#kids in an enclosed space about to be murdered it felt like it fit

[cryptocism]

collection of art stuff from the Six-centric chapters of Frequency that i drew and then forgor

featuring princes in the tower, an ominous observation, Nathaniel n Six's new threads, and children

#my art #frequency fic #too many thads au #dc #the princes in the tower thing is a reference to the millais painting #kids in an enclosed space about to be murdered it felt like it fit #also i never posted six's new look and never described it in the fic lmao #but hes in his cropped jacket era

[archived-gtronpa-account]

cld yu do shiftr!shuichi nd norm sized ouma? hhsjsjx btw i. love yr writing sm...!!!!

Thank you sm hun I'm glad you enjoy my stuff! And you've got such good taste, the world needs more of shifter anxious detective hhehehehhhahaha

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Word count: 1700

Summary: No one else has, but Kokichi is sure he saw something strange about Saihara, and he won't rest until he's proven right or wrong about the oddity.

____

He wasn’t as surprised by sudden, uncharacteristic outburst as he was by the fact that Shuichi must have grown a good few inches while he’d been yelling.

Tense, Kokichi let his gaze wander over the class and his classmates. Most seemed discomforted by the usually meek detective’s mood shift, none seemed otherwise bothered by his changing height. Had they not noticed? Kokichi found that hard to believe. He knew to differentiate between his eyes tricking him and truth standing right in front of him; the truth of the moment was that he’d decided to sneak up on the emo boy from behind to scare him, and succeeded so well that instead of being loosely scolded like he’d expected, he’d gotten yelled at more harshly than a parent who’d caught their kid doing drugs. And while scared and angry, Shuichi Saihara had grown at least three inches in height and had been still getting taller.

Kokichi didn’t bother the boy more several days after the uncanny accident. He sat at the back of the classroom like a silent bystander, and watched. He’d heard the boy tell his pianist friend that conducting an investigation was easier when there was an answer to confirm rather than a question to answer. That much was true; it was much easier for Kokichi, since he knew, to catch the signs. Everything made more sense, from the way the ultimate detective hunched over when he felt nervous, to the way he’d straighten up when something made him smile or laugh, yet never seemed any taller or shorter despite the difference in stance.

If it was creepy at first, it became fascinating for the supreme leader to watch over his classmate and understand the logistics of his strange ability. The highlight of Kokichi’s day was to observe the others interact with Shuichi, predict what they would say and how the strange boy would react, and watch as his predictions came true and Shuichi shifted in posture and readjusted his hat; sometimes so large it fell over his eyes and sometimes too small to fit on top of his head. His changes in height seemed to follow his emotions more than his will, and the accident that had occurred between them a few days ago was a testament to that.

When his curiosity grew disproportionate, Kokichi decided to put his newly acquired knowledge to test and challenged himself to make the boy’s height change beyond any possible denial. Either he could slowly befriend Shuichi, make him feel safe and happy in his presence until he loosened up, or he could give him another good scare that would send his head flying to the ceiling. The choice was easily made.

It started slow. First, Kokichi sent a few ominous stares at the detective, which were only met with annoyance and stubborn ignorance. Then came the letters left on his desk; ‘I know your secret,’ ‘Isn’t your hat too small for your head?’ ‘Wanna watch "Honey I shrunk the kids" together?’

Shuichi didn’t come to class for two days after that. When he came back, more distant and avoidant than ever, Kokichi decided to drop the theatrics and catch him in the act as fast as he could before he slipped out of his fingers again.

By late afternoon, when most of their classmates had left, only he and Shuichi stayed in the classroom; the latter waiting for him to leave the room so he could leave safely after. When Kokichi didn’t move from his seat and made it obvious enough he wouldn’t budge, it was Shuichi who quickly gathered his belongings and slunk out of the classroom. Kokichi followed.

The hallways were dark and vacant. Four walls met neatly and threatened to enclose around the taller boy who kept his eyes downcast and pace quick. From behind, Kokichi’s footsteps echoed in the empty space. The tension was palpable and Kokichi relished the feeling, his heart pounding in his chest and blood roaring in his ears. The atmosphere had nothing to envy to a horror or thriller movie. Kokichi was starting to doubt his decision, good thing. If he felt so tense then Shuichi must have been on the verge of breaking out.

Like the most cliché thriller teen movie, Shuichi sped around a corner and tumbled in the boy’s bathroom. What a bad move, Kokichi could’ve almost thought the detective wanted to be caught like that. He seized the opportunity, and took his sweet time to follow after his prey.

Whistling a merry tune, Kokichi skipped over to the only closed stall. He knocked several times, following the rhythm of his tune for added annoyance, but Shuichi didn’t say a word. He could hear rapid breathing beyond the wooden door, and he could already see the tip of a familiar hat poking out from the top.

Kokichi bent down and peeked under the door. “Hey, Saihara? What shoe size do you wear?” He didn’t respond, didn’t move. “I don’t think even my clown shoes could fit you.”

“Kokichi, I don’t know why you’re following me, but please leave me alone.” There it was, the small, wavering voice, begging for him to keep the secret. A grin came over the leader’s face.

“Oh, fine, fine. I'll even do you a favor and tell our classmates how you can totally change height, and then they'll leave you alone, too.”

There was a sputter, the knob moved, and Kokichi backed away just in time for the door to be nearly ripped off. A second too late, and the smaller boy would have been knocked down.

Kokichi scooted back until his back was pressed against a wall, unable to control his fear for a split second. Shuichi emerged from hiding; his head met the ceiling with a thud. He was much taller than anticipated, at least four times as tall as himself. He looked like a real life giant; one that could snatch the smaller leader’s entire leg in a fist. One wrong move could cause the worst accident; one purposeful attack to him could send him to the hospital.

Shuichi gasped and stumbled a few steps back, cornering himself. His hands shot up to head level like some murderer caught red handed, face twisted in fear, and Kokichi was immediately able to push his own fright to the back of his mind, reminding himself of who exactly he was facing. Still, it was easy to remember what kind of person Shuichi was, but it was hard to keep in mind when he was still growing taller by the second.

“Please don’t-” he didn’t even look him in the eyes, instead keeping them shut as he curled in on himself and laced shaky hands over his head for protection. The ceiling whined and cracked, ready to give out at any moment under the inhumane force. Kokichi took a few steps away, staying safe and out of arm’s length of the too large boy. “Don’t freak out- Don’t tell anyone- Please!”

For a second, Kokichi felt like Bill, the lizard from Alice in wonderland. He had to get out; he didn’t want to end up like the lizard from Alice in wonderland.

Thankfully though, his emo Alice wasn’t blocking out the exit with his elbow, and Kokichi was able to slip out of the room in the next second without being stopped. Morbid curiosity kept his feet rooted right at the door, and he listened for the commotion. There was ragged breathing and feverish mumbles, the creaking and cracking got louder and louder till it reached a monstrous, terrifying peak, and Kokichi debated for several moments whether or not he should go back in. But when he was sure he would hear the ceiling fall off and his hand had already grasped and twisted the doorknob, ready to jump in action should he help the other boy get out, the commotion subsided, slow at first, until there was nothing but deafening silence lying beyond the door.

Kokichi’s grip remained tense on the knob. His entire plan had built up to that very moment. He’d made a grandiose mess, but he couldn’t leave without taking at least one last look at it; all villains looked back at their explosion in the climax.

Breath still hitched in his throat, Kokichi pushed the door open and poked his head in. Save for a few cracks on the walls and ceiling, the room looked fine. Shuichi didn’t look as fine; hunched over a sink and eyes glued to his shoes, breathing heavily and body trembling. Taunts easily came to Kokichi’s mind in dozens, but he didn’t have it in him to tease the messy-looking boy anymore at the moment. “Man…” He breathed out.

Shuichi’s eyes snapped to him, wide with fear for a second, until his gaze settled more firmly on the shorter boy’s face. Slowly, his face clenched up in a frown, the deathly pale tint to his cheeks disappeared under bloody crimson. He straightened up, shoulders tense, and breathed in.

“Get out!”

Kokichi didn’t flinch at the screech. That reaction was to be expected. Still, it wasn’t his fault Shuichi was so bad at pushing the reset button to his feelings; Kokichi had just done so at that very moment. Without another word and like a good villain owning up to his evil deed, Kokichi retreated and closed the door. Maybe he should have gone the anticlimactic route and let the boy alone.

#Danganronpa #ndrv3 #gtronpa #gt #Shuichi saihara #Kokichi ouma #sizeshifter!shuichi #shifter!shuichi #giant!shuichi #tiny!kokichi #saiouma #oumasai #request #writing #hi guys this gal again please hold your reqs off until im done with a couple more pretty please

[jovialjudgebonkalmond]

Inevitable, Ch 1

Aight. So, I got crotchety and decided to write a fic. Obvious disclaimer, I don’t own the characters or universe in which the story takes place - yes internet I am that old, thank you.

Summary: Monty is alive, in jail. A recounting of his experiences and memories and basically all those flashbacks we weren’t given in season 4 that I am butthurt about. It is AU in the sense that he is still alive whilst Clay & Co are attempting to frame him for Bryce’s murder. Obvious spoiler alerts if you haven’t seen season 4.

Pairings will be Monty x Winston mainly. So far this is all from Monty’s POV but that may change down the line.

Warnings include violence, sex, drug use, rape, murder, and basically everything graphic and bad you can imagine. Will absolutely contain smut. Oh, and swearing. Yay, debauchery. 

Word Count: 2,963

Another warning: I haven’t written fanfiction for like...15 years guys. Go easy on me. Also, please excuse the shitty username. I didn’t pick it and I am far too lazy to change it.

Another another warning: This is from Monty’s point of view. Clearly he didn’t view his actions with the totality of how devastatingly monsterous they were. I condemn his actions, he’s a rapist and deserved jail time. As we saw in s3 and in snippets of s4 he didn’t share that point of view. I think Monty is a dynamic character that’s interesting and I relate a lot to his back story. That’s why I was motivated to write this.

The air was thick, heavy, and moist. It had that stench of too many bodies crammed into an enclosed space, like the end of the night at a house party and you're still sober and all you can smell is stale sweat and the old farts that people pretend they aren't sneaking out when they're grinding on each other.

Not that I have much experience with being the sober one at the end of the night.

Montgomery de la Cruz kept his jaw clenched and shoulders squared as he walked to the dining hall. As he passed other men, all dressed in the same ugly orange jumpsuits, he made brief eye contact. Walking with your eyes down here was a sign of weakness and he had a target on his back from the moment he arrived. His shoulders, back, and ribs ached with his movements. It hadn't taken the other inmates long to get acquainted with him, a matter of hours really. The urge to hunch his shoulders and put a hand to stable his broken ribs was overwhelming, and fighting it made the vein in his neck throb annoyingly in cadence with his pulse and footsteps.

  White, black, brown, gnarled, wrinkled, scarred, baby-faced youth, tattooed or not.... Monty silently made an inventory of their faces and features. One way or another, they were all just fucking assholes waiting for their opportunity. It was baffling just how much it reminded him of high school. The dining hall even had the same layout as a cafeteria, the same dull drone of a few hundred pricks all talking at once. He scanned his I.D. and settled into the end of the meal tray line, leaving an arm's length of room between himself and the back of the inmate ahead of him. He was a slight, wiry Latino with a snake tattooed from his shoulders up his neck. Only moderately safer than lining up behind someone else. Race dictated almost everything here.

But his charges changed the rules. Sexually assaulting a minor carried out its own price in jail. He wasn't even safe within his own demographic. 

Which was fucking bullshit anyway. Tyler was basically the same age and it wasn't fucking sexual assault for fuck's sake.

Not that anyone here gave a fuck.

Oh, and then there were the murder charges. Fucking Clay Jensen. He grabbed the plastic tray from the stack. It was the same ugly beige that the cement walls were painted. There were slits for windows close to the ceiling like a low-rent basement suite in the wrong part of town, with that cage wire in-between the panes of glass. So small even a tiny bitch like Standall wouldn't fit through them. It was incredible how much the human body craved the fresh air and cool breeze of an open window the moment you realize you may never feel it on your skin again.

Lunch was by far the best meal of the day. The food wasn't...terrible. Today it was plain lettuce chopped up as a 'salad', sliced ham on white Wonder Bread, and some kind of from the bag frozen brown slop passed off as soup.  The silver lining was the butterscotch pudding. It reminded him of the milk cake his mom used to make him on his birthday, sort of. He stopped at each station and watched the inmates who worked the kitchen plop the items on his tray. The kitchen work was reserved for the favourites, for the most part. After all, what else are you gonna do on the outside with a record?

He looked for an empty table and dropped his tray on it with a soft clacking of plastic on poured concrete. The tables and chairs were rows of picnic style benches made out of concrete and steel, bolted into the concrete floor. They were hard, cold, and uncomfortable just like everything else in this fuckin' place. He supposed that was the point. Everyone here was just in the grown-up version of a time out corner... from life, possibly for life. He sat down, the cold, hard seat digging into the bones in his ass.

It was unnerving, intimidating... and so terrifying he had been breathless since the moment he arrived. Like a white hot fist was clenched across his whole chest, suffocating him with the weight of his fucking mistakes. So many fucking mistakes. It made his head spin like he was living in some kind of alternate reality or a fucking nightmare. Although, if he was honest...he always knew it would end up like this. Especially without Bryce around to clean up his fucking mess this time.

The hot night air whipped his face as he pressed on the gas pedal, the stars flashing by above him as he sped down the empty road. Justin reached between them and turned the volume up, blasting the music so he felt it pumping through himself like a weird tachycardia.

"I fucking love this song." He yelled, sparking up a joint. He took a few puffs off of it to get it started before passing it over. When he exhaled the air around them swilled with the familiar skunky aroma. Monty laughed, guiding the old Jeep with one hand and reaching for the joint with the other.

"Of course you do, its a shitty fucking song." he chuckled, inhaling in a slow pull. It burned at the back of his throat. He held it in for a few seconds before exhaling and shaking his head and passing it back.

"That's cheap shit."

"Well yeah, I'm not fucking Bryce Walker." Justin laughed, the streetlights illuminating his black eye. His mother had a new asshole boyfriend who picked tonight to use Justin as a human punching bag...and well that's what brothers were for. It's not like Monty had anything better to do, anyway. He flipped his signal to turn right and pulled into the parking lot by the rocky beach. They could throw rocks and sticks into the water, maybe set some shit on fire and get shitfaced. Justin took another hit off the joint and pinched the end out with his fingertips, rubbing the ash into his skin like a salve.

"Neither am I, man, neither am I..." he muttered. Justin and Monty weren't the most unlikely of friends. Justin was a bit worse off than him in the family department, sort of. But Bryce Walker? Sometimes he wondered if not for the team what was the thread that held them together.

"Fucking Bryce." Justin muttered as Monty cut the engine. The silence without the music was sudden and deafening. "Of course he's out of town with his dad on vacation."

"Probably getting laid." Monty added, laughing. Justin laughed too. Justin Foley was like...allergic to being alone. The fuckin' guy had kicked puppy written all over his face, always needing a lap to curl up in...and in the absence of that there was always a powder or a needle to get him through til the next adoption. But he was such a drag and a honest to god pain in the ass on the field when he was in withdrawal or detoxing. So. Monty was here to pick up the pieces before it jeopardized the team. And he didn't mind. It was better than being at home...

He pulled the keys out and stepped out. The California summer air meant he didn't need the doors or the top on the Jeep and he enjoyed the freedom. Justin matched his footsteps as they silently walked on to the rocky beach. His trademarked puppy dog eyes were mournfully eyeing the skyline where it met the ocean. Monty casually reached down and picked up a rock, watching it skip across the waves when he tossed it. Justin stuffed his hands in the pockets of his varsity jacket.

"Sometimes I wonder why he even fuckin' bothers with a couple of fuck ups like us." He muttered, casting his eyes down.

So that's what we're gonna do, Monty thought, we're gonna mope... fuck that.

"Now Justy, imagine how fucking boring his life would be without us. Just an endless string of bitches to rail and expensive scotch." He skipped another rock and glanced over, leaned in and gently knocked his shoulder into Justin's, knocking the other boy off balance. Justin laughed and locked eyes with Monty for a moment.

"I guess you're right about that yeah." he laughed. It was a small, unsure laugh at first but Monty saw the sorrow break a bit in his eyes. He was good at noticing these subtle things, noticing things was often what saved his ass. If you knew to watch when someone's eyes changed, or the way their muscles tensed and moved you could easily predict what they were going to do. Quite often this was what was between him and a clenched fist to his face.

Monty and Justin had similarities, Monty could admit that, but where Justin pulled inward and consumed himself, brought himself down, Monty hardened and clenched his fist right back at the world.

If he was honest, he thought Foley was weak. But that's what brothers are for, they protect each other. The strong look out for the weak, especially in their weakest moments.

"I mean, who are we kidding," Justin said, "He's going to go off to like Stanford or Princeton or something..." He leaned down and picked up a rock, running his fingers over the smooth, cold surface.

"You couldn't pay me to go to one of those stuffy ass places anyway." Monty countered, kicking at some of the rocks by his feet, scuffing a small trench into the sand beneath. "I get sick just thinking about it."

"Yeah." Justin agreed, "I just... all these fuckin' rich kids..."

"Yeah. And their tight pants and cardigans." Monty snorted, watching Justin's face break into another smile.

"Fucking cardigan's. Like a fucking grandpa."

"I'm not going to live long enough to get old, so I can't relate." Monty said loudly, almost like forced bravado. He liked being obnoxious, to smile out of spite.

"Yeah," Justin laughed, "You're gonna die in prison with a fuckin' shiv between your ribs."

Monty laughed, watching Justin release his rock with a flick of his wrist. It skipped once over the glassy surface before falling into its inky black depths. 

"And you're gonna die with a fuckin' needle in your arm...or-" His face cracked into a grin.

"Maybe you'll get the fuckin hiv."

Justin laughed loudly and gave Monty a shove.

"It's H-I-V,  dumbass."

"Yeah, but hiv rhymes with shiv. We'll both get ivved." He crowed proudly, shoving Justin back lightly with both his hands. Justin took a half-hearted swing at him, but he dodged it easily and picked up a piece of driftwood as he ran by, swinging around and walloping the other boy in the ass. Justin's legs buckled and he took a few steps, laughing and chucking  handful of small rocks at him. They pinged over his broad chest like hail on a shitty day.

"Fuck you, Monty!"

"Ohh wouldn't you like to though, Justy." Monty countered, turning around and dropping his pants off his cheeks. He bent over and smacked his own ass, "I'm waiting!" He laughed, his face breaking into a slightly demented grin. He felt the stinging welt of a stick being whipped across his bare skin and jumped, yanking his pants back up. He yelped, turning around, the grin not leaving his face.

"Fuck no, you'd like it too much. Perv." Justin pointed the stick at him. Monty picked up the stick he had dropped before and aimed for Justin's thigh, but Justin blocked it and whacked Monty again, this time in his side. They continued to chase, smack, and poke at each other, delighting in the mutual torment.

"Fuck you're relentless." Justin declared in defeat, dropping his stick with a laugh and holding his hands up with surrender. He was panting, his pasty skin clammy in the moonlight.

"It's one of my more endearing qualities." Monty said with a devilish grin as he bowed. "That and my abs."

"Fuck your 'roid ass abs." Justin half wheezed. "Think Bryce will read our obituaries from his penthouse drinking his fucking scotch?"

"Nah man," Monty laughed with a shake of his head, "They don't write obituaries for shitheads like us."

Monty was yanked out of his drifting memories when another man sat across from him with a thump that rattled the table. The boy stared at the man for a moment, one triangular quarter of his shitty dry sandwich poised in his hand as he was about to take a bite. He bit down and chewed, watching the intruder with feigned disinterest. He was good at this. Putting on a front.

Until he couldn't anymore, that is. Until the mask slipped and revealed the scared, desperate pile of shit inside.

The man was at least six feet tall, three-and-some hundred pounds, white as mayonnaise with a big ol' swastika on his bicep. He had an earring in one ear and some scars down his face, chest, and arms. Scratches. Wounds made from desperate, terrified women in self defense. He was bald as a gummy walnut, his scalp weirdly wrinkled and beginning to be dotted with age spots. He was at least mid-fifties, Monty figured. Total skinhead. Asshole. Word of mouth said his rap sheet was a few miles long, most recently connected to a decent string of raped and murdered girls and women. Almost all of them were involved in the sex trade, women or girls of colour. He was a truck driver who used his profession as a tool to evade the police, making it hard to pin him down because he changed locations across different jurisdictions. The varied age and ethnicities of his victims didn't help the police either. Some were as young as 12 years old, and others as old as mid 40's. He, too, was awaiting sentencing. Obviously whatever happened, he'd end up in a maximum state prison.

Couldn't fit the stereotype more if he tried, Monty thought, disgusted.

That's the shit end of the stick awaiting sentencing in a county jail. You get petty crooks like Tim Pozzy who likely won't even get real time, and then assholes like this behemoth pile of trash.

Monty chewed his food, watching silently as the neonazi asshole reached across the table and took his pudding. His fingers were fat, like pale bloated sausages. He opened it, maintaining eye contact with Monty. His eyes were an icy blue, and they seemed devoid of anything. They say the eyes are the window to the soul... and there was nothing there. It sent a shiver down the 18 year old's spine and made the hair on the back of his neck tickle. He smiled, showing that he was clearly in desperate need of dental care. He didn't have many teeth left, and the ones that remained were brownish-greyish nubs of rot. Monty thanked whatever god or demon that might be listening that he couldn't smell this guy's breath. It just looked like it would inevitably stink. The whole time he felt the old familiar build up, the inevitable time bomb tick, tick, ticking through his veins. His blood sounded like thunder in his ears.

How is it that I fuck with Ty-ty, just some fucking hazing, not a big deal...and I get labelled a pedophile and a rapist - a fucking rapist for fuck's sake - and this guy...this guy basically runs this place...

It's not like he wanted to fuck Tyler. That's disgusting. He wanted to hurt him, and he could admit that was wrong. Sure. But the little creep had ruined his life, and for that he had to pay. It was simple.

This asshole, though, was the real pedophile. The only difference was Monty had the audacity to target a white male, the untouchable. And this guy stuck to the easily forgotten targets.

He stuck out a surprisingly short, wide, tongue that looked like it was covered in herpes lesions and licked the foiled plastic lid of the pudding. Monty felt it come alive inside of him, blinding and electric. White hot rage boiled through his veins, exploding in his head and lighting every muscle in his body so that he had to move or it would consume him. He couldn't have stopped himself if he had wanted to try, and he didn't bother with the wasted effort.

In a swift, smooth motion he grabbed his lunch tray with his free hand and backhanded the other man up the jaw with it and stood. Before the asshole had time to react, he used his other hand to grip the top of his head - ham sandwich and all, and slam his face into the concrete table and the pudding. Blood and pudding spurted in all directions like a moneyshot of rage jizz and he felt relief hearing the echoing crack of the larger man's skull. He didn't even have time to bask in the afterglow of his violence before he felt the familiar thud of knuckles to the bottom left of his jaw, the blow eliciting a sickening pop and sending him reeling out of control. He stumbled, losing his balance as vision went static like a television without a connection. He tasted the all too familiar coppery flavour of blood filling his mouth. He spat and staggered and threw a blind fist out, feeling it connect to something, but what he wasn't sure. The immediate agony and crack told him it was in fact the fucking table and he probably broke some fingers. That's when he took a second, devastating blow to his head and everything went black.

#13rw #fanfic #monty de la cruz #montgomery de la cruz #monty x winston #winston x monty #13rw fanfiction

[nightmareonfilmstreet]

Dad-Bods and 6-Packs: The 14 Dreamiest Dads of Horror

Father’s Day is a day to let Dad know we care about him just as much as he cares about us. It is on this day that we celebrate the men who have been there to teach us, those that have guided us, protected us, and … made us swoon.

I know you’re thinking this is wrong, wrong, wrong and anyone who keeps tabs on the hot dads of others must have some sort of ‘daddy-issue’ of her own, but I can assure you I do not and this is all sorts of right if you can recognize a good looking man when you see one.

This is a list of  dad crushes and appreciated fathers of a very specific focus, leaving out the neighbors’ husbands and my friends’ dads (much to their relief). What we’re looking at here are the dads and father figures of the horror genre, an archetype that has since evolved by way of appearance and family involvement. Modern generations have appropriated the term ‘daddy’, once used to solely label our own fathers while we were children, to now refer to other attractive, older, men of all kinds including those with fit, rock hard abs to the worship of the ‘dad-bod’ in all its glory. We might as well enjoy the gratuity these casting directors have thrown at us and let our insides fill with butterflies before the gore and jump scares become a distraction.

Let’s take a taboo look at the dreamiest  daddies of horror, in every sense of the term you’d like to apply:

  Jesse Hellman in The Devil’s Candy

What line do I need to get in to meet a man that has great taste in music, has mad artistic skills, and has a super ripped body? While watching The Devil’s Candy, I kept thinking about how good of a dad Ethan Embry’s Jesse Hellman is to his daughter as he encourages her to be a confident individual, and how much I wanted to join their family. It’s clear to anyone with eyes that Ethan Embry has gone from playing the hopeless, hapless, friendzone inhabitant to the role of a bad-ass, hard core, head-banging king. His portrayal of Jesse Hellman has redefined the typical ‘dad’ image, bringing on a new wave of ‘cool dads’ to the horror genre. So metal. So devilishly hot.

The Devil’s Candy? More like The Eye Candy, am I right?

(Thanks, Keith!)

  Leo Barnes in The Purge Anarchy

I know how the typical saying goes, but in my experience I believe revenge is a dish best served piping hot and I consider Frank Grillo’s Sergeant Leo Barnes to raise mercury when it comes to that. The vengeful father is hellbent on taking full opportunity of murdering the man responsible for his young son’s death the night of the annual Purge, but he also has a tender heart for the innocent and helps them live through the night no matter the cost. Under that black trench coat, armored car, and dark smouldering look, Leo is a protective softie at heart. Major daddy vibes!

Leo, well, Grillo, gets bonus points for having great hair too.

  Michael Hamilton in The Cloverfield Paradox

Quite possibly the only one on this list that makes all of the right decisions while also being the most compassionate is Michael Hamilton (Roger Davies), husband to engineer Ava Hamilton. Ava leaves her husband back on Earth to board the orbiting Cloverfield Station  in hopes of saving the planet from a debilitating energy crisis. Aside from allowing her to go without so much as a plea, he is a real man who supports his wife’s intelligence, decisions, and abilities. Michael is the man running into the terrible unknown attack to offer his professional assistance when a more immediate crisis occurs. We learn that crisis is New York City being deconstructed by one of our favorite movie monsters, Clover. His care for a stranded little girl and sincere love for his wife stuck in space is a recipe for not only a good former dad, but also for a good man.

Plus… look at those biceps and appled cheek bones! I don’t know which I want to grab first. The Cloverfield Paradox lacked in a lot of areas, mostly in Michael Hamilton screen time.

  George Lutz in The Amityville Horror (2005)

Whether you’re attracted to men or not, I think everyone can back me up when I say Ryan Reynolds as George Lutz in the 2005 remake of The Amityville Horror is one of the hottest dads in cinema. That body of his would have me burning through firewood in hopes he’d go outside to chop some more so often that the ghosts would flee on their own from smoke inhalation quicker than the Lutz’s did. Who needs a priest?

Why the kids have such negative feelings about him becoming their stepdad is beyond me. I’d be willing, eagerly, to take up residency with George at the Amityville house, oozing walls and all.

  Lee Abbott in A Quiet Place

Anyone into the strong, silent type? If existing with John Krasinski’s Lee Abbott means a vow of silence, then consider me forever on ‘mute’. I think what makes Lee so appealing to viewers of this year’s breakout films, A Quiet Place, is the familiarity and comfort most of us have with him as loveable Jim of The Office, but Krasinski has since matured in both his career and his look. Lee is intelligent, bold, and, like Jim, a bit of a romantic. Silent swoon!

Say goodbye to the days of Krasinski playing the cute, sweet, funny co-worker and hello to the crafty, well-built, and handsomely bearded leading man we’d gladly sit tight in silence through the apocalypse for. Monopoly, anyone?

  Will in The Invitation

Speaking of quiet types, Logan Marshall-Green as the paranoid dinner guest Will in Karen Kusama’s The Invitation is one smoking brooder. Green has recently made a bit of a name for himself in the horror community with starring roles in M. Night Shyamalan’s thriller Devil and Leigh Whannell’s super charged Upgrade, but it’s this particular serious role of a grieving father suspicious of his ex-wife’s dinner party motives that has really drawn our attention. His tortured performance full of sizzling glances and lingering stares is intriguing and, despite the emotional pain he’s feeling over the loss of his son, is unfortunately quite sexy. Who wouldn’t want to haveWill sulking in their lap while running fingers through those long locks?

There is no mystery behind it, Will is the white hot flame of this slow burn.

  John Form in Annabelle

Have you ever met a man so smart, yet his common sense skills are a little… off? Dr. John Form is one of those guys. He is a clean cut, all American, Boy Scout of a man who is focused on achieving his goals and being enclosed within a white picket fence with his wife and growing family.

If you dig pleated pants, sweater vests, and having a hot dinner ready on the table for your husband when he arrives home from work (despite an obvious household haunting) then John is the ideal daddy. His pearly white smile and perfectly parted hair makes it a little easier to forgive him for ignorantly gifting his pregnant wife with a deadly, obviously creepy, conduit doll in Annabelle. It’s the thought that counts so we’ll gladly accept the sweet stupid sting from this handsome WASP.

  Johnathan Shannon in Wish Upon

Theres a clever saying people use down here in the south that applies well to Ryan Phillippe’s character Johnathan Shannon, in Wish Upon. It is used most commonly when someone wants to “politely” pity you without sounding mean: Bless is heart.

The role is not exactly ground-breaking front neither is the film, but it is Ryan Phillippe so naturally some part of you is going to react to his level of bad boy charm.

Normally, a man that can be found rummaging through the town’s trash cans as an all-day hobby is not truly an appealing quality I seek out in a man, but I’d be willing to make an exception here.

Imagine if he was your dad, or better yet, imagine if he was your friend’s dad? I knew exactly how Barb (Shannon Pursor who plays Phillippe’s daughter’s friend, but she will always be Barb) felt when she stared at him, mouth agape, while he pumped out some sizzling tunes from his saxophone. Oh yeah, did I mention he is a jazz musician? It’s not necessary for him to utter any of the poorly written lines for us to appreciate him for exactly what he is: a hot, dumpster diving, saxophone playing, widowed hoarder.

Yeah… I’d still go for him.

  Tom Witzky in Stir of Echoes

Kevin Bacon’s Tom Witzky is the hot, young dad on the block in Stir of Echoes. Though him and his wife have been forced from the party scene to settle in the more suburban part of town to raise their son, Tom still knows how to have a good time. He too is a modern, sexy rocker dad who appreciates a snug t-shirt and a good vinyl. I’d be okay with him destroying the backyard in search of a random dead girl’s body if it meant he’d do it shirtless each time.

I don’t want to objectify Bacon too much as he is a pretty talented actor, he’s just never really been my cup of tea aside from this film. Tom Witzky and his 90’s post-grunge demeanor must have me hypnotized…

  Seok-Woo in Train to Busan

Does anyone love a professionally dressed man in a tailored suit covered in sweat and blood as much as I do?

Workaholic Seok-Woo in Yeon-Sang ho’s epic South Korean zombie thriller Train to Busan might start off as an absent minded, selfish man trapped in the middle of a horrendous undead outbreak with his young daughter, but it’s his protective and ultimately selfless decisions that redeem him as a character and as a father. He is an extremely good looking and confident man that just needed a reality check. Being aware of the errors of his ways only makes him that much more attractive. If I was going to be trapped on a train I wouldn’t mind the uncomfortable claustrophobia nor the impending doom-by-zombies-masses if it meant he’d be close to me!

Sacrifice is always hot and always gets a guy extra points in this genre.

  Dr. Steven Murphy in The Killing Of a Sacred Deer

I briefly hesitated a little when adding Colin Farrell’s odd character from the divisive The Killing of A Sacred Deer mostly because of two reasons: 1. Out of all the dads on this list and in general, he’s pretty much the worst as far as decision making and being selfish and 2. His intimacy predelicition towards getting off on his wife acting like a corpse was decidedly a huge turn-off to me… or was it?

Thanks to some sage reasoning from a trusted fellow Contributor (Thanks, Tyler!), Dr. Steven Murphy made this list by the scrape of a scalpel. His intimacy kinks are not to be judged as he is, on the outside, hot all over. You know what they say about what goes on behind closed doors.

The thick handsome beard, hairy chest, kind eyes, the accent, and the fact that all of those are attached to Collin Farrell was enough to win me over (combined with a palette cleansing viewing of Sophia’s Coppola’s The Beguiled).

As much as I hate to admit, this cardiovascular surgeon did indeed get my heart pumping whether he liked that or not.

  Jim Hopper in Stranger Things

While Chief Jim Hopper is adult mourning the loss of his daughter at the start of Stranger Things, he is a reborn daddy the minute he takes in Eleven come the second season. Their relationship is absolutely adorable and pulls on our heartstrings in the best of ways.

But that’s not why Jim makes this list.

David Harbour, specifically as Hopper, has one of the best dad-bods in horror and science-fiction alike. I like 6-pack abs just as much as the next girl, but hugging up on a dad-bod like his is my heart’s truest desire. Hopper is a good looking testament to attractive beer guts everywhere and proves that dad-bod is THE real deal.

Average is sexy, so is a uniform. We totally dig it, guys.

  Adam Maitland in Beetlejuice

Though considerably a stretch, this suggested from another fellow Contributor (Thanks, Jessica!) couldn’t go unnoticed. Adam Maitland is not a father in Beetlejuice, but rather he acts like a dad to our favorite outsider, Lydia, and is certainly more of a father figure to her than her own. Adam’s willingness to step up to the plate when so many real fathers bow out, gives him enough dad credit to be considered for the list.

What really qualifies Alec Baldwin’s early role is that Adam is living and breathing (sort of) Dad-style incarnate. The khakis, the glasses, the belt, the plaid, the modeling hobby. Adam is all dad from the inside out without actually being one and for some, I’m assuming, psychologically explainable reason we find him to be completely crush-worthy, ironically hitting us right in our amorous feelings.

Adam is the one dad on this list we can safely fantasize about only because he is not a dad by law nor by biology.

He can haunt my house anytime.

  Lucifer in Rosemary’s Baby

As one of our brilliant Nightmare on Film Street hosts pointed out, I really can’t complete this list without including the biggest, baddest, and most physically hottest dad in all of horror and cinema, the devil himself (Thanks, Kim!).

He’s actually fiery and steamy, being the King of Hell and all, and is, biologically, father to the otherworldly offspring he’s forced upon poor Rosemary in Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby. He may not be a pleasant looker, unless your into horns, hoofs, and a tail, but I’m gonna label him the ‘wild card’ of this list because all groups need one. Looks are subjective, so the criteria for being a ‘hot dad’ of horror is not necessarily reliant on outer appearance alone.

Lucifer is the hottest, literally.

  There you have it, a sizzling handful of dreamy dads to make your Father’s Day either super uncomfortable or a lot more enjoyable. Horror is getting hotter and hotter every day and the cast lists for the roles of daddies, I mean, fathers is setting off smoke alarms in all directions. If we have to face flesh-eating zombies, tormenting demons, blood hungry murderers, invading creatures, and the inevitable end of the world why not sit back, embrace the modern times, and enjoy the view?

Happy Father’s Day to all you dads out there! You’re all automatic additions to this list for being horror fans to begin with.

  The post Dad-Bods and 6-Packs: The 14 Dreamiest Dads of Horror appeared first on Nightmare on Film Street - Horror Movie Podcast, News and Reviews.

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[mysteryshelf]

AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT - Tracee de Hahn

Welcome to

THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF by Partners in Crime Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

Author Bio:

Tracee de Hahn is author of the Agnes Lüthi mysteries, which were inspired by her years living in Switzerland. Prior to writing full time she practiced architecture and was head of university alumni relations at a major west coast university. Born in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, Tracee lived most of her life in Kentucky. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime and International Thriller Writers. Currently she and her husband live in southwest Virginia with their Jack Russell Terriers.

Catch Up With Our Author On traceedehahn.com, Goodreads: Tracee de Hahn, Twitter: @LuthiMysteries, & Facebook: TraceedeHahnWriter!

Find out about Tracee’s latest book

A Well-Timed Murder

on Tour March 1-31, 2018

About the Book:

“A true page turner…I found the plot fascinating, and de Hahn builds the tension and suspense perfectly to a satisfying conclusion. I was left wanting to read more about Agnes, and I am looking forward to her next adventure “– Charles Todd on Swiss Vendetta

Swiss-American police officer Agnes Lüthi is on leave in Lausanne, Switzerland, recovering from injuries she sustained in her last case, when an old colleague invites her to the world’s premier watch and jewelry trade show at the grand Messe Basel Exhibition Hall. Little does Agnes know, another friend of hers, Julien Vallotton, is at the same trade show—and he’s looking for Agnes. Julien Vallotton was friends with Guy Chavanon, a master of one of Switzerland’s oldest arts: watchmaking. Chavanon died a week ago, and his daughter doesn’t believe his death was accidental. Shortly before he died, Chavanon boasted that he’d discovered a new technique that would revolutionize the watchmaking industry, and she believes he may have been killed for it. Reluctantly, Agnes agrees to investigate his death. But the world of Swiss watchmaking is guarded and secretive, and before she realizes it, Agnes may be walking straight into the path of a killer.

Tracee de Hahn’s mystery, A Well-Timed Murder, is another magnetic mystery that will engross readers from the opening page to the stunning conclusion.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery Published by: St. Martin’s / Minotaur Publication Date: February 6th 2018 Number of Pages: 340 ISBN: 1250110017 (ISBN13: 9781250110015) Series: Agnes Luthi Mysteries #2 Click these links to see A Well-Timed Murder on: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Indiebound | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

There was a crowd but none of them mattered. Agnes Lüthi had eyes for only one man, the one she’d nicknamed the Roach. The one she’d only dreamt of finding in Switzerland.

She moved quickly despite her injured leg, focused on her destination, closing her umbrella when she reached the high canopy. A chain of busses discharged passengers in front of the Messe Basel Exhibition Halles, and they flowed past her toward the doors as if the world’s premier watch and jewelry show might sell out of goods if they dallied. She had never before been to Baselworld, but from the look of the well-dressed crowd judged it was a fitting place to find this particular man.

She was within grasping distance of a door handle when Marcel Aubry appeared from behind a kiosk. He was cloaked in a long, belted raincoat and had a finger pressed to his ear, listening. Before she could speak, he grasped her wrist with his free hand, and pulled her behind the advertising stand, out of sight of the glass front of the lobby.

“Slight change of plan,” Aubry said, his voice low and hurried. “The Roach is headed this way.” He frowned, listening to the voices in his earpiece.

Agnes moved closer to Aubry; it felt like stepping into a shadow. He was a big man, not exactly fat, but big enough to make her feel slim. She could hear the scratch of a voice broadcast from his earpiece, but not the words. Her pulse quickened. They’d worked together for years in financial crimes. Despite that, she’d never seen him run a field operation. This was an important arrest for him, one he’d not leave to others. She was thrilled to be included.

“Did you ever think you’d see us catch him?” Aubry said to her, still focused on the chatter in his ear. “No, and I don’t believe it yet today.” She’d had the Roach in her grasp three times, only to have him scurry back into a crack at the last moment. All of Europe and half of Asia was looking for him. In addition to Swiss francs, he’d stolen millions of euros, yen, dollars, and pounds—all electronically. Despite his methods, she’d always believed that he occasionally appeared in person at a place he’d targeted. Now it looked as if her suspicions were proving true.

“This time he’s definitely here,” said Aubry. “Problem is, the place is littered with exits and there’s a record crowd. Feels like half the world’s come to Baselworld. Good for the economy, bad for us, since on-site security doesn’t want a fuss disturbing their clientele.” He nodded. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here to see it.”

“I was nearby when you called. I left my mother-in-law at the Beyeler Museum like a bride at the altar. She may not forgive me.” Agnes watched the crowd stream into the building, oblivious of the police operation. Aubry had orchestrated a smooth intervention despite having to move quickly.

“Your call was the best news I’ve had in weeks,” she added. “A few days ago one of my kids accused me of missing the criminals.”

Vincent – her oldest – had phrased it more bluntly: that she liked spending time with the bad guys more than with them. Before she could protest, her youngest son had added that at least she wasn’t a criminal herself. They’d all laughed. It was true, she did miss work. Surely that wasn’t a bad message for the boys? Their father had had a strong work ethic.

Aubry pulled his wrist up and spoke into a microphone, asking a question. He looked at her. “When are you officially back on the job?”

“Three days. Monday.” She gave her wool jacket a downward tug and straightened the matching skirt. Her stint in hospital had melted a few kilos away. Nearly being killed wasn’t the easiest diet, but it was no doubt effective. A few more kilos and she would consider thanking the man who had knifed her.

Aubry held up his hand, listening to chatter in his earpiece. “Any minute now,” he whispered, as if they could be overheard. “He’s heading to the lobby. It’s perfect. Fewer civilians and more space gives us an advantage.”

“He’ll run.” Agnes shifted weight off her bad leg. Critically, she eyed the long bank of doors. The building’s sleek overhang soared across the street, sheltering trams, taxis, a restaurant, and a flower stall. She hoped Aubry really did have all exits covered. She had a vague notion that the five or six halls of the Messe Basel facility were connected by upper corridors and enclosed walkways. It was a large complex.

Aubry tapped his thigh impatiently. His gaze strayed to her leg. “How’s life in violent crimes?”

A voice sputtered in his ear and Aubry listened, sparing her the need to answer. “He’s on the move,” Aubry said quietly.

Agnes tensed.

“Now,” Aubry shouted, running to the doors and yanking one open.

Two men in suits moved from another angle and Agnes spotted their earpieces. The men broke into a half run, and a few bystanders gasped while others pulled out mobile phones set to record video. The officers pushed ahead toward the turnstiles leading to the show, and Agnes followed. Aubry put a hand to his earpiece and stopped her. He angled his head down and she could hear voices talking on top of one another. Someone yelled and Aubry flinched.

Suddenly, in the distance, car tires screeched. There was a loud thump and a scream, followed seconds later by other shouts. Agnes turned toward the noise and Aubry followed. They ran to the right side of the building, ignoring the drizzle. The side street was closed to all but exhibitors’ vehicles and Agnes pushed her way through the gathered crowd. What she saw stopped her in her tracks. Aubry, close behind, collided with her.

The street was dedicated to instruments of luxury and speed, and in the middle of the road a gleaming red Ferrari had struck a man. He lay in a shallow pool of rainwater a meter from the front bumper. Both car and man were broken. The hood of the car was dented and smeared with blood. The man’s leg was angled midcalf, and the fabric of his pants was split by a bone. Blood spilled from the back of his head, pooling around his hair, missing with rain and running in rivulets to the curb. Agnes recognized the man immediately. She put a hand to her mouth. A second glance at the unique shape of his ears confirmed it: the Roach.

***

Excerpt from A Well-Timed Murder by Tracee de Hahn. Copyright © 2018 by Tracee de Hahn. Reproduced with permission from Tracee de Hahn. All rights reserved.

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AUTHOR SPOTLIGHT – Tracee de Hahn was originally published on the Wordpress version of The Pulp and Mystery Shelf with Shannon Muir

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[scarlettdayofx-blog]

Animal Therapy | Personal Event

Setting: Slaughter Farm a few hours from Briar Prep Date: April 5th Notable characters: Samuel Day Summary: Scarlett’s Father comes to help her cope Possible triggers: Death/Murder mention **Buckle ur seatbelts AGAIN it’s long but less mruder-y

Looking out the car window, Scarlett frowned. Everything had gone to shit because of JP’s father. Their relationship, her urges. Her own father had turned off the car several minutes ago, waiting for Scarlett to make the first move. “Scar,” his voice boomed out, reaching out to place his hand on her shoulder. “We can sit here all day, but I’ve got to get back by 7PM.” His voice was always professional, all business. Her father was the only other person she could say she even remotely cared about. But he never returned it. These situations were to protect his name, to not have the murderous teenage daughter headline tacked onto his career. She hated him for it, but still couldn’t help to ‘love’ him. Uncrossing her arms, she undid the seatbelt, flinging the door open. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go.” She sighed dismissively, her outward reflection not at all describing what she was feeling inside. It was the calm before the storm. 

Walking into the open-style barn pens, they were greeted by a couple of dirty, hick farmers. At least, that’s how Scarlett saw them. They were covered head to toe in some kind of grime and dressed as a stereotypical farmer would be. Her father offered a warm smile to the other man in the barn, sticking out his hands for a hand shake. “Really appreciate this, Tom.” Scarlett recognized that voice as the one he used on people he surely knew he was better then. She scoffed, smiling a bit. They were alike in certain ways. The dirt covered man, Tom, nodded, a look of excitement on his face. “We really appreciate your money, Mr. Day!” His other hand had covered Samuel’s, of which a small grimaced micro-expression came over him. Her father had paid off these people for cattle that were going to be murdered anyway for no profit. Of course they’d say yes, especially because it was more than generous.

Tom waved for the pair to follow, Scarlett examining the interior of the place. It was full of hay everywhere, animal shit haphazardly littering the ground. “Eugh,” muttered from her lips, eyes focused on the ground so she didn’t step in it. Eventually the farmer paused in front of a door, placing his hand on the lock. “She’s sick, so she’d be put down anyway. Go easy on her though,” he directed towards Scarlett, him still possibly unaware of what was happening. With that, he undid the lock, tipped his hat and left. 

Scarlett looked to her father, who let out a gentle huff, signifying he knew it was time to leave his daughter to her devices. “I’ll be in the car. Don’t get too messy. New seats.” He mumbled the last part, unrolling his shirt cuff as he moved to kiss her on the head. “I love you, Scar.” Scar. Her favorite nickname. Her Fathers nickname for her. It was special. Her mother and brother always called her Lettie, trying to make her into someone she wasn’t. Scar fit well with who she was. With a slight smile, she nodded, whispering out an “I love you too,” and watched as he walked back towards where they came from. 

Slipping into the pen, she eyed her next victim; a sickly looking calf. “You’re a baby, huh? Expected something bigger,” She muttered, somewhat dissatisfied for herself  and also for her father’s wallet, though that was seemingly endless. Rolling up her sweater, she chuckled. Blood would get everywhere anyway, so there wasn’t a need to do so. But it was habit. “You know, it sucks you have to die. But I appreciate it. It’s you or some prick who thinks it’s cool to fuck up his kid,” Scarlett was not normally one for talking to animals, but for some reason, her mental state was giving way to it. Talking to the victim, she rationalized. 

As she searched around the pen for an adequate weapon of choice, she continued musing aloud to the calf. “I’m sure you know a lot about that. Being tortured by people who you think take care of you,” she laughed out through her nose, realizing the irony. The calf remained unmoving, merely following the blonde around the enclosed space with it’s eyes. Craning her neck to look back at it she smiled. “He does shit to me. JP, not he asshole,” she made sure to clarify as if it mattered. “He’s so... innocent. Trusting.” She whispered, playing around with the weight of some of the farm tools. “But he isn’t scared. I guess I have to be thankful to his whack job father for that.” It felt wrong leaving her tongue, thanking him in any form. He didn’t deserve that.

“He wont let him go, though. He’s too deep.” Her hands wrapped around a pitch fork stuck in a nearby bale of hay. Grinning, it clicked. This one. “We... Can’t be together. I’ll end up doing something awful.” She cringed when she thought of this. She would. She always would be at risk. If he wouldn’t leave his abuser... It would just get messy. “I’ve got to stop. Before I kill him,” she pursed her lips, staring at the calf. “JP, I mean. If it keeps going, I don’t know what will happen...” She trailed off, dragging the pitch fork closer to her victim. “I think this is what love feels like. But covered in black, grotesque horror. Me, I’m the horror.” All she wanted was to protect him. She couldn’t let this keep happening. Witnessing it once was too much. Even if she had to--”Sorry, friend. It’s been great,” she said abruptly, a twisted grin overcoming her, eyes filling with blood lust. Lifting the fork, she prepared to plunge it straight into the calf’s stomach. At least this would suffice for now.

--Kill him.

#self para #tw death mention #tw murder mention