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winxanity-ii · 7 months ago

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SACRILEGIOUS DEVOTION [1/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery) word count: 3.6k a/n: So, Father Charlie is out here losing all his morals and sanity on Grotesquerie and my mind couldn't help but match it, so what's a better idea other than channeling all the religious trauma/journey into a spicy one-shot? i for one feel like it's a mini-therapy, but enough rambling, enjoy 😩🫶🏾 i'm in love with a holy man, mother 😔…. second part: 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 and final part: 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Father Charlie Mayhew was a sick man.

Not in the manner of flesh, but of spirit. He could feel the sickness festering in the quiet corners of his heart, a sinful yearning that had taken root there, twisting itself around his thoughts like creeping ivy.

It was a sickness that, he believed, made him a grotesque parody of the holy man he was meant to be. For how could he call himself righteous, devoted, when every whisper of prayer felt stained by the way his eyes followed you, Sister ____?

You were a vision of purity, an embodiment of the kind of gentle devotion that Father Charlie envied and craved all at once.

He watched you from a distance, always careful not to draw your gaze, afraid of what you might see if you looked too deeply. How dutiful you were, sweeping the church aisle with a focus that made him forget the dust and see only the graceful motion of your hands.

The sun, filtered through stained glass, seemed to seek you out, casting colors on your habit as if to mark you as someone far beyond his grasp, almost holy in your mundane tasks.

It was in the mornings, when he heard the soft chime of your laughter in the courtyard as you fed the pigeons, that he felt the deepest sting of his wretchedness.

The world seemed simpler in those moments, your laughter echoing off the stone walls, the warmth of early sun painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. He wondered if you knew how your kindness drew even the animals to you, their heads dipping into your palms as if receiving communion.

There was a stillness to you, a gentleness in every gesture.

The worst of it was during your services. Father Charlie had seen you on your knees before, hands folded in earnest prayer, your lips moving softly as you whispered your devotion to God.

He would stand at the back of the chapel, watching with a mixture of awe and something far darker. He told himself it was admiration, but the truth festered beneath that facade.

It was longing, a hunger that ached at the edges of his soul.

A storm raged outside the convent one evening, winds battering the church walls with a fury that mirrored the tempest building in his chest. The clouds were bloated, dark as his thoughts, and thunder rolled across the sky with a violence that shook even the faith he held so dear.

You had come to his chambers in the dead of night, your knock barely audible over the howling wind. He had been preparing for bed, freshly out of the shower, wearing only his boxers when he heard you at the door.

The creak of the old wood seemed to echo forever as he opened it, and there you stood, eyes wide, looking so impossibly fragile in the dim candlelight of the corridor. Your modest night slip clung to your form, the thin fabric shifting in the draft that sneaked in from the hallway.

Charlie's breath had caught in his throat at the sight of you, innocence incarnate, seeking refuge with him.

He hesitated for only a moment before allowing you in, quickly wrapping himself in a silk robe that hung loosely on his shoulders, barely tied. He knew he should not let you enter, but there was something in the way you looked at him—so trusting, so devoted—that made him abandon every rational thought.

You had come asking to pray with him, your soft voice trembling as you spoke. The storm outside seemed like a reflection of the turmoil within him as he let you step past the threshold, closing the door behind you.

Now, you were here, kneeling before him, your eyes upturned and wide, waiting for his command, for his instruction like the obedient servant of God that you were.

Your soft voice brought him out of his thoughts, a gentle, "Father...?"

Charlie could only lament to himself how sinfully pure you looked. He hummed softly, his eyes dark as they trailed over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders, the delicate line of your neck.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across your skin, highlighting the innocence that made his hunger all the more unbearable.

"Yes, forgive me, Sister. Let us now pray," he finally said, his voice low and rough, the words nearly swallowed by the sound of the wind outside. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your forehead, and you leaned into the touch without hesitation, your eyes closing as if his hand was a blessing.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling deeper into the forbidden desires he had tried so desperately to keep buried.

He began to pray, his voice low, raspy, each word a struggle against the chaos inside him. "Heavenly Father, we come before you tonight..." But the words felt hollow, their meaning slipping away as he watched you, kneeling so obediently at his feet.

His eyes darkened, wandering further down, tracing the lines of your form. The way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, the soft rise and fall of your chest with each breath—it all seemed to pull him further from the sanctity of the moment.

He should have been thinking of God, of salvation, of the purity of the prayer—but instead, he was thinking of you, of the way the thin fabric clung to your skin, the soft curve of your breasts visible through the modest slip.

He licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the delicate line of your collarbone, the way it rose and fell with each breath you took.

The more he spoke, the less the words mattered. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, spreading through his body, his thoughts growing more erratic, each word of the prayer slipping further from its sacred meaning, twisting into something profane, something filthy. "Protect us from all evil..." he whispered as he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, the words a bitter irony as he felt himself drawn further into the darkness of his desires.

His hand moved lower, fingers trailing down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. His touch was gentle, but there was a weight behind it, a hunger that he could no longer deny.

He could almost see the curve of your bare skin beneath the thin fabric, the outline of your body that he should not be imagining. He tried to focus on the prayer, but every word felt like a lie. He let out a shaky breath, the prayer faltering on his lips. "Guide us... guide us in your light," he managed, his voice thick with the weight of his longing.

The storm outside raged on, the wind howling as if to warn him, but Father Charlie could no longer hear it. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears as he looked down at you, so trusting, so willing.

As the final words of the prayer fell from his lips—"Amen"—you echoed him, your voice soft and unwavering. You blinked open your eyes, looking up at him with such innocence and Charlie felt himself slip past the point of no return.

He knew that no amount of prayer could ever cleanse him of what he wanted, that he could no longer pretend, no longer fight against the pull that drew him to you—the sweet, precious nun who had unknowingly captured his very soul.

Father Charlie stood, his robe slipping slightly from his shoulders, exposing the toned muscle beneath. The wind howled outside, and thunder bellowed again, followed by a flash of lightning that lit the room in a brief, startling blaze of white.

You were still kneeling before him, your wide eyes following his every movement, the flickering light casting you in both shadow and radiance.

Charlie bent at the waist, his fingers reaching out to cup your jaw, thumb caressing your bottom lip as his half-lidded eyes trailed over your face. "Sister ____," he murmured, his voice dripping with a twisted kind of affection, his name for you almost reverent, as though you were something sacred, something he could worship in his own unholy way.

You blinked, shifting slightly beneath his touch, a soft stutter escaping your lips. "F-Father...?"

He grasped one of your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours, and as he stood, he gently urged you to rise with him. His gaze never left your face, his eyes dark and full of something raw. He began to speak, his voice barely more than a murmur, the words heavy with confession. "As a man of God, there are expectations placed upon me," he started, his tone wavering between remorse and something darker, something that made his grip on your hand tighten. "I am meant to guide, to protect, to remain steadfast in my faith."

His other hand moved, slowly pulling your trembling hand against his bare stomach, pressing your palm against the hard planes of his abdomen.

You gasped, your eyes wide as you looked up at him, your hand trembling beneath his. The heat of his skin burned into your palm, the muscles flexing beneath your touch.

Charlie continued, his voice lowering, growing more intense as he spoke. "But these days... these days, Sister, I find myself at war. At war with desires that threaten to consume me..." His words trailed off, and he let out a low hum as he rubbed your hand across his stomach, the movement slow, deliberate.

Your hand hesitated for a moment, the warmth of his skin making you tremble as you instinctively pulled back. But his grip was firm, guiding you back, and slowly, tentatively, your fingers splayed across his stomach, your touch feather-light.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flickering down before you took a timid step closer, as if drawn by some invisible force. Your gaze shifted to the side, your cheeks warming with embarrassment at the proximity, at the way you could feel his heart beating beneath your palm.

Father Charlie's eyes never left you, and he could see every ounce of hesitation, every flicker of uncertainty that danced across your face. He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke, his voice a low murmur, "There's no need to be afraid, Sister. You are safe here... with me."

You blinked, your lashes fluttering as you dared to look up at him, your eyes meeting his through the veil of uncertainty.

There was something in his gaze, something dark and magnetic that pulled at you, made your pulse race. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw; the touch almost comforting, but there was an intensity behind it that made you shiver.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours.

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice to speak, your fingers trembling slightly against his skin. He smiled, a slow, almost predatory curve of his lips, and he hummed again, satisfied with your silent answer.

His other hand moved to rest against the small of your back, pulling you just a little bit closer, his robe parting further, exposing more of his chest.

Your breath hitched as you felt the distance between you closing, the way his body seemed to envelop yours. You could barely think, your mind clouded with the storm of emotions and the strange, electric pull you felt toward him.

His thumb traced along your bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he watched you. You felt your pulse quicken, your knees weakening under the intensity of his gaze.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and something darker, something that made your heart pound even harder. His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your body react, leaning in just slightly, as if craving more of his warmth, his touch.

His fingers trailed lower, coaxing your hand along his body, and you felt the tension, the desire in every muscle. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a husky whisper, "Let me show you, Sister ____... let me show you what devotion truly means."

He kissed you then, his lips crashing against yours like a man starved. His mouth moved hungrily, tasting, devouring, and you felt his tongue lick into your mouth, coaxing a soft, surprised whimper from your throat. His groan vibrated against your lips, the sound raw and desperate.

Your head spun, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the sheer need in his kiss.

You pulled back, gasping for air, your lips tingling from the force of his kiss. He didn't give you a moment to recover; his lips moved to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.

He nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your knees weaken beneath you. The heat of his mouth trailed down, his tongue flicking out to soothe each small bite, and you felt your body trembling, a warmth pooling low in your belly.

Charlie's hands were relentless, holding you steady as your body threatened to give out, your knees buckling as his mouth worked against your skin. He pulled back only long enough to whisper your name, his voice thick with something between reverence and hunger.

Before you knew it, he had scooped you up, his arms strong and sure as he carried you towards his bed. Your breath hitched, your fingers clinging to his robe as he moved, each step filled with purpose.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. His eyes roamed over you, dark and filled with desire, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Father Charlie moved quickly, his hands deft as he pushed your slip off your shoulders, the fabric sliding down your skin and pooling around your waist. His lips followed the path of the falling slip, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

You shivered beneath his touch, the cool air of the room prickling at your exposed skin, your nipples pebbling in response.

His eyes darkened at the sight of you, and he let out a low groan, his hands running along your bare arms, feeling the way you trembled beneath him. "You're like a goddess," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence and lust. "Perfect. Untouched. A temptation I can't resist." His lips found your collarbone, kissing, nipping, his words vibrating against your skin.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, your heart pounding as his lips moved lower, trailing down the center of your chest, his hands spreading across your back, urging you to arch into him. His kisses were relentless, each one making your breath catch, making your body react in ways that felt both unfamiliar and thrilling.

You couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do, where to touch.

Charlie pulled back for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours, his gaze filled with hunger. He pushed you back against the bed, guiding you to lie down, his hands never leaving your body, his touch possessive, as if he couldn't bear to be without contact. He looked down at you, splayed out before him, your slip barely covering you, and he licked his lips, his eyes raking over every inch of your exposed skin.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dripping with a mix of adoration and hunger. "So innocent, so pure... and all mine." He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss, his hands working the slip further down your body, baring you completely to him.

The cool air made you shiver, your body exposed, vulnerable, and you couldn't help the way your legs shifted, instinctively trying to close.

Charlie's hands moved to your knees, gently but firmly pushing them apart, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched your reaction. His lips moved from your mouth, trailing down your jaw to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as he groaned against you.

He pulled the slip away entirely, tossing it aside, his hands roaming over your bare skin, mapping every inch as though he were committing you to memory. "You are... perfection," he muttered, his voice strained, filled with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

His lips moved lower, trailing down your body, leaving a heated path across your chest, your stomach, and further down. His hands were strong, keeping your legs pinned open to the bed, his fingers pressing into your thighs with a possessive hold. He kissed along your inner thighs, his warm breath fanning over your skin, making you shiver, anticipation coiling in your belly.

You instinctively tried to scoot back, to move away as you felt his breath getting closer to your core, but Charlie's grip tightened, his hands holding you firmly in place. He looked up at you, his eyes dark, almost predatory, as he whispered, "Stay still, Sister... let me worship you."

He breathed you in, a deep, satisfied groan rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if savoring the scent of you, and then he leaned in, his tongue licking a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A squeal, half surprise and half pleasure, escaped your lips, your back arching slightly off the bed.

Father Charlie's tongue moved with a purpose, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. His hands kept your legs spread, his grip firm and unyielding as he worked his mouth against you, his groans vibrating against your core.

He was relentless, his mouth moving with a hunger that made your head spin, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you, trying to ground yourself as waves of pleasure washed over you.

You could feel his smooth skin against your inner thighs, the sensation only adding to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside you. His tongue moved in slow, teasing circles, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against you, his eyes flicking up to watch your every reaction.

The sight of you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest heaved with every ragged breath—only seemed to spur him on, his groans growing louder as he tasted you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your hips bucking against his mouth, a whimper slipping from your lips. Charlie's hands moved to hold your hips down, pinning you to the bed as he continued, his tongue delving into you, his nose brushing against your clit as he worked, utterly consumed by the taste of you.

He was lost in it, in you, his tongue moving faster, his mouth desperate as he devoured you.

You gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, your body trembling beneath him. The heat built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter, until you felt like you might break apart. His name fell from your lips, a breathless plea, and he groaned in response, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

Your back arched off the bed, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, your body ready to fall apart under his touch.

Your first orgasm washed over you without warning, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you feeling weightless, your entire body trembling as you came undone beneath him. You melted into the bed like butter, your limbs going limp as the intensity of it left you breathless.

Charlie's mouth moved against you with a fervent hunger, drinking in every bit of your release as if it were the most sacred offering.

A small whimper escaped your lips as the sensation grew overwhelming, your body growing sensitive to his touch. He didn't stop, his tongue moving lazily, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from you, his mouth still savoring you.

Your grip on his head shifted, your fingers now pushing at him, trying to get him to stop, but his hands only gripped your thighs tighter, keeping you in place. "W-Wait..." The heat in your stomach was already starting to build again, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue igniting another fire deep within you.

Charlie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his face buried even further between your legs, his tongue relentless.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps, your body trembling once more as the pleasure built. You could feel another orgasm approaching, your mind spinning as you tried to form words, but all that left your throat were broken, incoherent sounds—static that filled the room as you babbled.

You tried to scoot back, to move away from the overwhelming sensation, but Charlie's strong arms wrapped around your hips, yanking you back down, his grip unyielding. His own hips pressed into the bedding below, his desperation evident as he devoured you.

You teetered on the edge once more, the pleasure too much, too intense, until it finally broke over you again, your body arching, your mind going completely blank as you came undone a second time.

The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on you, the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming ecstasy that left you gasping for air.

As you came down from your high, your body trembling, Father Charlie finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. He stared up at you with dark, lidded eyes, his expression filled with hunger, with desire that seemed insatiable.

There was no hesitation, no regret—only a raw need that made it clear he no longer cared about going against his vows, no longer cared about the priesthood or what was right.

All that mattered to him was you.

A/N: i'm sorry, i just watched Grotesquerie last night and i've become obssessed.... ugh, the tension between father charlie and sister megan is just *chefs kiss* it's clear that megan is obviously meant to be y/n and the screenplay was written in the intent of it being catered to the female gaze because wheeeeww 😩...

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year ago

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[Mihawk prefers to keep work and his private life separate. On one rare occasion when these two have to comingle, Mihawk is rather upset at the attention you attract.]

Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

When Mihawk said "It will be just a moment, my dear", you didn't think the issue would take more than half an hour. Yet here you are, two hours after he had left you in a fussy lounge in the back of Midnight Grove...

...and not a Dracule Mihawk in sight.

You let out an exasperated sigh and take another sip of your mai tai. The band is playing yet another song that sounds vaguely identical to the previous one. Similarly, the mob of other patrons seems to be merging into one, murky background of blurry figures in your eyes. Being used to the peaceful yet refined companionship of Mihawk, the aura of Midnight Grove is beyond unbearable.

Mindlessly playing with a coaster featuring a howling wolf, you don't notice a Marine cadet approaching you.

"I'm afraid I have to arrest you, my lady."

The unexpected and, frankly, unwelcome comment makes you look up from the devilishly fascinating coaster. Your eyes fall on a well-built man with long hair and a smug expression. The glint in his brown eyes makes you tense up in discomfort.

"Excuse me?" you ask him, not understanding the meaning behind his words.

The cadet gives you a bad parody of a flirtatious smile. "You look too beautiful," he purrs out.

You can't help but laugh. Somehow, you're undecided whether his pick-up disgusts or amuses you or maybe both. Perhaps his audacity forced a laugh out of you - the ring on your fourth finger is neither modest nor simple. Considering how the large gem in the golden band shone in the low light of the Midnight Grove, even a blind man could tell from a mile away that you are anything but single.

"Anyone waiting for you at home?" he continues his rather poor attempt at flirting.

With a casual flick of your wrist, you toss the coaster on the table. Feeling both curious and entertained, you decide to play along - for now, at least. "Why are you asking, sailor boy?" you question before taking another sip of your drink. The ice has melted and the diluted drink now tastes mostly of old freezer.

"He must be mighty jealous about you. And considering the gold you're wearing," he makes a point of staring at your cleavage, "a millionaire, too."

"Oh, this?" You look down at the necklace of jewels and pearls. A memory flashes before your eyes, suddenly remembering Mihawk's face, barely visible in candlelight as he clasps the jewellery around your neck, telling you sweet things only men in romance novels tend to say. "Yes, it's a gift from someone. I'm sure you know him," you tell the Marine cadet in a casual tone, already imagining how hilarious his face of terror will be when he realizes whose spouse he's been trying to woo. "Tall, yellow eyes, a rather large sword and...

"Awfully annoyed at your impertinence, boy."

The low, guttural voice laced with withheld anger makes both of you look away. There, standing right behind the cadet, is Mihawk himself. Part of his large physique blocks the scarce lighting, making him look significantly more insidious. In the twilight of the Midnight Grove, with fury burning in his eyes, Mihawk appears closer to a demon than a man.

Although the room is dark, you can clearly see the way the cadet's blood draws from his face and the way his eyes are suddenly bigger than an owl's. He scrambles to his feet, almost falling off his chair. Then, muttering apologies and promises of better behaviour, the young Marine runs off only to disappear in the crowd of Midnight Grove's patrons.

Mihawk's eyes follow the youngling for a moment.

"I should have him strung up and killed," he says more to himself than you.

"Or," you speak up, a playful smile curling your lips, "you could sit down, have a drink with your beautiful wife and gloat about the fact that you're the only man to undress her."

You might just be a witch because the change in his demeanour is instant. There is still something wild in his bright, yellow eyes but it's not bloodthirst or anger anymore. You notice how he glances at the ring and the necklace, admiring his own signs of "ownership". One would think they're big enough to send the message. Alas, some people just refuse to receive it.

"You have me convinced," Mihawk says as he sits down next to you.

#opla #opla x reader #opla fanfiction #one piece live action #one piece netflix #mihawk x reader #mihawk #dracule mihawk #one piece mihawk #mihawk one piece #mihawk fanfiction #mihawk x you #dracule mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x you #dracule mihawk fanfiction #dracule mihawk fanfic #dracule mihawk imagine #dracule mihawk x y/n #op mihawk

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cskv11 · 8 months ago

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Hmm, for whatever reason, I believe this one shot from the new "How NOT to Draw" short:

is Bill straight up mocking the concept of free will AGAIN.

(this dude has some deep issues with this subject smh)

Allow me to explain myself:

In the original painting (Creation of Adam):

it's God's index finger (right hand) that's fully extended, while Adam (left hand), even though he has his arm fully outstretched, keeps the last phalanx of his index finger slightly bent; symbolizing that God is always there, but the decision to connect to him is up to humanity. If they want to, they can extend their finger and connect with God; if not, they can spend their entire life without seeking him, thus explaining the concept of free will.

Knowing this, if we now analyze Bill's shot, it seems as if the roles have been reversed: It looks like it's Bill's index finger that's slightly extended, while God's is uncomfortably contracted, almost purposely avoiding that contact from happening...

And if we dig a little deeper here, we can find lots of symbolisms, like Bill's desperate thirst for power and control, the lengths he's willing to go to cross beyond the natural order of things, his desire to be the one who plays God, and to have absolute sovereignty over the fate of his disciples, even though that role definitely has never belonged to him. He wants to 'reach' out to God, to become God himself, but it comes as unnatural, the 'Universe' itself retracts to avoid that from ever happening...

However, it can also be interpreted as just a simple mockery towards free will itself: the roles are reversed, no matter how much you extend your finger, you'll never make 'contact' with God because he is making the voluntary effort to avoid any contact with you.

Long story short: there's no such thing as 'free will' because you never actually had the option to 'choose' to connect with 'God' since there NEVER was a hand reaching out to you IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I might be wrong, and I might be reading way too much into it; I don't know much about art history, but I just found it interesting to see a parody of that painting hahaha

#gravity falls #bill cipher #gf #not art #the book of bill #book of bill #tbob #tbob spoilers #the book of bill spoilers

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doumadono · 3 months ago

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TEASER 𖥸 SANGREAL - chapter I 𖥸 MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The balcony jutted out like a jagged precipice, a sinister ledge hanging over the vast expanse of the Deadlands below. The ruins of the world stretched endlessly, their twisted remnants clawing toward the ash-choked sky as storms of soot churned violently through the wasteland. Far beyond the desolation, Musutafu — the largest of the Dregs — flickered weakly on the horizon, its faint glow barely piercing the gloom, like the final gasp of a dying ember. From this vantage point, the world looked utterly forsaken — an expanse of shadows and echoes, hollow and forgotten, a graveyard of what once was.

You hadn’t wanted to follow Shigaraki here, but you hadn’t been given a choice. His hand lingered on the small of your back, cold and commanding, a silent threat that pushed you forward through the dim, sprawling halls of the Sangreal’s fortress. When the heavy doors to the balcony creaked shut behind you, the chill of the open air hit you like a knife, cutting through the thin, half-translucent black dress his maids had forced you into.

You’d seen the hollow emptiness in those women’s eyes — undoubtedly human, their bodies trembling, their fragile minds dulled by the narcotics Overhaul pumped into their veins, rendering them docile and compliant for Shigaraki’s every whim. They moved like puppets on broken strings, their pale faces devoid of anything human. You’d heard the whispers, the sickening truths that once Shigaraki grew bored of them, they would become his feast. Their blood drained to the last drop, their lifeless bodies discarded without a second thought. And yet, even through their dazed haze, you’d felt their pity as they tied the ribbons around your waist and adjusted the lace at your shoulders.

His dark cloak billowed slightly in the ashen wind, revealing the jagged edges of his form. His shoulders were sharp, his pale skin stretched too tight over his bones, and his crimson eyes burned like dying coals in a face that was almost too hollow to be alive. He stopped at the railing, the cracked stone pressing against his palms, and tilted his head toward the horizon as if presenting a masterpiece only he could understand.

“This,” he rasped, his voice scraping like gravel against the silence, “is the world your kind left behind. All of it. Rotting. Forgotten.” His head turned slightly, just enough for you to catch the flicker of a smile — sharp, jagged, and devoid of warmth. “Tell me, doesn’t it make you wonder? What would it take to fix it?”

When you didn’t immediately move, he turned to you, his lips curling in a dangerous smirk. His hand reached out, and before you could recoil, his fingers cupped your chin. He handled you with surprising care, his grip just firm enough to hold you in place. His index finger hovered, careful not to touch, an ever-present reminder of the destruction he could unleash with a single mistake. The fragility of the moment — the closeness of death itself — made your throat tighten.

“Look,” he ordered, tilting your face toward the sprawling wasteland below. His sharp nails grazed your jaw, sending a cold shiver through you.

The world stretched out before you, endless in its desolation. Twisted skeletons of buildings jutted out of the earth like ribs, the Deadlands smothered under layers of ash and soot. The faint orange glow of fires burned in Musutafu Dreg in the distance, a mocking parody of life.

“This could all change,” Tomura uttered, his voice soft but filled with an unrelenting edge. His eyes glinted with something you couldn’t name — obsession, hunger, perhaps madness. “It could all end.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

Shigaraki’s breath brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Your blood.” He said the word like it was sacred, his voice trembling with reverence and rage. “You could be the cure. The answer to everything.”

His hand tightened slightly, forcing your gaze back to him. “Do you even understand what that means? You could fix this— fix me. Fix all of it. But instead, you want to refuse me?” His tone cracked on the last word, his fury bubbling beneath the surface. The thin veneer of calm he wore threatened to splinter entirely. “I’ve offered you everything,” he continued, his voice rising. The ash-filled wind stirred, swirling around the balcony like the world itself was reacting to his anger. “Power. Protection. Purpose. And you want to throw it away? For what?” Shigaraki’s tone was venomous now, each word a lash. “A rebellion that’s already dying? A life you can’t even call your own? Or maybe—” His lips twisted into a sneer, his voice dipping into something dangerously low, “—it’s for him. The traitor who thinks he loves you.”

Your heart stuttered at the mention of Dabi, the faintest flutter betraying you, and Shigaraki saw it. Of course he did.

His smile widened, sharp and cruel. “Oh, I see it now,” he breathed, his voice like a blade sliding through silk as he leant closer, his breath ghosting over your ear. “Dabi’s embers flicker for you, don’t they? A pathetic little flame, desperately clinging to life.” His laugh was low and venomous, rattling your nerves. “Embers always die out.” He tilted your head roughly, forcing you to look out over the Deadlands below and the Dreg on the horizon. “And when his flame finally burns away,” he uttered, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, “this will be all that’s left. Ash. Dust. Ruin.”

His tongue darted out, dragging a slow, long stripe across your cheek. The motion was agonizingly unhurried, his breath hot against your skin.

Revulsion churned in your stomach as the slick trail of his saliva clung to your flesh, cold and sticky in its wake. The nausea rose sharp and sudden, clawing at your throat as your body recoiled from the grotesque intimacy of the gesture. You wanted to vomit, to scrub away the violation, but his presence pinned you in place, suffocating and inescapable.

You jerked your head back, trying to escape his grip, but his other hand shot forward, fingers hovering near your throat. All five of them — so dangerously close to touching your flesh — stilled you instantly.

“He’ll fail you,” Shigaraki stated matter-of-factly, his tone softening, but not with kindness. It dripped with mockery, each word a needle pressing deeper into your chest. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw as his long, pale index finger ghosted over your cheek. “Like he failed Sangreal. Like he failed me. It’s in his nature. And when he does,” the vampire prince whispered, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, “you’ll come crawling back. Because no one else can give you what you need. Not him. Not the rebellion. Just me.”

You swallowed hard, willing your voice to stay steady. “I don’t want to be your queen, Shigaraki.”

“You don’t understand yet. But you will,” his lips twitched into a sharp, jagged grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Before you could react, his lips collided with yours, a brutal, forceful act that left no room for tenderness. It wasn’t a kiss — it was an invasion, his sharp teeth clicking against yours as his fangs scraped along your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, until the skin gave way. A bead of blood welled up, its coppery tang mingling with the icy, metallic chill of his breath. His grip on your chin tightened, unyielding and cruel, as you stood frozen in place.

He broke the kiss abruptly, his lips pulling away with a sharp, wet sound, and you stumbled back, your knees trembling beneath you. The faint sting on your lip told you he’d drawn blood, and the way his tongue darted out to drag across his lips made your stomach churn. His crimson eyes gleamed with something feral, something unhinged, as he savored the taste.

“For the Night of Ash’s sake,” Shigaraki hissed, his voice trembling with barely-contained hunger, “your blood drives me insane.”

His hand hovered near your face for a moment, as though he were considering dragging you back into his grasp, but instead, he turned abruptly, his gaze cutting toward the horizon. The meager lights of Musutafu flickered in the distance, like dying embers fighting for survival.

“When the world tears you apart for refusing me,” the vampire prince stated, his voice dropping into a rasp that oozed malice, “you’ll understand. You’ll understand everything.”

The ash-laden wind roared again, and the faint glow of the Dreg in the distance flickered weakly as though the light itself was suffocating under Shigaraki’s rule.

Hello Everyone,

I'm excited to share a teaser for my new series, Sangreal. The story narrates the tale of vampire Dabi, who is enlisted as a Hunter in the prestigious vampire guild, Sangreal; a female protagonist whose unique blood is the world's sole hope following the catastrophic Night of Ash; Aizawa's insurrection against a tyrannical vampire regime, and the rise of vampire prince Shigaraki - a powerful vampire created by AFO's virus that annihilated humanity.

The series will incorporate a blend of horror and thriller elements, along with some smut and plenty of dark content. The first chapter is scheduled to be published in the first half of February, or possibly a little earlier if I can manage (this is just an estimated timeframe).

Over the past few weeks, I've been working hard to develop the concept for Sangreal, and I sincerely hope you'll enjoy the story. I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to the wonderful people who not only read through the initial concept but also shared their constructive feedback, helping me shape the story to its current form: @crystalwolfblog @lura-valentine @unhinged-bratty-boy @scary-grace & @within-eyesight

If you'd like to be tagged in the series, please send me an ask, DM me, or comment below. Please also reblog to help spread the word!

Thank you for your support!

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falsemilkbun · 26 days ago

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I have so many feelings about Mithrun, I have so many feelings about Kui's treatment of him as a character. And while, yes, I have said a good amount about how he's written I am also very much affected by the ways he's presented visually. It's important, considering both that manga is a visual medium and that Mithrun put so much on his appearance and conformity to the high standards of his family and culture.

It's also significant because he's missing an eye (He also has severely maimed ears, but I don't think readers generally have the same visceral reaction to this. It sets him apart from other elves, but we can't exactly relate to that.) and is visually represented in ways that run counter to our artistic expectations of that kind of character. For an example of how we're conditioned to expect such characters to appear in art, Kui herself provides a character in the in-universe Daltian Clan novels:

Marcille, who is very much influenced by art like this, carries the mysterious and stoic expectation into her succubus fantasy:

It's important to note at this point that Daltian Clan is a transparent parody of drama and shoujo manga stylings, and that these characters appear this way as a direct parody of other art, of which Kui (having recommended work by Hagio Moto, who is internationally famous for such work) is obviously aware.

Characteristically and visually, Mithrun is presented as counter to these representations. What could be read as stoicism is actually an absence of conscious motivation, which has the side effect of totally shattering any impression that he's at all mysterious. He literally doesn't care what people think of him, so he's very free with his thoughts and with information.

And he's drawn like this when he does that.

Mithrun is, consistently, portrayed in a way that is loving and invites us to think of him as cute, and always in ways that don't obfuscate the way his experiences have changed his appearance and abledness. His missing eye isn't disguised with a patch that makes him look like he could just be wearing a costume, it's replaced with a prosthetic one that was introduced so long after he was initially injured that his weakened eyelid doesn't often fully open over it. The evidence of what's happened to him is almost always apparent, and it's never more apparent than in the culmination of his character arc in chapter 94, where the prosthetic is gone (Thanks, Marcy) and in its place there's this unsparing void.

And it's the cutest and most loveable he ever looks. It's the happiest we ever see him. He's beyond bedraggled and presented with such compassion, so lovingly. It just makes my heart feel good. Wah.

#mithrun

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rudimentaryflair · 25 days ago

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Another thing I find interesting about Ren is that the horror movies he likes all contain stuff that he's personally really afraid of.

We all know that Ren is terrified of deep water. He always refuses to clean the aquatic zone in Jabberwock and he panicked when Haru nearly knocked him off the Darkwick jetty in Episode 3. He also can't swim. However, he's got shark stickers on his phone case and collects a lot of fan merch of NAW, an ocean-themed horror parody. It might not be his favorite movie, but it's definitely up there. Strange, for a guy with this particular fear.

Ren is also afraid of anything that might hurt or kill him. This might seem like a complete no-brainer, but if you compare him to the other ghouls, he's one of the few who can't handle being in danger. Honestly, I think the only other character is Kaito—but we've seen that he can capably fight when push comes to shove; he's just cowardly. Ren, on the other hand, exhibits the fear of someone who is genuinely out of his depth and has no tools to defend himself, almost like a civilian. To add even more context: he's attending Darkwick as a ghoul, which means not only is he getting up close and personal with potentially nightmarish creatures every other week, he's also expected to capture or fight them. Dying a horrible death is a much more real risk to him than it is for the average person.

So then why does he like watching horror movies so much? My theory is that it's a coping mechanism.

Ren specifically likes low-budget, bad horror movies. He says it's because they're funny, but I also think it's because he can easily tell the horror elements are fake. He nerds out about prop and set design, for instance; he likes knowing how the producers use CGI for the sharks, how the machinery and wires controlling the monsters are operated, how the prop master gets the gelatin brains to look so real… you get the point. In Episode 3, he was thrilled to be around all the skeletons in the underwater lair, but immediately backpedaled and became nauseous and panicked when he found out they were real. He's not into the gory, scary stuff; he's into learning how the gory, scary stuff is actually a collection of clever techniques that are ultimately harmless.

It's all a form of escapism. He has to live the real, scary thing every day, so the movies are a way for him to process and experience that in a controlled and safe environment. The distinct separation between fiction and reality is very important to him.

(This is a little unrelated and a bit of a stretch, but I also think it's another way for him to pretend to be normal. If you look at all the things he voluntarily does, it's like he's trying to mimic the life of a normal college student: go to class, work a job, go home, eat ramen, study. He gets upset when he has to do things that ruin that illusion for him, and in Episode 12, when Haru tries to reassure him that he's hard to kill because he's a ghoul, it makes Ren's mood worse instead of better. So, the horror movies could be how he pretends that all the terrifying anomalies are fake, and that those situations would never happen to him. Whether he's consciously aware he's doing that or not is a different story, but it explains an additional way they could bring him comfort.)

I'm under no illusions that most of this is headcanon, though. There's a good chance that the TKDB writers just thought it would be funny and ironic to give Ren juxtaposing characteristics, with no deeper meaning beyond that. But I'm delusional and love looking way too far into things, so here we are.

#ren shiranami #tokyo debunker #back at it again with another ren post. kitchen still contains forks. more at 10 #also sorry ive been posting so many essays i just keep having Thoughts #adventures in tkdb #rudi talks

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citadelofmythoughts · 1 year ago

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Not that I especially thought the Barbie movie was some feminist masterpiece but the fact that a man is getting an Oscar nom for it is almost beyond parody.

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kaiser1ns · 9 months ago

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#. THE SYMBOL OF MY REGRET, YOU ARE MY BIGGEST SIN

featuring 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗶 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗸𝗮 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

angst. the hatred is a perverse form of affection, and even as you stand there, bruised and broken, both of you understand that this is the only way you know how to love.

tw :: toxic realtionship, physical harm, both parties are aggressive, blood, sadomasochism, takiishi is a warning on his own.

It's toxic, and suffocating, a bottomless pit, a trap without a drop of light. A continual pattern of emotional harm, disrespect, and manipulation leads you to deterioration in mental and emotional health, and you were already broken even before you started dating him.

You were screaming at each other, words harsh and cutting. Slapping him across the face, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you close with a growl. He was holding you tight, almost to break your arm at any moment as you kicked him to create a distance. The apartment was a battlefield, objects hurled and shattered in the heat of from another pointless argument. You threw a vase at him, narrowly missing his head. He retaliated by punching the wall, leaving a dent. Glaring at each other, breathless and wild-eyed, and it was nothing new. That's how your dynamic worked, that unhealthy dynamic, a parody of joy.

You wanted to take back your love and be free but you can't, or more likely you don't want to, refusing to acknowledge your own mistakes. He is strong and extremely tough but you are already used to it — used to him. You loved being in pain, and you loved when you caused pain. Unable to put limits on both of your vicious behaviors and possess the right to be merciless, the main task is to control and punish.

Was it normal for 18-year-olds to be like that, to behave like that? Was it normal to want to kill each other? This wasn’t love; it was a twisted addiction. But the thought of a life without him was more terrifying than the thought of killing each other. If he pushed, you would push back, harder and harder, until one of you broke. And if you had to chase him through every lifetime, hunting him down in every new existence, you would.

His smile is manic, blood streaked across his face, a disturbing blend of sadism and masochism that few can comprehend, let alone tolerate. But then again, you’re the only one who can handle him. No one else could stand being around Takiishi Chika. No one else would dare. As his lips twist into a grin that speaks of both pain and pleasure as if he derives equal satisfaction from inflicting agony and enduring it himself, he charges at you again.

Meeting him head-on, a collision of bodies and raw emotion. His hands find your throat, and the world tilts as you gasp for air. But you fight back, fingers digging into his hair, yanking his head back until his grip loosens and you take the opportunity to slam your fist into his jaw. He stumbles, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and for a moment, you think you’ve won. You are both broken, battered, bleeding—but not beaten. Not yet.

Your body is like a canvas painted with bruises and blood, each old scar opened anew like a used and worn palette. He isn't looking any better, you are one and the same. You push yourself further, beyond every limit, into a realm where suffering and pleasure blur into one. It's not just the pain you crave; it's the power that comes from embracing it, from turning it into a weapon against him.

Then he’s on you again, a storm of fists and fury, and you’re locked in a vicious embrace, each trying to outdo the other in terms of brutality. His fist connects with your side, and you retaliate with a punch to his ribs. It’s a back-and-forth dance of pain, each blows a showcase to your toxic bond.

His laughter is sinister, almost childish by the way he likes to have fun, as he wipes the blood from his lip. “Is this all you’ve got?” he taunts, voice dripping with disdain. The words cut deeper than any wound he could inflict, but you don’t let them break you. Instead, you let the rage boil over, your vision narrowing as you launch yourself at him again.

"You think you’re so tough?” you spit out, your voice laced with venom. “You’re nothing but a pathetic excuse for a man.”

You feel his fingers dig into your skin, nails scraping flesh, and the sharp sting of his teeth sinking into your shoulder. You scream, a raw, primal sound, and it fuels him further. He pulls back just enough to see your face contorted in pain, and his eyes light up with a sick satisfaction.

Oh, how much he enjoyed it. Takiishi Chika enjoyed seeing you like this, he loved it when you became like him. A monster.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your tear-streaked cheek. You feel the warmth of his mouth as he presses his lips to your skin, tasting the mix of blood and tears. The kiss is far from affection; it’s an act of dominance, of possession. The metallic taste lingers, a cruel reminder of your helplessness.

His grip tightens, and you see the enjoyment dancing in his eyes. Takiishi Chika revels in this, in seeing you broken and bleeding, becoming something closer to his own twisted reflection. Your pain is his pleasure, your despair his delight.

His touch is both a torment and a comfort, a reminder of how deeply you've fallen into the abyss of your regrets. You are the embodiment of his darkest fantasies, as he is your ultimate sin—a symbol of his existence into a cruel mockery of love.

The apartment is a blur of chaos around you – furniture overturned, glass crunching underfoot, the echoes of your struggle bouncing off the walls. You catch a glimpse of yourselves in the mirror, two figures locked in a deadly struggle, indistinguishable from predator and prey.

Finally, you’re both on the floor, exhausted and bleeding, but neither willing to yield. You roll away, gasping for breath, staring at the ceiling as the adrenaline starts to fade. Takiishi lies beside you, his breathing just as labored. The silence is deafening, filled with the aftermath of your war.

You turn your head to look at him, and he meets your gaze, something shining in his eyes; it's euphoric. You know this isn’t over — it never is. This is your life, your reality, a cycle you can’t break. And as much as you hate it, you know you’ll do it all over again because this is how you love. The more you hurt each other, the more you realize how you can't live without him and he can't live without you. A tragic and sinful love story.

taglist :: @kajibunny @slerixx @maruflix @stunie

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mclalan · 11 months ago

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Can you share what your art-making process is? What software and tools do you use?? I'm falling in love with your work!!

Thank you, I'm so happy you like my work and are interested in the process. The short answer is I mostly use Adobe Animate.

I hate how I'm using an Adobe product (although I still regard it as a MacroMedia Flash product), but there's just no other software that compares to its jankiness. Perhaps it's just my long familiarity with the program, but nothing I've experienced matches how it simultaneously feels like drawing in MS Paint and using Microsoft PowerPoint vector shapes. The result is something that feels in-between the two; handmade yet computer-generated.

Typically, I'll start with a hand-drawn sketch, often beginning as a thumbnail done with pencil and paper.

I'll then do a mix of hand drawing and vector shape tool rendering. I use the Paint Brush tool to hand draw strokes, and the line and shape tools mixed with transform to make more geometrically accurate shapes. The design is rendered into divided closed loop shapes, ready to be filled with a solid. The strokes are kept or removed depending on the design.

These fill shapes are then either coloured and rendered in Adobe Animate, using fills, gradients, or a more complex process of masks and effects.

Alternatively, I'll bring all these vector shapes into Photoshop and use them as clipping masks. The vector shapes act like masking taped areas or shields to maintain sharp edges, while the brush is like an atomized airbrush used to build soft volumed forms.

Please excuse all that horrible Adobe Cloud and AI bloatware...

And there we go!

Variations in the process include just using MS Paint, index color in Photoshop, or 3D programs.

Very old works of mine were almost abstract, just exploring digital mark-making, which was a trend I was following in the mid 2010s that I loved. This kind of stuff.

While my current work uses its digital material specificity as an intermediary to the subject in the illustration.

For example, #ersatz.world parodies clip-art and flash edutainment styles but imagines the characters living within that kind of world. The designs are meant to be cute, easy to read, light in computer processing, but also irreverent, janky, and generic too.

People typically regard this sort of clip art style as ephemeral trash, but I always found them charming. I use Ersatz World primarily as a satire vehicle, parodying educational formats to spoof corporate explainer content and digital media.

However, part of the problem with Ersatz is I've made it look too polished, complex, and I've grown too attached to the characters, which I imagine is a typical issue with overbuilding a world. So recently, I've made an even jankier Ersatz-like set of characters to play about with, using an even simpler style with less cohesion. I like to try and use slightly different styles and digital material styles to relate to the property at hand.

That’s why #autonymus has a bitmap digital material and a denser feel to it. Unlike Ersatz, Autonymus is not meant to be an overt semi-meta fiction. It’s not exactly pixel art, but the pixels are just about visible, as the intention is to create a digital expressionist depth to the setting. Although it’s still stylized and not realistic to our world, I definitely still want to evoke semblances of our world. That’s why there’s attention to landscape, plant life, and implied life beyond what you see in the frame with the characters, etc. But I'm still making a cartoon, and I still want it to feel at ease with itself being a digital material work. Characters are therefore flat, simple, stiff, and the speech style is like a bad Shakespeare parody. I like to balance between ugly and appealing, simple and complex, familiar and unfamiliar.

In regard to things like inspiration, references, and my relationship to aesthetic genres; these things certainly factor into my work, perhaps I'm even overtly dependent on them. My work can definitely be post-modernist in method; creating new, ironic, or fragmented interpretations through deconstructing a mix of various styles or methods. But at the same time, I'm still trying to make a digital gestural representation where the aesthetic is driven by my relationship to the software and techniques directly—not simply in an attempt to reference a style. For example, I like drawing lines in sweeping strokes, not to a point of geometric perfection, but just in a way where the curves are smooth and simple. But if I want perfectly curved or straight lines, I'll use the vector tools.

Working this way, you can sort of learn why certain styles and design choices in past vector aesthetics were made, as they would have also needed to make similar choices. That’s why I’m more mindful of using digital material specificity as a foundation to build narrative and subjects upon these days.

For example, genre references like cyberpunk clichés for #cyberhell or late medieval design for #autonymus or 2005 to 2015 era subculture fashion for #gradientgoblinz.

I think it’s important to take inspiration and reference from a wide variety of sources, but I think they’d mean nothing without having something to say or express. Autonymus, although it is a collection of tropes and clichés, isn’t just about that. It’s a story about the tensions of socially constructed systems and how that shapes faith, technology, and the natural world, or at least that's what I'm aiming for anyway.

But despite all that, I think there’s a danger of locking myself into the past by using these methods. For example, using nostalgia and references to past aesthetics can result in just recreating the past in a form of role-play. To avoid that, I try and evoke the past through a messy, inaccurate pastiche rather than caring to accurately re-enact anything. I’m probably not always successful at communicating the deliberateness of this, and it can certainly get very frustrating and pedantic. To be honest, I do kind of hate aesthetic labels (terms like Y2K, global coffee house, utopian scholastic designs from a pre-9/11 world).

I do not believe that a project aimed solely at mapping history through aesthetic styles is worthwhile. Sure, they can be handy for organizing style trends, but they can also be reductive and ahistoric. Who are these people to define the history of these design eras? The result is a kind of suffocating simulation of design history but removed from context, perfect for moodboardism. I wish it felt more tongue-in-cheek, less absolute of itself in its own practice. Instead, it acts to legitimize and engender those making these labels, almost giving them ownership of the design styles. It’s similar to the logic and process of generative AI and its databases in a way, just done manually.

I’m very inspired by artists like Oneohtrix Point Never in this regard, as I think he’s able to create an aesthetic portal to all kinds of memories, feelings, and worlds reminiscent of the past, while still being in the present. It’s more a reflection of how timelines are messy now, like a memory or dream, rather than an audacity to say the past was actually like that, or to try to actually map some kind of timeline.

I think the benefit of this process is how it avoids the other side of the spectrum—being locked into chasing the cutting edge of digital processes. I don't necessarily think using an old digital process means your work inherits the semiotics of old aesthetics. Non-digital mediums don’t have this issue to this degree, as you can still paint in oils and be considered contemporary, or at least it's not frowned upon to such a degree. And I also don't think anyone in the heyday of Flash ever made work the same as I do, especially as computers are more powerful now so can handle more. I probably shouldn't boast too much about that though, as artists at the time probably just had more sense than to use Flash like a painting program! So then, why is my use of Adobe Animate critiqued as obsolete and an aesthetic dead-end? Because to whose standards is this process obsolete? If you value digital aesthetics as an apparatus in industry practice, then sure, my work is redundant.

But as wonderful as the latest tech can be in creating new aesthetics, I do feel it can be overtly dependent on the trends and directions of tech corporations, and therefore act as an indirect propaganda tool to their hegemony over digital aesthetics, such as the ever-demanding processing power needed for simulated realism. If anything, work that does follow in the direction of the latest tech trends is ironically the quickest to date once the trends move on.

I've noticed I've not really described what my work is about, just the process, in this text. But I don't know, maybe I like Flash because it is regarded as redundant. No one really cares about it, so I feel free to make whatever I want, and can decide on form myself, to my own standards, the quality of my work. As fun as making images is, I find it difficult to put into words what it is exactly I'm expressing in my work, and perhaps that would spoil it anyway.

#mclalan #art process

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