre that I might just watch after this on Tubi. (The plain movie itself is on Youtube too, but I'd rather watch it with Elvira)

CW: 1960's sensibilities

While there were some enjoyable moments in this movie, it wasn't good and constantly felt like it wanted to be a different genre entirely. This is an adventure romance that just so happens to have zombies in it.

The main character is even an insufferable, womanizing erotica adventure novelist that we get introduced to absolutely surrounded by women beside a pool in Miami while he recites his own work to them.

If you want me to believe this many women are that interested in what he's saying, at least let him say "throbbing cock" instead of "throbbing temples" when we all know that's what it's supposed to be.

There's some admittedly funny dialogue here and then some unfunny dialogue that tries too hard and had me thinking this might actually be some kind of horror comedy. But it isn't. It's just weird.

They fly to Zombie Island (yes, that's the actual real name they call the island) and their plane runs out of gas so, naturally, our protagonist must take over for the Hispanic pilot to land them on the beach because he's so sexy and cool and suave. So sexy and cool and suave that he gets absolutely soaked through swimming in a river, but can still use the revolver he had stuffed in his waistband against zombies.

I'll give them credit for the makeup, though. It's fun.

The movie goes back and forth between poorly acted, dull scenes with our white ensemble and "voodoo" rituals that almost feel like they just told the extras to improvise and dance crazy for. Whatever sort of mysticism that does get built up in the movie gets immediately ruined when they decide that actually the thing that made all these not-actually-zombies-apparently was a doctor doing experiments with snake venom and radiation.

Because god forbid the zombies be actual voodoo or anything. Guess that would've been too much like White Zombie (1932).

Oh, also the doctor's daughter has no chemistry with the protagonist, but right after she almost gets kidnapped to be a virgin sacrifice they fuck so it's real love and she's ride or die for him.

I could probably go on all day about the nonsense this movie has happen.

The author, his publisher, and the publisher's wife are definitely swingers the way they all talk to each other.

The Hispanic pilot gets blown up in his stationary plane by a slow-walking zombie carrying explosives as if he couldn't have just gotten out of the plane.

The protagonist pulls a guy off a boat by his rifle, beats him in the water with it, and then tosses it off in the water instead of taking it himself! He has proven he can still use guns that have been submerged!

He then steals a flare gun off the boat because "it's better than nothing" as if he hadn't just had someone's rifle in his hands a minute ago.

The opening had an extended bit of him making out with a girl, getting caught by her husband and getting chased back to his publisher's car where they drive off laughing as the guy he cucked literally kicks his wife in the butt like some slapstick routine!

NO ONE'S SKIN GETS EATEN!

Feel like doing this after watching this movie.

[rosesloveletters]

warm blankets and soft snuggles.

Pairing: 1971 Willy Wonka x Fem. Reader

Word Count: 1,561

Warnings: periods, use of generic over-the-counter pain medicine.

Summary: Reader has difficult periods and Wonka provides care, comfort and snuggles.

Author's Note: I wrote this mainly as an excuse to think about cuddling him <3

Edited.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

We laid on our bed, the covers pulled up to our chins to protect us from the chill of winter. Even though the heat was kept on inside the factory, Wonka kept our living space much cooler because he couldn’t sleep if he wasn’t cold. He liked the room to be several degrees below comfortability so that he didn’t overheat under the pile of blankets you had added to his modest bed, which in your opinion, was the best way to warm up: in the arms of a lover, beneath half a dozen blankets. 

The comforting warmth of his touch lingered on your skin. His arms were wrapped around your body, drawing you closer as you held each other tightly. You felt a deep sense of peace wash over you as you nuzzled into his chest. In that moment, all your worries melted away, and all that mattered was being held in the arms of the one you loved. Cuddling with Willy Wonka was like a dream come true, and you cherished every second of the time you spent with him, whether you were held tightly in his arms like this or shared space somewhere else inside the factory. Nothing mattered aside from the time you spent together; what you did during that time was only as special as the company you shared. 

“How are you feeling, dear?” Wonka crooned into your ear. His hand drifted to your lower abdomen and massaged gentle, soothing circles on your stomach. The warmth from his hand seeped through your shirt, down to your skin and you let out a quiet moan of contentment at his touch. 

“Better, with you here,” you replied and felt him smile against the back of your head. 

You had been suffering from a bout of cramps the likes of which rendered you immobile and confined to your bed if you weren’t ingesting painkillers on a regular basis, as instructed by the label. You had not wanted to venture out of your warmth cocoon for a snack so that you would not upset your vulnerable stomach when you took your medication, so Wonka had pried himself out of your death grip on his body – you squeezed him just a bit tighter with every wave of cramps that hit you – and went to the kitchen to fetch you a granola bar, then the bathroom for your pills and promptly back to your shared bed. 

He had to coax you to take a few bites of the granola bar; you weren’t keen to eat anything when you were in so much pain, but your stomach would punish you for it if you took any pain medication on an empty stomach and so you forced down several bites until Wonka deemed it safe for you to take the pills. 

You swallowed two painkillers and sipped the water you kept at your bedside. 

You blinked gratefully at your beloved as he said patiently by your side. His hand was placed lovingly on your knee and he watched you attentively as you trembled and winced in pain. 

Wonka was understanding and he knew it took time for the pills to take affect; you would have to endure some more pain before the medicine kicked in.

He sat by your side, eventually getting back beneath the duvet so that he could get warm. He wanted to be here for you if and when you needed him, even if that meant shirking his responsibilities for a few hours or perhaps the whole day. As company owner, he could do that, and he would if it were necessary. 

Wonka was not unfamiliar with the stress and the pain that women endured due to their menstrual cycles. He considered it something which he could learn a thing or two from, especially since he did not experience it himself, but had to glean information secondhand. He was always curious to learn new things and share in experiences that were presented to him, so he took every opportunity given to him to learn about you and your body.

He made mental notes of the things you wanted when you were feeling the effects of your monthly cycle and within his vast repertoire of knowledge, he had come to the realization that you mostly just wanted his presence. 

You craved physical touch and wanted to be as close to him as possible, which he found quite endearing and somewhat unexpected. He had never given thought to anyone wanting to share in quiet, intimate moments of affection with him, not because he felt unworthy or unlovable in such a way, but because he never made it a priority and it therefore became rather unexpected. 

An unexpected, albeit pleasant, surprise. 

The tension in your body slackened and you relaxed, reclining in his arms as he took up the spot behind you, spooning against you as the medication seemed to be taking effect. 

This had all taken place almost an hour ago and Wonka had been holding you since then. 

His solid body was warm against your back. You were tucked in to him, held fast by his arms which wound around you and his large hands were splayed out on your stomach. It had taken the two of you some time to feel comfortable in such a position, but the reward was worth the time spent earning his trust.  

“You may rest for the day if you would like, dear,” he whispered, snuggling in a little closer as he unwrapped one arm from around you and brushed your hair away from your cheek so he could give you a little kiss, “I’m certain you’ll feel much better tomorrow if you take it easy today.”

As much as you didn’t like to stay in bed, you decided it was best to take his advice and let your body rest. After all, Wonka always had your best interests at heart and if he worried for your well-being, it only came from a place of love. 

“Thank you, darling,” you responded, “I won’t push myself today.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he grinned, giving your cheek another quick peck, “if you need anything, absolutely anything at all, I’ll be happy to give it to you if it is within my ability to do so.”

There was nothing Willy Wonka would not do for you if it were possible. With Wonka, there was no such thing as an impossibility; all you had to do was say the word and he would deliver, typically in the most creative, and sometimes unusual, way possible. 

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a chocolate bar or two,” you let out a soft giggle and you regretted your current positioning because you could not see his toothy grin even though you knew it was there. 

“I suppose I might be able to find something that is to your liking,” he joked, pausing then to add, “I might actually have a couple of bars stowed in my coat.”

He often had chocolate bars that he kept on him, in one of the various pockets of his coat. 

He would get up to check in a moment or two, but for now he wished to savor the warmth of your body against his. 

It was not often that he lingered in bed. When you were waking to begin your day, Wonka’s had already begun, and on a regular day he would have been down in the Inventing Room since dawn. 

“Thank you,” you thanked him even though he had yet to produce any treats for you. 

“You’re welcome, my dear.”

His arms tightened around your midsection and his nose rutted through your hair. His body laid flush to yours, his front connected with your back. He felt content to hold you like this, letting you rest with his arms around you protectively as you shared the warmth of the bed with him. 

His scent reached your nostrils and you inhaled, breathing in the smell of rich cocoa, brown sugar, maple drizzle and a hint of citrus with earthy undertones. 

His comforting embrace took your mind off your discomfort and now that your medicine had taken affect, you were feeling even better. 

During your time of the month, you were content to be held in the arms of your lover. There was nothing more you could have wanted from him aside from his empathy and his embrace. You did not need any other comforts, although nothing he did for you went unappreciated. Knowing that he was there for you and wanted to ease you through your struggles filled you with happiness and made your heart melt like warm chocolate on a hot summer’s day. 

Your love for him flowed like his chocolate river in the factory below, rich waves washing over you and pouring onto him in the refreshing gush of a waterfall of emotion. 

He pulled you in tight, soaking up all the affection and giving back as much to you as you did to him. 

Wonka thought his life was sweet before he met you, but as it turned out, his chocolate was bitter in comparison to the candy-coated sentiments you shared with him each time you vowed your love to him in midnight whispers. 

He was not one to over-indulge, but only you could satisfy his sweet tooth and Willy Wonka wanted all of you. 

[rainythefox]

After Midnight

Sequel to Nightfall - AO3 Link

Summary: Three months after her near-death entanglement with Albert Wesker, Claire Redfield remains fettered to him as both lover and prisoner. As such, he once again pulls her into his dark games of power and control. Adamant at having her all to himself, Wesker's hold on her tightens as he pulls them both towards an unsatiable holy grail. But this is to be just the beginning of what would become an absolute nightmare...

Claire/Wesker, Chris/Jill, slight Claire/Leon and Ada/Leon. (also big focus on Wesker and William's friendship and past). Pre-RE1- Code Veronica time frame.

Chapter 1: Behind Blue Eyes

November 4th, 1971…

“The world needed your mother. She was essential. To modern science. To the future. Not you. You are disposable. An expedient…no, an anathema upon this world.”

His father’s last words to him repeated in his head, again and again. 

Then he was left behind at this strange facility with all the white coats.

That was after spending his birthday two days ago flying across the Atlantic Ocean to the United States.

Chicago, he recalled. That’s where he was. A research facility in Chicago. His father had spoken with the man in charge here…something about compensation for his “participation”. Anything to get that funding he always talked about for his research…

The doctors here poked and prodded him. Drew a lot of blood. Ran numerous tests. Nothing he wasn’t used to.

The young boy sat on an examination table in a small white-walled room for what felt like hours, the lights irradiant, just like the rooms he had often found himself in back home. The brightness hurt his eyes. He winced and squeezed his blue eyes shut. If he didn’t, he felt he would go blind.

He didn’t bother checking the door. He knew it would be locked. Everything in his life was controlled. When he could eat, when he could sleep, when he could leave. Isolated. All alone. Although that wasn’t anything new. He had always felt this way. His father abandoned him years ago, even if he had seen him every day of his life up until now.

Anathema…anathema, he thought over and over. He knew the word. A curse. Abomination. Something consigned for sacrificial offering and destruction.

The door opened. Instead of the usual apathy that accompanied him, always knowing it to be his father, a fleeting anxiety passed through him as two strangers entered.

One was the man in charge here his father had spoken to for “compensation”. He was quite important, a lord he’d overheard, but the boy knew nothing of who he was. The other man was a doctor and seemed to be friends with the lord. They both looked to be in their late 40s, although it was just a guess.

The lord wore a proud, triumphant smile, looking the boy over as though he was a prize of sorts.

“Hello, Albert,” he greeted politely, kneeling beside the boy. “It’s an honor to finally meet your acquaintance. I am a longstanding colleague of your father, Andric. My name is Lord Ozwell Spencer, but you may call me Ozwell.”

The lord extended his hand. Albert stared at it. Clean, soft skin. No scars. No calluses. There was a big ring with a familiar crest on its face. It made his head hurt as he tried to recall where he’d seen it. They had never met before, but the boy felt this man somehow knew all about him. He didn’t take the offered palm. The smile was camouflage, the handshake a venomous bite.

Ozwell’s British accent carried a mix of elegance and power. It was more evident than Albert’s father’s accent, which had lost much of its original Germanic cadence from working in England.

The lord didn’t seem displeased when Albert didn't take his hand. He softly chuckled, his eyes still not leaving the boy. “Strong, silent type, I see. I like that in a young man.” He motioned to Albert’s face. "Did you get into a fight at school?”

He was so used to it that Albert had forgotten all about it. “My father never appreciated me challenging him.” Albert glared at the lord. “Tell me, did my father get his just compensation for dropping me at this hellhole?”

Ozwell glanced back at the doctor with a pleased smirk. His friend didn’t smile back, looking more surprised than anything, and scribbled on his clipboard.

“I assure you, young man, that ‘compensation’ was for something else…something before you were born that I owed him. His research is valuable to my company. And so we thought it best I take you in for a bit so he could work away on a very important enterprise.”

Why did adults always lie? Did they think him gullible?

“Something tells me you aren’t so heartbroken over it,” Ozwell said softly, offering the boy a friendly, reassuring smile. “Trust me, you’ll be far happier here. My dear friend Dr. Hensley will just run a few more tests to make sure you are in good health, and then we can get you situated, alright?”

Albert didn’t bother nodding or answering. He didn’t have a choice. They escorted him through the bright, winding hallways of the medical facility. His head hurt. He spotted other children here but never crossed paths with them.

“Are you alright, Albert?” Ozwell asked.

“The lights hurt my eyes.”

The lord slowly nodded, seemingly logging it away with a quick side glance at Dr. Hensely.

When they got to their destination, it wasn’t another patient room, it was a fully functioning laboratory, similar to his father’s. They took him into the back where Dr. Hensley carefully performed a set of tests, including drawing more blood. Afterwards, he was left alone so they could talk in the room next door.

Albert hopped down from his seat and padded over to the cracked door to eavesdrop.

“I told you he was a beautiful specimen, didn’t I?” Ozwell stated. “I’m eager to see him as an adult after the indoctrination and training. He will be the perfect candidate for the next evolution of my project. Tell me the results you’ve received.”

“He’s in impeccable health, my Lord,” Dr. Hensley answered. “He’s developing how we had anticipated and his new genetic screening results are what you were hoping for.”

“Perfect to pair with Alex in the future, then?”

Alex? His sister he’d recently found out about? Pair with her how?

“Without a doubt. However, I am concerned with his lack of socialization and interpersonal skills.”

“He was raised that way on purpose. Don’t worry, he’ll gain those with James.” The lord paused, thinking, and then asked, “Was the light sensitivity listed before on his genetics? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Dr. Hensely shook his head. “No, but it’s a common condition when breeding for the Aryan characteristics that you desire. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Does he remember anything outside of Andric?”

“He does recall the boarding school with the other Wesker children, but not enough that concerns me. The mind manipulation and synthetic memories are solid. If we continue doing what we are doing, he will never remember it all on his own.”

What?!

“Excellent,” Ozwell praised. “Start the next process immediately. I’m leaving for home to meet with Lord Ashford, Lord Henry, and Lord Beardsley tomorrow. James has already been informed and has prepared for Albert to stay with him. Just make sure to wipe his memories of the last few days and reprogram him before handing him over.”

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“And I mean it, Theodore. The utmost care and diligence in handling Albert. His value is beyond estimation. He is one of the most important assets of our future.”

Asset? His father had called him the opposite…yet the same, gut-churning feeling came from the word. The same bad taste in his mouth as though he was just something to be used. A tool, a weapon, but in the end, thrown away. 

Panicking, the boy raced to the door, knowing full well it would be locked. He turned the knob and tugged on it anyway. I have to get out of here! 

It didn't budge. Trapped like always.

He didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want his mind manipulated. He didn’t want to be controlled. Ruled. If only he was stronger…

What had he done to deserve this? His father’s voice played in his head, blaming him for his mother’s death, day after day after day. Was it that? He didn’t mean for it to happen!

Albert moved away from the door when Ozwell and Dr. Hensely emerged from the back room. The boy pretended to be interested in the x-rays on the wall, feigning composure.

“Well, Albert, my boy,” the lord sighed, the same creepy smile and watchful eyes on him, “I must take my leave. I have important duties to attend. Dr. Hensely will take good care of you. Please behave for him. I'll see you soon.”

Albert stayed silent, a growing knot of disgust and hatred twisting in his stomach. He thinks I belong to him. I’m not his. I don’t belong to anyone!

After Ozwell left, Dr. Hensely patted the examination table with a warm smile. “Okay, buddy. Just one shot and you’re good to go! I’m sure you’re ready to get out of here. We have a nice room and meal ready for you.”

Albert didn’t move. It came rushing back to him. The shot wasn’t an immunization of any sort. It was to put him to sleep. Then he wouldn’t remember when he awoke.

They’ve done this to me before…multiple times. He couldn’t recall how many. It was all too fuzzy. His head pounded.

Albert shook his head. “No.”

Dr. Hensely was surprised by his answer, putting his clipboard down and rubbing the back of his head. “Oh come now, Albert. Surely a strong, brave young man such as yourself isn’t afraid of a little immunity boost?”

“Liar,” Albert hissed. “It's anesthesia. You want to knock me out and make it so I don’t remember.”

“W-What? No! That’s absurd! I’m only here to help you.”

The boy refused to move, glaring at the doctor.

Dr. Hensely sighed. “Look boy, you’re doing this whether you want to or not. It’s out of your control. Either you come over here willingly or I have thirty employees outside this room that will hold you down. You wouldn't want another blackeye, would you? So which one is it?”

Albert kept his challenging gaze, one fist balled, his chest a tight knot. No choice. No control. They controlled him. They did own him.

Never breaking eye contact, Albert slowly approached the doctor and sat on the examination table. Dr. Hensely, tense and agitated, let out a deep breath and picked up the syringe.

“Get used to the fact that you will never be in control, kid. That’s how it is here. I’m sorry.”

You will be sorry…

He had to remember. No matter what. He couldn’t let them do this to him…again.

Dr. Hensely leaned in and injected Albert’s arm with the drug. The boy winced, glaring at the doctor in growing hatred…until he snatched up a scalpel on the nearby tool tray, and stabbed it into Hensley’s jugular vein.

Blood sprayed all over Albert just as the world started to spin. Dr. Hensely crashed backwards onto the floor with an agonized cry, gripping his throat.

Just before the world went black, Dr. Hensely bled out all over the floor in front of him. He heard the gurgled curses, felt the warm blood that drenched him, tasted it in his mouth. None of those things compared to the satisfying rush of power and victory he felt in that moment. He had overthrown a ruler. He could conquer them. He would conquer them all.

He should’ve done it to his father, but it was a start. They would not be able to suppress his awakening forever. One day the blinders would be removed and he would remember…and then everyone would be sorry.

The blue eyes, astute and austere, burned into his very soul, seemingly reading his deepest, darkest thoughts. The smile, proud and valiant, hid depravity within an invisible mask of dignity and power.

He couldn’t understand this feeling of being revolted by this man, yet, concurrently, being drawn to him.

“Albert?”

Albert looked away from the eerie oil painting of Lord Ozwell E. Spencer, not realizing he had lost himself in thought under the sharp gaze. He glanced up at Dr. James Marcus…his new guardian. The man was in his fifties with graying brown hair and wore a brown suit. Composed and shrewd, he was a bit harder to read compared to most adults for Albert. He still didn’t know what to think about his new guardian, but for better or for worse, the boy was stuck with him. For now.

It had been a long week. His father had dropped him off here in the States to live with Dr. Marcus, although he couldn’t remember much of the trip or the days after. Has jet lag affected me this acutely before? James had briefly shown him around the large mansion that belonged to Ozwell, before proceeding to the Umbrella Executive Training School. Apparently, James resided here in his laboratory, with his own living quarters, which is where Albert would mostly be staying. Soon, he would be attending the school as well.

James approached Albert when he didn’t move, he himself looking upon the portrait.

“My dear old friend,” James said with a wry smile. “He’s done so much for me…he will do a lot for you as well, Albert. Just remember he is the same as the Snake in the Garden of Eden. Watch his tongue…and certainly watch his bite.”

Albert wasn’t religious by any means, but he knew the stories. “You attribute your friend to the Devil?”

James smirked down at him, delighted. “Better to acknowledge you’re friends with the Devil than to deny it. Come along. There’s someone you need to meet.”

Albert hesitated, his eyes lowering to the floor. His polished shoes matched the equally polished floors of the school. His head hurt so bad. He tried to remember what happened before coming here, but it was all a haze. He recalled his father on the plane. He had said something to him before leaving. He just couldn’t remember what. Ozwell had told him his accommodations were temporary before handing him over to James, but this didn’t feel temporary.

“My father isn’t coming back for me…is he?”

James paused, frowning. He considered his next words. “No. He got what he wanted out of you. And in time, so will Ozwell and myself. But no worries, my boy. You are where you are meant to be. Trust me. In time, you will make them all pay. I’ll show you how.”

What an interesting response from an adult. Albert then followed him closer than he had on the whole tour. James led them to his living quarters nestled adjacent to the laboratory of the training school. It was a nice-sized apartment, modern and clean…a little more room than what Albert and his father were accustomed to.

“William, come out here,” James called. “There’s someone here you need to meet.”

Albert looked around the living room. Spacious. Hardwood floors. Brand new furniture. Paintings and photos adorning the walls. It hardly looked lived in. There was a wall dedicated to a trip to Africa and James’ doctorates. He settled on an intriguing photograph full of beautiful red and gold flowers with peculiar shaped petals, nothing like he had ever seen before.

Soft footsteps rushed into the living room. When Albert turned around, he was surprised to see another boy, having expected William to be an adult. The boy was smaller than him, maybe a year or two younger, with short blonde hair and blue eyes, just like him.

William looked just as surprised to see Albert as he was to see him, but the shock quickly turned into a big, toothy grin and he nearly hopped over to Albert in excitement.

“No way! You got me a brother?!”

“William, settle down. I don’t care what you call yourselves. Just get along. William this is Albert, Albert this is William. You’ll be roommates so get used to each other. I have to make a phone call.”

He was never informed there would be someone else while living with James, let alone someone his age.

Albert tensed and moved away when William eased closer with hushed excitement, especially now since it was only them. Albert had never mingled with other kids before and was unsure of the formalities.

“Nice to meet you, Albert! Can I call you Bert? Oooh, how about Al? I like Al!”

“No. Just Albert,” he grumpily answered, already irritated with the other boy’s whimsical behavior.

“I like your accent Al, are you not from the U.S.? You’ll like it here. James is alright, I guess, but the school is amazing! I’m the youngest child prodigy to be studying under Umbrella!”

This boy was a child prodigy as well? Albert looked him over skeptically. He decided to move away, giving into instinct instead of attempting conversation. He had no clue how to handle this interaction.

William followed, his excitement waning only slightly, instead a mild diffidence forming. “So uh, where are you from?”

“Not here.”

“What happened to your family?”

Albert clenched his jaw. “None of your business.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” William reassured. “I’m an orphan too. It’s why I’m with James. Been here for about a year. I never knew my parents.”

When Albert didn’t answer, William gasped and ran around to block his path.

“Wait a minute! Are you a prodigy too? No wonder James took you in! Oh, this is exciting! Finally, some competition! We could test each other’s limits and push ourselves further! Granted, that’s likely why they put us together to begin with, but just think of all the fun it will be. I mean, I’ll probably win, but it’s-”

Albert punched William hard in the nose. Partly to make him shut up…mostly to establish dominance.

The younger boy yelped, his nose busted, blood pouring out of his nostrils. He cupped his face, staring at Albert in shock as his eyes watered from the sting. “Ow!”

“Well, I just tested the limits of your face, and I must say…you need some work,” Albert sneered.

“What the hell is going on here?!” came James’ angered voice as he rushed into the room, practically yanking the two boys apart.

“I’m fine!” William blurted through his fingers.

Their new guardian sighed, shaking his head. “Why did I agree to this?” He headed for the door, snapping his fingers at William. “Come along, both of you. William, we need to do an x-ray.”

“Oh, it’s definitely broken,” William stated calmly and obediently followed after James.

“Albert, come,” James ordered in the doorway, glaring back at him.

“He brought it on himself,” Albert grumbled, and begrudgingly followed.

“Did not!”

“You did so!”

“BOYS!”

A few months later…

There was a chill to the air, but Albert was numb to it, lost in thought as he waited. Continuous mumbles soon interrupted his thoughts and he glared over at his “roommate”.

William had perched himself so he was lying upside down, halfway off the examination table, his blond hair hanging from his head and brushing the tiled floor. His face was turning red from all the blood rushing to his head.

Albert sighed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m bored! Why do you have to come for tests more than I do?”

“I don’t know, and who said you had to stay behind?”

“And go with James to that old person meeting? No thanks! You’re way more fun, Al.”

“How fortunate for me.”

The lights were burning his eyes as they waited. He squeezed them shut…and tried to tune out William in the process.

Albert was still settling in with James and William. He’d excelled in the boarding school since day one, enjoying it immensely compared to the one his father had sent him to. As annoying as his little roommate was, Albert found himself minding his company less with each subsequent day. Maybe he was building a tolerance to him…or maybe William was growing on him a little, although he refused to admit it.

William started humming, his fidgeting rustling the paper on the exam table. Albert opened his eyes and glared, witnessing his roommate attempting to slide down into a handstand, using the table as a brace to keep his balance.

Albert stood and reached over, grabbing William’s leg and yanking. With a startled “Ack!”, William toppled over. “You just had to do it, didn’t you,” he groaned as he got to his feet, dusting himself off.

“My head is killing me. I’d appreciate it if you stopped being bothersome,” Albert replied, cupping his fingers over his eyes.

“Ohhhh, it’s the lights again. Hmm.” William stood there thinking hard, glaring up at the bright lights while rubbing his chin. “I know!”

He headed for the door. The locked door. The one that always contained Albert. “It’s locked.”

“Psh! That doesn’t stop the great William Birkin!”

The nine year old prodigy procured a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door…just like that. Albert jumped to his feet when the door opened. “Where did you get that?!”

William looked confused at first. “Oh. I stole it from James. No locked doors for us, buddy! Come on, I have something for you!”

William stepped out of the room without a care in the world. Albert hesitated at the threshold. The fuzzy memories, the consequences, they stifled him for a moment before William snatched his arm and yanked him forward.

“Come on, slow poke!”

Albert followed William through the hallways. He had most of it memorized now, but was still not as familiar with it as William. The adults didn’t pay them much mind, too busy with their own duties down in the executive school’s research facility. William slipped into a smaller laboratory and beckoned him to follow.

By the time Albert caught up, William had snatched something off of a researcher’s desk and shoved it into his hands. “There! Now when you’re in the room with the bright lights, they won’t bother you! And you’ll look cool in the process!”

“Sun…glasses?”

“Yeah!”

Albert sighed. “Whose even are these?”

“Who cares? They’re yours now! Trust me, he won’t miss them.” William smacked Albert’s shoulder as he headed out. “Let’s get back before they miss us though.”

Albert nodded, slowly following after him, looking the sunglasses over. They looked positively ridiculous to say the least. He wouldn’t wear them unless he absolutely had to…but…it made him recall that no one bothered to help him with his eyes in all the years he had complained about the pain.

They returned to the patient room to wait. William sat down beside him, a few feet away, as he knew Albert didn’t like anyone close to him. But he slowly and quietly inched himself closer, and then presented something else to him when Albert didn’t snap at him to move away.

It was the key that unlocked the door. “I have another copy. This key is a master key for most of the facility. I…understand. I’ve been in locked rooms my whole life, too. But um…we can help each other not be controlled so much by them, yeah?”

Albert slowly took the key, peering at it as though it was invaluable treasure. He nodded silently in reply, squeezing his fingers around the brass.

Wincing from the lights, Albert slipped on the sunglasses. They were too big for him, but they did help tremendously against the bright glare. 

William tittered next to him. “You look dashing!”

Albert snorted a suppressed laugh. And honestly, he couldn’t remember if he had ever laughed before.

March 19th 1998…

You can wait on me for once, asshole.

Wesker scowled at Claire’s text. It pertained to their established assignation tomorrow. She certainly enjoyed testing his forbearance at times. Not for the first time, he questioned his decision to gift her the PDA for maintaining contact.

His response would have to wait, however. He glanced at his watch after stepping foot into the Circular Café near Clock Tower Plaza. It was a popular bistro nestled right on the river. He soon spotted his quarry waiting for him at a booth.

The information broker, Aaron Roth, stared out onto Circular River, the water absorbing the morning hues of golds, purples, and reds. On the other side of the river, Raccoon City was a resplendent backdrop to this first act, towering, shadowy buildings in fresh dawn under a canopy of sun-tinged clouds. 

Like most prey that had advanced senses to detect prowling predators, Roth caught sight of Wesker halfway towards the booth. Guarded, the broker inched his steaming coffee closer when Wesker sat across from him.

Nothing was said at first, even after Wesker pulled off his shades and stared his emissary down. A young waitress soon arrived at their booth.

“Good morning, Captain! Your usual?”

Wesker broke off his staredown long enough to give the girl two seconds of his time, direct eye contact, an artificial smile, and one nod. “Yes, that will do.”

“On it, sir!”

Wesker leaned back, leering at Roth. “Didn’t expect to find yourself back in Raccoon City so soon?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“How was your trip?”

Roth snorted, half-rolling his eyes while sipping his coffee. “Let’s skip the bullshit smalltalk, yeah?”

“Straightforward and efficient, as always. Good. It plays in your favor to keep me happy. Now proceed.”

Roth picked up a large white envelope that had been lying next to him. He pushed it across the table to his master.

“Well, the confidential data you and Birkin blackmailed out of Bard is correct. Christine Henry does have a secret project in the works. Laboratory Six in Paris. Derived from the Nemesis Project that’s been around for nearly a decade. Evidence suggests that it is in direct competition with Sergei’s pet project, T-ALOS. That explains why she wanted all the info on it three months ago.”

Wesker opened the envelope and flipped through the documents enclosed inside. Nemesis T-Type. Yes, this was it.

“Another tyrant-based project? It seems both Umbrella USA and Umbrella Europe cannot shake their unbridled rivalry.” Wesker enclosed the stolen research safely back inside its envelope. “All the better for me, I suppose.”

Instead of answering, Roth stared behind him, his usual composure becoming strained. By the time Wesker noticed, it was too late.

“The nerve you have to meet him here.”

Wesker sighed. “Sit, William. And be nice.”

“I was hella nice to Bennett. I’m still finding pieces of him, by the way,” William growled like a feral cat, and frankly, he kind of looked like one too after three nights underground.

His partner sat beside him, but looked like he wanted to reach across the table and scratch out the eyes of their liaison.

“Will, in just the span of a few months, Aaron has compensated us far over what he stole from you years ago. Let it go.”

“But he sold it to Alexia.”

Wesker glared at him.

William sighed like an indignant teenager. “Fiiiine.”

“Here you are, sir!” came the bubbly voice of their waitress, and she sat Wesker’s coffee in front of him. She then quickly presented William with a wide smile. “Dr. Birkin, you too? Do you want your usual?”

“Nah, Al’s paying today. So get me three orders of biscuits and sausage gravy, an everything bagel with avocado, a Spanish omelet, a side order of bacon, and a large triple shot caramel latte with extra whipped cream. Oooh actually, add another shot to that because I’m beat.”

“You got it, Doctor! I’ll get that out to you pronto.”

Wesker glared at William after the waitress bounded away, although Roth was left looking a little confused. 

“What?” Will asked. “I’m hungry. Plus, I have a family to feed. You just keep drinking your sad black coffee, my friend. It will never be as black as your soul.”

“Actually, I am drinking a macchiato.”

“Aw, look at you giving yourself a little light. I knew Claire would be good for you!”

“Wait. Claire Redfield is still alive?” Roth asked.

Both Wesker and William broke off their repartee to glare at the info broker at the same time. He had unceremoniously readjusted their focus. Roth quickly regretted asking, as Wesker’s glare alone could kill.

“Why do you care, Aaron?” Will asked.

The information broker, calm and sly, lightly shrugged, feigning skepticism. “I just figured she’d long served her purpose by now.”

Such a clever rat.

Wesker scratched the top of his hand, an unspoken, discreet message to William. “What else do you have for us? Good news, I hope?”

Roth slowly nodded after swallowing. “Yes…She has agreed to meet you both. Unfortunately, the arrangements are a little tight because of her schedule. In two weeks. It’s the only time I could secure from her. But if you’re wanting to get info on her secret project and any of her other dirty little secrets, I suggest you take advantage post haste. I’ve already spoken with Alex and she has Daniel on board to help.”

“Two weeks?! There’s no way!” William grumbled. “You couldn’t make it in a month or so?”

The broker shook his head. “Dr. Henry is of noble blood. Very proud. Very secretive. Quite powerful and influential. She’s also quite fickle. She usually only gives out opportunities like this once. I highly suggest you take it while it stands, or you might lose her as an ally completely.”

“It won’t be an issue,” Wesker calmly added.

“Speak for yourself, I’m way busier than you!” Will scoffed.

“If I may,” Roth cleared his throat. “Will this not catch the attention of those above you? A UID agent and the Chief Researcher going on a trip to Paris to meet one of Umbrella Europe’s executives? Surely that will catch Spencer’s attention?”

William frowned and looked at Wesker, who didn’t even blink, but merely passed Roth a condescending smile. “I appreciate your ‘concern’, Aaron, but I already have it resolved.”

“Of course you do.” Both Roth and William said in unison, only to give each other weird looks.

“Proceed forward and tell Daniel to contact me. We’ll be there.” Wesker smirked. “It will be a pleasure to finally meet Christine Henry in person.”

Roth dipped his head and rose. “I’ll get it done.”

The info broker left without another word. William watched him depart completely from the café while Wesker took a long drink of his coffee.

“Such a good, obedient little puppy,” Will scoffed. “Until he shits in our shoes.”

Wesker smacked him with the envelope. “Stop your caviling.”

His partner took the envelope and stood just about the time their waitress returned with William’s order.

“Here’s your food all bagged up and your caramel latte with four shots of espresso! You might have a hard time sleeping tonight.” She giggled.

“Sleep? What’s that?” Will joked and winked at her. “Thanks, doll. Come on, Captain, let’s go!”

Wesker yawned and followed William out to his car. After the Chief Researcher secured his food on the back floorboard, he slid behind the wheel while Wesker waited in the passenger seat. Wesker finished his coffee while his partner took the time to go through the documents inside the envelope.

“Hmm, so after nearly a decade of impasse, it seems their ‘Nemesis Project’ has finally been redeveloped. You know, I met Henry briefly when Spencer imported one of their Nemesis Alpha parasites a decade ago. Remember that trip I made to Paris with Spencer like a week after we filled Marcus full of holes? Anyway, her father was in charge then. And since there were no BOWs at the time that could survive the parasite, I took the liberty of implanting it into Lisa. I got my beloved G-Virus out of it! I can only imagine what these new parasites could do if injected into Lisa now…But it seems they plan on implanting them into the next-generation T-103 Tyrants they want to mass produce on Sheena Island. They don’t even have the bugs worked out of the Epsilon strain or the T-002! Cart before the horse much?”

“They wish to test the T-002 on live combatants and use the data towards the final improvements for the new models. That is nothing new,” Wesker explained. “It will be machine versus organism in the coming months on which project will helm Phase Three and determine the future of the Tyrant line.”

“My money’s on this bad boy,” William replied with a child-like grin, staring at the prototype’s design in his lap. “Such intelligence! And look at that artillery!”

“Nature will always prevail,” Wesker agreed.”That is one constant in this world. T-ALOS may have a highly confidential A.I. nexus, but its advantages do not outweigh its disadvantages compared to the Nemesis Alpha parasites.”

“I do spot an error in this blueprint, though.” Will tapped the diagram. “Given how the parasite grows and attaches itself to the central nervous system and brain, I highly predict the cranial and facial tissues will have to be stapled or stretched. He won’t be this pretty.”

“What does that matter?”

“It doesn’t. I'm just pre-bragging how I’ll be right. You’ll see.”

“I will get in contact with Ada. She can come along with us and oversee Daniel.”

“Um…isn’t she on assignment in South America?”

Wesker frowned. He’d been so busy these past few weeks it had slipped his mind. He thought it over. “Alex is also unavailable. It would be in our best interest to have someone else we can trust on this trip. Unfortunately, we might just have to make do with Daniel.”

“Hey, didn’t you say Claire speaks French?”

That’s all it took for Wesker’s brain to do what it did best. Calculate, plot, scheme, orchestrate…

In that same moment, his phone dinged, and a familiar name read across the screen. Claire, sending him another text in response from earlier.

I’ll be there.

Wesker stared at the words, his lips spreading into a wide, devilish grin.

[weirdlookindog]

I Drink Your Blood (1971) & I Eat Your Skin (Zombie, 1971) Double Feature

[ladyy--lazarus]

Lady Lazarus

BY SYLVIA PLATH

I have done it again.   

One year in every ten   

I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin   

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,   

My right foot

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine   

Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin   

O my enemy.   

Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?   

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be   

At home on me

And I a smiling woman.   

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.   

What a trash

To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.   

The peanut-crunching crowd   

Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——

The big strip tease.   

Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands   

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.   

The first time it happened I was ten.   

It was an accident.

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.   

I rocked shut

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.   

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.   

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.   

It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute   

Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’

That knocks me out.   

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge   

For the hearing of my heart——

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge   

For a word or a touch   

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   

So, so, Herr Doktor.   

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,   

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.   

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,   

A wedding ring,   

A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer   

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair   

And I eat men like air.

Notes:

First published in Ariel, 1965. Reprinted in The Collected Poems, 1981.

Copyright Credit: Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)

[ronnymerchant]

I DRINK YOUR BLOOD (1971) and I EAT YOUR SKIN (1964) aka ZOMBIES

[powderblueblood]

🎵+ Eddie pls

send me 🎵+ character name and i’ll write a lil blurb inspired by a song from their playlist (you can also request songs and i will do my level best. god is a dj and i'm god)

▶ THIS YEAR - THE MOUNTAIN GOATS

six cylinders under the hood crashing and kicking, aha! listen to the engine whine or eddie takes the van out alone for the first time and feels free

an: some younger!eddie angst for your nerves!!! i love writing about the Munson Men so i hope u enjoy this anon word count: 1k

Keys land with a coolness in Eddie's outstretched palm, sweaty and warm, blood pumping under the skin like a crimson whirlpool.

"I'm not about to argue with you any more, son," Wayne mumbles, shoulders slouched in surrender, "You wanna cruise around in that deathtrap, that's on you."

Eddie's mouth opens to bark out yet another instance of but it's not gonna be a deathtrap when I'm done with it! and recount all his promises of becoming a bonafide grease monkey, taking all the necessary measures to make the van good as new.

The van. His van.

He drops the argument, since Wayne's suit is always a good one to follow, and closes his fist around the keys. He's won this round. A ball of fire begins to ignite in his chest and if he's not totally hallucinating, Wayne, grumpy old Wayne, is fighting back a smile.

"I'll stay the speed limit, I swear."

The fuck he will.

"The fuck you will."

Eddie's guffaw echoes in the empty doorway as he trips over himself, running outside the trailer to embrace his new four-wheeled glory. Well, not new-- far from new, of course. She's a girl with a lotta miles on her, showing up and out in the paintwork he's going to make sure he manicures. She's no Impala but she is a Chevy, a beautiful broad-assed 1971 Chevy.

She's got the same birthday as Killer by Alice Cooper and Eddie is head over heels in love with her.

Eddie is also an incredibly reckless driver, so something this hardy is necessary. Evel Knievel over here would turn a Beemer into a pretzel soon as look at it, as evidenced by the Beemer he almost rams into while he's gunning it into Hawkins.

"Fucking watch it, freak!"

Eddie flings his head out the window as Alice keens from the stereo (that big, bumping, beautiful stereo) and wags his tongue in the direction of an irate Steve 'The Hair' Harrington, who'd just got that new set of wheels for his birthday. Eddie knew that--everyone knew that--because he wouldn't stop peacocking it around the parking lot at school.

Well, compared to Eddie's ol' beauty, that fucking thing was puny.

"Eat my dust, pretty boy!"

He cruises down the main drag of Hawkins, marveling at his view from the driver's side. His elevated seat. His hands clutching the wheel. He even tosses a gentlemanly salute to a young mom and infant daughter that crane their necks to stare at him rolling on by.

Ladies.

See this, this is what it's all about. He's finally got the war machine he deserves. His ticket to the open road, his getaway car out of dodge, his method for hauling assloads of equipment around (once Ronnie gets that drum head fixed). Even his--dare he even think it--chick magnet.

Chicks love dudes with cars. Chicks like dudes with vans even better, because there's room in the back. Privacy. Shit like that is hard to come by when you spend most nights sharing a trailer with your aging uncle whose night shifts keep getting cut.

Not-- not that Eddie is exactly drowning in missed opportunities, but should the opportunity ever present itself, he'll be ready.

He's sourcing a shag carpet.

Eddie makes a couple more turns around town, even cruises by the school for good measure-- you never know which cheerleaders are hanging around after hours.

The most important thing is he feels completely unshackled in the confines of this van. Totally impenetrable. This is a space that he doesn't feel guilty taking, a space he doesn't feel odd or inferior in. Motherfucker, this is his all his.

He slows down his speeding on purpose when returning to Forest Hills, as if Wayne doesn't already know he's assaulting those gas pedals.

He slows down as he approaches the Munson trailer. He slows, and slows, and slows, and whines to a halt where Al Munson slaps both hands on the front of the van.

"Hey, kiddo."

Al Munson, his father, has been locked up in Blackburn Correctional in Lexington, Kentucky for the past eight months. Eddie's forgotten what for, or he didn't care to listen in the first place. Al Munson was not supposed to be out for a long, long time.

Al Munson always manages to find a loophole.

He reaches through that loophole, and he takes and takes and takes.

Eddie holds his breath.

"What, your old man doesn't get a big hello? Maybe a congrats on flyin' the coop, jailbird?" Al laughs and it's warm like the whiskey he sometimes lets Eddie drink with him. Al laughs and the fucking nightingales sing, the world shakes, everything becomes technicolor except the cloud hanging over Eddie's head.

Because, as Eddie so observantly notices, Al didn't come here with a car. He probably walked his ass all the way to Forest Hills, or hitched with some poor sucker he buttered up with stories and cigarettes and charm.

Wayne lingers in the doorway of the trailer. He can't meet Eddie's eyes.

He knew this was the one thing I had going for me. He knew this was the one thing I had left. The only thing that's mine.

Except the papers for the van don't say that. The papers say Al Munson.

He was supposed to be gone for so much longer that Eddie had hoped he'd forget about the van. About Hawkins. Maybe even about him, once and for all, and Eddie could inherit the only truly good thing his shitheel father ever had going.

Al, while remarkably charming, is not a man with a lot of patience. He slaps the side of the van-- not hard, but smart. "Out of the chariot, Ed," he commands. "Let's go, boy. I gotta jet someplace."

It occurs to Eddie that he has an opportunity on his hands right here. A massive fuck-you type opportunity. He could just peel out. Throw the finger to Al, and to Wayne for betraying him and not warning him about this in due time. Speed off. Take off for Indy and figure it out from there. He's got a full-ish tank of gas.

The one thing he's missing is his father's charm. He won't get far without it. It's the kind of thing you can't say no to.

No one says no to Al Munson.

Eddie, Eddie with his hair growing long around his ears and his seized shoulders and his cloud hanging heavy with rain over his head, is not about to start now.

"Just warming her up for ya, pops."

[malditoportal]

FRIKIANA ADICCIÓN: FIESTAS PATRIAS 🇨🇱🇨🇱🇨🇱 - MARATÓN ZOMBIES

REVOLT THE ZOMBIES (1936), I EAT YOUR SKIN (1971), THE ASTRO-ZOMBIES (1968), THE HOUSE OF SEVEN CORPSES (1974), THE DEAD DON'T DIE (1975), THE LONG ISLAND CANNIBAL MASSACRE (1980), NIGHT SHADOWS (1984), UNDEAD (2003), SHAUN OF THE DEAD (2004), LA HORDE (2009)

[conanbeshifting]

the first time i met james potter and lily evans

i’ll be doing each person i met in my dr separately but each one will slowly begin to merge together ig?

september 1st, 1971

i just waved goodbye to my parents and watched from the window as their frames became smaller and smaller until a knock on the compartment door caused me to turn my head. a scrawny boy with wired glasses and dark skin, opened the door and said, “all the other compartments are full d’you mind if i sat with you? actually no i’m just going to come in.”

shocked at his boldness i nodded my head but the boy was too busy putting down his cat (yes you heard me, in my dr james potter has a cat i was shocked too) on the seat before sitting down himself.

“name’s james. james potter.”

“erm im conan. conan scamander,”

“wait scamander, that sounds familiar?”

“erm yeah well my dad is newt scamander,”

“no way!”

“yeah, that’s him…” i said awkwardly while pushing my lips into a thin line. a small movement from the breast pocket of my jumper caught glasses’ james’ eye.

“what’s moving around in your pocket there?”

“oh! right, say hello to bowie,”

a small green head popped up into sight surprising the boy.

“what in the bloody hell is that?”

“this is bowie, he’s a bowtruckle and i’ll have you know that he doesn’t particularly take well to people calling him a ‘that’.” from my pocket the small creature shook his head. james tilted his head and in a quiet voice greeted bowie.

time went past quickly as we joked around until a red headed girl, who by the way looked quite bossy, popped her head in.

“have you two not changed into your robes yet? we’ll be arriving in about 20 minutes.”

james and i exchanged looks before looking back up to her.

“oh i’ve been in my robes this whole time can you not see them?” i said sarcastically.

“well there’s no need to be rude.” the girl huffed at me and pursed her lips.

“well-”

“oh my god is that what i think it is?”

“um what?”

“is that a bowtruckle? i’ve always wanted to see a bowtruckle ever since reading about them in fantastic beasts and where to find them!”

“isn’t that the book your dad wrote?”

“seriously james?”

“newt scamander is your father?”

i gave the nosy redhead an awkward head nod and she let out a squeal.

“what the hell is going on right now?” james muttered with a confused look on his face.

“i thought we couldn’t have any other creatures besides cats, rats, and toads?”

“well bowie is not just a creature he is my best friend and i’m taking him to with me to visit family.”

“but dumbledore didn’t say-”

“i don’t think dumbledore would care about that i mean he and my dad have only saved the world together and go way back. also you never really introduced yourself and i would like to have a name to put to your face,”

“oh lily evans,”

“i’m james potter,” the boy with glasses piped up while eating a chocolate frog. lily grimaced saying “pleasure,” from gritted teeth.

“oh james! that’s disgusting close your mouth you heathen!” james rolled his eyes and swallowed his food before asking what houses we think we’re going to be in, his answer was of course gryffindor. lily didn’t know what house she would be in but with all of the hype james was giving gryffindor she picked that one. i said slytherin, obviously.

“slytherin? why would you want to be in slytherin?”

“um because it’s literally a house dedicated to loyalty, hard work, and success?”

james looked at me as if i were crazy then began to give me his “why slytherin house is evil” rant. i rolled my eyes and began gathering up my robes.

“right well i’m going to go change into my robes and you can give lily here your little speech.”

i walked out of the compartment and while moving down the hall i stuck my hand out in front of my pocket for bowie to step onto so i could put him on my shoulder.

i reached the bathrooms only to find them being blocked off by a boy with black hair.

we can all guess who that is…

[somemoviemoments]

I Eat Your Skin

Del Tenney

1971

[bitter69uk]

Recently watched: The Wild World of Batwoman (1966). Tagline: “A Thrill-cade of Excitement! Roaring through the city streets into Wildville!” 

Look, I have a high (possibly masochistic) tolerance for terrible films. In fact, I have a twisted affection for them. Give me a The Brain That Wouldn’t Die (1962) or I Eat Your Skin (1971), and I’m transfixed. But The Wild World of Batwoman defeated even me. Its duration is a mere one hour and six minutes, and yet somehow it felt like three numbing hours long. IMDb gives up on even attempting a synopsis: “The pointlessly named Batwoman and her bevy of Batmaidens fight evil and dance.” (Rotten Tomatoes makes more of an effort: “A busty vampire needs a scientist's atomic bomb, made from a hearing aid, to save a comrade”). Opportunistic hack director Jerry Warren clearly aimed to exploit the popularity of the campy Batman TV series. When they legally threatened him over copyright infringement, Warren simply re-titled it She Was a Hippy Vampire. 

Anyway, the titular Batwoman (ineptly played by Katherine Victor) is a tired looking middle-aged woman in an exploding punk fright wig, Halloween mask and dominatrix outfit. She’s also a crime-fighting vampire ruling over a bevy of groovy “Bat Chicks” who are forever breaking into frantic go-go dancing. (Are they doing the Frug? The Watusi? The Jerk? I couldn’t tell you). The ensuing wacky hijinks are utterly incomprehensible. To add to the confusion, Warren also pads-out the action by splicing in footage from The Mole People (1956), an entirely different film.  The naïve kitschy tone has its appeal. There’s some decent twang-y garage rock music. The Wild World of Batwoman would inevitably be more tolerable broken into chunks on something like Elvira’s Movie Macabre or Mystery Science Theatre 3000. Anyway, I stuck it out to the bitter end. I defy you to the do the same! The Wild World of Batwoman is routinely described as one of the worst films ever made – find out why! Watch on YouTube. 

[whump-town]

Stubborn

Everybody taking care of old Hotch because... I don't like it when old Hotch gets left to just die on his own :( don't ask why that's where I draw the line

No pairings

No warnings

In Jack’s second semester of his junior year, Hotch collapses again. He’s home this time, out in his garden under the glaring sun. The day had begun no different than any other. The birds on the powerline chirping and causing their disturbances, as eager for the day to begin as the school-aged children shouting in the street. He’d watched them from the sliding glass door facing the street, his tea warm in his hands. He’d waved at a few, the older ones who recognize him as a mystifying adult with stories to be unlocked. The younger children give him a face akin to a monster’s, his mystery horrifying in their already confusing enough lives.

It’s an hour before lunch. Two hours before Spencer shows up because it’s Thursday and he teaches a class on this side of town every Tuesday and Thursday at 2. One that he occasionally asks Hotch to attend -- as a guest lecturer, as a treat to his students, or just for the company.

He could call just about anyone.

Emily’s downtown, on her way back from a meeting with the Department of Justice. She’d be thrilled for an excuse to not go back to the office and spend an hour or two in his kitchen telling him about those pretentious assholes.

Garcia’s about ten minutes away, working at a nonprofit teaching “at-risk” kids how to code. Being the guiding hand she’d needed as a teenager so that they might not repeat the same mistakes she made. She was lucky, Hotch saved her but he’s not around to catch any more kids like her.

Morgan got hired by a family two streets over to fix up their house before they move in. He’s there now, tearing out rotting beams.

This collapse is not of the life-threatening kind. Not to Hotch at least. There’s no internal bleeding, no emergency surgeries. He doesn’t even need stitches but he’s on so many medications that thin his blood that it’s just on the safer side. From the hospital, he calls who he needs to. Reid first, he’ll worry when he gets to Hotch’s house and sees his truck gone. Then, Jack, it’s better to hear this sort of thing from him and not Emily in half an hour when she needs to yell at someone and who better than the son of the idiot she hates right now? Dave and Emily follow and he trusts them to carry the news the rest of the way. Rather, he simply doesn’t want to talk about it anymore and he’d rather Garcia and JJ and Morgan and everyone else just be mad at him than go on to have another conversation about how he’s feeling.

Fine. He just got light-headed. It was the heat and his perpetually low iron and probably his thin blood (the killer had been his blood pressure but they’re working on that). He just needs to get better about remembering to eat breakfast -- a larger breakfast than just tea and toast. Fainting, he assures Dave, happens. Jack’s seen it happen. The heat makes it worse, the summertime drains him. He’s come in from the garden and gotten weak in the knees plenty of times. He actually moved some chairs around the sliding glass door to the yard, prepared for this exact problem.

This over clarification does not help.

Made only the more complicated when he explains his head is fine. The fainting thing really isn’t a big deal, he just needs a ride home. He’d landed weirdly and pulled his back. He left with a new problem entirely, a torn ligament in his shoulder. That is a problem for a different day.

The surgery is set for the week just before Jack’s finals. Armed with a suitcase full of textbooks, his laptop, notes from this semester (and a few from last), and just enough clothes to recycle a few and still be fine, Jack shows up on his father’s doorstep. “I mean, the hospital isn’t exactly the library… but it’s not the worst place I’ve studied.” It’s far too late to send Jack back but Hotch is reluctant to let him stay. Even if he does prefer Jack be his ride rather than the likes of Penelope and that tiny green eye-sore of a car she drives or leave him to Reid and his defensive, jerky driving.

To the sound of “Aaron Hotchner November 2, 1971”, Jack settles down with his books. He tries to put himself in the right headspace for studying but it’s harder than he anticipated. The constant motion of the room unsettles him and he looks up several times to see his father’s reaction. To gauge the anxiety in his face, in the deep breathes that he pulls in through his nose. In how tight his fists are holding the sheets underneath him. It’s a simple surgery and they’ll be out of here in no time.

“Young” his heart had not handled the heavy sedatives and morphine well. Then again, those incidents are always hard to measure against a thing like this. Rushed into the ER with nine chest wounds and having nearly bled to death, it’s natural to conclude the stress of his depleted blood supply and his very recent trauma had caused his heart to stop on the table. That said trauma was the reason his heart had maintained to be a steady problem up until they released him. Again, when he was brought in with some of the worst internal bleedings the staff had ever seen. His heart had given them trouble too.

Jack is staring blankly at his flashcards when the doctor comes out.

Hotch had gone to Georgetown to be a lawyer like his father and his grandfather. Jack went to Georgetown to get an Art History degree. He was lead by something else. Not chasing some shadow, clutching at a lie he spoonfed himself. Jack didn’t live in anyone’s shadow, never felt the pressure to look and act a certain way. Was never beaten into submission or told to hold his tongue. Jack went to museums every Saturday with his father, preferred them to the aquariums and the zoo. Hotch held him close to the artwork, pushed his dense schedule around to go to new shows, and learned the names of pieces just to recite the knowledge back to Jack.

In his lap, Jack is memorizing pieces of art like his father had years ago for him. He’s stuck on The Anatomy Lesson, eyes glued to the details. The way colorless skin is held in forceps, peeled back to reveal angry red. He can feel the pinching teeth on his own skin, feels the heavy flow of hot blood spilling down over his arm.

“Hotchner?”

Jack flinches, caught completely off guard. He stands, flushing as he tucks his notecards into his textbook, and stands. “Ugh, yeah. That’s me.” He wipes his hands off on his pants, rubbing away the nervous sweat he’s built up.

The doctor recognizes him from earlier. He’d watched Jack and Hotch get out one last goodbye. Jack pulling up a nervous smile, dirty-blonde hair, and light eyes a complete contrast to Hotch’s ever-darkening features. Somehow more solemn, voice taken by the sedatives already working through his body. He hadn’t said a word, eyes vacantly following Jack’s movements but unaware.

Jack expects the same monologue he hears every time. The one that comes out so dry and perfect that they must practice it in front of the mirror, say it softly to themselves as they as they get ready each morning. He’s got it memorized himself -- the bits about recovering in post-op, make a full recovery, and whatever on the fly timeline they give for access back to the room.

“But he’s-- He’s okay? He’s--”

Jack feels impossibly childish. Five years old and Emily’s chilled fingers brushing his tears away, “baby, I know you miss your mommy. But you’re being so terribly mean to your daddy.” He had been, a terrible little monster squirming away from his father and refusing to eat anything. Throwing tantrums about nothing and everything. Screaming and crawling under his bed every chance he got. Pushing himself to the wall knowing he couldn’t be reached.

Now he can remember Hotch just sitting at the edge of the bed. There on the floor for hours. Sometimes he read, would pick up a book, and just start from wherever just to make it so his voice was reaching where he couldn’t. He slept there too, on the hard ground just to make sure Jack knew he was there. Slipped strawberry pop tarts on crazily designed animal plated under there, offered bites of his own food to the darkness under the bed. Sippy cups full of chocolate milk and juice.

He feels like a little boy again, getting news that he has no idea how to handle.

“He’s okay?” Jack stammers. “He’s going to be okay? I can see him?”

Hotch remembers those days under the bed too. Waking up in the middle of the night as Jack groggily curled close to him, still under the bed but crawling under his blanket. The ends of those awful sobs, Jack’s little chest jerking as he hiccuped. The force of his sorrow was too much for his little body. And Jack would fall into his lap, exhausted and needing comfort. His little fingers tracing the scars on Hotch’s face. How he whispered “thank you” and “please” from underneath the bed and how he’d pop his head out to say, “Daddy, I’m going to potty. I’ll be right back.”

Jack’s legally old enough to drink now and Hotch still sees that little boy. The three-year-old wiping his snot on Hotch’s dress shirt. The six-year-old holding his hand and reminding him to look both ways twice before crossing the street. The eight-year-old he left the hallway light on for, old enough now to think he needed to brave the night without a nightlight. So Hotch would offer to keep the hallway light on, not for Jack but for him because he doesn’t like the dark. The ten-year-old sheepishly offering him a father’s day gift he bought with saved allowance, a t-shirt he’s now worn the words off of. The fifteen-year-old curling up beside him on the couch, seeking his comfort but not sure how to ask anymore. The eighteen-year-old as tall as him talking his ear off while he tries to get dinner ready, sticking his fingers in the pan and sitting on the counter.

How did he grow up so fast?

He’s not a little boy anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.

The creaking of a chair moves Hotch’s attention and he looks away from Jack. Away from the sight of his little boy curled up on a cot, drooling onto a pillow and notebook still open, a pen dangling from his fingers. He looks over and Emily’s sitting up, her reading glasses precariously sat on the tip of her nose. “Oh look,” she mumbles. She stretches out, groaning as her joints complain from being held in this miserable hospital chair for hours. “You’ve decided to join the land of the living.”

Hotch watches her fold the thin black frames of her glasses up, gently sits them down by his hand as she stands up. Jack had called her, even though he promised he wouldn’t worry anyone. Hotch didn’t want anyone else coming to the hospital over something so small and though Jack protested that their concern wouldn’t be because he was bothering them but because they love him. The very same reason he’d come home is that people gather after these sorts of things. They need reassurance that he’s alive and he’s just going to have to accept that. They compromised in the end, everyone could come to smother him in worry after he got home from the surgery.

But Jack was scared. He called the only person he could think to, the woman whose role in his life that was never really clear. She’d gotten on him about his grades, smacked the back of his head when he said something stupid, and always let him taste-test her wine at Thanksgiving dinner. Emily knew things that not even Jessica knew and she could be sterner than both Hotch and Jessica and also more relaxed, more understanding. She was always there for both of them, in the same capacity as Jessica and yet her own unique one. A friend Hotch trusted and loved and Jack could understand that. His friends always wanted to know if they were dating and he knew intuitively that the answer was no but he would hesitate to try and explain. But he didn’t understand the gravity that pulled them together, adults and their relationships far too complex to fit it into his simple understanding of love.

He did understand she was the only person to call.

“What’d he do this time?” she asked and knew she was playing the wrong role for the wrong Hotchner because no sooner than she could ask she had an armful of Jack. She sat with Jack for hours, let him get his fear out. Held him while he sobbed, felt pulled to the past. When it was Aaron on her shoulder, terrified he’d lose his son. Life has this very odd way of bringing everything full circle.

“I bet you’re hurting.” Emily moves to the table and pours water into the little paper Dixie cup left by the nurses. “Been right dramatic this afternoon,” she informs him, a dissatisfied matter-of-fact tone in play. “I know you find that to be particularly taxing.” She holds the cup for him, gentle despite her annoyance. She’s close enough to see the iodine on his skin. Dark orange swipes across his pale skin, the smell burns with its strength.

He pulls greedily from the cup, mouth impossibly dry. Stopped only by how little she poured, he sinks back heavily into the pillows behind him. His shoulder hot and angry from forcing himself upright.

“They’re going to let you go in the morning,” she says, sitting back down. He won’t remember this in the morning. Emily holding his hand, whispering thickly how angry she is with him as tears fall down her face. How scared she was getting that phone call from Jack, racing down here to be a composed person to comfort his son thinking her best friend was in the morgue.

He’ll wake up with a pit in his stomach, residual feelings from the night before he can’t tie down to memories. Emily shows no inclination to repeat herself, just coldly informs him that she’ll have Penelope make him a cardiologist appointment (it’s unspoken that no one trusts him to do this himself). Jack walks on glass, close by but terrified of being pushed away. Hotch is too out of it to put up much of a fight, by the time the morning shift has their hands on him he’s silent. Properly dosed up for a ride home and out of his mind.

He’s groggily propped up on pillows, watching Jack and Emily fight over if he has the right to wear shoes or not. Emily wants to hold them captive, he won’t run off or refuse the wheelchair without them and Jack shakes his head, “he’s not our P.O.W, Emily. He’s even going to get that far if he does try to run.” He’s given his shoes but Emily makes a point to collect his cane, holds it while the nurse helps him into the wheelchair. He’s a flight-risk and she’s not going to trust him, he’s run off on her too many times for that.

At the house the other’s have gathered up, having nothing better to do evidently on a Wednesday at ten in the morning. Penelope’s frying eggs and bacon, the carnage it takes to feed their brood spread out on his kitchen counter. Reid sitting on the counter, Hank in his lap, and the two of them watching Penelope. Derek’s on the sofa, feet kicked up on the coffee table, and Savannah learning on his shoulder. Dave’s getting orange juice from the store declared them all lawless, and didn’t trust them to get the right kind.

Hotch is granted his cane to get back inside the house but Emily threatens to kick it out from underneath if he tries anything fast. He smacks her ankle and Jack has to actually step between them to keep them apart. It’s in times like these where Jack finds himself wondering how these two ever had any role in raising him at all.

“Don’t you have jobs?” Hotch asks, hooking his cane over the coat rack and toeing his shoes off. He ignores the hand Emily places on his arm, afraid he’ll knock himself over. He manages just fine, has the whole house set up so that every other step is within arms distance of something to lean on. Fingers trailing the back of the couch he limps past Derek, smiling when Savannah offers a soft “glad you’re okay”. She pats his hand and he nods back.

“Up for some food, sir?” Penelope asks and she’s not taking no for an answer. They might be having heaping servings of eggs and bacon and gravy and orange juice but she’s made two small bowls of oatmeal. She takes the medicine Jack tosses up on the counter, puts it at the end where the rest of his medication sits. “I cut up apples,” she tells Hotch with a wide grin, sliding the bowl in front of him. “Dashed a little cinnamon and sugar in there, it’ll stick to your bones. Keep you healthy.”

He’s at a healthy weight at the moment, not as thin as he leans to when he’s sick but with Hotch, it’s always a good thing to have some collateral weight for the “in case”. Lifting the spoon in his left hand he scoops some of the oatmeal up, doing his best to hide his annoyance at how weak his extremities still are. How his hand shakes under the light strain of the oatmeal. He looks up, watches Spencer carry Hank over to the highchair sitting at the table beside him. He’s distracted so Emily swoops in, takes his spoon from his hand, and tries his oatmeal. He lets her do it. He raises an eyebrow and she shrugs. She likes it. He nods, it’s pretty good.

Hank immediately knocks his spoon on the ground and makes a low whining sound in the back of his throat. “Hop help,” he whines, pointing down at his spoon. His speech is still developing so he pronounces help and hop nearly identically but Hotch understands the difference. He just can’t bend over like that. His right arm is still pinned to his chest in an intricate web of gauze and this sling.

“Reid,” Hotch calls. His voice is deep, strained from intubation and anesthesia. It makes him sound sick. “He’s dropped his spoon.”

Reid nods, he already knows.

Hank points to his shoulder and frowns, “Hop fall down?”

Hotch nods, that is pretty much what happened and at the same time, Emily sweeps in and tickles Hank. She presses kisses to his face and making him laugh loudly. “That’s what happens,” she says. “Hops is just old.” Hank is too distracted by the ongoing attack to defend Hotch not that a toddler rising to his defense is very helpful.

Hotch sighs as Jack comes up behind him, stealing his spoon too. He takes a bite of the oatmeal and deems it nearly as good as the kind that Jessica makes. Hotch wants to be annoyed by it and yet all he does is nod and finds himself smirking just a little.

Penelope calls everyone in for breakfast and Hotch ignores the kisses pressed to his cheek as people drag chairs to the table around him. To the hands that slide over his back, assurance of life he remembers Jack calling it.

Derek slides him a mug of tea, made exactly how he likes it. He sits across from Hotch, close to Hank in case either needs assistance. Emily sits to his left, slides her coffee up beside his tea so he can have some if he’s quick about it. Jack sits beside her and the rest is a blur, too much motion at once for him to take in without his contacts or glasses. Penelope slides a tea plate to him, his medicine on it, and kisses his head while he’s still scowling at the plate.

They don’t leave him alone all day.

He ends up taking a nap with Hank, the toddler’s sticky little fingers holding onto his shirt as he finds himself unable to fight off the effects of the medicine and his full stomach.

He’s squished on the couch between Derek and Dave, forced to watch baseball because he can’t worm his way upright again just yet.

They change the dressings on his shoulder, his teeth clenched tightly so that he doesn’t let anything slip.

At midnight he wakes up on the couch. Jack’s bedroom door is shut, he’s sleeping peacefully inside. His heating blanket is pulled up to his chin, the heat turned up all the way. He can’t remember getting into this state himself but he has a fate memory of JJ helping him move his hand to his mouth, encouraging him to take the pain killers before bed. Of Derek making sure he didn’t just fall straight over onto his side. He manages to find Dave stretched out on the Lazyboy -- the chair he got Hotch for his fifty-something birthday. He’ll wake up in the morning to more food being made in his lonely kitchen, JJ this time. She’ll make blueberry waffles.

If he’d wanted attention, Emily will tease the next morning, he could have just asked. And he didn’t even know he wanted this. He never finds the words to ask for it to continue but every Saturday morning it happens anyway -- his kitchen and living room full of pajamas and suits in varying degrees depending on who has what to do that morning. The fainting thing is not cool but he considers this to be a good trade.

[pellucidity-is-me]

Poppy Pomfrey Hates Werewolves

Summary: The year is 1971, and Madam Pomfrey is finding it more difficult than expected to care for an eleven-year-old werewolf student. She turns to a late-night conversation with Minerva McGonagall in order to soothe her frustrations.

Wordcount: 3843

Poppy Pomfrey hated werewolves.

No, that wasn't the right wording. Poppy loved Remus very much; she thought that he was a clever, lovable boy who deserved to be at Hogwarts more than some of the other ridiculous buffoons (ahem: Potter and Black).

In fact, the Lupins in general were lovely people. Poppy remembered Remus' father, Lyall Lupin, from her first year at Hogwarts—he’d been six years older than she was and in a different House, so they hadn't been close. Yet she did remember that Lyall was a lot like Remus in the sense that he'd received very good marks and was usually quiet and mild-mannered. But his temper! Arguments with Lyall were bound to lead to a fight—either the Muggle way or the wizarding way; Lyall was willing to participate in either. Poppy saw Lyall in Remus often, even though she hadn't known Lyall very well. They looked alike, yes, but there was also something deeper. Both had odd interests and were a bit eccentric. Both were clever. Both had an unexpectedly honed sense of humor. And both (as Poppy knew from some of Hope's letters) were very prone to guilt.

Hope was Remus' mother, and Poppy liked her just as much as she liked Remus. She was a wonderful mother and a lot of fun. A stereotypical doting mother, really. Hope, like Lyall and Remus, was very funny, and Poppy often found herself laughing out loud at her letters. Poppy probably learned much more about young Remus than Remus would have been comfortable with, but Hope just couldn't help oversharing. Poppy suspected that she'd never before had anyone to talk to about Remus without fear of his lycanthropy getting out. Poppy liked Hope so much, in fact, that they had plans to meet during Christmas holidays. Poppy could see the two of them becoming very good friends.

Yes, Poppy was fond of Remus, as well as both of his parents. But she hated werewolves.

Not werewolves. Not really. Poppy hated lycanthropy. Poppy hated the fact that Remus had to go through unimaginable pain every single month. And he was so young! Four years old, that's how old he had been. It made Poppy feel ill sometimes, and it was the type of illness that even she—the most experienced school matron in the world, probably—could not cure.

It had gone relatively well for the first couple of months—well, not well, per se, but they’d survived. At least Remus had always been conscious and somewhat coherent afterwards. Remus had a habit of making jokes when he was uncomfortable, and it always made it easier to stop feeling so horrible when he was making the odd sarcastic comment. But the first December full moon was far worse than usual. 

When Poppy crawled through the tunnel the morning after the December full moon and saw Remus, unconscious on the floor and bleeding out, she nearly vomited. She wasn't ready for this! She couldn’t! She’d never had to do anything like this before, and this was absolutely terrible. He shouldn’t have to deal with that every month. She shouldn’t have to deal with this every month. 

How dare Dumbledore ask her to help him? She was only human. She couldn't see this, month after month and day after day. Such a young student. So small and thin and delicate. This was horrible for her, too!

And no one even asked her! It wasn't as if Dumbledore had said "Good morning, Poppy, would you be willing to care for a werewolf in September 1971?" No, he had flat-out told her that there was nothing she could do about it. She still remembered his exact words. A very special student... infected with lycanthropy... deserves a chance to learn, as all children do... Poppy will be caring for him after full moons... Don't try to protest his coming here, I have made my decision. Ridiculous. The man never asked anyone else's opinion. 

Poppy wouldn't have protested, though, and she felt even worse when she realized what she was insinuating. Remus, stay home and never come to Hogwarts? That wouldn't stop the transformations; that would only make them worse. Besides, having to see it was nothing compared to actually going through it... But still. It was so hard to think of it all—so difficult to be given a burden that no one, be it child or school matron, should have to carry.

Poppy was used to being able to help people. That was her job. She loved helping people. But there was no cure for lycanthropy, and it was far beyond Poppy’s abilities to comprehend, even, how terrible it must be for the eleven-year-old child... for a five-year-old child. Remus had endured countless full moons, and each one left him with injuries worse than some of the worst accidents that Poppy had ever seen. It made her sick.

Regardless of her feelings, though, Poppy now stood in the Shrieking Shack. Her wand was dangling limply from her hand as she stared at the deep gashes in the wall and the equally limp boy on the floor who had somehow—somehow—made them.

She couldn't help it at that point. She left. She couldn't look at him any longer; it was driving her mad.

She'd always thought magic to be a wonderful thing: capable of healing and helping and loving. But it wasn't. Magic wasn't all good at all. Here was the darker side—the horrific, awful, terrifying side that left eleven-year-old children so ill that they couldn't eat, turned them into horrifying beasts against their will, and then left them bruised and broken on the floors of their own torture chambers. Why did she even try? She couldn't change anything. She'd never help Remus Lupin, no matter how much time she spent soothing his worries and healing his injuries. He'd always have to go through this. There was no cure, and Poppy felt helpless. She hadn't felt this awful since she'd failed that student who spent half a year as a rock.

She’d only meant to leave for a bit (she needed more potions for Remus, anyhow, and she also needed a bit of air. Remus would be fine). But then she came across a panicking Slughorn who professed that a girl had drank too much of a potentially deadly potion and needed to be taken to St. Mungo’s. The girl’s parents weren’t available. Someone would have to take her.

When Professor John Questus, current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, offered to stay and look after Remus, Poppy couldn’t help but seize the opportunity to take a breather.

So she took the girl to St. Mungo’s herself and left Remus with the Defense professor. She needed some time away—some time to think things over. She knew that it was probably the better option to stay with Remus, but she couldn't. She couldn't help popping in every few hours over Floo to make sure that Remus had not died due to her negligence—but she stayed away, for the most part. And she talked to Remus' toad that had crept into her apron. He really was good conversation, even if he was slimy-looking and warty.

"What was your name? Bufo?"

Bufo blinked.

"Do you think I've failed?"

Bufo cocked his gross little head.

"People trusted me, and I just left. That's unacceptable."

Bufo croaked.

"I'm a terrible matron." Poppy felt tears well up in her eyes. She'd left Remus to John Questus. John Questus! He was probably asking Remus all sorts of uncomfortable questions and snapping at him for being too emotional when Remus needed love and comfort and care. Because that was what John Questus did. As a former Auror, he knew Healing magic, to be sure... but he just wasn’t the type of person to care for a scared child. 

Remus was injured, and Poppy had left him—left him!—all alone on the floor of the Shrieking Shack—the Shrieking Shack!—with no one to help him. What if he had woken up all alone and scared and in pain and waited, but no one came, and then the most horribly unsympathetic professor at Hogwarts showed up and told him that Poppy had left! Just left! Poppy didn't want to think of how awful Remus, who already mistakenly assumed that most everyone hated him, might have felt.

Suddenly, she felt a small weight on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and saw Bufo snuggling against her neck. Poppy sniffed and patted his leathery skin a bit—he wasn't so bad, after all.

And Remus seemed mostly okay when she'd returned to Hogwarts. John had missed one of his wounds, and it ended up becoming terribly infected. Poppy was angry with John at first, but it didn't take long before she realized that it was her fault. The man wasn't an experienced Healer, after all, even though he did know a bit of Healing magic. Remus was her job, and she'd abandoned him just because she was feeling emotional.

Now it was Tuesday, and Poppy was certain that Remus would sleep through the night. He was looking so much better, and Poppy had no doubt that he would be all right upon going back to classes on Wednesday. Even his arm was healing up, and he'd managed to walk around the Hospital Wing the other day without any problems—he even took a bath all by himself. So she left him in her office (under the watchful eyes of Bufo), and went to talk to Minerva McGonagall.

Minerva and Poppy had been in the same year at Hogwarts and had been acquaintances (despite the fact that they were in different Houses). Since Minerva had already been teaching when Poppy had become the matron, they'd only gotten closer. Poppy would consider Minerva to be her closest friend, even—they certainly saw a lot of each other. They'd been colleagues for about twenty years now. It was mad, how quickly the time flew.

Poppy knew that Minerva was uncomfortable around Remus (she never liked werewolves much), but it was clear that she was trying—Poppy appreciated that. And Remus seemed to enjoy Minerva's company (but then again, he seemed to enjoy everybody's company. Even John Questus', for some reason). Poppy had never spoken to Minerva about Remus one-on-one (though she tended to chatter about him during staff meetings), but she was sure that Minerva wouldn't mind.

She knocked on Minerva's door, and Minerva let her in with a smile. "Poppy. May I help you?"

"I... only need to talk." Poppy often came to Minerva to chat; despite Poppy's no-nonsense exterior and usually-immaculate bedside manner, she was frightfully emotional. Anyone who told the students that, though, would be getting a rather nasty hex that Madam Pomfrey "wouldn't be able to heal".

"Of course," said Minerva. "Come in; I'll make tea."

"Are you sure? It's late, and I don't want to keep you up."

"I'm sure. I was having trouble sleeping, anyway."

"Yes, I noticed that your hair is still up."

Minerva smiled and undid her bun. "It's been a long day. Do you know, Potter and Black still insist on calling me by my first name? Those insolent, disrespectful..."

"I can't believe that Remus is friends with them."

"Is this about Remus, then?" said Minerva, nearly laughing. "You have that same look on your face whenever you talk about him during the staff meetings."

Poppy rearranged her face. "Look? What kind of look?"

"You worry about him. Understandably so, of course."

"Yes, yes." Minerva offered Poppy a teacup, and she took it gratefully. "I just... I can't. Minerva, it's awful!"

Minerva sat back patiently with her own cup of tea, not even batting an eye. "Yes, I know."

It all came spilling out at once. "I've done research! We all have! Did you read the article in the paper? The Shrieking Shack, they call it. Shrieking? Wolves don't shriek, Minerva—people do! It's painful; it's hurting him! And his pain threshold is so incredibly high that I... I can't even... I can't even imagine how bad it is, to make him hurt enough to actually cry out. He's so thin and sickly and pale all the time, and he's so small and delicate for his age, and he... I can't get over his pain threshold! He doesn't even flinch when I heal a broken bone, Minerva. Doesn't even flinch. He walks all the way back to the castle, month after month, with worse injuries than... than anything, really.

"And he just has to live with it—wounds all over his body all the time, can't even heal up completely before the next full moon rolls around, can't eat properly on the day before, can't even attend class because he's feeling so sickly. He gets through injuries that would cripple a grown man... and complains less than a miffed Gryffindor when Slytherin wins the House Cup! And he has to live with it! All the time!"

Minerva looked appropriately saddened and kept listening silently. She was good at that.

"He was four, he told me. Four, nearly five. He was attacked by a fully-fledged werewolf—and he let slip that said werewolf attacked him on purpose!—when he was a little more than a toddler. I've seen the scar, and I know enough about injuries to know that it must have been life-threatening. And most of it is on his shoulder, just near his neck! Just... can you imagine? Being a four-year-old child and a werewolf biting you—only inches away from snapping your neck... and then living as one? He's traumatized! He has nightmares, Minerva! Still! After six years, and he flinches whenever I get close."

Minerva pursed her lips and refilled Poppy's tea, which she had spilled all over her lap. Poppy didn't even care at this point.

"I hate it. I hate it. I hate coming to the Shack and seeing him half-dead. I hate his complacent expression, like he's been through it many before... because he has! He has! It's... what, eighty times now? I don't know! And he probably doesn't even keep track, because it's such a normal thing now! That sort of thing should never be normal! And not for a child, especially. A child! Eleven, but he looks so much older—he's so much more mature than he should be—he's seen more than children should, been through more than I have! Merlin's beard. Sometimes I want him to yell at me and get angry over it all, because he never really has. Cool as a cucumber about the whole thing. He's FINE, he says!"

Tears were running down Poppy's face now, but she made no attempt to stop them. Minerva had seen her cry many, many times before. In fact, she'd cried most recently when she'd lost her favorite pair of slippers. It was hard, keeping it in all day for fear of frightening the students.

"And no one ever asks me how hard it is. No one ever talks about me. Plenty of people say "poor Remus", and goodness knows he deserves it, even if he doesn't want it. But no one even thinks about how hard it is for me—to help a child—with an incurable illness—that I can't do anything about! To watch him fight through unimaginable pain, to see him suffering, to watch him get feverish and pass out in the middle of a sentence and refuse to eat and drown his pain in books! He's just... in my office... for days, every single month... and I just have to go about my business, knowing that there's nothing I can do. There's no cure! He won't even let me help him before a full moon because potions and things irritate him on the full moon. There's nothing I can do! Think about it! I can't get over it!"

Minerva wordlessly handed Poppy a handkerchief, and Poppy blew her nose. "It's not just about him," Poppy said, calming down a little. "It's not just about me, either. It's just... it's something that made me realize how much darkness is in the world... how unfair things are... how people can suffer so much without deserving it. I knew, before. But I didn't really believe it... and now it's just all so overwhelming. There are so many hurting people in the world. Remus isn't even the only werewolf in Britain. And I can't help everyone. I'm confined to this school—this small school in a world full of billions of people—and I can't... even... help everyone... in the tiny school! I hate it."

Minerva spoke for the first time. "I know," she said, and stood up to embrace Poppy tightly. "I know." A minute later, she pulled away, and the front of her robes were wet from Poppy's tears. Poppy could sense helpful advice coming. "Do you want to know what I think?" Minerva asked quietly, and Poppy looked up at her with watery eyes.

"What?"

"We all have varying levels of pain. I think that all of us have a sort of pain that unimaginable to another. Such is life. We shouldn't dwell on the pain that we all inevitably have: instead, we should focus on the good things that we have. Remus Lupin is a... well, he's ill. But he has two wonderful parents who love him. His 'normal' is different from ours, but that doesn't mean he has a completely awful life. It's just a different kind of normal—a new normal."

Poppy nodded and sniffed a little.

"And he has three friends who accept him."

"We don't know that."

"For right now, they do. And he has plenty of intelligence and activities that he enjoys. And he plays outside with his friends—did you see his face at the last Quidditch match? Or on Halloween?"

"No, I was sitting with the Hufflepuffs. And the full moon wasn't until November second."

"I've never seen him so happy," Minerva assured her. "It isn't the dark that we should focus on, it's the light that cancels it out. With all people—everyone that you can't help. It's just life, Poppy. Just life. No matter how much we think about how awful things are, they won't change... but thinking about how wonderful things are can change our mindsets, at least."

Poppy granted her a watery smile. "Thank you. That helps."

"Of course it does. I'm a very helpful person, you know."

Poppy nodded, ever thankful. "Now that I've done my ranting," she said, feeling a lot better than she had been feeling mere minutes ago, "I'll give you some time to rant about Potter and Black."

"Oh, thank goodness." Minerva straightened up and immediately went off on a tirade about their shenanigans: disrespect, loud voices, lack of motivation, disregard for the rules... et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Poppy had heard it all before.

"I think you like them," said Poppy slyly once Minerva had finished.

"What? No!"

"Oh no, you definitely like them. Potter is fantastic at Transfiguration, is he not? And flying? Both things that you're talented at, yourself."

"Well... maybe I do like them a little," admitted Minerva with a heavy sigh, "merely because they're Gryffindors through and through. Don't tell anyone."

Poppy hummed her consent and took a sip of tea. "So... that game you play with Remus that you mentioned earlier...? Tell me more."

Minerva laughed. She didn't laugh often around students, and Poppy loved to hear it. "I wasn't very comfortable around him at first; you know that. And he knew it too. He was obviously uncomfortable around me, too—things were awkward at first. Classes consisted of avoiding eye contact, mostly. It was distracting. So I told him that we'd play a game of sorts: whichever of us can act normally around the other first wins. We've been giving each other points. I'm winning."

"Not what he told Albus."

Minerva sipped her tea. "He's deluded."

"So... any reason why you aren't comfortable around werewolves? It seems a bit odd for you of all people to be afraid..."

"Not afraid!" protested Minerva. "Just uncomfortable. As you know, I'm half-blood, and my mother—a witch—took pride in her heritage. She told me stories of the wizarding world all the time—trying to bring me back to my roots, even though we lived in a Muggle village. I heard so many tales of werewolves being a danger to society, even from an early age. They're bogeymen, Poppy. The monsters under the beds. Children grow up with an innate fear of them... They ask their parents to check their closets for them before they go to sleep. Their parents tell them that that a werewolf will eat them if they get out of bed or disobey the rules. I was so afraid of werewolves as a child that I hated going outside at night. There's a fear instilled in young children, and it takes a while to shake off. That's all. It's not that I'm afraid of him—you know me, I'm a proud Gryffindor. I just don't like... the idea of it."

"Even though he's so small and harmless?"

"Yes. I'm not proud of it." Minerva finished off her tea. "But I can stand to be around him much more easily now. I like him, you know. Quiet, calm. The exact opposite of Potter and Black."

"Do you ever shut up about them?" Poppy teased.

"I'll shut up about them when you shut up about Remus. All you ever talk about these days."

"He's the only company I have these days!"

"Except when John Questus visits..." teased Minerva. She knew all about Poppy's hatred towards John Questus—he had, in fact, been the subject of Poppy's last after-hours rant.

"Ugh! Don't even talk about him. The horrible, insensitive..."

"Yes, I know. You've ranted about him to me before. I think you fancy him, don't you?"

"Who, John?" Poppy gagged. "That's too far. I'm going to bed now."

"You accused me of liking Potter and Black. I'm only returning the favor."

"It's not the same thing! I do not fancy John Questus!"

"Sweet dreams," called Minerva. "I'll plan the wedding."

"You're such a child!" snapped Poppy, opening the door to leave. "You sound like Potter."

Minerva feigned disgust. "You'd better leave before I hex you."

Poppy obliged, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary and heading back to the Hospital Wing to check on Remus.

Minerva, she reflected, was a wonderful friend, and she was glad that Remus had a few such friends of his own.

Everybody needed friends, didn't they?

AN: Another scene from my fanfic (link in blog description). I don’t think John Questus has ever made an appearance on my tumblr before, just because he’s an OC and hard to explain in short snapshots like this—but he’s my favorite character lol and I was waiting for a good moment to mention him!

[ronnymerchant]

I DRINK YOUR BLOOD (1971) and I EAT YOUR SKIN (1964) aka ZOMBIE

[ronaldcmerchant]

I DRINK YOUR BLOOD (1971) and I EAT YOUR SKIN (1964) aka ZOMBIE

[thespiralstaircasewriter]

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.   

One year in every ten   

I manage it——

A sort of walking miracle, my skin   

Bright as a Nazi lampshade,   

My right foot

A paperweight,

My face a featureless, fine   

Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin   

O my enemy.   

Do I terrify?——

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?   

The sour breath

Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh

The grave cave ate will be   

At home on me

And I a smiling woman.   

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.   

What a trash

To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.   

The peanut-crunching crowd   

Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot——

The big strip tease.   

Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands   

My knees.

I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.   

The first time it happened I was ten.   

It was an accident.

The second time I meant

To last it out and not come back at all.   

I rocked shut

As a seashell.

They had to call and call

And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.   

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.   

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.   

It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute   

Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’

That knocks me out.   

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge   

For the hearing of my heart——

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge   

For a word or a touch   

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   

So, so, Herr Doktor.   

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,   

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.   

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,   

A wedding ring,   

A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer   

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair   

And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath, “Lady Lazarus” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)