#spatiality and stories

[holocene-sims]

next // previous

may 10, 2013 6:20 p.m. actual hell

[miirshroom]

Elden Ring: a cross between Absurdism and Surrealism

Upon reflection, I'd say the genre of the base game is pretty decently rooted in the theatre of the absurd. One of the main themes of that movement being the failure of language to clearly communicate ideas, leading to confusion and loss of direction.

Skimming over some articles on traditional absurdist literature, the three responses to the absurd are termination of the self (Frenzy Flame), turn to religion or some other higher purpose (any Elden Lord end), or rebel against the absurd. Which is to say embrace and accept the profound meaninglessness and go on anyways (Age of Stars). The Blessing of Despair is perhaps also an acceptance of the absurd, only it's with bitterness from a more narcissistic nihilism viewpoint when contrasted again Ranni's path. Space is cool, stars are cool. Even worms and dirt are cool, but not with the attitude the Dungeater has.

The DLC is something else entirely, and in fact I'd speculate that it's a genre shift from absurdism to surrealism. The aesthetic framing of the cocoon entry point itself was a play on Salvador Dali's “Geopoliticus Child Watching the Birth of the New Man” so the inspiration is right there in the open. There is indeed a difference between those two movements, as described by someone who has read the relevant literature more thoroughly and recently than I have:

"Absurdist writing focuses on the inherent purpose of life being elusive or questioned, can use dark humor to comment on the human condition, and explores themes of existentialism and purposelessness. Surrealism is marked by disjointed and occasionally fantastic imagery, irrational juxtaposition, and can be dreamlike"

Notably, the Shadowlands is another contrast against the Age of Stars in that it's a dead end that reflects upon the motifs if the past but offers no path forwards. It examines the ascent to "God and Lord" at a high point of the map and the Frenzy at the lowest depth and all of the other bits sandwiched between those two extremes.

Basically, the Lands Between is absurdism with the aesthetics of surrealism and the Shadowlands seem to show what it means to dive into surrealism while maintaining the theme of breakdown of communication that is characteristic of absurdism. Surrealist writing would be vague and cryptic and evocative of imagery. Absurdist writing is about people saying perfectly coherent words, but still talking past each other because they are asking the wrong questions and can't establish a common ground. In this sense "clarity" is a trap - the truth that you think you understand is not always what was said.

Similar to Demon's Souls, Dark Souls, and Bloodborne, the gothic medieval fantasy is a thin veneer for whatever philosophical or artistic movement FromSoft feels like exploring at the moment.

[acacia-may]

LADY FINESSE APPRECIATION DRABBLE

Feeling feelsy about the lovely but sadly underrated Lady Finesse right now so please take this short (unsolicited) snippet/drabble from a wip about her called "Burning Dreamhouse" that I never finished...

This scene takes place shortly after she learns about what happened at the Royal Knights' Exam

🩷💙💚

Finesse noticed something out of the misty corner of her eye. She knelt down in front of the dollhouse. It had been thoughtfully dusted and cared for but had not been played with in over a decade. Her dolls, Lord Thomas and Lady Clematis, were exactly where she had left them—sitting down at the table with Aunt Cynthia and their sons, Damian and Dimitri, while their daughter, Philomena Rose, slumbered peacefully in a nearby cradle. Finesse patted Damian and Dimtri’s heads and rocked Philomena Rose’s cradle. She ran her hair through Cynthia’s curly hair and fluffed Lady Clematis’s pink dress before her gaze fell on Lord Thomas at the head of the table—still stern, serious but with something so kind in his light eyes.

Something cold, wet, and unwanted cascaded down her cheek.

As she wiped her tears away, she couldn’t help but feel that it was her own fault for being so hopeful, so naïve as to even wish for such a life for herself only to have it slip through her fingers. Maybe her father was right, and she should just graciously accept all of this terrible treason business as her “out.” But...

She stared at her beloved dollhouse again—filled with silly hopes and childhood dreams. She knew House Vaude wasn’t the dream house she had always wanted. It was cold with something dark and sinister under the Lord and Lady’s perfect, plaster smiles that had left their sons wounded. Despite their best efforts to hide it from her, she knew something in them was hurting, was broken. It was a pain she could never truly understand, but she could feel it so palpably that it ached in her chest, burned behind her eyes, and left her helpless and torn apart.

And maybe that’s when she should have run, instead of digging in her heels and deciding to stay in a burning house, but how could she when she knew she wasn’t the only one trapped there?

From the moment she had chosen to care about Finral and Langris, she had known that if they needed her to stay, to crawl through those flames to reach them, she wouldn’t hesitate—would pull them close as their world crumbled and burned.

When Finral himself had left, had managed to save himself, she couldn’t bring herself to be anything but hopeful and supportive, to pray that he would find true happiness and everything he ever wanted by leaving his past behind, even if that meant leaving her along with it. She understood. She had never been able to offer him a rescue like his squad had. The most she could do was sit with him in all of that pain so he wouldn’t have to carry it alone anymore. But that hadn’t been enough—for him or for Langris.

Long after Finral had gone, she had still stayed by his side knowing how much he was hurting—how crushing the weight of those patrimonial burdens must have been and how devastating it was for him to lose his brother. She watched as the pain ate away at him with nothing she could do to stop it, and now that it had destroyed him, she was expected to leave...when he needed her most…when she didn’t want to.

Finesse smiled just slightly at the little dollhouse family before she grabbed her cloak. She already had a Finral-shaped hole in her heart. She wouldn’t have a Langris one too.

“Finesse? Finesse? Where are you going?” called her father as she rushed downstairs to the front door.

“To talk to His Majesty.”

No, House Vaude may not have been the dream house she had always wanted—may have been crumbling, broken, and burning, but it was hers. And she wasn’t going anywhere.

[nexility-sims]

i inspired myself w/ the julian and juana tag tangent

[bonesblackheadrotten]

me: you know what im gonna play one of the moments as a reward before i sleep 😇

me:

me: (opens one of the secret times)

me:

[elementalsparkles]

when you like Star Rail character design better but prefer Genshin's overall world design...

when you find Star Rail character's personalities and voices more captivating, but prefer Genshin's writing...

...but you just don't have the will to keep up with both of them

[howlingtomatoes]

The Lighthouse, a short story.

inspired by the song.

Editor’s Note

It’s a scary place, the real world. It’s not kind to anyone. Filled with horrors seen and unseen, it treats everyone the same, and no one can prepare for the unknown.

But you can process it.

This is a cold, short story. It’s written by an ancient processor of the unknown. Learn about the situation, and start listening to The Lighthouse by Halsey when I tell you too.

Enjoy :)

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

Introduction

The beach is beautiful if you really think about it. The clouds in the sky cover the sun in a way that almost makes you feel protected. You can see every grain of sand, and feel how soft and individualistic they are in between your fingers. The rocks are tall around the shore, and give off a dust that almost smells like wood. There is a Lighthouse that sits on top of the rocks, at the ends of the shoreline.

It is completely unreachable, not because the rocks are dangerous, but because it’s simply impossible. It stands tall like it’s the tallest building in the world, and intimidates in a way a monolith would intimidate its congregant.

You get the sense that everything isn’t what it seems.

The Protagonist lifts their head, gasping for plentiful air as the waves brush past their bare legs. An automatic sense of dread fills their chest, like where they are is not where they should be. A lack of belonging is painful. They can’t help to think that where they are is beautiful, and the wind blows through their hair almost like a pat on the back. But as inexplicably human as they feel at this moment, they don’t want to be here. The fishnet tied around their body keeps them safe, in the meantime.

The ocean begins to move.

Begin The Lighthouse by Halsey

A boat drops a body into the water.

The Protagonist squints their eyes as the vessel disappears as quickly as it came. They walk through the water to the sandbar when a force brings them to their knees, no amount of effort allows them past. They think, what did I do? Then something brushes past their waist. They wonder.

How do you take on someone else when you can’t take yourself?

The Protagonist sets him down on the shore, and a green light suddenly flashes from the Lighthouse in the sky. What could I possibly be doing here, they think. I have been brought, a man, and yet I still have no answers. The light dims, and a tingle goes down their legs. A warning? The man gasps for air as the light flashed brighter. What are you trying to say? They think.

The Protagonist looks down at the man, layers of fishnet wrapped around their body like a towel. He looks very peaceful when he sleeps, the violent need for breath ruined their picture of possibilities almost immediately. The man gets up, dressed like a Sailor, in need of leveling ground and the two stand apart.

The Protagonist goes to speak, words forming at their lips but no sound ever coming out. Their eyes widened at each other. I can’t imagine a life without my voice, the Sailor says. I bet yours would’ve sounded sweet and airy, like the holes in your fishnets. I could help you find your voice again, if you’d like. Let me take you back into town. He reaches out and grabs their hand, a moment frozen in time.

The Protagonist looks into the Sailor’s eyes, almost examining his soul. Into town? What a strange thing to say. A body is dropped from a ship of men. Then he wants to promise me things of which I couldn’t even imagine? I don’t know who this is, I don’t know what I’m even doing here. I must find my belonging before it cuts me open. I don’t need your sympathy, they thought. I have exactly what I need.

They took their hand out of his and rested it on his heart, and felt that it was beating quite fast. A ringing began in their ears like they had found the source. What is it? The Sailor asks, he’s so entranced by their beauty that he forgot what brought him there in the first place.

The Protagonist felt their fishnet start to come apart, a barrier was slowly breaking. In the little time it took for a man to become distracted, their body began to transform. The Sailor pushed back, skin he’s never seen runs down their abdomen. Are you okay? What is wrong with you? He says, a borderline of genuine curiosity or stupidity.

As if by wielding the force that originally brought them to their knees, they grasped at the throat of the Sailor and ripped the chords from his neck. A stain to the oil painting they had created in the Sailor’s perception of his savior. The sailor fell back into the beach as the Protagonist ate every chord, every word he ever said, every song he’s ever sung, and every lie he’s ever told. The Lighthouse let out a deep, guttural roar. Like a signal.

A Lighthouse is a monolith that intimidates its congregants, and it’s never meant to be defied.

The Protagonist looks up at the sky, blood dripping down their face and hands. A bloody, gory mess of it all. Look at what the mess you’ve made, they thought. The skin starts wrapping around their back and shoulders, down their arms. They ponder the meaning of love, and if it’s something meant for them. Their throat begins to burn, the inside like a candle wick.

The human mind is a vessel of dread, some ships sail and some don’t. Time is hard to comprehend on the lonely beach, just another construct to keep track of in this reality. The sky begins to dim as quickly as it lit up. A sureness flushed through the Protagonist’s face, an acceptance of the evolution of their body. However, the validating burn in their throat hid the cramp inside their stomach. They could feel the squelching thickness of his sins, even if he was already gone.

The Protagonist let out an involuntary groan of pain, and the Lighthouse began to flash red. They looked to the light, remembering that this wasn’t where they belonged. I have to get back, they thought. I must find it, it’s killing me.

There is no one on this beach for a reason, it’s quiet here. No one comes here willingly, do you really have a choice? The Protagonist looks down at the sailor, what was once peaceful now shows its true fate. You would have never made it out alive, they say to the man.

Or what was once a man. Was it ever a man? They pick up the body, arms splayed out, and look to the ocean. Tears began to stream down their face. I’m not afraid of anything. They say to themselves.

By this point, their new skin covered them head to toe, their hair draped down their back. They stepped into the ocean, a tingle running down their arms and legs. It felt good enough that the pain in their stomach faded to the background again.

They carried the lifeless body to the edge of the sandbar, a feat once impossible; they're almost towards the end of their evolution. The sun starts to set, and they gradually let go of the body. As by magic, it sinks into a deep, unknown abyss.

The Lighthouse roars again and the red light flashes brighter. They watch through the light as dark figures surround the body, and the Protagonist breathes a sigh of relief. The waves are getting taller, almost as tall as the rocks.

There’s real beauty in self discovery, maybe this is my lesson. The Protagonist dives into the water, gills at their sides, a long tail. No longer alone or in pain. Free.

The end.

Thank you so much. If you made it to the end, read it again, if you want. It's for you <3

a love letter to a special community, and it’s fearless leader

[emberdune]

something about how the murderbot books action scenes are written that makes me able to visualize exactly what is happening where

[mlobsters]

so i read a story by @zmediaoutlet (the archivist) and got hit with this desire to try to paint sam surreptitiously taking one of his little everyday pictures of dean, from the story. i can only paint from reference so i've got a juryrigged picture of an early season diner scene with sam cut out of it when dean's reading a paper. and plopped in a closeup of sam holding his s2 phone from the hollywood ep. and even dug out a screenshot of the actual camera/image display instead of the tv version of just filling the entire screen with the image lol. anyway, i think i have a good enough thing to start painting from with my little collage. we'll see how it goes. also means i get to paint a little bit of the impala, which i'm happy about

my janky reference collage (subject to change)

could make a little series out of them, if so inclined. sam sitting somewhere going through his phone. hmm

[birdmankickedmyass]

i genuinely cannot stand musicals anymore like i dont think i can even bear to relisten to great comet UNFORTUNATELY but like. ghost quartet....besides the significance of a huge foundation of friendship 4 me .... its just enough of a fucking bizarre concept album even the live recording and Especially the live recording that it still hits me like a train. Not intended. Fuck dude. i love weird out of time tangled up Circular Stories & terrible terrible tragedy but people are also just hanging out. and the cello. i have to listen to this thing every fall or else something is very wrong

[acacia-may]

You asked me, now I asked you, 2, 9 and 22 💘

Thank you so much for the ask, friend, and for playing this writing ask game! I'd be thrilled to answer your ask and share some excerpts with you. 🥰

2. An excerpt of my writing that makes me laugh

I'll admit that I am always so nervous whenever I try to write anything humorous. I feel like I have an odd and often dry sense of humor so I really worry my jokes aren't going to land in my writing. That said, I really love dramatic irony used for comedic effect. For instance this joke from one of my Fairy Tail fics, "The Jam Problem," always makes me laugh:

“There’s nothing wrong with being smitten with Rita and wanting to go on a date, Yuri,” chimed in Mavis with a reassuring smile. “I’d like to go on a date too someday.” She paused and a somewhat dreamy sigh she had not been intending accidentally tumbled out of her mouth as she added, “With Zeref.”   Yuri’s brow furrowed at her, and he turned back to a somewhat concerned Precht and Warrod. “Are we ever going to do something about Mavis’s ‘Zeref Problem’?”  “I think it’s just a phase,” reassured Warrod with a thoughtful nod.  “She’ll probably grow out of it before anything bad happens," Precht agreed.

I also really love situational comedy, cheeky bantering, and snarky one-liners (which might be one of the reasons I love writing Charmy so much). Here's one of my favorite Charmy jokes from my Black Clover fic "Pancakes For Dinner"

“For you, Miss Charmy, I would do anything,” Rill said with a bright beaming smile before taking off to, Charmy was certain, conspicuously watch Finral. “Awww…” teased Vanessa draping her arm around Charmy’s shoulders causing her cheeks to flush a little. “He’s so cute!” “You say that, la,” sighed Charmy. “But he’s never painted a life-sized portrait of you as a ‘food goddess’…”

9. An excerpt of my writing with characters I love

Here's a snippet from one of my favorite fics from my Early Black Bulls series, "A Bird In The Rain" (which I apologize is only on AO3 but I'll still link it). The friendship between young Yami, Gordon, Finral, and Vanessa is one of my favorites in the whole series, and I don't think it's talked about nearly enough.

“I’m back,” declared Finral appearing in a portal beside Yami as the rain began to pour. “Great, now hurry up and get us out of here before we get soaked,” he huffed, but Finral wasn’t even looking at him. Yami’s brow furrowed, and he glared at him in irritation. With eyes that wide and that tint of pink in his cheeks, he knew exactly what—or rather who—Finral was staring at. “You wanna pick your jaw off the ground and get us out of here?” he quipped, but Finral didn’t respond. Yami rolled his eyes. “Damn it, Finral, will you stop staring at the poor girl already?” “She’s so…” Finral almost gasped quietly, but his voice trailed. Yami blustered but finally whipped towards Vanessa to see what all the fuss was about. If he was being honest, even he was rendered a little bit speechless. Vanessa had both arms flung out widely at her sides as if catching the rain that gushed down from the storm clouds above. Though she was getting completely soaked, she had tilted her head all the way back towards the sky, wearing the widest, brightest smile Yami had ever seen in his entire life. Now, he knew of course that Vanessa was a generally cheerful person who smiled more than most, and he had seen her excited over the most random and everyday things before—but he had never seen her this happy. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he had ever seen anyone this happy. There was something almost mesmerizing, almost beautiful, about her joy, and even Yami had to admit it was breathtaking. Vanessa must have sensed that they were all staring at her because she turned towards them and her face turned bright red. She sheepishly shuffled her feet. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve never been caught in the rain before…” Her voice trailed, and something panged in Yami’s chest—a cross between a deep, almost aching sadness and a vindictive desire to rough up the Queen of Witches. “Were you waiting on me?” Vanessa added quickly, almost guiltily. “Uh…um…” Finral choked as his face flushed, but he seemed too awestruck for words—not that Yami could really blame him as he himself was having some trouble formulating a response. Not even Gordon was mumbling. Vanessa’s blush deepened. “And now you’re all soaked…”

22. An excerpt of my writing that is so blissfully self-indulgent

Thank you so much for this!! Please enjoy some Uncle Langris and Dad Finral from my "Birthday Buddies" fic 🥺💖

“Langris?” a voice whispered. His eyes fluttered open. How long had he been asleep? he wondered. “Langris?”  “What?” he mumbled. Groggily, he turned towards his brother who was positively beaming at him with tears of joy in his eyes. “Do you want to meet your nephew?”  This question shook Langris awake as he focused intently on the small bundle in Finral’s arms. Langris’ face softened, and he nodded as Finral handed him the baby and explained with the pride and excitement of new father, “This is Kalon.”  “Hi Kalon,” whispered Langris, trying and failing to keep a serious face as he stared down at his nephew. He looked so small wrapped in his quilt, but he wriggled and squirmed before nestling into Langris’ arms and smiling in his sleep—his button nose wrinkling and his arms stretching out from the blanket as his tiny fingers extended as if he was reaching out for him. Langris held out his own finger to the baby—letting him wrap his little hand around it. “He looks like you,” he whispered, and Finral nodded but smiled with pride, happy tears glistening in his eyes again. “So I’ve been told…” 

I just love when my boys get along with each other, okay? 💚💙

[studiokultuurscape]

"Architecture is storytelling in space" - AR. Kimberly Wouters, Studio Kultuurscape

[fereldancore]

I don’t blog about sports, but early this morning my favourite athlete Johnny ‘Hockey’ Gaudreau was knocked off his bicycle and killed along with his younger brother the night before their sister’s wedding. He had just turned 31 years old, married his next door neighbour and had a toddler daughter and a 6 month old son (who were planned to be flower girl and ring bearer at the wedding).

I adored Johnny because he was a such a small streak of lightning in a game full of huge dudes who were regularly a whole foot taller than him. His skills were just fucking phenomenal and he was so exciting to watch. I screamed with joy and cheered him on so loudly I lost my voice on many occasions. He represented his country for International Competitions and is the highest US point scorer.

I could get technical and talk about my favourite goals of his, his stickhandling, dangles, on ice spatial awareness etc but it is all on film for anyone to see, just too much to choose from. Nobody moved like Johnny Hockey.

As a person he was a sweet, kind guy who was universally liked in the sport and beyond. I do not follow celebrities on social media, but on hockey forums there are endless stories of his voracious love of mac and cheese (so much so Kraft put him in a TV ad) and skittles candies that he had a hockey stick covered in them and auctioned for charity.

In interviews he always talked hockey and his family. Whenever asked about new contracts and paycheques he would just shrug and say ‘yeah I bought my dad a boat so we can go fishing’ or ‘I just got a cool new wheelchair lift installed in my holiday home so my cousin can come and spend time with me’, or change the subject and talk about his dog, his wife and kids or The Birds. He was a real gem of a gentleman, modest and always ready to give credit to his team and dad (legendary NJ coach Guy Gaudreau) who motivated Johnny to skate as a toddler by placing skittles candies on the ice for him to fetch.

I’m am so sad for him, his family. This is just a blurb of feels about someone I counted down the days for until I could see them make magic on ice. I wish I could write a good tribute, dammit. Thank you Johnny Hockey.

[eggcats]

I'll never forget when I came out to my mom as nonbinary and she IMMEDIATELY went "well I knew you weren't a woman because you can't pack a car at fucking all" like DAMN mother just read me to filth why don't you

[ozzgin]

Santa baby are you really there?!

*hears a voice in my backyard*

FUCK SKIN WALKER

- you make Yan skinwalker i’ll do anything to get a skin walker to love me … yes I am 100% mentally stable

I'm not sure if you had something horror-esque in mind, because my immediate idea was Reader accidentally getting cursed and continuing her life completely unaware with a ""dog"" everyone is freaked out by, but she finds it cute. So more like dark comedy vibes. You be the judge. :D

Disclaimer: I have changed the name to Shapeshifter as to not delve into potentially offensive takes on native folklore. Thank you for informing my European ass.

Yandere!Monster x Reader [Shapeshifter]

On your last hiking trip, you've stumbled upon a helpless, lost dog. Or rather, it stalked you down to your cabin and spent the night in front of your window. You didn't have the heart to abandon the poor soul and so you brought it home with you. Strange things have been happening ever since and no one knows how to tell you that the monstrous coyote-like creature might be to blame. You're oblivious to everything.

Content: female reader, dark comedy, monster romance, reader is cursed and proud

It wasn't your intention to return home with a new pet. Some might say it was written in the stars, this fateful encounter of yours. You had finished packing your supplies for a day-long hike, vehemently refusing to join your group of friends that would be guided around by a native. They’d warned you many areas of the mountainous forest were supposedly cursed or haunted, so you just scribbled the limits on your makeshift map and promised to stay on the main trails. After all, this was your chance to commune with nature. As the sun begun to set, you wondered if going by yourself was indeed a smart idea, given your lack of spatial awareness and difficulty to navigate maps. You flipped the piece of paper several times, deep in contemplation. Could it be that you’ve reached the forbidden lands? You quickly surveyed the area: based on the stuffed rag dolls hanging from old branches, and the animal skulls arranged in patterns among patches of burnt grass, it was very much a possibility. Perhaps the improvised slab that said “Stay away” in dripping crimson letters should’ve been enough of a warning, but you assumed they’d just been creative with trail markers.

You didn’t have the time to panic. Just as you were furrowing your eyebrows in a final attempt to decipher the map (at the time upside-down), your ears picked up a faint shuffle of leaves. Further away stood a dog, its glossy eyes fixated on your form. A lost puppy? It seemed to be on the larger side, but then again some breeds grow rather fast. You lowered yourself and patted your knees, whispering diminutives in an effort to call the animal over. It remained in place, staring quietly. Alright, then. You focused on finding your way back instead. Every now and then you'd turn back and see the dog, motionlessly eyeing you at a constant distance. Oh, dear. Was it lost? Frightening affair.

Back at the cabin you told the others about your discovery, with a hint of worry in your voice. You hoped the little pup had found proper shelter. You'd expected a similar reaction coming from your friends, but one of them suggested: "What if it was some shapeshifting monster? There's many legends and stories from the area." Everyone laughed and you joined hesitantly, mildly annoyed by the lack of empathy. That night you barely slept, twisting and turning under the heavy feeling of being watched. You woke up tired and nervous, dragging your feet towards the window for some fresh air. That's when you saw the same forest creature, fully awake and tall in its glory, positioned before your room. This was no coincidence. You had been plagued by the guilt of abandoning a vulnerable quadruped and you weren't about to continue as a passive observer. You strode out without a word and lifted the large dog with a huff, carrying it back in to figure out the transport logistics.

Thus started the unexpected companionship. To you, it's a lovely tale of two lost souls finding one another. Most people seem to disagree. Can you blame them? The rescued puppy you often speak of is, in the eyes of everyone else, a monstrous beast by all definitions. It resembles a coyote more than a dog, but even this description is too gentle. The fur is always raised threateningly and the protruding clusters of fangs remind one of the anatomical anomalies displayed in museums. The eyes, oh, the worst of all perhaps, bottomless depths that pull you in until you run out of air. The creature stares with the all-knowing gaze of a human. "Don't be rude", you snap at whoever dares to point these details out. "It must be a mixed breed or something."

Their persistence is truly ridiculous. You've even had guests run out in panic, claiming the dog stood on its back legs and whispered in a language unknown. Or that its shadow would morph into a grotesque man with claws and crooked antlers. Or that they've found it hunched over your sleeping form, its spine twisted outwards with jagged peaks breaking through the wild fur. Rubbish, all of it.

Strange things have been happening, no doubt, but your adopted fur-child has no blame to carry. You've been trying to distract yourself, going on dates and occasionally bringing potential suitors over. They all vanish overnight, nonchalantly leaving an empty, ruffled bed for you to wake up to. "Am I just unlucky?" You sigh, running your fingers through the coarse fur of your dog. It lowers itself under your touch, visibly enjoying the affection. For a split second, it glances out the window. By the time you come out of your depressed slump, the birds should've finished feeding on the remains. He made sure to tear and grind everything fine enough to not leave any marks behind.

That's how curses work, after all. He didn't expect, however, that you'd be utterly unaware of it. He has to give you the credit, not many people become stalked by an ancient curse and continue their life in blissful ignorance. Even more, for them to just casually pick up the haunting entity and bring it inside their home willingly...You're, uh, certainly a special one. Hence the change of plans. He was supposed to torment you into an early grave, but he's grown rather attached to your bizarre antics. And you do provide some damn good chin scratches. He's therefore satisfied with causing anguish and destruction to anything and anyone in your immediate vicinity instead. Since you've been complaining about the resulting isolation...

You wake up with a gasp, wiping your drenched forehead and checking the sheets. The dog is curled next to you, although its head is now tilted in your direction. "O-oh. It might be the loneliness talking...but I had the strangest dream." How troubling and embarrassing. Your beloved pet had turned into a deformed, monstrous man instead, pinning you down and hungrily grazing your skin with his sharp teeth. Your fearful protests eventually turned into shameless moans, your frail body at the mercy of the mysterious beast. It unfolded so vividly that your core feels sore. You stretch a sheepish hand towards your pet and abruptly stop halfway, noticing the marks diffused into your wrist, like violet smudges of watercolor. What the hell did you do last night?

The dog buries its head under the sheets and nuzzles its snout into your soft flesh. Heh. How many more disappearing guests will be needed for you to figure out your situation? He does find your obliviousness terribly amusing, as well as your willingness to clutch onto him despite his unsightly appearance. He was feeling particularly cheeky and thought of giving you a little scare, only to be once again taken aback by your neediness. He has to wonder who exactly is trapped in this situation, because your reactions to everything he does are frighteningly tempting. Maybe tonight he'll finally let you know, just as you're about to come undone beneath his heaving body. Something like, hmmm. "By the way, love, this isn't a dream." He could even add a little "woof" to tease you more.

[allurilove]

Yandere Stalker x you

Rated 18 + -- mature short content !

Content Warning: This story contains themes of obsession, stalking, manipulation, and violent fantasies. It delves into the unhealthy and dangerous mindset of a stalker obsessed with you. Reader discretion is advised.

WORD COUNT: 3.6K

INCLUDES: Stalking, blood kink, obsessive behavior, cunnilingus, fingering, fem reader, choking, mentions of cheating, p in v sex in public, murder, death, he's not a good person, dom yandere?, degradation?, he can be a bit of a gaslighter, gore, and more.

*This is the third fic to this little mini series. Check out the first part, and the second part for a better understanding! He is referred to as "your stalker." The italicized portion is his inner thoughts! This fic is inspired by the show You, and this is purely fictional writing!*

SYNOPSIS: Your stalker's obsession intensifies as he becomes involved with another woman named Daniella Foster, who he views as inferior to you. Despite his disdain for your best friend, he engages in a flirtatious and sexual relationship with her, all the while fantasizing about you.

What's more dangerous than a sick, psychotic, and perverted man?

I ran out of your blood today.

Just four hours ago, I was completely fine. The vial of your period blood was nearly empty, but I was able to stick my finger inside to collect the last of your crimson essence. I sucked a particularly big blood clot off my finger, and I was able to start my day with a huge smile.

Four hours ago, I could claim that I was a normal and functioning man, someone you wouldn’t blink an eye at, and that was all thanks to you.

Four hours ago, I was able to brush my teeth, take a shower, and clean myself up for the day. I had an extra pep in my step, and I felt like I could take on the world with a positive outlook.

Don’t you see how much life you give me? Your blood alone has made me feel like I was on top of the world, like I could float up into space with just your plasma to help me survive.

But now, it was gone.

Your stalker stared blankly at the window as his body was jostled side to side, his hands tightly gripping the handle of his tote bag that rested on his lap. He tried to ignore the obnoxiously sick person near him, who didn’t even bother to cover their coughs. He closed his eyes to avoid staring into the eyes of another person across from him. He was sandwiched between two burly people: one shouted loudly into their phone, clearly having zero spatial awareness, while the other snoozed. The woman's head drooped as she nodded off, and her greasy hair brushed against his cheek.

She had a distinct smell of sweat and wet socks. Your stalker apologized to the man next to him as he slightly leaned his body away from the woman. He was stuck in this position unless someone took pity on him and spoke up.

His car was in the shop. The tire had unexpectedly given out, causing him to swerve into oncoming traffic. The car was old anyway, a gift from his parents when he first got his license in high school. That must have been, what, ten years ago? He didn’t like to think about his age; nothing good ever came from it anyway.

Your stalker rummaged through his bag, his hand searching for the familiar plastic tube he used to steal your period blood. His fingers brushed against a particularly sharp blade he kept for “safety” reasons before they wrapped around the vial. He had really tried to savor it. He would carefully open his mouth and tilt the vial just enough for a single drop of blood to settle onto his tongue. Sometimes he would pour a bit into his coffee, or he would put it into his food. Either way, it made him feel closer to you. It was a comforting notion to think about, that he was the only man and human who had access to you in such an intimate way.

Your stalker sighed as he put the empty tube back into his breast pocket for safe keeping.

He didn’t like taking public transportation. New York was known for having odd things happening on the trains, buses, and subways. He was pretty sure that last week someone had set a rat on fire, a poor woman got robbed in broad daylight, and a group of teens were filming their dumb YouTube prank videos on the elderly.

Your stalker felt a flare of irritation as the woman leaned on his shoulder again. He gently nudged her off and ignored the way she woke up all startled. He glanced down at his phone, counting the number of stops, and saw he had twelve more before he could get off.

He was going to Manhattan for a job. An absolute douchebag had hired him, and his name was Myron Vykolv. He was the type to spend his money on trips and a bedazzled car rather than giving back to charity. Vykolv was an artist's worst nightmare: fickle, a headache to deal with; but surprisingly, he had good taste in art. He had to; he hired your stalker, after all.

He pulled out his phone to scroll on social media, his eyes scanning the copious amount of braindead content, and he paused when he saw a familiar face. He pressed the buttons on the side of his phone, his screen flashing, and the screenshot he took was saved in his photo album. Your stalker zoomed in, and his eyes widened as he saw the perfectly harmonious facial features. The baby tee top had a cute graphic splayed on the chest area, hair slicked and pulled back into a bun, and gold hoops dangling from those nicely formed ears.

It was you.

He glanced down at the caption: "a coffee date with my favorite bff." Posted exactly five minutes ago. It wasn't your account, but it was the closest thing he had to you. Your stalker decided to follow your coffee-manic and bikini-loving friend, and every post and picture she had, you were in it too.

She made it almost easy to stalk. Jesus, what if a deranged man had decided to show up to her place in the Beverly Hills area on the street of— seriously? Did she really just post her full address online?

Daniella Foster. The epitome of a fun and ditzy socialite who spent way too much time at parties and clubs. A trust fund baby if there ever was one, with her daddy being a big shot in the entertainment industry. Despite all that privilege, she never quite made it big herself.

Your stalker snorted as he saw the array of failed projects she had been in. Modeling? Wasn't in the cards for her. Acting? Horrible. A piece of cardboard would've had more personality than her. Originally from Tampa, Florida, then she moved to California, where she had her comically large house, and then… she decided to bless us by coming to New York. Lucky us, right y/n?

Your stalker looked up from his phone and realized the train had come to his stop. He got up from his seat and quickly made his way out. He felt his phone vibrate in his hand and looked down: Daniella requested to follow you. That was fast.

He clicked accept.

She's a shameless flirt, your stalker soon found out, and he’s not the least bit surprised. Daniella slid into his DMs with a picture of her provocatively sucking a lollipop, and her first words to him were: “What do you look like?”

Gee, take a gander, Daniella. My profile picture is a high-definition shot of my handsome and sexy fucking face. But sure, ask me about my looks as if you were actually interested. Your stalker rolled his eyes. He didn’t even want to respond to that message, but he had no other way of seeing you again. You would probably run at the sight of him, and that would be the most sane and correct thing you could do.

So, what does a man say when he’s mediocre, average, and you’re clearly out of his league? “I look like the man of your dreams, sweetheart.”

Your stalker had spent hours sexting and courting this woman who had flooded his inbox. Even when he was painting for a client, he managed to multitask and send a dick pic. He sent her whatever she wanted to keep her hooked, and just by her messages alone, this must have been the only time a man actually matched her level of craziness and horniness.

Days turned into weeks and then soon into months. The moment he woke up, he would see that she had sent him hundreds of messages in one night—she must've been drunk again.

He spent hours reading each message, and he hearted the ones that he felt were the most important. It was actually coming to an end, thank God, but to his surprise, she asked him out on a date.

"So, what do you do? Who are you?" The girl in front of him asked.

He shouldn't have said yes because now he was sitting in a restaurant that he could barely afford or get a reservation to, and he had to be with this woman who wasn't you. She was dressed beautifully - he'd give her that. He liked the dark colors of her red dress, the way he could drink in the curves of her hips and chest, and how it gave him a clear view of her body.

Now, he wondered what you would have worn if you were on a date with him. Would you have put in this much effort and shown this much skin? Would you have laughed at all of his jokes to boost his damn ego, or knocked him down a peg? Would you have ordered something light so you could have sex afterward, or would you have eaten something hearty and called it a day?

He pretended to think for a while, all before he gently touched her hand, and his fingers caressed her soft skin. "Who am I?" He teased, his voice slightly deepened as he gave her a playful once-over. "I'm hurt. After all these months, you still don't know who I am?"

"Why don't you refresh my memory?" She tilted her head.

Your stalker sighed and he looked around briefly. This place was intimate, for high rollers only, and he could just imagine how much of his money was going to go down the drain. The tiny candle on the table, the white clean cloth, and the vase with a single rose was still too romantic for his taste. His thumb traced circles on her hand, and the other grabbed for his steak knife.

“I'm an up-and-coming artist,” He replied with a bit of a shrug.

“An up-and-coming artist, huh?” She echoed, her fingers now interlocked with his. “Do you come often?”

Lord, please have some mercy and shoot me. Do I come often? Wouldn’t you like to know, you slut. Is this the type of person you really want to spend your time with, y/n? Daniella is not you, and she could never be you. She parades herself around for anyone and everyone to ogle at—she is the epitome of what’s wrong with the dating scene. No wonder she doesn’t have a boyfriend. No wonder she’s desperate enough to entertain me—of all people.

I know the type of people you like, Daniella, and it’s not me.

“You know what you’re doing when you ask me that.” he brought her hand up to his lips and he kissed it. “I can tell you can make a man come often.“

Daniella giggled and her chest puffed out. She leaned closer to him, and he can practically drown in her scent of vanilla and cake. “I have an art piece that I think you'll appreciate. It's back at my place… wanna see it?”

Fuhhhhhck no. Your stalker slipped the knife into his pocket.

Your stalker smirked and he leaned in closer as well. He could see the makeup on her face, the gloss on her lips, and he could see a glimpse of her ample breasts. “I don’t know… is it one of a kind?”

Underneath the table, her leg started to caress his, and her foot slowly found its way to his crotch. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped, and he held onto her hand tighter. As much as he hated this, he would have been lying if he had said that the attention wasn’t nice. He felt the pressure around his groin tighten as she pressed her foot onto it, and she gently rubbed it up and down while maintaining eye contact.

“It’s an original piece…something that can’t be replicated. I’m sure you’ll love it.” Daniella said coyly, and she bit down on her plush lips.

She knew when to strike when the iron was hot. A taxi was called, and she made out with him in it. Her body was pressed up against his, and she felt his hand grip on her ass. His hand then slid up her thigh, his fingers ripped her black sheer stockings and two of them found their way to her entrance. He bit down on her bottom lip and his tongue slipped into her mouth.

She's a fun girl. She knew exactly how to inflate a man's ego and pride. He heard her sweet, light moans, and her hips started to grind onto his hand. His thumb played with her clit, and they only pulled away when the cab arrived at her house. He grabbed her hand and tossed a couple of bills at the driver. He slammed the door shut, and before she could unlock the door to her house, he pressed her against his body.

"W-We're in public...!" Daniella's face was flushed and she tried to close her legs, but your stalker was quick to pull them back apart.

He narrowed his eyes and tugged down her panties. "So? Don't tell me you have morals all of a sudden." he snorted.

He wished that she would just shut up. She opened her mouth to rebuttal but he wrapped one hand around her throat to keep her still and quiet, and he shimmied off his pants just enough for his cock to be out. "I didn't come here for you to talk all the damn time. Shut it, before I put that mouth of yours to good use."

Your stalker lifted her up and made her wrap her legs around him. His dick then entered inside her, and he groaned at how wet and ready she felt. It's been awhile since he felt actual warmth, and her walls started to clench around him. His breath is ragged as he fucked her. His eyes were closed and he couldn't help but bite down onto her shoulder. Daniella cried out, and her body was tense as his teeth broke into her skin.

"God... you needed this, didn't you?" He purred as he licked up the puncture wound. Your stalker then looked down to watch his cock disappear into her. "You need someone to fuck your brains out." He sharply thrust into her again, and his hands dug into the plush of her ass to help with the momentum.

Your stalker dragged his tongue across her bleeding shoulder, then pressed his body against hers, pinning her to the wall. With one hand still gripping her body, he used the other to shove his fingers down her throat, silencing her whimpers."You're the prettiest whore I have ever seen. Isn't that right, y/n?"

Your stalker truly believed he was being intimate with you. Daniella, who? All he knew was you. All he ever wanted was to feel you, to taste you, and to be able to hear you mewl around his cock. He wanted to see your eyes roll back into your skull, to paint your skin with butterfly kisses, and for him to finally come inside you again and again. It actually pissed him off to no end that he had to be stuck here with her.

When he felt himself getting closer to the edge, he unceremoniously pulled out of her, and his white stream of cum dripped down onto the ground. He sighed as his dick softened, and he gently helped her stand on her own legs again. His hand dipped underneath her body, his fingers playing with her wet folds, and he spread them apart to furiously rub at her clit. Daniella gripped onto his arm to keep him firmly there until she felt her leg shake.

Your stalker watched with a bit of fascination as what seemed like an endless amount of juices squirted out of her. He got onto his knees and helped her to sit onto his face. After he cleaned her all up, your stalker suddenly remembered something and his hand patted down his pockets.

"Hey... I think I'm missing my phone." He started his little lie. "Can I borrow yours? I forgot that I had an important call--"

"Bag." She just said and pointed to the one that was tossed to the side.

He muttered a "thanks" before he went over and rummaged through her purse. "What do you think about doing this again?" he kept an eye on her as his hand aimlessly tried to look for her phone. "I had fun tonight, and I'd like to see you one more time."

He could feel the various items in her bag. A packet of cigarettes, two lip products, house keys, a whole perfume bottle, but fuck where was her phone?

He watched as Daniella rolled down her scrunched up dress. The woman then raised her brow and she crossed her arms. "I'm pretty sure you said another woman's name."

"I didn't." He said rather quickly. "You drank a lot of wine--it was almost like you were trying to bankrupt me." He joked, and his hand firmly gripped onto what felt like a smooth case. He pulled it out of her bag and there it was. "What's your password?"

"Trying to change the subject, are we?"

"I'm pretty sure your phone is the subject, unlock it pretty please?"

Daniella pulled back her hair and she stared at him expectantly.

"I said give me your password, not a blowjob." Your stalker frowned.

She gave him an exasperated look. "It's my face dumbass." she then snatched her phone back from him.

"You don't use your thumb? What kind of update is that?"

"God, you're so poor." He heard her mutter.

That was so unwarranted, and sort of hurt.

Though it made him feel a lot better when he finally decided to slit her throat. Now that she was distracted, he discreetly pulled out the steak knife from his pocket before he dropped her bag and roughly yanked her back to him. His hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her screams as he dragged the serrated blade across her neck. The knife sawed through flesh, muscle, and sinew, blood spurting and gushing with each desperate pulse of her heart. It took him a while to sever her head completely, his arm burning with exhaustion as he hacked away, the blade catching on bone and gristle, her life draining away in a torrent of crimson.

Your stalker wiped his bloodied hand on her dress, he grabbed the phone off the ground, and he groaned when he saw that the screen was cracked. He tried his best to work the damn thing, his finger poking at the messaging app multiple times before it decided to open. Daniella had a plentiful amount of unsaved numbers but they had weird emojis next to them. One number was from a different country and had the eggplant emoticon.

Then he found the only saved number: y/n.

You're apparently a good girl and shared your location with your best friend. How adorable, you even share every given moment with her too. You even talked about how you were thinking about going back to your serial cheater of an ex.

Your stalker gasped, his head reeling back in shock. You were about to go back to your ex? Your ex, of all people? You couldn't have, what—moved on like a normal person? You couldn't have gone out and fucked around with someone new? Someone like him? It's like you purposely make the wrong choices just to be saved. Before he could be your little personal super hero... his eyes slowly made its way back to the body on the ground, and then to the keys that were in her bag.

Have you ever heard of cuteness aggression? The rush of impulsive behavior that you get after seeing a cute and defenseless puppy? I get that when I see you. I think you're so adorable that it makes my heart burst. Your stalker stared up into your apartment, and the car windows were rolled down to air out the perfume he dumped into the body bag.

However, there was nothing cute about this ugly pig-like fuck that touched your waist. That man had no redeeming qualities, and boy, did I want him to start squealing in pain. I wanted to pinch his body until he had yellowish-brown bruises all over. I wanted to crush his skull with my bare hands and feel his pulse drop. I wanted to be able to drink the blood shower that would come from their body and bathe in it. I want them to realize that you’re off the market, and that you’re solely mine.

They’re not good for you, love. You have seen that time and time again, and they have disappointed you before without fail; so why do you welcome them with open arms? It hurts to see your legs over their shoulders, and to see a bit of your face contorted in pleasure and ecstasy. Is it the sex? Is it the way they give you a fleeting moment of what could have been if they weren’t constantly cheating on you?

That’s pathetic, and you know it. But it’s okay, I’m willing to look past this little transgression. It’s not completely unforgivable. They must’ve broken you down and made you vulnerable enough to pull your pants down. It’s not your fault. It’s theirs.

Your stalker continued to stake out your house, patiently waiting for your ex to come down to the lobby. The moment he did, your stalker would be ready. He might not have been able to get your blood, but killing your ex and taking his was like killing two birds with one stone.

Allure: This is the first fic I wrote that actually has y/n in it! And it's pretty unedited, so if there is mistakes I will probs fix it later on. This dragged on for waaay longer than it needed and tbh, I am never writing a long fic like this again LMAO