#the twisted and the ugly and the bizarre | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dadsbongos · 2 months

Text

possession

6.5 k words // warnings - suicidal ideation/tendencies, gore/blood + body horror (miscarriage imagery), vomiting, implied cannibalism, geographical errors, not beta read, you wear skirt, not in canon

summary - Grief is ugly, you knew that. The hole where your husband used to be just keeps growing until you can't take it anymore.

@ghostlykeyes i finally finished the possession fic!! like months after talking about it!!

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

You’ve seen the funny things that grief does to people. Your father refused to rise from bed for five days when your mother passed. Your kitten would search the house for her mother every day when the older cat was no longer around. Your aunt bleached her hair and moved to the states when her husband served divorce papers. Your baby cousin faked ill for a whole week when his dog ran away. Your best friend admitted that when her brother died, she drove far out to the country and parked over train tracks… She admitted that she waited for an hour before driving home.

Yes, you’ve seen the bizarre and stomach-churning behaviors that grief can bring out from a person, but you’ve never seen something like this. And the most stomach-churning thing about it, is that you’re the one behind this.

It isn’t someone else you can psychoanalyze or rant about -- it’s your hands settling over the chilly doorknob. It’s your hands twisting around the knob. It’s your guest room that’s occupied by this… thing.

You release the metal as its cold exterior burns a hole in your palm. You step back, and you stay away.

…

When you were younger, you liked to draw yourself far into the future. Where your crayoned head would scratch at the sky, and you would have a car with a lumpy hood and mismatching tires. And, of course, your very own house with a grand front door: a welcoming, circular window, and a lemony handle meant to be gold, and thick mahogany wood. You used to be embarrassed by the squiggly lines and uneven shades when your mother would keep and display the dog-eared pages, but Mahito would insist. Mahito pressed the contractors how dire it was that the entryway to your shared home matched your childhood depictions.

So how strange it is that Mahito’s mission partner and close friend, Kento Nanami, stands in this grand, gaping doorway with a firm downturn of his lips. Tingling wells from the bottom of your gut, tangling with your intestines and latching onto each rung of your ribs. Thick knots lodge in your throat -- your questions choking you. You swallow them. You spit them back up.

“How…?”

Kento blinks, honey eyes dripping to the floor and sticking there, “I can’t tell you.”

Chunks replace the words in your throat, spittle wetting the inside of your mouth. You try to suck it all back, suppressing the bile, “Can I see the body…?”

Kento shakes his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “I can’t show it to you.”

“Is there anything you can give me?”

“I have nothing,” Kento mutters it, gaze finally flicking back up to your face, “Only my word.”

You’re uncertain of how to respond to Kento. Thoughts swiped off your brain, like a dreary mother clearing her counter of kitchen scraps into the garbage. There’s a thin film of powdery flour clinging to the surface, remnants of things you wanted to ask. Information you’d beg for. Details of the mission. The dreary mother blows hot air over the counter, scattering flour up into the air.

Kento reaches into his front shirt pocket, the azure material stretching around his hand. He pulls out a thin, bleached cloth with tattered edges and extends it towards you, “Well, I do… have this.”

It was once purple. The shade of sweet raisins. It was once part of his uniform.

“It was all I could grab,” he watches your face as you focus on the cloth being pressed into your palm, “If you need company, or the house is too quiet…”

“I know, Nanami.”

You survey the cloth, it barely takes up your palm with a stretched, floss-like texture at each side. So worn the purple is churning into gray. Or is it marinated ash? Or dried curse’s blood?

“I’m here for you.”

“I know, Nanami.”

Kento sends himself on his way, stepping back from your doormat with dirt clots following after. He crunches over them again on his trek down the front steps. Your stained mahogany door clicks shut gently, golden handle nipping cold at your flesh. The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes through your home’s foyer.

Mahito’s frayed uniform strip is rough in your hand. Slim. Thin. Hardly protective at all.

Just as the door shutting, and the lock pinning it, your gasp makes rounds through the empty house. Quiet. It’s already too quiet.

You used to like that. Peace away from Mahito’s missions and cursed humans and terrible spirits and even…

Gaze falling across the vase displayed on a frail, dark wood end table, you’re suddenly overwhelmed with contempt. Every bright sunshine sheen and painted pastel flower petal aches like a knife in your back.

As you lift the ceramic vase, it’s thunking off the table fills your ears in the silent house. Too big. Too quiet. You hurl the decorative vase into the farthest wall and cringe at how overbearing the song of its shatter is. After the offending art piece is out of sight, the cloth in your free hand regains sensation. You can feel the tile under your feet again. You can hear the birds chirping outside like there’s something to hope for this spring.

Legs shaky and thighs burning from the stress, you rush towards the vase’s new graveyard and cradle the shards you’re certain won’t tear your hands apart. You feel your heart burn a hole through your chest. Its fire blares and feeds until the hole extends far into your viscera. Guilt seeps into place -- molding around your organs to keep them from collapsing into each other.

Kento’s gift vase is scattered around your knees. And you cry into the pieces you hold.

When the only surviving shred of Mahito cannot dry your face, you cry harder.

…

“I don’t know when,” you answer honestly. Shaking your head. Your nails rake into the stretch of skin over your thighs. So sharp it's as if you’re ripping right through your tights, but you don’t hear the telltale popping of fabric.

Though it’s louder in your boss’ office than at the house. That, you suppose, is one good thing here.

“I understand,” she nods slowly, hands folded calmly over her steel desk. A glass vase, tinged like precious jade, holds white lilies. You think they used to be yellow. You wonder when they changed, “Take your time. And drive safely, please.”

Wallowing eyes trail after you. Shame bleeds into that guilt pothole inside you as your coworkers watch you exit the building. For what, you couldn’t answer reasonably. Because, reasonably, there is no cause for such shame. You’re unfit to return to work. Your boss sympathizes. Yet, you feel that humiliation of eyes squinted and narrowed and curious all the same. It doesn’t sink when you’re in the parking lot, nor when you climb into the driver’s seat of your car.

You never liked taking public transport without Mahito to keep you company. And even then, he would often drive you home when he wasn’t sent away with work.

So you needed to adjust the seat upon initially settling in.

The memory of your clueless fiddling, unfamiliar with the layout of your own vehicle, makes your hands shake against the wheel. Your knuckles twinge at the stretch, and perhaps when you release your grip the leather of the steering wheel will have left indents. Your foot feels heavier than it used to, you think it drags the gas pedal down.

Surprisingly, the road is not clogged with cars. Vast asphalt paints the scene ahead, lined by inactive streetlamps and sagging telephone cables. You and the road.

You could let your foot sink. Find out how far down the pedal goes. You could ease the tension in your hands and let the steering wheel go altogether. You could turn on the radio and fall into a blissful, noisy sleep.

Slowly, you slip a hand off the wheel and reach for the radio knobs, slowly swerving the dial far right. You leave that hand off the wheel. Your foot slumps into the gas and your car jolts down the road. Waning wires transition into beams of black rod separated by blurry lamps. Tires jerk to the left and your heart bumps out of your skin, you now notice how unsteady your hand remaining on the wheel is.

But peeling that hand away seems impossible. No matter how you lift or pry, as though you’ve been suction sealed to the leather. A weight pressing your final tether firmly into the real world.

Your foot lightens on the pedal until you’re below the speed limit, and you return both hands to the wheel before gliding it over and off the side of the road. Between two street lamps, your car rests -- you keep the radio high. Better that than droning silence occasionally interrupted by birds and crickets wailing for carnal attention.

With the car immobile, you’re left to stare across the clear azure sun. As spotless as it had been days before Mahito left, and, perhaps foolishly, you’d taken that as a good omen. Now it just burns your eyes, leaving you to blink back welling tears: the tears do not stop, though.

No matter how hard you blink, they will not stop.

…

You no longer eat at the table. A shame because it was crafted by hand at Mahito’s pocket’s expense, but everytime you eat there you think of that fact. And you think of breakfasts ruined by his crude humor. And you wish you hadn’t let such minuscule words dictate those mornings. So, to avoid that chain of thought, you consume your measly meal at the kitchen island in the dark. And in the trash can immediately to your left is a crumpled sheet from your calendar -- the month of May.

(You’ve discovered your days go smoother this way.)

A collection of harsh thuds vibrate against the kitchen counter. Masamichi Yaga’s stern face igniting your screen, underneath are two buttons; one ruby and one emerald. Having never been a sorcerer yourself, the only reason Yaga ever had your phone number was for trivial matters. Occasionally, he’d use it if Mahito hadn’t answered his own phone. A sharp sting eats away even more of your insides at the thought. So, you swipe the ruby button.

You decline Yaga’s call.

Stubbornly, he redials your number. Again, you decline.

He calls again, so you decline.

He calls once more, so you decline.

When he calls for the fourth time, you blindly throw your phone through the kitchen doorway. The absence is bliss for a short-lived second before the silence is interrupted by a bang and shatter. You jerk against the counter, hesitation anchoring you there for longer than the quiet’s lifespan before you explore the living room. Finding your phone’s grim resting spot takes no effort.

It’s surrounded by ceramic that glints in the few, thin ribbons of sunlight poking through your slatted windows. Shards you should’ve picked up weeks ago, but the shame of having an unkempt home fails to inspire any cleanliness. You merely retrieve the cracked phone (screen flickering with a pale greenish glow at the bottom) and ignore the jagged pieces.

…

3:34PM

“What even happened?” Utahime cradles your extended hand between hers. Thin, cardinal lines are split into the delicate skin of your fingertips. Some are lighter in color, and some are much, much darker. She frowns and curls her fist around yours as if to melt the wounds back together with the warmth of her palm.

“My screen’s broken.”

Her deadpan stare slackens as soon as it arrives, she bites her tongue and quietly sighs through her nose, “I know that. I meant: how did your phone even break?”

Slipping your hand out from her grasp, you pick up the display phone to your right. Roughly the same size as your current one, but a cursory glance at the tag confirms it’s a (moderately) more recent model. Therefore, apparently, it must be double the price.

Before you can replace the phone on its stand, Utahime snags it without so much as a glance at the price, “I’ll get it for you. Save your money.”

“I hope that’s not pity.”

“You’re my friend,” she insists, but her words don’t make you feel any better, “So was Mahito.”

You nod slowly. Her oxblood eyes linger over your face, the attention spurs nausea gurgling through your throat. Saliva wells along the velvet walls of your mouth, throat burning, “What?”

“Are you sleeping well?”

“Yes,” you blink away the faint throbbing in your stressed eyeballs, turning your head away towards the front of the store, “Yeah, I’m fine, don’t… just buy the phone, if you’re sure you want to.”

“‘Course I am,” she hushes herself, solely to avoid frightening you off. Like you’re some abandoned kitten soaking in a cardboard box under rain, “I can always come over, too.”

“Utahime.”

“I’m sorry.”

You let it go rather than try explaining the sore, tender, exposed nerve away. You cannot fathom how you would even begin telling her that you don’t sleep in your bed anymore. And, furthermore, you don’t wish to share the couch. Can’t even consider the notion.

Utahime bites her tongue harder.

5:30AM

The digital clock sitting beneath your television has lighting like olive’s skin, making it easy to stare at even in the pitch black of your living room. Without the hum of the air control, your dismal little makeshift sleeping quarters are even more still than in the day. Silence makes it hard to sleep. Thinking about how little you’re sleeping makes it harder to sleep. Thinking about how Mahito would usually wake you in two and a half hours for breakfast before he went to work made it impossible to sleep.

Maybe, if you squeezed your eyes tight enough then you could slip into an alternate timeline where you get to rest in your own bed. And after breakfast at 8:30, there is the shopping excursion to a marketplace you two frequent at night when he gets home. He likes to carry your bag.

But, oh, you will have to go alone in this timeline, won’t you?

And, oh, everyone will ask where your Mahito is, won’t they?

Sweetly, they will tease that he’s making you carry all the groceries home. Curiously, they will titter about his whereabouts. You will be forced to answer.

Will you lie? Or would that be too pathetic?

The alternate timeline is making your head hurt. The pit inside you gnaws further on its surroundings until you’re sure that your entire stomach is swallowed and torn and burned into sickness. You open your eyes again.

5:31AM

…

With how mousy your appetite has been lately, you barely notice when the back of your pantry becomes more apparent than its contents. Utahime, you’re sure, would be giddy to run such a tedious errand simply because it would mean that you’re still alive and capable of speech. Her current location across the country in Kagoshima argues back, though.

So you found yourself on the long trek to a new store with new faces at midnight on an otherwise abandoned railway. Nothing in the store roused much inside you, except for the ever-growing rot in your gut when you’re ashamed by how you wander to the alcohol. One of few things you’re certain you can keep down now is, ironically enough, wine.

You were never much of a drinker when-

You swallow hard and make for the selection of breads.

At least now you can hopefully rest in the night, however unorthodox the methods may be.

Does it matter at all? When you really, truly think about it -- as long as you’re sleeping, does it matter what puts you there? With a full night’s rest, you could finally be motivated to look through the piling mail. Or return Yaga’s missed call. Or get more bountiful groceries.

Will it be from this new place? Or your usual?

You could be energized enough to go anywhere, you suppose.

Anywhere tomorrow. Moving forward and upward and without Mahito.

Do you want that?

Does it matter?

It’ll happen anyway. Time will move anyhow, your only real choice is whether or not to fight the flow. You can be without Mahito and struggle or be without Mahito and scrape by.

Either way, you will be without.

Until you die yourself, potentially decades from now.

And suddenly, you wonder what you will do when May comes. The thought brings you to a full stop. Your heels click their final echo in the empty train tunnel.

Nothing, you suppose.

When May comes… you’ll be at home. Maybe? Or work.

Yes, you have to go back to work eventually, right?

But you won’t have friends over.

But what if they insist?

Because they want to drink and play games and be loud, and you’re their friend and it isn’t like you have any other plans. So why wouldn’t you have friends over?

(It’s not like you’ll be getting married.)

Your shoulders go lax, the glass wine bottles rattle together like dice, the haphazardly packed bread is crushed. Your eyes refocus, the little stick figures of men and women and the arrows and the directions plastered on tall boards hit you. They don’t leave. Your gaze drifts to the tracks below.

(You could jump in.)

Why wouldn’t you have friends over? It isn’t as though anyone will have an important mission the next morning.

You blink. You can hear yourself breathe. It’s obnoxious. It’s too loud and too soft at the same time. You feel your heart pump between your ribs. You feel each fiber in your bag’s strap pull on the soft skin of your hands. Burning away at your flesh.

Mahito usually carried your bag.

Your shoulders jerk back to life, the wine bottles clink and the plastic wrap over your bread squeals for mercy. You stumble on the height of your heels. The fibers nip sharply at your tender fingers.

Your breath is too loud. You hold it. You need to breathe.

Your breath is too loud.

So you scream to cover the sound. You wretch your eyes closed, your hands tighten around the bag and it burns again.

Mahito never told you that holding the bag hurt his hands.

You double over, suddenly nauseous.

You open your eyes and stare down at where the bag peels your skin. There is no blood; you think there should be.

(You could make it so.)

You stumble back again, but this time, when you regain your balance you let the motion sweep you away. The momentum carries you in a circle and you stretch out your arms to swing the irritating bag into the wall at your side. You hear the glass clang and chip apart. You see the dark plum stains blossom along the bottom of the bag. You watch the wine pool and drool from the seams, but you cannot hear the droplets over the shuddering, ragged breaths you suck in. And each exhale rings out as more of a throaty, feral groan than human huffed dioxide.

Swirling the other way, you bang the remaining glass bottles into the wall again and when the grapes have soaked halfway up the bag, you find yourself grinning.

A groan is interrupted by a giggle.

So much for a warm buzz. Alone.

(Alone.

Home alone.)

The giggle stops suddenly.

Alone now. And alone tomorrow. And alone in a week. And alone in a month. And alone in May.

And alone after May, too.

The festering rot carving into your guts claws up and up and around until you fear that all of your meat has been shredded through. Tighter and tighter, even squishing high into the shell of your skull. Bubbling, the rot consumes until finally -- it bursts. A sharp cramping in your stomach that shoots through your hip bones and all down your thighs.

You harshly drag the bag up above your head before hurriedly slamming it back down. The scattered glass shards tink and crash, only faintly dulled by the squished loaf. The wine leaks onto the floor.

You watch it seep out and you watch how the fabric plops with a wet little splash as you release the handle. You watch it dribble out on the smooth, albeit spotty floor. It soaks into the grouts and rolls smoothly to the toe of your heels.

You watch it merge with another tinted liquid.

Red. Mulberry, almost.

Your fingers dip into the secondary substance, and you note how thick it is. Yet slippery. Tracing your fingers through the puddle, you find it leading to your ankles.

Heart thundering up into your throat, you graze your fingers up the divots of your socks and along the plain of your calf. The red liquid is pushed into your skin, smearing along the smoothness. You continue to follow the trail up to your thigh and under your skirt, your hand is enveloped by warmth as you finally make contact with the source.

Your underwear is wet.

Your fingers are shaking when you unveil them to your eyes, they are shaking and coated in that thick, yet slippery, red hue.

The puddle grows under your feet. The mulberry overtaking the grape.

You aren’t due. You don’t…

You don’t think…

No, you weren’t sick. You weren’t aching. You and Mahito

It isn’t

It isn’t, no, not at all

You aren’t due at all

Your nausea swells and the sound of your own hurried breaths is quickly overwhelmed in your ears by the sound of your blood. By the cinching, hard drum of your pulse.

Suddenly, your knees buckle and your hands lurch forward with the rest of your body -- shooting out to the ground to keep you standing. Jagged glass scratches through the material of your grocery bag, raised incisions slowly blooming red. Your mouth is hot, and wet. Too wet.

Your stomach squeezes, throat loosening uncomfortably. It stretches around nothing, and the roof of your mouth tingles unpleasantly. You belch. Your palms burn worse than your fingers now.

(This never would’ve happened if Mahito had carried the grocery bag.)

Your stomach tightens again and your jaw snaps open, throat squelching as a rush of bile gushes through. It lands in the mulberry-grape mix, tainting it with a murky, pale swirl. The scent burns your nose and sends you rocketing back onto your feet. You stumble for the third time in your heels, but this time you do not catch yourself. Floundering on uneven footing before slamming your back harshly into the wall at your side.

Another groan shreds your throat, dredging up more acidic fluid to the full of your lips. You spit onto the ground. You can hear your breathing mix with the push of your blood.

Mahito would’ve held an arm out for you. He would’ve taken the bag. He would’ve gone instead. If he knew what was bound to happen in this tunnel, he would’ve just gone instead and you would’ve insisted he didn’t go alone and he’d pretend to put up a fight before you both would have decided to stay in and he would sleep next to you through the night and he would be there again when you woke up.

The mulberry juice has trailed after you. Trail thickening as it heads for your twitching legs. Your socks are red and squishy in your heels.

Both legs now engulfed with the bloody trickle.

For a moment, you forget yourself. You bring your hands to your thighs and cup the inside softness, blood ponds in the wrinkled depths of your palms. You scoop the blood upwards, as if to shove it back; return it to its place and erase this terrible night altogether. Somehow that makes perfect sense.

All you succeed in is staining your skirt.

A sharp twinge spikes from the joints between your legs through your abdomen, it pulls a rippling scream from the base of your chest. You crumple to your knees, skidding them against the floor. The blood beneath you is cool and sticky, quickly overtaken with the fresh flush leaking from your underwear.

Your hands shake, previous cuts bubbling with crimson of their own, as you curl them into the material of your skirt. When you subconsciously twist your feet at the siege of pain, that squelch of blood filling your shoes infests your ears again. Fitfully, you kick out your legs, flinging off your heels, before tearing your hands down the sides of your legs and ripping off the bloody socks. In their wake, you sear your nails over your skin and the path continues to burn even when your hands return to your pelvis.

Briefly, you consider the possibility that you could be crushing your own bone under the hefty pressure in your hands. When another wrack of cramping wagons over your pliant insides, all concern is tossed aside.

Mulberry vines its way up your body, clinging to your skin.

And later in the night, when you’re scrubbing ruthlessly against your skin -- attempting in vain to rid yourself of this catastrophe, you will give birth in the guest bathtub. A pulpy mess of blood and muscle strands will writhe and wail for you by name. It will call to you with Mahito’s voice and you will run because the familiar warmth in your chest at his song is overwhelmingly horrifying.

Yet, when you sit against the closed bathroom door, you hear nothing. For a moment, you’re certain you hallucinated during a genuine emergency.

But you creak the door open again, just enough to get an eyeful of the cornish yellow room before slamming it shut. A malformed creature resembling the top half of a medical dummy is wrapped in lashing strips of steaming intestine and exposed muscle. You wretch and scramble out to where you’d haphazardly thrown your purse over the couch in your rush to the nearest bath.

Wisely, you call Utahime over the police.

It rings and rings and rings until it boops and beeps into voicemail. You dig for Yaga’s number, when suddenly you hear your name again. More clearly. More enunciated. More obviously him.

So, you let the phone slip from your palm and ignore how it buzzes loudly and beams with Utahime’s contact.

The golden glow seeping from under the closed bathroom door slices your home’s darkness -- it flashes over your skin and illuminates your fresh, changed socks. Sweeps over the hollow of your open palm against the golden knob. Which jiggles noisily under your unsteady hold, rattling in its socket. You can barely hear the sound of your name repeated, smoother. More careful.

Deeper. Kinder. Sweeter. Lovelier.

You squeak the door open, just barely pressing the side of your face into the crack to glimpse upon the creature in the tub.

Soft powder blue hair that stretches down to a pale, naked chest. One icy blue eye and one coppery fire. Clean face bisected both ways by silvery, glittering stitches -- otherwise unmarred. Blood splatters and hand print smears still decorated the rim of the bathtub. You’re sure there’s a draining pool of crimson at the bottom, too.

But there’s Mahito.

He grins at you. His right front tooth sits slightly over the left, just like you remember. And he has an unnerving lack of dimples, like you remember.

“Are…?” you squint your eye into the bathroom -- the old bulbs buzz vaguely overhead, “Mahito? Are you real?”

Slowly, he nods. Inoffensively blue tresses gliding like silk over his shoulders, “I’m real, honey.”

Your knees shake, bones smashed into paste. The door opens wider with how you lean into it.

“Can I touch you…?”

Again, he nods.

Creeping across the frosty tile, you kneel against the porcelain tub before crossing one leg over the other into the wide bowl. Blood soaks into the padding of your fresh socks and hem of your oversized shirt. You skim your hand over the expanse of his chest, fingertips dipping over the divots and raises of his new stitches. Soft lashes of hair tingle under your skin. His muted chuckle rumbles through his chest at your glazed over, mesmerized state as your caressing moves to his arm.

Below his chest and arm are mush and guts tethering together with peachy, pink sheets of fat and muscle forming over the innards. You pinch yourself. It stings.

Mahito chuckles again, “See, honey? I’m real.”

It’s over half an hour later that you’re finally redialing Utahime’s number.

“Sorry, I was just missing Mahito, but… I went onto the porch and got myself together. I think I’m okay now.”

Utahime inhales sharply, and she’s speaking, but your focus is solely on the guest bathroom door.

Mahito waves at you sweetly.

You don’t sleep that night, but you don’t visit the bathroom either. You sit on the couch and ignore the voice of your dead fiance singing your name until sunrise. Only then, does the Siren song lure you back.

Mahito’s legs remain stumps, pulpy at the knees and sharp, jagged bones barely poking out from the mess. So, he remains in the tub -- where rot and iron are thinly masked by the sickly floral scent of cheap, generic brand air-freshener. Dried blood crusts against the bath with gushes of fresh, oozing crimson consistently re-wetting the porcelain bottom.

“Honey,” his fingers dance over the apple of your cheek, lids low over eyes that singe straight through your chest, “can you give me flesh?”

As if he can see every twinge in your heartbeat, he’s grinning at you as soon as you look into his face.

“What…?” your brows furrow, his own draw sympathetically -- grin snapping into a gentle frown, “What do you mean?”

“I want to be a full man,” he coos, “Just the way you remember. And I need flesh.”

“Okay.”

He nods sternly, “It’s exactly what you think.”

“Okay.”

,,,

You’ve seen the funny things that grief does to people. Your father refused to rise from bed for five days when your mother passed. Your kitten would search the house for her mother every day when the older cat was no longer around. Your aunt bleached her hair and moved to the states when her husband served divorce papers. Your baby cousin faked ill for a whole week when his dog ran away. Utahime admitted that when her brother died, she drove far out to the country and parked over train tracks… She admitted that she waited for an hour before driving home.

You release the metal as its cold exterior burns a hole in your palm. You step back, and you stay away.

Away, and nervous. So nervous it makes your limbs shake and twitch.

Kento hovers a gentle hand over your shoulder, “Are you sure you’ve been well?”

“I’ve just been… out of it.”

“I can understand why. I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, “I’m sorry,” you wonder if that’s all he can say, “I can… Is there anything more I can do? Change the lights? Clean the glass in the living room? Replace your vase?”

“Just this,” you turn away, facing the turquoise of Kento’s button up. Physically incapable of staring him in the face as you continue, “There’s something wrong… seriously wrong with the bathroom… Just checking this will be okay, Nanami.”

“Anything,” Kento whispers softly, stepping around your cemented body to grasp the golden handle. He smiles down at you, despite the way you’re still unable to look him in the eyes -- he opens up to speak, but decides against whatever additional sympathies he felt indebted to, “Anything.”

You can’t so much as squeak out a ‘thank you’ before he slithers out of your life.

…

“I’m worried. I don’t want to pretend I’m calling for any other reason, or that I don’t notice something wrong. You’re worse than ever, and I… I just don’t know…” Utahime sighs loudly over the phone, “I’m so worried.”

“I’m okay,” you’re itching to hang up, to more thoroughly monitor Mahito’s growth.

“Nobody’s seen or heard from you!” she cries, “And Nanami- we still don’t- !” she stops abruptly, “Nothing’s been the same since…” Utahime sighs again, quieter, “You have to be running low on money now.”

“I’m okay, Utahime.”

“Do you want me to stop by? I can come with more groceries…”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m coming by.”

You’re opting to refuse when two fingers poke into your side, Mahito grins brightly with a thumbs up. For a moment you’re left stammering into the phone, staring into scorching eyes. Ice and copper, like burning flame. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss into your cheek, just as he used to before leaving for work. Just as he did that morning, before you never saw him again.

Not until now.

Mahito kisses you again, skimming his hand over your temple and brushing back hair so he can soothe his lips there, too.

“Ah, okay…”

Utahime, much more excitedly, responds, “Oh! Yeah, okay! I’ll be there soon. With groceries!”

“With food,” you murmur back dumbly. Mahito nods against your face, soon after nuzzling into your neck, “Okay…”

Hours later, you will be on the other side of the house, desperately trying to scrub the sound of wet slurps and chews from your memory.

…

“Why do you stay in the bathroom?”

“It’s comfy,” he teases, stretching out his bare legs over the rim of the tub, “Why? Are there comfier places?”

“Our bed,” you should probably be more alarmed that he cannot recall that, but he tilts his head so pretty.

“Why don’t you show me then?”

Your eyes drift to the clots of blood and matted hair by the bath drain, blonde and raven black tangling together with crystals of bone flecked over the mess. You try not to look or think about it because you’re not so delusional as to think you can justify this.

Mahito tilts his head, grinning, “Hm?”

Or maybe you are.

“What’ll you think of the house…?” you murmur to yourself, “It’s different now.”

Mahito laughs and kisses your cheek, right below where tears well against your lashes, “When have I asked anything of you except yourself?”

He nuzzles into the warmth that spreads over your face and flows down your neck. When you grasp his hand and lead the man -- naked and rich with the scent of iron -- out of the guest bathroom to the dark hallway, he’s delighted. Down the hallway, are multiple gaping doorways with similarly unlit rooms. Both hands bite around one of Mahito’s as you take him into the master bedroom -- the one you used to share.

“It’s hard to see you in here,” Mahito makes no effort to lean away from your touch, though he does search for a source of light to flick on.

“Sorry…” you frown, dragging Mahito to the bed -- sheets messy and yet frozen cold to the touch. Shakily, you reach out for the drawstring of your bedside lamp. You clench your eyes as the bulb clicks to life, digging your nails into Mahito and praying, silently, that he’s still real. That the darkness hadn’t somehow fooled you so thoroughly into believing your Mahito returned.

His hand squeezes in return, you open your eyes. Mahito stares back. Ice and copper burns straight through your chest.

“Mahito…” his face creeps closer at your whisper, voice liquifying into a soft coo, “Mahito...” your eyes inch below his navel, to where any possibilities of him being a mere curse die, “You’re real? You’re back? Mahito’s back?”

“Mahito’s back,” he parrots, less affectionately than you said it, but he nods calmly nonetheless. He backs you against the mattress, your knees buckling so your back meets the springs. His eyes close and you’re tempted to claw them open again, “Don’t you want me back, honey?”

“Of course!” you cry hopelessly.

“Don’t you want to be happy, honey?” he slips both hands up your shirt and the ruthless buzzing in your heart numbs you to how cold his fingers are over your ribs. You open your mouth to question him, but he slots his lips over yours before musing into the sweltering air, “I want you to be happy.”

Beneath the raw blood, you can pick up hints of cedar wood -- how Mahito’s clothes smelt until you sucked the life from them, too.

“I want you to be happy, too,” you mumble against Mahito’s cheek. He’s so close you can’t breathe without inhaling him alongside oxygen. Your gut twists unpleasantly, and you will the knotting sensation down as Mahito nods into you.

“Of course, honey, I know you do,” he rolls his lips against the nape of your neck and sucks harshly where your shoulder begins. His teeth are sharp, you almost feel them stinging into your bone.

His teeth were never so lethal before, and yet you feel the indentation that revokes Mahito’s status as a curse. A penis.

As juvenile as it feels to have something of brainless flesh hold so much weight, you recall Mahito’s own words on the matter years ago.

“So, are curses like… naked?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrugged carelessly then, yawning soon after, “But they don’t have any,” he grinned at you, apparently eager, “Genitalia: to put it nicely.”

“None at all?”

“None at all. So it isn’t weird that they’re naked.”

(But his new stitches are so…

And, well, the teeth…)

His body itself is much colder.

The pit in your stomach returns as Mahito sears his teeth over your skin until he’s pointed over the ripe point of your pulse. Juicy and fat with hot blood. Mahito slips his hands over your sides again, as if to remind you of the softness he intends. It eases you.

“Will you -- well -- if you’re back…” you swallow, you suppose there isn’t a gentle way to ask this, “Will you ever return to sorcery?”

He shakes his head, long hair webbing over his shoulders and netting onto your chest, “I need to stay home. It’s safer at home.”

“Ah, okay,” you regret the question, momentarily fretful you may have offended him, “Will you be okay like this? Can you eat- can you eat food? I don’t think there’s anybody… else.”

His hands squeeze your sides, a soft sigh breezing over your neck, “That’s okay. As long as I stay with you, I’ll be okay.”

“Good,” sharp teeth pierce your neck shallowly, and this time Mahito’s hands do not rush to remedy the ache. But you push down the budding nerves and string your fingers through Mahito’s hair. It’s still as soft as you remember,

“Good,” he copies, with much less love than you said it with.

#jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk angst #mahito x reader #mahito jjk #jjk fic #jjk fanfic #mahito angst

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evolutionsvoid · 1 month

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The affliction of the Grotesques has been said to perfectly symbolize this horrid age. The ugliness of war and chaos, now given flesh. If the Arrimaki are the sickness of this world, then these horrid abominations are perhaps the deformity of it. There is no wonder why the Church and its followers are so quick to exterminate these tortured souls, unable to stomach the sight of what they are and what they stand for. Sadly, the Grotesques never had a say in what they were reborn into, and they are clearly not that happy about their twisted forms either. They say their mangled rebirth is a curse, a blight upon man, yet the people refuse to acknowledge which party is truly cursed in all this. But they see monsters and slay them, with no hesitation. Their garbled cries and soggy pleas fall upon deaf ears, as the blades are brought down upon them. So if their suffering and cries will not bring them peace, then they must turn to violence. Thus the Grotesques give into madness and anger, throwing themselves against their persecutors and executioners like rabid beasts. If humanity is truly responsible for creating the Grotesques, then they too are responsible for making them the monsters they are now.

Not all souls twisted into these Grotesques are born from humans, as it seems all walks of life are punished. Simple animals and oblivious beasts thrown into this sickening stew, and emerging as some wretched chimera of dripping flesh. No names are given to these things, no labels outside of "monstrosity" and "abomination." Even the Beast Masters are unnerved by these creatures, less from fear and more from their tortured state. They have a deeper connection with animals than they do man, and this bond shows them the pain and anguish trapped inside this failing form. Some may try to slay these creatures to bring them peace, while others seek to kill them to cease their rampage. No matter the reason, many fail. If a wounded animal is twice as fierce and deadly as any other, than imagine the power and savagery found in those who know nothing but pain, trapped in a world of cruelty.

---------------------------------------

"Grotesque Beast"

We're pulling the strange and bizarre from all places here for the Grotesques! And once I laid my eyes upon ol' Luigi Bergomi's utterly weird creatures, they immediately felt fitting and I just had to use one. Truly some inspiring stuff!

#monster #creature #chimera #beast #art #drawing #fall of ichor

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eldritch-spouse · 1 year

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Say hello to your Valentine Cero!

TW: Noncon; Kidnapping; Manipulation.

[Fem reader.]

It's hopeless. The more time you spend in this room, the less resistance you have to offer.

" Sign it. "

You shake your head, not trusting your voice.

There's a thunderous slam, the demonlord's hands clawing at the regal marble table and making a horrible, squealing noise. It rings in your ears, grating, shredding the gray mass of your already muddled brain.

" Tsk. "

He fiddles with a remote control outside your line of sight, and suddenly, you're arching against silken binds, shuddering hard enough to make the very chair you sit on tremble while the potent vibrator tortures your poor, overstimulated clitoris.

The noise that erupted out of you was something between a wounded animal's dying bleat and a wheeze. Ugly. Yet apparently very pleasing to the pride demon, whose scowl twitches into a grin for a second.

" Why must you insist on making this so much harder than it has to be? "

A long, flowing purple cape is flicked into place as he gets up, pacing.

" Do you not realize how good of a deal this is? " He's genuinely exasperated, sharp eyes looking at you as if you're showing clear signs of sustained head injury. " Must I spell it out? You can read, can't you? "

To be fair, even if you could when this bizarre encounter began, you've long since lost the coherence to read or interpret most of anything. The letters on the contract in front of you are nothing but squiggly black smudges twisting and floating on a fancy page, incomprehensible. They might as well be hieroglyphs by now. You recall what it is perfectly however.

A marriage contract.

A very weird, dodgy, skeevy one.

You don't even remember what put you here to begin with. You only know you bumped against an inordinately tall demon outside yesterday. In a rush, you were focused on a receipt and didn't look where you were going, knocking into him only to fall like a buffoon. The embarrassment was so intense that you didn't even look up, ushering out a string of apologies before collecting your belongings and dashing away with burning cheeks. It must have been him. It could only have been the Icon of Pride that you bumped into yesterday. That horrendous misfortune is the only incident you can think of to justify where you are right now.

In a stupidly opulent dining room, bound to a padded chair, lower half bare and currently being tortured.

Granted, this humiliating treatment only started when you refused to sign. You're not sure how much time has passed since then, with orgasm after draining orgasm being forced out of your sweaty body, while the unempathetic demon sat opposite of you, waiting, taunting, demanding you sign it.

Of course you didn't.

Although the calligraphy in it was nothing short of exuberant, it read like the whole thing was drafted in a rushed stupor. Like whoever made it, Di Cero, the demon in front of you presumably, was trying to meet a particularly stressful deadline. Sentence structuring is eloquent but impatient sounding, certain features which should be clearly explained are glossed over, and the number of concerning clauses detailing your level of autonomy as his supposed spouse are worrying. Not to mention the "scheduled worship sessions", whatever the fuck that implies. You could swear there was a mention of your soul somewhere… Buried in disgustingly self-flattering paragraphs of pure nonsense. It's as if he doesn't know what a partner is.

You were initially flattered, in a very unhealthy way. Scared and flattered, to be honest. Now you're just horrified. He wants you to sign a contract wherein you become his wife, Queen of Pride, as well as a strange sort of personal worshiper. What a fucking trip to wake up to.

The enigmatic paper in front of you is swiped away before saliva could reach it.

“ Ugh, you’re drooling on it. “ Cero sneers, and although you miss it entirely, a hint of deep satisfaction shines in his eyes from having you in this state.

He examines his own work briefly, this smarmy smirk on his face, as if he’s never read a finer legal agreement in his entire life. “ Really, I made it as clear as day, the terms are perfect, I’m even letting you use my personal pen. “ Something in his expression conveys that it's supposed to be a huge honor.

You glare at the thing, trying to distract yourself from the awful zings of stimulation, the loud buzzing echoing through the room and your own ragged breathing. Cero crowds you, exerting further pressure. The pen he mentioned is a touch too big for you, though that’s only natural, he’s quite the large demon, and you’re only a human. You’ve yet to touch it at all, but it looks heavy, a sleek black design you’re sure must be made of some well-known Hell mineral, featuring intricate curls of gold along the surface. The end of it has a strange form, like its… Oh. It’s a makeshift lancet. For the blood print part of the signature.

The demonlord rolls his eyes in a much too exaggerated manner, waving. “ Go ahead, I'll untie you, you can use it, really. “

Yeah, as if bashfulness is what’s keeping you from legally fucking yourself over. Handing your life to this tyrant in written form.

“ N- No. “

You’re not sure what the point of this is anyway. He could just place a blade to your neck and force you to sign, point a gun to your temple, even a slap from this creature could be dreadful enough to break something at full force. This must be extremely amusing to him.

A pause follows, almost lulling you back into an animal trance.

" No?! "

His booming snarl is the most frightening thing you've ever head, instincts begging you to shut the fuck up and sign already. Nothing's on your side here, it seems.

Your chin is suddenly pinched between two sharp needles, forced to face the fuming demon. " You ingrate! Brainless thing! Do you still not realize what I'm offering you?! " There's no response save for gasping and rapid blinking. " I'm feeling extra generous today, so I'll spell it out for you. Look at me and listen good- "

The vibrator working diligently inside you is all but yanked out. Thankfully, you're a wet mess by now, so it merely slides off with a disgustingly lewd noise. Instead of being ashamed however, you're sighing and slumping like a sack of potatoes, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Finally. Finally, some semblance of sweet, sweet mercy. Limbs tingling and half-numb, your body begs for the rest it's being denied by the alarm bells in your head.

Cero turns the white device off, and for a moment, the look on his face softens. As if he's truly lost track of what he was going to do with it. Much to your surprise, a very pale pink muscle peeks out between rows of gnarly teeth. You can only blink and watch as the Icon of Pride slides the shaft of the thing into his own mouth and licks it clean with a vigor shameless enough to set your cheeks even more aflame. You can see a very clear imprint of his excitement jumping in his odd skin-tight pants... What the fuck is his damage? It's only after a couple moments of this disgusting display that he appears to wise up, quickly releasing the toy, crushing it in his grasp, and tossing it behind him. There's a noticeable flush to his mostly chalk-white face, the demonlord looking genuinely angry at himself for a moment.

While the recovery was anything but smooth, Cero's grip on your chin tightens, painfully, and his stern demeanor surfaces once more.

" I've taken you from your sad excuse of a life to be a woman of value, of purpose- At my side, you shall be worshiped until the end of Pride itself, you will hold the admiration and respect of all demons under me, and you will know nothing but the very best life has to offer. Do you understand? "

Staring into those acidic rose pools, you realize he's being utterly serious, no room for mockery or nonsense in them. You have no idea why he's laying this much power at your feet, why he wants you of all people to fulfill this role. He could have anyone, he could have better, so much better. What sets you apart for him? What makes him think this is the type of thing you want from life? Well, that's easy to answer, of course the Icon of Pride isn't thinking about how you feel.

" Do you understand? " Is repeated through grit teeth.

" Y- Yes. "

" Good. "

Di Cero squats to be more at your level, an act that might mean nothing to you now but will be recognized in the future most likely, the pads of his fingers rubbing over your overstimulated mess of a pussy. You quiver and yelp like a corralled animal, though the Icon is too focused in the way your cum glistens on his digits. He finds your sloppy entrance and slides a digit in, moving it ever so slightly, enough to torture you. Your walls flutter and you start crying, fat desperate tears cascading down your tired face as you resign yourself to more unrequited pleasure.

Cero scoffs at the sight, observing sullen droplets hit the spotless floor while his gaze grows foggy. You're not sure what's going through his mind, nor are you lucid enough to care.

" I'm giving you so much pleasure, so much attention- You'll have me for entire days and nights, I'll make sure even that huge pink harlot envies you. " Although Cero's tone transmits desperation, his words are scathing and unconvincing. You have no idea how to interpret what he says, so all you do is look fearfully upon the caped tyrant, wincing at every twitch of his fingers that play with your wetness.

" Hm, no manners. " There's a drawn-out hum, facetiously pensive. " Yes… Maybe that's the problem, isn't it? I'm being too nice to you. Too sweet. You must think I'm a weakling. Bah, nonsense! I would not be King if I failed to adapt. "

You don't like the grin the demon now dons. It's different from his confident, toothy displays. Thinner. Strained. Warning. When his face rests mere inches from yours, your eyes close instinctively and you tremble hard enough that it feels as if you'll shake yourself into a pile of bones. Is he going to bite you? Plunge something into your flesh? Just yell? The uncertainty drags all breath from you.

Seconds pass.

Something warm slides up your face. Your cheek, more specifically. From chin to eye, it trails a wet path, collecting the rivers of fear tainting your expression. He's licking you. Cleaning your tears, perhaps savoring them. The same is done to the other side of your face, you don't dare open your eyes, fearing the type of sick emotion you'd find in his own.

The demonlord pulls away, his slicked fingers slipping out of you, but not before flicking a thoroughly abused button hard enough to make you squeal out in pain. It stings, black dots momentarily swallowing your vision.

" I understand, it’s a lot at the same time isn’t it? You need time to think about how you’re going to thank me for this. “

He’s gone in seconds. And the worst part is, you can’t even tell if Cero was being genuine, or purely mocking.

Hours must have passed.

You can’t really tell, it’s not as if he generously left a watch in the room. It feels like hours, so you assume that’s the case.

Your legs are sore, your ass, your still bound arms, even your back is screeching at you to shift position. Yet, no matter how much you grunt and shimmy around on the chair, it’s never enough to make the pains fade. You’re hungry, thirsty, still covered in your own fluids and utterly miserable, staring at that stupid. Fucking. Contract.

God help you. There isn’t a god here, but who else will you plead to?

You’d do anything to get out of this hellish chair right now. And part of you feels weak for admitting it. Maybe it’s exposure to movies that spawned this idea in you, but you’ve always thought it would take more violent methods to get you near begging for mercy. And sure, sexually you’ve just been through a lot, but being isolated in this chair is honestly doing worse right now.

You know what it is, at its core. Mind games. The demon humiliated you in an unforgivable way, and now he’s left you to your vices, to sit in shame, dirty. You’re livid, depressed that it’s working, that you’d rather just be done with this already.

As if something had heard your inner monologue, the door to this darkened hell pit parts, and in strolls none other than the very same bastard, looking as sharp as he’s been since the first second of this madness. The salty, dry tracks on your cheeks are silently renewed, the first reaction to his reappearance it seems.

Cero spares you a suspiciously calm glance before taking a seat on the chair opposite to yours, a fair distance away. His legs cross and he speaks out loud, as if to no one in particular. “ Dinner has just finished… “ A pause. “ If you sign now, you might be in time to eat with me. “

Food sounds amazing right now. You bet they serve well here, he’s a ruler after all.

In spite of your rage at his nonchalant audacity, you don’t say anything. Your judgment wavers in the face of discomfort and hunger, not allowing you to outright deny his offer.

Di Cero notices this, eyes sharpening when he finally deigns to glance at you, and preys on that weakness near instantly.

“ You do know you’re not losing anything of value, right? “ There’s a chuckle, as if he thinks your concerns are the silliest thing. “ It’s fascinating how afraid of change you are. Isn’t it pathetic? You live such a miserable existence that, when I hand you something much better, you immediately flinch away. “ A single finger waves, tutting you. “ Unlearn that, it’s unflattering. “

You swear to anything that’s out there, you’re about to pop a vein just from hearing this fucker speak. Another stretch of silence takes over, though not for long.

“ I’ve organized this down to the last minute. Every single detail. “ Some manner of contentment shines through his tone. “ Agree to our terms tonight, and our union will take place on Valentine’s Day. Isn’t that romantic? “

More like ironic. A demon getting married on a saint’s day. This has to be riveting for him. He must think he’s sooo clever and funny. Him and his little brigade of yes men most likely, because Cero strikes you as the type of monster that would want that.

“ Isn’t that perfect, beau? “

You wish you had the strength, and courage, to roll your eyes.

Unlike the previous encounter, your consistent lack of response isn’t dragging much of a reaction from the Icon. Instead, he just looks at the painted ceiling, eerily calm, waiting with steepled fingers. Cero appears to zone out completely, leaving you just as isolated as you were before.

Somehow, that makes you angrier. Yet also incredibly defeated.

This is it. You're just stuck here until you agree, he's made that much clear. And you're not a strong woman. You're not going to bear this for much longer. It's not fair and it's not worth it. He can have what he wants anyway, you've never been in any position to defy the demon, this is just some sick exercise to break you in.

A small eternity passes before you clear your throat, gathering a wink of composure and a brief side-glance from the tyrant.

" … I-... I'll sign. "

His eyes widen, chest expanding, you catch the exact moment where he realizes he's getting too excited and schools his expression, opting to be patient for a second more.

" I said I'll sign! " You near yell, voice broken, exasperated. " I just want to get out of here, I wanna take a bath, I just want to rest please- "

For a moment, Cero's stillness makes you wonder if he's lost interest, if your words were unconvincing or he thinks he can find someone better, someone less "pathetic", as he so politely put it. But then, in a blink, he bolts up, standing ever tall and tense. The demon erupts into elegant, manic laughter- Cackling really- As he claps joyfully and kicks his seat away in victory.

Although it probably wasn't meant to be intimidating, the way that admittedly heavy chair flies jarringly through the air and slams against the wall, breaking into pieces, is horrifying. A kick like that would just fucking flatten you, no doubt.

" Oh ho, I'm so very glad you've come to your senses! " The Icon's chortling fit settles ever so slightly, he waves. " I was starting to think you had some sort of damage. "

Oh. Oh, that's just lovely.

Cero's behind your seated frame in no time, untying your dominant hand, watching you pick up his pen. The demonlord's hands are planted on either side of you, pointy, cruel-looking things that they are. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, hot, heavy, there's a wolfish grin on his face- You don't need to look back to know it's there.

" Now sign. You've kept me waiting long enough. "

Said flat words spread on your skin like apathetic ice cubes, forcing you to quickly roll your sore wrist, and finally, write your name on that blasted signature blank. You know what you're getting yourself into with every shaky curl of ink, not wanting to think too hard about the consequences of your actions as you solemnly observe your name on this trap, this unsubtle death warrant sugarcoated with frivolous legal terminology. Drivel, a drivel-based, cynical ownership deal.

Cero hums from behind you, a much too sweet-sounding vocalization given the circumstances. Your hair is pet tenderly, the gesture so out of sorts that you start sobbing, scared, confused, full of instant regret.

" There we go, my lovely little prize. " He murmurs against your scalp, still smiling. " Very good. That wasn't so hard, was it? We're almost done. Almost. "

The pen falls from your trembling hands as you try to conceal humiliating noises, feeling vulnerable in a way you've never experienced before. Cero scoops it up and wipes your tears with the other, unfazed by the way you lean back hard enough to bonk your head on the chair's backrest.

" I hope those tears are of joy, dear. " He starts, grabbing your palm. " Now stand still, if you behave for the next part, we can put an end to this. " Next part…?

He clicks something on the pen's side and quickly adjusts your index, bringing the sleek black object closer. Ah, the blood print. Maybe you're sensitive, or maybe he does it on purpose, but the lancet hurts more than it should when it pierces into your pad of your finger. Your wince makes him snort. Blood beads there quite fast, Di Cero effortlessly angles your digit and creates an admittedly clean-looking droplet next to your signature.

A much smaller but still disturbing bout of tittering erupts from the demonlord, who slips your bleeding finger into his mouth, messily and lewdly sucking at it, before pulling away and swiping the finished contract away from the table. He gazes at it with a softness you fail to understand, as if it's all that matters in that moment, religiously re-reading the last paragraphs and moaning at the sight of your written agreement.

Fucking freak.

Di Cero places the apparently invaluable paper back on the ornamented table, deliberately far away from you, like he's afraid you'll try to destroy the thing. A tempting thought.

He's back on you like a hawk, taking your poor arm and showering it in chaste kisses, nipping at your wrist. " Precious, darling inamorata- See? All you needed was a little space. " The demon coos, placing a harder kiss to your forehead before stealing a taste of your lips. It's all teeth and impatience, rabid excitement. Disgusting. " I knew I picked excellently. You're full of potential, I just have to chip at you a little, which is normal, naturally- Given your uhm… Lackluster species. "

So he's racist to humans too. Of course. Why wouldn't he be? Why did you expect anything from this greasy fucker…

Those wandering feelers flutter this way and that across your body, and much to your dismay, they circle at your inner thighs, sliding to settle between your legs again. You groan, the touch entirely unrequited. You've orgasmed enough times to be sick. Although speaking is hard for you right now, you still try to halt him. " Cero… "

" Hush, I'm rewarding you. "

Funny how it feels like just more torment in spite of that.

You remain placid, resigned to letting the demon play with your poor womanhood. He appears to love the feeling, making clipped moans and growls behind you. In turn, you can only gasp and quiver, having long-since lost the ability to scream.

" C- Can you please untie me now? "

Di Cero shakes his head. " Soon. After we eat, yes? " Your responding sigh is pitiful. " Speaking of- "

" SERVANTS! "

Your heart jumps around your ribcage like a pinball machine, you almost feel light-headed for a second, goosebumps covering you from head to tone at the massively imposing, demonic tone that just left the Icon.

The doors part once more and small imps race forward, effectively setting the table. It's a small commotion, but enough to make you die in shame as they work diligently, while their master fingers you stupid. To their credit, not a single one looks your way. It's as if you don't exist at all. You still try to squirm away from Cero's ministrations, earning a disapproving snarl. Lord, this is so degrading.

Your dignity just keeps taking blow after devastating blow ever since you landed here.

In an impressively span of time, the two of you are left alone again, the table entirely set. Candles and everything, a bottle of champagne so expensive you can't recognize the brand, and the juiciest steak you've ever seen on a plate, almost seeming to teasingly wink at you.

Cero plucks a forkful of it with a free hand and aims it your way, a look of complete lovestruck mania on his pale complexion. " Eat now. You'll need your rest. " It parks at your lips, insistent, until you begrudgingly accept the food, frustrated further by how good it is. Just as you expected.

" Because tomorrow, my perfect Valentine, we'll be official. "

#Cero oc #pinnie's art #monster boyfriend #yandere monster #yandere teratophilia #monster oc #monster x reader #terato #monsterfucker #not sfw #minors dni

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cat-mentality · 8 months

Text

Forget socializing what do you mean Jaiden has WINGS ?????? I'm frowning at the mouth about the implications of this to literally everything else.

Jaiden's wings are beautiful.

They shine in the sun, so very colorful, matching her new hair color in a way that is bizarrely fitting for her personality.

Everyone gasps when they see it for the first time. Eyes wide, mouths open in shock before they start gushing compliments, a few hands lift just a little before being pulled down- The instinct to touch is always there but the respect for her triumphs over it.

Her own smile is shy at first, eyes darting around to see everyone's reaction, to try to predict what they think, what they feel.

She keeps the wings tucked close at first, until the compliments wash away her worries and she lets them stretch further, revealing the way the colors blend together.

Her smile is as bright as the sun.

Jaiden feels free, for the first time in a very long time.

(Bobby was the only and last person who saw her wings.

Not even Roier had seen them.

Jaiden doesn't know why.

Doesn't understand the urge to keep them hidden, to keep them protected.

Doesn't understand the way she tenses when someone gets too close, how she holds her breath waiting for a touch that the logical side of her knows is not coming, that even if it does come it will be with her permission and with utmost care.

Nothing ever happened to her wings right?)

Philza freezes a smile on his face.

He compliments Jaiden as does everyone else but there is something off on his voice and he cannot bring himself to care, to change it.

(Philza is keeping too much hidden already, he doesn't know if he could deal with more without blowing up.)

He hopes they are too distracted by her to look too much into him. He doesn't want them to see his eyes, the way they shine with tears for a few moments before he pushes it down with familiarity.

He downplays his own feelings, his own reactions.

Philza doesn't elaborate on what "fucked by the Island" means. He can't.

He can't talk about how they hurt. How he knows they have been plucked without any sort of care but to cause harm and to take away their ability to fly, how there are empty spaces on his wings where no feathers have grown even if it's been months, how he can still feel the phantom sensation in them, how much it aches and burns in random moments.

How he can't bear to look at himself in the mirror with them in the open because he doesn't recognize the mangled mess the Federation made of them.

Philza hates how envy burns inside of him.

How something ugly twist in his chest and his first urge is to scream at Jaiden. Is to ask "why", why are her wings perfect, why is she allowed to fly, why didn't they mutilate her as well?

Somehow discovering that he was the only one to be punished like this stings in a raw way he cannot properly explain.

It's not fair.

It's not fucking fair.

How much can this cursed Island take from him until there is nothing left?

Baghera looks at Jaiden's wings and her first instinct is to flinch. Is to hide herself in a corner to fight the urge to hide inside of her own mind again, shaking from something she can't name.

Her whole body aches.

Her whole body hurts.

Her own wings, firmly and safely hidden behind layers of clothing, feel like they have been flayed.

(They had been, once.

Baghera is nauseous at how familiar the sensation is )

She can feel cold hands grabbing her feathers, she can taste her own blood as she once bitten her tongue because screaming always seemed to amuse It, she can feel the pain as the feathers are plucked with mechanical detached violence, she can almost see the raw spots left behind.

Baghera shakes and shakes and suddenly she is a little girl a misbehaving experiment all over again watching as others walk around with their perfect wings as she hunches in a corner with her bandaged body.

(Your fault.

Your fault.

A mechanical voice chants inside her head, half memory half not.

Why couldn't you be perfect like her?)

She can't look at Jaiden's wings.

Quackity looks at this strange with her colorful wings and he is hit with such familiarity it hurts.

He knows those wings.

His brain hurts every time he looks at her, like there is something pounding from the inside, some memory screaming to be remembered and as much as he tries he simply cannot bring it to the surface, just has this feeling like the answer is in the tip of his tongue but he has forgotten how to form words.

His own wings stir from their binding and he pushes down the urge to release them as well.

He can't.

He doesn't know why though, he doesn't understand the need to keep them to himself, to keep them safe where no one can see let alone touch them.

But he sees the scars on them when he dares to look into a mirror, sees the empty spaces where new feathers refuse to grow and he remembers very well the sensation of a cold hand holding into his feathers- Not a threat, a promise, a reminder.

Quackity dips his head into the cold water of his pool and wonders why he can't forget about the pain too.

(El Quackity watches in the cameras as the blue bird stretches her wings for the first time since they are kids and smiles to himself, amused by reasons none of the workers could hope to understand.

His own wings are visible as well, bright yellow and perfect as they can be.

He wonders if she has any idea of what she did to gain her's back.)

#I'm literally getting ready to go out this is word vomit at its FINEST I'm going to expand on this some other time #qsmp #qsmp analysis #qsmp jaiden #qsmp philza #qsmp baghera #qsmp quackity

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floilee · 9 months

Text

(In the Avengers complex)

Peter excited enters the room: Hey gays, do you want to know a bizarre curiosity?

Yelena bored: More nerd stuff.

Kate smiling: What did you discover this time king of nerds?

Peter: It looks like I have a lookalike...

Yelena: But isn't this already scientifically proven?

Peter: Yes, but here comes the plot twist. My lookalike is dating MJ's lookalike too.

Peter: It seems that their name is Tom Holland and Zendaya.

Kate: Okay, that's bizarre.

Yelena: Could be that our lookalikes also date just like us?

Kate: Yes. It is chemically impossible us not to be attracted to each other-

Peter looking at cell phone: No, Florence and Hailee don't date, and it looks like they're not a lesbian.

Yelena ugly face: Flo-what?

Kate: NOT A LESBIAN?

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waitingonavision · 3 months

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Encanto Ficlet: The Belly Shirt (Part I)

@empty-cryptid and I collaborated on a storyyy!!! Mine is part one (*rises from the writing grave*), and Ash's is part two! :D Enjoy~ The fic is up on AO3!

...

Pepa jumps in her seat, nearly losing her place in her novel, when something soft plops down on the table.

“Look what I found!”

A beaming Bruno is standing there, hands on his hips. Now, Pepa knows he knows that interrupting her while she’s engrossed in a book is a choice. But despite that, despite her glower and the shift in the room’s climate, he continues to grin at her.

“Look, Peps!” He points excitedly. “Recognize it?”

The middle triplet rolls her eyes. Above them, clouds waver and begin to break apart. She’ll humor him this time. Turning her full attention to the heap of whatever-it-is he’s dropped in front of her, she sputters a laugh the instant she registers the thing’s ugly shade of green.

“Dios mio, how—where did you even find this?” She asks, picking it up.

It’s a shirt. One that Bruno had commissioned the town tailor for when he was sixteen and caught up in a fit of rebellion. Truly the most horrendous hue, with a bizarre pattern to boot, the button-up became the bane of Alma’s sensibilities, albeit briefly: It vanished after Bruno had bullishly worn it for two days straight. The triplets whispered amongst themselves that their mamá must have cut it to shreds, burned the scraps, and scattered the ashes to the wind.

In response to his sister’s present question, though, Bruno just shrugs. “Idaknow. Heh, does it matter? The Shirt lives! —Oo-ooh, can I?”

Pepa hands him The Shirt, arching a brow when he slings it over his shoulder and starts to undo the buttons on the top he’s wearing. “What’re you doing?”

“M’gonna put it on!” He says, torso now bare between the open shirt halves. Pepa lightly snorts.

“It’s not going to fit, Brunito.”

Bruno frowns, almost a pout. Alright, so he’s (thankfully!) filled out since he was a scrawny teen, but it can’t be that much. What’s more, like everything else he’s tended to wear, The Shirt was made oversized! He pats the flesh on his middle and clicks his tongue.

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Peps. It’s gonna fit fine! I’ll show you… oh, an-and then we can show Juli!.”

“It won’t fit,” Pepa repeats, sprawling back in her chair.

“Will too!”

Wispy little cirrus clouds spring into being above them. “Ridiculo.”

“You’re ridiculous!” Bruno retorts, whipping off his top.

“Not. Gonna. Fit.”

“Will!”

With that, he pulls his arms through the sleeves of the garish old shirt and begins working his way down the row of buttons. After three decades plus change, the garment looks fitted rather than loose across his shoulders and chest. The gentle slope of his upper belly presses against the fabric without overstraining it.

Bruno is smiling like he’s totally got this. But— oh. The next button is the one closest to his navel… which is where most of the recovery weight has stuck thus far: rounding out the lower half of his tummy and thickening his hips into a sweet store of fat that tends to puff over the waistbands of his trousers. Pepa can practically see the cogs turning in her triplet brother’s head. His long fingers falter, and he steals a glance at her.

She smirks, eyes flicking from his face to his exposed belly and back again. “Mmhmm. Can’t button the rest, can you?”

“Nope —uh, I mean, yes. But no, ‘cause this is…. um. The fashion,” Bruno says. “F-from the fuuuture,” he adds in a spooky voice, wiggling his fingers, just as Pepa lunges toward him.

“Well.” poke “Aren’t you lucky—“ pokepoke poke “—that the fashion—“ poke pokepoke “—is letting chubby bellies—“ pokepoke pokepokepoke “—hang out!” pokepokepokepokepoke

“Ny-ahahaha haha—¡buh-basta!” Bruno squawks, escaping his sister’s rapid-fire barrage with one final twist and hands splayed across his squishy muffin top. “Fine. ¡Mira!”

Tugging again at the old shirt, he tries to close it over the fullest part of his tummy… but fails, just barely, to get the two sides to meet. Under Pepa’s amused eye, he draws a small breath, holds in his belly enough to push the button through its hole. He does the same with the next button before relaxing his middle for the last one.

“Tada!” He declares. Pepa can’t help but smile at her younger brother’s spirit of triumph. Even when they can both plainly see how The Shirt has to bunch around the doughy roll that shapes his lower belly, and how it gaps between the buttons above and below his navel.

It’s here that she prods, telling him, “Yes, you look perfectly presentable.”

Bruno bats her hand away. “Pfft. —Ah, h-hey, I guess now we can go show Juli.” Then, looking down at himself, he gives a soft chuckle. “She’s gonna love this…”

The siblings link arms and make their way through the kitchen to their sister’s room, into which Pepa gusts first, announcing “the miraculous return of The Shirt!”

From her seat at her writing desk Julieta sets down the pen she’s holding and blinks at her sister. “¿Qué? A shirt?”

“The Shirt, Juli!” Bruno says, shuffling into the room backwards so that he can do a proper reveal of the front of his outfit.

The eldest triplet’s eyes widen. “Ay, that shirt!” Whatever utterance might have followed that initial note of disbelief dies on Julieta’s lips—because Bruno is twirling around, and her gaze locks onto his little puff of belly the second it comes into view.

“Eh?” Bruno angles his hands like brackets on either side of his waist. “Whaddya think?” He and Pepa ask together.

“I told him it wouldn’t fit,” Pepa gloats, needlessly pointing out the snuggest buttons and the diamond of pudge on display. A radiant smile spreads across Julieta’s face. Padding over to her siblings, she loops an arm around Bruno’s gently rounded side.

“¡La pancita de Brunito, mi encanto!” She squeezes him, eliciting a squeak. “Ay, the last time we saw this shirt, it was wearing you. But now...”

The three of them exchange grins.

“…now it’s The Belly Shirt!”

#encanto #bruno madrigal #pepa madrigal #julieta madrigal #viva la pancita de bruno #encanto fanfiction #chubby bruno <33 #my writing #my fics #stuff i've posted #belly shirt!!!!!!!!!#and triplet shenanigans

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phantomenby · 1 year

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Joined at the hip

Hiii! I absolutely love your work and was wondering if I could request about a reader with a prosthetic leg who is friends with the boys,and all of the boys (you can include Michael if you want to,completely up to you) are just super doting and overprotective.

This leads to a confession when reader tells them they don’t have to always worry so much after reader kicks a surf nazi’s ass after they made of them,showing they’re not afraid to use their very hard prosthetic leg to their advantage.

Thank you! -🪩

hi july 2022 dm sorry this is so late xx

You huffed as you traipsed down the road that led to the busier part of town, feeling your skin chafe where your leg met your upper thigh.

It had been a solid three days of mild agony as you diy-ed your way through a shortage of your usual equipment. It was unsurprising considering the fact that the current government spend more time hating on gay people than meeting the needs of its citizens.

When your doctor told you she had a few spares you had sighed in relief until she pulled out a socket and liner than were a size too big and thus led to your hip and the remainder of your thigh lifting awkwardly with every step. Even stuffing it with a little extra fabric led to nothing more than you falling on your face every few minutes.

And you hadn't even been around your friends since then.

you thought they were annoyin' when your leg was fitting well, god knows how they're gonna be tonight...

The sun was still setting slowly beyond the horizon as you walked, the air growing colder behind you as you watched the shadow of night slowly cross over the earth.

All remnants of daylight had vanished by the time you reached your favourite diner, slipping into the warm space and feeling your consciousness relax as you crossed the threshold, hearing the familiar bell ding above you.

The waiter nodded as you passed - a guy a few years older than you and sporting the signature ugly yellow uniform everyone who worked here was cursed to wear.

Finding your usual booth you plopped down, sliding towards the window and shifting your leg until it detached, breathing deeply at the relief as your sore skin breathed through your shorts.

Checking the time you realised it wouldn't be long before your friends showed up. Face stretching into a relaxed grin, thank fuck for that.

Twenty minutes later you felt the familiar rumbling of the boys bikes as they swerved haphazardly into the small lot by the diner, surrounding a cushy Mercedes as it tried to turn onto the main road.

Classic

David was the first to spot you, eyes shining in the moonlight as he stepped off his bike, holding onto Michael's hand as he stood beside him. Even though he would never admit it Mikey was always David's favourite.

Dwayne always insisted the crush began when Michael first stood in front of the large poster of Jim Morrison that still hung high across from David's nest.

They were still hung up on the high of the ride when they entered the diner, the loud scraping of metal as Marko and Dwayne each pulled a chair so you could all sit together. Much to the unending distaste of the cook who definitely wouldn't be getting off early now.

Paul slid in next to you, nose pressed to your hair as he kissed your temple, "hi cookie."

You smiled at the name, twisting your body to lean into his side, made much easier since your leg was not weighing down your movement.

It took Paul a moment to notice, brushing it off when he realised it just meant you could be closer to him.

The two of you began whispering to each other while the others ordered, faces buried into each others soft skin as you asked as many mundane questions as you could before Dwayne and Marko used their giddy energy to derail the group into something bizarre.

"Whats up with Michael and David?" your eyes were gleaming mischeaviously as Paul snickered against your ear, "don't tell me he finally decided to move in-"

The blonde shook his head, leaning a little closer, "look at Davids shoulder..."

When you glanced over you flushed, looking as the scandalous indent that was clearly made from a certain brunettes teeth.

The two of you descended into giggles as you refused to look at the pair of lovebirds across from you, watching David huff as he read through Pauls mind. Had he been human you were sure his face would be as red as the booth he was sat in.

Michael, less aware asked why you were both laughing, making Paul hide behind your shoulder to avoid his packmates burning gaze.

You were less fortunate in your response, "oh nothing- just the weather-"

David kicked you both under the table, well tried to. Instead his foot met the hard metal of your legs ankle, just missing the much softer wood that shaped your calf and thigh.

"YEOW!"

You froze as David lifted his leg away from you, bringing his bruised foot onto the seat as though you had just burned him. The rest of the boys looking at you in confusion before all but Paul stuck their heads under the table.

"Uh, bug..." Marko drawled, eyes trailing to you, "I think your leg is broken..."

Huffing you rolled your eyes, lifting the leg onto your other thigh and pointing to the new adjustments, "doctor did it, not me."

"Why?" Marko asked, reaching for your leg to inspect it, Dwayne joining him to glower at the obviously uncomfortable adjustments.

When Dwayne began unlatching the calf to move it down you put your hands out to stop him, brown eyes meeting your own with a huff as he handed your leg back to you.

"It's only temporary until they get my size socket back in, then I'll be good as new," you pouted and leaned into Paul as he gave you a side hug, Michael reaching a hand over the booth to squeeze your own warmly, "until then I'll be a bit wobbly."

"Oh so nothing new," David piped up, flinching with a sly grin as you raised the leg to strike him, "you'll be fine babe, you can still ride with us right?"

---

And that was how you found yourself being dragged down the other end of the coast on the back of Michaels bike, hands wrapped tight around his stomach. Your leg was being secured on the back of Markos bike since his was the only one with a rack that it could be tied to. He had secretly secured a clip to his belt that prevented it from jostling too much, and you know, just in case.

You were glad they had seemingly moved on from the issue quickly, while they could be rather doting it got very annoying very quickly if it centred around your missing limb. It never prevented you from doing anything and if they ever got too in their own heads about things you were quick to put them in their place.

You like to think that over time you had carefully molded them into bearable individuals. Almost.

Your journey ended when they pulled up to their usual parking space by a bar known as Smithys that was trusted less than them and therefore meant they never had concerns about people traipsing down there and harassing them.

Marko was quick to move over to you, standing and placing your leg upright on the ground so you could place your thigh into it, wincing at the sight of your upper thigh that was sporting a garish bruise from moving around all day.

Your hand met his shoulder as he tried to attach it for you, huffing at his glare, "I'm perfectly capable of putting my own leg on, 'sides last time you messed with it you almost shattered my thigh..."

He grinned at that, holding his arm out to you so you could walk beside him, they hadn't actually ended up getting any food at the diner so you were hoping to find somewhere still selling more than booze and candyfloss this late in the evening.

According to the city council, those two commodities were all that was necessary to keep humans of all ages sated.

You disagreed, but as long as you didn't have anything to bribe them with they wouldn't even consider glancing in your direction, let alone acknowledge your existence.

Eventually, he brought you to a grill that was finishing up for the night that was more than happy to sell whatever was left to you all so they didn't have to throw anything away. Soon enough your hands were gripping a grilled cheese like it was Ambrosia being offered by Zeus, ignoring Marko as he winced at the sounds of you and Dwayne eating far more than you knew you could handle in one sitting.

When you were done you found your face being wiped with a napkin by Marko, who was rarely this kind of sweet in public, was grasping at least three of the scratchy throwaway cloths in his hand as he gently wiped the minuscule amounts of ketchup and relish from around your lips.

"Uh, Marko?"

He paused, meeting your eyes and pulling away awkwardly, "uh, yes babe..?"

"What ya doin'?" You queried, leaning away from him with a tight smile.

Marko merely shrugged, throwing the napkins in a nearby bin and moving a few seats away from you.

Weird. You thought, moving to stand and throw away your own trash.

Michael stopped you before your foot even touched the ground, taking the trash from your hands and practically skipping over to the bin like a dog that was doing its duty.

Turning back to the table you huffed, seeing your friends avoiding your gaze.

They knew what they were doing, and you were determined to grate on every single one of their nerves until they cut it the fuck out.

"I'm goin' the fair." You stood up quickly, dragging your leg over the bench with a loud clang, the sensation buzzed through your hip and you fought to keep your face still.

They took a moment to follow you, Dwayne and Paul doing their best to stand close to your sides out of fear you were about to topple over. Which you were. But they didn't need to act like you would shatter like porcelain.

Strutting further into the crowds you grinned slyly as your friends were pushed slightly away from you, continuing on until you shoulder was met with a brick wall that sent you stumbling slightly until your leg locked up and pushed you forward back into the face of your aggressor.

Skunk.

Of course it was him.

Each one in your group had another out there who hated you, David killed his one, Greg, a couple of weeks ago and since then the surf nazis had been a little more wary of you guys. They had mistakenly singled you out, assuming your wobbly gait was a sign of weakness.

You looked towards the gent, "Skunk."

He bristled, studded shoulders rolling as he leant towards you, "pipsqueak."

You scoffed, eyes flitting back to see your friends catching on to whats happening. Good.

"I'm the same height as you, dumbass."

"Oh please, how about I chop both your knees off, wont be so tall anymore."

I can't be fucked with this

You tightened the strap on your thigh before raising your leg as quickly as you could in the direction of his crotch, wincing at the sensation of the hard wood of your leg hitting his pelvic bone.

The effect was satisfying enough, bringing you back to the scene you had created as Skunk screeched, kneeling over in agony as his his hands cupped the centre of his pain. You didn't give him a chance to breathe as your elbow met his spine, watching his legs fumble and send him into the ground.

Your foot went for his stomach next, while your head tilted slightly to meet the wincing faces of your friends. By the third kick the guards had begun heading your way and Paul took his que to grab you and pull you away from Skunk and through the crowds.

He knew better than to throw you over his shoulder with that weapon that was attached to your hip. As they turned into an alley they paused to catch their breath - for yours and Michael's sake more than theirs.

As your chest stopped heaving you stood up straight, pointing at them all menacingly, "if you ever-" you sent David a look as he tried to speak over you, "and I mean EVER pull that caretaker shit again I will obliterate you with my fucking leg. Do you understand?"

They nodded like scolded school children, glancing at your leg warily, fully aware of the damage it was capable of.

And they were fully aware if they crossed the line one more time you would be getting your moneys worth out of those sockets.

#disability pride #platonic tlb #tlb platonic #david tlb #michael emerson #tlb #the lost boys #the lost boys x reader #the lost boys fanfiction #dwayne tlb #marko tlb #paul tlb #michael tlb

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thetombedspirit · 7 months

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Dark Parables, the Hidden Object Games: Rant about the Stained Portrait

So, random fact about me; I like Hidden Object games, and my absolute favourite as a kid was the franchise Dark Parable, where you play as a detective going to different location, and meeting classic fairy tale characters with unique twists thrown into the universe.

Like, for example: Little Red Riding Hood? A badass sisterhood of monster hunters! Snow White? Became the Snow Queen after her son fell into an enchanted coma! Frog Prince? Trapped in a cycle of immortality and death while everyone he touches turns into frogs!

They were a fun series of games for me, and I recently got into playing them again, especially when I heard they weren't being made in recent years.

So I bought and played them all the way to the last one: the Portrait of the Stained Princess.

And I have to say, for the last game of the franchise to this day... what a let down.

SPOILERS if anyone wants to play the games for themselves, you have been warned.

Not gonna lie, it started off strong, but then, halfway through the middle it starts getting fuzzy, then the ending comes around and it's like they lost the script last minute and just threw something together.

To clarify; the princess makes friends with a prince of a dark kingdom whose cursed to not walk in sunlight, or something. They make a promise to find the Water of Life together. When they are forced to separate, the prince gives the princess his guardian animal (which has his heart, btw) a little duckling "The Ugly Duckling" and leaves. Apparently, prolonged time away from his heart will cause him to turn cold. Remember that, cause the games NEVER brings this little factoid up again.

And I guess the princess just forgot where they random duckling came from, because she just forgets all about him for no apparent reason. He eventually returns to ask for her hand in marriage, but because the king, her father, doesn't want her to marry a prince from a kingdom that's said to worship DEATH and all that, he attempts to trick the prince with a stained portrait of the princess, putting it off as her actual likeness.

Of course, the prince is not deterred as he fell in love with her kindness, not her beauty and returns disguised as a blind fiddler. The princess arrives, but still doesn't recognise him, again for no apparent reason! Naturally, because honestly, the guy gave his literal heart away and this chick doesn't remember her only childhood friend, and also because the king lied to him, he cursed the princess into the portrait, to become as stained and ugly as her broken promise.

Over the years, a family of knights are selected to take the princess place every blood moon so that she can find the Water of Life. One knight eventually betrayed his oath and tried to burn the portrait to spare his family, but was caught and condemned for it. Follow me here, because this matters for some reason!

Then we come in. A man, secretly a descendant of the knight, sets out to find the portrait and help the princess and neglects to tell us this when he proceeds to PUSH US OFF A CLIFF! After that, we're suddenly working together, even though he PUSHED US OFF A CLIFF and proceed to the islet that contains the Water of Life... that is then never brought up or even used as the Dark Prince shows up and is still pissed that the Princess doesn't remember him and just decided to swallow the world into darkness. A fight scene happens, prince gets stabbed, and then I guess??? the princess remembers him now, because she kisses and embraces him as he's dying??? and then the game just ends. Curse lifted, danger averted, what a wonderful day!

It... it was just a bizarre ending. Like, with all the talk of a broken promise and the princess just randomly forgetting, I thought the knight or at least the king was gonna have some hand in that, especially with the graffiti, "The King's Lie Ruined Us!" like, I was expecting a parable to tell me that the king wiped the girl's memory because he wanted to erase the Dark Prince entirely. I was expecting the Dark Prince to be a misunderstood good guy that seems evil but then helps us, especially when the Swan Knight PUSHED US OFF THE CLIFF and put the other guy in the portrait.

And with all the talk of swans and the whole Ugly Duckling bit, I thought this game would have some ties to the Swan Lake Kingdom, but I don't think it was even brought up as a clue or a Easter egg.

And then there was the Bonus Game, because of course I got the collector's edition, and it was just so random! Like, suddenly there's an impostor, and I think it was meant to be Julian from the Jack and the Sky Kingdom game, because the impostor was carrying a rose around. Anyway, the impostor impersonates the princess, for some reason, tricks the knight into cursing himself into a portrait, for some reason, and then kidnaps the princess and ties her up on the islet, FOR SOME REASON!!! and then THAT bonus game just.... ENDS! NO FOLLOW UP WHATSOEVER!!!

Sorry if this rant to getting tiresome, but this games meant a lot to me and the fact that it ends like this was so confusing and disappointing. It just... ends. Not with a dramatic bang, but with a cold whimper.

It makes me hope that if Dark Parables ever comes back, that knock us out the ball park.

Anyway, I just wanted to rant. Thank you guys!

#Dark parables #hidden object games #portrait of the stained princess #3/10 disappointing #rant

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adarkrainbow · 1 year

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Otona no Douwa: A French review (2)

OAV 1: Hansel and Gretel

OAV created by Hiroshi Takaya.

The plot:

In a poor family, the parents find themselves unable to feed their two children, and so decide to abandon them in the forest. They do so, but the children manage to find back their way and go back home. The parents try to abandon their children several more times, but constantly fail, despite their attempts growing more desperate - sometimes the children are even back at the house before their parents return from the wood!

Their mother, who was already scared of Hansel and Gretel due to their bizarre behavior, ends up completely panicking, and she decides to get rid of them forever by putting poisoned berries in their bread. The following day, the parents attempt one more time to leave them in the woods, the mother giving them the famous piece of bread - and the parents then quickly return home, terrified at the idea the siblings might return. However the children cannot find their way back - and they are careful not to eat the bread, knowing it was poisoned.

Wandering through the woods, they discover a gingerbread house that they start to eat. A friendly old woman comes from inside the house and welcomes them inside: other children live there, orphans that she took in her home. Hansel searches around the house and discovers that in the old woman’s furnitures there is a lot of riches and treasures. With the help of his sister, he pushes the kind old woman in her oven as she is cooking. They steal the old woman’s riches and leave - but not without leaving their poisoned bread among the cakes the old woman had prepared for the other orphans, resulting in all the other children dying.

Hansel and Gretel manages to return home with bags full of riches and food. Hansel tells to his father, with a flat, emotionless tone, that he vanquished the “witch of the forest” - all while their mother looks at them in terror. She is so scared she runs out of the house, but she trips and falls into the well in the garden. At the bottom of it, she drowns in the water, while Hansel looks at her from above and asks “Mother, do you love me?”

The reviewer’s opinion:

This first OAV makes the viewer understand very fast what kind of world they are stepping in, with Hansel and Gretel designed to disturbingly lanky and slender, looking more like aliens than humans. Not only their appearance is strange, but their behavior is also weird: they speak very little, and when they do it is without emotion, in a flat tone. Their face also remains completely faceless, to reinforce their inhumanity - they notably clash with the other children in the gingerbread house, who are depicted as normal kids.

The reviewer notes that while it is a reinvention of the tale, it kept several details to stay true to the first versions of the story as collected by the Grimm: for example the woman who wants to abandon them is their mother, not their step-mother, and their father is not opposed at all to her plan. The other twist here is that the “witch” (only ever called such by Hansel) is a kind old granny who helps poor orphans and would have never harmed Hansel and Gretel. In return, the siblings express no remorse over killing her and poisoning the other children. It is even suggested that, while it looks like she tripped, the mother of the siblings might have been pushed in the well by Hansel himself... This OAV is stands out the most due to its unique visual style, its ambiance, but also the fact that its main characters are two young sociopaths.

OAV 2: Blue beard

Director: Sou Sotoyama. Design and animation: Toshiko Baba.

Plot:

A young girl named Marianne has been promised against her will to an ugly and rich old man named Bluebeard, and she is taken to his castle. Alongside Johann, the servant of Bluebeard, she discovers the enormous house of her husband, and its mysterious doors - each of a different color. She has a hard time adapting herself to the presence of Bluebeard, but she tries her best to know more about him.

One day, Bluebeard tells her he must leave for some times, and he leaves her the keys that open all the doors of his castle - he however asks her to never use the golden key that opens the door of the same color. After Bluebeard leaves, Marianne decides to visit the castle with Johann - getting near the mysterious golden door, she lets curiosity have the best of her and is about to open it... But she stops at the last minute. Some days later, her wedding with Bluebeard is announced, which greatly worries the girl. On the eve of her wedding, she goes to the room of Johann and begs him to spend one night with her - wanting to enjoy her last night of freedom. He accepts.

The following day, during the ceremony Bluebeard enters into a mad rage and strangles Marianne telling her she betrayed him. She stabs him with a dagger that Johann had gifted her the previous night, and she flees, screaming for help. But Bluebeard catches her... and is revealed to be none other than Johann himself, disguised as an old man. The two were one and the same, since the start. He kills her, and drags her corpse to the room behind the golden door: the room where the corpses of her previous to-be-wives are stored, alongside the body of his deceased mother.

The reviewer’ opinion: With a very different visual style, much more “classic”, this OAV is harder to understand in terms of story. The fairytale was heavily changed - no brothers to save the protagonist, the girl doesn’t even open the forbidden door - and that despite it being the main element of the original story. So here she is not punished for her curiosity, but rather for her unfaithfulness - even though the metaphor of the key soiled with blood is often read in a very similar way...

What makes this OAV harder to understand is the lack of explanation for several details. For example, there is a little cat with eyes of two different colors that appears briefly, wears the same name as Marianne, and that is also killed by Bluebeard alongside his new wife at the end: what is his true role? Another mysterious detail: the mother of Bluebeard appears in a flashback at the beginnng of the OAV, and her corpse is revealed in the end. It is implied that she killed her husband, that she hated, but then what happened, did she kill herself, or did her son kill her? Her corpse is disfigured in a very peculair way - one of her eyes was removed, and the other was sawn. This strange eye mutilation is present on the other corpses of Bluebeard’s wives. But it stays unexplained... Overall the reviewer things that, despite it being a very obscure piece, this version of Bluebeard is very interesting - and the play on color and contrasts is greatly done.

OAV 3: Cinderella

Created by Soichi Masui.

The plot:

Helena is a young girl whose mother died. Her father re-married, with a woman who has two daughters, and all three of them are wicked. Helena’s half-sister treat the girl like a piece of trash, and nickname her Cinderella - and in return, Helena constantly searches for occasions to take her revenge against them. For example she hides bugs and insects in their bed as they sleep, and then enjoys their screams in the night.

One day, as she cries on her fate near the tree where her mother is buried, Cinderella discovers hidden on a part of the gravestone indications about a hidden treasure. Following the engraved text, she discover a small chest buried, in which there are numerous gold pieces - it is what her mother left to her as an inheritance. Happy with her new fortune, Helena goes into town, where she learns the prince will be organizing a ball. After paying a soldier of the castle to obtain more info, and learning that the prince has a fetish for legs, Cinderella decides to use her mother’s gold to buy herself a pretty dress, and golden shoes - she hatches a plan to become the princess of the realm.

One night she enters discreetly inside the castle by climbing over a balcony, and she encounters the prince, while wearing her dress so that it reveals her legs as much as possible. The prince is charmed by Cinderella, and invites her to the ball. When said ball happens, Helena arrives with her most beautiful dress - her sisters do not recognize her, and the prince dance with her. They spend the night together, and Cinderella tells him she wants to take revenge on her half-sister. To enact her plan, she gives the prince one of her golden shoes and asks him to force all the women in the kingdom to try them.

The following day, all the soldiers of the kingdom go on a quest for the young girl able to fit in the shoe of gold - said girl sure to become the prince’s wife. When a soldier (actually the prince in disguise) arrives at Cinderella’s house, the two sisters try and fail to put on the shoe. Their mother, helped by Cinderella, takes an axe and cuts off the heel of one of the sister and the big toe of the other - but the soldiers notice the trick when they see blood coming from the shoe. Cinderella then takes out the other gold shoe, and claims that she is the one everybody is looking for. After that, her sisters end up in poverty, her father kills himself, and Cinderella marries the prince with a great smile.

The reviewer’s opinion: This last OAV based on the Grimm fairytales has yet again a different style - evoking papercut animation. The reviewer appreciated the strongness of Cinderella here, who is depicted as a determined protagonist who knows exactly what she wants and does everything she can to reach her goal. (The reviewer notably has a strong dislike of the Disney Cinderella apparently). Even though this Cinderella barely emotes, and the only true emotion she manifests is at the end, her great smile during her wedding, as her plan suceeded entirely.

But, while she is a strong protagonist, she is also shown to have no remorse or regret for whoever stands in her way: it was her who got the idea of having the shoe being tried on by all the women of the kingdom, just so she could mutilate the feet of her half-sisters. Things get even worse when we hear that, as the prince asks her “What happens if another girl ends up ftting the shoe?”, she answers “You’ll just have to kill her”. The ending is however softer than the one of the Grimm fairytales, where the stepsisters had their eyes gouged out by birds at Cinderella’s wedding. The reviewer quite liked this version, despite the general design which (it is unclear here if the design creeped them out, or if it made them fear the worst for this episode).

EDIT: In the comments of the review, the reviewer added a detail they haven’t mentionned in the recap for the Cinderella episode (because the summaries are just... well summaries). The father of Cinderella, who kills himself in the end, isn’t entirely innocent either. There are hints throughout the story that he is just as manipulative and greedy as the rest of the family - most notably, it is very revealing that, after Cinderella had one last moment with her mother on her deathbed, the girl’s father promptly asks her if his wife didn’t mention anything about a possible heritage or inheritance...

#otona no douwa #horror fairytale #dark fairytale #bluebeard #cinderella #fairytale anime #hansel and gretel #horror anime #grimm fairytales

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