crime and punishment.

thinking is crime. breathing is crime. [ ... ] now he has been freed from all of that.

[antinomos]

AND YOUR WORST SIN IS THAT YOU HAVE DESTROYED AND BETRAYED YOURSELF FOR NOTHING. — #ANTINOMOS. A private, selective, mutually exclusive indie multimuse, as penned by Ren ( 25, nb, they/them ). Interpreted heavily with canon divergences and personal headcanon influences. ft. Jujutsu Kaisen, Tokyo Ghoul, Death Note, Psycho-Pass, and more. — 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔? 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄. 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑.

ft. KOSCHEI THE DEATHLESS FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY, THE CONJURER, THE DEMON, AND THE SELF-PROCLAIMED HAND OF GOD. written with themes of: antinomianism, eschatology, Christian existentialism, Slavic mythology, one's ultimate concern with humanity, mistaken salvation in violence and death, a foreigner in a foreign land, all fairy tales must come to an end, the integrity of the scoundrel and the pride of the gambler, the hubris of the martyr and self-appointed savior of mankind, beware the handsome stranger who claims himself benevolent, religion as affliction, what it means to become their villain, all your history rewritten by the victors of war to whom go the spoils of deceit, the fruit of evil, the gift of cunning, the incentives of cruelty, the curse of immortality and the consequence of exceptionalism, the temptation of the forbidden and the seduction of the abyss, desire for transcendent reconciliation with the divine from the prison of one's mortal flesh, to cut off the head of the snake in the Garden of Eden means to forsake innocence all the same, emerging from the water to find the memory of sin persists like the changing seasons as you go unchanged, to no more keep one's warmth than corpses beneath the snow and survive winter alone, and clinging to grace with bloody hands veiled by velvet gloves to bestow unto all man in the name of the doctrine of the last things when one's ill deeds are the work of God. 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃.

RP etiquette & general dni applies, be kind and mindful. Viewer discretion is advised due to intimate explorations into mature themes including but not limited to discussions & depictions of: violence, death, horror, grief, war, trauma, mental illness, politics, religion, cannibalism, etc. Remember mun does not equal muse & anticipate dark morality, destructive philosophies, and distorted justifications among the cast, who have no shortage of commentary on aspects of the human condition and society. This is my creative writing space to collect characters, case studies, cautionary tales, and blorbos and have fun with friends, so let's catch a vibe and write together!

ROSTER ( to be updated ) | MAIN BLOG | RULES (temp as this blog's carrd is a wip)

[eristhenat]

マラソンゲーム・Marathon Game

[starfirexuchiha]

Chibi Rize

Art by: 中立

[tenkoseiensei]

@antinomos : he would like a cigarette, dear goddess 🐀

' ye would as well , presumably , wish that i light it ... ' soft and tender is her touch , the compact sprig of dried herbs pressing between the other's lips to leave behind the insertion like a warm kiss . ' ye would then , presumably , impress upon me a responsibility . for blackening ye with what ye beggared for . ' she says no more . instead , two of her fingers lift to pinch at the thin skin of the other's cheek , administering just one tug and pull . ' indulge wisely , koschei . '

[antinomos]

“Heavens, I dare not impose.” Heavens, cease the thought. Ah, but what man, be he perfect and pious gentleman or the ever flawed scoundrel, would not find revelry in being given a light from the goddess of the hearth herself? The promise of grace as one's ushered so swiftly toward the sweet bliss of intoxication, to ward the most stubborn of pains with the aid of the most benevolent physician. “This is a blessing.” When he draws breath, it is a practiced vice and remedy. Pale lavender eyes shut as he permits himself comfort, listening to the flames crackle gently. When she pulls at his skin and cautions him to be prudent in his indulgences, it stretches his lips and yields mischief, the smirk it forms entirely her exalted doing. Talk of debt and service in these lands of the fair folk brings him no delight, but never has he flinched from obligation when the bargain serves him well. “My deepest gratitude. Should my head spin, won't you offer your lap?”

[antinomos]

does your muse ever lie to you and provide interesting additional background information that you have no way of confirming. like just for the hell of it

[stirvadimonsblog]

[antinomos]

the execution scene ft. Cang Du and Jugram that I keep referencing but also this is a good ref for The Balance and the Iron abilities & how there is no sunlight at all because the Quincies live in the shadow of the Soul Society # their empire of shadows ( literal ). the anime differs quite a bit from the manga ( removing Cang Du's dialogue + emphasizing his fear in the face of his good fortune exposed then used against him ) but I don't have any complaints since both are good for my interp ,

[shiranken]

             ⋆˙⟡♡ ‘  WE  WERE  NOT  CREATED  FOR  BLOODSHED  THAT  IS  HIS  MAJESTY’S  IDEAL  -  NOT  OURS  ‘  upon  the  endless  expense  of  blue  seas,  she  pondered  the  reasoning  for  creation,  the  swaying  figure  in  black  calmly  remarking;  to  weave  the  binds  of  fate,  that  is  all.  There  was  no  other  explanation,  one  would  assume  through  personal  violation,  merely  to  be  loved  by  a  creator  that  was  benevolent.  Though,  she  pondered  if  such  a  being  existed  anymore,  all  hellfire  in  waxy  pallor,  glistening  jade  eyes,  hollow,  unlike  the  cunning  ruthless  nature  of  the  moon  or  the  whimsical  shine  of  the  sun.  Rabbits  sleeping  amongst  their  burrow,  content  with  the  gardens  until  the  wolves  came,  too  treacherous,  too  fast,  harkening  another  name.  The  children  clamber  together  in  their  pristine  white  robes,  they  speak  another  language  not  of  their  own,  the  light,  they  believe,  that  is  the  driving  force  that  shall  burn  away  the  impurity.  They  never  will  understand,  there  is  a  cruelty  in  such  reflections,  the  light  which  serves  only  to  blind  them. 

    “No,  a  pity,  I  make  a  terrible  soldier”  her  remarks  are  flippant  with  no  need  for  any  meaning,  too  small,  too  weak  of  heart,  her  mind  was  better  at  work  within  the  vicinity  of  research  so  it  was  deemed.  The  sudden  proclamation  causes  her  to  pause,  hands  resting  in  her  lap,  bottom  lip  pouting  outwards.  “That’s  a  shame,  it  seems  drastic,  the  Oracle  &  you  have  always  led  an  odd  relationship.  Sadly,  I  cannot  cast  judgement,  he  has  been  correct  a  majority  of  the  time  which  makes  his  existence  utterly  infuriating”  by  nature,  her  hunger  was  an  abyssal  void,  all  consuming  in  its  nature  that  never  knew  of  moderation.  Leaning  into  his  touch,  there  is  a  tinge  of  sadness  echoing  within  her,  fingers  that  clasp  around  his  arm  to  hold  tight  like  she  once  did. 

     Trembling  legs,  the  hem  of  her  mauve  colored  robes  still  smoldering,  tearful  eyes  where  she  viewed  him  as  protection  when  the  Moon  itself  wept  openly  upon  failure.  All  of  them,  scared,  children  guiding  one  another  with  tarnished  hands.  “Even  then,  I’m  sure  one  day  he  will  get  sick  of  us,  we’re  too  bold  for  our  own  good.  As  for  names?  I  don’t  care,  somehow,  I  know  it’s  safe  with  you”  how  long  have  they  lived?  The  continuous  dance  that  they  moved  through,  affection,  pulling,  yearning  even  when  her  ire  grew  thick,  her  voice  cracking  in  emotion  she  rarely  subjected  herself  to  in  the  presence  of  others.  They  could  run  to  another  corner  of  the  realm,  where  the  village  once  stood  even  in  the  ashes,  she  thought  naively  for  a  moment,  it  could  regrow.  Ideal  hopes  that  were  best  kept  locked  away,  the  Balance,  The  Fate  Weaver,  her  hands  could  not  pull  the  seams  to  create  an  illustrious  vision  for  them  all.  Only  could  she  smile,  half  knowing,  half  deceiving  them  both  in  the  belief;  maybe  they  could  be  more  than  this.  “We  both  are”  the  sickly  daughter,  who  had  not  yet  earned  the  throne  of  the  universe.  The  bronze  mirror  sits  within  her  palms,  nose  wrinkling  as  Sayuri  thought  of  it,  the  shinigami,  boisterous  with  hubris. 

      Poison,  the  accusations  of  trinkets  that  would  proudly  be  displayed  as  an  innovation  to  science,  the  sublime  weaponry.  Inquisitively,  her  head  would  cant,  a  being  lesser  that  did  not  know  their  station  could  not  understand  the  ideal  pursuit  of  supreme  perfection  -  domination  in  utmost  harmony.  Foolish  creature,  she  once  thought,  this  was  not  the  will  of  His  Majesty  but  the  reverence  of  her  judgement.  For  now,  she  cryptically  would  display  it  as  submission,  the  astute  diligence  to  the  Empire.  Too  luminous,  the  figure  in  black  would  laugh,  the  reflection  of  herself  burning  into  the  silver  of  the  mirror,  it  would  strip  away  &  scorch  upon  demand.  “They  would  have  to  be  brave  in  order  to  steal  from  me.  Father  once  said,  if  you  gazed  into  the  mirror  you  will  find  Tsukuyomi’s  palace,  the  origins  of  his  birth  but  for  I,  the  mirror  would  only  ignite  itself,  the  reflection  too  bright  to  be  held”  for  once,  in  what  seemed  centuries,  millennials,  she  gazes  to  him,  laughter  bouncing  joyously. 

     “Why  must  we  constantly  be  in  one  another’s  debt?  Keeping  tallies  like  we  once  did  since  youth.  Tell  me,  would  your  soul  live  within  the  blade?”

[antinomos]

“Ideal, huh?” Cang Du holds that word upon his tongue with the same weight as honor, sarcastic, caustic, granting it no more distinction than he would a chipped bowl that could no longer hold or feed as well as it would cut those who reached for it. Always the same words and reasons that rallied men to take up arms and go to war, the same grandiose justification that tore innocence away from the children who imitated their expendable elders in the name of service to an empire that spilled their blood as easily as grains of rice in the cracked bowl. “Wouldn't know anything about that. I've never been an idealist.” A knife never meant anything more than a tool to him, one that could cut fruits from a tree that would feed a village in festivities or slice through the artery of an intruder who had entered the mountain. Was there anything noble, about his boyhood before he became prodigal? Anything worthy of sentimentality, when he'd been born with a fist clutched and, upon his first birthday, had crawled to select iron from the array of items set before him by his father and mother? Even in infancy, it seemed fate had promised him bloodshed. For no greater reason than destiny, set in stone, carved in iron.

It's petulant to confess he wouldn't know what to do if he wasn't a soldier, that the reason he'd asked what her father did with his hands was so he could envision men doing more than going to war with claws of steel or bows brandished, so he doesn't say it.

“Those are my orders.” He's heard better death poems than that. His brow furrows when she points out what he'd sought to conceal, what had made his relationship with his commanding officer so odd to begin with. Cang Du scoffs, arms folded across his chest, as if issuing the greatest insult. “It's because I envy Haschwalth more than I pity him.” More than I love him, as a man should his brother-in-arms. “That's all there is to it, Yù.”

The name he chooses to be loyal to, encased in jade, spoken like silk, more beautiful than the moon and the sea, better than any ideal or cause that would sooner lead him to his death with none of the sweetness and make dying nameless in a forgotten field his empty glory. The act of holding her hand is a stolen sense of valor, for if he were really as bold as she claimed, as brave as she'd like him to be in her trembling stead, they would have ran towards the light away from the shadows that have shrouded their pasts and snuffed out their futures. Had they not been born Quincies, would there be a kinder history? ( It's so optimistic he could cry, but he's sworn off shedding tears in that stone well that held his last griefs. Funny, isn't it? There's always more grief to be had, more to lose and be lost, more emperors would have you bleed for or forsake if you don't pick up your sword and fight their wars. An empire's larger than a secluded village in the mountains, but is it better? Does the blood cool quicker when split upon the land, do the fields they were meant to grow grain in soured by corpses ever forget? ) Awaiting them like golden seams clumsily stitched by gentler hands to the end roll, bleak credits overwritten in rejection of promised oblivion and in defiance of fell gods and fouler fates. For all of his misfortunes written on his face to have meant something worth living for. The future of a better man, who would have never set out to be a soldier and betray his lord. There's no another life for them, and there's no point in mourning the life one has.

Though it's unearned, he embraces her and listens to her laughter. “Better me before you.” Better His Majesty takes the strength from his soul than his heart. “Debt has nothing to do with it.” Not when he would've given her anything she'd asked for, anyway. “It's what I tell you so we can both keep our pride.” Words a practical man harden by war who's stripped himself of sentimentality to embody iron would never say. He holds up her bronze mirror and catches her radiant reflection one last time before he pockets the gift. “This is a grace I don't deserve, but it's not your duty to convince me I'm worthy. So don't.” A pragmatic wisdom he hides his hope in under the veneer of stoic and dismissive maintained, but the tight clutch of her hand betrays him. It says, like a cowardly well-born boy so hapless and helpless crying out with a mouth full of the blood of his new lord, Spare me from violence. Let the war never reach me.

The talentless boy he had been never did climb out of that well until all his kin had fallen. It's only right, only fate, that the scales dictate the man he is now marches first.

“Before it's the last time, ask for a shield instead of a sword. A blade that houses my soul would fail to reach its target.” Rather, a soul that would see him as a blade and bear him as if he were made for war would only find misfortune in endeavors of conquest. The curse he's placing on his master, His Majesty, whose indomitable soul he would return to without question and despite heartfelt promises made away from the emperor's many watchful eyes. “Promise me you won't do anything that'll get you killed or worse.”

[smokefalls]

If the mortal sin of the suicide is greed, to hoard stillness and calm for yourself while dispersing your riotous internal pain among all those who survive you, then the mortal sin of the martyr must be pride, the vanity, the hubris to believe not only that your death could mean more than your living, but that your death could mean more than death itself—which, because it is inevitable, means nothing.

Kaveh Akbar, Martyr!

[longerhuman]

heh . hehehe . hehehe . hehehehe ! dedicated to his self -assigned role as the enigmatic instigator with an unspoken suggestion hidden behind comically wiggling brows and a tight - lipped grin , dazai turns away from his rival to face an unseen yet much preferred audience , where his attention would have stayed had the opportunity to both insult and petulantly reject his opponent not fallen into his lap as predicted .

the prisoner leans his head back for no reason other than to showcase his grimace to the conjuring devil responsible for it . ❝ ——— with you ? heavens no . that’s quite the vile proposition , even for demon standards . this may be the month of pride , but have you no sense ? ❞

[antinomos]

And this, too, has come to pass as he's predicted. Typical bait-and-switch, a stratagem centered around the principle of allures and their manipulations to swindle those none-the-wiser. How readily it makes one a fool, to be uppercut and thusly disparaged for participation in rigged negotiations and exposed for susceptibility to provocation. Ah, but of course, were Dazai one to play fair and not utilize the most unscrupulous means to conjure desired ends as if they were obliged by contract and puppeteer's strings, Dostoevsky would not participate in their games to begin with.

“What does sense—” Reason, the devil's advocate wagers as he neglects his own hypocrisy and the centuries he's spun artifices of desire as if man's hearts and lusts were his playthings. Rationality and cold logic. “—have to do with celebrations of sexuality? You must make a poor suitor. Too much time spent in the head that errs.”

[longerhuman]

❝ it’s pride month , dostoevsky . you know what that means . ❞ @antinomos

[antinomos]

“What?” He plays his part elegantly, the simulacrum of incredulous from the mirrored cell set across the other prisoner. “Do you want us to play gay chess, Dazai?”

[antinomos]

it's pride month

[ghostofthejunkyard]

Joker sketch i made last night :)

[chthonic-cassandra]

“What distinguishes sadism from aggression is the sadist’s intense identification with his victim. Sadism is the form that aggression takes when it is fleeing its doom. […] Sadism is the joy of avoiding victimhood, though that puts it too passively. Sadism is the joy of having taken control of the experience of victimhood by inflicting it on another.”

— C. Fred Alford, What Evil Means to Us

[antinomos]

I had a meta on the tip of my brain describing Fyodor as a dark empath:tm: and the reason why I use the term "attuned manipulation" for him + the emphasis of empathy in his narrative as symbiotic or akin to demonic possession ( Which. is relevant to his character + what Crime and Punishment essentially achieves when it activates and he subsumes the one who kills him # martyr # love thy enemy # turn thy cheek ) or otherwise an obligation that operates within the conditional and the contractual thus separating it from compassion and true grace that does not see or collect debts.

[kaus-quietis]

Two of us for [      ] to  s l a u g h t e r

[kiarakirara-deactivated20210908]