#my favorite is still tenebrous

[lilfriezatyrant]

Well...Toriyama. It is now ‘Black Frieza’.

Let me show you what words our sophisticated emperor would use to describe himself:

tenebrous Frieza

apocalyptical Frieza

caliginous Frieza

abysmal Frieza

calamitous Frieza

disastrous Frieza

cataclysmic Frieza

saturnine Frieza

[thefandomdirtymind]

My husband was telling me how I can't cook for shit (I'm aggressively mediocre thank you) so I'm just looking for some fluffy Sanji and reader having late night ice cream after a shitty day

A/N IMPORTANT:  Hello Anon. I'm so sorry you had a bad day. I am personally a mediocre cook and impress myself to be able to keep myself alive. But you manage to keep yourself and your husband and that I find it amazing even with that he said. I honestly would love to eat everything you would cook for me. I tried to bring you confort in that little storie, I hope it will work and that you will have more sunny days ahead of you love.

Ice cream

OPLA - Sanji

Sanji / OPLA Masterlist and Coming Soon

* English is not my first language, I tried really hard to correct myself but, I hope you will excuse me if some mistakes are still there.

—

The Merry Going was sailing on the Grand Line water, the night enveloping it as dark as ink, as tenebrous as your mood. 

Sit in the kitchen, lost in your thoughts, your mind replaying every detail of that shitty day, you sigh, burying your face in your hand. 

“ Y/N, I didn’t know you were awake, I saw the light. Everythings is okay ma cherie ? “ Sanji asked, entering the kitchen in a simple blue t-shirt and cotton pants. 

The cook definitely already knew why you were still awake at almost the middle of the night. After all, he had been at the first lodge to see you mostly align disaster after disaster. But, as a good friend ( and maybe more) he wanted you to open up to him and prepared himself to listen.

“ Sanji I'm so sorry for today” You told him, embarrassment coloring your cheeks at the memories of the oven on fire and the knife slipping off your hand to plant itself on the floor.

“ Is that what it’s about ? Give me a minute love, I think we will need something strong to help you“ In an instant the blond cook was busy behind the counter, preparing something you couldn’t see from your place.  

Expecting a cocktail with some of Zoro’s alcohol or tiny glasses ready to make you roll under the table after a few minutes. You couldn’t help yourself to smile when Sanji simply put in front of you a bowl of ice cream covered with all your favorite garnish to his knowledge . 

Traveling to the banket to sat at your side, putting his own bowl alongside yours, he softly smiled at you. 

“ Ice cream are made to make shitty days less merdique* love. So now please, talk to me” Sanji asked you, listening to all your concerns and misadventures of the day. * Shitty 

When you finish talking, taking an spoonful of the savory and sweet cold cream, you look at the blond, his head into his hand, suspended to your lips. 

“ Well, chérie, I second it was indeed a day to forget and drown in ice cream. For the kitchen part, I had passed by that darling, I wasn’t born the best cook of the east blue. But, you have other qualities where you are the best, and if you have a real interest in cooking, then nothing is better than practice and learn new knowledge. Kitchen fires happen to the best of us.” 

Nodding of the head, taking another bite, feeling your mind taking a rest, you gently put your head on Sanji's shoulder. 

“ Thank you “ You said. 

“ You’re welcome darling, I will have ice cream with you every time you need.”  Sanji replied, putting his head against yours. 

You stay a little bit longer in the kitchen, your ice cream turning into a sugary soup, as the blond was sharing with you his most embarrassing kitchen faux pas and you contribute with your most successful accomplishment. 

Your day may be shitty, but you knew that from that day, a bowl of ice cream and a good conversation would always be waiting for you in the kitchen.

---

@alienstardust@phantasmagoricalzenith@downforsanji@faefanatic@strongindependenttrash@hi3431@sunnanse@neko-loogi@theluckyplaces@simbaaas-stuff@ofherscarlettwitchyways @juskonutoh @buffkirby2020 @miomao-ehe 

Join my TAG LIST : HERE

[thestarsfightagainstusmyfriend]

"Allegory of the Vanity of Earthly Things," c. 1650, unknown French artist

This is one of my all-time favorite Baroque works, but there's, like, no scholarly works on it, so here's an excerpt from an essay I wrote on its meaning, entitled "Shadow and Light: Tenebrism and Chiaroscuro in Depictions of Femininity in Baroque Art":

"While candles in Baroque art tend to serve a similar purpose regardless of context– a literal and symbolic way to expose some otherwise obscured truth– this is used to wildly different effect throughout varying traditions. For example, the candle became a universally-recognized element of vanitas and memento mori paintings– related genres which utilized carefully-curated still lifes as a way to create physical manifestations of the inevitability of death. Items such as books, candles or lamps, skulls, and timepieces became synonymous with these late Renaissance and Baroque-era genres. Skulls, once again, serve as a constant reminder of death and the limitations of the human body, books as a symbol of the limited use of accruing earthly knowledge, and timepieces as a very tangible representation of the unstoppable, unforgiving nature of existence. While the vast, almost complete, majority of paintings within these genres are still lifes, a handful include human or humanlike (e.g. angelic) figures. One such example is the enigmatic Allegory of the Vanity of Earthly Things by an unknown French artist. This painting, while clearly referencing vanitas and memento mori paintings through the familiar naming convention (i.e. “Allegory of …”) and the direct reference to vanity in the title, as well as the selection of objects, evades direct categorization. The female figure is unnamed and unrecognized. Because of the relation of Mary Magdalene to vanitas paintings, one could make the argument that the figure is meant to be a representation of Mary. However, depictions of Mary Magdalene throughout history nearly universally depict her with long, flowing, curly, often blonde or reddish hair (with Artemisia Gentileschi’s Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy being a perfect example). Additionally, when Mary Magdalene is depicted as the subject of vanitas paintings, she is generally the one contemplating the macabre items. In this painting, the woman seems to be wordlessly communicating with an individual to the audience’s left. As she tilts the mirror– a symbol of truth, obsession with the self, and most importantly, prediction– towards this phantom audience member and points to the skull with a faint, knowing smirk, she seems to be very intentionally and explicitly indicating the point of the work– death is inevitable. If the predictive, mystical capabilities of mirrors– as well as the truth-revealing properties of the candle– are considered, one could even interpret the woman as a harbinger of death."

If anyone knows anything more about this painting, I would love to hear about it! I've developed a strange obsession with it.

[ivyprism]

It's a Curse to be a Seer (Tenebrous Sona Backstory)

Trigger Warning: Mention/implied physical abuse, slight emotional abuse, exploiting of child's future sight, unwanted engagement, visions of death, seeing the future, mention of cheating and fire (brief), self-blame, mentions of death, neglect, emotional neglect, etc.

This may be a bit heavy for some readers.

There is a POV from first to second after a while. Just a warning!

--------

"They claim that being Oriana's favorite is a blessing…. However, it's more of a curse. Seers throughout history have been known to lose their wits, their lives, or even their souls. Many claim that Seers are never reincarnated and never return to Ila's warm embrace… Never allowed to transform into someone other than Oriana's favorite.0

I didn't realize I was one of them until I was 10. When I accurately saved my uncle from death.

"Uncle," I had said. I didn't think, my mind racing with ideas as I glanced at him. "If you go to the harbor today, you will die." As ominous as it sounded, it terrified my Uncle so greatly that he chose to stay at home rather than go when we had learned the ship he was meant to board was raided and nary a handful of people survived.

My folks, unsurprisingly, were scared. They'd ask me how I knew it and what I'd done, but I couldn't respond appropriately at the time. I've had these visions for so many years that I can't recall my life without them. I'd foresee life, death, love, and loss in a multitude of ways. Of course, my parents weren't sure that telling my Uncle to stay wasn't a coincidence.

That is until I began consistently predicting events accurately. My parents would dismiss them as childish asides.

"The forest catches horribly on fire and the village burnt to ash." In no uncertain terms, a forest had burned down, as had the village.

"The duchess is cheating on her husband with a baron." That very day, the duchess decided to leave her husband for a baron gentleman.

After receiving so many of these predictions, my parents knew I was one of Oriana's favorites, a Seer and it scared them. My mother was in grief and my father had used me. My mother would grieve every night knowing I was a seer as if I had died and my father had started using me for political purposes. He'd have me predict things, gaze so far into the future that it hurt, and punish me if I didn't tell him even the smallest of details.

My father also exploited it to increase his political position. He would show me off like I was a jewel he had found.

"My daughter is a seer!" "She is a blessed of Oriana." "She will bring us a bright future."

He'd say. He would show me off, offer to marry me off, and assure me that I would have the best of futures. My mother never looked at me and never held me. I had to fend for myself and learn how to cope all on my own. My parents never comforted me, never was there, and I suffered.

They never hugged me or comforted me. But, I understood, my father felt that the praise I received would compensate….But it did not. I didn't want hollow compliments, classmates who merely wanted to use me, or being taken advantage of for a present I hadn't asked for.

People called it a blessing, but I saw it as a curse. A curse that would prevent me from developing meaningful friendships, finding true love, or experiencing bliss… I resented Oriana for it. I did not ask to be cursed in this fashion. I resented what she had done. As I grew, the visions became sharper, my father's political position expanded, and the distance widened. A wedge formed, never to be filled again.

That was when my father introduced me to my fiancé… And I knew I'd have an unpleasant life with him, so I turned him down… My father became upset and demanded to know why. When I tried to explain, he would stop me and say I "had an obligation to this family." He didn't care whether I was pleased in my marriage or not. I still resisted, and it was the first time my father hit me.

"Ungrateful girl!" "You owe me this!"

He had said, but all I heard was ringing and all I felt was pain. I heard my mother start screaming at my father for what he had done. She had held me for the first time, attempting to console me and wipe away the tears that had already begun to flow. My mother held me for the first time in a long time, and my father hit me for the first time.

My mother attempted to make amends for what she had done, her neglect, and the way they had treated me. But my head was numb, and I couldn't hear anything she said… When my mother started painting alongside me and teaching me, I became interested in it. I had a natural ability for it. How I hoped that was my sole talent.

My father hated me, my mother tried to make up for it, and I was always in pain. My heart hurt as much as my SOUL did. My father's hatred bled into every move he made.

That was when the visions began. Visions of my own death began to plague me. Everything struck me, every time, every nightmare. I was terrified of storms, and my father eventually sent me away. He directed me to the Royal Family of Tenebrous, where I met the princes and the monarch. I was scared of the youngest, Morte. The one who was always killing me in my visions, but he was so nice, and I had become his friend.

That's when we met Hesper, and she was the one who would assure my death in my visions, but we all became good friends… I had hoped it would endure forever, but Morte snapped and sent the universe crashing down with his anger. The deities had stolen me, and I had never seen them again. I do portraits now, at least. I do what I enjoy, yet I am continually haunted by my impending futures.

I blame myself for not doing more. For not preventing what would happen... It's a curse to be a seer."

You draw your hand back as the journal draws to a close. Your heart aches when you check the author's name: Hepatica.

--------

[kenney-mencher]

Dial Up Bear, 12x12 inches oil on canvas panel by Kenney Mencher $375

Who is he talking to? I wanted the painting to be a more intimate and familiar kind of genre scene. The kind of scene of everyday life in which someone is Talking on an old-fashioned telephone rather than a cell phone and is caught up in the moment. That's why I've cropped in so close on the head and shoulders. His lips are parted slightly as if in thought and about to jump into the conversation.

Recently I've been working a little bit more from imagination. This original painting is one of the few rare paintings that I've made from my imagination. I usually need some sort of reference material such as a photograph or a live model to make my art and in this case I was attempting to make a painting based on a sort of shopping list of ideas that I had for both the subject matter and how it would look.

The subject, is one of my favorite homoerotic subjects to paint. A large bearish man wearing a T-shirt or a tank top. There's something so basic and so sexy about middle-aged men and especially bears. In this case he looks a little bit more like a muscle bear because his arms are so thick. I wanted the painting to have a high contrast of light and shadow, this is often referred to by an art buzzword called "chiaroscuro" and or with the spotlighting effect also referred to in Italian as "tenebrism."

This painting was done in the "alla prima" method. The alla prima is an Italian phrase that means 'at first attempt'. It refers to a wet-on-wet approach whereby wet paint is applied to previous layers of still-wet paint, often in a single sitting. Over the years, the technique has been adopted and adapted by artists from Van Gogh to Velázquez.

[junewild]

this terribly edited meme is for me and between one and five of my followers.

do you want to be one of them? check out tenebrity, my twilight rewrite, here.

why would you do something like that? good question! check out some of my favorite reviews: "It's my favourite alternative for Twilight that manages to be deeper and still in line with the series without being a darkfic... doing Bella justice is a remarkable thing!" "I like this Bella." "I gotta say the best twilight rewrite ever." "All in all it feels very true to the original while being more interesting and well-played than the original was." "It's amazing normally I'm not into reading retellings of twilight at all, but this is amazingly written and all the characters feel real and the situations more realistic."

also, consider this: angela and leah are getting gay married. thanks.

[sasorikigai]

"as treacherous as i thought it might be, this journey has been rather... well. interesting, to say the least." Liv @ Scorpion! Goddess verse

THINGS MY FRIENDS' MUSES HAVE SAID || @somniaxperdita || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || How Scorpion loses himself in his own eyes; for they remind him of fog on the surface of a river. Morning dew in an idyllic forest. It calms him down looking into them. He could wander around this fog forever, searching for hidden treasures and abandoned dreams. Eventually he would get lost, but that never could scare him in the slightest. With that unshakable calmness that surrounds him still, he finds a glimpse of a small house in the forest emitting warm welcoming light. A ghost of Scorpion's demon still resides, but it is a mere whisper amidst Hanzo Hasashi's human soul, echoing thoroughly and through eternity and onto worlds untold still.

And Scorpion knows - it won't be narcissism which killed Narcissus he would be feeling, but of this strange pillar of burning light that have managed to build and protrude amidst this impervious fog of his, only ever wishing him progress, positivity, and strength. He might not be all the resplendent and vivid colors of joy, nor his personality a happy child mimicking the wonders of an adult's life. But now when he thinks of love, the world starts becoming a garden and some people become his favorite flowers.

"I once simply sought to escape this treacherous life once and for all," Scorpion muses, as ephemeral touch of his fingers ghost over the remnants of his crude scar, of his once-impaled stomach. He could still taste the scorching surge of metallic crimson and touch the sprawled viscera and tissue shattered all around, with Sub-Zero's lifeless body hanging just below him. How his wrath and vengeance had been corrosive poison in his heart and soul, disguised as a sweet, luring the demon out of him. Logic had taken a backseat, as those emotional twins recklessly piloted Scorpion in the heat of the moment; the moment of explosive discharge, in the fervent sweep of his conflagration, then a sudden torrential flood of remorse and regret for falling into Quan Chi's machinations.

"I still remain consumed with a confused feeling of guilt. I am not sorry for having done what I have done, for I still hold my flawed humanity in my heart and soul. There will be no light at the end of the tunnel. I have simply learned how to soak around in the tenebrous darkness..." Burning undulation of his magmatic fire swirls within him, as the very fog of before clears and gives its way to the hellfire's scorching heat. How his soul burns ablaze, the flames manifest into a rallying cry he does not vocalize in an internal roar. "I am simply trying to mourn my past, and not hate it as I have been doing all along. What's gone is gone, what happened happened. All I know is that the present is now, and I believe I can make it better." ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[in-a-vancaster]

Shuffle your favorite playlist and post the first five songs that come up. Then copy/paste this ask to your favorite mutuals. 🎶🎧💜💙🤗

Arright!!

This is a playlist comprised of my friend groups favourite vibe songs- some sad, some angry, some funny, and some just nice

It’s called "Triforce Vibeliste" (it is public on Spotify)

Here we go

# 1

I Hope You Die in a Fire - Grand Commander

# 2

I Really Want to Stay at Your House - Rosa Walton, Hallie Coggins

# 3

Wraiths - Pkch (also know as @pukicho)

# 4

Still Alive - Aperture Science Psychoacoustic Laboratories

# 5

Tenebro Rosso Sangue - Keygen Church

Honorable mentions go to (some of the songs I find nice/funny/that are good, that are also on the playlist):

Zeldas Lullaby, От винта!, (Don’t fear) the Reaper

[astroneatly]

The title track kicks us off with No Apologies Remain, don’t blame me, can’t you see you’re a clown in a circus of fools. The riffs are solid and crunchy, stabilized and rhythmic. The drums very basic, coordinated flow. The guitar solos heavy, the vocals clean, casual, and Edguy-ly. The harmony of the group kicks 👟an equally edgy Tarot (WTF happened to Tarot, and not the Dark Moor album???) You feel the vanity of life ‘cus there’s no talk without the giant.

The seasons change but I stand still, I’m like a figure in the dark. Very lyrical musicians, and their choruses baleful, tenebrous. The lead singer’s tenor lending a certain melancholy or, as well as, a troubled, jackal leaping from fog. Who is pulling my strings? ‘Cos I know it’s not me. Apologies that I can’t get that tarot album out of my head, with Brandon Lee -Crow- vibes hanging from a tightrope.

Tyrannize. Take my hand- the hand of a fool. Upbeat, full of energy, aggressive drumming. Tightly packed leads, concise and elemental. The Shadow Gallery, an old favorite. One that lurks below the ice. A house of mirrors and shadows, frozen beneath the waves. Playing games with my mind, driving me crazy. There’s no way out of here- from thy shadow gallery! 👻

Speaking of Tarot, what happened to the early albums by Shade Empire, too? I demand the early stuff. 😡

With where I stand we have a nice, light acoustic intro and, the way they make this music w/o keyboard but with guitar work. Do I hear a mandolin? Sometimes I fight against my own mind. This is a slow track but one of the sentimental ones.

Border of the Real World… fast, angry, loud! The chorus memorable. Dying Without a Name… not to my taste. Too easy, it’s not exciting enough. Filler. The Cardinal Point… soft piano, balladic, but the energy isn’t really in it, anymore. Nice lyrics. Fairytales from the endless seas and liars with their briefcase full of promises. Sounds like Terry Pratchett. 👍🏻

#machinemen #charliechaplin

[chibiwritesstuff]

heyya yaaaa~! I just finished reading all of your works and lemme tell you, it’s all so nicely written! keep on going and don’t forget to take breaks when you need it, hm? alright, me stating facts about you and your writing talent aside— may I request lilia, floyd, ruggie and silver? Angst with a happy ending please? You can make it angst due to a misunderstanding or sumn. but oh well of course! that’s only if you don’t mind. Take your time dear, it’s not good to force yourself alright? bye~!

I see you saw the note that even I can’t find anymore that Lilia always gets a free pass on my 3 character limit XD. Thank you so much! I have long ways to be a decent writer but I’m glad you found my works nice. The one with Lilia is actually based on my own experience at work and I was told that’s an anxiety attack so uh... Also, I do kinda have to force myself or I’ll just keep focusing on work and not have time for myself which is writing.

(I swear all characters are treated equally and totally no favoritism... oh who am I kidding? Hail Lilia)

Warning(s): Mentions of an anxiety attack on Lilia’s part.

Now, let’s enter this twisted wonderland~

At first, he thought you just need something for Jade which he doesn’t mind. Everybody needs help once in a while.

But lately you two have pretty much stopped seeing each other.

Anytime he asks the trouble trio, they always respond that you’re with Jade.

Excuse me, if you wanted to break up with him just tell it straight to his face?!

He’s honestly hurt though. He thought you two are hitting it off really well.

Once he confronts you about it, you’re in the kitchen of Monstro Lounge.

“Wait, what are you doing?” He looked so confused and enamored of your look with an apron on.

“Ruggie, I love you and everything but I’m in the middle of a shift right now.” You immediately replied as you see Azul tapping his wristwatch.

“You work here?!” He jerked back in surprise. “I thought you are having a tryst with Jade!”

Cue to you and Azul spit taking (away from the food, of course, you ain't unsanitary) while Floyd burst out laughing and Jade chuckling.

Yeah, turns out you’re the current cook in the lounge to save up some money to buy him a gift for your anniversary.

Psh, he knows that. He’s just testing you… yeah.

Feel free to tease him about it since he used to do it to you anyway.

Okay, surely you just need Vil for a question or two, right?

You keep making excuses to get out of his hair lately and he doesn’t like it at all.

Yet whenever Rook calls for you because Vil asked for it, you’re suddenly available.

His mood swings are worse than a pregnant woman’s so you better explain quickly.

“Floyd! I finally found you.” You greeted him three weeks after you two last have an actual conversation.

“Can’t talk right now, I’m busy. Why don’t you go back to Vil?” He snapped at you as he began walking away.

You merely blinked at his reaction and shrugged. “Okay, you gave me the go signal so don’t you go blaming me for it.”

“That wasn’t permission! Get back here and pay attention to me!”  He pouted and shook you violently. “Why do you always pay attention to Vil? I thought I’m your boyfriend?!”

“Well, my sense of fashion is wack so I thought I’d ask an expert.” You struggled to respond as you tried to hand over a box which made him stop shaking you. “Vil hooked me up to get these for you after being ordered around to do things… Happy anniversary… oh god I feel sick…”

“Eh?” He opened the box to reveal the Tenebres brand of shoes that he’s been wanting. “Shrimpy, thank you!!!”

Yeah, have fun trying to hold that nausea in because this eel ain't ready to let go just yet.

As much as Lilia is a great person to hang out with, he can be quite neglectful on certain things because of having too much fun.

You don’t show it that much but you do get anxiety attacks when you get surprised. While not severe it’s still quite a scary moment.

It doesn’t help that you’re carrying something very valuable and very fragile to Vil when he decided to pop out of nowhere upside down.

“What you got there, (y/n)?” He casually asked.

“Ah!”

A loud crash echoed in the hallway and your face pales up as Vil’s delivery is now on the floor, shattered. Just the sight of it is enough to send your thought spiraling as you can vividly picture Vil yelling at you for being careless and useless you can be. You are aware that your brain is exaggerating things but as your anxiety attack gets more prominent, the harder it is for you to breathe and rationalize which only made you panic. Your ears started ringing that you failed to hear Lilia calling out your name multiple times. You must have blacked out for when you regained your sense of focus and hearing, you can see a concerned Lilia hovering above you.

“Oh seven, my apologies little one.” He replaced the wet cloth on your forehead before continuing. “I should have known or at least notice you have anxiety attacks.”

When you’re feeling better, Lilia personally talked to Vil about the situation and offered to replace the said item.

Much to your surprise, Vil got mad at Lilia for causing your anxiety attack and even used his unique magic on the fae’s apron and favorite ladle.

Yep, the old man is currently banned from cooking. (Diasomnia sent Pomefiore their thanks that day.)

Nonetheless, Lilia is now careful about his random appearances and is now more attentive.

The downside is that he permanently has his dad mode on.

This man trusts you a lot.

He knows you won't force him to do things he doesn’t like and respected the fact that his main priority is to service Malleus. The same goes that you trust him that you love him and he won't force you to do things you don’t like.

So, when he saw you spend way more time with Deuce than him especially during his sword practice, he wasn’t pleased.

He’s rather blunt about it too that he just stops you in the hallway around other students.

“Why are you hanging out with Deuce too much?”

“He’s my friend, Silver. Of course, I’ll hang out with him when you’re busy.” You cocked your head sideways out of confusion.

He frowned, still not like the ache he feels in his chest. “Doesn’t mean you have to do it every time.”

“Hey, I don’t stop you from being with Mr. Draconia every time but I get restrictions? What happened to being fair to each other?”

“It's my duty to be around Lord Malleus, you on the other hand waste your time on someone else’s company.” He defended and straightened his posture unconsciously to assert authority. “If you have free time then watch me practice or something.”

“I did that before and I ended up falling asleep on the hard ground so you told me to do something else instead, remember?” You can't help but be hurt by the contradictions he spouting out right now especially since you two have garnered the attention of almost all the students nearby. “Can you take some time to cool down first before we talk about this again? I don’t want any misunderstandings to happen between us.”

“So you can go back to Deuce’s side already?” Anger slowly seeping into his visage but immediately disappeared with your hurt expression.

“Do you trust me so little…” You whispered not intending for him to hear. “You know what, fine. I’ll go to Deuce until you finally get your head straight.”

Let me tell you now, he feels everything just came crashing down. He never intended for it to cause a big rift between the two of you but at the looks of it, you two needed space.

The entire day this man will try to talk to you again but by some unknown force in the universe, there's always something preventing him to do so.

He’s so lost he can't even take a nap even in the comfort of the forest animals.

Deuce smacked him to his sense quite literally. Like, our delinquent boy just punched the living daylights out of this guy.

Deuce has to explain that you two are pretty much siblings when it comes to closeness and you’re always talking about him all the time.

Be prepared to be serenaded tonight, Silver ain't letting you leave him on a bad note.

Well, more like that’s what Lilia taught him to do since he was young.

[lionsloveandlies]

13, 20, 24, 29, & 44!

13. Favorite romance film?

That Most Important Thing: Love, Sunday Bloody Sunday, and The Young Girls of Rochefort 💖

20. Top 5 directors?

1. Jacques Demy

2. Agnès Varda

3. Ken Russell

4. Rainer Werner Fassbinder (I need to watch more of his work though)

5. Jean Rollin

Also an honorable mention to Walerian Borowczyk, his films are truly unique and feature some of my favorites of Polish cinema.

24. Favorite film score?

I love a lot of giallo and Euro-horror scores but mostly The Shiver of the Vampires, Tenebre, Vampyros Lesbos (the only reason to watch the film), and Fascination.

But non-horror would definitely be The Bride Wore Black, A Degree of Murder (still mad you can only listen to this on YouTube from a dvd rip where you can hear the dialogue), Barbarella, Valley of the Dolls, and Danger: Diabolik.

29. Most hated film?

I hate a lot of films. I really can’t pick one but Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019), Forrest Gump (1994), Ciao, Manhattan! (1972), Je t’aime moi non plus (1976), and the entirety of the MCU but especially Infinity War and Endgame 💔

44. Weird actor crush?

This one is hard but does Edward Norton count? He was my #1 favorite actor in high school and I still kind of have a thing for him (when will he have the career comeback he deserves?).

[ourladytamara]

After Hours

(1.2k words)

Tamara 10/05/2021 | @_ourladytamara

Cws: war crimes, military aesthetics, implied snuff, blood, permanent bondage/captivity, implied surgery, abuse

Thunder rocks the windows. Rain patters the glass, blown against the surface by the harsh winds outside; but in here, you are safe, snug, and secure. Solid stone walls, reinforced with layer upon layer of ballistic and thermal insulation, are your greatest friends in this life.

Well, not your only friend – for the clattering at the great steel door signaled the arrival of someone even more important.

A groan. The hydraulics pull the door away from the wall, exposing the black, rain-slicked silhouette of the Marshal in the sally port just beyond. Your ears perk up, a wide, goofy smile spreading across your face, in sharp contrast to the sullen look of defeat upon the taller woman’s. You wiggle around in your bitchsuit, constricted limbs eagerly rising from the pillow.

Without wasting a second, you eagerly crawl across the floor from your little window-nook, reaching the Marshal’s boots right as she shuffles across the foyer to hang up her dripping, black, leather raincoat and equally-tenebrous peaked cap. Droplets of water cascade down the fabric onto the concrete floors – a murky, dilute red. She’s a pretty woman, free of her uniform; a straight, short, hime-cut black bob adorns her well-built form, modest breasts tucked away in her black turtleneck.

The sally port closes, steel door slamming with hydraulic force. Across the foyer is the sitting-room; a few comfortable chairs, all of which were forbidden to pets like you, a log still unlit in the fireplace. The Marshal leans down to scratch your cheek with a long, heavy sigh, stomping towards her favorite recliner with you eagerly at her side.

A trail of dark drops cover the floor, leading right up to the Marshal. She pulls a long, thin match from her breast pocket, a thinly-rolled joint with it.

“Strikeplate, pet.”

You eagerly oblige, crawling closer and nuzzling up into her legs. Lifting your chin, she reaches the thin strip of rough metal on your forehead – striking the match against it, touching the growing spark to the end of the paper in her mouth before tossing it into the fireplace. Kindling and classified documents pop, snap, and slowly, the flame roars to life.

“No good today.”

A long, drawn out sigh escapes her lips, smoke billowing into the air like wispy streaks of snow. A still-gloved hand caresses your cheek as you eagerly wiggle. The Marshal pushes your head down.

“Sorry, kleiner freund, I’m not exactly in the mood. My -”

She’s cut off as she looks up to the door once again, noticing the bloodied droplets covering the floor. A heavy groan. “Scheisse. That too..”

But you know better. After all, she’s had you a very, very long time; it’s impossible for your simple little mind to remember how long, exactly. You’ve been dutiful at her side, through thick and thin, and this would be no different. With the fire warming your back through the heavy leather bitchsuit, you lower your head to her boots and begin to lick away.

Instantly, the taste of blood rocks your senses. It’s been a while since the last she’d been so thoroughly soaked in it; you’re stunned, a moment, before your overwhelming obedience compels you to continue. It’s mixed in with rain and mud, tiny little blades of grass stuck to the leather that you lap away and swallow. Judging by the taste – as your tongue had become quite proficient since your voice-removal surgery – there were at least three distinct people currently coating the Marshal’s clothes.

“It’s like every day there are more dissidents,” she muses, still speaking low, “and yet the Despotrix barely has any interest in letting us take any.”

You look up at her, briefly, with puppydog eyes. “I know, liebling, I know you want a friend – but the processing facility’s full and we’ve just been shooting them.”

How sad. Your favorite times were when the Marshal took you with her to work at the facility – so many potential friends in their cages, yet to be broken in like you. The thought of them empty briefly wells up some anxiety inside of you – before your implants silence it, like all other higher brain function.

You keep licking, mouth now smeared with blood, and smile. Were you thinking of something?

The Marshal stares down at you with longing eyes. “At least you’re good to me, liebling – and so cute, too…”

She scratches behind your ear, rubbing your shaved head and exhaling another lungful of smoke at you. With her off hand, she takes the burnt-down joint out of her mouth and holds it in front of you; you extend your tongue, allowing her to extinguish the roach on it before tossing the scrap into the fire.

“...far cuter than the useless little traitors I’ve been dealing with all day…”

Your tongue continues to glide over slick leather, the tangy copper taste thankfully overtaking the mud and ash – not that the luxuriant Marshal’s boots would ever taste bad, that is. With one last lap against the toe, you finish cleaning the first of her two boots, now shiny and spotless in the dancing firelight. Before you can move to the next, though, the Marshal grips you by the handle on your collar.

“...and that’s kind of pissing me off.”

A strike across your cheek. It stings, but you are trained to welcome the pain – after all, the Marshal only took you in for your high pain tolerance. It’s a stressful job, and you were eager to help her relieve it whatever way you knew how. Another strike, your face now beginning to glow pink, and another – before her hands wrap themselves around the riding crop beside her recliner.

In an instant the black strip of leather is coming down on you, the Marshal reaching over to your exposed ass to strike it. The snaps echo through the bunker, bouncing off the solid walls and back into your ears; it’s like the pain comes twice, first the slam and then the sound – yet you remain perfectly still, doing what you can to guide your flinching body back towards her boots.

“CUNT.”

A particularly hard swipe, right on top of the last, rocks your body from head to toe. It’s like she’s stabbing you with leather, digging black knives into your plush, regularly-abused ass; her free hand grips the handle on your back, steadying herself as she continues to pepper you with blow after blow. Despite your training, you still let out the slightest hint of a whimper – a big mistake.

“Oh? It hurts, does it, hündin?” the Marshal chuckles, her eyes growing wider. “Despite everything, you still find the time to complain? Fucking whore!”

Ten more strikes, each on top of the last, until your ass is a cherry-red canvas of pain. With a final flick of her wrist, the Marshal brings the crop down one last time, a long, drawn-out sigh escaping as the snapping subsides. She leans back into her recliner, grimacing face slowly unknotting.

For a few moments, there is silence. Rain continues to patter the impenetrable walls, bearing down like the stern hand of a superior. Beneath it, the dim crackling of a fire – the quiet lapping of your tongue. Her second boot is finally clean; she lifts her legs, inspecting them a bit. You’ve done well – impeccably so, just like always. You turn and begin lapping up the droplets and footprints on the floor, turning away from the Marshal for just a moment.

“...another joint, when you’re finished, liebling. I think tonight I’ll be up a while.”

A warm smile wicks away the tears in your eyes. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[sublimedevastation]

Mark Lanegan wasn't my idol. To say he was my favorite musician is trite and inconsequential. I'm sad he won't create anything new, and that I'll never get to see him awkwardly grace a stage again, but I'm most heartbroken that he never seemed to know how loved he was for what he created.

Mark was the gatekeeper to a secret, vast, and shimmering dark ocean. He held within him a place I could go when my soul was parched and needed to sink into black depths, when my heart needed to be baptized in pain. In that tenebrous sea, there was silent connection.

What we've lost in Mark's passing, though, is only new doorways. He left the main gate unlocked, and anyone who knows how to find it can still walk through. The connection to be found on the shore is greater than ever. We'll all be there on that creeping coastline, our lights bright beacons to each other.

[trishlovelace]

I posted 8.019 times in 2021

270 posts created (3%)

7749 posts reblogged (97%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 28.7 posts.

I added 7.651 tags in 2021

#supernatural - 2623 posts

#dean winchester - 984 posts

#destiel - 950 posts

#castiel - 751 posts

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Longest Tag: 121 characters

#and it's important that you know who are the right people and who sees the and those people are the ones you should keep

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

145 notes • Posted 2021-05-31 11:24:01 GMT

#4

It’s perfect.  Orange Shirt, Jensen in the heart, the text with “ship”, saying Justin is his favorite. I LOVE HIM

156 notes • Posted 2021-03-02 05:29:48 GMT

#3

213 notes • Posted 2021-03-02 08:02:50 GMT

#2

Hey guys, we, my dear members of Fandoria and myself, wanted to share our cameo video with you all!

I'm still overwhelmed with emotions because the King of Chaos called this the strangest request 😂

Enjoy our little chaos video!

Personally I want to thank the following persons in particular:

Special thanks to:

@leandra-winchester

@biestcallisto

@astrarylan

@eddielala

@moon-realm

@phelpshobbit

@abi-in-cosmos

@dolphinsarefratboys

@tenebrous-one

@jackleslivesrentfreeinmyhead

Vi and Kage!

for the opportunity to make this happen ♥ 

351 notes • Posted 2021-03-25 17:17:13 GMT

#1

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Rob Benedict (@robenedict)

517 notes • Posted 2021-01-20 05:47:23 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[lovelazarus]

rating: Mature

archive warning: graphic depictions of violence

words: 2645

tags: Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm (fairly graphic), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, graphic description of suicide attempt, Flashbacks, Trauma, Fluff, Fix-It of Sorts, Dean is alive, Castiel is alive, Hurt/Comfort, POV Dean Winchester, brief mention of John Winchester - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Sad with a Happy Ending, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Past Abuse, Homophobic Language, 15x20 Fix-It

summary: (This fic starts out with a graphic dream/flashback of Dean's mid-20s.) Cas showed up to save Dean in 15x20 after he let himself get impaled on rebar, his attempt to stop living while thinking Cas was truly gone in the Empty. It's been a few months since that event in the Barn. Things have been calm since Chuck lost his power & Jack brought Castiel back to help rebuild heaven (although Jack isn't in this directly!). Even with things being okay, Dean's decades of trauma are still bubbling up and Dean has to face the reality of his actions (past & present).

PLEASE read all tags before reading!

The last thing Dean remembers is sitting down on the couch in the Deancave, waiting for Cas to come pick tonight's movie. He must’ve dozed off at some point because suddenly it's 2004 and he’s 25 years old again.

The two years Sammy was off at Stanford was one of Dean’s lowest points in life; including his trip to hell, being a demon & helping kick start the apocalypse. He was completely alone.

Sam was gone, John was irate and blamed Dean for Sam leaving, for not stopping him from leaving. Dean was hunting alone, without his family, for the first time in his life. His last hunt however was the first to deeply scar him irrevocably.

A father and 2 sons, roughly the same age apart as him and Sam. Both attacked by an extremely vengeful spirit, the father was gutted and the sons were supernaturally manipulated into hanging themselves. Dean walked into their house hoping to save the family after following trails of the case, but he walked into a gruesome scene that left him shaking and holding back from vomiting.

In Dean’s mind, it was a representation of his own torn apart family. He left the home, found the grave of the spirit, and put it to rest with unsteady hands and bleary eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to you in time… I could’ve saved you and I wasn’t there. I wasn’t good enough to help you. I’m so sorry.” Dean whispers, half to the victims and half to his younger brother, thousands of miles away and unable to hear his plea.

He gets to the motel room he rented with his duffle slung over his shoulder and stands outside the door with the key in his hand, almost afraid to enter, lest he finds another sick and twisted scene inside. He exhales roughly and shoves the key into the door and strides in.

All that's inside his cheap bottle of gas station whiskey and a pack of menthols.

He drops his duffle on the extra twin bed before scooping up his liquor and smokes. He wants to erase this entire hunt from his mind if he can.

Oh, how he wants to.

Three hours later his whole pack is gone, cigarette butts shoved into an old ashtray, and 3/4th the bottle of whiskey is sitting harshly in his stomach. Dean can’t stop picturing that family as his own. Thoughts of his father’s anger circle inside his mind like a tornado.

“I told you to watch out for Sammy, boy! Do you even use that brain other than to continuously disappoint me and fail your brother? To fail Mary?”

HIT

“I left you alone for two weeks! TWO WEEKS THAT'S ALL! Now Sam has run off and you’re going to pay for it.”

HIT

“So you blew through all the money I left you and now you’re turning tricks like some little faggot? You’re going to influence Sammy to that shit and I won’t allow my sons to be like that.”

HIT

With each memory of John rushing back into Dean’s mind, he can still feel the physical hits coming. His dad was right. This would never have happened if he hadn’t been more careful. If he had protected Sam like he was told to. If he had been a better son.

He finishes the last of the whiskey as the screams of his father’s voice start to fade back into the black void inside his mind. But the moment the last drop of liquor touches his tongue, he breaks. Every punch landed by his father that he took in order to protect Sam comes rushing back. Every harsh word and drunken fight he got into. Every argument with Sam over being too controlling, too much of a soldier.

Dean feels sick.

The toilet in that crappy motel room has certainly seen better days, but no matter how much Dean vomits, he stays just as drunk.

In a moment of blind anger, he destroys the kitchenette, the TV, and the nightstand. He chucks the empty whiskey bottle at the wall and watches the glass fly everywhere as it shatters.

He absent-mindedly picks up a large piece of glass.

This could kill me. One quick and easy slash to my neck or wrist and that’d be it. No more pain for Sam, and no more disappointment for dad.

He lets his hand drop to his side and allows the shard to fall to the floor. This isn’t the first time he’s had thoughts like this in moments of weakness, but it's certainly the first time there was a calm push behind it. He collapses to his knees with a broken sob. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He's tired.

God, he is so tired.

Dean isn’t sure when he decided this was his only option to stop the deep visceral pain he’s feeling, but it's where he’s at now.

Swallow all the pills in the med bag? No, that's what bitches and girls do, plus… it's painful.

Slit his wrists in a nice warm bath? Even worse than pills! You really are some kind of faggot, aren’t you?

Shotgun to the face? Now that's the man’s way out.

He pauses, looking over to his favorite sawed-off. It’ll be an absolute mess if that’s the way he goes. He thinks again to the family he couldn’t save; how gory and horrific it was. He shudders and breathes in sharply. He can’t do that to someone else, especially not some innocent civilian.

“Of course,” he mutters under his breath “I have a rope in the trunk.” So that’s the plan.

He stuffs all his shit into his duffle, writes out an apology to Sam, Bobby, and John (it’s a suicide note, but it doesn’t explain anything), and then he ties a military-grade noose. He finds a chair that isn’t completely destroyed by his earlier rage and begins to tie the rope onto the ceiling fan.

He stands there for a moment, contemplating. “Am I really about to do this? I’ve fought monsters and demons and ghosts for twenty years and this is where it ends?”

He shakes his head and shrugs.

“Always knew I'd die before thirty.”

He raises the noose to his head and just as he is about to slide it around his throat… The chair breaks apart, and he's left lying on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

“FUCK!” he manages to yell out before his lungs and chest start burning again. Tears begin to pinprick at his eyes as he lays motionless (and probably concussed, he didn’t break his fall at all). “I can’t even kill myself right.” he thinks to himself.

Slowly, he gets himself off the floor, groaning at the pain in his skull and back as he does. Crawling over to his bed, he sees the glass shard he dropped earlier.

“I just want to stop this fucking FEELING” his mind screams. “Just do SOMETHING you worthless son of a bitch!”

He picks the glass back up.

Everything is hazy when his brain starts to come into focus again. His hands feel slick and wet, so he brings them to his face to see what he touched.

Blood.

His own blood.

Three long gashes across his forearm, roughly a quarter-inch deep and four inches long each. He needs to stitch himself up for sure.

30 minutes later and it just looks like a hunt gone bad, his arm is sewn up and all the motel towels are stained red.

For a fleeting moment, he feels at peace. The rush of discovering what he did in a fog of failing to kill himself and the overwhelming feeling of failing his family, he feels like this was something he deserved. Like he deserved to be punished.

After an hour of dissociating and staring at the wall, he passes out and sinks into a moment of silent nothingness. No nightmares, not yet.

Dean practically jumps out of his skin when he hears Cas’s voice from the doorway.

“Dean? You look pale. What's going on?” Castiel asks with his familiar cadence.

Dean wishes he knew what brought that memory back up. Instead, he plasters on a fake smile and shakes his head reassuringly the best he can.

“Nothing Cas, just thinking I guess. What took you so long? You burn the popcorn or somethin?” Dean knows he sounds insincere, he knows that Cas knows, too. He doesn't want Cas to worry any more than he already does, though.

“Dean, your heart rate sped up and you were on the verge of hyperventilating, what happened?”

Damn it. He should’ve known Cas could still do that weird x-ray angel shit. Instead of trying to hide it further, he sighs and motions for Castiel to sit beside him on the couch.

However, he blanches when Cas passes behind him and brushes his hand against Dean’s shoulder. Cas sits down carefully, not to overwhelm Dean. Castiel has seen him during a flashback before, especially after hell. Cas looks inviting, ready to listen to whatever Dean has to say. Cas was always trying to be open with him lately, Dean knows it’s because of the struggles the last six months.

Cas dying, if briefly. Dean ALMOST dying, because of it.

Wait…

That's when Dean realizes.

Every time he’s lost someone, it's been bad. Drunk passed out on the floor, let Baby be filthy, run into hunts without any concern for his safety, bad…

The two worst times were when he lost Sammy, and when he thought he lost Cas to the Empty.

Dean must’ve been sitting there with a strange look on his face for a while cause Cas reaches out gingerly to silently ask if he’s alright. Dean gives him a half-smile and lets out the breath he was apparently holding.

“Cas, did I ever tell you about what I did in 2004 when Sam was off at Stanford and I was hunting by myself?”

Cas tilts his head in that endearing way he always does, “Not that I recall. Is something from back then troubling you now still?”

Dean clenches his jaw and runs a hand over his mouth, a nervous tic he picked up from John decades ago. “I did something similar back then to what I did in that barn. I gave up.”

Castiel’s eyes widen a bit, starting to understand what Dean is trying to say, but staying silent, to let him get this out.

Dean cracks a wry chuckle, “y’know, when you pulled me outta hell and into my body again, I was surprised you wiped the slate and got rid of all my scars.” He glances at Castiel, just for a moment, to see his reaction. It's soft but a little confused.

“At the time, I thought you would like to come back whole. A fresh start after what you went through in hell. I know now that life is about the imperfections and that the littlest things have meaning and memories. I’m sorry if I took those from you, Dean.” Cas meets Dean’s eyes with apologetic fondness and sincerity.

“Cas, it's okay. Really. Sometimes… I don't know, there's some scars I just miss sometimes.” He runs his hand along his forearm, where the self-harm scars would’ve been. “The ones that were here… they gave me a constant reminder of what almost happened. What I almost did.” Dean can feel his face getting warm as he talks about it, eyes watering up but no tears slip down his face.

Cas seems to nod along, waiting for him to continue with concerned patience. “I tried to kill myself back in ‘04. Sam was gone and doing fine without me, he had Jess. Dad was pissed at me for not getting him to stay and hunt. I had no one. I hit a low point after finding a really fucked up case about a vengeful spirit that gutted a family, father, and two sons…” Dean chokes up, as he pictures the glazed eyes of the corpses he found. A shiver runs down his spine as he can still picture it like it was yesterday.

“You saw your father and Sam in them and it brought up a lot of emotions, that’s understandable.” Cas tries to reassure him but doesn’t quite understand what Dean’s trying to get at.

“I got drunk after I salt and burned the spirit's corpse. I felt empty inside and like nobody needed me. I couldn’t save those kids and I didn't see any point in saving myself…” tears are now flowing gently down Dean’s face as he tries to push out what he needs to say, what he needs Cas to understand about this. “When you, when you said all that stuff before you left… I felt that same exact way. Even though I had Sam and Jack and then the whole bullshit after with Chuck and Lucifer and Michael… I felt so damn alone. Like I’d failed you, cause I couldn’t even save someone I love the most.” Dean’s voice goes harsh as he full-on sobs at those last few words.

The past few months since Castiel has been back, they haven’t talked about Cas's confession before being taken by the Empty, and Dean hasn’t said it aloud (even though his mind is screaming those three words every time he looks at Cas). Dean feels Cas touch his hand gently, reverently. A sob violently racks his body as he looks up into blue eyes also filled with tears.

“I’m so sorry Dean. I’m sorry.” the last word catches in his throat as Dean grabs his hand fully, intertwining their fingers.

“I know Cas. You did it to save me. You seem to keep doing that, huh? From hell, saying yes to Michael, Billie, from myself…” Dean softly strokes his thumb against Cas’s hand while tear tracks continue to stain his face. “Cas, thank you. I know I’ll never be able to pay you back for all that you’ve done for me and for Sam but… thank you.”

They lock eyes for a moment, Dean knows Cas loves him and he knows he loves Cas. He can’t think of a goddamn thing standing in the way right now. Dean releases Cas’s hand, cups his face, and brings their lips together, finally.

It takes a moment for Castiel to understand what's happening, but he quickly catches up and kisses Dean back fervently.

Cas tastes like summer rain after a long drought, like lightning and thunder all at once, like earth and something ethereal Dean can’t quite place. Cas tastes like coming home, and he is.

“Me too, Cas. Son of a bitch, I love you too.” he whispers into Cas’s mouth as Cas lets out a sob-laugh.

They pull apart for a moment, hands still against each other's cheeks. Communicating with their eyes is something they’ve mastered after 12 years, but there's something unknown now. Something new, something hopeful. And dammit if Dean isn't going to latch on to that hope.

They decide on an old western, Dean’s seen it a hundred times before. They’re leaning into each other silently watching as Dean’s eyes begin to close. He can feel Cas running his fingers against his arm, where those scars would’ve been. It's then, in the comfort of his Angel, that Dean falls fast asleep.

For the first time in 40 years, he doesn’t have nightmares. Not of yellow eyes, not of losing Sammy; not of John’s anger, not of hell; the apocalypse, Michael, Chuck, losing Cas… it all feels distant and far behind him now. When Dean wakes again, Cas still has his arms around him, eyes closed, and is running his fingers through Dean’s hair.

Dean knows all his trauma won't just vanish, but in this moment with Cas...it feels possible.

[smokeybrandreviews]

Cancerous

So i saw Malignant and i didn’t like but no for the reasons you think. A a film, it’s pretty harmless. You’ve seen this movie before. It’s Unborn. It’s A Tale of Two Sisters. It’s The Uninvited. It’s The Possession. There’s nothing new or unique about this narrative or plot. This type of movie has been done so much, it might as well be a sub-genre all on it’s own. Malignant is mad derivative but with a heavy dose of that James Wan spice. Admittedly, it’s directed very well and the sound design is top f*cking notch but it kind of needs to be. Hell, i even liked the “twist”. It was executed perfectly and, even though it didn’t make any sense at all, i still dug it. I did not dig anything else about this movie. It is aggressively medicare and i think that’s because of what Wan wanted to make.

Malignant is not a horror movie. If you’re going into this expecting Saw or Annabelle, you’re going to be disappointed. I know you’re thinking that’s what you’re getting because this is a James Wan joint, but that’s not what he was trying to make. This is a Hollywood attempt at a giallo film. For those of you that don’t know, Italian Giallo films are basically proto-slashers that came out in the late sixties, had their heyday in the Seventies, and kind of fell off during the Eighties. One could say that the American Slasher killed the Giallo altogether. These things were low budget, often independent, highly stylized, incredibly bloody, horror films. Think the original Suspiria. The Bay of Blood, and Tenebre instead of Halloween or Friday the 13th. There is a very specific way a film is made that makes it a giallo and Malignant did it’s best to emulate that. It failed.

I love giallo films. They are often shining examples of what you can do with a few thousands dollars, some red paint, a weekend in a cabin, and enough beer for your closest friends. These thing are cheap but full of passion and great f*cking ideas. The aforementioned Suspiria is one of my all time favorite films and it’s remake is a goddamn masterpiece. I hold that genre in very high esteem and Malignant is a poor facsimile. I like James Wan. I like the ideas in this film. I liked the twist. There is a lot of “good” here but this should have been another Conjuring-esque outing if Wan was going to direct. He doesn’t have the vision to properly capture the energy of a giallo film and it definitely showed in this thing. Say, if Panos Cosmatos, the cat who directed Mandy, or Richard Stanley, the cat who made The Color Out of Space, got a hold of this? Then, yes, i can see them capturing that bloody mess in all it’s glory. as it is, Malignant is just another gorefest. There’s nothing great here, nothing worth mentioning. It just is. In a world where films like Hereditary, It Follows, Midsommar, and The VVitch exists, why the f*ck is Malignant even a thing?