[open] day and night

[no_kyouken]

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.

open prompts ☀️ what the hell are you wearing? ☀️ [resting on] doctor's orders ☀️ [goromi] wet t-shirts ☀️ bonfire 🌙 separation 🌙 the broken lake 🌙 haunt joins the party 🌙 your house is on fire ⭐ wildcard

majima 🎶
goromi 🎶

svarte greiner - knive 🎶

Comments

cw: we got human trafficking in this one

[no_kyouken]

[ A woman's voice that isn't Emily's echoes across the stage, weeping, ]

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. ]

[medicative]

[she's not Makoto, she wants to say, she's-

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_kyouken]

[ The heavy discordance of the music fades, slowly sliding back in to Makoto's tender little motif. Emily is placed back in her chair, floated there on silver strings, still weeping. Whatever it is he tries to say to comfort her, only her soft reply is audible: ]

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. ]

[medicative]

[this isn't her feeling, her desires. (this is what you always wanted.) this is a place she doesn't allow for herself. (this is what you long for.)

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_kyouken]

[ When they finally meet again, the woman is up on a platform where the puppet cannot reach. The music is a stilted version of their love song, made uncomfortable by the coldness that has seeped into her violin.

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. ]

[medicative]

[being shot hurts, enough to collapse, to rattle her puppet body - blood mixes with stuffing, a stained and ugly little cloud in her chest. the demon is born from weeping, and then all there is around them is the darkness, their own presence. the haunting face, teeth bared in pain, in rage, in fear. but the wires on her have gone limp, and wrapped in its hair...it's safer. even as her chest feels like it's on fire, and her arms move. she is alive.

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_kyouken]

[ There is no music, no lights, no script. They have broken off their strings and now sit in the strangling void of the hannya's hair with nowhere to go. The demon howls and tears at itself, fingertips whittled sharp and stained red, spills its own stuffing out and stares into a mixture of fluff, sawdust, crumpled confetti. ]

[medicative]

[gently, so softly, she takes the demon's hands - pulls them away from their own body, bows her head and kisses them to still them. breathe. you're safe now. they cannot hurt you.

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_kyouken]

[ The hannya keens, running its sharpened fingertips over the stitching slowly. Does it even want to be healed, or is the pain all too intoxicating. It could kill her, rip her to pieces and add them to the pile. Just keeping adding to the pile until it cannot see the remnants on the bottom any longer...

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. ]