#despite its grotesque theme

[insane-brit]

Royalty (Ch. 2)

Muzan Kibutsuji x Soulmate!Fem!reader

Park Links: Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three

Tags/Warnings: Enemies to lovers, semi slow burn, dark story/themes, violence, fighting, mentions of prostitution/entertainment, anxiety, shock, anger, flashback.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word count: 2.7K

The trek to Yoshiwara felt almost effortless despite her interpersonal matters. Her mind was consumed with staring at the thread protruding from her wrist. Receiving this gift bestowed upon her kept her from an ounce of rest that night. She marveled at the tie and couldn’t help the flurry of questions that infiltrated her mind. As much as she prided herself in problem-solving and anything clever, her intellect was stumped. Regardless, she thanked whatever higher power for this opportunity that had forsaken her from a young age.  

She kept her promise to Tengen as much as she wanted to find him and ramble about the occurrence. He would be happy for her but the nagging in her mind knew that it would be selfish to present this information to him when his wives were in potential danger. When the sun broke through the horizon and dawn showed its lovely face, she packed her things and set off. It had been a day or two and the path ahead was cracked. Clear evidence was strewn about of it being a well-traveled route. She supposed that was a good thing. The blazing heat caused sweat to bead along her forehead and nape. Pulling on her haori, she fanned herself in a fruitless attempt to circulate air. 

It wouldn’t be long before she reached the district. The pit in her stomach from the night her thread appeared was still apparent. She thought that it was her intuition expecting something to happen. That something being the appearance of her soul tie, but with every passing minute, it never ceased. She had attempted to suppress the feeling while remaining cautious, but it would relapse and grow every time she tried to forget it. It caused her to lash out at a poor maple tree the previous night. Her Nichirin sword left deep grooves in the bark as she unleashed her irritability and unease. Lucky for her the outburst did not harm her blade. She did not have the time nor patience to deal with Haganezuka and his damned vengeance that would be seeking her blood. That man would know the moment any of his blades even had a scratch and the next minute he’d be screaming obscenities with steel to your throat. Sighing, she chuckled at the thought. He cared for his work, and she admired him for that.

The sun continued its descent to the horizon, the atmosphere growing ever so slightly cooler as she pursued the winding path. The tree’s canopy bestowed some shade upon her figure and a faint breeze accompanied the peaceful atmosphere. If she had to guess, she would make it to Yoshiwara a bit after the sun's rays faded under the vista. Perfect timing on her part and she mentally patted herself on the back.

The shade around her grew until it covered the terrain and a chill shot down her spine. The breeze blew some wisps of hair in front of her face. Caressing her features as she clutched the Tsuka of her blade. The ray skin was coarse against her palm and she gripped it until her knuckles turned white. There was virtually no sound. The birds were silent, cicadas halted their clamor, and all that was heard was the fluttering of leaves. Her heart was in her throat threatening to claw its way out, but she was static. Eyes swept across the dense foliage, searching for the source that caused much attentiveness. 

The crunching and rustling of leaves and twigs promptly made itself known as a commotion rapidly approached her stable form. The movement of air being cut resounded to her right and she swerved as an amalgamation of leathery skin settled in the spot she once stood. Its landing kicked up filth and a cloud of dust blew upwards. Eyes hardening, she readied herself as it subsided. Revealing one of the more grotesque demons she has ever had the pleasure of encountering. Its frame was thin, skin stretched over its bones. Back turned to her, it jolted, and she could hear cracking as its limbs moved unnaturally. The bending of tendons and grinding of joints had her mentally winching. 

“Wretched thing.” She seethed, angling her katana. The blade flashed in the dying rays of the sun and the emerging moonlight that peaked through the canopy. It snapped its head towards her, the eyes were pitch black with a single prick of white in the center and a red line streaked across it. A smile, full of needle-like teeth stretched as it locked its gaze onto her. It darted back and forth between her face and sword. If it was even possible, the grin got wider. 

“A Hashira,” its voice was grainy and sandpaper-like. “Lucky me.” 

She growled lowly and gritted her teeth. How revolting, and to think she was almost to her destination without getting into any trouble.

“I think you’ll find yourself unlucky.”  Digging her foot into the dirt she lunged at the monstrosity. Its face contorted in what looked to be glee before parrying her attack. Retaliating in a flurry of precise assaults aimed to incapacitate the slayer. She veered away with ease and brought her foot up, slamming it into its chest. Staggering backward it groaned, hesitating, and looking stunned. 

“Come on demon!” She hissed and swung her blade. The demon dodged and glared at her. Not making any sudden moves and being motionless. She furrowed her brows and kicked up dust to distract it. Why wasn’t it trying harder? It’s not even moving. 

She had advanced behind it and leaped. Readying her blade to strike its vital point. To sever its head from its neck and watch its twisted body disintegrate. It cocked its head towards her. Eyes wide and mouth stretched into a tight line. It seemed like it was forcibly constant. It raised its arm in a futile attempt to block as she sliced right through the flesh like butter despite its appearance. 

The body stiffened and collapsed in a heap as the head rolled. Coming to a stop a few feet away from her. She watched the expression on its face contort in a multitude of emotions.  “To think, for a second I thought you would’ve fought harder.” She smirked and sheathed her sword. It still looked at her. An expression of shock and something she couldn’t recognize. Frowning, she dusted herself off before turning away from the slowly deteriorating demon. 

“The progenitor.” it rasped. 

She halted and looked over her shoulder. Confusion and agitation were written across her face. 

“His presence,” it choked out as its mouth started to turn to ash. “Hashira, you- “

“Enough with your delusions demon!” she hissed and glowered at the lowly creature. “Whatever scheme you’re planning in death will not deface me in any way. You mutter nonsense and plead to the thing you call Master.” 

For a demon who appeared so delighted in the prospect of fighting a slayer earlier, it was quite a weak and depressing display. Begging for its Master, Kibutsuji Muzan, and conniving to bring her into the ordeal. Maybe it was going to threaten her. Regardless, she cut it off before it could utter its last words. The lower half of its face was gone, and the rest engulfed itself into cinders. Surroundings quiet once more, she stood there staring at where the demon once lay. Disgust and unease flooded her bloodstream. 

She shuffled from one foot to the other. Mulling over the limited words the demon spoke. Sure, these creatures threatened people, especially slayers, but she can't recall one ever mentioning him in their final moments. She had to admit, it was odd, but it had to just be trying to strike fear into her. Which ultimately failed. Kibutsuji was a master at evading the corps or he was just a coward. The only one to have seen him in ages was Tanjiro and he should be thankful to be alive. If she ever came face to face with the creator of these things she wouldn’t hesitate to fight to her dying breath. That was the oath she pledged long ago, and she would be damned if she broke it. However, killing his creations would suffice for now. Taking in her surroundings, she groaned realizing she would arrive later than she hoped. 

————————————————————————

The streets of the district were flooded with people. Loud chattering and bright lights evaded her senses as she took it all in. It had been a while since she walked its streets, but not much had changed. There were still the festivities, women entertaining avaricious men and hidden trades. Pulling out some of the letters Tengen gave her, she skimmed through them and made note of the houses each wife “belonged” to. Tokito, Kyogoku, and Ogimoto. Three of the top houses in the district. 

She stepped out into the crowd, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sheer number of bodies. It seemed that wherever she looked, more people spawned and searched for whatever kind of entertainment suited them. It felt almost impossible that she was ever going to find clues to where Tengen’s wives may be.  Much less encounter them. Going straight up to the houses didn’t feel like the best idea to her. She didn’t want to deal with the heads. Besides, if they were missing, she doubted they would know anything. Much less disclose that information to a random woman on the streets. She would have to wait for the pathways to clear if she dared try and use her forms. Even then it may attract attention, but she had to do it. She made a promise.

Pushing through the waves of people, she excused herself a multitude of times before falling silent. Opting to stick to the edge of the crowd to avoid getting swept away by its tide. Her sword had been tucked under her haori and she held it close to her side almost protectively. It brought a sense of comfort as she knew that having it meant being able to dispatch almost anything if she felt it was necessary. 

Gripping the hilt, she flinched at the sudden pressure in her wrist. Looking down, she observed her thread and saw that it had tightened slightly. Pupils blown she jerked her head up. Looking at it as it weaved itself through the crowd of passersby.  

Are they here?

Following the line, she saw that it led to a prominent house in the district, the Kyogoku House. She felt a slight pang in her heart at the thought of her soulmate engaging with other women, but maybe that wasn’t the case. She reassured herself and stepped through the crowd. A few people rammed into her, and others mumbled vulgar things as she excused herself. Just checking wouldn’t hurt right? She couldn’t make much progress in the way of using her forms to locate Suma, Makio, and Hinatsuru until the masses died down anyway. At least, that’s what she told herself. Truth be told she was often unable to restrain herself when it came to certain things. Though rare, this was one of those times, but she would never admit that. 

Freeing herself from the horde she continued following the glowing fiber. It darted around a corner and felt tauter than ever before. She leaned against the wall of a building and took a deep breath. Her feet felt heavy as she stepped out from the corner. The area before her was dark. Not terribly so, but devoid of more people than the street behind her. A few mingled about and the lights gave off a subtle amber. Only illuminating a few feet away from their position. Surveying the scene, she followed the string as it stopped where darkness met light. 

A man stood there, back facing her. An obvious line hovered between them. Bleeding a scarlet hue. She squinted and stepped forward trying to get a better look at the man, but as her eyes adjusted, she froze. 

Air caught in her lungs, and she found it hard to breathe. Her mind went blank save for all but one memory. 

 ————————————————————————

Sitting next to his hospital bed at the Butterfly Mansion, she smiled softly at the young boy. He was bright, and his spirit spoke for him. It was quite rare to see such a youthful soul full of compassion and determination in the face of danger. 

“Tanjiro,” she started looking slightly downcast. “May I ask you a question?” 

He regarded her with that same smile and nodded his head. “Of course!”

Sucking in a breath, she looked away before locking her eyes with his. 

“What did Kibutsuji look like?” 

The smile that graced his face downturned as he gazed at his hands. Gripping the sheets until she swore, he would tear them. It was an immediate switch and fury radiated off him. He clenched his jaw as she went to speak but he cut her off before a sound could be uttered from her mouth. 

“Human,” he exhaled. “Completely human.” 

Cocking her head, she furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?” 

“He blended in with everyone. No one could tell that he was a demon. Only me,” the fire in his eyes smoldered as he continued. “His eyes were a deep red, black hair that hung closer to his shoulders in the front, pale skin, and he wore a black patterned suit with a white hat.” 

She could see him slightly shaking at the mention of Kibutsuji. Not from fear. It was anything but fear. 

At that moment she felt terrible. She had heard from Tomioka briefly about what had transpired in the mountains with Tanjiro’s family. Later, Tanjiro filled in the missing details himself. She felt reluctant to have learned of such an event as it felt too personal, but if he discerned her to be someone he could confide in, she wouldn’t turn him away. 

“I’ll kill him if it’s the last thing I do,” he seethed. “He’ll pay for what he’s done.” 

Remaining silent she observed him. Reaching out she put her hand on his shoulder. A means of comforting the boy, however, deep down she knew that no amount of comfort could close a wound so deep. Giving him a soft smile, she stood up. 

“I believe in you but be careful,” he looked up at her. The fire slowly smothered itself out. “You’re a good person but don’t get ahead of yourself. Your sister needs you. The corps needs you. There’s been too many people lost.” 

He studied her expression before giving her another big smile. “Right, of course!”

Regarding him with a nod of her head she turned to leave but paused. “And Tanjiro, just know you’re not alone.” 

 ————————————————————————

Bile rose and burned her throat. Swallowing her tongue was the only thing keeping her from retching. One hand pulled at her collar and the other shakily reached for the Tsuka of her Katana, the world around her seemed to slow and fall away. Gaze solely focused on the man feet away from her.

Jet black suit. A rustic gold pattern on parts.

Her eyes darted around. 

White hat.

She sucked in a breath.

Sickly skin. Dark hair.

Blood trickled and filled her mouth with iron as teeth punctured her lower lip. 

Mind racing, she pleaded for him to not turn around. This had to be a mistake. A coincidence even. There was no way this could be the same man that Tanjiro described. That this could be Kibutsuji. There had to be many others out there who looked similar. Her chest hurt from how hard her heart pounded. It was in her ears and a cold chill ran through her body. 

He appeared to be contemplating. Clearly sensing her gaping at him. Cocking his head in her direction, he fully pivoted it towards her. The coiling pit that constricted her stomach like a snake snapped. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth parted slightly. A choked noise fell on deaf ears. 

His gaze locked with hers and carnage churned in them.

The attachment tightened, locking. Signifying what she dreaded and didn’t want to admit once she feasted her eyes on him. 

His eyes were a cavernous crimson.

His pupils were slits. 

#demon slayer #kny x reader #muzan x y/n #kny muzan #muzan x reader #muzan kibutsuji #demon slayer muzan #muzan x you #muzan kibutsuji x reader #muzan kibutsuji x you #kibutsuji muzan #kibutsuji kny #kny x you #demon slayer x reader #x reader #x you #soulmates #muzan demon slayer #demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba muzan #kimetsu no yaiba

[yaksha-lover]

i’m obsessed with the thought of vil falling for someone who’s ugly. especially if it’s a forced proximity trope. triple points if it’s enemies to lovers!

there’s just something about a guy obsessed with beauty is shown that beauty doesn’t equal to value that melts me

omg i actually was obsessed with this concept a few months ago and i wrote a very short unfinished drabble (set in medieval au) about knight!vil falling for ‘ugly’ knight!reader but i didn’t think anyone would want to read about an ‘ugly’ reader 😭😭

i definitely agree tho the concept is so perfect for vil imo. like the idea of this guy who’s so fixated and obsessed with beauty (especially one who’s potentially been told that much of his worth lies in his looks) who ends up falling for someone very unconventional completely unintentionally. like theres’s a whole internal struggle in him that he doesn’t want to fall in love with this person. they’re an enemy, and unattractive at that.

but then he just can’t help but falling in love with their character; when they give hope to him and represent a goodness that he’d lost. someone who is called ugly and unwanted everyday by the world and manages to keep their head held high even if tears are pouring down their cheeks.

i think that’s a quality he’d admire a lot; kindness even when the world has been unkind. he wants to be good like that too. in a way, you’re like a mirror of the kind of goodness he wants to see in himself. you’re made fun of and put down at every turn and yet you do not let that stop you from being nice. whenever someone mocks vil, he can’t let it go, he can’t let himself be kind because it hurts and that’s the only protection he’s found.

also the idea of consciously thinking someone is unattractive but unconsciously starting to notice their eyes and lips and desire settling in- help-

unfinished drabble under the cut 👉👈 (also its fem reader bc i think medieval gender roles and the idea of ‘ugly’ woman x hot man couple is kind of important to the theme lol - aka this is just jaime x brienne rewritten but anyway-)

Vil truly believed you were ugly when he first met you. He almost never truly meant the term, but in this case, it was appropriate. Most everyone you encountered agreed. He could tell by how you’d stayed stone-faced at his cruel taunts, apparently used to it. Your features were just a bit too extreme, too out of place, too different. He’d used your appearance against you, scratching at every insecurity you’d thought of and probably some you hadn’t. Still, you hadn’t gotten angry as he’d hoped. You didn’t seek to harm him, even when he knew he’d struck a sore spot.

He persevered, but you’d never given in, despite his hopes that you would become blinded enough by anger and pain to give him a chance to escape. He admired you, in a way. It seemed as though life had beaten you down long before he’d come along, but a hardened rock had emerged from the erosion.

Sometimes his words would cut too deep for you to ignore. You never did anything rash, to his dismay, but he could tell they affected you. He didn’t feel bad; why should he? He was your hostage, and you his captor. Even if you were performing your duty, you were getting in the way of his own responsibilities, his life.

Vil was surprised to learn that you were a high-born like himself. Well, not exactly born to a family of his status and wealth, but a high-born nonetheless. He’d realized that he should’ve been addressing you with your Lady title, but you’d fought at soon as he’d tried.

No matter my origin, you know that no man sees me as a lady, Sir Vil.

-

They came, and they cut off his hair. One of them taunted him for being a beautiful husk. So they’d cut a deep gash across his face. Now your outside matches your inside, ‘Sir’, they’d mocked.

Vil had wished they’d cut off his head instead.

Later, after you’d managed to convince them to let you treat his wounds, he’d bemoaned to you.

Now we’re both grotesque, he’d said, a pair of freaks.

You’re not ugly, you just have a scar, you’d replied. You turned away from your task to face him. You’ll never know what it means to be ugly.

Even with his bitter remarks, you treated his wounds all the same. When he was too afraid to face himself in the reflection of the lake, you’d been the one to peel away his bandages and force him to look.

See, you’d said, not a monster, just a man.

He’d wondered if you were an angel at that moment, a saint. Or maybe you were a witch destined to lead him astray. He hadn’t really cared either way.

#twst medieval au #twst x reader #vil x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #vil schoenheit #twst #twisted wonderland #feverish-dove

[villainbait]

Sins of the Shrine - Prologue

Pairing: Heian!Sukuna x Reader

Rating: R

AO3 LINK

Chapter Warnings: heian period brutality, light body horror, thriller, curses do exist, sexual themes, eventually, torture, threats, graphic depictions of blood, ryomen sukuna is his own warning, pre-transcendance sukuna, potential manga spoilers

Summary:

The other miko had whispered of a shrine that separated the clearing of your own but you had forgotten their warning. It was very important, but you had forgotten it. A hushed warning about a demon that dwelled there, his cursed energy so thick it could choke you to death just by being in his presence- that's if you survived long enough for that to be your fate. Whether you come as a lover or an executioner, I am ready to receive you. -Agustin Gomez-Arcos

prologue ↠ i. ↠ ii.

Cursed energy swirls around you and it is stifling, making it hard to breathe as you’re chased through the woods. The crashing of tree branches as their brittle bark bounces off one another before falling onto the forest floor is deafening behind you. You can’t tell if it’s the pervasive suffocation you’ve grown accustomed to in the past week that lingers in the area or if it’s emanating from the monstrous creature on your heels.

A glint of white catches your attention from the corner of your eye but you can’t look – won’t look – trusting that whatever it is in the darkness is uninterested in you this night; your legs pumping faster as you race towards the unknown. As you move deeper into the forest, the malevolent energy grows even more oppressive and you’re desperately taking in air with every step, already starting to get dizzy. The other miko had whispered of a shrine on the other side of the copse of wilderness that separated the clearing of your own shrine, but your hope was wearing thin until you saw the break in the trees.

A large, looming torii arches above the tree tops and even in the darkness you can make out the warm illumination of braziers flanking the ornate entrance to the shrine. For the life of you, you could not remember who that shrine belonged to, but in this moment you didn’t care. The quiet, lighthearted promise you make to yourself that whatever deity haunted it would be the new god you prayed to if you survived tonight goes unspoken in face of the prevailing danger in the darkness.

You stumble through the arch and the energy here is unbearably thick, but you persevere despite the obvious warning to stay away; the spirit already crashing through the same split in the trees you had. The mournful warbling as it wails raises the hair on the back of your neck and you can feel its heavy footfalls reverberate through the ground as it races into the clearing. Stupidly, you risk a glance over your shoulder and trip – tumbling to the ground with a cry of surprise; landing in an unceremonious heap.

Dirt clings under your nails as you claw at the ground for purchase, scrambling only to slip and fall again. The thunderous sound of footsteps behind you is close, too close, and you whip around to face your death head on. You would not die running away and raise your hands in the mimicry of a gesture as the spirit scurries lopsidedly towards you; its grotesque tongues lolling lazily out of its mouth. The drool from those tongues hit the ground with hisses and stings as it corrodes the very earth under its feet. You shudder in revulsion and fear, shrinking back at the rancid smell of it when it reaches your nose. In a last desperate attempt, you make the peculiar gesture that you had seen only once when it came to you in a dream; feeling utterly silly if this is how you die but pinning every hope on it being a sign of salvation instead.

Sweat trickles down your spine and you can smell the rot of the creature as it reaches you and it makes you want to vomit-

-so you hold your breath and pray fervently to the god of this shrine.

A/N: Hi everyone, thank you for taking the time to read this prologue. This is the start to my sukuna longfic and I apologize in advance. The outline itself is a monster at 8k words so I am very much in the trenches with it already. I really hope that you enjoy the ride and I hope that I can do this freaky little nerd justice. I will add chapter tags as I go, but I definitely think I got the major themes that will be present in the fic. If anything heavy or triggering happens, I'll be sure to plaster warnings where needed.

#jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #my writing #fanfiction #sukuna ryomen #sukuna ryomen x reader

[rosepicker]

ALEXIS NESS ONE-SHOT

Theme/Genre: Horror

MDNI!!!

Tw: smut, breeding kink, slapping, pet names, pregnancy, dubcon, ghost

Ever since you moved into your new apartment, chosen primarily for its convenient proximity to your college, unsettling events have begun to unfold within the confines of your once-promising abode.

Each venture into the bathroom is accompanied by a creeping sense of dread, as though unseen eyes track your every move from behind the flimsy veil of the shower curtains. The air grows heavy with anticipation, and a shiver runs down your spine as you catch fleeting glimpses of a shadowy presence darting just out of sight.

During showers, the feeling intensifies. A dark silhouette seems to materialize behind the curtain, its form shifting and contorting in the steam-filled enclosure. Your heart races as you reach for the curtain, half-expecting to find a spectral intruder waiting on the other side. Yet, with each pull, there is only emptiness—a chilling void that echoes your growing sense of unease.

Initially, the idea of abandoning your new home seemed like the only logical course of action. However, the prospect of finding another affordable apartment within such close proximity to campus proved to be a daunting task. Reluctantly, you resigned yourself to enduring the unnerving occurrences, hoping against hope that they would eventually cease on their own accord.

But fate had other plans.

One fateful night, as the witching hour approached and the world outside fell into a hushed slumber, you found yourself nestled beneath the covers, seeking refuge from the oppressive heat that permeated the air. Clad in nothing more than an oversized sleeveless shirt, you tossed and turned, unable to find respite from the stifling humidity.

As sleep began to claim you, a strange sensation washed over you—a feeling of being watched, of being studied with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. Groggily, you opened your eyes, only to be met with a sight that froze the blood in your veins.

Standing at the foot of your bed was a figure cloaked in darkness, its features obscured by the shadows that danced across the room. Its presence loomed over you, a silent specter that seemed to draw the very warmth from the air. And as you gazed into its piercing magenta eyes, you knew with a sinking certainty that your troubles were far from over.

As you attempted to scream, terror coursing through every fiber of your being, a chilling hand clamped over your mouth, stifling any sound that dared to escape. The room plunged into an eerie silence, broken only by the ragged sound of your breath and the ominous presence looming over you in the darkness.

"Don't even think about screaming, little girl," the voice echoed, its tones warped and distorted, sending shivers down your spine. It was a voice unlike any you had ever heard—inhuman, unnatural, and filled with a malevolence that chilled you to the core.

As your eyes adjusted to the dim light, you could make out the figure of a young man, his form translucent and ghostly, blending seamlessly with the shadows that enveloped the room. Despite his human-like appearance, there was an otherworldly quality to him, something that set your heart racing with primal fear.

With a swift and deliberate motion, he pressed you down onto the soft mattress, his weight pinning you in place as though you were nothing more than a helpless insect beneath his grasp. His hands, cold and clammy against your skin, held you captive, one restraining your wrists above your head while the other traced a torturous path down the curve of your waist.

You flinched as his nails grazed your flesh, leaving angry red marks in their wake, a painful reminder of your vulnerability in the face of this spectral intruder. For a moment, his touch lingered, his fingers inching ever closer to the hem of your shirt, a silent threat hanging in the air like a dark omen.

With a cruel smile twisting his features into a grotesque parody of humanity, he paused, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. In that moment, you realized that you were at the mercy of something far more sinister than anything you had ever imagined, and the true horror of your situation began to dawn upon you.

When the ghost-like young man was gazing at you, he felt a strong urge to remove your sleeveless shirt. Effortlessly, he ripped it apart. "Now aren't you a pretty little thing?" he whispered seductively as his gaze lingered on your body from the moment you entered this apartment. It drove him crazy not being able to touch your petite frame sooner.

His free hand descended slowly towards your damp panties and he caressed them with his middle and ring finger. You couldn't help but moan softly as his other hand muffled any louder sound escaping from your lips while he admired your vulnerable state, deciding to make full use of it.

His grin widened as he savored the soft moans emanating from you, which only increased his desire to touch you intimately. "Looks like you're enjoying this," he purred teasingly before inserting two fingers into your tight and untouched pussy. He pulled out his hand, staring at the mixture of moisture and blood on his fingers; a testament to your virginity.

As he saw you responding to his touch so passionately, he decided to release your restrained wrists and raise one of your legs up, offering him a clearer view of your drenched slit. "I wasn't expecting such eagerness from you," he mused huskily. "Usually, people either struggle or succumb in pain after being subjected to this treatment." He chuckled ominously while you were so lost in pleasure that you barely heard a word he said.

After you climaxed and coated his fingers in your juices up to his knuckles, he relished sucking it off slowly while you panted heavily from your first orgasm. Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced between your thighs as something sizable pushed its way inside your virgin pussy. The ghost with gradually shifting brown-to-magenta hair grinned wickedly at you as he pounded into you forcefully, making you sob from a mix of excruciating pleasure and pain.

His girthy cock overwhelmed you, causing you to arch your back and squeeze around his immense thickness eliciting a gruff moan from him. "Stay still, whore," he warned as he smacked your ass playfully before licking his lips at the sight of your jiggling booty; it further fueled his desire. Conquered by the intense sensations emanating from deep within, he pushed past your cervix with an unrelenting determination.

Eventually, he reached his peak, flooding your womb with a copious amount of hot cum that saturated the walls of your pink passage. His sperm seeped through your cervix and caressed your uterus from inside. " oops, looks like I just made you pregnant," he taunted teasingly as you slowly lost consciousness.

As you drift off to sleep, the ghost vanished into thin air, leaving you in a blissful afterglow of passion and fulfillment.

Hours later, you wake up feeling heavy down under and groggy-headed; your instincts immediately tell you what had occurred last night. With trembling hands, you touch your bloated stomach softly; confirming his mockery – indeed, pregnancy knocks on your doorstep now.

#fandom #writing #smut #fanfic #blue lock #bllk smut #bllk x reader #bllk #blue lock x reader #alexis ness #ness alexis #alexis ness x reader #alexis smut

[sweetvoidstuff]

Soulbound II Cha Hyun Su x Reader

Written for @neohumanmonster Valentine's Event

Tropes: Soulmate Marks

Cha Hyun Su x Reader

Summary: You are on a quest to find your soulmate, Cha Hyun Su, amidst the chaos of monstrous transformations it leads to an unexpected alliance and a bond that defies the darkness consuming the world.

Potential trigger warnings: Themes of apocalypse, monstrous transformations, loss of loved ones, grief, existential despair, and emotional turmoil.

Masterlist

~~~~~

In a world that is at its last leg, where humanity teetered on the brink of extinction due to a mysterious affliction that turned individuals into monstrous beings fueled by their strongest desires, you embarked on a journey to find your soulmate, someone called Cha Hyun Su. It was a quest born from the innocent discovery of his name etched on your wrist on your 14th birthday, that happens to everybody. A revelation that ignited a desire to learn the foreign language on your skin and seek him out once you were of age.

Years later, as you finally set foot in the distant land where you hoped your soulmate resided, the world around you plunged into madness. Humans began transforming into grotesque creatures, their desires mutating them beyond recognition and manifested in grotesque transformations, twisting individuals into monstrous beings. It hadn't been two weeks since your arrival when the first cases of monstrous transformation began to surface. Yet, your determination to find Hyun Su remained unwavering, even as the whispers of transformation echoed in your own soul.

Despite experiencing symptoms of transformation yourself, your determination to find your soulmate eclipsed the monstrous urges clawing at your soul. You became a half-monster, straddling the line between humanity and monstrosity as you navigated the perilous landscape in search of your Soulmate. Your own voice mocking your wish to find your soulmate at every stepp on your journey, but you were determined. You wouldn’t let yourself turn, wouldn’t die in a foreign country, not till you saw him. You hadn’t put yourself throw all this hardship for your other half to simply take the easy way out. But her laughter, that he might have, that all your sacrifice are in vain got to you.

Amidst the desolation, you encountered a lone survivor, a man who had lost his own soulmate to the darkness consuming the world. His tale weighed heavy on your heart, threatening to extinguish the flicker of hope that burned within you. But you pressed on, driven by the promise of love and companionship.

Days turned into nights, and the lines between friend and foe blurred in the merciless wilderness. You formed an unlikely alliance with the lone survivor, finding solace in each other's company as you shared stories of loss and longing. Together, you braved the dangers lurking around every corner, clinging to the hope that your soulmate awaited you somewhere in the chaos.

Returning to your makeshift camp one evening, you witnessed a heartbreaking scene unfold before your eyes. A girl, her face contorted with fear, pushed away your companion. All you could do was to watch helplessly as he succumbed to the monstrous transformation within seconds.

The night air was thick with tension as you stood, tears streaking down your cheeks, confronted by the reality of your friend's transformation. His once-human form twisted and contorted, consumed by the darkness that now ruled the world. Anguish and rage warred within you as you struggled to comprehend the cruelty of fate.

The girl responsible for his transformation stood before you, her expression a mix of fear and defiance. But your grief drowned out any semblance of reason, leaving only a burning desire for retribution. You moved towards her, fueled by a primal need to lash out at the injustice that had stolen your friend from you.

But before you could act, a figure emerged from the shadows, his presence commanding attention. His voice cut through the chaos like a knife, halting your advance with a single word: "Enough."

You turned towards him, your anger still smoldering beneath the surface. "Enough?" you spat, your voice thick with emotion. "Look at him! She turned him! He was a person! He was my friend."

Tears continued to flow unabated as you struggled to articulate the depth of your sorrow. The weight of loss threatened to crush you, but you refused to yield to despair. You had come too far, fought too hard to let tragedy define you.

The boy before you watched, his expression a mirror of your own heartache. His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, as if trying to convey a message that words alone could not express. And then, almost hesitantly, he spoke.

"I am sorry," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Your anger flared anew at his apology, the injustice of it all too much to bear.

„Sorry doesn’t really cut it. He…“ fighting the tears, you continued. „He was fighting. It was hard, but he was holding on, trying. Even after his soulmate turned. Now he is just, flesh trapped by his desire. Just keep her away from me!“ you said. But as you wiped away your tears, you felt a spark of recognition deep within your soul but brushing it away, angryly starting to pack your stuff. The boys eyes burned at your movement, his expression mirroring the anguish in your heart. Watching every muscle you moved. With a trembling voice, he quietly called out your name, and you looked up, shock written across your face. The name etched on your skin suddenly felt heavier, more significant than ever before.

You looked up at him, your gaze locking with his own. His eyes held a mixture of hope and fear, as if uncertain of what your reaction would be. And then, with a voice filled with equal parts disbelief and longing, you spoke his name.

"Cha Hyun Su?"

He nodded slowly, his expression one of quiet acceptance. It was him. Your soulmate. The realization washed over you like a wave, sweeping away the doubts and fears that had plagued you for so long.

Hyun Su’s heart clenched at the sight of your tears, the weight of your journey etched in every drop that fell from your eyes. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out hesitantly, as if afraid you might vanish before his eyes. But you remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear your gaze away from him.

People had made fun of the foreign name on his arm. A lazy foreigner he would never even have the chance to meet they said. But now you were here bevor him, at practically the end of the world, alive and well and speaking his language. “I didn’t know you were still alive. Or even this close to me,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with equal parts disbelief and relief.

You sniffled, trying to compose yourself as a wave of emotions threatened to overwhelm you. “You have no idea what hell I walked through to find you,” you admitted, your voice trembling with raw emotion.

But despite the tears staining your cheeks, there was a glimmer of hope in your eyes, a sense of peace that came with finally finding your soulmate amidst the chaos.

Hyun Su reached out tentatively, his hand trembling as it hovered in the air between you. His gaze flickered with uncertainty, his mind filled with doubts and fears about what you might think of him now that his true nature was revealed.

"I... I don't know if I'm safe to be around," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm... I'm not fully human anymore."

Your heart ached at the pain and insecurity reflected in his eyes. Gently, you took his hand in yours, offering him a reassuring smile.

"It doesn't matter," you said softly, your voice filled with conviction. "Nowhere is safe anymore, and you are my soulmate. I just want to finally get to know you. I want to find out myself who you are."

His breath caught in his throat at your words, the weight of your acceptance washing over him like a soothing balm. Slowly, hesitantly, he closed the distance between you, his hand enveloping yours in a gentle embrace.

"You... you're not afraid of me?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

You shook your head, your gaze unwavering as you met his eyes.

"No," you replied firmly. "I'm not afraid. In fact, I've been trying to hold onto my humanity, to stay true to myself, all because I wanted to meet you, my soulmate."

A flicker of emotion passed across his features, a mixture of awe and gratitude.

"You... you are like me?" he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Yes," you said, squeezing his hand gently. "And now that we've found each other, nothing else matters."

His doubts began to melt away in the warmth of your acceptance, replaced by a newfound sense of hope and belonging. With a sense of determination burning in his heart, he leaned in closer, his forehead resting against yours.

"I'm here now," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath against your skin. "And I'm not letting you go."

Your heart swelled with love and gratitude as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. Together, you knew you could face whatever challenges lay ahead, united by a bond that transcended the darkness consuming the world. In each other's embrace, you found solace and strength, ready to take on whatever the future held.

#cha hyun su x reader #sweet home netflix #sweet home x reader #cha hyun soo #cha hyun soo x reader #cha hyunsu #sweet home #sweet home imagines #kdrama #song kang #cha hyun su #cha hyunsoo #sweet home 2 #hyun su #hyun soo #one shot

[irregularcollapse]

hi i think i saw in the tags of a post that you would like to talk about damen in relation to the romantic hero. please do talk about damen

i love your storiea a lot btw

YES okay yesssss ALRIGHT thank you so much for prompting me. I get nervous about just making analysis posts without someone asking me something, because I feel like people aren't interested in what I have to say. But that doesn't matter, thank you for asking, anon!

So I say some things about Damen as a romantic hero in this post here but I really wanted to elaborate. Just to be clear, I'm not saying Romantic hero (literary archetype), but romantic hero as in, hero in the romance genre; a type of love interest.

The first thing to pick apart is the genre of the trilogy. In terms of genre, they are definitively (despite what some people say) romance books. Specifically, they are what we call open door romances, being that sexual content appears on page (as opposed to closed door romances, in which sexual content is allusive or happens off page). The political/war plot points do not negate them being romances, and they aren't 'better' than other romances because of the external plot. I feel like there's a lot of defensiveness about these books being 'not just romances,' but honestly, backhanded compliments like that reveal nothing but a lack of genre awareness. But that's another rant lmfao ignore that.

The really interesting thing is that the narrative setup has the markers of erotica, as opposed to romance. The distinction is really important in terms of genre function and categorisation. Erotica is concerned with telling a story that focuses on sexual themes; romance centres on the development of a romantic relationship between two people. Book 1 of the trilogy is largely constructed and developed as an exploration/indulgence of slave kink for the gratification of the reader. This recent post beautifully explains a concept which the OP has coined a fantastic term for: when the kink which the story is indulging is not acknowledged by the characters. OP marks the distinction between diegetic (for the characters) and non-diegetic (for the readers) kink and BDSM, borrowing terms typically used for music in film: to reiterate, Book 1 functions largely as slave kink erotica for the gratification of the reader. It isn't an endorsement of actual historical Greek/Roman slavery; it's erotica written for adults who know how to distinguish between fantasy and reality and that kinks aren't a reflection of a person's morals. It's play, and the characters are all dolls putting on a scene for the reader's enjoyment.

But the books don't—can't—stay within those genre confines, and it's because of Damen. He's quite simply too dimensional.

The first way that Damen contravenes the genre is that he introduces the notion of consent (to clarify, consent has little to no function in non-diegetic erotica). He tries to contain his internal horror as he witnesses the staged rape performed by pets for the courtiers; he argues for the Akielon slaves, on the grounds that mistreating them is an abuse of the consent they have given. Damen's personal morals and worldview serve to expose what makes the entertainments and performance of kink in Vere so grotesque: the consent is forced, or coerced. There is no true choice. It is Damen's morality, this deep-rooted concern for the acquiescence and pleasure of both (all) participants in sex, that shift the genre which Damen exists in from erotica to romance. It is Damen's morality which gives the seduction legs to play out across three books (each book clocking in at under 80k, for perspective).

So we are firmly in the (open door) romance genre, and it's because of Damen. Damen is the Main Character, which means the other role that needs to be filled is the Love Interest. Something key to remember about the romance genre and its history is that it is predominantly heterosexual, and it is predominantly female-focused. The genre also, crucially, serves fantasy fulfillment. It is a uniquely escapist genre in a way that no other genre is, because escapism is the primary intention of a romance book. This is also why so many famed or recognisable romance books feature that "I'm just a girl" protagonist: she's plain, she's not exceptional, she doesn't know she's beautiful, she has been waiting for the right guy, she's got hidden potential—she could be the reader, right? She could be any reader within the target demographic. The real reason why, historically, people were reading romance books was for the Love Interest.

The LI is (or perhaps it's more accurate to say 'was') more often than not an archetype of appealing masculinity. He would doubtlessly be physically imposing—other men simply can't compare—but would only use his power to defend or pleasure the MC. He would be focused on her satisfaction, would be willing to sacrifice everything for her, would see her in a way that no one else would or could. He would court her, but make his intent clear, and be overcome with sexual desire for her (but of course, deferential to her pleasure as well). If he uses force, she likes it because she trusts him, and she has likely had traumatic experiences with other men that he is careful of. Prior to him, she was trapped; through loving her, he frees her.

Does it all sound a bit familiar?

I said in the other post that Damen assumes the role of "romancer," making Laurent the "romancee." In a typical romance novel structure, the reader would be putting themselves into Laurent's position, the character who the romancer/Love Interest's attention is directed towards. We see the romancer/romancee dynamic play out in the way that Damen "makes love" to Laurent with words, saying all the romantic things which come to him; in the way he leaps to Laurent's physical defense, particularly when Laurent's physical autonomy is compromised; in the way he always checks for comfort and consent in a way that Laurent is able to respond to. Even though their first sexual encounter is technically initiated by Laurent, it is only due to Damen's ongoing courtship (although that scene almost warrants a whole other long-winded post oh my god).

This is all what makes Damen such a singular and compelling main character: not only does he force the genre of his story to change, but he transforms the role that he should archetypically play as the MC. He also, however, transforms the role of the romantic hero, once again because of how dimensional he is. I pick apart that dimensionality a bit in this post, but his layers and humanity and everything that go into making Damen a sympathetic character are what makes him such a good romantic hero, which in itself is sort of a paradox: he carries self doubt, and is decidedly not the hypermasculine brute which he is perceived to be, and as such is a more nuanced and rounded character than the typical romance book LI has been historically. He functions as a deliberate subversion of those tropes, and it is his roles as both MC and romantic hero that allow the readers to see the ways in which Laurent also deliberately subverts the romance tropes within which his character fits.

It is very interesting to me to think about one thematic angle of the books being "shades of grey," as in, a directive to resist black-and-white thinking and to dig deeper into motivation and reason. I've said elsewhere that this is the lesson that Laurent learns just as much as it is the lesson which Damen learns, and applies just as much on a structural level: the reader is invited to recognise the tropes and archetypes which they may find familiar from other erotica and other romance fiction, but they are then positioned to dig deeper and see what lies underneath those initial impressions.

I think I'll have to leave it there, because my eyes are getting blurry and my brain is getting really foggy, and I've sort of lost my train of thought so I really hope this makes some sort of sense lmao. But if there's anything else you want to ask, or anything you need me to clarify, please reach out again! As you can see, I have a lot to say about Damen's character <3

(But also, please read my current WIP a storm that took everything because it is all about being in Damen's head and what's going on in there I love him to bits)

#asks #anonymous #i was trying to keep these replies out of the tags #by putting the fandom tag at the end of my tag list #but apparently that didn't work #so i guess it's going in the tag then #captive prince #(i want to keep my own blog semi-organised at least)

[darknesseddiem]

𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐳: 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝟔𝟔

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: In the shadowy annals of crime, a figure emerges, casting a chilling pall over the world. Eddie Munson, infamous for his macabre deeds as a serial killer, now stirs fear with an unprecedented proposal. Like a sinister weaver, Eddie prepares to embroider a fabric saturated with long-held vengeance. Whispers of his scheme cloak his intentions in darkness, leaving observers to ponder the depths of his depravity.

Each stitch in his plan weaves a sinister narrative, drawing the curious into the abyss of his psyche. As intrigue mounts, the world braces for Eddie Munson's cryptic request, poised to unravel reality itself, ushering forth chaos and terror.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: +18 MDNI, gore, mentions of blood; violence, descriptions of torture and death, Eddie is a serial killer, cannibalism, cruelty, mistery, Eddie is on the death row, mentions Chrissy's mother and allusion to her death.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Please be advised that this series of stories delves into darker and more disturbing themes than my previous works. The content will include highly sensitive and grotesque subject matter. If you find yourself uncomfortable with such material, it's perfectly understandable. Your well-being is paramount, and your decision to refrain from reading is respected.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,4K

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫.

Fell free to support my works with some 𝐊𝐨-𝐅𝐢!

In the somber depths of the penitentiary's labyrinthine corridors, where the very air seemed to congeal with foreboding, the flickering glow of pale moonlight dared not venture. Within these subterranean confines, an imposing edifice of concrete and steel stood sentinel, its walls steeped in the crimson stains of untold atrocities perpetrated by the merciless hands of those who had transgressed against the sanctity of innocent lives. This fortress, a bastion of unforgiving incarceration, cast its shadow over all who dared to tread its bleak corridors, an inescapable abyss of despair and anguish.

Descending further still, into the bowels of this infernal domain, lay the deepest recesses of confinement - a purgatory reserved for the most depraved and desolate souls. Here, shrouded in perpetual darkness and devoid of even the faintest glimmer of sunlight or human contact, languished men and women so irredeemably profane that they had become naught but spectral echoes of their former selves. Condemned to an eternity of solitude and torment, they withered away in the suffocating embrace of isolation, their existence a cruel mockery of the vibrant world they once knew.

Amidst this realm of despair and desolation, a singular figure loomed in the shadows - the enigmatic inmate of Cell 66, a nameless specter whose very presence invoked dread and apprehension. Eddie Munson, a man cloaked in the chilling aura of mystery, stood as an epitome of cold-blooded savagery, his nefarious deeds shrouded in the veils of silence and secrecy. For a decade, he had steadfastly refused to divulge the twisted tapestry of his dark past, his lips sealed with an iron resolve that defied the relentless interrogation of law enforcement.

Eddie Munson, age of 28, stood accused of crimes so heinous and grotesque that they defied comprehension - murder, slaughter, torture, and the ultimate depravity of cannibalism. The latter having as victim his father, William Munson, the man had his heart ripped out of his body while he was still breathing, and eaten by his own son.

His victims, numbering unknown, bore the indelible mark of his sadistic cruelty, their anguished cries silenced forever in the abyss of oblivion. Yet, despite the relentless onslaught of interrogation and torture, Eddie remained an impenetrable enigma, his psyche a labyrinthine maze of madness and malevolence that confounded even the most seasoned investigators.

In a desperate bid to extract the truth from him, they exhausted every tool in the arsenal of human torment. Shock therapy surged through his veins like bolts of lightning, while hypnosis sought to unravel the tangled web of his mind. Sleep deprivation gnawed at his sanity, each minute stretching into an eternity of agony. Temperature manipulation plunged him into the icy depths of despair, while purposeful drowning submerged him in a watery abyss of terror.

Yet, despite their relentless efforts, the truth remained elusive, shrouded in the darkness of his twisted psyche. As the investigators and police faced the grim reality of their failure, they reluctantly conceded defeat. With heavy hearts and haunted souls, they consigned him to the unforgiving confines of death row, where the specter of execution loomed ominously over him like a shadowy executioner awaiting his final reckoning.

Perched upon a cold, unforgiving chair, Eddie Munson found himself shackled before a cadre of stern-faced law enforcement officials. The putrid hue of his garb, a garish orange jumpsuit, seemed to mock the gravity of the situation, its color reminiscent of flames licking at the edges of his very existence.

As he awaited his fate, the weight of his crimes hung heavy in the air, a palpable presence that suffocated the room with an oppressive sense of dread. The gaze of the officers bore into him with a mix of contempt and morbid fascination, as if they were peering into the depths of a bottomless abyss, searching for a glimmer of humanity amidst the darkness.

The clang of metal against metal echoed through the chamber as the handcuffs tightened around his wrists, a stark reminder of his loss of freedom and impending doom. And yet, despite the grim tableau unfolding before him, Munson remained eerily composed, his eyes betraying no hint of remorse or regret, but instead, harboring a chilling calmness that sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to meet his gaze.

"I, Judge William Bennet Carver," the judge's voice reverberated through the solemn courtroom, each syllable weighted with the gravity of the impending verdict, "sentence Edward James Munson for the heinous crimes of murder, slaughter, cannibalism, torture, concealment of a corpse, violence, and femicide, to face the ultimate justice: the electric chair."

The resounding thud of the judge's gavel against the polished wood punctuated his decree, sending a chilling ripple through the hushed chamber. Yet, amid the somber atmosphere, a twisted smirk danced upon Eddie's pallid visage, his lips curling into a sinister grin that betrayed a morbid amusement at his own demise.

The dim light of the courtroom cast eerie shadows across his features, accentuating the gleam in his eyes that flickered with an unsettling blend of defiance and derangement. To Eddie, the solemn pronouncement of his fate seemed to serve only as fuel for the perverse amusement that bubbled within him, a dark amusement born of a mind steeped in darkness and depravity.

As the weight of his sentence settled upon him like a suffocating shroud, Eddie's gaze remained locked upon the judge, his expression an unsettling mixture of defiance and amusement. For in the face of impending doom, he found only a perverse delight in the twisted game of fate that had brought him to this chilling juncture.

Before the attendees could muster the resolve to depart the trial chamber, a chilling silence settled over the room like a suffocating fog. Yet, amidst the palpable tension, a voice shattered the eerie stillness, cutting through the air with an unsettling cadence that sent shivers down the spines of those present.

It was Eddie, his voice devoid of the usual satisfaction that accompanied his macabre deeds, each word dripping with a cold detachment that belied the horrors lurking within his psyche. As if emerging from the depths of a nightmare, his utterance hung heavy in the air, a spectral presence that seemed to linger long after the sound had faded.

The unexpectedness of his speech sent shockwaves through the gathered throng, their eyes widening in disbelief at the audacity of this monstrous figure to break the oppressive silence that had enveloped the chamber. And yet, despite the chill that coursed through their veins, there was an undeniable allure to Eddie's words, a morbid curiosity that compelled them to hang upon his every syllable, like moths drawn to the flame of his dark presence.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a harbinger of terror, his voice a haunting echo of the abyss from which he had emerged, leaving all who bore witness to wonder what other horrors lay concealed within the depths of his twisted mind.

"Before you lend me to my inevitable fate," Eddie's voice sliced through the heavy air, his tone carrying an unsettling calmness that seemed incongruent with his looming demise, "there is a final thing I must ask."

The twisted curvature of his lips formed a grotesque grin, a stark contrast against the grim backdrop of the courtroom. His smile, more akin to a rictus of madness, sent shivers coursing down the spines of those assembled, each icy caress leaving behind a trail of apprehension and dread.

The macabre spectacle of Eddie's grin seemed to warp the very fabric of reality, casting a pall of unease over the room as if the darkness within him threatened to consume all who dared to behold it. And yet, despite the visceral discomfort it elicited, there was an undeniable magnetism to his presence, drawing the gaze of onlookers like moths to the flame of his twisted charisma.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a specter of malevolence, his smile a haunting reminder of the horrors that lurked within the depths of his depraved soul. And as the weight of his words hung heavy in the air, the gathered throng braced themselves for the chilling revelation that awaited, knowing all too well that whatever he had to say would only serve to deepen the darkness that enveloped them all.

“Nothing you say will save you, Mr. Munson.” Judge Carver said seriously.

"Indeed, Judge Carver," Eddie's voice echoed through the chamber, carrying an eerie calmness that seemed to mock the severity of his situation. His gaze, like obsidian pools devoid of remorse, bore into the judge with an unsettling intensity, as if daring him to peer into the abyss of his twisted psyche.

A grim chuckle escaped Eddie's lips, its echo reverberating off the walls like a sinister melody. "Save me?" he mused, the words dripping with a venomous disdain that sent a shiver down the spine of all who heard. "Oh, dear judge, salvation is but a distant memory in the shadowed recesses of my existence."

The air seemed to thicken with tension as the weight of Eddie's words hung heavy in the room, casting a pall of unease over the gathered throng. And yet, despite the palpable discomfort that permeated the chamber, there was an undeniable allure to his defiance, a morbid fascination with the darkness that lurked within him.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a testament to the depths of human depravity, his words a chilling reminder of the horrors that lay concealed within the darkest corners of the human soul. And as the judge's stern gaze bore down upon him, Eddie met it with a steely resolve, knowing full well that no words could save him from the abyss into which he had willingly descended.

"I want my story to be told to the world," Eddie's voice sliced through the tense atmosphere of the courtroom, each syllable laden with a sinister promise that sent a shiver down the spine of every witness. Gasps of shock rippled through the room, eyes widening in disbelief as if Eddie had uttered a profanity that defied comprehension.

"But... on one condition," he continued, his words hanging in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating all who dared to breathe in their ominous implications. The palpable anxiety in the room intensified, a suffocating weight pressing down upon the gathered throng, rendering them paralyzed in a state of morbid anticipation.

The silence that followed was deafening, a tangible presence that seemed to fill the room with a foreboding sense of dread. Each heartbeat thundered in their ears like a drumbeat of impending doom, the rhythm echoing the pulse of their mounting fear.

And then, with a voice that cut through the silence like a blade, Eddie delivered his chilling demand: "Bring her to me." The words hung in the air like a curse, casting a shadow over the room as the gravity of his request sank in. In that moment, the darkness that lurked within Eddie Munson's twisted soul spilled forth, enveloping all who bore witness in its malevolent embrace.

As Eddie's demand reverberated through the room, a hushed murmuring rose among the spectators, whispers of unease intertwining with the palpable tension that gripped them all. Judge Carver, his brow furrowed with concern, exchanged a glance with the bailiffs, uncertainty etched in their solemn expressions.

Suddenly, from the back of the courtroom, a figure emerged, cloaked in shadows and bearing an aura of ominous dread. It was a woman, her features obscured by darkness, yet her presence radiated an eerie calmness that seemed to quell the rising panic.

With measured steps, she approached the bench, her gaze fixed upon Eddie with an intensity that bordered on obsession. And as she drew closer, the dim light revealed the haunting familiarity of her visage—a haunting resemblance to one of Eddie's victims, long thought to be lost to the annals of his depravity.

A collective gasp swept through the room as the truth dawned upon them all, a revelation so horrifying that it threatened to shatter the fragile facade of their reality. For in that moment, it became clear that Eddie's request was not merely a macabre whim, but a sinister plot to unleash a new chapter of terror upon the world—one that would plunge them all into the depths of darkness from which there could be no escape.

"It's about time I found you, Munson," the words cut through the air like a frigid wind, each syllable dripping with a chilling resolve that sent shivers down everyone's spine. The voice, belonging to a middle-aged woman, resonated with an underlying tremor, hinting at the depths of her pent-up anguish and fury.

Eddie's gaze locked onto the woman, his expression unreadable yet tinged with a flicker of recognition that danced behind his steely facade. The name she uttered—Selenne Cunningham—stirred a distant memory within him, a memory veiled in the shadowy recesses of his consciousness.

A sinister smile curled at the corners of Eddie's lips, a perverse amusement twinkling in his eyes like the glint of a predator stalking its prey. "Ah, Selenne Cunningham," he purred, his voice laced with a venomous edge that mirrored her own icy tone. "Your daughter... such a delicate flower, crushed beneath the weight of my artistry."

The room fell silent, the tension thickening with each passing moment as the gravity of their confrontation hung heavy in the air.

With the first thread of Munson's sinister plot meticulously woven, the tendrils of his malevolence unfurled like a dark shadow, poised to ensnare those who unwittingly danced within its grasp. The nefarious machinations of Eddie Munson, honed to a razor's edge, stood poised to carve a path of unfathomable destruction through the lives of all who had dared to cross his path.

As the tendrils of his wickedness coiled with calculated precision, a palpable sense of foreboding descended upon those ensnared within the web of his deceit. Edward Munson, a specter of malevolence risen from the depths of darkness, loomed large on the horizon, his presence casting a long shadow that threatened to engulf all who stood in his wake.

With a chilling resolve that echoed through the corridors of fate, he returned from the abyss, his resolve steeled by the bitter taste of past failures. This time, there would be no room for error, no margin for mercy.

Eddie Munson had returned, and with him came a reckoning so dark and terrible that none would emerge unscathed.

#darknesseddiemfics #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddiemunson #dark!eddie munson #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson imagine #bestfriend!eddie munson #older!eddie munson #eddie the freak munson

[pacificationof]

Balkan Baroque

The whole idea that by washing bones and trying to scrub the blood, is impossible.You can't wash the blood from your hands as you can't wash the shame from the war. But also it was important to transcend it, that can be used, this image, for any war, anywhere in the world. So to become from personal there can be universal.

— Marina Abramović

In this visceral performance, Marina Abramovic sits amidst a vast heap of bloody cow bones, meticulously washing them while singing folk songs from her youth. Titled "Balkan Baroque," the piece is a response to the scars of war in her homeland, the former Yugoslavia. Three video projections convey themes of violence and trauma.

The artist spends four days amidst 1,500 fresh beef bones, her dress increasingly stained by blood. The piece unabashedly confronts death's brutality and the body's grotesqueness, evoking an overwhelming response from viewers, almost consuming in its portrayal of violence and mortality. Despite the scene's magnitude resembling a mass grave, Abramovic skillfully retains a sense of grieving the individual amidst this immense portrayal of death.

#marina abramovic #performance art #Symbolism #ConceptualArt

[jaylleoo14]

Its not the spooky season anymore 😔 But I dont need it as an excuse to write it!

TW// Dark/gory/horror themes up ahead so tread carefully

I've been thinking, imagine what the characters would be like as serial killers. Who would be a best fit for one? And honestly, I feel like I'm able to write all of them as possible ones, well except for Ortho. Okay and maybe for Silver too but everyone else I think I can make do with it. I think.... I feel like characters that are obvious to fit the role is already generic such as Jade or Leona or Malleus! So i wanted to get more creative and try to expand more on the other characters. It would be fun to write about them though but I want someone who I think would fit the role just as nicely. Riddle and Trey was also a close one but I just really thought there could be someone more fitting. And what better character than to do the secretive man himself, Cater! I love Cater! And the potential he has a killer! Huihuihuihiuhihi Its making me shiver just thinking about it (with excitement) Perhaps I'll make the narrative as if you are looking through his eyes. That would be a fun read, no? Well I'll definitely switch the narrative to you and him but its a fun thought!

One day your boring, depressing, and mundane life gets interjected by Cater, the fun loving and bright barista! Some days you would always find yourself dreading as to why you should even continue. You live in a shitty area and your living situation is a mess, your neighbors are always partying, your boss is always picking on you, you're family situation is complicated, and all your friends seem to have moved on doing their own things in life. Life sucks, why do you have to go through this? You just want to go home already. Recently whenever you come by this super cute cafe this barista is always happily greeting you. "Another rough day?" He asked one day, and ever since that question you both have been making small talk whenever you would come by. He was easy to talk to, very friendly and bright. He was something you looked forward too during your days before and after work. One day when you go by the cafe you don't seem to see Cater around. Instead another worker rings you up instead. Out of curiosity you ask them where Cater was, and to none of their surprise that it was you who asked they simply answer with a "he called in sick." They recognize you as well considering you are a regular patron, one of the many other people who seem to enjoy Caters livelihood. Well you needed it in your life anyways. When you take a drive to your workplace you hear on the radio that two missing reports have been filed just last week, and to add on, just today they found a dead body belonging to one of the missing persons. They've been found brutally handled, the skin of their face peeled off and missing. What a grotesque and horrific way to go out.

A killer has been out on the loose in your city for who knows how long now. Though one thing is for certain, they've been going on for quite sometime now, all the victims going out in the same vindicative way. With their faces taken from them. This killer has been going on for quite some time now, but its just recently that they are starting to make another strike. For how long exactly? Who's to say. One thing for sure though is that you plan to save enough to finally move out of this godforsaken city, your awful apartment, and quit your damn job once you make enough. Despite all these killings going around, a lot of people seem to still go by their normal days just only hoping that they wont be the next unfortunate victim. "I hope Cater's alright" You say to yourself as you turn off the radio. The weather has been getting a lot colder lately, and it has been frequently raining. It would make sense that he'd get sick. Hearing about the reoccurring news causes you to let out a sigh, taking a mental note to be a bit more wary now.

You both don't really delve into each others personal life like that, so you can only hope for the best that he has someone to take care of. However on the way to work your light makes you stop and next to you is a deep alleyway. The day still being freshly new, the weather being a dewy light blueish grey after a slight rain, you dont care to look anywhere around you until a little glare hits your eyes on the side. Without much thought you turn around to see what the cause could be. Perhaps a shiny or passing car? Or perhaps it was just the reflection of someone's skateboard on the nearby sidewalk next to your car, or maybe it was- Oh.

. . . Oh

Your heart drops. You suddenly feel cold and goosebumps arise in you as you slowly flare up and your eyes widen with hyperactivity.

Someone is over there

In the alley way, next to you. Just slightly, are you able to make out a figure hidden under the shadows casted by the surrounding and clustered buildings.

Someone with a dark hoodie to blend in with the shadows, their back slightly angled towards you in the dark.

HONK

A car honks from behind you and you're woken from your trance. Just then though, the person in the alleyway slightly shoots their head towards where the sound of the honking originally came from quickly and for a split second your eyes meet. You hit the gas pedal, quickly speeding off with your heart racing as you pass the streetlight. Your cold clammy hands grips onto the steering wheel as you slightly speed off in a hurry and you bury yourself into your seat as the sound of your engine revs away down the dampened street.

They saw me...... I saw them...... they saw me

Was that? Did I see, the killer?

As he watches you speed off in your car he turns back to his finished business. The bloodied and lifeless corpse in front of him lying in a dirty puddle mixed with gravel and rain water from the earlier light rain. With his bloodied gloved hands, a dark shining glint glossing over it, he brings it to drag his mask down to inhale the dewy freshness of the air and out with a heavy breath.

"Ah, Cay-Cay should've been more careful huh?"

With no response he only laughs to himself a bit, nudging the lifeless corpse with his foot as if it were a ball.

"Oops. Forgot you've kicked the bucket now. Oh well, they didn't see me anyways. I shouldn't worry too much anyways."

"heh, who would've thought It would be (y/n) to see me down here... I guess I'll keep a close eye on them from now justttt in case."

Definitely will expand on this when I have the time and finish my other work, but oh how I cant wait to share! >< This is just a base and loose little draft for me to go off of but I was thinking of something like Cater placing pictures around the victims, pictures of perhaps locations to where he could have put their faces. But regardless, I think it'd be fun to write a really slow burn between you and Cater, a psychological horror experience :3

#jellorambles #twst #twisted wonderland #cater diamond #cater twst #cater x reader #people like yanderes right? #yandere cater diamond #twst x reader #serial killer au #My brain cannot seem to stop thinking about sk!Cater and >< #does anyone else like cater #this is pretty vile in all honesty but thats the point #I hope i can make this an immersive read for the intended audience #twst cater

[adarkrainbow]

The Tale of Tale movie analysis (1)

It has been a long time since I did a fairytale movie analysis, and for this month I want to take a look at a movie that has been asked of me before, a long time ago: "Tale of Tales".

For those of you who do not know about this movie, "Tale of Tales" is a 2015 movie, a "European production" (it is an Italian movie, but it received help and collaboration from France and England, hence the "European" etiquette) that is to this day (and to my knowledge) the only movie that adapts Basile's Pentamerone, the titular "Tale of Tales".

The Pentamerone being one of the two foundational works when it comes to literary fairytales, and one of the two great books of classical Italian literary fairytales alongside Straparole's Facetious Nights. Basile's book is very famous for containing some of the earlier literary records of fairytale types such as Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, The Girl Without Hands, and more.

The book contains a total of fifty stories, and of course the movie couldn't adapt them all, so it was decided to only adapt three in total. The three chosen are usually considered emblematic stories of the Pentamerone - but they were also selected because they do not echo the more well known Grimm stories. The three selected were, The Flea, The Enchanted Doe, and The Flayed Old Lady - all taken from the first part of the book.

Note that this movie was greatly acclaimed for its extensive use of practical special effects - and there is one thing you cannot deny this movie, it looks absolutely incredible. There is a great effort on the visuals ranging from selected architecture and landscape to careful costume crafting and delightful monsters on screen.

Before going into the analysis of each of the fairytales of the movie, I wanted to point out a few things covering the entirety of the movie. Three details to be exact.

Matteo Garrone, when doing this movie, didn't just randomly selected three stories that were to his fancy. He chose three specific stories that he then tied together with cohesive themes and motifs. The first of which, the most prominent, being "obsession". Each segment is about presenting the obsessions of specific characters, and the bad outcomes of it.

The other shared motif between the three fairytales is "the ages of a woman". Despite the movie having as much male as female characters, Garrone explained very clearly that this movie was about the women, not the men, and that each fairytale represented one of the traditional three "ages of woman". "The Flea" becomes the Maiden story, focusing on the young princess ; "The Enchanted Doe" becomes the Mother story, with an exploration of the character of the queen, while "The Flayed Old Lady" is of course the Crone tale.

But much more importantly for us to understand this movie: Matteo Garrone did one very heavy and important change compared to the original material. The tone. The tone is radically different. Basile's original book, just like Straparole's fairytales, worked by the specific nature of these Italian literary fairytales of the time: they were grotesque farces, and vulgar jokes. In my last post about the Pentamerone I compared these stories to a Brandon Rogers video, because Basile's stories, despite being the ancestors of the Grimm or Perrault fairytales, are nothing like the modern fairytales we are today. They are sex stories filled with caricatures, they are gruesome, gory stories filled with morally-gray characters, they are one huge dark joke filled with poop and farts and vulgar allusions. They are much closer to medieval tales and to the tone of a Reynard the Fox story or some Rabelais books than any other fairytales we know today. But Garrone decided to apply a principle that you can see explored in series such as "Horace and Pete" or "Kevin can fuck himself". Take a sitcom, remove the laugh-track, you have a tragedy. Garrone's movie is still as grotesque as the original stories - but now the jokes are put aside, the most vulgar parts removed, the sex and the gore examined for what it is under a realistic eye. This "realistic", and "non-comical" treatment of the stories make this world of grotesque caricatures and senseless violence and depraved debauchery one not of marvels and fairies, but one of tragedies, of abuse, of horror. But, tragedies with magic, abuse with beauty, horror with happy and hopeful endings - because they stay fairytales after all, no matter how dark they are. Mean, cruel, sad fairytales, but fairytales nonetheless.

[Trivia: The fact that Basile's work was a very rude, crude and vulgar piece of sex-and-violence that can only be compared to Rabelais meeting Punch & Judy, is something many people in the English-speaking world completely missed because the first real popular and widespread translations of the text in English, in the... I think it was the 19th century or maybe a bit earlier ; but these versions were heavily censored. Trying to make the story more like a Perrault or d'Aulnoy tale, they removed many sex references, remove all the poop jokes, and even cut off some stories deemed too vulgar ot gruesome, so that for a very long time people thought they were supposed to be... regular fairytales. This is especially relevant with "Thalia, the Sun and the Moon", Basile's "Sleeping Beauty" variant. Many people point out that the girl in this story gets raped by the prince and that this shows how the fairytale of Sleeping Beauty was built on a glorification of rape, because it is treated as ormal or as some romance. But... no. This rape is treated as a rape and the prince is very clearly a lustful asshole who is taking advantage of the girl - because it is a dark sex-tale. Princes in the Pentamerone are almost all lustful rapists, violent murderers or complete helpless idiots, because the Pentamerone does not work on a "prince charming" logic. Take "The Golden Root" - the handsome, kind, gentle, good prince that seems to fit the bill of the Prince Charming... is part of a family of ogres, and ends up murdering in rage his intended fiancée just to be married to the heroine of the tale. And that's something that many people missed for a very long time - the prince charming archetype is from the French tales of the 17th and 18th century, not before.]

#tale of tales #movie analysis #fairytale movie #pentamerone #italian fairytales #dark fairytales

[burning--heart]

The Grinning Man is Not a Horror Show

this post brought to you by: my own personal experience trying to show this musical to people (which i have already talked about briefly) and also this post by castledock:

the mainstream media’s perception of LHQR is almost always “well I haven’t watched or read it but this guy looks scary so it must be a very disturbing and scary book/movie” and every time I go outside of my little circle of LHQR Appreciators it’s like being slapped in the face by Ableism

i’m spinning this off into my own post because the essay got Long and also it’s definitely about tgm and not lhqr. strap in y’all.

like, ok. you see the pictures online. the protagonist has a bloody bandage on his face, the lighting is moody, and the puppets are creepy i guess (but they are so charming once you see them in motion)…

i’ll be focusing on flesh-and-blood adult grinpayne and his face. does it cause him a lot of grief? yes. is it central to the show? absolutely. but are you meant to be scared or disturbed by it? no. if you were, then yeah. this would be a horror show, and a bitingly ableist one at that. but it’s not.

there is one single moment where we are made to see grinpayne’s face as horrifying, and even then it's... well. it’s not about his smile being grotesque. not really.

it happens when his frustration at being kept as a spectacle because of his face reaches a tipping point. he bites back. "i'm the stuff of your nightmares," he says, "i am the freak show! watch me smile!" it's not an empowering moment. he is gutting himself for his audience.

He removes his bandages and reveals his jaw - a huge nightmarish bloody grin. Horribly unhealed. Red. Raw. Glistening. It's there, and then it's gone. “Laughter" riff crashes in and the world tilts.

Above is the stage direction from the script. Note that the “Laughter” motif is identified by name.

We can see how this was executed onstage in Bristol: The reveal is accompanied by sickly green strobe light, Louis Maskell as Grinpayne snaps his head to the side, there's a brief blackout, we are jumpscared by a giant grinpayne puppet head in the same green strobe, blackout again, then it’s on to the characters' reactions.

It sounds horror on paper. it looks very horror in Bristol. and yet the characters react as though they've just seen heaven. what's up with that?

here lies one of the biggest challenges the grinning man has: its empathetic theme gets easily muddied by the reactions the other characters have to grinpayne. generally, when experiencing a story, we look to the characters within it for cues on how we should feel about its topics, and they guide us through it. this is especially true of media aimed at children. the grinning man is... not like that. the royals and the people of the fair see his face and they are instantly enlightened! with sudden clarity, you're him, and he is you!

the audience doesn’t get it. 

but i don't think we're supposed to.

Song lyrics like ‘you realise that you are him and he is you’ explain to us Grinpayne’s effect on his audiences, but we are never shown that experience nor are we invited to feel that experience ourselves. (Brendan Macdonald, Exeunt)

this reviewer was close, very close, but has jumped to conclusions and ended up shutting the door on the idea that makes the musical make sense. its true that we are told how the other characters see grinpayne, and we don't get to experience that for ourselves. but the thing is, while we are told one thing, we are actually being shown something entirely different.

characters in his audience look at grinpayne and we are told they have an earth-shattering revelation. we hear them explain it multiple times. despite this, their reaction is not what we feel. this is the part that's unintuitive.

here’s where we circle back to the face reveal. the dramatic imagery clashes with what the fictional audience is seeing and feeling. this is because we, the non-fictional audience, are not supposed to be putting ourselves in their shoes at all. the character we’re anchored to is grinpayne. and to him, this is not a triumph of self-discovery. the horror isn’t in his appearance, it’s in how people treat him because of it.

and when it comes to the characters’ revelations, it’s not really about grinpayne anyway. it’s about themselves and what they project onto him, whatever that is. grinpayne is a symbol to almost everyone, whether they see him as a gruesome face, a lord, or a god. they don't understand him when they look at his face.

the audience of the grinning man, unlike the characters within it, are provided the opportunity to connect with grinpayne on a deeper level. we get to dive into his head like nobody else. this is why “Labyrinth” is a big deal (this is also why them changing over half the lyrics to this song at the transfer is a big deal). this is why dea’s love for him is a big deal: she sees him for who he is, and has from the start.

we also get to see the “real” grinpayne (and even love him for who he is), but unlike the characters’ sudden (and shallow) enlightenment, our understanding of grinpayne is gradual, but truer because of it. it builds slowly and perhaps unnoticed throughout the show until you’re fully immersed; it’s something that you feel, not think. though, if i had to pick a moment, personally, it would be “when they are gazing at my grin / what is it that they see within?” from “Labyrinth” because that line knocks me on my ass to this day.

and. surprise! this deeper understanding is also why i think this show is a musical and not a straight play. nothing has the emotional capacity that music does. we aren’t just told the way grinpayne feels; his songs allow us to feel with him in a way that spoken word never could. that’s how we connect.

at the end of the day, this guy still has a bloody face. and some people are going to see this and assume that tgm is horror. but hopefully if they watched it they’d change their minds, because the grinning man shows us the most (and only truly) disturbing thing about grinpayne’s injury is the cruelty and misunderstanding he faces at the hands of a miserable world where “laughter is the best medicine.” and “I Am the Freak Show” may contain the moment with the strongest “horror” visuals in the show, at least in the original production, but it’s actually a crucial example of why tgm itself is not a horror show itself.

#the grinning man #grinpayne #burning thoughts #this is over 1k words btw #thanks for reading if you made it this far #also i specify bristol in this post not to differentiate it from london but to differentiate it from the script #aka everything brought onstage that is not present in the text. this is not a version differences post #also i didn’t want to mention it in the post since i don’t feel like digging for the source and it’s not super relevant to my point #but louis maskell Has said that “i am the freak show” is the most difficult and emotionally taxing part of the show for him to perform. #and no fucking wonder honestly. have you seen this guy’s energy during this number? it’s unbelievable. #peace and love. hope i made sense. goodnight <3

[hornyforpoetry]

Classic 20th Century Japanese Writers I Recommend

Over the past three years, little by little, I have begun to explore the beauty of Japanese literature. I had some reluctance at first due to the fact that the first Japanese I read was Haruki Murakami (no offense to his fans, but his writing style doesn't appeal to me). Even if you try not to be prejudiced, sometimes the brain works against you. I've taken a much further step back since then and decided to get my hands on some classics. I always liked the classics better. An apparently wise decision on my part, as I found some exceptional literary gems. I'm still at the beginning of exploration and it's a slow process (quality translations are few and far between in my country; luckily more and more classical Japanese authors are coming in lately, which brings me nothing but joy), but this is a short list of 20th century Japanese literature that I recommend.

1. Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (1892 - 1927) // Hell Screen (1918) // Spinning Gears (1927)

One of the greatest Japanese authors in history, Akutagawa is known as the "father of Japanese short stories". In my opinion, he fully deserves his title. His short stories are something unique in world literature, developing a wide variety of themes. He explores in his writings both old and new Japan, but maintaining a precious, enchanted air. Its style is easy to understand, but retains a certain poetry. Akutagawa instills in his characters an air of mystery and, in a certain way, grotesque, as if he could sense the dark side of man.

  "Hell Screen" is inspired by a 13th-century volume of stories about the painter Yoshihide, commissioned to paint a screen depicting the Buddhist Hell scene. The theme of the artist's obsession with creation is a recurring theme in world literature, and Akutagawa brings it back in a new light. ”Spinning Gears” on the other hand takes place in the modern era and has a certain autobiographical feel to it. The protagonist narrates a series of events that he goes through, but these are often interrupted by his own thoughts and even hallucinations. The line between reality and fiction is finely demarcated, and the fall from one side to the other is sometimes imperceptible.

2. Yasunari Kawabata (1899 – 1972) // Thousand Cranes (1952) // Beauty and Sadness (1964)

  The first Japanese to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, Kawabata is an important writer both nationally and internationally. Many of his writings have spread throughout the world. His protagonists are usually respected men, but tormented by a hidden, obsessive side that they try to curb. His style is delicate but concise, being generally devoid of unnecessary literary flourishes. Kawabata's construction is subtle and carefully contoured, knowing when to alternate shots.

  "Thousand Cranes" is a short novel about a young unmarried man who has an affair with a woman older than him. Despite the age difference, the young man begins to develop an obsession with the woman, an erotic and even scary fascination in places. It is a story about passion that transforms reason, that brings horrible chimeras out of the human soul. "Beauty and Sadness" revolves around a former affair between a respected writer and a painter. The nostalgic notes of the past merge with the monotony of the present. While the central female figure is resigned and accepts her fate with simple coldness, the male figure seems to degrade at the first push and to live in a slight reverie, throwing himself into the nets of a past that only he idealizes.

3. Osamu Dazai (1909 – 1948) // The Setting Sun (1947) // No Longer Human (1948)

  A tragic genius par excellence, Osamu Dazai was obsessed his whole life with the idea of non-being. He had a latent fear of the idea of living among humans. His style is the most similar to that of Western writers among the Japanese authors I have come across so far. Like French decadents, he led a miserable life marked by alcohol, sex and suicidal tendencies. What makes him unique in literature is the way he manages to capitalize on the anguish, anxiety, fear of the human being that he suffers from and expose it in a poetic way in his writings.

  "The Setting Sun" centers on a woman in her early 30s who lives with her opium-addicted brother and her widowed and ailing mother. The snake appears as an obsessive idea, a protector and a harbinger of death at the same time. The woman seems to have a corrupted soul since childhood, a tendency towards alienation, towards misfortune, towards darkness. The fear of loneliness is combined here with the fear of closeness. "No Longer Human" is a prose memoir with many autobiographical elements. The protagonist is presented through all three stages of his life, from childhood to adolescence to adulthood. The young cartoonist is terrified of the darkness within him, which turns him into an inhuman being. Despite his desperate attempts, he finds it impossible to be honest and connect with people. His life is haunted by the tragedy of a lonely soul, scared of his own self, terrified that the world will find out about the monster that lies within him.

4. Yukio Mishima (1925 – 1970) // Confessions of a Mask (1949) // After the Banquet (1960)

Every country has that historical character that seems to be taken out of legends, but which was as true as it can be. Yukio Mishima is that character of Japan who is not talked about enough outside the borders. He had a tumultuous life, involved in art and politics alike. He wrote literature, essays, plays. His vocabulary is rich, lyrical, powerful. The images he conjures are terrifying, but clothed in poetry. He was not afraid to express the ideas he believed in, his political views, his observations on society, but he never forgot to express his art in a unique and sublime way. His voice is a universal voice, the meditations are of the whole world, and the freshness of the spirit is eternal. Mishima had a hidden talent for entering the darkness of the human soul and bringing out from there everything that could be both terrible and beautiful.

  "Confessions of a Mask" is one of his most famous works. The young protagonist recalls his childhood and adolescence, exploring his homoerotic inclinations and the passion he develops for characters in agony. The images suggested in this prose are jarring, dramatic and aesthetic. Everything from the construction to the wording to the image is beautiful. "After the Banquet" has as its central character a woman in early old age. This is a charismatic character, slightly rude, but charming. Mishima balances the woman's free spirit with her fear of dying and disappearing without anyone to honor her memory, while a political battle rages in the background.

#dark academia #classic academia #dark academia aesthetic #art academia #light academia #art academia aesthetic #academia #chaotic academia #darkest academia #darkest academics #japanese author #japanese #japanese literature #classic literature #literature #akutagawa ryunosuke #yasunari kawabata #osamu dazai #yukio mishima #hell screen #thousand cranes #beauty and sadness #the setting sun #no longer human #after the banquet #confessions of a mask #booklr #bookblr #booklover

[zeravmeta]

Top 5 things you look for when choosing a new piece of media to engage with

5. Popularity

This is going to sound weird right off the bat but I think a solid initial litmus test for whether or not you want to get into a new piece of media is to take a look at the popularity surrounding it: Are people normal about it? Weird about it (good And bad way)? Is it mainstream? cult mainstream? cult cult mainstream where it has a dedicated army of hidden internet ninjas occupying the most remote forums of the internet for the past 20 years and if you ask a rando on the street they don't know about it despite it being a multi billion dollar franchise (cough cough nasuverse cough)? This is also partially important because this is the likeliest category from how you will find out about this hypothetical media: Maybe it trends, maybe you see someone comparing it to something you like/dislike, etc. Generally this is the least important thing to consider but it IS important to at least think about. You'll need to know if you have a group of people who enjoy it the same way you do, or if you need to blacklist every one of your tags about it and seclude yourself from everyone else whose ever touched it.

4. Engagement

Right off the bat, when you see something new, did it catch your attention? If, in reading that synopsis, you find yourself lingering, then that's that. You've already engaged with it, and it being in your head is not a simple matter of modern marketing practices (sort of): Something in that first impression spoke to you, something that you already feel you might want to enjoy more. This isn't truly all that complex, but a first impression truly does mean everything, and regardless of how someone else might sell it to you, you do need to have your own judgment about a piece of medias initial presentation, be it the summary, first episode/chapter, the whole shebang.

3. Thematics

Ah, the good ol "Why?" of the world. What is this work trying to say? What is the theme of this work? Are these themes things that I value? I pride myself on being able to eat words and then say what those words are (It's the whole damn reason there is a zeravMETA blog here in the first place [well that and. archival issues]), and it's something that I always encourage people to try and develop for themselves: Despite what you may have felt like as a teenager in school, Critical Thinking Is Fun. When entering something new, right off the bat you will be thinking "What does this mean?", and asking and theorizing that question is half the fun. Not only that, but this process also necessitates your actual big boy brain to think (scary) about the media as more than just "These are lines." There are all flavors of media out there, and absolutely not all of them will actually want you to engage with it in a deeply thematic level, but just the act of doing so is fun, and more than anything, being able to identify what exactly a work tries to say bleeds into basically everything else on this list. More than that, being able to identify how serious a work is about its themes also helps in determining how much YOU will care about it. Perhaps you'd want to watch something that does not require much thinking, or maybe you'd like to read something that does challenge you. Use that sponge in your head, I know it hurts sometimes like that scene in Akira but I promise you that it is there to help you.

2. Aesthetic

This may be a weird one to put above thematics, which would be the literal meat and potatoes of a media, but I think it's important to determine whether something vibes with you more than if it is entirely coherent. Of course, you should not blind yourself to the flaws in any work, and it's part of your responsibility as the audience to take the work on its own terms and actually think about it, but beyond that you need to be sure that you actually vibe with the media you will be trying out. Something can be masterfully made, horrifically grotesque, bring out emotions in you that you didn't even know you had... And all of it would go down the drain if it's just not your taste of work. This is incredibly subjective and everyone has their own internal criterion on what types of works they vibe with, and contrary to popular belief that is in fact a good thing: Not everything is made for the nebulous 'everyone.' Different works will speak to and appeal to different people and groups, and recognizing what it is that YOU vibe with in trying to find new media to enjoy is important. Don't make yourself sit through something that you could know, objectively, is good, but you will not like simply because it is not to your tastes.

1. Do you think you will enjoy it?

Throw out everything else on this list. This was the first thing I wrote on this ranking and for good reason: On first impression, do you think that you will enjoy whatever it is in any capacity? You're going into this hypothetical media completely blind, aside from maybe seeing the synopsis, a trailer or two or maybe you saw a mutual talking about it, or maybe you saw a review offhandedly. Right off the bat, you will make a judgment, you just will, we do it automatically as humans, and you'll need to train yourself to ask: Will I Enjoy This? There are so many fandoms and people nowadays who like, refuse to engage with media on its own terms, or give it the type of critical thinking it may need, or who still hold onto medias they hate but still watch it even if it causes acid to bile up into their skulls every time they so much as perceive it: You need to kill that demon. Above all else, you will be engaging with something new, and it is important that at least, in SOME capacity, even in the most double-faced cynical hate-watching way, you enjoy it. Otherwise you will be miserable, Sisyphus carving himself a new stone, and that is something we want to avoid. Maybe you will be engaging with this new piece in an intellectual way, or maybe you love eating the words, or maybe you'll be joke watching it, or hate-watching, or just pointing out all the shit that could have been better, LITERALLY ALL OF THAT hinges on whether or not you enjoy it, so ask yourself: Will I Enjoy This?

->0. Sex Appeal<-

Is there an exaggerated effigy of a human being, a parodied facsimile of reality which activates your neurons? A character of fiction which has spoken to your peculiar proclivities, something awakened deep within you that you yourself never realized? It is said that the ancient Greek Philosophers first identified and called attention to headaches, some theorizing that this is because this was a critical junction of human evolution, where the first ever utterance of "boobs in my mouth" haunted their twisted minds. Know that you shall be engaging in fiction, that which parodies, reflects, and ultimately enhances reality, and why would you not engage with some bitches while you're there?

#zerav responds #thanks!

[beevean]

I don’t know how to express this but somehow I get a feeling that Netflixvania and Netflixvania fans don’t like anime and look down on it?? To me, as someone who grew up with anime and manga, Castlevania is still very much a Japanese story despite being set mostly in Eastern Europe. With the serious ham, the character designs, the enemies, “demon lord” Dracula, etc. Even the early Classicvania games are like a Japanese take on Western media and horror films. That’s why Netflixvania lost a lot of its charm to me and seems like just another grimdark, “mature” take on American (not even European) vampire tropes. So with all this defense of Netflixvania and blatantly ignoring and ripping apart the source material, saying its story is inferior and that there’s no substance, I just feel like they don’t think much of the Japanese creators who have made Castlevania alive. They don’t care for how Ayami Kojima inspired the show design and the character looks, they don’t care for how Koji Igarashi added so much lore and themes to Castlevania (themes they’re claiming the show expanded on and did better), they don’t care for the original Castlevania in 1986 for which we can thank for even spawning this franchise. And with the way Japanese people are portrayed in the Netflix series, it just seems like a more blatant “we can do so much more better than Japan” move. Am I overthinking this in believing the Netflixvania fans and creators are kinda racist?

I wouldn't accuse the fans of being automatically xenophobic if they simply prefer something with a more Western appeal. Even the "games stupid" crowd don't think so because it's anime, it's because they're too lazy to engage with the story. It's elitism against videogames, not "lmao japan stupid".

But the people responsible for the show? Oh yes, you can see xenophobia in their arrogance, in their quest to "improve" on the games, to make it adult in an in-your-face way, to miss the idealism because cynicism is much "deeper", to redesign characters to make them more conventionally handsome (and literally fetishizing and emasculating the few who kept their bishounen looks, no I will not let it go). It's rich of them to crudely imitate Kojima's style to make the show look like an anime, when their themes, characterizations and values are much, much more Western.

Speaking of Kojima! How would you describe her style? Personally, I love it for being so ethereal, dreamlike, fragile, grotesque in part and yes, even erotic in her original work.

Some non-CV examples:

And how do the Deats brothers describe it?

She "brought the horny". And for them, this is the right justification for this shit:

It's immature, it's shallow, it misses the point, it's disrespectful, and I can confidently say that it's painfully American. And Nocturne, with its hyperfocus on politics, is more of the same. It's the same americacentric arrogance that caused so many regional changes in videogames in the '90s, from censoring breasts to rewriting stories in the manuals to changing a cute mascot to make them look angrier to even things like composing a whole different soundtrack for Sonic CD: the assumption that the Western audience can't, and won't make the effort to approach something that doesn't cater to their culture.

And then you add the arrogance of "fixing the stupid games with no story". These shows are made with nothing but spite in mind.

#anti netflixvania

[getoutofmytown]

Chapter 25: Pretty Women

Suddenly, a putrid smell wafted into his (Harry) nose on the approach to the event room. Harry scrunched his face and pulled his sweater collar to cover his nose and mouth. He proceeded cautiously into the enormous room, sweeping his flashlight to and fro.

Then he saw it, and heard it, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Harry immediately noticed that this was something brand new. A non-person stood dimly bathed in the flashlight’s beam near the other end of the conference hall. The monstrosity had its back to him, swaying listlessly on thin, stringy legs of ripped flesh and pockets of exposed bone. It breathed hard, popping breaths into the corner it faced. One lungful was evidently too much effort for it and the body shook with the force of the following cluster of coughs. Something splashed the ground, then the sticky gasping resumed.

The thing stood in a puddle of black, syrupy ichor collected from the veins of ooze that ran down its gangly, naked body. Anything that could possibly be called skin on its foul body looked to have been carelessly scorched; though now, it was too wet to be crisp. There were patches of grey between the char, thin and light enough to see a root system of green beneath. Every time it hacked, the passion of it spurred more of that liquid nastiness seemingly originating from its head to flow over its knobby, protruding spine and suctioned ribcage. Any of the rips in its soggy husk gave shelter to the dribbles that sought it. On limp arms stripped of its skin like the sleeves cut off from a t-shirt, blood glistened amongst the black slime coating the muscle beneath. The entirety of this crude mockery of a human was wet either by black sap, blood, or.. or, Harry didn’t want to know.

Unsurprisingly, the thing was grotesque - an attribute that went without saying around these parts. Maddeningly, this abomination too kept with the theme of fire and water. But above all that, the first thing Harry had truly noticed was that it was tall. From his standpoint across the floor, he tried to gauge the height despite the creature being hunched over. During his calculations the ogre rocked on its bony legs, another round of coughing turning into dry heaving. The sound engaged Harry’s weak gag reflex and he threw his arm over his mouth to both control and hopefully stifle the noise in time.

The fiend turned its head. Harry caught a look at its profile, then the rest of its foul existence when it twisted its body in his direction. On its revolting head, its features appeared to be melting right off the skull beneath clumps of greasy black hair. Mushy skin drooped from its splotchy brow, weighing down the eye sockets and slouching off the cheekbones. From its open jaw dripped yellowed, diluted pus that bubbled on its rotten teeth whenever it exhaled, making gargled snarls sound like muttering. The horror of it peaked when Harry realized that this thing was supposed to be a woman. Her deflated breasts sagged on her visible rib cage above an enormous belly bulging and sloshing from her midsection, reminding Harry of a water balloon and fit to burst at any moment.

Her attention seemed to be drawn by the flashlight. As she fully faced him, her gurgling became harsher and her dripping brow lowered. Harry immediately clapped his hand over the white glow. He held his breath. The sudden darkness seemed to briefly confuse her, and by the sound of her coarse breathing, she’d lost interest and turned away again.

Harry, as silently as possible, began to back up, slowly turned heel, and quickly fled. He released the beam to guide his way back, and when his feet hit marble, he stopped short to tread more carefully across the floor.

James was as he left him, seated on the steps and absorbed in the old notes. He startled when Harry set a heavy hand on his shoulder and frowned up at him and the universal signal to keep quiet. Harry leaned in close to his ear. “There’s something in the event room down here,” he muttered. “It’s new. We should move somewhere else. If we can avoid it and get out of here in the morning without pissing it off, I think that’d be a really, really good idea.”

commissioned art by Mandy (twitter)

#welcome to silent hill #osh: monsters #others' art #commissioned art #this is a commissioned piece #traditional art #c: pregnant monster #(actual name tbd lol) #goomt #tw: pregnancy

[bracketsoffear]

The Radiance (Hollow Knight) "The Radiance is one of the few higher beings / gods in Hollow Knight. It was previously the main higher being of the land know known as Hallownest. Then along came The Pale King. The Pale King buried The Radiance’s religious relevance with his own, becoming the knew main higher being of Hallownest. This! is because The Pale King was able to give the bugs thought, and let them have minds of their own instead of being savage beasts.

Also yes, every character in Hollow Knight is a bug. very corruption aligned as well.

Eventually, eons later, The Radiance came back, upset about being replaced. It brought about a mind-controlling plague known as The Infection. This was a mass breakout of a disease in Hallownest, which caused bugs to loose their minds and become obsessed with praising The Radiance. Not to mention the fact that orange sludge / goop drips out of the infected bugs in a really grotesque way. This is MULTIPLE elements of the corruption. Corruption of physical form, Corruption of thought, and religious corruption, as well as general themes of bugs. literally this entire game and franchise revolves around bugs.

The Pale King tries to fight back many times, sacrificing his own children and failing. By the time the player character arrives, The Knight/Ghost, Hallownest is already in a post apocalyptic state of infection, very few bugs with thought and true being remaining."

Fur Beetles (The House) Brought back because putting in Gregor Samsa was a bit of a fuckup on my end, and I'm not super comfortable with it with greater knowledge about what the book is actually about.

"A contractor (who happens to be a rat) throws his whole life and savings and loans into flipping a house hoping to earn himself a good life doing so, only to find out it's infested with a type of bug called a fur beetle, and their hairy, worm-like larva. He tries desperately to get them out and exterminate them so that he can sell this house, to no avail. Eventually, when he tries to show the house, two oddly bug-shaped rats show up and refuse to leave, obsessed with mold and chewing on fabric. And, eventually, they invite their whole giant family over as well. As he's despairing over this situation, fur beetles come out from his walls and ceiling, putting on a whole little song and dance number for him, just to taunt him.

He tries to chase them all out of his house with bug spray, only to make himself ill and sent to the hospital. The strange rats kindly pick him up and bring him home, where they and the rest of their family are throwing him a Welcome Home party, revealing that they're all strange beetle-rat hybrids, and they're not going anywhere. Soon, the house becomes a compete trashed pigsty, the beetle-rats devouring all the furniture, burrowing in the walls, and covering it all in filth. The contractor, still trapped there, loses it and seems to revert into a feral, animalistic rat, eating garbage and scurrying around in the house the beetles infested."

Malenia, Blade of Miquella (Elden Ring) "Cursed from birth to be host of the Scarlet Rot, a deity of decay and rebirth that manifests as a horrendously virulent alien disease. Despite resisting its power and dedicating her life to containing it, she was afflicted badly by it--she lost both feet, an arm, and her eyes to the Rot, and it runs strong enough through her veins that she can become a Walking Wasteland if she doesn't keep it under control, even having her weapons and armor consecrated with Unalloyed Gold to resist it. When she battled Radahn, she ultimately “bloomed” and unleashed the Scarlet Rot all over Caelid using the Scarlet Aeonia, turning it into a plague-ridden hellhole. Since the Aeonia, she's been leaking Rot all over the Haligtree despite her continued efforts to contain it; killing her will cause her to revive and temporarily apotheosize into the Goddess of Rot where she consciously wields her curse's power in a desperate attempt to kill the Tarnished. She seems to embrace the Rot's warped mindset, as whenever she kills the Tarnished in this phase, she tells them to let the Scarlet Rot consume their flesh. Her Goddess of Rot form is also associated with the toxic Aeonian Butterflies that form her wings and her attacks, symbolizing her gradual metamorphosis into something inhuman as she gives into the Scarlet Rot. According to the description of her signature Incantation Scarlet Aeonia, “Each time the scarlet flower blooms, Malenia's rot advances. It has bloomed twice already. With the third bloom, she will become a true goddess.” Her trusted comrades, the Cleanrot Knights, accepted the fact that their close service to Malenia would doom them to a slow and painful death by scarlet rot, and willingly chose to faithfully serve her anyway (which may tie into The Corruption’s themes of destructive love); consequently, their flesh is constantly rotting and they often suddenly and violently puke out their rot-infected guts even in the midst of combat. What is definitely related to The Corruption’s metaphorical love associations is that Malenia sees herself as “The Blade of Miquella,” holding great pride in her reputation as Miquella's undefeated protector and using her status as a shield against the Rot's constant attempts to claim her mind. Consequently, when she has trouble in battle against opponents like the Tarnished and Radahn she is willing to let the Rot advance in her body and mind over a defeat that could shame her brother, especially since she has already failed him by letting him get kidnapped and not being able to rescue him. Malenia overall falls into the Agnes Montague category of Avatar--she absolutely does not want to be a vessel of the Scarlet Rot, but she can’t help but spread disgusting disease and decay to everyone and everything around her, and--in part because of her love for her brother--she is eventually pushed to the point of embracing the Rot out of desperate fear."

#corruption poll #the magnus archives #the corruption #hollow knight #elden ring #the house #poll