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splatteronmywalls · 10 months

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#Phantasm: Ravager #2016 #horror #horror films #horror film

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theredofoctober · 4 months

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MANNA- CHAPTER NINE: FOWL

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the ninth chapter in the series. Author's note: the timeline of this AU is vague, being that some events in season two has happened, implied to be a year ago, but neither Will or Hannibal have been to jail.

-‐-

“So,” says Hannibal, pouring scarlet wine into Will's proffered glass. “How much closer are you to establishing the identity of the Silicone Lover?”

The three of you are in the living room, as is customary on Will's frequent visits. The men sit so near to one another as to be almost touching, sensual in the incline of each listening ear and dancing strand of conversation.

You, conversely, inch as far into a corner as you can afford to without reprimand, your fist to your chin, a flimsy artifice of feigned disinterest in their chatter.

By this time, you are sobering into shame of your despair in Will's grudging embrace. He, for his part, seems near sick with regret of it, swallowing and rubbing at his temples like a poet over some gloomy work. Not once has he looked at or spoken to you since you slipped, cringing, from his lap, but you know that he thinks of you, his contemplation extending outwards on a phantasmal limb.

Still, it is of his case alone that he speaks aloud, dredging words up from a cistern in himself with a halting effort.

“I’ve been so deep inside the Lover’s head that I could almost... be him,” he says, through a wince. “Not a place I’d like to be for long. He’s looking for the perfect doll. None of his creations so far have lived up to the idealisation he has in his mind. That’s why he uses the silicone, and cuts the abducted women down to size. He wants them small. Biddable.”

Will sips at his wine. A red bead of it is a winter berry on his lips before he wipes it away with his rough thumb, spoiling the brevity of its mite beauty.

“Either the Lover is trying to form the girl of his dreams,” he says, “or recreate someone that already exists who, for whatever reason, he can’t have.”

“So they are substitutes,” says Hannibal. “As several young women were for Abigail Hobbs. Could the girl on this new pedestal also be a killer’s daughter?”

You glance up at the mention of the familiar name, and Dr Lecter meets your gaze, granting you silent entry into the discussion. He's had half an eye on you since your collapse into Will’s bitter mercy, intrigued by your burgeoning alliance.

Evidently his antiphon is to consent where his friend would deny you, and though you know yourself a tool in Hannibal's craft you allow such use, sensing it may benefit your cause.

“The Lover’s attachment to his muse isn’t incestuous,” says Will. “Not by blood. She’s inaccessible either because his proximity to her would make it too suspicious if he abducted her, or because to ravage her the way he does his other victims would destroy her, and that isn’t what the Lover wants.”

“What does he want?” you ask, and Will starts, a furrow creasing his brow.

“I was talking to Dr Lecter,” he says, shortly; he doesn’t turn to address you. “Don’t interrupt. It’s rude.”

The urge to laugh has you twisting your lips in towards your teeth, afraid to release the sound, lest you crack his scarce tolerance of your presence. The cinder of Will’s palm across your cheek is charred in memory, the impulse of his anger.

Hannibal says, “Perhaps it isn’t that the Lover’s paramour cannot be touched, but that to consummate that initial contact is a frontier that could never be reversed.”

Coaxed back into debate, Will considers the notion.

“He’s afraid he’ll kill her.”

“Perhaps he believes he will have no choice. A wild animal, having fled from its menagerie, is often destroyed to prevent what it may unleash upon those it encounters.”

“The only danger she poses is to the Lover,” says Will, and drains his glass. “He can’t stand the thought of giving up his profession.”

Dr Lecter’s face tilts rather dotingly aside.

“If our murderer had his betrothed in his arms, then perhaps he would practice another trade. Killing is a mere formality to the Lover. A means of disposal, not his preferred indulgence.”

Hannibal stands to walk the length of the room; Will’s head turns with a near imperceptible movement to follow, entranced, through his scepticism. Unable to look away.

“Consider the labour spent upon sexual assault and mutilation,” says Dr Lecter. “The comparative carelessness with which the Lover evicts his darlings when he exhausts their use.”

“That carelessness is their punishment,” says Will, “for daring to be anything but her.”

You lean forward in your chair, scarcely cognizant of what you do.

“Who is she?” you ask, and Will grimaces, his visage taking on a tuberculous cast.

“I– I don’t know,” he admits. “I can’t see her yet. She’s the only doll without a face.”

You are fascinated by the disquiet that has come over him, a reflection of what it is to wear the wants of killers until they feel almost his own. Hannibal, returning to his seat, decants another glass of wine, holding it in his own hand a moment as he examines his friend over the rim.

“How have your episodes been, Will?” he asks. “Have there been any more instances of you waking outdoors without knowing where you are?”

Hannibal’s gaze rests briefly upon you, and you realise, at once, that the topic has been raised partially for your benefit.

Will takes his glass with a terse fist, his eyes lowered.

“I’d rather not go into that while your patient is present.”

Patient. He is forcing distance between you, armouring himself against his illness, and your potential use of such knowledge.

Hannibal does not allow it.

“After all the ways in which you’ve held our guest, can you fairly exclude her from family matters?”

Will sneers, finally looking at you with as much ire as he can muster in his dishevelment.

“Is this a family?”

“No,” you whisper.

Hannibal says, “It’s becoming one. Time is required for the covenant to form.”

The younger man emits a sardonic laugh.

“If you say so.”

You find yourself struck by something far too like betrayal for your liking.

“Do you think she is a substitute for what might have been with Abigail Hobbs?” asks Hannibal.

“No,” says Will, firmly. “This is something else. I see the parallels you’re making, Dr Lecter, but they don’t align.”

Stung, you interject, “Yeah, because you wouldn’t have fucked this Abigail, right?"

The younger man almost writhes in discomfort, and shakes his head.

“No,” says Hannibal, coolly, more jarred by your coarse phrasing than by the question itself. “That wasn’t what she needed from us.”

The subtle emphasis on the pronoun discourages you from objection, being that you know what he has seen, in your house. What you have watched, while touching yourself in restless hours, your own hand to your throat.

“On the subject of your requirements,” Dr Lecter continues. “You don’t have to join us for dinner tonight, little one. I’ll prepare you a light lunch of seared fish and vegetables, and then you may retire from company early.”

Both you and Will turn to Hannibal, briefly united in your surprise.

“So we’re encouraging her, now,” Will says, and Dr Lecter chuckles, all loving indulgence.

“Far from it. Fasting can be practised in a healthy manner. Self-discipline need not be punitive. Our little one should learn this for herself.”

Considering the statement, you attempt, without success, to understand the machinations of his reprieve.

You cannot find it in you to thank him for the coal with which he has stoked the old flame of starving. But you are grateful for that fuel, no matter its source, and do not know which God of many to kneel to in acknowledgement.

Hannibal would think himself such a lord, with you and Will as his parishioners. Yet again, it may be that Dr Lecter is the churchgoer between the two men, the one who, as in your dream, may acquiesce, hands clasped, to a lover’s word.

“Am I allowed to do what he says or not, daddy?” you ask of Will, in the end, who tsks and all but flounces in defeat.

“Go ahead,” he says. “I’m not qualified to oppose Dr Lecter’s care. But when you regret it, I won’t be there to comfort you.”

You no longer believe him. Like Jack, Will has a partiality for the vulnerable, and though he may deride your other qualities, he aches for you in your suffering even as he worsens its sting.

In the auburn night you attempt The Idiot again, tearing through one chapter to the next as hunger rides you like death on horseback, a test against the grindstone of will. You’ve gone longer than this without eating, before, a day or two on water alone, and only sips of it, at that.

But the new frequency of meals in Hannibal’s home has reawakened your appetite, and your gut wails in craving of all that you abjure.

You think of descending the staircase and asking sheepishly for an invitation to dinner, but you would rather see the grave than the humiliation of admitting such hunger before your jailors.

Sleep is an impenetrable country, food the geographic distance between you and its gentle hold. By two in the morning you’re marching the room, yearning to weary yourself beyond appetite. Knowing that after the assaults and the erasure of your outside self you haven’t the mettle to maintain the long walk as once you could.

As you do every night around this time you try your bedroom door, a routine of soothing repetition. Again you find it open, which you have known in your soul that it would be since Hannibal had made his golden offer to you that afternoon.

Surely this, like the time before, is an experiment in what you will do in the slumbering house. You daren’t try for an escape— Hannibal will start from his bed at the sound of a window shattered, a door forced at the lock, and will catch you, barefoot in your lace nightgown amidst the night damp of fallen leaves.

Perhaps, knowing this, he thinks you’ll creep to him or Will instead for want of a love of which they’re bereft. The notion of familial synergy is the absinthe dream that Hannibal chases, shared blood in the appetite of lust rather than parenthood.

You should remain abed, deny the doctor and his accomplice their entertainment. But hunger shoves you by both shoulders down the staircase, towards the kitchen door, and it lies open.

As in a fairytale you enter, thoughtless, moth-drawn to the flame that is food, in Hannibal’s refrigerator, prising back the hinge to reveal the luxuries within. Pretty displays of fresh vegetables and salad, labelled bottles of milk and cream, truckles of cheese, sliced meat—chicken, beef, ham—

You sway in the song of your hunger, attempting to bid yourself away with thoughts of how firmly you’ve stood against it, thus far, how strong you are, how in control.

In a moment your hand is on the shelf and unwrapping a pale slab of chicken, and then it’s in your mouth, and sectioned between your teeth, and swallowed. The taste of it isn’t chicken, but something else, and you don’t care until you see your face reflected in the refrigerator door, and realise the beast you are. What you have done.

You clutch your throat, attempting to calculate the calories—seventy, a hundred, a hundred and fifty, small numbers to a person not possessed by the spirit of disorder, but to you a devastation, the shattering of your sturdy fast.

It is Will and Hannibal’s fault, you decide, both having pinched you in a vice of brick with its store of feasts, intentional, evil. They have pushed you to break this vow of hunger you have made to yourself, and in that second of despair you thirst to be avenged.

Across the kitchen sits the knife rack, blades of ranging sizes and uses, each ground to a killing edge. You seize one from the middle and return to the stairs, pausing on the landing to consider the closed doors beyond.

Hannibal, you know, would overpower you with flippant ease, but Will, for all his protestations, is fragile. Breakable.

You approach his room and try the door handle with caution. Another left unlocked— fate has passed through the house before you, a goddess on gossamer feet.

In reverential silence you cross the room to Will’s sleeping hump on the bed and stoop over him, the knife raised in both hands, watching him twitch through unpleasant dreams.

In the dark Will’s face is corpse-like, ailing; you almost marvel to think this same man capable of the savage acts you’ve come here to kill him for. Perhaps his death will rinse you of the filth and pain that braids you into so gruesome a shape as you find yourself in. Perhaps his death will distract Hannibal enough that he tends to the cadaver rather than pursues you from his door—

You know not whether to slash Will’s bobbing throat or stake his chest, nor how hard to strike to ensure his death over injury. A mistake may be your end, not his, yet you lean with one knee upon the bed, the knife like a steel flame igniting the dark.

You contemplate how it will feel to kill, whether your form will throb with joy in excelsis, or if you’ll merely recoil, sickened by the blood, by the sounds and the many smells of dying.

But what of afterwards, when you have run, and Hannibal has turned to the police? He has the force in his pocket, and being that there is no mark of Will’s crimes upon your person you will surely be imprisoned for murder.

Tattle Crime will call gleefully of the act: “ANOREXIC CHARGED WITH STABBING RECLUSIVE SPECIAL AGENT IN SHOCKING ATTACK”.

Your family, your parents, stained and shunned for having raised a killer—

The reluctant knife withdraws, and you make to climb down off the bed. Disturbed by the lifting of weight from the mattress, Will stirs, muttering, then takes a seizing breath that jolts him suddenly awake. His eyes roll, glazed, before fixing upon you, a gothic figure in a pallid nightdress, holding a blade.

He tussles upright, rigidly alert. His expression is terror and fury, disbelieving.

“What are you doing?” Will demand, and snapping from the spell that holds you fast, you break for the door, thinking, even as you run, how few places there are in the house for you to hide that he will not find you.

Will follows in a sleep-numbed stagger, a corpse revived from the grave. He ought to be slow, but he is on you before you’ve gone further than the nearest corridor, shouldering you against a wall so hard that a shelf of ornaments jingles in ominous response to the collision.

You think nothing, only the animal blank of facing the bolt gun, the huntsman’s cur.

The knife rises, erect, between you, and Will folds your arm against the wall. His other hand wraps across your mouth, cupping your rising scream like the sea in a shell.

“Do you want Hannibal to wake up and find out what you did?” asks Will, in a coarse semi-whisper. “No? Then be quiet.”

His stare flenses the tallow darkness with a nocturnal literacy. He’s no longer trembling. The danger in him is well lived in, inherited from the killers whose minds he’s made his crown, and from his friend, in all his tutorship.

It’s what makes them so close, Will and Hannibal, almost one, synonyms of a pagan death.

You turn your jaw from your attacker’s hand and coax him down from his ire in a pleading moan.

“I’m sorry. I'm sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was upset. I don’t know why I did it. I wasn’t really going to—”

“Oh, I know you were never going to go through with it,” Will spits. “You’re not capable. Killing isn’t in your nature. You’re too soft for that. Aware of the consequences.”

He looks you up and down with a sour leer.

“You wish that you were a murderer. You held that knife and prayed for something to come over you, a holy, righteous need for revenge. But it didn’t. Couldn’t, because you don’t believe that you deserve to be released from what others have done to you.”

His grip squeezes your wrist, and you gasp into his hand, smothered by your own breath.

“Next time you pull a knife on someone, you’d better hope that you’ve gained enough self-esteem by then to see it through,” says Will. “I don’t plan to kill you tonight, but someone else might. Maybe that’s what you were hoping for, after all.”

He leans into you, curls falling in dark links across his brow. He smells of bed, the damp pelt of animal, and bottled scent. His white t-shirt is nearly black with night sweat, his stale breath metallic against you.

There is a joist of firm flesh at your thigh.

He likes this. The chase and capture, even the knife meshed between the bones of your slippery fingers and his, the knowing that he could make a gushing rose of your throat with the most delicate turn of it— he loves it all, the rut-hunger of all creatures that look death in the eye and survive.

You look sideways at the blade, and with leaden reluctance, Will turns to a nearby bookcase to set it down.

“Little girls shouldn’t play with knives,” he says, and you give a hysterical laugh.

“Hannibal isn’t here. You don’t have to try and impress him.”

The young man chuckles softly.

“What makes you think Dr Lecter isn’t trying to impress me?”

“I guess he is. He brought me here for you.”

Will sneers.

“An unwanted gift. You make it difficult not to be ungrateful.”

Mirroring the cruel twist of his expression you attempt to glide away from him, along the wall.

Will’s arm shoots out, blocking your path.

“Let go of me!” you cry, but your voice has no force to it, only mounting fear.

“You think I’ll just let you go to bed after threatening to kill me?” asks Will, incredulously.

“Why not? You deserve it. You even said so. And maybe you’re wrong about why I didn’t do it. Maybe I don’t want to be like you and Dr Lecter.”

Something shifts in Will’s expression, a murky wind of silhouette.

“What does that mean?”

“You’re murderers,” you spit. “You killed somebody. Garret something.”

“Garret Jacob Hobbs was the Minnesota Shrike,” says Will, almost defensively. “He killed and mutilated girls all over the state. His wife became his victim, and he slit his own daughter’s throat. I had no choice but to shoot Hobbs. I acted. It had to be done.”

“And Hannibal?” you ask, trembling in Will’s hold. “He’s killed before. I know he has. I know. Please don’t lie to me.”

For a beat you think that Will won’t answer, his eyes shifting to some point down the hall.

Then he says, “It was self-defence. A serial killer named Tobias Budge. He broke into Dr Lecter’s house. Would have killed him if Hannibal hadn’t overpowered him. How do you know about that? He didn’t tell you.”

“Self-defence,” you repeat, ignoring the question. “I bet Dr Lecter liked it. I bet you both liked it. That’s why I’m here. So whatever you feel when you murder people you can feel with me all the time.”

You grope along the wall for the knife, half-heartedly, knowing your captor will never let you take it. He pins your hand down with a scrambling clumsiness, damp fingers locked into yours.

“Is that how it feels?” Will snarls. “Like we’re killing you? Because it should remind you that after all you’ve done to your body you’re still here.”

Then, as he speaks again, he invokes your dream, as though by psychic synthesis you conceive the same thought at once.

“It should remind you that Hannibal and I are the reason you’re still alive.”

You let out a cry of fear, involuntary and absolute, and again Will binds your mouth with his palm until you taste the dirt of his sweat, and cannot breathe.

Suddenly the heart of shadow that is Will’s face is mud and thunder, and he lets go of your arms to rustle your nightdress to your waist in an tenor of cotton and ribbons.

You struggle and strain against the wall, knotting your legs over each other against him. With ease Will parts them again and runs two fingers beneath the trim of your panties until they are buried in your satin angst.

They move with skill, with spite, with will to wound; tears start from you like a spring from mountain rock, and the cruel young man observes as they fall without sympathy, still playing your cunt with his hand.

He does not strike you as a man that beds women often, yet he has done so, to know how to smith such pleasure from even unwilling flesh. You can do nothing but submit to him, a blót to such gods as have taken you to bleed.

Sensation, salt-sweet, unburdens you of pain, and you find you can only stand through Will’s hold upon you. Cannot speak, cannot scream, as he cuts his pleasure from you. Like a sorcerer beneath the waves he has stolen your voice, as well.

Will widens your legs with the jut of a knee, loosening himself from his undergarments as he may take some drill from its hellacious box. You stare into his eyes, begging, without words, for him to revoke his darkness. The dark stares back, the mouth beneath like something dreamt of by heathens in its fathomless cruelty.

“You’ve earned this,” says Will. “Take it with grace.”

He lifts your right leg and clips it to his waist, unlatching access to your heat. With his sneer close to your cheek he runs you through, his cock a barbarous girth to which you cannot acclimatise, cannot accept as a thing that must be.

The bones of your back bruise against the cool wall, and your breath, beneath Will’s palm, is a simian pant-hoot of woe and suffering lust.

You do not want him, but to be propulsed into this place without agency is your liberty: what you feel is his fault, and you come apart like a snarl of soot in the working of his evil.

Will’s hand impresses its print upon your hip. His mouth comes to the crook of your neck in a bite, a kiss, or something worse. His slim body snaps like a birch switch against you, and he opens your centre to his girth until your mind is a vapour of fright and climax, wetting your legs in the rotten release of it.

Your captor feels the quake of your orgasm and, in recognition, follows, his groan muffled by your neck, his frame a trap against you, shaking into stillness.

Then he steps away from you, turning his head as you rearrange your dress, oddly chaste.

You look at him in numb silence, unable to move from the wall without his word.

At last Will picks up the knife again and nods towards the staircase.

“Let’s put this back in the kitchen,” he says, “before Hannibal gets up and notices that it’s missing.”

You follow him downstairs, soundless as a wraith, close to his side, as though by hurting you he has somehow bound you to his flank. Will returns the knife to its rack with meticulous care, considering it for a long time before he speaks again.

“I doubt this’ll be the last time you contemplate murdering one of us. That’s as far as I recommend you go.”

You search yourself for the ability to answer him.

“Why?”

“Wolves kill their rivals' pups to keep them in check,” says Will, “and Dr Lecter is not above emulating that behaviour if he thinks it’ll keep you in line.”

As usual, you cannot tell if he’s being literal or not. You settle to nod, and Will glances around the kitchen, his eyes falling on the refrigerator door where a greasy smear remains in the autumn moonlight.

“Your handprints?” he asks. “So you stole food. Should have asked to join us for dinner.”

You lean against a countertop, your head hanging, truly ashamed.

“I messed up.”

Will picks up a hand towel and rubs at the door until your fingerprints vanish.

“You live here,” he says, grudgingly. “It’s not exactly a capital offence to eat from the fridge.”

“No,” you say, in a piteous wail. “I mean I shouldn’t have eaten at all. I gave in. I ate. No self-control.”

You see Will’s shoulders drop, and he says, with pained neutrality, “That isn’t true. You gave your body what it needed.”

Half-sobbing, you pull at your flesh through your nightdress, gathering up handfuls of skin.

“I don’t know why you even want to touch me. I’m so disgusting.”

“No,” says Will, and this time he speaks firmly. “You’re a lot of things, but that isn’t one of them. I don’t want to hear you say that again.”

He passes a hand across his face, an exhausted reflex.

“Go to bed, One,” he mumbles. “And tomorrow you’re going eat again. I’ll see that you do.”

The next morning, red-eyed over coffee, Will watches you attempt your breakfast. He makes no comment, only waits as you masticate each scrap of beetroot and artfully scrambled egg twenty times until the slow process meets its finish.

Hannibal turns Will an unreadable look across the table.

“You look weary, this morning,” he says. “I thought I heard you wandering the house last night. Was anything the matter?”

You drop your fork with a frightened loss of coordination, expecting to be handed over to him for further hurt. Yet Will only puts down his coffee cup, folds his arms across his chest, and says, quite casually, “She was hungry, just like I knew she’d be. She went looking for food. I sent her back to her room. Nothing to write home about.”

It’s only when Hannibal carries your dirty plate back to the kitchen that you look up at Will, softening your eyes against the flint of hatred within you.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

An almost smile turns the edges of Will's mouth.

“I’ll tell him, someday. Just not now.”

#manna fic #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #yandere hannibal lecter #yandere will graham #tw noncon #tw eating disorders #dead dove do not eat

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aultimagarotadofilme · 9 months

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Gloria Lynne Henry - ( )

Local de Nascimento: Detroit (EUA)

Atriz

Filmes:

Phantasm III: Lord of the Dead (1994)

The Devil's Advocate (1997)

Phantasm: Ravager (2016)

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misstergrayson · 1 year

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31 Days Of Dick Grayson

🦋☀️🦋

28. What if Dick had adopted Jason Todd instead of Bruce?

Flamebird

I definitely can see Jason becoming Flamebird to Dick Grayson’s Nightwing, I mean there’s not another moniker that would really fit to seal them up as a duo, and he’d succeed Jimmy Olsen and Bette Kane with the mantle. Though it might be awkward Dick Grayson having a teen kid Donna has a tween, so I figure they will just give them more a brotherly relationship anyway, but years down the line retcon if as more father and son, like they did with Dick and Bruce. So Jason is probably gonna get aged down.

He’ll keep his hair red because he only died it for his role as Robin, and he’ll be a generally unlikeable curly haired redhead sidekick with red and yellow themes. Danny Chase would probs never happen, and instead Jason would become a more permanent member but take on Danny’s role since he’s so young. As a new Titans roster starts, he’ll get aged down like Rose and join the likes of Ravager, Impulse, Damage, and Green Lantern.

He’ll probably be the one who’s later retconned onto a team with impulse, superboy, and Wonder Girl instead of Tim, because at this point Tim’s origin story would never happen, although Damian still will because of Talia’s pregnancy and kingdom come. I honestly don’t know if Bruce would take on another Robin, but I think after Barb getting shot by the joker they would include a whole new set of characters to join Batman in his stories because at this point he’s working alone too long.

Jason was never well liked, and I think making him Flamebird instead will still lead to his death, writers will want Dick Grayson to move on with his life and be young, find love, and take on new adventures, so they’d trash him like every other Titan’s child. Garth and his daughter, Donna Troy and Robert Long husband and stepdaughter, Roy Harper and Lian Harper, Wally West and Jai and Irey West.

Since Jason had a costume though, and since Jason came before Danny those two things would set him on a certain path. DC comics kills off babies and children because superheroes having families outside of costumes forces them to have a mundane and nuclear side to the story, and erases thousands of possibilities for their hero. Writing them in is fun and exciting, but they all meet their doom. However, Jason would die in costume, and he’s therefore apart of the mantles history. He’s going to be brought back because his return can be a major plot point.

Second, Jason would take away the role Marv Wolfman wanted for the Titans, Danny Chase, since he appears and even joins the team as Robin before him, as the redheaded fanboy nerd running tech. So like Danny Chase, they would plan out his life according to Danny’s, the Titans would find he actually faked his death and became the Phantasm, then died for real as a villain.

Yet, just like Danny Chase and the other Flamebirds, Bette and Jimmy as Flamebird, he’d probably never make another REAL appearance in the 2000s, fade to obscurity, and become a “what! That actually happened!?!?” Story Like Donna Troy’s stepdaughter and the REAL second robin Lance Bruner.

It’s funny though, no matter what happens he’s still a little kid that dies a hero cause no one likes him, only to be reincarnated as a villain. Poetically Jason would live to be what he’s always loved: a Greek tragedy

#nightwing #dick grayson #31DOD #🦋☀️🦋#jason todd #red hood

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twistedtummies2 · 4 months

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Year of the Bat - Opening & Rules

On November 10th, 2022 – not but twenty days before what would have been his 67th birthday – Kevin Conroy passed away. The following year, on August 24th – only a few months ago, as of typing this – Arleen Sorkin also departed from this life. Most recently, Richard Moll left us, on October 26th, 2023. They were neither the first nor the last of the noteworthy cast members of the same great show who have been lost to the ravages of time. That great show, of course, was “Batman: The Animated Series,” which celebrated its thirtieth anniversary in 2022. The Animated Series is widely regarded as one of the best and most definitive depictions of the Dark Knight and his universe ever created. It not only adapted many of the classic comic book characters splendidly, into a format that adults and children could enjoy in equal measure, but in some cases even improved on ideas, concepts, stories, and characters from those comics. It was a series that took its target audience seriously, and was darker and more mentally and emotionally challenging than many other superhero programs that came before. It is generally considered to be one of the most influential animated shows of all time, and for good reason. In light of the recent losses, I have decided that the start of this new year will be dedicated to this wonderful show. So, all through this month, I’m going to count down my Top 31 Favorite Episodes of “Batman: The Animated Series!” Now, the only rule for this list is that I’ll only be counting episodes from this show. So other series that came after it, set in the same universe – such as “Superman: The Animated Series” or “Justice League” – will not be included here. I also won’t be including any movies set in continuity with this universe, such as “Mask of the Phantasm” or “Sub-Zero.” With that said, I WILL be counting episodes from “The New Batman Adventures,” since that is essentially just Season 4 of the show. And for all two of you who even know or care, I also won’t be including “Gotham Girls,” because that’s a whole other beast itself. This isn’t a rule, but simply a reminder: my opinions will probably differ vastly from a lot of other people’s. Some episodes that might make it onto other people’s lists won’t be here, not because they aren’t good episodes, but simply because this is entirely based on opinion and favoritism. For example, SPOILER ALERT, “Robin’s Reckoning” and “I Am the Night” – both widely considered among the best episodes of the show – are not to be found here. I like both episodes, make no mistake, but they simply aren’t among those I think of first when I think of this series. As I’ve stated on numerous occasions, there’s a difference between “favorite” and “best.” With that said…Kevin, Arleen, Richard…this will be for you. I welcome you all to a little event I’ve decided to call…Year of the Bat! Tomorrow, I shall present a list of Honorable Mentions: Twelve Terrific Episodes that ALMOST made the cut, but not quite. After that, the countdown will begin in earnest. I hope you all enjoy!

#list #countdown #year of the bat #new year's special #top 31 btas episodes #batman: the animated series #btas #opening and rules #batman #dc #animation #tv

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namesisfortombstones · 6 months

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HALLOWEEN-A-THON 2023

New viewings with an asterisk.

Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers (theatrical version)

Trilogy of Terror

Meg 2: The Trench*

Dracula and Son

The Phantom of the Opera (1925)

Prom Night (1980)

The Curse of Frankenstein

The Revenge of Frankenstein

The Evil of Frankenstein

Frankenstein Created Woman

Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed

Howling IV: The Original Nightmare

Land of the Minotaur*

Inferno (1980)

The Beyond

Phantasm: RaVager (The For Rory Edition)

A Nightmare on Elm Street (theatrically)

Frankenstein's Bloody Terror

Horror Express

It! (1967)

Suspiria (1977)

Isle of the Dead

From Beyond the Grave

House of Dark Shadows

Dracula, Prince of Darkness

Assignment Terror

Friday the 13th (1980)

Friday the 13th, Part 2 (Uncut)

Friday the 13th, Part III

Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter

Friday the 13th, Part V: A New Beginning

Jason Lives: Friday the 13th, Part VI

Friday the 13th, Part VII: The New Blood (Uncut)

Friday the 13th, Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan

Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday (Extended)

Jason X

Friday the 13th (2009; Rescored)

Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein

Phantasm: OblIVion

Halloween 5: The Revenge of Michael Myers

The Face of Fu Manchu

House of Frankenstein

The Devil's Own*

Dracula Has Risen from the Grave

Hello Mary Lou: Prom Night II

Halloween (2018; The Back in Shape Edition)

House (1986)

Poltergeist (1982)

The Blob (1988)

The Gorgon

Orca

Exorcist II: The Heretic (longer version)

Horror of Dracula (uncut)

Howling II: Stirba - Werewolf Bitch

Halloween Kills (The This Is How Halloween Ends Edition)

Demons 2: The Nightmare Returns*

All Hallows' Eve*

Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers

Rasputin, the Mad Monk

Beetlejuice (theatrically)

Halloween III: Season of the Witch

Poltergeist III

House of Usher

The Ghost Galleon [of the Blind Dead]

To the Devil a Daughter

Prince of Darkness

Thinner

The Abominable Dr. Phibes

Dr. Phibes Rises Again

The Touch of Melissa

Taste the Blood of Dracula

Scars of Dracula

Howling V: The Rebirth (The Your Girlfriend is a Hungarian Werewolf Edition)

Dracula A.D. 1972

The Skull

Bride of Frankenstein

Halloween 6: The Curse of Michael Myers (Producer's Cut)

Son of Dracula

Goke, Body Snatcher from Hell

The Werewolf vs. the Vampire Woman

The Masque of the Red Death (1964)

Phantasm

The Satanic Rites of Dracula

The City of the Dead

The Devil Rides Out

Halloween (Extended Version)

Halloween II (Theatrical Version)

Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man

Curse of the Demon (British Version)

Burn, Witch, Burn

Matthew Hopkins, Witchfinder General

The Crimson Cult

Silver Bullet

The Wolf Man (1941)

Carnival of Souls (1962)

Black Sabbath

Night of the Living Dead (1968)

Halloween II (TV Version)

#Halloween #horror #movies #October #marathon #Samhain

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brokehorrorfan · 2 years

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If the Phantasm Sphere Collection is out of your price range, a budget-friendly alternative is on its way. Phantasm: 5-Movie Collection will be released on September 27 via Well Go USA.

The set contains all five films in Don Coscarelli’s Phantasm franchise on Blu-ray: 1979’s Phantasm, 1988’s Phantasm II, 1994’s Phantasm III: Lord of the Dead, 1998’s Phantasm IV: Oblivion, and 2016’s Phantasm: Ravager. Reggie Bannister, A. Michael Baldwin, Bill Thornbury, and Angus Scrimm star.

Phantasm City Creative designed the cover art. Special features are listed below.

Phantasm: Remastered special features:

Audio commentary with writer/director Don Coscarelli and stars Michael Baldwin, Angus Scrimm and Bill Thornbury

Graveyard Carz episode

Trailer

At a funeral, Mike (Michael Baldwin), watches as a tall mortician clad in black (Angus Scrimm) tosses the unburied coffin into a waiting hearse as if it were nothing. Seeking the truth behind this unusual sight, Mike breaks into the mortuary, where he comes face-to-face with the sinister Tall Man. After barely managing to escape with his life, Mike enlists the help of his brother, Jody (Bill Thornbury), and their friend Reggie (Reggie Bannister). Together they set out to uncover the secrets of the Tall Man and those who dwell in his hellish world.

Phantasm II special features:

Audio commentary with director Don Coscarelli, actors Angus Scrimm and Reggie Banister

Trailer

Released after seven years in a mental hospital, Mike convinces his old pal Reggie to join forces with him to hunt down and destroy the Tall Man once and for all. Mike’s visions lead the two to a quiet little town where a horde of flying killer balls aim to slice and dice their gruesome way through everyone. Exploding with special effects, unparalleled thrills, horror and suspense, PHANTASM II climaxes with a blood-curdling conclusion that you have to see to believe.

Phantasm III: Lord of the Dead special features:

Audio commentary with director Don Coscarelli and editor Norman Buckley

Behind the Scenes

Deleted scene

Trailer

The mutant dwarf creatures are attacking, the silver spheres are flying, and the Tall Man is back with a vengeance! Fifteen years after the original horror classic, writer/producer/director Don Coscarelli reunites brothers Mike (A. Michael Baldwin) and Jody (Bill Thornbury) to help their friend Reggie (Reggie Bannister) destroy the Tall Man (Angus Scrimm) once and for all.

Phantasm IV: Oblivion special features:

Audio commentary with director Don Coscarelli and actors Reggie Bannister and Angus Scrimm

Behind the Scenes

Trailer

13 years after the original nightmare began, Mike must cross dark dimensions of time and space to discover his origins and those of his nemesis, the evil Tall Man. With only his loyal friend Reggie at hisside, and the spirit of his dead brother to guide him, Mike must finally confront this malevolent embodiment of death. Prepare to be scared witless as the fine line between the living and the dead snaps with a vengeance!

Phantasm: Ravager special features:

Audio commentary with co-writer/director David Hartman and co-writer/producer Don Coscarelli

Behind the Scenes

Deleted scenes

Bloopers and outtakes

Trailer

After battling with the Tall Man in Phantasm: Oblivion, a battered Reggie wanders through the desert in search of his missing friend, Mike. After recovering his 1971 Hemi ‘Cuda, Reggie is targeted by two of the Tall Man’s Sentinel Spheres and destroys them. He awakens suddenly to find himself sitting in a wheelchair pushed by none other than the elusive Mike! Although overjoyed by their reunion, Reggie is in this alternate dimension an aged and weary old patient in a psychiatric ward. And only he remembers their battled and bloodied past with the Tall Man. Reggie must travel between dimensions and discern what is reality in order to confront the mysteries at the heart of a decades-long struggle against evil. He is met with new and familiar faces along the way, and an epic showdown on the Tall Man’s home world awaits!

Pre-order Phantasm: 5-Movie Collection.

#phantasm #don coscarelli #angus scrimm #reggie bannister #horror #phantasm 2 #phantasm ii #phantasm 3 #phantasm iii #phantasm iv #phantasm v #dvd #gift #70s horror #1970s horror

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spacedinosaur2000 · 1 year

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rules: 🎵 when you get this, list 5 songs you've been listening to. tag 5-10 followers to do the same 🎵

Tagged by: @gaiden-gamer

Phantasm RaVager End Credits song aka Reggie Rap

Werewolf by Motionless in White

Spirits by Nothing More

Have you seen it by Reggie Bannister

Phantasm 2 Theme

Tagging @renxamamiya @invokingbees @aberrant-authoress-em @skeluigi @fn23

#I shoulda filled all of them with every variation of the phantasm theme

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evocation-of-mystical-eidolons · 1 year

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I nodded and started presently a phantasmal and grotesque appendage slipped into my view...calcinated by the purification of spectral larvae I dozed and was sent whirling down nether abysses of non individuated oneness as of Neoplatonists...my eyes wrenched toward acrid gaudy lights drunk as of tenuous shadows tenebrous litten by eld mothy moon eared excrescences protruding from the luminous aether in unbounded spaces my neck snapped under pressure of pachydermatous hands of ferruginous salts of ammonia my brain was ravaged and I sunk utterly...infinite revulsion of spirit anguish clad by raiment of oleaginous and unctuous agglutinations of loathsome putrescent slime of eggs of enormous Worms and toads of fungal larvae and maggot born exhalations as of ophiolatrous worshippers beating ponderous drums to the tattoo of infernal rhythms my heart was choked and withering to hoary greybeards in the Selene clad prognathous cerements palls blackened teeming with spermatozoa and oocytes alleles as of genetic abominations delivered to my knowledge through cacophonous dins of insensate pulsating horrors acrimonious and ragged drug through miry fens and bogs of abhorrent medieval sorcerers witches clad in starry lachrymose textiles wrought from the skin of wyverns...my mental proscenium was filled with visions miasmal and horrendous celestial and glacial primal and prehistoric teeming masses of ancient organisms the entire phylogeny tree bifurcation and budding in myriad efflorescence's and umbels roseate honied speech flowed from the lips of maidens defiling from an eld cathedral clad in lace dresses as of white snow tresses as of ravens a grand processional of mystic proportions these imidrizing visions gave way to a new tide of repulsive abnormities flowed in unending tortuous cascades grim spectres of deaths heads and a tide of seething masses of horrid bat deamons culled from nether acrid caves as of trolls and moss swords and castles crypts buried rotting spectres phantoms of nitre-encrusted toads lurking in swampy fens denizens of ancient eld dominions of wizened cronies Hyperborean mages of alchemical phantasies philtres of love potions...I wavered and faltered encumbered by noisome vapors beset my nocturnal owls of sulphur and bitumen my soul froze and I wearied agonized by tumultuous vast scurrying thoughts of anguished wails of frightful ogres and ghouls, spawn of Tartarus and the eternal limitless abyss of Nyx. Beaten goaded and sickened my spirit breaks and is tattered and ravaged by innumerable orcs Elven faeries capered to and fro in front of the darksome and brooding grotto they danced a merry and gay jig the Gladsome and light airy fays or the aerial and ethereal sylph of Paracelsus I was entranced and filled with myriad tender thoughts as I gazed at the joyous dance of the eld little folk yet I was as yet still beset by ravages of the mind...ineffably weary weltschmerz unspeakable existential dread the vast and sardonic derision of the evil propagator of the universe I was tossed tempestuously and rendered derelict and abandoned my body was benumbed by an ancient and terrible icy frost of Norse hells beset beleaguered and bombarded beaten and torn ripped limb from limb utterly extirpated my soul cried out in horrendous despair why ? And the silence mocked my personal credo quia absurdums of Thomas Browne formulated and expressed at my utter limit of anguish De Profundis Domine Lord of the depths I have cried to thee blot out my iniquities , lord have mercy my anguish is yet a species of pride to be simple and humble to be meek I will do penance and mortify my concupiscent desires of the flesh self flagellate and beat my breast have pity on a lost soul wandering in the barren and desolate desert of Nubia I execrate this paltry and puerile life it is devoid of any worth it is a vanity and a lie a profound dearth worthless and ragged and torn asunder...I was slightly taken aback by this sudden torrent of pious devotion which had sprang from my lips I gazed at a crucifix hanging on the wall and thought of the Spanish black Madonna's and the byzantine Christ Panocrator...newly inspired I quickly navigated to the yt channel poesie psychotique vaguely felt affinities to my own experiences a vindication a link to an artistic vision of chaotic and beautiful nay more basically rich vibey vague and various Imagos as of moths of aether and silken dreams wrought in batik Malayan textiles...next I gingerly lifted a mug of fortifying libation of rich earth mould acidulous coffee darker than black as of anime archetypes creating effectively infinite expansive legendariums I sipped and savoured the rich flavour, the inimitable beverage quaffed by decadent dandys nay that was the green fairy Absinthe...my thoughts wandered and new images wrought of psychobabble formed novel and magnificent malformations upon my mental proscenium I plodded along the circuitous and labyrinthine passage of an eld mouldering city of vast cyclopean edifices raised by some archaic prehistoric race who worshipped ithyphallic monolithic idols of rough hewn basaltic stone and porphyry...I glimpsed terrible and arcane carvings and hieroglyphs carven into the malevolent stone which forbode of unknown and arcane rituals of sacrifice to zoomorphic and amorphous god beings extraterrestrial eldritch abominations spawned in the further reaches of Saturn at the edges of the cosmos...they were fungoid beings born from aerial sporangia which traveled galactic distances and arrived on Saturn countless aeons ago they were the Old Ones the Elder Gods identified with all the primal earthly deities of El and Astarte the horned goddess who dances a gyrating and lascivious ritual before the Tetrarch incense laden an perfumed of rich and fragrant myrrh and balsam and also darker satanic perfumes of acontium and wolfsbane they were henna painted and curved voluptuously to the tattoo of a drum beaten incessantly a decadent femme fatale an intoxicating houri of Islamic paradise an exotic oriental goddess the avatar of the destroyer Kali of brooding Kolkata which birthed deafening and thunderous war metal pummeling in its torrent of audial sonic desecrating filth.

#poetry #poem #prose poem #literature #horror #existential poetry #existential despair #original poem #original writing #writing #word vomit

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smashwritingblogs · 3 days

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This tall man won’t go away! Phantasm 5 Ravager Movie Review

https://youtu.be/-Qwjm1zOiuY #Phantasm #TallMan #Horror #HorrorCommunity #Film #Review @YouTube @YouTubeCreators

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b-movieenema · 7 months

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If you thought the first four Phantasm movies were trippy, the final film in the franchise, RaVager, decided to crank that up to 12.

#blog #review #2010s #phantasm #science fiction #horror #fantasy

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