#like if bela Lugosi looked at me like that I would probably do anything he asked

[rat-hand]

Irene Ware, Samuel S. Hinds, and Bela Lugosi in The Raven (1935)

[angellayercake]

He is

Vampire Terzo x FReader | NSFW

Art by the wonderful @tasty-ribz

For @ghostchems on her birthday! To be a little bit soppy as much as I love ghost for being ghost it has also brought me some incredible friends. We bonded over loving terzo and love island and now you are my favourite person to scream about awful men with every day. I hope everyone is making you feel a special as Terzo would today because as far as we are concerned yours is the only important birthday happening this month 💜

Now a best selling author thanks to your experience at Crowley Manor you find yourself struggling to muster up inspiration for the sequel. Will returning to the place it all began help you? Or just confirm the none of it was real? A sequel to Cirice Warnings: blood, rough sex, hints of mind control, pinv sex, cunnilingus, lots of dust hehe

With a huff of frustration you scratch out the poor excuse for a sentence and drop your pen. There were more scribbles across the page then there were words and you needed a break or you might end up throwing your note pad across the room. Abandoning your desk you wander over to the window for a distraction from your writer's block. The evening was drawing in, street lights flickering on one by one as people hurried home from their day whether it be work or leisure it was still an unwelcome reminder of your lack of productivity. Turning from the view you scan across the room, your home office, hoping for something to spark your inspiration but your mind remains unhelpfully blank. You ponder just giving up for the day, shutting the door and giving yourself over to your evening but deadlines are approaching and there is still so much to do. With a reluctant determination, you turn to your inspiration board and will it to do its job. 

When you had decided to write a follow up to your best selling debut novel, you had carefully gathered all the things you knew you would need to refer to to build the story. There were your photographs from Crowley Manor, newspaper clippings about the house and the area, quotes and key plot points from the original story,  a couple of photos of bela lugosi, the closest you can find to how you remember him looking - although you have sketched what you recall of the facepaint he wore over the top with a marker - and in the centre, the note; the only thing you have that proves that it was real. Well, that and the two small scars on your neck. You rub your fingers over them absentmindedly as you try to remember anything more but even as the scars faded, so did your memories to the point where you are not entirely sure any of it was real. Reading over the words again. 

 A candle casting a faint glow

You and I see eye to eye

Can you hear the thunder?

How can you hear the thunder that's breaking?

Now there is nothing between us

From now our merge is eternal

Can't you see that you're lost?

Can't you see that you're lost without me?

-iii

You hum the tune to yourself, the melody you had only heard once and yet it plays through your dreams so frequently you have never been able to forget it, always accompanied by a dark shadow and the sense that you are being watched. Your experience at Crowley Manor - whether a true encounter with a dashing vampire or a figment of your imagination - had changed your life. You were a writer now; a successful published writer. Your vampire romance novel had been an instant best seller, ‘the mysterious vampire luring in unsuspecting victims until one stole his heart’ earned a loyal fanbase and quickly. In interview after interview you were asked if you had based him on someone real, probably assuming he was an older man you had a crush on, but you always answered no because how could you explain that he was a man you had most likely conjured up in a dream. 

But that had all brought you to where you were now; attempting to write the much anticipated sequel. The heroine of your story had left the manor in a similar way to you but after having spent much longer with her vampire lover, and as much as you wanted to see them reunited you were struggling to find the narrative. Unlike you she had been offered forever with him and had chosen to return to her normal life, so without a justified reason, why would she return? Your thought process hits a brick wall once again as you rub your tired eyes. There is only one thing left to try before you may be forced to give up. The familiar pull in your gut that you had been resisting since the day you left was finally winning. You had to go back. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The gate is rusted and stiff, so you have to push hard to create enough space for you to slip through and even then you almost trip on the piles of rubbish littering the driveway. You step over the buckled historical society sign with a sigh - even they had given up on the place and for some time by the looks of things. Tall weeds were growing through the now sparse gravel, even more windows had been boarded up and there were layers of faded graffiti covering the front door. It is already ajar but you have to shove it open, pushing it past the built up leaves and dust trying to wedge it closed. Although the state of the outside had saddened you, it is the interior that makes your heart sink -  it was never nice to see a beautiful old house fall into ruin.

The floorboards still gave their familiar creak under your soft footsteps, but that was about the only similarity. The sconces, once filled with dripping candles were now empty and shrouded in cobwebs, and dust motes thick enough to choke you floated in what little beams of light that made it through the windows. Without the soft piano luring you further into the house you took your time to properly look around, cautiously walking through room after room. What little furniture that hadn’t been stolen or vandalised was covered in dust sheets. The shelving sits almost empty in every room; you pass only a few odd books and trinkets still in place but almost unrecognisable underneath all the grime. 

Towards the back of the house you come to what looks like a music room and a feeling of deja vu washes over you. The grand piano still dominates the room, but when you run your fingers across what little keys are left it only lets out reluctant, discordant notes as neglected and decaying as the rest of your surroundings. The fireplace is a yawning chasm on the back wall without the welcoming fire filling it, but you remember laying on the soft rug before it where he had given and taken unimaginable pleasure from you, well at least you thought. Because it was seeming more and more likely you had imagined it. You pull yourself from your thoughts and that is when the portrait catches your eye. How you never noticed it before you don’t understand, but it hangs perfectly above the mantel and crushes the last shreds of hope you were clinging onto. 

It is him. His distinctive face paint, his perfectly styled hair and his intense mismatched eyes. At least now you know what really happened on your last visit to this place. Before you had fallen asleep you must have seen this portrait on your last visit, striking as he was and then your mind had concocted the whole fantasy. You are not sure exactly what you had been expecting returning to Crowley Manor, but you couldn’t avoid the cutting disappointment that was slicing through you. All that was here was an empty old house and a painting of a man. With one last longing look you take your leave as you fight the knot of feelings solidifying in your chest. There was nothing else for you here. You reach the foyer where the light of dusk shines around the edges of the open door, illuminating your exit from this house and your return to reality, when you hear it… 

We're standing here by the abyss…

That voice. The words were different and even the tune was different, but that voice. There was nothing else it could be but him. The alluring sound drifts down from the upper floor to where you stand and you don’t even try to resist his siren call as your feet carry you towards the grand staircase.

And the world is in flames…

Your footprints disturb the thick layers of dust covering the once grand carpet that leads the way up, but you continue unconcerned by the trail you are leaving in your wake, your only thought finding your way to the source of that beautiful sound. 

Two star-crossed lovers reaching out…

It gets clearer as you reach the upper level, but you still haven't quite found him yet. Along the landing are multiple doors that you consider as you walk, but once your eyes land on the ornate double doors at the furthest end you know inherently; that is your destination.

To the beast with many names…

The floorboards creak as you get closer and closer even as you attempt to keep your steps measured and even, but if that didn’t give you away then you are sure your laboured breathing and thundering heartbeat would. 

He is. He's the shining and the light without whom I cannot see…

The singing stops when you reach the doors and with barely a brush of your fingertips,they swing open revealing only a dark room within. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the gloom, but even that doesn’t make you hesitate to enter. It is as abandoned as the rest of this cursed house. All the anticipation you had felt soured inside you and tears pricked at your eyes as you circled in the centre of the room taking in the dusty bed and empty fireplace. Your back is turned when a sudden bang startles you, the doors slamming shut. You cry out in fear, turning in an instant and rushing towards them. Pushing and pulling is futile and they will not budge. The knowledge that you are trapped fills you with a shiver as a chill falls over the room.   

“My little lamb returns,” he growls in your ear, appearing as if from nowhere. His arms box you in against the door, his white gloves the only part of him you can see. You try to turn, to see him but his body presses close, cold and unyielding as stone behind you. You should do something, anything but fear and lust paralyse you as they tear through you in equal measure.

“You are real,” you barely whisper before his fangs sink into your neck, the sharp shock of pain stealing your consciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

When your eyes flutter open you find it hard to believe you are even in the same room. You are lying in the centre of a four poster bed, propped up against a mountain of airy pillows and as you shift the sheets feel unbelievably soft against your fingers. The heavy drapes are tied to the frame on one side giving you a clear view of the fireplace and the figure silhouetted against it. His back is to you, seemingly unaware that you are now awake so you take your time admiring him.

It is undoubtedly him. His hair is slicked back, familiar in both your memory and in his portrait you had not long discovered. This time he wears a white suit with gold trim that glimmers in the firelight and it is certainly one you have never seen before. He turns in your direction giving you a glimpse of his striking profile still covered in his unusual skull-like face paint. He clears his throat glancing at you and you realise he is also holding a book up to the fire light. Not just any book. That is your book. The one you had written about him. You sit bolt upright but a wave of dizziness stops you from acting any further. 

“His touch feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. It scares you how much you crave it; how much you want him to keep touching you and to never stop. Your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest, despite the overwhelming feeling of comfort that has fallen over you.” He smirks as he reads your words back to you with an arrogance that can only come from knowing it was written about him. 

“How did you get that?” you hiss at him, the mortification you are experiencing seems to break some of the spell he has over you. He chuckles darkly in response, snapping the book shut and placing it on the nightstand so you can see the very suggestive illustration you had commissioned for the cover clearly.

“You have a way with words, agnellino.” He leans against the bedpost, running his eyes over you and watching how you react just to his presence. “Do you still crave my touch as much as you wrote?” His elongated teeth peek out of his mouth with how wide his smile is, clearly enjoying having this additional power over you. You almost miss not so long ago when you believed he had been a figment of your imagination. 

“It’s called creative licence,” you snap back breathlessly, trying your damnedest to keep your composure but you make the mistake of meeting his mismatched eyes and you are pulled under all over again. It’s like he can worm his way into your very soul and convince you of anything he desires.

“Why did you come back?” He looms over you at the end of the bed as he waits for you to answer him. As subtly as you can, you try to sit yourself up to make yourself feel less vulnerable but your limbs are weak and uncooperative.

“I’m writing again,” you start. It is the truth - or at least part of the truth - but you can tell he doesn't believe you, fixing you with his intense stare, waiting for you to be more forthcoming. “Last time I was here it was very… inspiring.”

“I see, I see.” He starts to pace next to the bed, giving you a reprieve and a chance to breathe but you sense it is by no means the end of your interrogation.  “Just ‘professional interest’ then?”

“Yes, that is all. I should go.” You try again to sit up and ease yourself off the bed but before your feet can touch the ground he kneels in front of you, blocking you from moving any further.

“Ah ah ah,” he scolds, wagging his finger at you like he was disciplining a wayward child. “You come into my home uninvited - again, I might add.” He leans close enough you can feel the cold radiating from him, his teeth bared threateningly. “I need the truth.” Fear makes you tense but somehow you know he would never really hurt you - at least not in a way you wouldn't enjoy. You start to think his irritation is more directed at your refusal to admit how much you want him rather than the fact you broke into his house. Again. 

“You lured me up here! You could have just let me leave.” That thought boosts your confidence just enough to push back. Just a little. He didn't have to reveal himself to you everytime you were here, and yet he did.

“No I couldn't, little lamb,” he whispers, a softness falling over his face. “I could never resist a chance to taste you again.” His attention drops to your feet, helping you out of your shoes before he stands again before you. “Tell me why you are really here.”  He had given you your chance to tell him of your own volition, but now you could feel his will influencing you and bringing forth the truth. He eases his jacket from his shoulders, leaving it on the floor where it falls. He makes quick work of his bow tie adding it to the pile of clothes at his feet. 

His cuff links go next, freeing him to turn up his sleeves and then his collar sliding one button free at a time until it hangs open. His toned chest is covered in thick dark hair and it's all you can do not to reach out and bury your fingers in it. Even without his vampiric lure, you would struggle to resist him. He crawls over you, forcing you to scoot back onto the bed to make room for him and you find yourself unable to speak as you get lost in his eyes.

“Tell me…” He is intoxicating and you find you no longer have the willpower to resist him. You had forgotten how powerful he was, his presence alone narrowing your mind until all you can think of is him. The words are on the tip of your tongue, but somehow they still won't come. 

“Why are you here agnellino, eh?” He holds himself over you, the only thing touching you are the open tails of his shirt, denying you any more until you obey him. “Did you miss me?”

“I wasn’t sure if you were real any more,” you admit reluctantly and his eyes alight at your delayed admission.

“Shall I remind you how real I am?” There is a voice in your mind somewhere telling you to say no, but with every other part of you screaming a resounding yes it is easy to tune out - though you still can’t quite bring yourself to say it. So you nod and he wastes no more time. His dexterous fingers make quick work of your trousers and your underwear, pulling them off you in one swift motion and then he is on you. His strong hand grasps your ankle, pulling you even closer so he can press his lips to your bare skin. 

He starts at the sole of your foot, lavishing you with open mouthed kisses and grazes of his dangerous teeth. He seeks out parts of your body you had never even known were sensitive before, whether it was his plush mouth sucking at them or tracing them with his tongue. The curve of your calf, the dip behind your knee and the crease of your inner thigh. His cool breath raises goosebumps across your skin and he chases them with his mouth, only pausing to suck on the beads of blood that bloom where he allows his fangs to nick your skin. The contrasts make you needy for more of his touch, the warm and the cold, the pleasure and the pain. When he eventually reaches your core he ceases all his teasing and devours you, his groans of pleasure vibrating through you as he laps at your entrance and sucks on your clit. 

“Every part of you tastes exquisite,” he moans again at your skin as he pulls at the hem of your shirt, allowing himself access to even more of your skin. Your bra is pulled roughly aside so he can latch onto your nipples one after the other. Losing himself in his lust, he pinches them roughly as his teeth make deliberate shallow slices in your cleavage. He suckles at them harshly, milking all the blood he can from such a surface cut. 

Eventually he reaches your neck pressing a deceptively gentle kiss to your scar from your last encounter before seeking out the fresher puncture wounds from earlier in the evening. He probes them harshly with his tongue disturbing the newly formed clots enabling him to drink freely from you until he is positively drunk on you. 

“You are so warm agnellino,” he moans, reluctantly pulling away from you only to tear off his loose shirt and rip off his trousers. He fits himself back on top of you, desperate to be as close as possible and ruts his aching length against your hip, his mouth latching back onto your neck. He rears back giving you the opportunity to see him for the hunger ridden monster he is, but it only makes you want him more. His face paint is smudged across his face, the once precise lines blurring and blending with what remains of your blood and your juices, and his eyes sparkle with something dangerous that you can't resist. With a snarl he forces your legs wide so he can see all of you, his fingers digging a bruising grip into your soft thighs.

“After tonight you will never again doubt my existence,” he growls as he fucks into you in one long, hard stroke. There is no waiting for you to grow accustomed to him filling you; he just takes you hard, pushing the air from your lungs every time he fills you. He is rough and demanding and you crave every part of this more animalistic side to him. Your blood loss and his body worship have pushed you outside your own body, the pleasure and the pain meeting and blending and pushing you into a euphoria you had never experienced before. 

Even as his control was slipping even further away, his cock aimed perfectly, fucking into you in exactly the right place over and over while the drag of him inside your tight heat forced sobs and gasps from both of you. In the state he had you, you knew you would do anything and everything he wanted and if you hadn’t been so light headed, you might have realised that that was exactly what he wanted. He grunts as he pulls you closer, angling your hips just so that he can fuck into you even deeper, your moans of satisfaction harmonising as somehow your pleasure grows stronger than you ever thought possible. 

“Has anyone fucked you like this since me, little lamb?” He is panting, hardly able to get his words out, somehow seeming more human even in the midst of his monstrous lust. 

“No,” you whine. There is no use denying it, because who could possibly compare to him?

“Bene,” he snarls, a possessive sneer crossing his face. “No one will ever, ever fuck you like me.’ You sob in agreement as the burn in your core grows, bringing you so close. Babbled nonsense falls from your lips. You can only hope he understands how little you need to push you over the edge. 

Thankfully something you said must have made sense, because in the next moment his thumb is stroking your clit in time with his ever more frantic thrusts and the wave of your climax begins to crash, sweeping you along in its powerful tide. Your vision greys at the edges and vaguely, somewhere amidst the buzz, you feel him reach his peak just behind you as his thrusts stutter before stilling as he fills you.

Inelegantly he pulls away, landing beside you on the bed. He pulls you to him stroking your hair and dotting your forehead with sweet kisses. Contentment surges through you as you rest against his chest, his lack of heartbeat barely registering. 

“You are so very sleepy, little lamb,” he breathes into your hair, and you can only spare a thought to agree as you succumb to the overwhelming pull of sleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cold and stale morning air lures you from your sleep this time, a much less pleasant awakening than your last. Your whole body aches as you shift and try to take in your surroundings. You are alone. The dawn light spilling through the drapes allows you to see, and the bedroom appears dusty and abandoned, not the cosy boudoir you had experienced last night. 

The dusty sheets cling to your clothes as you try to stand but every movement reveals a new bite mark or bruise until you are on your feet. The worst pain though, is the ache in your heart. This should have been expected and yet the fact that he isn't here hurts. Rather than satisfying you, this second encounter only made you yearn more for this terrible, mysterious man. Your only consolation was that now at least, you will have plenty more to write about. 

You don't try to call out to him, already knowing how futile that would be, so you look once more around the room, trying hard to commit it all to memory when the night stand catches your attention. A single white rose sits atop a folded piece of paper. You pick them both up, carefully making sure to avoid the sharp thorns and unfold the paper to see that unmistakable handwriting. 

We’re standing here by the abyss

And the world is in flames

Two star-crossed lovers reaching out

To the beast with many names 

He is

He’s the shining and the light without whom I cannot see

-iii

His words were cryptic as ever but you let it fill you with uncertain hope. Maybe you were the star-crossed lovers? Or maybe not. All you knew for now at least, was that you felt you were still at the very beginning of this story…

…and you couldn't wait to see where it would take you. 

[fortheturnstiles]

39, 42, 52, and 57 for the ask game :^)

39. Biggest Oscar snub(s)

hmm. in recent history i think it's a profound shame that Nope (2021) was completely shut out from the most recent academy awards. movie of the year in MY eyes. and All the Beauty and the Bloodshed should have won best documentary. Naomi Watts' performance in Mulholland Dr. (2001) is oscar-worthy to me. in part of my googling to find out if movies i like have been nominated for anything i came to find out that Heat (1995) was not nominated for a single academy award??? which is blasphemous i think

42. A movie that made you go 'wtf was that'

ok even though i technically answered this one already there are so many more weird movies i have seen so i will gladly talk about another. i went to see a film called Sometimes Aunt Martha Does Dreadful Things (1971) at a little arthouse theater near me back in february because i thought 'funny that this place is playing some sleazy 70s trash horror movie i would probably like' and OH BOY that movie is a wild ride. imagine if you will john waters and herschell gordon lewis got together and made a hippie-sploitation slasher with some melodrama leanings that was left to simmer in the florida everglades. there's some super wacky psychedelic editing choices in the killing scenes that really took me out. overall just a weird little gem that i haven't seen many people talk about so i thought this was a good opportunity to mention it >:)

52. Favorite pre-code

probably Design for Living (1933)! i love ernst lubitsch films. tod browning's Dracula (1931) is also a favorite since i love vampire movies & bela lugosi's dracula is one of the cinematic blueprints for representations of the vampire obv. and i mean he's just so charming!! "listen to them! Children Of the Night... what music they make...." i also love how clearly gay renfield is in the '31 dracula. gay and groveling and miserable he is just like me fr

57. Movies you know you should watch, but can’t bring yourself to do it?

john cassavetes' A Woman Under the Influence (1974) because i know it will ruin me emotionally. i've been putting off watching Martyrs (2008) for ages because even though i like gory bloody movies i fear that one is a whole other level of intensity. and i've never seen the original Friday the 13th (1980), which is big for 80s horror and horror franchises (both of which i enjoy) but it truly just looks so boring to me i've just watched most of the other films from that period around it instead lol

[chryzure-archive]

“Chrysi isn’t coming,” Pleck said, looking up from the candy bowl. “She said she had to study.” 

“What?” Jacks stood from his seat, taking the candy out of his mouth so he could properly frown. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I don’t know- here Fil!” Pleck tossed a pink lemonade flavored lollipop behind the counter, which Filly caught only because she dropped her pen to snatch it out of the air. “You didn’t ask!” 

Jacks groaned. 

“What made you think she would be here?” Filly said, now speaking around the lollipop in her mouth as she reached for her pen. “It’s Saturday.” 

“So?”

“She never comes to the library on a Saturday,” Pleck said, giving up on looking for a cherry lollipop and popping a peanut butter cup into his mouth instead. “I thought you knew that.” 

“Why would I know that?” 

“Because you follow Chrysi around like a lost dog?” Filly was grinning around the lollipop stick by the time Jacks turned his glare on her. “I just tell it like it is, Jacks.” 

“Neither of you are of any help to me whatsoever.” 

“Aw, come on, we can help you find her at least.” Pleck got up, setting the candy bowl back on the counter while simultaneously stuffing some candy in his jacket pocket for later. “Then we can get food.” 

Jacks huffed, but said nothing, sticking the apple flavored treat back into his mouth. Upon realizing his friend wasn’t objecting to the idea, Pleck turned his grin on Filly. 

“You commin’?” 

She smiled at him, sticking both the pen and the book of crosswords into her bookbag. “I do enjoy food.” 

“Great!” Pleck took her hand over the countertop and walked her around, all while Jacks rolled his eyes with barely contained disgust. 

“Aren’t you working right now?” Jacks asked, stuffing a hand into his jacket pocket as they made their way out the door. 

“‘Supervisor only comes around once a month, and we’re the only people who ever visit this library anyway.” 

“You’d think a lot more people would, given how quiet it is.” Pleck said, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend once she made her away around the counter completely. 

“Chrysi says it's because of a rumor that someone got murdered in there,” Filly said, moving closer to Pleck's warmth as they stepped out into the chilly October air. “I think it’s just less conveniently placed though.”

Chrysi pressed the board game to her chest, breathing too heavily. Every breath made her throat hurt, and she was one step from crumpling to the ground to hack up all the blood she could taste on the back of her tongue. 

The creatures lured closer. Even now, they looked more akin to classic movie monsters than true villains—down to even a Dracula that looked so much like Bela Lugosi that Chrysi wanted to ask him what skin care routine he had, before she realized that Bela Lugosi had definitely died back in ‘56 and would probably be feeling a little out of place amongst a monster with vines wrapped around a wiry rib cage and another that dripped a noxious black goo that made the carpet sizzle and curl with smoke when it dripped off its indistinct form. 

But for her racing mind, the part of her that lived in the world with these monsters for fourteen years only provided a single word, a quiet hiss to center her:

Cornered. 

Yeah. Shit.

She cast her eyes to the left. The board game weighed more like a stone in her hands—heaven knew if it were actual stone, the texture of it was so off-putting—but if she moved quickly, she could pass it off before she passed out. 

But there, she only found Pleck a little tied up, fending off hyena-wolf—God, what were those things?—hybrid-somethings with the same fireplace poker Chrysi had almost ruined Jacks’s face with. Holding his own as best he could, but not in a prime position to act as wide reciever. 

She edged back a step, putting one of Mistress Luck’s finely upholstered couches between herself and the small pack of monsters looming closer. Another black drip of goo splattered, this time on the couch. A horrible smell of burning chemical-and-upholstery filled her nose. The goo quickly ate a hole in the red couch. 

To the right this time.

Filly currently looked a little tied up, this time literally. A baby-doll-faced spider worked out a long silky thread and set to wrapping up Filly’s flailing legs. Her arms had already been bound to her sides. 

Well, she wasn’t an option either. 

The vine-creature lashed out with a thorny vine. It caught on the couch. As it tore away, it took with it an almost entirely steady stream of white stuffing. 

Mistress Luck was not going to be very happy with them at the end of this. 

She took another step back—and this time, she thunked into a wall, hunched shoulders hitting first, then her startled jump knocked her skull back against it. A bright spark of pain made her vision shudder once, then ease into a dull thrum of visual interference. 

The monsters loomed closer—Not-Bela Lugosi Dracula closest. And, honestly, out of all of them, Chrysi had to admit that she’d much rather go at his hands. 

One last desperate time, she cast her eyes over the room. Left (Pleck, still fighting somethings), right (Filly’s ankles now firmly tied together), and finally up (Jacks, standing at the railing of the second floor’s inner balcony, staring down at her in horror—)

(Wait.)

Jacks wasn’t doing shit!

His eyes caught on hers. His face blanched. 

“Princess!” he called, right at the same time Chrysi let out a rather vitriolic, “Hey, jackass!” 

Jacks startled, then cocked his head to the side so quickly he looked like a woundedly curious dog. 

She evened out the board in her grip and curled her arm in. 

“Catch!”

Then she flung her around out, whipping the board game like it was little more than a Frisbee. It flew from her fingertips discus-like, spinning at a speed that belied its odd shape. 

For a moment, its four corners turned into a misshapen throwing star. Light gleamed off its gilded edges, glittering like cursed magic. It was powerful, and it went right over the monsters’ heads. 

A vine shot up after it. Goo fizzed into the air like a fountain in a city park. Not-Bela Lugosi went up in a puff of smoke and a bat came flapping out of it. 

But it sailed out of their reach before they could do anything. 

And it hit Jacks square in the face. Hard. 

His head snapped back. He staggered, then collapsed. She was pretty sure she could see the glitter of gold, even from here. 

Chrysi gaped up at him. 

“Are—you—serious?” she screamed. 

Jacks groaned. 

She replied like he’d said something cognizant: “Get a better reaction time!” 

[jordanlahey]

Cockblocked

A/n: I needed to write some Paul, I love him so much.

Warnings: none? Just some making out

Word count: 996 (short I know)

"Ugh do I have to wear these stupid plastic things." Paul whined as you tied up his cape. "They're uncomfortable and pathetic." He adds, you look at him with a raised brow.

"Oh come on Paul, it's Halloween! You could at least give me some Bela Lugosi vibes." You gave him your puppy eyes before walking back to your vanity and picked up some eyeliner.

"But Bela Lugosi wasn't a real vampire, I am." He followed behind you, Paul was mad about the whole pretend to be a vampire thing but he would happily let you put eyeliner on him. "Why don't you paint yourself green and stick on a wart like those witches." He pointed to your Halloween decorations you insisted on putting up all over the room.

"Then I wouldn't be a realistic witch now would I?" You chuckled at him. "All done." Paul didn't look impressed with his fake plastic fangs and his cape, take those away and you have your regular Paul.

"Come onnn let me walk around with my vampire face, everyone would think it's fake anyway!" He huffed and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you closer.

"Damn you, fine you can do that. I can't say no to you." You laugh, going in for a kiss until he lets go of you and tears the cape off and spits his teeth out then he picks you up by your waist, backing you against the wall and kissing you passionately. Your legs almost automatically wrapped themselves around his waist while your arms were around his neck.

The kiss turned into a heated make out session and Paul started sucking hickies into your neck and on your collar bones, your hands crept their way into his hair as you tried pulling him back to your lips. Paul let out a low growl as your tongues danced in a battle for dominance which you had lost but really you let him win. His hands squeeze your hips causing you to gasp and he chuckles into the kiss. Your make out sessions were never serious it was always messy and the two of you would be giggling or maybe one of you. Paul breaks away and starts to kiss down your neck, biting and sucking bruises into your skin he tries to control himself but he just can't help that he camps out but you lowkey like it though and he knows that after the last time you two got tangled in each other. He was starting to get feral he let out more low growls and lets go of your hips to find the end of your shirt Paul had almost had it completely off until a tap at the window interrupted you both, you broke away calming down and you both look to see who had interrupted you and there Marko was half in your bedroom half out of it.

"Come on man, save it for later we got places to be." You both looked at each other then back at Marko who was still half in your bedroom from the window, you felt slightly embarrassed but this wouldn't have been the first time Marko or any of the others have walked in on you and Paul making out. Just luckily that's all it got to otherwise you couldn't bare to look at them ever again. You'd like to think they wouldn't interrupt you if they caught you in that situation they would just walk away and pretend that it didn't happen. Or maybe that has already happened!? Paul sighed with a smile as he put you down, he loved making out with you it always let to some fun and wild activities afterwards but looks like tonight won't be the night or at least not till later on.

"Such a cockblock dude." Paul laughed,pulled your shirt back to where it was as you sorted your hair and picked up your hat. Marko and Paul started to wrestle in the middle of your room while you sorted yourself out. You just watched the two idiots manhandle each other so you cleared your throat.

"Come one you two, save it for later." You say in a mocking tone. "Sorry Marko you really didn't need to see that." You blushed as you headed near the window waiting for Paul to help you down. It wasn't really anything special planned for tonight other than parking a few trick or treaters maybe going a bit to far on pranking the Surfer Nazis then Paul and his brothers making a feast on a few drunk tourists.

"Don't worry about it." Paul shrugs like it was no big deal. "I heard David found the best place for us to feed tonight and what's on the menu sounds great." He spoke more to Paul than to you, you rolled your eyes. You weren't one for watching paul and his brothers feed in fact it would be a smart idea to go home before it gets to that part of the evening because after Paul feeds he gets more wild and feral and would happily take you right then and there whether his brothers were there or not, he just didn't care cause it's Paul.

You had come to realise that Paul would take anywhere; a dark alleyway, behind one of the rides at the broad walk, heck even the bathrooms if they are empty but it probably would matter if there was anyone watching or not.

"We will continue this when we get back." Paul winked at you as he helped you mount the back of his bike, you wrapped your arms around his waist and squeezed him playfully.

"After you have a shower and brush your damn teeth. I don't want to be tasting your victims tonight." You remark playfully and you hear Dwayne and Marko laugh.

"She's got you bro."

"Shut up man." He laughs and all of you drive off to the board walk.

[tcm]

“Much More to Movie Monsters Than Meets The Eye” By Raquel Stecher

With his latest book Fright Favorites: 31 Movies to Haunt Your Halloween and Beyond, author and horror expert David J. Skal provides readers with the perfect guide for watching spooky films throughout October and the year. The book takes a look at 31 different horror films from NOSFERATU (‘22) to GET OUT (2017). Skal offers insights into how German Expressionism and WWI influenced early horror classics, how Val Lewton threw out horror conventions with CAT PEOPLE (‘42), how DRACULA (‘31) was a financial gamble and how more recent films like HOCUS POCUS (‘93) achieved cult status. If you’re worried that 31 horror films are not enough, don’t despair, as each of these films is paired with a bonus recommendation on a similar theme. Fright Favorites is now available from Running Press and TCM.

Raquel Stecher: Can you tell us a bit about your background as a cultural historian and horror expert?

David J. Skal: I was one of the original “monster kids” of the 1950s and ‘60s, who discovered the old Universal horror classics when they were first released to television, and for a while I couldn’t get enough of them, or of the fan culture they set in motion. I was an avid reader of magazines like Famous Monsters of Filmland, and when I came back as an adult to write about the history of horror entertainment from an adult perspective, it would never have happened without those photo-filled periodicals that engaged and obsessed me as a kid.

RS: In the book you discuss the connection between Hollywood and Halloween. Tell us a little about how that came about and how the two have become so intrinsically tied with one another.

DJS: In the golden age of American horror movies in the 1930s and 1940s, there was no supplemental merchandizing or other tie-ins to Halloween. It was still a pretty homespun holiday. The holiday’s potential wasn’t fully exploited by the film industry until after World War II, when we saw Universal franchising its monster characters as Halloween masks and costumes. In the ensuing decades, October became the major month for horror movie premieres, including studios other than Universal, and all the major theme parks got on the bandwagon, profitably extending their summer seasons with Halloween nights that are almost always tied in to some horror franchise or another, frequently of the slasher or chainsaw variety.

RS: What was the research process like for writing Fright Favorites?

DJS: Over the years I’ve done much more research for my books than I’ve been able to ever use, so Fright Favorites was an ideal opportunity to make use of information and anecdotes I’d never had room for in previous projects. As a result, it took about six months rather than the usual full year I most often devote to completing a book. Although the final selections were mine, the people at TCM are also—no surprise—very knowledgeable about movies with many favorites of their own that I was able to incorporate. There weren’t really any disagreements, just a bit of a juggling act to maintain a balance between the films included.

RS: In the book you wrote “Some early commentators on the medium worried that film might be nothing less than the arrival of living death. It is in horror movies that this pervading sense of the uncanny still speaks to us.” Were studios worried about making horror films? How did Universal's success with the genre affect the film industry as a whole?

DJS: In a way, the film medium itself is the very definition of the uncanny, bringing dead actors back to life, or its convincing simulacrum. This strange fact is always there, staring back at you. And remember, actors themselves have amounted to a species of shapeshifters, slipping in and out of identities in the manner of movie monsters. Film is a dream-like medium that has been irresistibly drawn to the fantastic and the bizarre from its very beginning, at least in Europe. American movies didn’t approach truly fantastic subjects until Universal took a chance with DRACULA in 1931. Previously, American films observed the tradition of explaining away any ghostly occurrence as a criminal conspiracy or ruse. But DRACULA, along with FRANKENSTEIN the same year, became two of the most influential and imitated films of all time.

RS: Stars like Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr., Vincent Price, etc. became known for their horror roles. How did some of these horror stars embrace the genre or how did it typecast them?

DJS: By definition, any “horror star” is already typecast, although some deal with the pigeonholing better than others. I once had the privilege of sitting in on a classroom visit by Vincent Price with a group of acting students who asked him if he resented being considered a horror star and how they could avoid being typecast themselves. He told them in no uncertain terms that show business was already a difficult way to make a living and that being typecast would be the best thing that could ever happen to them professionally. Most horror stars I’ve met or interviewed are grateful for their fame and the attention of their fans.

RS: Many horror stories have been revisited in remakes, new adaptations and re-imaginings. Why has Hollywood been so keen to revisit horror classics?

DJS: Horror is a genre with financial profit baked in from the get-go—it’s almost impossible to lose money even on a poorly made scary movie, which is why so many prominent directors have gotten their start in the genre. It’s a fairly risk-free way to take a chance on new talent. In terms of remakes, if a formula has worked before, why not do it again? Fortunately, the remakes usually veer substantially away from the original stories in ways that keep the legacy of one monster or legend perpetually alive. Horror evolves the way anything evolves—through endless change and adaptation.

RS: What are some of your personal favorite horror films?

DJS: I don’t have a number one, or number two favorite. I admire many films for individual reasons: directors, scripts, actors. People most often ask me what my favorite version of Dracula is. I tell them that it doesn’t yet exist, but it would be a master version of the story edited together from all the major adaptations, with actors from different versions interacting with each other. It would be a huge job, but if done with the right flair would be hugely entertaining and probably bring out important aspects of each version that you wouldn’t notice watching them individually.

RS: Some of the films you feature in Fright Favorites are also considered science fiction classics. How do the two genres of science fiction and horror complement each other?

DJS: Literary horror and literary science fiction are fairly separate categories, but on screen the genres tend to blur together. For instance, ALIEN (‘79) is a haunted house story set in outer space. INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS (‘78) is an alien invasion story that’s also about zombies. Being a visual medium, movies tend to spotlight science fiction’s bizarre and grotesque imagery and end up emphasizing the horrific over the cerebral.

RS: How do horror films tap into the pervading anxieties and fears of their respective eras?

DJS: This is the through-line of most of my books: that horror entertainment amounts to a secret history of modern times, with each new cultural upheaval or trauma setting in motion identifiable kinds of stories and characters. The anxiety and fear need to be processed, but it’s always easier to deal with real-world horror if you don’t have to look at it too directly. WWI tore about human bodies like no previous war, and all through the 1920s and 1930s we looked at one disfigured face after another, even though the films weren’t about battlefield combat. Unprecedented numbers of mutilated men were returning to society, and they were being shunned. Nonetheless, they popped up in our cinematic dreams. During the AIDS epidemic, there was an explosion of books and films about another mysterious, blood-related scourge: vampirism. Repress awareness of an uncomfortable fact, and it will always rise somewhere else in a different form.

RS: What do you hope readers take away from the book?

DJS: So far, the book does seem to be engaging readers who have a general knowledge of horror entertainment but are curious to know more. The most important thing a reader might take away is the simple revelation that there’s much more to movie monsters than meets the eye.

[queenofbaws]

VtM: Guy Talk

Rating: T (Language, irresponsible use of the word “moist.”) Word count: 2,949 Summary: Eli Underwood, the city’s newest (and possibly most exhausting) Malkavian, has a very pressing question. ...well, okay, he has a LOT of questions, but this one’s actually important. Extremely important. INCREDIBLY important. And unfortunately for Jayco Atascadero, uh, he’s the only one within earshot, so he’s probably gonna have to deal with it. Like always. Author’s note: This one goes out to @brockandroll and @malum--in--se, who are both forced to deal with me using our rp sessions as an excuse to practice my many, many, MANY horrible accents. They are heroes. Jayco is Brock’s Tremere, a young man with slam poetry in his heart and bruises on his knuckles, and Eli is my Malkavian fancy lad with a shop full of haunted dolls. They’re doing their best at the whole “vampire” thing. Their best isn’t cutting it. ---

“What’s it like to kiss a guy?”

Maybe it was a normal enough question on the outside, but there was something about hearing it come out of Eli’s mouth that made Jayco stop cold, eyes narrowing as though he’d just been asked to solve an especially difficult math problem—the sort with numbers and letters. Probably it had been the Count Chocula accent. Probably. He liked to believe he was the sort of guy who was ready to handle every- and anything when it came right down to it, but God help him, nothing had prepared him for that godawful Bela Lugosi voice.

Well…okay, nothing had prepared him for Eli, end of sentence. Not even his untimely death.

Behind him, chipper as a bird, Eli continued: “Is it…wet? I bet it’s wet.”

That was what did it. He had to turn around. He opened his mouth to ask a question of his own, something along the lines of ‘What?’ or ‘Huh?’ or (currently his top pick) ‘Wet?!,’ and stopped when he saw what he saw. Namely Eli.

Namely upside down.

Namely Eli, upside down.

The first time they’d met, Jayco had found himself thinking that Eli looked like what would happen if a small Victorian child with a wasting disease was visited by Ye-Olde-Make-A-Wish and granted his lifelong dream of raiding a Hot Topic employee’s closet. That impression had not changed in the time they’d known each other. Where there weren’t ruffles on the guy, there was lace, and where there wasn’t lace, there were rivets and studs. He took the whole vampire thing a little too seriously, that Eli Underwood, as if that wasn’t made perfectly crystal fucking clear by his insistence on doing things like hanging upside down or drawling “Good evening…” by way of a greeting when anyone entered his shop.

And like, okay, power to him, but Jayco was a simpler man. He had simpler tastes. An undershirt with only one heinous stain, a pair of Tripp pants that still mostly fit, a pair of Chucks…he hadn’t quite been able to meet the intensity of Eli’s vampire vehemence. Shit, he wasn’t sure he was even approaching it—Eli’d been doing character work.

“We’re still doing that, huh?” he asked, the exasperation in his voice at least momentarily outweighed by his confusion. “Dude. How many times do you need people to tell you that’s not a thing? You’re not gonna…please let the bat thing go. Have some dignity.”

If Eli heard him, he didn’t show it. Nope, he kept up his unintelligible ranting, his head on the floor and his knees hooked over the mattress on the flimsy IKEA bedframe, looking at once like a kid at a slumber party and the world’s strangest crime scene. The hands folded over his solar plexus only added to the general vertigo of the scene—that much, at least, Jayco liked to think he was starting to grow accustomed to. Someone else walking into the cramped bedroom over the storefront might’ve thought it odd, the way Eli seemed to stare off into the ether even as he chattered on and on, but that too was par for the course…even on the rare occasions there was a flicker of awareness, hell, of ‘there-ness,’ in those gauzy eyes of his, it wasn’t there for long. It was as though he were always seeing things juuust to the left of the real world, following conversations and gestures no one else could see.

Not for the first time, Jayco had to wonder whether he would’ve been so gung-ho to track down a Malkavian for Serena if he’d known this was what he’d be signing up for.

It seemed doubtful.

“Hey. Hey!” He set his phone down mid-text, moving his hand instead right in front of Eli’s face and snapping his fingers a couple times to bring him back. “The hell are you talking about?”

Praise be, his eyes flicked to him immediately, full of recognition and (for the time being, at least) some measure of attention. “Kissing guys,” repeated Eli Underwood, he of the dime store Dracula accent and cataract-colored contact lenses. “What’s it like kissing Kevin? I mean, I imagine you’ve kissed Kevin. I don’t want to wrongfully presume you’ve kissed Kevin. If you haven’t kissed Kevin, far be it from me to suggest that you’ve kissed Kevin—”

Aaand he was off again. Wonderful. Fantastic. Precisely what he’d been hoping for. “Could we, uh, maybe not bring Kevin into this?” he grumbled, glancing once towards his phone before making the executive decision to just get this conversation over with; there’d be time for everyone else later, none of the Tremere were so important that they couldn’t fucking wait five more minutes, and though he hadn’t known Eli long, there was no question in his mind that nipping this shit in the bud was the only way to go. Otherwise, the shit in his head took root and festered into something awful, like the whole cousins thing. And the dead grandpa thing. And, of course, the upside down thing. Always the fucking upside down thing. “Now you gotta rewind—why the fuck was ‘is it wet?’ the first thing that occurred to you?”

Without missing a beat, Eli dropped one tangent and picked up another. It was a skill, the way he could do that, and his execution was nothing short of masterful. “I just figure it’s probably a wet experience, that’s all. Moist.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t say moi…forget it.” There was a moment, brief but unbearable, where he saw this cute little exchange from someone else’s eyes: There they were, two full-grown men just hanging out in a shitty little bedroom over a creepy fucking curio shop, Eli hanging from the bed like some sort of horribly mutated sloth, Jayco sitting on the floor with his legs crisscross like a kid at camp, talking about smooching cute boys. Jesus fucking Christ, the only way it could’ve been more surreal was if they’d both been on their tummies with their legs kicked up behind them, and even then…

But that was when something he’d said earlier clicked.

He pulled back a bit, sizing him up in a way he hadn’t thought to do before. Suddenly…suddenly something made a whole hell of a lot of sense. “You’ve never kissed anyone before,” Jayco grinned, his tone equal parts adolescent jeering and dawning realization. Of course he wouldn’t know what it was like to kiss someone! Who in their right fucking mind would kiss Eli-Fucking-Underw…his grin faltered. “I’m not kissing you.”

 As though his face was made of rubber, Eli’s expression morphed into one of cartoonish insult. “Oh merciful Christ, no, I don’t want to kiss you either!” He averted his eyes and his lower lip pooched out into something probably meant to be a pout. “Say what you want about my morals—”

Bad, Jayco thought to himself, They are bad.

“—but I wouldn’t kiss you if I was forced to.”

“Uh. Wow.” He set his elbows on his knees and leaned back a bit, doing his very best to mask the quivering of his own mouth with a scowl. Weirdo or not, he never felt totally right laughing right in Eli’s face. Usually he waited until he was distracted by something shiny. “Hurtful. What you said just now was hurtful.”

Eli’s eyes rolled towards him again, pupils made uncannily small by those fucking contacts, and the annoyance in those dark pinpricks was absolutely palpable. “I don’t involve myself in impromptu romantic entanglements with people who have tried to murder me.”

“Oh my God…how many times am I gonna have to apologize for that?! I said I was sorry! What, I was supposed to just ignore all the blood you were gushing? C’mon. Be real.”

His pout resurfaced, but as Jayco watched, Eli’s gaze went far-off, distant, as though a more important thought had sunk its talons into his brain. He didn’t have to wait terribly long for clarification on that one. “And for your information,” he drawled, “I have, in fact, kissed people, thank you. Female people. Girls. Er, women. Ladies. Women.” There was no use in pointing out the repetition, he knew, so he let it go. “What do you take me for? Look at me! I’m a…a fairly handsome young man!”

A fairly handsome young man cosplaying Lestat, Jayco thought, and had to fight his snickering that much harder, A fairly handsome young man doing a shitty Borat impression while hanging upside down and trying to think himself into a swarm of bats.

What he actually said was, “Oh yeah? And uh, how’d that go?”

“How’d what go?”

God help him. God help them both. “Kissing, Eli. Focus, please. You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking as though he hadn’t expected that. “Hmm. How was it?”

“Yeah.”

“Kissing?”

“Yes, Eli. Kissing.”

He seemed to mull it over for a long moment—much longer than he should’ve needed—and then sighed with such intensity that his entire body flattened. “Wet.”

“…oh.” Well, at least he didn’t have to fight his laughter anymore. “I mean…I guess that…explains some stuff.” Before his tender, delicate mind could process that deeply troubling statement any further, Jayco cleared his throat. “Don’t know how to tell you this, but kissing guys is a lot like kissing girls, so.”

Eli’s distress was obvious.

Knowing full well the sort of crazed bullshit that came with the worst of his episodes, Jayco very, very quickly backpedaled. “I can’t…dude, ‘wet’ really isn’t…I think you’ve had some bad experiences in the past, and you shouldn’t let that, uh…cloud your judgment here.” Then, praying it would perhaps save them both from a retelling of what he was sure was just an unspeakably horrendous explanation, he abruptly changed tack. “Wait, what guy do you wanna kiss all of a sudden?”

“It’s not that I want to kiss anyone,” Eli said a bit too quickly, “I was just wondering. Just curious. Just trying to get some answers. I mean, honestly, genuinely, like, before this? I don’t think I’ve ever even thought about men like that, even once, or in passing, or anything like that. I-I-It never occurred, you know? To me, I mean. It never occurred to me, is what I mean. I’m sure it occurred to other people. Like you. And Kevin. You and Kevin I’m sure it occurred to. Not me. But…” He grew pensive again, his lips pressing together in a tight line as he appeared to gather his thoughts.

Which, of course, Jayco had to figure was easier said than done. The idea of Eli ‘collecting his thoughts’ brought to mind some poor sap trying to put snowflakes an alphabetical order. Just didn’t work like that.

“I’ve bitten a lot of guys since turning.”

Shit, and just like that, the laughter was threatening to come back. He sounded so goddamn serious! Jayco did his best to cover it with a cough.

“And I’ve licked a lot of guys. I didn’t think licking was going to be such a big part of the vampire experience…did you? That wasn’t in any of the books! Or movies! Or anything! But it’s all, nooo, you need to lick the wound, and that’s just…I’ve licked more guys in one week than I think most guys lick other guys in a year. It’s been a lot of licking.”

“…Eli, how often are you eating?”

Again, he may as well have said nothing at all. “And I’m not saying that it’s awoken something in me—”

“I think this conversation sort of proves that it has, actually.”

“—I’m just saying that it’s, you know, a thing that some people do, and I was curious because I know you’re one of the people that does that thing. Or at least I think you are. I guess I’ve never asked outright. It seemed impolite. But I’m pretty sure you are. I mean, Kevin certainly seemed happy to see you at Unspooled, so—”

Ah.

Uh huh.

And there it was.

As realization sunk down around him, Jayco’s entire posture changed; his shoulders loosened, his back slouched, his eyes rolled to the ceiling. He must’ve been spending too much time around him, because all at once he could see the exact path of Eli’s reasoning laid out before him like a treasure map drawn in crayon. It had been the mention of the club that had done it—thinking about Unspooled slid the memory of the night’s events more firmly into place, and it didn’t take a genius to trace a line from one club to the other. Before their (uncomfortable) time at Unspooled, where had they been?

Club Blue.

And what had they been doing at Club Blue?

Getting extorted by Mavis, mostly, dealing with her sneering in their faces as she hiked up the price for Jared’s (Jacob’s? Jerry’s? Josh’s? Jonah’s?) blood doll.

And who had come to their rescue just in time? Who had appeared in a veil of shadow, flanked by two Frankensteinian amalgamations of flesh and bone and ill-fitting skin? Who had flashed an impressive wad of cash that had Mavis fawning and simpering like she was talking to the Baron herself?

Mother. Fucking. Bez. Dunsirn.

“You meet one asshole with a cravat,” Jayco said flatly, “And that’s enough to trigger an entire identity crisis for you, huh? That’s all it takes?”

Puffing up like an indignant sparrow, Eli tsk’ed and tutted before he managed to make his mouth work the way he wanted it to. “I-it wasn’t the cravat!” he sputtered, his eyes momentarily going wide enough that Jayco could see the full-moon outline of his contact lenses. “There was the waistcoat! A-and the, the pipe! And the…I…the brooding! And…and…” He deflated visibly, dropping his hands from his chest to cover his face. “The cravat factors pretty heavily into this, I will grant you that much, but—”

Oh this was going to be an issue. This was going to be a fucking problem. Eli might’ve been the one prone to (shitty) premonitions, but Jayco didn’t need a crystal ball to see trouble on the horizon. “You do realize he’s probably going to try to merc us, right? Like everyone else in this fucking shitshow of a town?”

“He invited us to dinner!”

“Yeah. So he can kill us. Or blackmail us into taking on a job that will get us killed. Probably send us into Camarilla territory again.”

It seemed Eli hadn’t considered the possibility until that precise moment. Jayco could almost see the smoke coming from his ears as the cogs of his mind whirred away at double speed at the mention of the Camarilla. Poor guy was probably thinking of that elbow he’d taken to the nose…or, more likely, the bullets still lodged in his side. Fucking Camarilla.

God. Sure. Sure, Eli could agonize over every insignificant noise he heard on the wind as an immediate threat to his life, but when faced with the very real, very probable threat of a Giovanni necromancer wanting to tear his skin off and make his skeleton dance just for shits and giggs, all he could think about was how dreamy the guy’s eyes had been.

…yeah, sounded about right.

He kneaded at his temples until the worst of his exasperation faded to a dull roar in his ears. They were going to have to go to the stupid dinner one way or another—he didn’t know enough about the Giovanni to know exactly what they were in for, sure, but turning down the man who’d had Mavis shaking in her boots like that didn’t seem like the brightest fucking idea—and there was no doubt in his mind that something would happen during their time there that would smash Eli’s strange (and sudden) little crush to miserable smithereens. Probably underneath a designer loafer, at that. Corporate patsies, all of them.

“Okay, uh…hmm.” Jayco rolled his head on his shoulders before pushing himself up from the ground, grabbing his phone to finish the text he’d left half-typed. “Not for nothing, but maybe, uh, consider the possibility that kissing girls sucked so bad because you’d prefer kissing guys, huh?”

Eli’s gaze clouded again. Had it not been for the deep crease of confusion between his eyebrows, his face had gone slack enough to give him the appearance of an actual, factual corpse laid out on a slab after being surprised to death at his own birthday party.

Oh, he was…so glad he couldn’t hear Eli’s thoughts. Just…so, so glad. That was the look of a man doing a fair amount of internal yelling, that’s what that was, and interesting as he found the little weirdo, Jayco couldn’t fathom helping walk him through…whatever was going on in there. No sir, no ma’am, no thank you. He would pass.

As he prepared to make himself comfortable for a long snooze in the wardrobe, he patted Eli’s knee chummily enough. “Don’t kiss Bez,” he said simply, unsure (and frankly not caring) whether he’d actually been heard; there wasn’t a reality in which he could imagine someone who appeared as chill and put-together as Bez Dunsirn being tempted by a lunatic Malkavian like Eli “Here, Come Talk To My Dolls” Underwood, but…shit, he’d seen some weird fucking bullshit go down, the past few weeks. Better safe than sorry. “For the love of God Eli, do me this one solid and kiss anyone but Bez, okay? Literally anyone.” He didn’t wait for a response to shut himself away in the wardrobe, pulling the doors shut tight behind him.

This was not what he’d signed up for.

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Psycho Analysis: Count Dracula

(WARNING! This analysis contains SPOILERS!)

So, in all my time doing Psycho Analysis, there have been a few villainous characters that, while extremely obvious, have such large and daunting scopes that it seems a bit scary to think I could accurately analyze them. Characters like Disney’s Pete or Bowser come to mind. Both are obvious 11s, but where to even begin with them? And that is a similar problem I faced with the villain who is arguably the single most important foe to ever grace fiction: Count Dracula.

How on Earth is one supposed to talk about a character who has spanned so much media and has remained an enduring fixture of pop culture for over a century? The guy has been in movies, comics, books, video games, plays, cartoons, musicals, songs… and he hasn’t even been a villain in all of them! How does one talk about such a villain with such a broad, all-encompassing scope?

The obvious answer is, of course, to talk about him in a broad sense and how he has affected culture, of course! This one’s going to be a little different than usual since I’m focusing more on the concept of Dracula than one single version, so there’s a lot of Dracula’s to go over here:

Performance: Throughout the years, Dracula has had many actors take a shot at him, though I think the finest takes are courtesy of Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee. The former is basically what cemented Dracula as a sexy, Gothic horror icon, changing the far less attractive man from the book into a seductive monster that would color numerous adaptations after. Lee’s take brings the sexy, but is also far more violent and monstrous, mostly because Hammer horror films were all about that bright red blood, so gotta have someone spill it all!

If you’re looking for more flamboyant, hammy Draculas, Richard Roxbourg of Van Helsing and Duncan Regehr of The Monster Squad have you covered, playing Dracula at his most deliciously, monstrously evil. However, the hammiest (and thus most amazing) Dracula was Michael Guinn’s take in Symphony of the Night, with the entire opening exchange between him and Richter Belmont being a testament to the joys of chewing the scenery.

More comedic takes on Dracula have popped up over the years, with the most notable ones being Adam Sandler’s lovable, fatherly take on the character in the Hotel Transylvania films and Phil LaMarr’s performance on Billy and Mandy, where he plays a ridiculous, possibly senile version of Dracula who is abrasive and hilarious in equal measure.

Basically, when it comes to Dracula, you can easily find any sort of performance to suit your needs and give you what you’re looking for.

Best Scene: Over the years, Dracula has had a great many fantastic moments under his belt, so many fantastic scenes and boss battles… but for my money, the single greatest moment Dracula has ever been in is the opening battle of Symphony of the Night. Just watch this cheesy melodrama unfold and try and disagree with me:

Though, of course, his death in the animated series sure is a contender:

Best Quote: From the above scene, we have “What is a man? A miserable little pile of secrets!” among moany other meme-worthy bits of dialogue from Dracula. 

On the subject of Castlevania, from the TV show we have Dracula at his most tragic and pitiable, especially when he delivers these fantastically tragic lines like “ It's your room... My boy... I'm- I'm killing my boy... Lisa... I'm killing our boy. We painted this room. We... made these toys. It's our boy, Lisa... your greatest gift to me... and I'm killing him. I must already be dead.” and “Your greatest gift to me... and I'm killing him." as he does battle with his son, Alucard.

Then of course, we have the legendary moment from The Monster Squad where Dracula drops any pretense and starts strangling a little girl, screaming in her face "Give me the amulet, you bitch!" It’s so deliciously, horrendously evil!

Final Thoughts & Score: It’s very strange to think of how much all of fiction owes Dracula. The original book invented a lot of traits (the lack of reflection being one) and popularized others (such as shapeshifting and weakness to garlic), but at the same time also predates a lot of things modern vampire fiction takes for granted. The Dracula of the book has no weakness to sunlight and gets younger as he drinks blood, starting as an old man; in fact, Dracula in the book is entirely lacking in the Gothic sex appeal that almost every adaptation of the character after would give him. He was also not very seductive, instead outright attacking women if he wasn’t hypnotizing them. Hell, he wasn’t even explicitly Vlad the Impaler in the books!

More than any other villain I’ve covered so far, Dracula is truly deserving of an 11/10. Even Count Orlok owes him a debt, seeing as Nosferatu was just a blatant ripoff. Hell, aside from villains from old mythology, I don’t think any villain can lay claim to the sort of scope Dracula has, having forever altered vampire fiction even as certain elements of him become lost in translation.

But what of some of his other incarnations over the years? How do they fare in terms of score? Well, I’m certainly not going to be incredibly thorough and list every Dracula ever, but here are a few I’ve encountered:

Obviously it’s unfair to give the Bela Lugosi incarnation anything less than an 11/10, mainly because this is the Dracula who pretty much inspired most other interpretations of Dracula after him. He’s suave, Gothic, attractive in that dark and mysterious way… it’s no wonder Lugosi’s Dracula became such an iconic fixture of cinema. Then we have the other classic Dracula, Christopher Lee’s take. I think he’s only a 10/10 because I feel like Lee’s tenure is a bit more overlooked and Lugosi tends to supplant him in terms of iconic status.

Castlevania as a franchise is specifically built qround defeating Dracula as the heroic Belmont clan or some adjacent vampire hunter. So you’d better hope that the big bad and master of the magical castle the game takes place in is impressive, right? Well he most certainly is; while he’s not completely fleshed out in every appearance he has some, like his iconic portrayal in Symphony of the Night, really help sell the idea this incarnation of Dracula is a rather tragic villain, though at other times in the series he seems to revel in being a monster far more than that interpretation would allow. Notably, the Castlevania show went with the more tragic approach to great effect, with Graham McTavish delivering a fantastic performance that swings from being genuinely terrifying to hauntingly emotional (just watch the scene where he breaks down upon fighting Alucard and realizing he’s killing his own son). Both game (in a broad sense) and show Dracula get a 10/10, for different reasons.

Duncan Regehr portrayed the Dracula in The Monster Squad, and it is quite obvious he’s having a hell of a time. He’s just wonderfully hammy, and he might be one of the most evil Draculas ever seeing how he called a little girl a bitch and tried to slaughter children with dynamite. This one’s a 9/10 for sure. I honestly think he’s the best take on the character, but his movie is sadly too obscure to really give him that push to being a truly iconic portrayal. He just captures the menace and charisma of Dracula so well, it’s a shame more people don’t know about him.

Van Helsing had a Dracula, played to hammy perfection by Richard Roxburgh. Say what you will about the rest of the film, but any Dracula movie that features evil bat monster Dracula fighting fallen angel werewolf Hugh Jackman in a battle to the death over Frankenstein’s atomic heart is worth at least an 8/10. For a more minor role, we have the Dracula who appeared in the blaxploitation classic Blacula. While he only appears for a bit at the start, long enough to curse an African prince with vampirism and dub him “Blacula,” this Dracula firmly cements himself as one of the most evil Draculas ever, gleefully participating in the slave trade. I believe that’s another 8/10 right there. On a related note, Blacula serves as a chief inspiration to the Billy and Mandy incarnation of Dracula, who is a cranky old black man with a big mustache and lots of sass (in fact, he’s accidentally closer to the original book’s depiction than most other Draculas). Sadly, as a more neutral chaotic comedic figure, I can’t give him a rating, but boy is he a riot.

Scooby-Doo and the Reluctant Werewolf features a more comedic and zany Dracula, one who participates in some good-old-fashioned Wacky Races cheating in an attempt to keep Shaggy as a werewolf forever. He’s mostly amusing for a oneshot villain, so I’d say 7/10 is fair. Speaking of oneshot villains, Dracula also showed up in an animated straight to video movie for The Batman, where he did things such as turn Joker into a vampire and get killed by Batman. He’s probably a 7/10 as well.

And then there are all the heroic takes on Dracula, such as the version from Dracula Untold or the “overbearing but endearing father” take on the character from the Hotel Transylvania movies (though that rap Adam Sandler does at the end of the first movie is pretty heinous).

And this is not an extensive list by any means. There are so many Draculas I haven’t watched yet, so many different takes I haven’t read the adventures of. And that, I think, is what makes Dracula such a great villain. He is a character who any writer can bend and shape to fit a plot, a villain who can serve almost any purpose and who can fit in almost any fantasy story imaginable. Dracula is incredibly versatile, and whenever he shows up in a work, things almost always get better for a bit. And keep in mind, this is a character who has been around since the year 1897, and yet he is still a household name that even people who have never read the books or seen the movies can accurately describe and recognize.

Is Count Dracula the greatest villain in all of human history? It’s debatable for sure, but I don’t think there’s any denying he’s up there considering his scope and influence and how he helped mold modern vampire fiction into what it is today. If nothing else, Dracula is still wildly influential.

[nala-raines]

Chapter 2 The Past Hurts, But I’m Here Now

Adrian x Nala August (mc)

Summary: On there way back from Paris, Nala tells Adrian what’s bothering her. Although she’s excited to be his wife, she starts to remember the people she loves, that won’t be able to be at their wedding. Adrian loves Nala to the point where when she was hurting, he hurt to. But, Adrian is willing to do whatever he has to, to make his bride-to-be smile.

“We have three options on how we can get married. One, we could get a license, grab our friends, get married in a courthouse, then have a party with friends and family. Two, through a Christmas party, invite everyone we know, and get married during the party, which may have less fuss. Three, we get married and then tell everyone. Or we can just plan a wedding, inviting everyone we know, and hope my family won’t ruin everything. Which one do you think is best? Which one do you want to do?” I ask Adrian. 

We are currently on a plane heading back to New York. We haven’t called to tell anyone. We decided to tell everyone in person. He didn’t even tell Kamilah that we were headed to Paris. And on the way back home I remembered just how little my family knows about my new life. They know about Adrian, Kamilah, Jax, and Gaius. They knew about Lily’s death. I told them about me and Adrian getting close, but I never told them how close we were. I’m not ashamed of Adrian or of my new life. I just knew that they wouldn’t like the life I had chosen, and after everything I had been through, I didn’t know if I was ready to lose them too.

“That is four options. To tell you the truth, I personally like the last option best.” He says with a smile. He pulled me closer, kissed my temple, and started running his fingers through my hair. It was like he knew exactly what I was thinking. “Everything is going to be fine. You’ll see.”

I lean into his touch. Smile at him, and respond, “I know. I’m marrying you either way, but I … I don’t think I’m ready to lose my family.” I lost my smile and he noticed the tears that were starting to form. He pulls me closer, trying to soothe me in any way he can. 

“Oh my love…” He says as I nuzzle as close as I can. He starts rubbing soothing circles on my back. While his other hand stayed in my hair, running his fingers through it. Trying to prevent me from sobbing. He had heard the arguments that my parents and I had over the past few weeks. They knew that I worked with him, and that everyone I had told them about were vampires, because of the news. We were trying to get me to go back, but when I said “No”, they were pissed. They told me that they must have used some kind of mind-trick on me or if they had made me a monster. I had stayed calm and reasonable and told them that I was turned into a vampire but I made a choice that left me a hybrid of sorts. After this  they had become hysterical and loud, and started yelling on the phone. My little sister is the same way. It wasn’t just the one time, though. Every time they called or I called them, they started yelling at me. I love them so much, but they didn’t want to listen to reason. And Adrian heard every last call. He just hugged, held me after every one.

“I lost so many people in my life. It took me years to get over them. To realize that… that goodbye doesn't always mean forever.” I’m sobbing now.  I can  normally talk about my past with no problem, but now I’m engaged to the most amazing man in the world. And there’s a good chance that my parents may try and ruin our wedding, or never speak to me again. “If we don’t convince them that you're not evil, that you haven’t forced me to do anything. Then they will try to ruin everything. Your campaign, our wedding, everything.” I’m channeling all of my fear, sadness, and anger. “I will marry you with or without my parents permission, whether they are at the wedding or not. I mean that.” I pause, catch my breath, and then with my eyes filled with tears, I look him in the eye. “But I know that I have a lot more time than they do. My sister may have always hated me, showed me nothing but anger and wished that I would just disappear. but always loved her. I want to be with them for as long as I can!” I squeeze my eyes shut, and start shaking my head. “I lost Lily, I can’t lose my family, too. Not Now!” 

Adrian holds me close and tight. I nuzzle my face into his chest and he nuzzles his into my hair. I begin crying into his chest, listening to his heartbeat and breathing. “Nala… No matter what happens I will always be here. Whenever, whatever you need I’m there. I promise. I love you.” Adrian tells me. He’s sincere, quiet, and calming. I start to calm down a bit. He starts rubbing soothing circles again, before he continues, “I know this is going to be hard. That this is going to be a fight, but I’m going to be right at your side. I won’t let you go through this battle alone.” He pulls back just little so he can bend down and look me in the eye. “ I know better than anyone that the past hurts, but I’m here now. I love you, Nala August.” He then gives me sweet kisses, that channels all of his love for me into them. 

I gladly reciprocate the kisses. He pulls back so I can catch my breath. So, I take my chance to tell him, “I love you too, Adrian Raines.” We snuggle close and I lean my head on his shoulder. “I want it to be Our wedding not my wedding. You’ll help me make all the decisions, right Adrian?” I ask him.

“Of course my love. If that’s what you want.” He tells me. “And honestly, I don’t care when or how you become my wife, as long as I have you by my side, I’d be willing to face anything.” He pauses, clearly remembering something one of us had said. “And I got into politics to make a better world. But if I had to choose between you and a political career. I’d choose life with you in it.”

“Let’s plan a wedding with our friends and family.” I tell him

“Sounds good. But you pick the date. And don’t worry about the cost. I want to do everything I can to make this your dream wedding.”

“Our dream wedding” I corrected him.

He chuckles and replies, “As long as I pledge myself to you and no one else. And you become my wife, I’ll be happy.”

“As will I.” I pause and laugh. Adrian looks at me confused, but before he can ask why I tell him, “My parents and sister may try to stake you so your hold on me is broken. Like in Bela Lugosi’s Dracula.” That makes him laugh.

“I think we’ve handled worse.” He says as he laughs with me.

“You’re probably right. But first… “ I turn to look him in the eye.

“What would be first, Love?” He asks me. And my response,

“We have to tell Kamilah.” I say trying to look concerned. We are both quiet for a moment, then we both burst out laughing. After a little bit, Adrian stands, lifts me up in a bridal carry, and takes me to the back of the plane, to the small bedroom and bathroom. He puts me down just inside the door and we both get ready for bed, so we could sleep for a few hours. We agree to invite our friends over when we get back to NYC, so we can tell them the amazing news. And in a few weeks, we both are going to my home state to tell my friends, great aunts, cousins, and my parents and sister.

‘Lord please let them be open to us. That they listen to what we have to say. And that we make it out alive.’

[rae-gar-targaryen]

only as alone as i wanna be | [bh]

A/N: Well instead of working on my Peter Parker writing challenge fic, Billy Hargrove won’t leave my brain alone. So here we go. 

I’ve retconned the Billy & Max relationship a bit for this, so it’s a lil au. Sorry!

Please let me know if you think I should continue!

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader (I’m still trying to get the hang of writing for the “reader.” Hopefully this is vague enough that you can imagine yourself. If not, send me feedback so I can get better!) 

Warnings: Language. Passing, vague mentions of sex. Some Billy Hargrove chain-smoking. Bad writing with a jumpy plot. Seriously, I think I’m way too abrupt. Please send feedback. This one is probably doomed for a re-write. 

Word Count: 2.4k of nonsensical, self-important musical references and haphazard, fleeting feelings.

Summary: The snarky record store girl does not like Billy Hargrove. Not at all. 

**NOT MY GIF!** 

—

Winter, 1984

The bell dinged above the door, a jarring interval between the wistful tones of Siouxsie and the Banshees’ Take Me Back. Prompting you to look up from your stack of records in mild annoyance. It had been such a productive day until now, and the vinyl wasn’t going to restock itself. 

Well. 

Had you known Mr. Born-In-The-USA-Bruce-Springsteen himself was going to walk in, you would’ve played something far less his taste than Siouxsie. Just to annoy him. Serves him right, right? 

He paused in the doorway of the shop, wrinkling his nose almost imperceptibly as the sound hit his ears, before striding on toward the “Pop/Rock” section of the store, thumbing his way through Motley Crue’s latest.

Figures, you thought. A man who douses himself with as much commercial-ass hairspray and cologne would like some commercial-ass garbage “metal.” Besides, you’d walked past the blue Camaro enough times in the school parking lot to hear the dulcet tones of whatever bland-ass hair metal he was currently into trying its best to blast the doors off of his beloved metal steed. 

You felt a twinge of guilt. You shouldn’t judge the customers for their musical taste so quickly– but between the old church ladies who came in for Handel’s Messiah or whatever they had heard over public radio that week, and the girls from your class riffing on Madonna, you had had just about enough. 

Hadn’t anyone experienced the true depth of Queen? Keep Yourself Alive, man!

You had been working at Hawkins’ local record store during the summers since childhood – Old Mr. Cohen who owned the place used to let you sort tapes into piles for cents on the hour until you were old enough for a real job. Immersed in the music since a young age, you appreciated the breadth and depth the shop had to offer– your favorites developing into pieces heavy on synth. Bonus points if the lyrics made you feel especially existential. You loved that moody shit. 

Now, at 17, you practically ran the place, Mr. Cohen comfortable with leaving you to your devices at the store, so long as the till was counted and inventory was properly stocked. You were grateful for the freedom– squeezing homework into slow nights and chatting about deeper portions of discography with regulars.

Billy Hargrove was not a regular. Neither did he promise a slow night, if the rumors amongst your female classmates were to be believed. Not that you partook in the Hawkins High rumor mill. 

He was a recent, but obtrusive, arrival in your high school’s social scene. Mere months into his appearance in your town and the age-in-kind female population had seemingly lost their brain cells faster than inhaling their usual clouds of hairspray could do it for them. 

Still, you had to admit, he was good-looking. The Springsteen comparison was apt. Billy Hargrove wore jeans like he was doing the denim a favor. His shirts usually two-thirds of the way unbuttoned, even in winter, which was not an unkind sight. His sun-kissed, California boy skin stood a stark contrast to the pallor of the Indiana natives you grew up with. His eyes were crystalline and swam like oceans of trouble and broken promises. 

My god. You were a moody-ass bitch. Waxing poetic about this jock-strap of a human being who you’d heard pummelled Steve Harrington and nearly drowned himself in beer and barely-legal pussy. Come on, babe. Get it together.

He strode up to you at the counter, his boots clunking against the store’s tiled floor. Shout at the Devil was clutched in his fist. 

He dropped the vinyl on the counter, eyes cast down and swiping a cigarette out of the packet in his jacket pocket and lighting up, the clink-thwip of his lighter meeting your ears before you could tell him to put it out. 

“You can’t do that in here,” you told him. 

He hummed in not-acknowledgment-acknowledgment, choosing to ignore you as he inhaled deeply.

“Seriously, dude. Old man Cohen hates that shit. Put it out or go outside and finish it. If your tits don’t freeze off. Since they’re, you know, halfway out of your shirt like that? You do know it’s December. In Indiana. Right?” You pressed, knowing full well you were being obnoxious. If only to make a point. Game recognize game, right? 

He looked up, ocean eyes meeting your own. His frown was instantaneous. 

“Fine,” he huffed. Before promptly stubbing out his cigarette on your freshly wiped counter, dropping the butt to the floor and twisting it under his booted heel.

“Ugh. Come on, man. I have to clean that now.” 

“You were so adamant about it before.” 

“Whatever man. Just the Motley Crue for you today?” You pressed. Why is he prolonging this interaction?

He rolled his eyes, his line of sight catching on the promotional sign above the counter. 

“Well, now, that says new vinyl is two for one. Which one can I get with this?” 

You dropped your head and exhaled deeply– So this was how this evening was going to go. You gestured at the New Release wall to the left of the front counter. 

“Anything from here, Pretty Boy. New vinyl.” 

Cool as you please, if you please.

Billy glanced at you, sensing your annoyance. A smirk graced his lips. He knew if he prolonged this interaction it would surely get a rise out of you.  

He held up Burning From the Inside, Bauhaus’s latest release. New, but not new.

“What about this one? Cover art is alright.” He gestured at the gothica aesthetic adorning the front jacket.

“That’s Bauhaus,” you informed him, as though that would explain everything.

“Bauhaus? What is that?” 

You snorted. 

“No, seriously. What is that? Is that like … a sex thing?” he asked, derisively. 

“It’s not a sex thing. It’s more of a not-your-kind-of-thing thing,” you stated primly. 

“And how would you know what my thing is, princess? I’m guessing by the black-on-black and torn fishnets you’d be all to familiar with whatever a Bauhaus is,” he retorted.

“Well….” You went to the used pile and grabbed Press Eject and Give Me the Tape, before putting it over the speakers. As Bela Lugosi’s Dead started to play throughout the store, Billy looked unamused. 

“They broke up last year. Gone too soon,” you explained, wistfully. You put your hand over your heart as though in mourning. 

He leaned one arm on the counter, Motley Crue seemingly long forgotten. 

“So, what is this song?”

“Bela Lugosi’s Dead? Like, Stairway to Heaven, but for goths, I guess,” you reasoned. “I’m guessing you’re more of a Scorpions kind of guy? We have Love At First Sting,” you gestured vaguely toward the wall. 

Billy quirked an eyebrow at you. 

“And how would you know what kind of guy I am, princess?” His voice lowering as he leans even further over the counter.

“Um. If the female population at our school is to be believed? Well, you get it…” you trailed off. “Plus, I don’t know, have you looked in a mirror lately? Scratch that. You probably don’t stop looking in mirrors. Should I cover the reflective surfaces in the store, lest you get distracted?” 

Billy at least had the decency to look shocked at your barb. 

But not before recovering quickly. 

“Maybe you just cover the reflective surfaces in here to hide the fact that you don’t have a reflection,” he quipped.

You were stunned. Your eyes widened.

“Was that a– vampire joke, Hargrove?”

Billy shrugged. “Well, If the post-punk bullshit shoe fits… I mean, what even is playing over the speakers right now? I’m in here enough to know Cohen lets his employees pick the music from the Used pile during their shifts. Though clearly I don’t come in often enough during your shifts.”

“Thank God for that,” you sighed. 

Deciding he’d had enough of the banter, Billy snagged Black Flag’s latest off of the New Release wall. 

“Two for one, right?” he snarked, slapping down enough cash for one album before grabbing his findings off of the counter and striding out into the wintery evening– the bell over the door clanging after him for good measure. Like an exclamation point on whatever the ever loving fuck that conversation was. Did you— offend him??

You decided, sweeping up the not-forgotten ash from his cigarette off the floor that you didn’t ever need to have an interaction with Billy Hargrove again. You were most decidedly not post-punk bullshit.

–

Billy Hargrove had never been so ruffled in all of his life. 

Throwing the two vinyl sleeves down in the passenger seat of his beloved Camaro, he slammed the door behind him.

Clink-Thwip.

Billy lit up, the chemical rush of his deep inhale-exhale instantly soothing his frazzled nerves. 

He flicked the lid of his lighter a few more times, for good measure. A nervous habit. Clink-Thunk. Clink-Thunk. Clink-Thunk. 

“ ‘Never stop looking in a mirror,’ my ass,” he grumbled, meeting his eyes in the rear-view before realizing what he was doing and looking away. 

He’d seen that girl before. She sat alone in the cafeteria most times, headphones on, reading a book. She seemed like the type to enjoy Slyvia Plath. Not that he knew enough about Slyvia Plath to really know what that type of girl was. He swore his mom owned a coverworn copy of some novel or another with that name on it. 

He drove away, tires squealing behind him, hair metal blasting from his speakers. Okay, so maybe you’d been right about his musical taste. It’s not like he’d give you the satisfaction. Besides, he’d bought BLACK FLAG, for Christ’s sake. You didn’t know him. 

But still, he couldn’t deny, there was something about your demeanor. Your witticism. Your bad type. And yeah, maybe he’d sneaked a peek at your ass when you came around from the counter to scold him for smoking. Sue him, he was only human. 

He knew there was more to you. A sweet undertone– like peaches and cream. Also maybe he liked ruffling your proverbial feathers. Just maybe. 

He had asked Tommy about you at school the next day. 

Tommy shrugged, but not before looking over at the corner of the cafeteria where you sat. 

“I don’t know man. She’s hot. But, like, in the way weird girls are hot. You can look, but touching may cost you.” 

Billy didn’t know what that meant. But Tommy was literally too stupid to insult. So he bit back a comment effectuating that he didn’t care and slammed the rest of his can of Coke. 

–

You had seen him before. From his tire-squealing entry into your town, you were certain you’d had him pegged from Jump Street. The chain-smoking, that infernal clink-twhip of his American Flag lighter. The keg stands. The raucous screaming in Steve Harrington’s face.

“Plant your feet, Harrington!”

Plant your feet indeed. Lest you be bowled over with unwanted, obtrusive thoughts of the potential depths of Billy Hargrove’s soul. If such a thing existed.

Seriously, though. Why would he buy a Black Flag album? If there was one thing Billy Hargrove was not, you decided, it was punk rock. 

You’d seen him take his sister to the arcade, and wait for her after school. Was it brotherly affection that motivated these little Babysitter’s Club moments, or was he forced to? Still, you saw the way that girl on the skateboard looked up at her seemingly cool older brother. Like he hung the stars. 

He did brush off Tina after the basketball game last week. And, he bought Black Flag. That man had never listened to Black Flag in all of his life. You were sure of it.

Could he really be all bad? 

–

The semester pressed on. Billy Hargrove at the fringe of your thoughts and your eye-line. Was he trying to talk to you in school?

You had the closing shift at the store again on Saturday. You were in the midst of carrying a box of tapes up the stairs from the storage room when you heard the ding of the bell above the door. You sighed, put the box down, and made your way toward the front to greet the customer. Upon seeing the back of Billy Hargrove’s perfectly coiffed, curly head, you were ready to turn back around and act like you hadn’t seen him. Too late. He clearly knew you were working. 

“Please don’t let it be you,” you groaned. 

“No promises, dollface.” 

You stood in front of him, hands on your hips. 

“So? What can I do for you?”

Billy smirked. “I can think of a few things, sweetheart,” he drawled, quirking a perfectly arched brow just so. You hated that you now noticed these things about Billy Hargrove’s perfectly stupid and stupidly perfect face. 

“I don’t have time for this, Pretty Boy.” 

“When are you off?” He asked.

“After close,” you said. 

“Go out with me.” Billy Hargrove said, now surely unsure of himself.

“And why in the ever-loving-fuck would I do that?” You had to hand it to yourself. You were doing a damn good job of looking like you didn’t care. Meanwhile, your insides were pudding and you were just sure he knew it, too.

“Because you want to. Because I want you to. Because– Because I want to. Because I listened to Black Flag. Because I get your whole thing, plaid skirt and all,” he stated, gesturing vaguely over your person. 

You rolled your eyes, choosing not to answer him. Instead, you diverted. Diversion is good, right?

“Where’s your usual crowd of hairsprayed hangers-on? Or are you always alone after school?”

“Only as alone as I wanna be, doll,” He drawled. 

You’d had to hand it to Billy Hargrove. He could definitely turn a phrase when he wanted to. His crystalline eyes could definitely see right through you. As the flush travelled through your body, taking in his artful smirk and powerful visage, you knew:

Billy Hargrove was going to be the death of you. Like the satisfyingly sweet pour of languid waves of syrup cascading over waffles, drowning you in a beautiful, thick avalanche of a saccharine dream. A powdered sugar kiss dusting over your better senses, coating them in the flush of dripping endearment. 

Surely you could be alone together? The crystal ball and the odyssey. 

Would you go?

tagging bc you inspire me:

@nappingtopknot @ayeayecaptaingally @hey-its-grey @tigerlilynoh @andallthatmishigas @oh-star-how-the-mighty-fall @youngmoneymilla @noturjacky  (If you don’t want to be tagged, feel free to ignore, or tell me firmly -- but possibly politely?? to fuck off) 

[nelllraiser]

bela lugosi’s def not dead | nic & nell

LOCATION: the drive-ins. PARTIES: @bountybossier​ and @nelllraiser. SUMMARY: stab ? stab!!  TIMING: sometime in March

Nell had been staring for...probably much longer than was socially acceptable, squinting into the darkness towards the truck a few spots over to see if it was, indeed, who she thought it was. She hopped off her motorcycle as the movie continued to play on the drive-in screen, passing annoyingly in front of those that were trying to enjoy the film. As they grumbled about her getting in the way, she could see the vaguely familiar outline, and wasted no time in popping up next to the truck, her eyes barely managing to clear the side of it as her hands gripped the edge, her feet on tiptoe as she said in a horrendous attempt at a whisper, “Sam Hill- is that you?” 

The hunter had to do a double-take when he saw the drive-in theater on one of his nightly drives. Romance wasn’t exactly for Nicodemus and classics were fine, but what really caught his eye was the horror double-feature on Sunday: The Wolf Man and Dracula. What better way to forget about the shit of reality than to immerse himself in what humanity thought was actually going on? One large water bottle and bag of popcorn later, he was posted in the back of his truck and watching the opening credits of Dracula. He snuck a sip of his flask and reclined back against a bag of salt. He hadn’t heard the whisper at first, or maybe his subconscious chose to ignore it. He only looked over when he felt eyes on him. It was her. Nell. To keep from loudly swearing and interrupting, he shoved a fistful of popcorn into his mouth. He squinted and whispered back. “You here for the movie or are you stalkin’ me?”

Perhaps Nell had a similar reason for being here. It was simply amusing to see what twisted tales of the supernatural had managed to leak into humankind, and then see how they thought how it could make a better story if they just entirely messed it all up. Nevertheless, she still enjoyed the movie Practical Magic. Not that this was that film. Dracula was always a good way to unwind as she perhaps laughed a little too loud at the parts that were meant to be...well...scary. But it was ridiculous! Nevertheless, her bottom lip jutted out as he seemingly ignored her. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said stubbornly when he posed his own query. In another moment, she’d clambered over the side of the truck and into its bed, apparently inviting herself. “Can it be both? I choose both. Except you’d have to be cool enough to stalk.” He was definitely cool enough to stalk, she just wouldn’t admit it.

Nicodemus watched in quiet resignation as she clambered over the side of the truck like a child at the play area of a McDonald’s. “Well, fuck I’d hope it’s me,” he muttered in response as he looked between her and the screen. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he shook his head. Honestly, a run-in at the movies was the least troublesome encounter he’d had in the last, what, three days? His sour mood sweetened some, not by a lot, and he tipped his head. “Sure, it can be both.” He paused and squinted at her. What, was he not cool enough to stalk? Why was he even entertaining that thought? Lugosi was supposed to be entertaining him. “Oh, me being not cool is the reason you’re here? Good to know, I’ll remember that.” With a grunt, he jutted the popcorn bag at her and looked away. “...I ain’t gonna eat all of it.”

Nell’s amused grin was already sliding into place at his response, settling into the truck beside him as she folded her knees up near her chin. “That’s for me to know, and you to not find out.” She wasn’t exactly in the business of telling bad-ass bounty hunters her rather...lengthy history of latching onto people she found undoubtedly cool. But she hummed for a moment as he seemed to give in a bit to her tease, and she figured she’d give him a little something. “Alright fine- it’s both, then.” Nell looked down as she said the words, fixating on the popcorn in case his reaction to her admission was negative. Hopefully, her tone might have been joking enough to pass it off as no more than a joke if need be. As the popcorn came her way, she wiggled a bit in her excitement, always quite thrilled to have food at her disposal. “Thanks!” Her exclamation was perhaps a tad too loud, earning a replying ssssh from another drive-in goer a car over. Without hesitation, she stuck her tongue out at them before turning back to Nic. “So you a horror guy?” she asked before taking a healthy handful of buttery goodness and popping it into her mouth.

Instinctively, Nicodemus shoved himself to the other side of the truck like a socially awkward dog at his first day of daycare. He took a long drag of his water bottle as he side-eyed Nell. It was troublesome trying to figure out why she seemed so keen on following him lately. And even more so, trying to figure out why it didn’t piss him off as much as he initially figured it would. He huffed and leaned his head back. “Give it time, kid, I ain’t bad at sussin’ shit out.” A snort followed at quick addition. “Annnd that was quick.” He took a massive handful of the popcorn and held it on his lap. The hunter didn’t mind her outburst, but the car over did and Nico picked his head up to stare at them. The next person that shushed them was getting a knife in their tire. His head tilted at her question before he nodded. “It’s either this or historical romances,” he said, completely deadpan. “There’s no inbetween.” Bela Lugosi stalked across the screen, cape drawn. Nic squinted. For all his night vision was worth, it didn’t help much with a giant screen behind it. It looked like someone was mimicking Lugosi just a few rows ahead. “Was this a costume showin’ or what?”

It was impossible for Nell not to notice Nic’s apparent aversion to where she’d sat in the truck, though she did her best to brush it aside. Maybe he just didn’t like sitting next to people. She tried not to take it personally. Besides, she was too wrapped up in her popcorn eating to take any prolonged notice of anything he was doing, far too pleased to have something to eat in front of her. “You don’t get that one,” she replied stubbornly. “You didn’t ‘sus’ anything. I just decided to tell you so it doesn't count.” She wasn’t sure what to make of his reply about movie preference, but tried her best to tamp down the excitement that came with the thought that they might have something in common. “What like...Gone With the Wind and stuff? The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society?” But she finally looked up from her precious popcorn at his question, joining him in squinting into the night. A light snort dropped from her. “No- it looks like maybe someone’s just really into Lugosi. Their cape isn’t even that good.”

"Nope, I sussed it with keen precision," Nicodemus said, hands slightly splayed at his sides. The slight annoyance in her face was enough to spur him on and he damn near cracked a sly grin, gaze sliding to the corners of his eyes to look at her. He adjusted in his seat, sat pretzel style, and leaned forward with his elbows in his knees. "Yup, secret of mine. 'Spose you earned it, but frankly my dear, I don't give a fuck." Proud of himself for his own spin on a line from a film he finally watched about five years ago, he tipped his head at her. Shattering his senses to make himself useful outside of his grandfather's idea of demon hunting had him constantly on edge, but there was something about the drive-in that particular night that had his teeth tight. "Fuckin' cosplayers." Except, the man ahead looked eerily like Bela Lugosi but stiffer. Like something pretending to be a human-shaped person and he was lurking close to cars, trying to snatch at something. Someone. He sat up and reached into his jacket. "That ain't a cosplayer, Nell."

Nell gave a soft eyeroll, the corners of her mouth upturned as her amusement grew. “Sure you did, old man. Just keep telling yourself that.” But her slight grin turned full force the moment he confirmed their mutual taste in films, along with a laugh that tumbled into the air with his doctored quote. “Okay, but do you watch-” Her excitement  and smile were cut short as she watched the strangeness of the supposed cosplayer unfold, eyes straining to see what was going on with a bit more fervor as she leaned forward. Crawling towards the tail of the truck, she frowned, that strange sense of something being not entirely right crawling up her neck. Shit. Nope. Definitely not a cosplayer. Nell was already making her way out of the truck to go confront the Lugosi wannabe when she hesitated a moment later, looking back over her shoulder at Nic. Sure, he was a badass bounty hunter amongst other things. But she’d rather keep him safe from any supernatural shenanigans. “You know, I’m just gonna- go- talk to them. You just uh- stay here. Or leave. Leaving would be better. Or you know actually, I think we need more popcorn. Maybe you should go get some. Please.”

The hunter lost track of their initial conversation, far too focused on the Lugosi that he couldn’t quite get a read on. Fucking damn it. Nicodemus just wanted to watch the movie, not have to deal with stabbing or shooting shit for at least twelve hours. So much for that idea. It was back in one of Dracula’s coffins. His fingers skirted along the stake held up tight in his jacket but he didn’t move. Damn it. She didn’t need to get involved in this but then there she was, urging him to go get more popcorn. He shot her a look. “You’re gonna go talk to ‘em?” He shook his head twice and pulled up into a crouch before he threw himself over the truck bed. “How about you go get the popcorn? You seem more about it than me there, Nell.” The utterance of please confused him. Was she...worried about him? He looked between her and the fake Lugosi. He had already placed himself between her and the approaching figure, a subconscious action that he’d think about later. “I’ll go talk to ‘em, alright? Get this shit sorted.” He bit at the corner of his lip. “Alright?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna talk to them!” Nell insisted, a frown furrowing her brow. Couldn’t he just go get the dang popcorn? The longer she waited, the more squirrelly she got thinking that something unsavory might be occurring only a few cars away. “No!” She insisted stubbornly, perhaps even stomping a little with the word. “You- it’s- gentlemanly isn’t it? The guy gets the popcorn? You’re from the South, right? You know!” What the hell was she even saying? This was almost as bad as telling Kaden that her biting him had been performance art. Her frustration only grew as he seemed to block her path, and she bent to look around him towards whatever was still going on with the Lugosi character. “No, I’m talking to them! Look just- please just- don’t go over there, alright?” Nic getting hurt was something she certainly wasn’t willing to risk, and her features grew a little less intense as she spoke the request. And then she was doing her best to step around him and in the direction of the disturbance, jogging her way over there.

“Well maybe I wanna talk to ‘em too, huh? Ask ‘em about their...cape an’ shit.” Nicodemus didn’t have time for this. Fake fuckin’ Dracula was getting too close for comfort and he still wanted to watch the fucking movies. At her mention of him being from the South, he let out a loud, annoyed sigh. “Oh yeah, because if there’s anything I am, it’s a southern fuckin’ gentleman.” If she meant to distract him by having him go into a Cajun French rant, it almost worked as she started to slip around and away from him. Why was she so damn keen on dealing with it alone? He grunted and spit off to the side as he took off after her. “Fuck that, we’re both talkin’ to ‘em. Just get behind me if they do anything fuckin’ weird.” He said it with finality and he looked at her as they neared the stranger. “Hey, fuckass, what are you do--” Fake Lugosi rounded on him and Nicodemus was prepared for the lunge that followed, arms up as the body hit him. He maintained balance and shifted on his feet, grabbing the back of Lugosi’s jacket to flip him over. Thankfully, he was parked off to the side to avoid people. Sans Nell, apparently. If no one noticed a goddamn thing, it would be for the better.

Damn, the Cajun French rant bait hadn’t worked. “Or you could get behind me!” Nell replied stubbornly, in much of the same tone that this entire conversation had been spoken within. Nevertheless- it was...nice that he seemed to care. But she didn’t want him to get hurt by some lame-ass vampire! The conversation slipped away as she watched the fight already beginning to unfold, and a simple exclamation of “Nic!” fell from her. The single word was mixed with worry and annoyance, not at all pleased that he was being put in this situation. She quieted quickly, though— not wanting to draw even more attention to the little scuffle that was happening over here. With reflexes that were a little too fast, Lugosi was back up, and lunging once more. “Stay down!” Nell growled between gritted teeth as she took her own turn, dropping to sweep a leg out to kick Lugosi’s feet out from underneath him. He didn’t look feral, not having that sort of crazed aura about him that vampires generally did when they were starved which meant...was he simply hunting for sport? Or just shits and giggles at a vampire movie?

The hunter’s eyes shot to look at Nell. Jesus, she was concerned. That was a funny thing that Nicodemus would seriously wonder what the fuck was about later. The vampire didn’t seem to care that there were two people actively trying to put his ass down. Nic grunted and watched, impressed, as Nell put the vampire’s ass to the dirt again. He pressed a hand against Fake Lugosi’s cold neck and pressed his face into the dirt, fanged mouth open and full of mud. “Alright,” the hunter murmured as he shifted on his heels. “Don’t know what your fuckin’ deal is but this ain’t the fuckin’ place for it, sharptooth. Don’t try it again.” The vampire hissed, or tried to, with a mouth full of dirt. He glanced up at Nell, then over to the cars not that far away. His ears picked up someone talking, whispering about what was going on over there. There being where Nic, Nell, and the vampire were. He grumbled. “Just doin’ security, keep watchin’ the goddamn movie,” he said, voice raised by a thin margin. His grip tightened on the back of the vampire’s neck as he tried to pull him up by the scruff like an angry cat. “Nell, got a feelin’ he might bolt. I ain’t got a stake. You?” The vampire went rigid at that and threw his head back, clocking Nic right in the face. His grip faltered enough for the vampire to shrug him off and do just what he said he would: bolt. Right for her.

People were watching. Which meant that magic wasn’t really an option. Nell had been trying to use less of it in situations like this even moreso than usual, all to aware of how Miriam was slinking about these days. Plus….she didn’t exactly know Nic’s opinion on witches, and wasn’t entirely sure if she was ready or not to discover it. Nevertheless, she was somewhat amused by the picture of Nic holding the pitiful creature. If it hadn’t been clear that this particular piece of trash was...exactly that, she might have fought the mention of a stake. Instead, she simply shook her head. “Not on me.” Next thing she knew, the thing was charging her, and brown eyes widened as it grew closer. A snarl curled her own lips as it closed in, and she dug in her heels. What she did next wasn’t the most graceful of fight techniques...but raising a foot to harshly kick the vampire in the privates certainly proved effective enough as he doubled over. Then she was darting towards a nearby, empty car to duck behind it under the guise of searching in the mud. Taking the chance to perform a bit of clandestine magic, she summoned a wooden stake from seemingly thin air. “Found one!” she called out before making sure she muddied up the weapon that had been sitting in her room at home not seconds ago .”Catch!” With that, she was launching the piece of wood towards Nic, for she was no longer in stabbing proximity.

Nicodemus realized the absurdity of the question right after he asked it. Right, most people didn’t normally carry fucking stakes on their persons at any given moment. Even he barely did. Only when the situation called for it. Needless to say, he didn’t expect fucking movie night to be one such situation. As he shook off the headbutt, he looked over in time to see Nell handle it about as tactfully as he would and tried very fucking hard to not grin. It failed and it lit up his face, just by a slim margin. Then she was running away and that grin faltered. Was she about to fucking leave his ass after they’d shared some shitty popcorn? The audacity. As she returned, stake in hand from who knows where, he was glad to be proven wrong. He reached up and caught the stake. In as smooth of a motion as he could, he pivoted and went weight, plus stake, first into the Bela Lugosi wannabe. The vampire gasped for a second before the burst into dust, which Nicodemus promptly blocked with his body as a couple curious humans glanced over. “Part of the show, folks. Regular fuckin’ mindfreak,” he said gruffly. Maybe it was the tone but it was enough to get eyes back on the screen that the real Lugosi stalked across. The hunter looked at Nell, forehead furrowed and eyes squinted. “Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare say we make an alright team.”

Nell couldn’t even begin to describe how beautiful the scene was while Nic caught the stake and promptly turned the vampire to dust. There might have been fireworks. The mayor might have been there promising the pair of them keys to the city for being such upstanding and badass citizens. Either way, her fists punched into the air in tandem, a wide smile on her lips! “Yes! Amazing! We kicked ass!” But didn’t this mean...apparently she wasn’t the only bounty hunter around who did other forms of hunting on the side. After all, he was the one who’d asked for a stake. “Yeah, nothing but a loser!” she called out after Nic finished his own explanation. “I’m helping,” was the only explanation she offered. Her grin had already been wide, and it wasted no time in looking as if it might split her face, eyes crinkling in a way that was also a telltale sign of being up to absolutely no good. “I wasn’t gonna say that.” Nell bent at the waist, retrieving the stake from the pile of dust, and pressing it back into Nic’s hand. “I was gonna say we make an awesome team.” With that, she began to lead the way back to the truck, intent on finishing the movie. “Do you think the popcorn’s still there?” Then, because she never knew when to stop, shit-eating grin and all, “And next time you get to be the one getting behind me. We’ll take turns.”

[chiseler]

Gail Patrick: Malice Aforethought

The ultimate in resting bitch face, Gail Patrick could do more with a slight malicious smile than most actors could with the nastiest lines of dialogue. She was always sizing people up on screen, looking at them as if she could spot every weakness in their character and every humiliation they had ever suffered. Patrick knew instantly where she could stick all her knives, but the funny thing about her is that she seemed too basically cool and sedentary to really do too much damage, like a cat who stretches out and just scratches a canary before going back to sleep in the sun.

A brainy Southern girl, Patrick was born Margaret LaVelle Fitzpatrick in Birmingham, Alabama, in 1911. She graduated from Howard College and did two years of law school at the University of Alabama, saying later that she thought about running for state governor. But in 1932, for what she termed “a lark,” Patrick entered a Paramount Pictures beauty and talent contest and got the fare to Hollywood. The winner of the contest would get to be the “Panther Woman” in the Universal picture Island of Lost Souls (1932), starring Charles Laughton, and surely Patrick would have put a scare into both Laughton and co-star Bela Lugosi, but she didn’t get that part, which went to Kathleen Burke. (“It kind of ruined a career for her because nobody would take her seriously after that,” Patrick offered.)

She was presented with a standard studio contract by Paramount, but the strong-minded Patrick wouldn’t sign until her salary was raised from $50 to $75 a week and part of the contract was taken out. “I also read the fine print and blacked out the clause saying I had to do cheesecake stills,” Patrick said. “In the back of my mind I had this idea I could never go home and practice law if such stills were floating around.” She was groomed and coached until she lost her Southern accent, and then Patrick was ready to steal any scene she was in.

She made her first impact in Mitchell Leisen’s Death Takes a Holiday (1934), where she was filmed in stylish gowns and wore blond hair. Patrick is a distinct screen presence because she cannot help that “bitch” quality of hers from rising to the surface, no matter how hard she smiles or how hard she tries to be appealing in Death Takes a Holiday (much like such sisters in 1930s movie bitchery as Verree Teasdale and Genevieve Tobin). There is always something strained in her attempts at good spirits, as if she were a wicked stepsister just waiting to make some vicious remark about everyone in the cast. “I really put my all into that one,” she said. “It gave me a big career boost.”

She was a rival to Joan Crawford in No More Ladies (1935), which showed that Patrick was ready to rattle the most intimidating figures, taking in Crawford as if she can see the former chorus girl in her from a mile away. She drunkenly confesses to a dalliance with Crawford’s husband Robert Montgomery in a manner that tries for rumpled girlish candor but inevitably reads, as always with Patrick, as sheer malice. “I was hired because I towered over Joan,” she said. “She didn’t get temperamental—she simply expected blind obedience from cast and crew.”

Patrick coolly observed the “nasty” fights on the set of Mississippi (1935) between Bing Crosby and W.C. Fields and did her time in programmers before coming to the part that really set her up, Cornelia Bullock, the big bad sister to Carole Lombard’s daffy socialite Irene in My Man Godfrey (1936). Cornelia is the rich bitch incarnate, flaunting her privilege and power like a spoiled child, but with a wide streak of womanly sadism to make many of her scenes deeply unpleasant. Yet Patrick said that she was so afraid of the camera and nervous that she never saw her own films until she showed a friend My Man Godfrey in 1979. “My fright emerged as haughtiness and I can see where I got my image as a snob, a meanie,” she said. “And it’s the movie that typed me and the one I’m still asked about.”

Gregory La Cava, the director of My Man Godfrey, told Patrick to “suck on lemons and beat up little children” to prepare for her role, and maybe she was just a skeptical, smart girl scared of being in the movies, but that’s finally a little hard to believe. You don’t play Cornelia Bullock in the scathing way Patrick does without at least knowing something about inherent meanness and it uses and effects. Then again, fear has often been known to make people behave badly, and shyness can be seen as unfriendliness. “She had to be bratty, mean, demanding, and no winks to show I wasn’t really like that,” Patrick said of Cornelia.

She followed up Cornelia with her finest bitch performance of all, Linda Shaw, erstwhile roommate to Ginger Rogers’s Jean Maitland in La Cava’s great Stage Door (1937), where she engages in wisecracking duels with Rogers so brutal that it comes as no surprise when Rogers’s Jean ends one of them with the line, “Well, so long, if you ever need a good pallbearer, remember I’m at your service.” Patrick enjoyed working with Rogers in Stage Door because she said they could try scenes different ways, whereas she sniped that with the “Great Kate” Hepburn every scene was done the same way. “She never took direction and always walked around with that haughty air,” Patrick said of Hepburn. “Ginge was everything Great Kate wasn’t. The crews loved her and hated Kate for the airs she put on.”

Patrick was only 26 when she made Stage Door, but she reads as a lot older and more experienced, and so it’s believable when Rogers, who was the same age as Patrick, seems to have youth and freshness on her side as she diffidently snags jaded Linda’s man, the theatrical producer Anthony Powell (Adolphe Menjou). Patrick goes as far with verbal bitchery as it is possible to go in Stage Door, and her snobbery is at its most cutting and armored, too, and yet there are a few moments here when we can see that Linda is just as subject to the vagaries of men and show business as the other girls at the theatrical boarding house she lives at. Linda has a freezing sort of dignity when she realizes that Jean is replacing her with Powell, for the time being, and she has the confidence and lack of illusions that can wait to get him back. This has nothing to do with lack of pride, for Linda has plenty of that where it counts, and then some. It has to do with understanding how the world works and how unfair it can be without ever feeling sorry for yourself.

There’s a brief scene in Stage Door where Patrick relaxes a little for once as Judy (Lucille Ball) talks about the moment when she first wanted to go into show business. Patrick smiles almost easily here, as if her guard is just slightly down briefly, and the effect is touching because there is no other moment on screen when she opens up just a little bit for us. In the end, Linda gets Powell back, and she probably has the guts to keep him until another new blond comes along, and when that game is all finished at least she’ll have the fur coats he bought her to keep her warm on the cold nights ahead. Whatever happens to her, Linda will be all right because she takes nothing seriously and never gets her emotions, if she has any left, involved. That’s one way of getting through life.

Patrick’s most notable role after that was as Cary Grant’s wife Bianca in My Favorite Wife (1940), where the frustration of “the other woman” does not really suit her brand of steely control backed up by a witchy talent for insults and vindictiveness. By the time of Claudia and David (1946), Patrick could see the writing on the wall. “One day, we were sitting around the set and dear, sweet Dorothy McGuire started chattering about her great pleasure in working with such veterans,” Patrick said. “Well, I was seven years her senior, and Mary Astor was only 40 at the time. Mary bristled, but I just kept on with my knitting.”

Patrick, who married four times, had a successful second career as a television producer, where as Gail Patrick Jackson (the last name of her third husband), she put her law background to use as executive producer on the Perry Mason series, which starred Raymond Burr and lasted from 1957-1966. She let her hair go white and was still a handsome and stylish figure around town in this period. Patrick died in 1980 at age 69 in her home in Hollywood, in the arms of her fourth husband. Whenever she turns up in a movie, I think of that old saying, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit next to me.”

by Dan Callahan

[ghostheadcanons]

The Papas and Copia: Vampires

Anonymous said:

The papas and copia as vampires. How do they approach, love and definitely how do they feed ♡

Hee hee hee! You’re in luck, Anon! On my other blog, I actually had a Sims save file with all of them as vampires, so you’re definitely not the only one who’s intrigued by the idea! 8}c

I am a huge vampire nerd, so this is going to be a very long post complete with Lore woven in....bear with me, now! 

+18 Below!

Quick vocabulary lesson before we get started! A scion is a term for a vampire brought into vampirism by another vampire--their sire. The process is an ugly one--the scion spends a day or two in a fevered, nightmare-plagued sleep as their body changes, and they’re going to be very hungry for blood when they wake up. They require the blood of their sire--almost like mother’s milk--in order to grow as a vampire and develop their abilities. In time, they’ll be able to handle others’ blood just fine. The sire drinks from their scion’s neck as a sign of ownership, while the scion drinks from the sire’s wrist as a sign of their submission and devotion. To allow your scion to drink from your neck shows that you see them as an equal and fully-grown, and that they’re ready to head out on their own if they want.  

Also, vampires have super sensitive necks, and getting fed off of is incredibly pleasurable for them. 

Papa Nihil

The head/master vampire of the surrounding territory. All other vampires living there must answer to him, or be cast out. As old as time itself...and yet, he’s still active and has childish sense of humor. That’s led to almost everyone who’s gone after him underestimating him. 

It’s a mistake they can only make once.

He has a great number of abilities--turning into mist, hypnotizing others, commanding animals, turning mortals to Ghouls (animalistic vampiric servants)....and he can fight. 

How they approach: Actually, others come to him! It’s not every day that he goes out and about anymore. But he still does. He uses his elderly appearance and infirmity to prey on your sense of weakness as he knocks on your door in the middle of a snowy night in order to use your phone. Surely you wouldn’t leave an old man out in the cold, would you?

How they feed: His hypnosis is strong enough that he can compel mortals to do just about anything for him. Come here, dear.. And he has them smiling and offering them their necks before they even have the chance to understand what’s happening to them. When he was a young man, he was more cruel to his ‘food’, draining them and leaving them practically husks on the ground. But now he’s much more considerate--he knows just how much he can take from you before it’ll hurt you, and leaves you somewhere nice and soft, like on your couch or bed. 

How they love: He’ll spoil you rotten! Showering you with gifts and trinkets. He’s had many loves in his time, and eventually they all pass. His children are still here because they were born into vampirism. Honestly, he wouldn’t want to Turn you if he’s in love with you--he would rather spend time doting on you than actually teaching you how to be a vampire. 

If you become his scion: You have to convince him to Turn you. Has Sister Imperator (his longtime human assistant) help look after you through your Turning, and holds your hand through the nightmares. He has a lot of lessons to teach, being so old and wise, and getting blood from such a powerful vampire means that you’ll be very powerful in your own right. Be ready to work hard!

Fun fact: Copia is actually another one of Papa Nihil’s scions--back from when Nihil was young. The two of you probably won’t see a lot of eachother; Copia’s a fully grown vampire, and keeping an eye on the surrounding territories is a full-time job for him.

Papa I

Nihil’s firstborn. A very old and very powerful vampire. He isn’t one for socializing and only attends vampire social events out of obligation for his rank. Rather, he’s used his immortality to spend his time in solitude; reading, reflecting, and writing, in the eternal pursuit of knowledge. 

He also has quite a few abilities, but he almost never uses them unless he needs to. His stomach is withered away, so he can’t really process human food anymore. 

How they approach: He doesn’t approach. The man lives in a castle and never leaves it. Should travelers come asking for sanctuary, he’s more than happy to let you stay a night. Don’t mind the masked servants, they prefer to keep their appearance secret. If you’re an intellectual sort, you can engage him in conversation, and he’ll be pleasantly surprised. Don’t be surprised if he invites you to stay another night...

How they feed: Actually doesn’t do the neck-biting thing. He has an arrangement with the local bloodbank and sips from the pouches as he reads the latest tome or writes down his latest thoughts. If you want him to feed from you, though, he would. He’d be very gentle with you, always asking if you’re alright, and letting you tap his shoulder to stop him if he’s taking too much. 

How they love: If you catch his eye, he would want to court you properly. He’s a gentleman--getting you books, offering to paint your portrait, and telling you everything you want to know about any subject in particular. You have a veritable fountain of wisdom at your beck and call! 

If you become his scion: He would bring up the idea of turning you, to be honest. You’re very important to him, and he doesn’t want to lose you, because he knows how fleeting mortal life is. Would coddle you through your Turning and have his wrist ready for you when you wake up. I hope you like being in school, because once you’re ready to start your lessons, that’s exactly what it turns into, with lectures on proper vampire history, techniques, and science. Have fun! 

Papa II

Nihil’s second son. A cruel, domineering vampire, powerful and merciless. He’s a lot like how Nihil used to be, back when Nihil was a younger vampire. Lives in a truly terrifying castle overlooking a little town that he’s broken into fearing him and giving him tribute. His is the castle they warn you not to go to after dark.

He can use hypnosis, transform into mist, turn people into ghouls, and he has a massive amount of vampiric strength and agility. 

How they approach: If you catch his eye, he’s most likely going to attempt to seduce you, with silken words and meaningful glances. He’s gotten quite a few humans this way--he even has a few human ‘toys’ living with him, solely for the bedroom. All consensual, of course. He keeps them well-fed, and they don’t have to do anything other than please him. What’s not to like? 

How they feed: Generally he feeds from his ‘toys’. It’s a privilege he enjoys making them compete for, depending on who can pleasure him the most that night. He has a very low opinion of humanity, and he’s not shy about expressing it. 

How they love: Against all odds, if you as a human manage to charm him to the point where he has feelings for you? He’s honestly unsure how to proceed. It was probably your strong will that won him over, and the way you never break eye contact with him instead of dropping your eyes to the floor like most other humans. He’ll make his feelings and intentions on the matter well-known to you. “Humanity does not suit you, child. Join me in the darkness, that we may be one forever.”

If you become his scion: Good luck. Papa II isn’t going to pull any punches when he Turns you. Will sit back and watch to see if you survive the Turning, and he’ll make you say ‘please, master’ before he lets you drink from his wrist for the very first time. He enforces the master and servant dynamic; after all, that’s what a scion is to a sire. His training is brutal; he’ll push you to your very limits. But that’s because he knows you can go above and beyond. And when your training is complete, you’ll be one of the strongest vampires around. 

Papa III

The youngest of Nihil’s children, and the most charismatic. They based the Bela Lugosi Dracula after him. Charming and witty, elegant and sensual, he’s not one for secluded living. He loves to attend parties, whether for vampires or humans or even a mix of the two! He’s pretty open-minded about humanity, and thinks they’re more adorable than pitiful (unlike his grumpy brother). 

His abilities include vampiric charisma, transforming into a bat (or bats), slight hypnosis, turning people into ghouls, and actually knowing how to talk to humans. 

How they approach: He’ll hit you up in a bar or at a party, and put all that charm to good use. He prefers humans to other vampires because they’re easier to impress. But play cat and mouse, and he’ll definitely be intrigued--more than if you were just a one night stand.

How they feed: He likes to drink from his dates. And he always makes it pleasurable for them, too, usually doing it in the bedroom. 

How they love: If you’ve charmed the youngest Emeritus, he’ll take you out with him when he goes places. Buy you presents, take you to dinners...he’ll show you little nooks and crannies in the city that aren’t well-known to humans, strange and interesting things you don’t see in your normal day-to-day. Sweet little experiences, just between the two of you. 

If you become his scion: Gets very worried about you if he Turns you. He calls on his older brothers for their expertise, which they’ll give him, helping him cool your fevered sleep and soothe your nightmares. Honestly? He’ll let you drink from his neck a lot sooner than any of the others would, tradition be damned. Of course you two are equals...except maybe in the bedroom. You know damn well he’s going to play up the dom/sub nature of the relationship between a sire and their scion when he’s bedding you. It’s just more fun that way. 

Cardinal Copia

A man from 14th century Italy. He used to be a mortal man, but when the plague hit, he was terrified for his life. So he went to Papa Nihil and pledged his service in exchange for immortality. Nowadays, he keeps an eye on Nihil’s affairs and the state of the surrounding territories, scheduling this and keeping track of that. Unlike many of the others, he has a much easier time going out during the day, so he gets sent on a lot of errands and does a lot of travelling. Instead of his canines, his fangs are his two front teeth, sharp and pointy, making him look more like a rat than ever. 

His vampiric abilities include transforming into a rat, command over rats (though he prefers to think of them as friends), turning people into ghouls, and great accounting skills. 

How they approach: You’ll probably be the one to approach him first, let’s be real. After all these years and learning the consequences of being immortal, he doesn’t like interacting much with humans unless he wants a quick fuck. Why bother, when they’re going to be dead the next time you blink? But you can win his heart, with time and persistence! 

How they feed: He bags his own blood, so to speak--he likes to pick a target and research them to make sure they’re a loner or a felon (he doesn’t kill them if they’ve got family or an actual good person, he’s not a complete monster), then kill them and drain them dry. The first drink he takes from their neck, the rest he saves in bags for later in a portable freezer. 

How they love: Would straight up court you. Flowers, dates, dinners.....he’s an old-fashioned gentleman about it. Is terribly frightened of letting you in on his secret...so it’s only when he’s sure you’re The One that he tells you what he is. And that he doesn’t want to ever be without you. Topolino...will you forsake the light and join me in the dark, so we may be together for an eternity?

If you become his scion: You thought Papa III was worried? Hold Copia’s wine. The Cardinal knows what you’re going through, and it’s terrifying for him--because he almost didn’t survive his Turning. What if you die?? He’s there by your side the whole time, putting rags dipped in cool water across your fevered forehead, whispering comfortingly to you as you toss and turn in your nightmares. 

It’s a little strange for him, having someone he could boss around if he wanted, but he’s relatively nice about it. You don’t have to call him ‘Sir’ or anything like that, but if you did, it would make him feel very good. One of the perks about being Copia’s scion is that the man is always on the go--so you’ll have plenty of time to learn the tricks of the trade and watch from his example! 

Oh, and he’d probably start feeding from you instead of just his own supply. And he’ll have you writhing in his arms as he takes his time with your sweet, supple neck.

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter one (the girl in the gutter)

“White on white translucent black capes, back on the rack.  Bela Lugosi's dead. The bats have left the bell tower, the victims have been bled. Red velvet lines the black box... Bela Lugosi's dead.” -”Bela Lugosi’s Dead”, Bauhaus

October 12, 1988. Oswego, New York.

“Kill me now,” is what I say as I stare out the window.

The rain is my one true friend now. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to make a good friend on top of this--I’m sure everyone knows about it, the whole thing where if someone, and by someone I mean myself, wasn’t en route to a college or a university, or working a job already, they were kind of left out in the cold. Sure, there have been plenty of acquaintances, but as far as someone I could sit with and feel myself to be true with them, it’s been a while. The whole twisted thing about everything that happened was that it happened so quick. It was four years ago Scott and Frank told me I could hold the microphone in my hand. Four years ago, and last year we may as well have hiked up to the North Pole and stood up a big black flag with the word “NOT!” emblazoned on it, beholding the fact we had conquered the world in the wake of Cliff’s ashes. We rose up like the phoenix, and I was the man on fire.

There is absolutely nothing like standing out in the rain with all of your things taken out from the studio, slung over your shoulder, and your old band mates were the ones throwing you out there into the darkness while the gutters overflow over your head. There isn’t a feeling like it.

And if anyone believes that I had had enough, know for a fact I was asked to leave. I had vowed to rid of the problem, to replace all of the booze with black coffee. I mean, Jesus, I like to have fun with this sort of thing. What’s the point of doing it if I’m not going to have a little fun with it all every now and then? And it’s not like I was drinking a ton so to speak--at least I wasn’t doing those drug loaded pirate raids the four of them would do with Skid Row and Ratt. But I specifically recall telling Scott, verbatim, after he threatened to leave if I did nothing, that I would not have a sip of alcohol as long as I was a member of the band. And yet, for whatever reason, that promise did not suffice or click with any of them.

I think the sound of my phone ringing this morning and waking me up will haunt me for as long as I live. I still hear Jonny’s voice on the other end, telling me it was official. They had made the decision behind closed doors and I had been thrown out on my ass as of that morning, but he never elaborated why.

The next thing I remember was asking him why and the sound of the other end hanging up. No, Jonny, come back. Come back!

Fuck.

I lay there for a minute on my recliner before I even hung up the phone myself. I just reposed with the mouthpiece of the phone pressed to the side of my face, and the cord laying on my neck while I heard the drone of the dial tone right in my ear. They were like my friends, my first friends in a long time following high school, and yet they still showed their dark face to me. Something told me I stood at fault.

It was my fault. It was my fault the band was in turmoil and Frankie and Charlie had that massive blow up that day. It was my fault the new album coasted on the success of Among the Living. It was all my fault.

Once I hung up the phone, I could only crawl back into bed. I only did it for a bit because I refused to mope and wallow in my misery. Even as I took a walk outside, jacket zipped up and hands in my pockets, struggling to hold my head up high even though I sustained a huge punch in the stomach and slap in the face, within time, the lake began weeping with me. There’s a trail that runs along the water’s edge and when I’m in a depressive mood such as this, I take a walk along the soft earth there--I’m half Indian, I feel the cold earth deep within my soul. It’s a part of me. It’s my heart. Since it’s October, and the eve of my twenty-eighth birthday, the lake effect makes its way here, and often when I least expect it.

At one point during my walk, I noticed those feathery plumes emerging from the top of the water. I could feel the cold wind running through my hair and upon the crown of my head. I had to stop in place right next to boulder twice as large as me to better feel the cold. I had faith they were the act for me, such that I felt it in my bones. There’s nothing like this very feeling here.

They say someone is most themselves when they’re alone. Well, if the tears welling up in my eyes due in part to the pain in my chest or the incoming frigid rain should note anything, it’s that I’m alone.

When I came back to my apartment, I crawled inside of my own kitchen and a tiny box of Mike n Ikes for a bit. It’s not enough. A hollow skinny man needs to be filled up again. Maybe when the rain clears up a bit I’ll walk down to the Bitters for a cup and something of substance—a cup of Joey rather. It is a few hours before I turn twenty-eight, after all.

Twenty-eight years old. I joined Anthrax when I was twenty-three. It feels like a thousand years ago.

If there’s anything my mom taught me it’s to not bar grudges, though. No. I’m not like that. I don’t want to be like that. The very thought of such a thing nauseates me and leaves me feeling nothing more than disgusted with myself.

Oh... my mom. The very thought of her eases the pain and warms me up from within. It’s like eating soup on a freezing day: the room may be cold but the belly’s warm and that’s all that matters.

She and my dad are out of town right now, and I have no way of telling them I was fired because I don’t know if they left their hotel and are on the road at the moment, or not.

Twenty-eight years old and I’m spending it by myself. I live alone. I’m sitting here on my window sill looking out to the courtyard down below and watching the rain streak down the window pane. I feel the earth in my soul and she’s crying for me.

I don’t think this rain will let up any time soon and this candy is doing nothing. It’s not soup. And so I get up and head into my room for a change of the clothes and a warmer jacket: yeah, I should probably get out of this pajama shirt.

I’m taking my clothes off and out of the corner of my eye, I see my reflection in the mirror on my closet door. I’m standing there in the middle of my room in my underwear and holding a pair of jeans by the waistband, and I so happen to see this scrawny young guy staring back at me.

Not even a few hours after my release and I can see I’m wasting away, turning into nothing more than a skinny little sack of bones. My stomach is so slim, it’s like the top of a table. No, it’s like a broken, caved in surface of a table. I touch my skin, which is like touching a soft thin layer of cotton piled up on hard plywood. I need to eat something. No drinks, though: I’m not that cowardly.

I put my pants on and, once I’m zipped up, I run my fingers over my waist again. So thin.

Funny, it wasn’t more than a couple of years ago when we were in that warehouse filming the video for “Madhouse,” and I could look at my own face in the mirror across from me and feel like I had a lot going for me. I had a baby face, all round and sweet with these brown eyes and all of this black hair piled about my head, all of it as tightly coiled and coarse as the mane of a horse, and some of it springing up over the crown of my head. Now, I look like I aged about twenty years in no more than thirteen months. One of the many problems of being indigenous: I’m still just a young buck but I look like a senior with my skin sinking in and forming these odd lines. The fact I’m as skinny as I am adds to it.

I don’t feel like putting a shirt on. I changed out of my shirt for no shirt, how ‘bout that! So I put on my sweater over my body instead followed by my leather jacket. I’ve got this down.

I leave the apartment with the keys in my pocket and the hood pulled over my head, the sweater under my black leather, and my hands in the upholstered pockets. Even though there are clouds blanketing the sky overhead, I can tell the sun is setting and the light is fading. It’s a bit of a walk down to the Bitters but I’m hungry enough—I can walk there in time to get some food in my stomach and then boogie back with the last bus ride back to the complex.

Until then, I’m the man in black on this chilly evening, the tall wiry shadow making serious headway two and a half miles down the road. I have my head bowed to keep the rain out of my eyes. Maybe if I got the hell out of this town and wormed my way into the city like the little parasite that I am, Scott and the boys will take me back. I was the strange one after all: Scott and Danny had wives, Charlie and Frankie had girlfriends, whereas I went home alone. They were the essence of the city, I stood there pulling corn kernels out of my teeth. But on the other hand, out here in the sticks, I have no doubt this is home. It may not seem like much and there is a lot of bullshit to go about especially if it’s not living up near the colleges where my complex is, but for me, it’s home. I was born here, my parents live here, and my grandparents are buried in the cemetery.

I reach the corner and I feel the candy having not done enough for me. I can’t make it to the Bitters like this with my own stomach eating away at me.

I stop in place to catch my breath. I can’t do it. I need to get on the bus.

I glance to my right at the sight of the bus stop itself on the sidewalk up ahead and I take that opportunity; once I reach that glass case, I have both hands resting on my belly, I am absolutely starving.

It takes my boarding the bus and taking the seat next to a woman with long dark hair and wrapped in a raincoat when I realize this thing is taking me all the way out to the golf course and the country club. Oh God.

My stomach is killing me, and it only gets worse with the woman next to me stepping off before the interchange onto the highway. I have my back against the wall and my hands all the way into pockets, and my fingers up against my belly. The one thing separating me from my own skin is a small piece of flannel. I’m losing it, that is if I haven’t already lost it.

I’m watching the lights from the wharf illuminate the clouds overhead with the color of an orange creamsicle. The hunger and the candy having done enough is killing me. The country club is this way, and I think there’s also a bar nearby. Not that I want a drink but it’s one thing to bear in mind. Once we lumber closer to those low lights springing out of the darkness, I ring the bell over my head.

Even with the lights glowing out from the wharf, I can see the lake effect further taking place right now, which means I need to get a move on to shelter. This rain is already ridiculous and my pants are getting wet. I have my head bowed to keep the rain out of my eyes, but even that’s not enough. I’ve got an ache in my belly and I’m cold, but I’m not too far.

I feel a chill run up my spine and then bring my arms closer to my body. That bar is here somewhere, but where? The chill is growing worse and no matter what I do, I continue to feel cold. Where the hell is it?

I stop when I notice the figure in black, full in the middle and taking the shape of an hourglass, and with nothing more than a wispy cloud over its head. My skin is practically crawling at this point from the rain, which I feel will turn into snow at any given moment, and it’s only made colder by the sight of her, the sight of Death. She points a skeleton hand at me, stopping me dead in my tracks.

“Are you dead?” she asks in a voice that sounds like it’s about a mile away on the shores of Lake Ontario.

“N-No,” I stammer out, although I feel like I could be dead given my friends shut me out, my stomach is in agony, and the impending snow might freeze me above anything else.

“You must be on your way,” she retorts.

“I swear to you—my hand on my grandfather’s ashes—that I am not dead.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“Joseph Anthony Bellardini.” My voice is strong despite the incessant shivering. “But call me Joey Belladonna.”

I watch her fade out into the shadows and the cluster of spruces, bones and everything, like she never existed. I stand there, my hands crammed into my pockets and my teeth chattering like crazy. Was that Death? And if it was, does that mean I can go where it’s warm? And I still haven’t found the entrance to the country club, much less the bar.

A noise catches my ear. It’s dark except for the glow of the harbor lights and the stupid power plant over in the hills; but I look about the street until I spot the faint silhouette of a woman sprawled over the edge of the sidewalk. I look around and I can see I'm the only other person to be seen here.

I tug on the edge of the hood and run up the wet concrete. The snow is upon us, and running up the sidewalk in Chucks is dangerous, but I know for a fact there’s no one else around. I can see her face and once she comes within my line of sight, I can see the rope tied about her ankles. Once I reach her, I take a look into her rounded pale face and her black hair. She looks familiar...

It takes me a minute to see it’s the woman next to me on the bus. How’d she get here? I set one knee down next to her on the wet sidewalk, which soaks my jeans even more, but that’s the least of my problems right now.

“Hey! Hey, are you okay?” I ask her in a gentle voice. I reach for her face to look right at her.

“Are you okay?” I repeat. In the dim light, I see her part her lips but she never opens her eyes for me.

“He—Help—”

“It’s alright—it’s alright.”

“Help me—″ she sputters. I hear her groan in her throat and I knew something had happened that had to do with Death back there. The rain is relentless and my body is aching from cold and hunger but I know the club and the bar are not too far from here. I put my arms around her: she’s heavy! And the rope around her ankles only makes it harder for me. But I lean her head and shoulders against my chest, and once I stand to my feet, I clasp her to my chest with my right hand and brush her wet hair from her eyes to examine her face with my left. Even in the darkness, I can tell she’s gorgeous.

I glance around the block until I spot something on the other side of the street, like tucked behind something else. That’s either the bar or something else.

“Come on—come with me,” I coax her gently as I scoop her off of the sidewalk: my aching belly pains me even more, but I need to help this poor lady. “It’s okay—I’ve got you.” I adjust myself so that I can carry her without my back hurting on top of everything else.

“I'll take you where it’s warm,” I promise to her over the roar of the rain.

“Please—” her voice slips out from her lips like a piece of wind; “don’t hurt—me—”

“I won’t. I won’t, I promise.” I hold her close to me as I guide her down the sidewalk: it’s tricky because of the rope but I don’t think I have my pocket knife with me.

God dammit.

I reach the corner and I stop to move the hair from her face again. The light is a little better and as a result, I make out a narrow dark crease the length of my pinkie finger on her forehead. Whoever left her there must have left her there to die, hence my encounter with Death.

“What’s your name?” I ask her as the rain patters even harder around us. Even though I have her head against my chest, I smooth her hair back from her face even more. I just have the glow from the lights of the club nearby as my guide, but I can look right into her face. “What’s your name?”

“Maya,” she almost breathes it, her lips parted not even by a hair.

“Maya?” I repeat it because everything is so loud.

“Yes--” She’s fading fast. I slide my other arm under her thighs to better carry her. The dead weight of her body pulls me down like an anchor. I’ll starve to death before I let this woman die out here in the cold and wet.

“Okay, Maya. I’m Joey. Let’s go where it’s warm.” And without another word, I run across the grass to that little building tucked out of sight. I hope it’s the bar and not something else.

[justtheendoftheday]

Night of the Living Dead (1968)

“They’re coming to get you, Barbra.”

When the bodies of the recently deceased begin coming back to life to try and kill and eat the living, a group of strangers take refuge inside an empty rural home.

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Fright: 1.7 / 5  Barbras

For me the most unsettling moments of fright are near the beginning when the attacks first start occurring. Sure, packs of the undead banging on your door is a creepy idea, but the potential for some stranger to suddenly attack you is just so much more real.

I feel like this was probably a very frightening movie when it came out, but time has dulled its blade a bit. For devotees of the genre Night of the Living Dead probably doesn’t even cause a blip on their fear radar. But for less desensitized viewers I think it probably walks a nice line between being spooky enough to creep you out a little, but tame and dated enough that it won’t keep you up all night.

It’s easy to look back on this one and not remember any big scares. But that’s probably just because the movie isn’t really into big scares. It prefers to charge the atmosphere of a scene with spooky tension. Who will live? Who will die? What’s going to happen next?

Gore: 2.3 / 5 Butcher Counter Scraps

This one is tough to measure. Old school gore gore rarely measures up to modern standards, and the whole movie is in black & white (which always makes things seem a little less visceral to me). So by modern zombie movie standards this one is pretty tame.

On one hand there certainly is a bit of gore, but on the other hand it is generally used to suggest that something rather gruesome occurred instead of actually showing it happening.

For instance, they never show anyone getting bit or pulled apart or anything like that. But they do imply that such things have happened and then show the ghouls eating “human flesh.” Yet it’s pretty obvious to an adult viewer that the actors are just creepily munching on a prop arm or some meaty bit acquired from a butcher shop.

There’s also a couple of quick shots of a slightly decomposed skull.

For the most part the only gruesome things you actually see being done to people are things like getting shot or stabbed.

Jump Scares: Very few

There are a couple of potential startle moments, but they are a bit tame by today’s standards. I didn’t notice any really aggressive jump scares to speak of.

Review:

Night of the Living Dead is a film that goes beyond the confines of its spooky premise to work as a powerful metaphor for its time. While its depiction of women is unfortunately quite bland, the way it deals with race is incredibly interesting. It’s a movie that delights in creating tension more so than going for aggressive scares. While certainly tame compared to modern zombie films, it remains a really fun movie that establishes the heart of a Romero-style zombie movie: a group of survivors who are forced to question whether the real terror is being alone outside with the zombies or inside together with the other survivors.

Thoughts:

Ah, Night of the Living Dead, one of those cinematic classics that everyone has at least heard of even if they’ve never seen.

Is it just me or is anyone else always wary of “classics?” So many of them turn out to be quite boring, or dated, or—worst of all—problematic. And sure, they might have made a big impact on the field, but that doesn’t mean they’re inherently great art, especially decades down the line.

And yet sometimes you’ll watch a so-called Classic and you totally get it.

Oh! Yes, this is why everyone keeps talking about this one.

One of my favorite things about the Horror genre is that so much of it is built up from a foundation of independent works and passion projects. And so much about what makes this movie a classic is because it was made by a bunch of film nerds who just wanted to make a movie. The only limitation placed on them was the scope of their imagination and the confines of their budget.

And that is exactly what allowed it to work outside the usual studio box and synthesize something new.

Here is a movie that has lots of gore (unusual for the time), was shot in black and white (also quite unusual for the time), and it cast a handsome black man as the main character and definitive hero of the movie (very unusual for the time).

Now keep in mind that movie was made in late 1960s America! A time where institutionalized racism was clashing against the force of a powerfully determined and ever-growing civil rights movement. To see a black man being portrayed as the hero—let alone one who heroically fights against white bodies—was almost unheard of in the cinematic pop-culture of the time.

Romero has said that his script hadn’t called for a black man to be cast in the role of Ben, but Duane Jones was chosen for the role simply because his audition had been the best. And while it’s easy to believe that Duane Jones aced that audition (because he’s friggin’ phenomenal in this movie), it’s hard to imagine that they would have even considered casting a white dude in the role. If they had gone that route it would have fundamentally changed the nature of the story (which is just a nice way of saying that it would have ruined everything).

But luckily for us the creators were open-minded enough to cast the role without race in mind. And because of that Night of the Living Dead was able to (inadvertently) tap into the energy of its time. It’s charged with this backlash against American racism. Ben is literally surrounded by white people that want him dead. They either want to ignore his humanity and simply consume him, like the hordes of ghouls do, or they want him dead for threatening the status quo (like Mr. Cooper does inside the house). And in spite of everything he still sticks his neck out to protect the people around him.

In spite of how well it’s held up over the years, for a modern audience one part hasn’t aged especially well: its depictions of women. Now don’t get me wrong, it never goes for the overt sexism that many horror movies manage to. And yet its female characters still manage to be the most bland characters in the film.

The lack of depth is on full display in their depiction of the film leading lady: Barbra. She starts out well enough, but for the vast, vast majority of the movie she is reduced to a hollow character. She is near catatonic most of the time and even when she’s lucid she tends to just ramble on, only partially aware of reality.

If that wasn’t bad enough there are only 3 other women in the movie and their characters almost never step outside the frameworks of The Wife, The Girlfriend, and The Daughter. All the female characters seem to exist only to add depth to the male characters who are the actual movers and shakers of the movie.

(Although in her defense I will say that Mrs. Cooper’s occasional scathing remark to her idiot husband are highly enjoyable.)

The first time I saw this film was in high school and I had heard it hyped up so much that I ended up thinking it was all a bit silly when I first saw it. While I’m sure it was more shocking to see during its time, by today’s standards it is a rather quiet movie. But when I ended up giving it another try, I found that the quietness is one of my favorite things about it.

One of the little details I love is how they use cricket sounds throughout the movie. In spite of all the horror and death we witness, nature continues unabated. It’s as if to say the world doesn’t care about these people’s situation. That little sound that evokes quiet peaceful summer nights is twisted here and it adds this brilliant extra layer of creepiness.

One of the things I’ve always loved about Romero’s zombie movies is that they are always focused on the survivors, not the zombies. The ghouls are slow and stumbling, their only real threat is if they catch you unaware or you let them overpower you with their numbers. The real source of danger is always shown to be the people you’re locked up with.

After all, in these modern times what is more frightening: the masses pounding on your gates or the people you find yourself locked in with?

—————————————

—————————————

Content warnings: I didn’t notice anything particularly triggering in this one, but let me know if I missed something!

After-credits Scene?: None.

—————————————

Directed by: George A. Romero

Written by: John Russo & George Romero

Country of Origin: USA

Language: English

Setting: Butler County, Pennsylvania, USA

Sequel: Dawn of the Dead (1978)

If you liked this you might also like: Dawn of the Dead (1978), Day of the Dead (1985), The Last Man on Earth (1964), Shaun of the Dead (2004)

—————————————

Context Corner:

Night of the Living Dead may be the great grand-daddy of the modern zombie movie, but many might not know that plenty of zombie movies existed long before it was ever made. The first zombie movie being the 1932 film White Zombie starring Bela Lugosi as an evil witch doctor named Murder Legendre [100% serious. That really was his name].

However, these original zombie movies were very different things from what we consider zombies today. These pre-NotLD films were generally based around second-hand ideas of zombies as seen in Haitian folklore (and misattributed to the religion of voodoo). They featured dead bodies that were reanimated as mindless tools of their master or living people put into a zombie-like trance, not autonomous creatures on the hunt for living flesh.

The closest precursor to Romero’s vision of zombies was seen in the fantastic film The Last Man on Earth, a 1964 picture starring Vincent Price and based on the novel I Am Legend by Richard Matheson. There a plague sweeps across the country and the infected dead return to life as a type of vampire-esque zombies.

Fun Fact: In spite of its influence on the zombie genre the word “zombie” is never used in Night of the Living Dead. The undead are referred to only as “ghouls.”

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“So long as this situation remains, government spokesmen warn that dead bodies will continue to be transformed into the flesh-eating ghouls. All persons who die during this crisis, from whatever cause, will come back to life to seek human victims.”

[mst3kproject]

Black Dragons

 This is a bizarre and thoroughly mismanaged WWII yellow peril movie.  It features Bela Lugosi and Joan Barclay, both of whom we’ve seen before in The Corpse Vanishes, and was produced by Sam Katzman, who brought us both The Corpse Vanishes and Teenage Crime Wave (also The Giant Claw).  I liked The Corpse Vanishes.  It was fun, fast-paced, and in some ways surprisingly feminist.  Black Dragons is none of those things.

It’s 1942, and Japan has just bombed Pearl Harbour, forcing Americans to stop ignoring World War II.  Stock footage of stuff burning and blowing up is implied to be the work of a bunch of indistinguishable suited men who are sabotaging the allied war effort.  They’re standing around one evening congratulating themselves on how evil they are, when a mysterious Monsieur Coulombe arrives and talks privately with one of them, a Dr. Saunders  Coulombe hypnotizes or drugs Saunders somehow – and in the days that follow, the conspirators start turning up dead, each with a souvenir from the renaissance faire… oh, excuse me, a Japanese dagger… in one hand.  What the hell is going on?

Well, the ending is supposed to be a surprise, but I’m gonna spoil it for you to save you having to watch the stupid movie.  All the victims, plus Dr. Saunders, are actually Japanese operatives from the Order of Black Dragons who had plastic surgery to turn them into the doubles of American businessmen!  The originals were killed, and the duplicates took their places… and the surgeon?  He was a Nazi who did it as a favour from the Fuhrer, but afterwards the Order tried to kill him so that he could never reveal the plan to anyone.  He escaped, and went to the States to murder them in revenge for their betrayal!

As ideas for an espionage movie go, this one reaches near golden-age comics levels of absurdity and as such it’s almost kind of brilliant.  A movie that used this plot to its full ridiculous potential could be great fun – I especially like that it pits two sets of villains against each other, while the supposed good guys spend most of the film completely clueless.  Black Dragons, however, was rushed onto theatre screens within four months of the bombing of Pearl Harbour, and it’s an utter mess with no idea what to do with its premise.

For being made in 1942, Black Dragons mostly doesn’t look bad.  There are no scenes so dark you can’t see what’s happening, and we get an idea of things like the layout of Dr. Saunders’ house. The characters all kind of look alike but I’ve just had to accept the idea that all white men had the same face until about 1965.  The steps of the Japanese Embassy are obviously somebody’s house with a sign on the door, but I can forgive them that, and the voices sound a little brassy and indistinct but no more so than in The Corpse Vanishes.  The main technical flaw in the film is that most of it has a constant crackling noise in the background, sounding kind of like heavy rain. This is obviously a problem with the print itself, since it continues as we switch scenes from Washington to Philadelphia, and it is very annoying and confusing.

No, almost all of Black Dragons’ many problems are in the writing.  Just based on the premise you can guess that the movie is racist – we’ve got the ‘Japanese dagger’ that doesn’t look even remotely Japanese, and Japanese characters (even some of those who are supposed to look Japanese) played by white guys in costumes and makeup, speaking in fake accents.  And as for the racial issues inherent in the plastic surgery plot point... I don’t actually feel qualified to address those.

What is slightly more surprising is that it’s also egregiously sexist.  There’s a woman living with Dr. Saunders who’s supposed to be his niece Alice, worried about all the weird things happening around her.  She turns out to be a policewoman who’s there to spy on the fake Dr. Saunders, and she gets shouted at for being entirely incompetent when she fails to solve anything (it must be admitted that she didn’t try very hard).

Everything that surrounds this character is just terrible. She’s there to be one (1) pretty girl, like the film is trying to fill some kind of quota.  Alice is introduced when the chief of police suggests that detective Dick Martin might get somewhere by questioning her.  Martin responds, “let me guess, she’s fifty and flat-footed, and wears glasses.”  Oh my god, you poor thing, you might have to talk to an unattractive woman!  She flirts with Dr. Coulombe throughout the film, even as he hangs around being ridiculously off-putting and creepy.  The revelation that she’s a spy herself explains this, I guess, since she must have been doing it in the hope of learning something from him, but it never avails her anything and is, in the end, useless, much like Alice herself.

The worst moment is when Martin, who has been trying to get her to move out of this dangerous house, walks into the room and out of nowhere says, “Alice, will you marry me?”  She stares at him like he’s crazy and asks, “what for?”, and I swear to you he actually replies, “so I can beat you up.  It’s the only way I’ll get you out of here.”  I had to pause the movie and watch it again because I couldn’t believe I’d just heard that.  I have combed the internet for a gif that expresses a sufficient level of what the fuck for this line and I cannot find one.  I need Shikha again.

Black Dragons really has no hero.  The closest thing on offer is Detective Martin, who is honestly just as useless as Alice.  I usually enjoy movies that are just a bunch of bad guys trying to thwart each other, but this is actually Black Dragons’ biggest mistake.  If this were supposed to be a suspense film, then we really ought to be focused on Martin (and possibly Alice) trying to solve the mystery.  Martin sees the Japanese agents as upstanding citizens in danger, and he is doing his best to help them but has started to suspect that the victims aren’t as innocent as they appear.

That has the potential to be an interesting story with a surprising twist at the end, but Black Dragons is not told from Martin’s point of view.  Instead, the audience is privy to at least some of the secrets from the beginning.  We already know that the murder victims are the bad guys, because we watched them brag about it to each other.  We watch Coulombe killing them (though the way he behaves, it would be obvious he’s the murderer even if we didn’t) and hear him calling them by Japanese-sounding names before they die.  By the time we get to what should be the twist, we’ve already figured most of this out (while Martin hasn’t a clue), and the only surprise is that Coulombe’s motivation is personal revenge rather than being a government assassin, as I initially assumed.

A version of the movie that actually tried to keep its secrets secret could also have something I kind of hoped we would see but never did, which is the conspirators interacting with their families.  At least some of the men who were replaced ought to have had parents, siblings, wives, or children, unless they were chosen specifically for being orphaned bachelors with no friends – and that doesn’t seem likely when we know Dr. Saunders had a niece he was close to.  Watching the people around these men feeling like there’s something different but not sure what it is would have been nice and creepy, but Black Dragons is not that subtle.

It’s all doubly unfortunate because there is some cool stuff in this movie.  There’s a bit where rather than killing two of the conspirators himself, Coulombe tricks them into killing each other.  That was nicely done.  His creative methods of hiding bodies are fun, too.  The fact that he ultimately dumps them on the steps of the Japanese embassy with an unconvincing ‘cultural artefact’ in their hands seems like it ought to mean something, like he’s trying to either alert the Americans to the threat or the Japanese to his survival, but nothing is ever really made of this and we never see what the head of the Order of Black Dragons thinks of it at all, as he is seen only in flashback.

The biggest problem with the whole concept behind Black Dragons is the same one as in Hercules Unchained: they needed to make a movie really fast in order to capitalize on something, and just didn’t have time to figure out what they were actually doing.  Hercules Unchained was a movie that tried to have two storylines at one, neither connected to each other and one of them only barely connected to its main character.  Black Dragons isn’t even sure who its main character is. Dick Martin is the nearest thing to a hero, but an argument could equally be made that this story is about Coulombe as antihero.  The result is a film that’s trying to do too much and too little at the same time.  And of course, Black Dragons’ intentions are way less honourable than Hercules Unchained’s.  Hercules Unchained just wanted to capitalize on a popular film.  Black Dragons was capitalizing on a literal act of war!

A version of Black Dragons that tried to do justice to its silly premise would still have been a bad movie.  It would still be an old, grainy print with sound issues, and it would still be deeply racist (among many, many other things, there’s a particularly detestable bit where Coulombe insults the Japanese operatives by calling them ‘apes’) and probably still have that stunningly horrible line about how you have to marry a woman before you’re allowed to beat her.  But it would have been a much more interesting and entertaining bad movie than it ultimately ended up being.