#broke: horror actors covered in blood smoking

[random-mha-thoughts]

Worth (Todoroki x Reader)

Pairing: Todoroki x Reader

Genre: Angst/comfort

Request on my Wattpad: “I was wondering if you can do a Todoroki x wolf reader where the reader is depressed and bullied because of her quirk and her family knows about her wolf quirk and disowns like they think she a disgrace abuse her and doesn't want her and she feels so worthless she gets to a point where she feels not good enough and that she completely loses control of herself and turns into wolf or monster version wolf and Todorki he tries to help her I hope this makes sense and I hope it's ok”

Word count: 2,038

Tags:  @yuki-osaki​ @liviitehe​ @iamsoftsodonttoucheume-blog​ 

a/n: I’m not terribly happy with this, but it was a different kind of request, and I’m glad I did it.  If it’s cringey, I’m sorry, but I hope it meant something to someone.

Also even though the request indicated female pronouns, I didn’t really use any, so consider this gender neutral.  If anyone was wondering, I wanted the character to be kinda like Atsushi from Bungo Stray Dogs with the hair color and the personality, but also with wolf ears, so do with that info what you will.

I run through the dimly lit streets, tears streaking through my eyes as my heart pounds and chest heaves.  I don't know where I'm going, but I know I have to get out of this hell I call life.  Everything I thought I knew was a lie, I was the only person who didn't know it.

Tripping over my own feet, I finally tumble down a hill and land at the base of a tree, finally stopping my rabid movement, but it doesn't help my mind running five hundred miles a minute.  I turn in on myself, trembling as the darkness surrounds me, clawing at me the same way I grip my legs to my chest.

The image of my parents smiling together with my younger sister is the only thing I see behind my eyelids.  The last time I saw my family, there was nothing but turmoil and contempt.  All the times my sister pulled at my ears, locked me in a closet, and cut me up; all the times my parents punished me by having me sleep outside "like the dog I am" for the slightest misdemeanors.  They used to always argue, there was always screaming in my house.

My former house.

When I got into UA and we were forced to live in the dorms, my parents couldn't look happier.  In front of Aizawa and All Might, they contained the sheer joy they felt like the actors they are, and when my teachers left, they hurried to throw all of my things out the door.

"Finally, we can get rid of her!" they cheered.  I can only watch in horror as they pack all my stuff away before pulling me by the ear and setting me out next to my belongings.

"Don't ever come back!  From now on, you're on your own!"  That was the day I became an orphan.

My parents always had this vendetta against me because of my quirk.  They don't know where it came from, no one in our family even had one like me.  My dad used to always accuse my mom of having an affair with another man after she had me.  I don't know why he ever stayed, if he really believed that was true, but they both looked at me with contempt because of the quirk I shouldn't have.  And then I did the worst thing I could've done: I lost control one day.  When I was playing with my sister, I don't even remember why I got angry, but I bit her and scratched her.  The only person who loved me in that house suddenly became scared, and grew to hate me just as much.

School wasn't any better.  Everyone teased me for being the tamest wolf they've ever seen.

"I thought you were supposed to be scary, you're actually a huge wimp!"

"What kind of hero can you be when you can't even stop mumbling to yourself?"

The only reason I was so quiet is because I couldn't even raise my voice to assert myself in my house without being punished.  My parents were so scared of me losing control again that they put me down for getting the slightest bit aggravated, so I learned to just lay low and stay quiet.  And I couldn't stand up to my bullies for fear of being punished at home.

I'm so ashamed of my quirk.

Going to UA was a dream of mine.  It was my ticket to being able to use my quirk freely, so I can learn to control it to become a great hero.  But I quickly realized how weak I and useless I was in comparison to the other students.  Not being able to use my quirk at home took a toll on me, it was a miracle I even passed the entrance exam.

Today was particularly bad.  I didn't do well in quirk training today; I've been trying to partially manifest my quirk in some parts of my body to temporarily amplify my strength, but it's just not working.  Going for a walk in town to clear my head, I spotted my family out together, happy and smiling without me around.  And that was the straw that broke the camel's back.

I tremble to myself under the tree, pushing against the rough bark biting into my forehead.  They're so much better without me.  I was holding them back this entire time, I should've left years ago.

I'm a failure as a wolf.

What kind of wolf am I when I can't even use my quirk?

I'll never become a hero.

This is all because of my stupid quirk!

"Fuck everything!"  I don't even realize when I'd stood up and started punching the thick trunk.  Blood drips from my knuckles, my vision blurry from tears.  "You'll never be a hero!  You're a failure!  All you did was tear your family apart because of the stupid quirk you can't even use properly!  Idiot!  Stupid!  Weakling!  Dumbass!  Homewrecker!"

Fury rushes through me, the grayscale colors in front of me fuzzing together.  My arms grow in size suddenly, my punches boring a large hole the size of my head into the bark and my nails have grown.  Looking down, I'm farther off the ground, my clothes ripped to shreds on the grass, and teeth have grown into fangs.  The shadowed silhouette of a wolf figure on two legs presses against the ground behind me, cast by the light of the moon.  I scream, which sounds more like a gravelly growl into a howl.  My blood boils with all the anger built up over the past ten years, fueling this wolf form I've only taken twice in my entire life.

I catch a familiar scent in the distance, blood warming my body at the thought of fresh blood.

"(Y/n)!"  A voice screams from the top of the hill I rolled down as it runs towards me.  Once the owner closes in and notices what's going on, he stops short, gawking up at my form.

I snarl, crouching down as if getting ready to strike.  My rage blinds me, only guiding myself by the smell of my prey as the shadows blur.

"(Y/n)," he repeats, more carefully this time, "Calm down, it's me.  I won't harm you."

My fangs bare at the boy.  I'm ready to take my anger out on anyone, friend or foe.  I stalk towards him.  No one's my friend, I'm all alone.

He takes a step back.  "It's me, Todoroki!  Get ahold of yourself!"

Shoto?

I grit my fangs at myself, clawing at the ground to keep myself from attacking him despite the rage instinct telling me to attack.  It hurts to fight, but I need to protect him.  He can't turn out like her.

"I believe in you, (Y/n)!  I know you can fight it!"

Another piercing howl screeches out of my mouth, overwhelming my head with painfully conflicting emotions.

"Try to breathe."  Shoto's voice calms down.  "Relax and breathe."

I loosen my tightened jaw and fists, smoke starting to come out of my nose in grunts.  I imagine it being my anger escaping out of me.  Feeling myself deflate, despair sets back in.  I almost hurt him.  I crouch down as my body shrinks back to normal, hugging my knees to my chest.  I'm physically and mentally burnt out, too numb to feel my emotions but I know they're still there.

Shoto approaches me, slipping his oversized denim jacket over my naked form.  "Are you alright?  Are you hurt anywhere?"

"I should be asking you that," I sigh, too tired to get up.  The wind brushes my skin and I clutch the jacket closed, slipping my arms through the sleeves.  "I almost attacked you, I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, kneeling down in front of me.  "It's fine.  Why are you out here alone anyway?"

"I...saw something.  And I just took off running and I got here."  I rub my temples with my hand to ease an oncoming headache.  "Things just got overwhelming, but I'm okay now."

Shoto's mouth sets into a line.  "You're not okay.  You haven't turned into a wolf since you were eight, not even in training.  You must have been extremely distressed."

I shrink into myself.  "I don't want to talk about it..."

His bi-colored eyes rest on me, but he doesn't push the matter further.  "You look exhausted, let me carry you."  He squats down in front of me.  "Get on my back."

I'm happy he's much bigger than me, his jacket manages to cover everything down mid-thigh even while I'm on his back.  My arms hang loosely from his shoulders as he hikes up the hill and back to the main road.  It seems I ended up in a park near the town.  The streetlamps light the sidewalk, people staring at us as we walk by, but I'm too tired to care.

"Do you think it would calm you down to visit your parents?" Todoroki asks modestly.  "Or maybe you can go get some clothes-"

"My parents won't want to see me, let's just go back to school," I interject feebly.  A fresh set of tears threaten to fill my eyes.

He doesn't question it, continuing to walk as his gentle rocking pace persists.

"I'm surprised you aren't running away from me," I mumble as we reach the road going up the mountain to UA.  "I almost killed you."

"I know you wouldn't, I have faith in you."

I close my eyes, leaning against the side of his head.  "I'm so ashamed you had to see me like that.  I probably looked like a monster."

"Aside from the danger you posed in the moment, I think you looked...majestic."

My eyes fly open and I tense, waiting for him to elaborate.  How could he possibly think that about me?

"Your fur matches the gray of your hair, gleaming in the moonlight.  It looked soft enough to touch, all the way down to your tail.  But your ice blue eyes were my favorite.  Once you calmed down, they were practically glowing.  I'd like to see you like that more often, once you've trained enough of course."

My heart quickens at his compliments, heat rushing to my cheeks.  "Thank you, Sh-Shoto.  Though, I don't know when exactly I'll even get to that point."

He's silent for a moment, his steady rhythm continuing up the path.  "I've known you for a while, (Y/n), since we were younger.  I know I've never been much help with you and people teasing you for being weak, but I want you to know that you're not weak.  Obviously, you have a lot of emotional baggage with your family, and it's trickled into your own inner demons.  You should know that you're strong for dealing with it on your own all this time, but you should find family elsewhere.  I know you're stuck, but make your own family of people you care about, and - when you're ready - confide in them about your problems, they'll be there to help you.  I'm here to help you."

Tears silently roll down my cheek, but I don't want to wipe them and call attention to it, so I rest my chin on his shoulder.  "Do you think...my quirk is good, Shoto?"

"Of course I do," he answers without missing a beat.  "It's your's to use as you wish.  I know you'll use it to become a great hero someday."  His footsteps stop and he gently puts me down to face me.  "You're a good person, (Y/n).  Your quirk is an extension of yourself, and I know you'll use it for the benefit of others, even if you've probably made mistakes in the past."  His thumbs gently rub the wetness from my face.  "And nobody should tell you otherwise."

I lean into his touch, my eyes flying open when he presses his lips to my forehead.  His mismatched eyes bore into mine, glistening under the dim lights of the streetlamps and the moon.  My heart pounds at the amount of pure affection he's showering me with, it makes me want to cry even more.

"I'll be there to support you every step of the way."

#todoroki x reader #todoroki angst #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #todoroki shouto #gender neutral reader #comfort #todoroki imagine #todoroki scenario #request #mha todoroki #bnha todoroki #mha x reader #bnha x reader #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfiction

[thedeaditeslayer]

In Conversation with Bruce Campbell.

Below is a short interview with Bruce Campbell that mostly covers The Evil Dead.

The film tells the story of five friends who take a vacation to an isolated cabin in the woods, and find themselves besieged by demonic forces after playing a tape recording of incantations. One by one they are possessed, and Ash (Campbell) as the last man standing, must survive the gruesome mayhem that upset British conservatism and saw the film labelled as a notorious ‘video nasty.’

Campbell spoke about the slow burn success of the movie, the moral ambiguity of the American audience, and how horror shouldn’t be something you’d hear on the six o’clock news

FRIGHTFEST: What were your expectations for EVIL DEAD in the beginning, and could you have anticipated its eventual success?

BRUCE CAMPBELL: Let’s not forget the time frame – its success was a very slow evolution. It took longer to raise the money than we had intended. We went to a different state to film it thinking it was going to be warmer, when in fact Tennessee had one of its coldest winters, and the state we fled, Michigan, had one of its mildest. So right from the start it was all very troubled.

It took about three years to complete the movie and we could not even find a US distributor. We finally got a UK company to look at it, Palace Pictures, and they finally distributed it. We were not even successful in our own country first, which was a big shock to us. It had to happen in another country first and then New Line Cinema came on board after seeing the success in Europe.

The whole thing was very strange, long and drawn out. I think the rights from EVIL DEAD 2, which was seven years later was when we finally got the investors to break even. So it took a long time for EVIL DEAD to be successful - it was a slow-motion success.

FF: From the responses to the film in the UK and Europe compared to America, is there a difference between these audiences?

BC: Well cynically, one would say in the UK they were more at the centre of the fall of civilisation, so they would appreciate chaos and nightmarish imagery. So that would be one theory for it. I think European audiences are more forgiving, whereas American audiences are a little more morally ambiguous. European girls don’t have the moral ambiguousness about sleeping with some dude – like it’s not thought of as being slutty. If you want to sleep with a guy you sleep with him. In the States, it’s this whole dance of should I, or shouldn’t I? Is it right, is it wrong? It’s the same thing in the States of, “Well that woman’s being violated by a vine in the woods, should I leave, should I stay?” Whereas in the UK it was just an outrageous scene and they probably laughed their asses off. So it’s weird, and it’s different civilisations is really what it is.

FF: When you think about THE EVIL DEAD, do you remember moments from the film or do you recall the experiences behind the scenes?

BC: …All my memories are of the experience of filming it, and then the experience of seeing the finished film in a theatre for the first time. You asked a few questions ago what did you hope to get out of it? We just wanted to make a finished movie, and when the film was completed, it was booked into my childhood theatre where I went to see basically every movie from the 70s.

I saw it on a Saturday matinee and there were only about 30 people in the audience, but I thought, ‘Okay, this is it. We did it. We’re playing our movie on our hometown screen.’ The funny thing is everything was gravy afterwards. The goal was could we figure out a way to get our movie into this professional theatre with Hollywood movies, and that was the fun part. So our definition of success might be different than other people’s, and where a big box office would be definition for some movies, for us it was just the fact we pulled it off.

FF: After sitting there in your local theatre, there was then the moment of thinking about what’s next?

BC: Obviously the first EVIL DEAD allowed us to make another movie, and that was the key thing too. We were very concerned about failing with our first movie, and it was one of the reasons why we made a genre movie in the first place. Most of our amateur movies in high school were not horror movies. Most were action or comedy, occasionally a drama, but mostly they were just silly movies, and so we were concerned about our investors getting their money back. We thought, ‘Well let’s pick a genre, let’s pick horror because it’s cheap, you don’t need any name actors and they can be very successful.’

One of the reasons why it was a horror film in the first place, was not because any of us were great horror aficionados. I was a Three Stooges fan, Sam was a big fan of the Marx Brothers, and I don’t think Rob Tapert was into horror of any kind. It was an economic choice

FF: I recall Quentin Tarantino saying that if you want to write books, read books, and if you want to make films, watch films. But could we argue that there are benefits to being less schooled, that allows for a different approach?

BC: …Very often a filmmaker’s first movie is their best because it’s all hands on deck. They go for broke, they don’t know where the limit is and when they should say, “no.” As a result it can sometimes be very excessive and masturbatory, but I thought Sam did an amazing job with his very first movie.

There’s a sequence in there where Ash is going crazy, and Sam stayed up all night doing storyboards for this sequence where the camera was tilted at a 45 degree dutch angle for every shot. I remember at the time we had discussions about whether that was going to be visually acceptable – could the audience even watch what was happening because it was such an extreme way to film. Sam was saying, “Ash is going crazy, the audience should be going crazy too.” It’s actually one of the best sequences of the movie, and it’s one of the most contemporary sequences because it was ahead of its time.

FF: Ideally, you want the film to endure and to engage with a future audience, and to not be limited to the period in which it’s made. Would you agree with this sentiment?

BC: I think nobody knows until the film is out. In my experience a film that is easy to make, is usually hard to watch. And usually films that are very hard to make, are much easier to watch. There’s just something about it when you know that the filmmakers and the actors have really sweated for a project - generally it tends to be better. If you have enough time to sit around telling movie stories between shots, I don’t think you’re working hard enough.

FF: In recent years we’ve seen torture porn and the celebration of violence to disgust rather than to provoke fear. How do you think THE EVIL DEAD fits into a person’s concept of horror who is watching it for the first time in 2020, compared to the context of horror for the 80s audience?

BC: Horror always changes and maybe it’s generational. It used to be the slasher movie, which was some crazy guy released from an institution and with an axe type concept. Then torture porn came in for a while and I’m very happy to see that go, only because it doesn’t celebrate the skill of filmmaking. You put a guy’s dick in a vice and poke it with a stick for half an hour, that’s not really horror. It’s just something you might hear on the six o’clock news.

The real success of a horror movie is getting someone to feel the atmosphere, to feel dread and to actually jump out of their seat. To build to a climatic scare is something that takes an incredible amount of skill between the filmmakers and the actors, and everyone involved. I’m just a big fan of if you’re going to do a horror movie, then it should be scary, but there’s a lot of different ways that something can be scary.

THE SIXTH SENSE I feel is a very disturbing movie, but there’s very little blood and violence in the whole thing. The movie THE TENENT, which is one of my favourite horror movies by [Roman] Polanski, it’s all mental. It’s actually making you think you’re going crazy, and that’s a skill. I’m a big fan of any horror that takes skill.

FF: I always admired that beyond the blood and the violence, it feels like you’re trapped, and you’re slowing succumbing to the oppressive claustrophobia, the gruelling psychological and emotional experience.

BC: The situation was real enough that it permeated into all of us. It was a real abandoned cabin down about a half a mile of road in the middle of nowhere. There was no electricity and no running water. It actually had some creepy history - a woman had fled there during a lightning storm, when someone was murdered at the cabin. So it all helped us to feel the reality.

We were only supposed to film for six weeks and we filmed for twelve. As the film dragged on, people were injured, they left, equipment broke, and it all added up and started to feel real after a while [laughs].

It permeated the movie because back in those days, if Ash hears a sound and swings his shotgun and blows out a window, that’s what you did. You used a real shotgun and you just blew out the window. We just did stuff viscerally back then, but with ASH VS EVIL DEAD, it’s all digital at that point. There’s no real shotgun show, no smoke, that’s digital too, there’s no flash, that’s added later. So I’m glad we made at least one of these movies completely analogue, and just about as real as you’re going to get.

#Bruce Campbell #Fright Fest #interview #Evil Dead #The Evil Dead

[vaderscape]

I'm just saying. Somebody's gotta have a photo from the ER set of somebody covered in fake blood and smoking

#ella rambles #90s hospital hang ups #broke: horror actors covered in blood smoking #woke: med show actors covered in blood and smoking

[kronecker-delta]

Short Horror Fiction Piece

This is a bit of a quick write. Horror, weird horror, (cosmic horror hints?). Actually rather referential if you know your old stuff. Just done for fun and to work the kinks out I suppose.

Warnings include a lot of fairytale murder, some relatively tame death methods, some not tame not-death methods, and eternal unpleasantness of the nondescript variety.

---

Long ago stories were wilder, weirder than they are now. Tales could pull and tug at what had happened and make it hadn’t. All sorts of beasts laid low now by pens and with bloody ink dripping from the volumes where they were buried still ran rampant across the land. The mundane was made magical where they tread just as entire lands and peoples were swept away into legend, lost to recounted words and mourning songs as their tragedies became epics and their doom carved then into history’s annals.

Thus the myths and mayhem grew, one feeding the other in a cycle that seemed without end.

Till the great city rose across the sea. Two towers reached high into the sky of twin suns, casting an eternal daylight and longer shadows on this city of travelers and tales. For every people did cross its threshold and every voice did add to its nature. Countless stories were told and retold. And written down one and again. In every version, in a thousand volumes. Tiny paper cuts that bleed dry the great monsters and captured them upon a shelf. A weight of a billion books that crushed the nightmares of the mysterious dark till they were known now only seen in paragraphs by candlelight.

There was no city like it before or since. It was a place of magic, of true sorcerery. For what is captured, what is killed can be used, remade. Changed by edit and new interpretation. The beasts of the wild yesterday, the old gods of the world…

They now belonged to the people of the city. And by their strength the city did grow.

King to Queen and back again. Each one more knowledgeable, more masterful in the arts of their chained creations than the next. Till it came to pass that every form of magic, every witch that is and isn’t, and all wizards no matter how old; did find their power descend from this, the most honored of all places.

But for all their power, all their might… they still had limits.

All stories end.

And thus do all people.

So each King and each Queen did die.

For that was the nature of it. Eventually everything ends.

Or at least it should…

-

The King hated it. He hated the sight of the portraits, the great busts and endless statues that lined the hall. Generations, great men and women, now not but ash and dead words. How was it that he, he that could write the stars out of the sky, who could make beasts of men or men of beasts with but a word, for whom the suns never set and all loved and adored by will and right…

How could he too be destined to die? How could one who set the scripture and made the angels dance, the gods themselves determined by his orders, how could he be mortal?

It didn’t seem fair that all this power couldn’t change his own tale.

These were the thoughts that burdened him when the Traveler arrived. Nameless, taleless, their face a corpse pale paper thin mockery of a man’s, they came from across the sea. They asked to see the King, claiming to be a carrier of the last wisdoms. That which is not written or spoken, never read or heard. Silent secrets that yet lay beyond the city’s reach.

Preposterous.

The King showed the Traveler how absurd he was. He had a maid fall from out a window and become a flock of crows before she hit the ground. He made the tower’s peaks crest upon an ocean in the sky, the confused fish that jumped to high raining onto the city streets below. Yesterday became tomorrow and they met again ten times over.

Till the Traveler asked if he was done with such simple tricks.

The King, infuriated, had the Traveler put to death at once. The headless corpse tossed into the shadows of the city.

And then the Traveler arrived the next day.

His broken body thrown deep, to feed forgotten creatures not fit for names or light, that dwelled beneath the city.

Next came fire, hot enough to make the iron pages of the greatest volumes glow white hot.

Then they drowned him, legs tied together and weighted down with a great stone as he plummeted into the river.

Poison, a goblet full of it, burning the edges as it was forced down his throat.

Crushed, pressed flat under the weight of a thousand blank books.

And when he came back next the King, now far beyond anger, did take one of those blank books and pen a death beyond death. An annihilation of thought, of memory, of essence and form. Flesh to smoke and blood to ash. Nothing became less than nothing.

And the Traveler vanished to the sound of tearing. Not paper, not flesh, but something other that broke apart and made the emptiness seem greater than before.

Yet the next day he stood before the city gates again.

This time the King did not greet him with anger though. He took the Traveler to the highest room of the highest tower. He gestured out to the city and all that it contained.

‘Tell me,’ the King pleaded. ‘Tell me how you deny Death and all of this will be yours.’

The Traveler looked out upon the city, the wonders of wonders. And he whispered a secret to the King.

‘Stories end so that new ones can take their place. As it is for tales it is for people.’

‘If no more came to be than whatever is could never end.’

In that moment of revelation the King knew what he needed to do.

-

There was a great festival, a masquerade for all the citizens. An ancient celebration of the city and what it had become. They wore the masks of the slain monsters and imprisoned spirits. Drank deep as plays and puppets told and retold their victories to the entranced and the inebriated. New tellings were tried and quickly forgotten amidst the revelry.

That night, as the entire city drank and cheered, the King went among them. Masked and cloaked, followed by his ten loyal retainers. Things that might-have-been men or might-have-been women but were no more. Door to door and house to house the eleven went.

Ten swords more stained with crimson with each they visited. A spreading of silence, of voices cut short and stories severed.

Till all the city lay quiet at last. A celebration made of corpses, laid low in the theaters and the libraries. No more audience and no more actors.

Everything ground to a stop.

Before the door to the highest room of the highest tower the King turned to his servants. The ten took their blades and fell upon them. Another stain of crimson to mar their gore covered cloaks.

And it was done.

He stepped into the room, his resplendent robes now the only cloth of the city not red as blood. He looked out over the city, shadows growing longer and darker as the twin suns set. It was done now. He alone existed, and thus he alone could exist.

Would exist.

Forever.

He turned to the Traveler to share his gratitude. Only to make a startling discovery. To see in the Traveler’s face reflection of the mask he now wore. And with no characters, no writers, nor readers… the tale did indeed have no end. For he most certainly could not die.

No matter how hard he tried to kill himself.

And thus did the King come to live eternal.

Much to his regret.

#horror #my writing #short fiction #fantasy-horror