ηε³Ά εΎζ πͺ Majima GorΕ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
no_kyouken) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
jigokulogs2022-06-11 04:08 pm
no_kyouken) wrote in jigokulogs2022-06-11 04:08 pm
Entry tags:
[open] day and night
Who ⬀ Majima (Shuten) & Open
What ⬀ June 2022 Event: Summer Begins
Content Warnings ⬀ horror, mental illness, torture, abuse (physical/emotional), trauma, depression, grooming/manipulation, violence. check individual subject lines for more content warnings.
Prompts in comments, wildcard me with anything else you want. You can catch me in the discord or DM me at itsabee#1072.
plotting comment
Feel free to double up prompts, I will tag you however many times you want.
majima πΆ
goromi πΆ
svarte greiner - knive πΆ
What ⬀ June 2022 Event: Summer Begins
Content Warnings ⬀ horror, mental illness, torture, abuse (physical/emotional), trauma, depression, grooming/manipulation, violence. check individual subject lines for more content warnings.
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Prompts in comments, wildcard me with anything else you want. You can catch me in the discord or DM me at itsabee#1072.
plotting comment
Feel free to double up prompts, I will tag you however many times you want.
majima πΆ
goromi πΆ
svarte greiner - knive πΆ
no subject
anchored to her body, enough wires so she does as the setting demands. crumpled in a heap - no wings on her back, there is no playing at angels for this show. and then plucked up, brought to the right pose to begin, to dance to the puppeteer's tune. only allowed to mime her sorrow, not to speak, the same routine and same paces. the dance that ends with her fallen down again and again. entertainment, while the other gets ready.]
no subject
As the skeletons motif comes to its end, it comes to a standstill at the furthest border of its invisible cage. Lit from above, it gazes upwards. The spotlight is abruptly turned bloody red and the dire hue spreads across the stage.
Its head is turned to look at her. ]
no subject
allowed a little closer, but not close enough. if they both strained, perhaps they could touch -
and the wires viciously jerk her back, arrested and bound tighter, forced into stillness - not even a dance, because she isn't behaving. that's not how this ballet goes.]
no subject
It stands there, frozen in indecision. ]
no subject
she looks up at the knife, and with the bit of slack offered to her, tilts her head back to expose her throat. it will be easier like this. she has no freedom to defend herself - only to choose to be the sacrifice, if this is what is needed, for she will come back. she always does. that's the curse of survival.]
cw: we got human trafficking in this one
I'm scared... So scared... I was so scared!
[ And the puppet drops its knife, crouching down to instead envelope her in his arms. It would be sweeter, if not for the slicing grasp of the strings around wrists and throats.
The lights gentle around them, no longer bloody red. A chair is placed in from above that she sits in while Majima's puppet kneels down at her feet; attentive, concerned.
She doesn't get to stay her chair for long, but it remains posed there as though she is. Makoto's motif is playing now: a sad, hesitant violin with the sound of a clock chime winding through it.
She is a young girl, alone in a big city. She dodges a few dangers, brief moments of alarm in the music. Then someone with no face in particular approaches her on the street, sweet talks her just long enough to establish she is alone and drags her away.
Makoto's personal hell is a stack of cages on the far side of the stage. She is one of many. Women who scream and cry, or who lie in heaps and say nothing at all. The music becomes increasingly discordant. A bare bulbs sways back and forth overhead. ]
no subject
you don't know who you are.
heavy and resonant to her sense of identity, fractured and wound up through lies, lies, lies. she is optimistic she is bitter she is gone she is here she is not
she believes, and that is her downfall, it always is. girls that are too soft always fall.
the strings drag her by her arms away, drop her into a cage like an unwanted toy. she rattles the bars, and find them unmoving - she mimes her sorrow. endless tears, because She (half Emily, half Makoto) doesn't know how to get out. there's never an exit. (there's never an exit. it's just a loop.)
even if she's moved from the cage, she weeps.
she's always scared. they just don't know.]
no subject
Poor thing...
[ Piano haunts around them tenderly. This is it, their one fleeting moment in time: the worst is yet to come.
As soon as they stand together and try to leave the circle of spotlight, everything is thrown into disarray with loud crashing and flashes of light; red and orange. They are each tossed to opposite ends of the stage, not to be reunited until the very end of the play.
She is scared, running and hiding and cowering and weeping. Until the death, that is. A single empty chair in gray lighting and splashed with red. She weeps over the empty chair for one last time and then goes icy. Determined. Vengeful. She has the knife, it glitters in her hand.
The puppet is scared, scrabbling after her with everything it can. Just like Emily had before, it pulls at its strings with a ferocity that stings and bleeds. But it is always pulled back, yanked down, and tossed around with increasing violence. It is crawling after her, exhausted and battered, but still pulling. ]
no subject
the knife in her hand, and she sees the other puppet trying, straining - so does she, trying to cut through one of the wires that binds, even as she feels one of the seams rip some for it. to cut apart means to fall apart, but she wants to be unbound, even if this isn't her.
(it was always you.)
if she does this, it will release her. use the knife, and fight. that's what she needs.]
no subject
She offers the puppet the knife, held out in the empty air between them. When the puppet shakes its head "no" and reaches up imploringly... She turns away from him. She walks off into the darkness, the music intertwined with the sounds of a storm brewing.
The puppet runs circles in the city beneath her, trying to find its way to her. Her march across the raised platforms is slow and purposeful, her determination set. She faces down the rising storm with her dagger brandished. The music tense and seething upwards. The puppet has almost reached her when the gunshot rings out.
Deafeningly loud, it makes the entire stage shake. It hits her in the chest and sends her sprawling into a puddle of blood.
And he's there over her in an instant: his expression shocked and so very sorry. He cries over her, the soft piano notes that sometimes haunt them interspersed into sounds of softening wind gusts. Everything mellowing in the aftermath of violence, what must be her death sinking in...
Until the puppet gets to its feet. It clutches its head and starts to scream, the black of its hair extending outwards in tendrils, thorny with knots and hatred. What the puppet becomes is obvious, as its hair strangles out all the light and even the hands that have been pulling their strings. It is the hannya that has always been painted in to Majima's skin. The pale demon screaming with rage, betrayal, hatred.
It screams, tearing the world to shreds around them before its attention turns to bleeding woman now lifted in black tendrils of hair rather than strings. Maybe it will tear this apart too, so that it can truly... be... alone... Hot, angry tears stream down its face and its smile is a grimace of agony. ]
no subject
reaching up to her neck, she pulls out a silver needle from the seam, and goes to her wound, beginning to sew it up. she has no thread, but somehow, a strand of the hannya's hair is wound to it, and does the job fine enough. she sews, now that her hands are free, until there is no wound. there is no more bleeding. she is saved, because there was someone else.
(under the earth, there are hundreds of dolls, broken in so many ways, dolls that never made it out.)
the worst has passed, and now, as at the beginning, she reaches for the other puppet. it may tear her to shreds as it pleases - if that is the way this ballet must go.]
cw: the self harm
no subject
they are torn, and she still has her needle. still has the red that poured from her and the shot, heartsblood that she can touch and pull away in its own threads. it will serve, as she begins to tuck its stuffing back inside. as she makes small, invisible stitches, so that it can come back together stronger. sewing inch by inch, patient and quiet. asking nothing of it but stillness, so that she might unwind the remnants of string from their wrists, their throat. so that things might be mended with a steady hand and careful eye.
there is nowhere to go. but there is nowhere they need to go in a hurry. in the void, there are no harsh lights demanding they perform. they simply exist.]
no subject
It keens and lies down with its head in her lap.
The hair squirms and writhes around them, cocooning them up in black.
There's nothing else, it's only dark and warm now. ]