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hunting-songs · 6 months

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— bold all physical traits that apply to your muse. Tagged By: A little Wildbirdie Tagging: @nephytale @skarletchains @bewitchingbaker @gyofukuki @jxgi @uzumakiuser @rake-rake @kiigan @distortedkilling @yeonban @swxpped @zealctry @muddsludge @curseisms @saiakv @huntcrpcdia ... AND YOU!

eyes (general): large / small / narrow / sharp / squinty / round / wide-set / close-set / deep-set / sunken / bulging / protruding / wide / hooded / heavy-lidded / bright / sparkling / glittering / flecked / dull / bleary / rheumy / cloudy / red-rimmed / beady / bird-like / cat-like / jewel-like / steely / hard / long lashes / sweeping eyelashes / thick eyelashes

eyes (color): chestnut / chocolate brown / cocoa brown / coffee brown / mocha / mahogany / sepia / sienna brown / mink brown / copper / amber / cognac / whiskey / brandy / honey / tawny / topaz / hazel / obsidian / onyx / coal / raven / midnight / sky blue / sunny blue / cornflower blue / steel blue / ice blue / arctic blue / glacial blue / crystal blue / cerulean / electric blue / azure / lake blue / aquamarine / turquoise / denim blue / slate blue / slate gray / storm blue / storm gray / silver / silver gray / chrome / platinum / pewter / smoky gray / ash gray / concrete gray / dove gray / shark gray / fog gray / gunmetal gray / olive / emerald / leaf green / moss green * In the 1999 anime adoption, Senritus eyecolour changes from grey (close shot when she opens dalzones warning) , black (normal frame), brown (carscene after they kidnapped Kuroro), mudgreen (Greed Island OVA at Kurapikas sickbay), orange (2011 anime) so grey fits the best as it changes the easiest depending on what light hits her eyes. eyebrows: arched / straight / plucked / sparse / trim / dark / faint / thin / hairless / thick / unruly / bushy / heavy

skin (general): lined / wrinkled / seamed / leathery / sagging / drooping / loose / clear / smooth / silken / satiny / dry / flaky / scaly / delicate / thin / translucent / luminescent / baby-soft / flawless / small pores / large pores / glowing / dewy / dull / velvety / fuzzy / rough / uneven / mottled / dimpled / doughy / firm / freckled / pimply / pockmarked / blemished / pitted / scarred / bruised / veined / scratched / sunburned / weather-beaten / raw / tattooed

skin (color): amber / bronze / cinnamon / copper / dark brown / deep brown / ebony / honey / golden / pale / pallid / pasty / fair / light / cream / alabaster / ivory / bisque / milk / porcelain / chalky / sallow / olive / peach / rosy / ruddy / florid / russet / tawny / fawn

face structure: square / round / oblong / oval / elongated / narrow / heart-shaped / cat-like / wolfish / high forehead / broad forehead / prominent brow ridge / protruding brow bone / sharp cheekbones / high cheekbones / angular cheekbones / hollow cheeks / square jaw / chiseled / sculpted / craggy / soft / jowly / jutting chin / pointed chin / weak chin / receding chin / double chin / cleft chin / dimple in chin / visible adam’s apple

nose: snub / dainty / button / turned-up / long / broad / thin / straight / pointed / crooked / aquiline / roman / bulbous / flared / hawk / strong mouth/lips: thin / narrow / full / lush / cupid’s bow / rosebud / dry / cracked / chapped / moist / glossy / straight teeth / crooked teeth / gap between teeth / white teeth / yellowed teeth / braces / overbite / underbite / dimples Senritsu had naturally even before she was cursed very big, crooked teeth that were in contrast to now usually only visible when she talked and laughed. She got braces when she was twelve until she was eighteen, but it did not saved much. Naturally the form of her teeth had become even more extreme now.

facial hair: clean-shaven / smooth-shaven / beard / neckbeard / goatee / moustache / sideburns / mutton-chop sideburns / stubble / a few days’ growth of beard / five o’ clock shadow

hair (general): long / short / shoulder-length / hip-length / loose / limp / dull / shiny / glossy / sleek / smooth / luminous / lustrous / spiky / stringy / shaggy / tangled / messy / tousled / windblown / unkempt / straggly / neatly combed / parted / slicked down / slicked back / cropped / clipped / buzzed / buzz cut / curly / bushy / frizzy / wavy / straight / lanky / dry / oily / greasy / layers / corkscrews / spirals / ringlets / braids / dreadlocks / widow’s peak / bald / shaved / comb-over / thick / luxuriant / voluminous / thick / full / wild / coarse / untamed / bouncy / wispy / fine / thinning

hair (color): black / blue-black / jet black / raven / ebony / inky black / midnight / sable / salt and pepper / silver / silver gray / charcoal gray / steel gray / white / snow-white / brown / brunette / chocolate brown / coffee brown / ash brown / brown sugar / nut brown / caramel / tawny brown / toffee brown / red / ginger / auburn / copper / strawberry blonde / butterscotch / honey / wheat / blonde / golden / sandy blond / flaxen / fair-haired / bleached / platinum You can take Senritsus 1999-anime winered, elegantly long hair out of my cold, dead hands.

body type: tall / average height / short / petite / tiny / compact / big / large / burly / beefy / bulky / brawny / barrel-chested / heavy / heavy-set / fat / overweight / obese / flabby / chunky / chubby / pudgy / pot-bellied / portly / thick / stout / lush / plush / full-figured / ample / rounded / voluptuous / curvy / hourglass / pearshaped / plump / leggy / long-legged / gangling / lanky / coltish / lissome / willowy / lithe / lean / slim / slender / trim / thin / skinny / emaciated / gaunt / bony / spare / solid / stocky / wiry / rangy / sinewy / stringy / ropy / sturdy / strapping / powerful / hulking / fit / athletic / toned / muscular* / chiseled / taut / ripped / herculean / broad-shouldered / sloping shoulders / bowlegged *Insert a joke about "Bard is a combat class" here: "playing tuba in marching band means you can power walk 2 miles backwards on your toes in 16 minutes whithout bending your knees while carrying a 35lb blunt metal object with your arms held at right angles and blasting every extra gulp of oxygen you can spare without asphyxiating to make sounds loud enough to deafen the dead in an an act of pure unchristian violence, your bard is the party member who will teach you how to kill god by example". Senritsu is strong and has a biceps to die for, if she flexs.

hands: delicate / small / large / square / sturdy / strong / smooth / rough / calloused / elegant / plump / manicured / stubby fingers / long fingers / ragged nails / grimy fingernails / ink-stained

#hunting-songs: headcanon #hunting-songs #lol #the 'bard is a combat class' joke gets me every time

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highsviolets · 4 years

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ne plus ultra

summary: you encounter acclaimed scholar obi-wan kenobi after an academic conference

rating: mature (not explicit)

notes: all my love and affection to brit and mia. @profkenobi you are my prompt muse & @goldenkenobi you win many awards by listening to my endless rambles about this fic. // CHAPTER TWO

ne plus ultra (n).

(1) the highest point capable of being attained

(2) the most profound degree of a quality or state

the story starts in medias res, as all lives do. the beginning of your life is always in the middle of someone else’s. your death coincides with another’s gallant ebullience, your semi-colon failing to incise upon their life. so the scholars say.

the conference — your first since you passed your dissertation — had made you nervous, and you were glad to be spending an extra night before returning to the real world tomorrow.

your palms are slick, as they always are after too long spent in the company of other academics. the anxiety that swells in you is ballast and the deadweight forces you to slump forward slightly, the visible seam on your the shoulder of your shirt sashaying inwards.

when you smile at the concierge, it is tight, like a formation of soldiers in Napoleon’s day, and does not quite reach your eyes. still decked with traces of freckles and darkened by a summer spent abroad under the sun’s penetrating gazes, your skin fails to comply with demands of minuscule muscles pulling and stretching, commanding it into a thin arc.

but it is no matter — you receive your key and you sign the paperwork and are ascending the winding staircase to the seventh floor. emerald green carpet is your guide, swathing your ascendancy in a sheen of dark-hue velvet. sir gawain chasing after the knight in green armor, a lecture on virtue streaming from the knight’s mouth, materializes on the steps. the galloping thought makes you smile, this time more relaxed. that story is something you know. something you know so well you could almost touch it. indeed you had fingered its pages, during your apprenticeship at the British Library.

hope. the words springs forth, nearly unbidden, from your lips. the word is spoken so softly — merely a breath and a hint of sound disturbing the stairwell’s precious physics. it is a reflex of association. green means hope, the scholars had said, and during the course of your studies you had been disappointed to find that you agreed with them. you did not want to agree with the fashionably smug expert in the field. you wanted to rattle him. shake him to his sacrosanct core, the sanctimonious scum.

you had never met the man: the mysterious OWK. your advisor had raved about his breakout lecture series that had taken place years ago, when he was a newly minted phd and you were still in undergrad. sipping a cup of cafeteria coffee (they always forgot you preferred tea, all these years later), they had rambled on about the poetry of OWK’s phrasing and his decisiveness in speech and the unparalleled skill of his primary source research. the lectures had been sadly lost, the footage deleted, or archived, they didn’t know which. just that the man had refused to distribute them and speak on the matter further, nearly abandoning academia entirely.

the beverage was bitter but you laughed lightly. “is this thomas moore and his lectures on st. augustine, then? so legendary that no one can find them?”

your advisor had inclined their head, congratulating you on your witty reference. “i suppose so,” they had mused, leaning back in their office chair and staring at some point above your head, at the oaken bookshelves with brightly colored book jackets lining the walls. “now, your latest draft—“

the memory fades as your purpose alters. a simple twist of the key and the door opens. but you remain on the threshold, stuck between two modes, between here and there.

there is a man in your room, and he is as handsome as sin. he sits in a chair in the corner of the room and one leg is resting on the other’s kneecap at a ninety degree angle. he is wearing glasses, and has short auburn hair that gleams in the dull light of the lamp beside him (although, a few wayward strands obscure his eyes, layering over the frame of his glasses). he is reading. the cover is folded over so you cannot see the title but it is hefty, judging from its position on his thigh. shadows have formed over high cheekbones.

the man removes himself from the task, focusing his gaze on you. you see now that he has bright blue eyes.

“hello there!” his greeting is polite, and amiable, and accented, though not pleasantly so. “can i help you?”

“I’m afraid there seems to be a mix-up!” you say in your ‘adult voice.’ it’s same one you used on your dissertation defense. “it seems we were placed in the same room.”

“ah.” he nods sagely, as though this were to be expected, and unfolds himself from his chair.

you place a hand on your hip — near the phone snug in the back pocket of your jeans — and shrug. “I’m sorry.” the apology is saccharine and tastes like grenadine. “I’ll pop back downstairs and find out what the problem is.”

he urges you to stay, to let him call from here rather you lugging your things all the way down and all the way back up again. “it’s not proper,” he insists, dragging you in and closing the door behind you. in the time that his is so near to you and you feel the way his frown matches the steady grip on your upper arm, something warms in you at his indignation. your hand drifts away from your phone. he retreats to his corner to make the call while you linger just beyond the threshold.

the conversation is hushed and decorated with the raised tones of inquiry. when he hangs up, he sighs.

“they were under the impression that we were a married couple. apparently we booked under a similar last name.” his voice turns down at the edges. he sounds the way his frown had earlier: weary, confused, and a dash of inexplicable certainty.

“but—“ you gesture to the beds — “two beds?”

something of a grimace shadows his face. “all that was available, apparently.”

“oh.” there is a pause. he does not continue. “but they got me a room, right?” if you sound slightly desperate, perhaps it is because you are. you are sweaty. you are nervous. you want to relax. in your own room.

he zooms past your query. “i know you,” he says, and sounds as if he is surprised he knows how to speak.

“i —“ you shake your head — “i don’t think so.”

when you give your name and recognition fails to present itself, he falters and twists to stare through the glass behind him. “i thought…” but he breaks off. in the end he rights himself and tells you of the situation — how there is no vacancy, but he does not mind the sharing a room with you, just for the night, it wouldn’t be a bother.

there is something different about him. maybe it is the way that he emphasized the word can. maybe it is the way he is pushing the hair from his eyes, and removing the glasses from his face. maybe it is the way that, now pausing his actions, the man cants his head and furrows his brow.

air grows thick with the brush strokes of caravaggio: he is in the spotlight, sure and solid and steady, pure against the whirlpools of unknowing realism.

you are on the cusp of stepping into his white light when he offers his name. the first letter of each word drags itself from his mouth and burrows into your ear, until you almost divorce the meaning but for the particulars.

the first instinct that you are aware of is one you cannot name — it is an anger that is sweet, and one that is shielded by sadness, yet fueled by frustration.

there are dozens of others that your heart and mind have already examined, of course, turning them this way and that, inspecting their corners with bloodied hands. but they are rejected, and expelled into the waxy shadows, without your being aware of them. that is the job of the soul: to know before you are even aware.

he senses the shift. perhaps uncertainty has clouded your eyes. obi-wan kenobi, OWK, takes a step back from rising mist and shadow and once more turns to gaze out the window. through the glass there is a gentle village scene, all cobblestones and iron street lamps and hills keeping time on the horizon.

“i — “ you start, but you stop again. you must start, you feel, but you do not know what path to take, and you halt. the time he thinks you consider you are in fact not considering at all. there is only one answer (answers that are wrong are never really answers, after all, just more questions).

“i’ll stay.”

—

Obi-Wan is courteous and deferential and demands that you permit him to treat you this evening as an apology. he departs to give you privacy as you shower, and the flash of shimmering emerald carpet you spy as he exits makes you wonder if you are the Lady Bertalik to his Sir Gawain.

the steam and the water beat down clenched muscles with gentle hands and lingering touches. it is for several minutes that you linger in their warm embrace, but as you wipe away fog from the mirror you cannot help but encounter the sensation that you are alone, and wrongfully so. you cannot feel Obi-Wan’s presence and the air feels stale without him — like there is no current disrupting the atmosphere’s mundane course.

droplets decorate your shoulders and the hollow of your throat. they hold fast even when you pad softly to your belongings for a fresh change of clothes.

The ache in this room is stronger. The walls themselves are mourning his absence. You feel it settle in your gut, a gluttonous mass that lightens when you consider that he should be returning soon. the sky outside the window is orange and gold, flattering the leaves of maple trees in autumn.

the room is pretty, in a simple way: the emerald carpet of hope has been exchanged for a darkened hardwood. Chrome accents gleam in the reflection of the wood, and two beds — one at opposite ends of the wall — are smothered silver-white sheets. a series of Malevich paintings are hung up in a neat grid, as though the dissembling artist would come barging in, screaming of the devil, if the French theories of symmetry were not obeyed.

as you dress and begin to comb your hair, you wonder why you miss someone whom you have just met, and someone you are not disposed to like. can you miss someone you don’t like? he is sporadic and paradisiacal; in motion and steady. his kindness had surprised you, as had his beauty. he was less corrosive than your advisor had made him out to be, less ambitious than the accolades awarded to his name. but he is zealous, hungry, seeking: you could see in the way his eyes bunched around the edges, in the crick of his neck when he sought wisdom from the hills, how he had contorted his body in the chair.

(he is like you, both here and not here, and although you did not yet know, your soul was aware and reflective in wonder)

when your flesh-and-blood sir gawain returns, you muse that you are a poor temptress in an thick-knit ivory sweater that encases your body from neck to wrists. it had been a steal from a second-hand store a few years back, and you had never found the heart to give it up. it was like a childhood book, or a favorite mug — the object, in all its durable materiality, was akin to you.

Your smile pleases him. Obi-Wan says he has found a place for this evening, nothing special, but nice. “We are celebrating after all,” he says, shrugging off a dark woolen coat.

“We are?” you look at him through the reflection of the mirror. blue eyes meet yours.

“Of course!” the phrase suspends itself for a moment, maybe two, as though it is waiting for something to slip in and complete its trinity. but it falls, tumbling back down to terrestrial concerns. “We are celebrating our meeting.”

He is absurd, and you laugh. Obi-Wan’s theory of festivity is not so mercurial as his speech — the declaration sticks to your ribs, pumping blood to your heart and flooding your cheeks with a natural flush.

Obi-Wan continues to examine you. “Might I ask,” he starts, hands stilling in their expedition of finding suitable attire, “where you bought your sweater?”

you respond: it was from a second-hand store, you found it during your apprenticeship, it was the only thing that kept you warm that terribly dreary winter, it was your constant companion.

“does it have a trio of red threads on the left cuff?”

satisfying his quench takes precedence to mystery of his request.

Obi-Wan’s smile engulfs the spirit of the room, and the two of you, and the bedding, and the glass window, too.

“that was my sweater,” he says. “my uncle made it for me, and i gave it to my brother after we adopted him. he wasn’t used to the dampness of English winters, but he didn’t like the itchiness of the knit. he always had an aversion to gritty textures.” he reaches out a hand with a faint smile, like the combined power of his simple offering can cross space and time and memory and return him to the days of him and his uncle and adopted brother.

you do not know what to say. you watch him for several moments. you want to speak, but your mind is blank, thrumming with the idea that it is so very right that part of him has been with part of you all of these years. parts have him has seen you through the long hours of a dreary apprenticeship and discovering the healing properties of English tea and catching tears and wisps of smiles and witnessing ink spill over pages as you churned out dissertation drafts until the argument was smooth and refined.

the idea makes you feel very alive, and alert, and you want to offer him comfort. “would you like to take it back?” one hand tugs at the edge of the cloth, near your waist. “it’s yours anyway.” the pain of parting is lessened by the joy of giving.

he demurs, you coax. eventually it is determined that he will wear the garment for the evening, but only if you wear something of his, too. “that way it’s even,” he says, and you laugh again to hide the dip in your stomach at thought of wearing something of his, of wrapping yourself in his scent, of placing your body in a place his had once inhabited.

you settle on a light gray blazer that you think must compliment his eyes, which sparkle with aquamarine and crystal. it is paired with a turtleneck and when you emerge to show him the completed ensemble, spinning in a circle, he chuckles.

“you look like me,” he says, one hand cupping his chin.

a feeling pulses in your mind but you let it go. you may like him after all, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a pompous academic whose theories had made your life hell.

—

you expect him to take you to a cozy place. somewhere where they serve the local brew and make homemade shepherd’s pie, but he doesn’t.

he takes you a bar that is sleek and modern, with soft yellow lights and paneled ceilings and marble counter-tops. Obi-Wan escorts you to a high table in the corner, a hand on the small of your back. the warmth from his palm spreads through his jacket and your turtleneck and it feels like cinnamon and candlelight.

later, you will not remember what you ordered to eat, but you will always remember the two cups water that appear on the table.

the glasses have smooth edges and and rounded sides, curving around themselves ad infinitum or perhaps reductio ad absurdum. faint golden orbs hunch against the surface; integers of light cling to any sort of tactical reassurance. even the glass will do.

the cups are hefty, and not just with the font of life. the vessel is weighty, durable. Obi-Wan tells you that they are recycled.

he does not talk about what he does now and how he teaches, and you do not mention your work. you do not need to: what these truths have taught you is in every swallow, every glance, every gentle barb. the two of you do not need shields of citation guidelines to understand one another.

the conversation dances. he pulls you in with a question. you twirl around him, brushing his five o’clock shadow. artifice glistens and then falls away. with every pass and dip and pas de chat resentment and assumption weaken, and your eyes become bigger. he changes the time signature, the style (first it was a waltz, and then a swing step, and now it is easing into something unknown). the fabric of his jacket is smooth, and comfortable, and smells like him — warm and spice and clean. you ease into it like it is your birthright.

you do not see, but Obi-Wan notices, and grins into his water.

he does not see, but you notice, the way he couches into your sweater, and your eyes curl in some form of elation.

“what were they about? the lectures, i mean.” this is the question you have been waiting to ask. here, in the bar, with glass, you are emboldened to let go of one last grudge.

he looks at you, and his gaze stabs you, but then it softens — like the needle from a shot easing into muscle before retreating as swiftly as it came.

“what did your advisor say they were about?” he fiddles with his glass.

“they said…” you close your eyes in recollection. eyelashes flutter against freckles. “they said the lectures were about grief.”

Obi-Wan’s smile is wry, but he does not seem displeased. he is still too relaxed to be angry. how you can read his body language so quickly, you are not sure — maybe it is because he is wearing your sweater. so many things you are unsure of, but he is not one of them. not really.

uncertainty is different with him. he is not an ever-fixéd mark, nor a staid anchor in the waves. but he is resolved, and you can separate him from the rest of the particulars that impede your life. he is not just krei: distinguishing and judging and explanatory and crisis all at once, all at everything.

yes, uncertainty with him is less about judgment and is rather imbued with mystery. it is krei mixed with mysteriam: separating the hidden things from that which is known.

Obi-Wan taps his finger on the glass and the sound returns you to the present. he has caught you wandering, again, wandering the wayward halls of esoteric remembrance.

“they were about grief,” he nods, staring at the transparent material in his hands.. Obi-Wan’s voice is kingly and aromatic, like basil. it lilts and sways around the words he speaks as in a courtly dance, like those Anne Boleyn performed for King Henry.

lifting his gaze to yours again, he adds, “and they were about joy. those lectures were about everything, and nothing.” a hand rises, and rhythmic fingers sweep away invisible cobwebs. “they were,” Obi-Wan concludes, “about life itself. phenomena, as it were.” the hand floats down and rests on the table.

it is perilously close to yours now: mere inches from the edges of your body. you both look down at his hand in a brief moment marked and scratched with silence, and you are alone with your thoughts. his hands are worn, like they have been used — little scars and wrinkles and a slight puffiness that tells you that he spent a lot of time writing today. you like that.

you point to the swelling, at the v of his hand where thumb and palm meet. the tip of your index finger hovers above the spot and your confession must linger too, because it takes several moments for him to drag his eyes upwards to study your face.

“how many ACE wraps did you fray while writing your dissertation?” he asks, and you want to push him for being such a competitive brat.

your hand is still suspended above his.

you tell him your answer, and he cups his fingers around yours in a spasm of revelation. “me too!” his grip tightens. “academia is one son of a bitch.” he catches you in a sideways glance, and when you laugh, he relaxes into a smile.

“I read your dissertation, you know.” the sweater itches against your wrist, where the sleeve of his blazer has ridden up and exposed skin.

“i didn’t.” you take a sip. “but i do know how you feel about scholars such as myself.” another sip. are you biding time? you are not sure. “you feel very strongly about the color green, Dr. Kenobi.”

his grip slackens but he does not release your hand completely. “please. call me ben.”

“no?” your eyebrow arches. “not OWK, either?”

“I don’t use that name with friends.”

“Are we friends?”

his eyes are earnest, open, porous, like blue tulle on ballet costumes. “yes. i dare say we are.”

—

when the two of you stand to leave, there is a still a table that prohibits unity. emptiness subsumes you; he is so near and yet so far; Ben should be next to you. the distance continues, grows, as you exit, and an ache pours forth from your soul, because you now know what you did not know before. you had seen it in the glass, and in the reflected light, and the way you had seen yourself in his eyes when you danced with him without touching his hand.

you halt, he pauses. you take a step forward and Ben watches you. darkness blankets the town’s cobbled streets; the stones gleam dully and swallow the street lamps all into an abyss. except his eyes: Ben’s silken azure eyes are your anchor.

people don’t make sense but you do.

a few steps more and the two of you are very close. you tilt your head to look at his face. you are there, reflected in his pupils. “maybe i am you.” you mean for it to sound teasing, but your soul knows before you do, and the words are laden with imperial import, like a royal seal.

those gemstone eyes flicker over your face. he has felt it too, he is telling you, but how you know this you cannot say. “no, i do not think so.” letters drip out, leaking in a slow stream. “but i think perhaps we are a part of each other.”

and then you have narrowed down the sum to its composite parts. the glass has shattered and the left hand swims in its sand and calcium carbonate and ash, drifting through a process of becoming. particles glimmer on skin, under nails, brandishing depth and texture and a pantone coloring book of the human heart.

it is a mutual kiss, one where individualism no longer endures. his hands — swollen, calloused, firm — are grasping your cheeks. your arms are around his waist, winding around sweater and skin and soul. when you close your eyes, you think it will be dark. you are wrong. tenebrism creeps away and shadows vanish, and there is only him, and a resounding tenor of colors.

ben’s lips are soft, and his breath is warm, and it is the kiss for which you feel like you have spent your whole life preparing. he is safe (tender) and unexpected (his tongue grazes your teeth). he likes it when you grip him harder, the knit no longer coarse against your palms, not when his hand is wandering through your hair in flashes of blue and gold and pearl.

when you pull away, and nuzzle his cheek, Ben smiles — soft and comforting like the garment on his back. maybe this is why glass shatters and cracks around your feet, crunching as you sway slightly in each other’s arms — you have worn his jacket, and he has worn your sweater.

—

it is predawn the next time he kisses you. the two of you are on his bed, near the window. sweaters and blazers have been exchanged for baggy t-shirts and sleep shorts. Ben is facing you, cross-legged on the pale sheets, and he watches you as you take in the metamorphosis of the sky, from black to navy to the merest smidgen of blue and grey on the horizon, skating across the silhouette of the hills.

he watches you as you speak, too, about the way you loved the ocean as a child, and your favorite book is Moby Dick. it was so very ethereal to you, the way that sailors used the stars to navigate. it was like they were communing with the heavens.

Ben thinks that your voice glitters. it is weary with much talk and too little sleep but it shines the way diamonds do when they are stitched onto spanish lace, supported with the strength that is only found in delicacy.

your eyes, he thinks, are more like satin, for the way they gleam and mix their depth and shadows without losing their sheen, glassy in their wonder.

but you notice his regard, and you pause. he cannot see it, but he can feel a blush jogging from your neck to your cheeks.

you stare at each other. and then — he is next to you, and laying you down, and you are learning his labyrinthine ways even as you begin to come undone.

he is coming alive, or waking up—you’re not sure. his ends and beginnings are still a unknown to you: you must fashion yourself a mystic to enter his realm. somehow you suspect he is yours. your alpha and omega, the moral force that has driven you forward to now, to this point, where his forehead is meeting the jut of your jaw as he kisses his way down your neck.

you are hot and cold all at once and when he licks your pulse point, and sucks, you gasp. it is a gentle thing, more like a deep breath than an exclamation. you feel yourself leaning into him, straining for his touch. his auburn hair under your fingertips is soft and slick with his gel and you tug at it in an act of encouragement.

he pulls away. hovering over you, eyes blue and silver in the pale light — twin moons, perhaps — he smirks. “are you trying to tell me something, darling?” he asks lowly, and his voice is dark molasses. it is sticky and sweet and bitter, inching down your body. you want his kisses to follow its tortuous path, staining you with vermillion and black and dying you with pleasure.

he is color. you are cloth.

the durability of your nature returns in a rush marked with grains of steel. “no.” you swallow and the action traces where his lips met your skin just moments earlier. “i rather thought you were trying to communicate with me.” you sound ragged, coy, on the verge of aching.

Ben does not take your bait. “i was.” his breath is hot against your ear, and arresting. he pauses. the molasses continues to drip. “i was just wanted to make sure i had a clear answer.” and he nips your earlobe. you bite your lip in response: the two of you are in sync.

“yes.” you are fabric, and your voice is terrycloth.

“Yes?” he repeats your fiat. Shards of glass collapse around you as he again meets your gaze.

this must be how the Virgin prayed her Magnificat, you think as his heart errantly beats against his throat. She must have been like he is now, brimming with humble righteousness and bound by understanding. Tenderness cords through you; it tempers your breathing, smoothes the bubbles of molasses. Reaching up to to cup his face, you let your fingers splay over his cheek, resting on stubble and skin. your pinky finger meets the angle of his cheekbone. the image falls into place and the symmetry causes you to smile.

“yes. etiam. ja. sí.” you are about to conclude in greek — ναί — but he halts your litany of assent by placing an offering on your lips. the greek is in the twists of his tongue in your mouth, and so is the hebrew, and the arabic, and all the languages yet to engrave themselves in your memory.

it is like the first time you experienced champagne at your father’s christmas party. one of his students had poured you, then sixteen, a glass and said with a wink, “the monks declared it was the taste of the stars.” you had raised the flute to your lips and drank as you were bid, and when you had swallowed, you knew the world was different now. or perhaps the old world had not changed, you had merely adapted to fickle ways.

your tongue did as it had then, skating across your front teeth onto your upper lips in quick, jabbing motions. unsatiated and incomplete.

he pulls away again and you frown. eyes closed, you tug at his shoulder in a nonverbal ask to come back.

silence meets your plea and you open your eyes. he is still above you, weight resting on his forearms, and he is smiling. “you are so impatient.” the rebuke is fond and he soothes its burn with a kiss to your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, briefly.

“i am not impatient.” arms cross over your chest and eyes roll. “i am —“ the phrase is paused as he kisses your other cheek. you open your eyes. “i am.” he waits for you, as he always has, but after a few heartbeats he gleans the completeness of your meaning. existence is the watchword of this night, or this dawn: let sartre and his kind be put to rest.

so the two of you kiss again, and when his arms get tired, you drape your legs over his lap and press yourself into his chest. the last vestiges of moonlight have settled upon you, but it is no thing, not when skin feels what eyes cannot. lips are languid and hands stroll up and down pathways and alleyways and sidewalks. brittle substances of impatience are burned away through the silk of his fingers. you are content to rest in chiaroscuro.

there is another breaking: transparent and fortified compound of ash and sand — let in by the moon and the rising venus — twinkles around your head, his spine. a whispered ask, a tender assent: shirts glide over shoulders and he guides in your descent.

breathing is knowing, feeling is seeing: for here essence and existence bleed into one consummate act of communion.

lips touch your collarbone, your breast. your hands plane over his chest in a crusade of knowledge. he does not begrudge your gasps, now, or the arches your back erects to his honor. ben’s lips, hands, the vehicles of his words to the world, at once analyze and soak in praise.

clothes fall away, skin uncovering skin, manifesting a reality that had resided in your souls far before today. before the bar, the hotel, the sweater, there was always the two of you, striving for eudaemonia.

“this is phenomena,” he whispers against the curve of your hip. ben presses a kiss to the bones that give form to your body politic (the totality of your shattered glass made whole).

fin.

Tags: @profkenobi @goldenkenobi @ohhellokenobi @obitwo @nobie @cherieboba @lazzwhile @rentskenobi @master-obi-wan-kenboneme @justrunamok @citadoll @obirain @catsnkooks @royalhandmaidens @kyjoraven @mcu-padawan @anakin-danvers @snips-n-skyguy0501 @saintlaurentkenobi @answer-the-sirens @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @icedcoffeeandgays // please send an ask or fill out this form to get added to my taglist!

#userkarina #userlilylils #usernobie #ayatlovesme #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi wan x y/n #obi wan x reader insert #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan x y/n #prompt requst #cristina writes #prof kenobi #fic: ne plus ultra #i have been so fucking excited to post this #also i actually proofread this one

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lewismonochromepepper · 3 years

Text

What monster from folklore protects you?

"Far, far away something made a single ghostly howl, like a banshee in the dark." -Lucy Christopher

The banshee, is a creature from Irish Folklore. Though not inherently malevolent, it is said to be a dark omen. The ghostly cries of a weeping woman drift in the air, warning any unfortunate soul who hears of impending death. Following her like the train of a morbidly beautiful wedding dress, a thick fog envelops her skin as she croons a sorrowful, haunting song which is filled with concern and love for her family. This song can be heard a few days before the death of a family member and in most cases the song can only be heard by the person for whom it is intended. Some even go to argue that it is the banshee's unwitting song which kills the person.

You care very strongly about your family and friends. Your loyalty towards those whom you care for is unconditional. You are an excellent and reliable friend, trustworthy enough to bear even the darkest of secrets. Secrets which you would gladly carry to the grave unless of course, they harm your loved ones. You will fight tooth and nail to protect the ones you care for, restraint left abandoned. The banshee admires your reslience and passion. It desires to aid you in protecting those you love and to help you navigate a harsh reality just be warned and keep a close eye on the people you love, Your undying loyalty may just become their undoing...

Muse reaction: "I dont deserve their protection." Chrome says quietly, "I abandoned my family. Even if I care... I can't risk it."

Tagged by: @bluescarfvivi

Tagging: @mysteriouslyhopefulstranger @amontheshadowknight @rainnstormm

#tag game #ic #chrome

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one-boring-person · 4 years

Text

You Died!

Alaric Saltzman x Reader

Context: Set towards the end of episode 20 of season 3, just after Alaric has completed his transformation. The reader is Ric's best friend and is distraught after finding out he will ultimately die, not yet knowing Esther has made him complete the transition.

Warnings: Blood, some death, "lethal" biting

A/N: This is my first time using Tumblr as a writing platform, so forgive me if the format is a bit off.

Exhilaration courses through me at the sensation of the wind rushing around me, the cold air blocked out by my riding leathers, thankfully, my helmet preventing my eyes from tearing up, keeping my vision clear enough for me to navigate the dark, twisting road with ease. Beneath me, my black and chrome roadster growls loudly, the vehicle responding to my every move with a sensitivity it’s always had, the engines revving as I push the bike into a faster pace, knowing no one else will hear me out here. Normally, I would never consider going out at this time, especially not on the motorbike, and definitely not at this ungodly speed, but after today’s events, I feel as if nothing else will clear my head sufficiently.

Tightening my grip on the handlebars, I try to ignore the grief gnawing away at my heart, planning to deal with it tomorrow in whatever way I feel fit, whether that be drinking ridiculous volumes of whiskey or beating up some poor punching bag somewhere, or doing something much more dangerous. For now, all I want to do is forget about the fact that my best friend died, or is currently dying, and that there’s nothing I can do about it. And I never got to tell him how I really feel. At that, I grit my teeth and accelerate the motorbike again, nearly hitting the 100 mph mark on the metre as I drive around the winding bends of the deserted road, the thrill at riding at such a speed doing little to cure my current state of mind, only reminding me of what he would say if he saw me being as reckless as this. Under my helmet visor, I feel a tear roll down my cheek, leaving a hot trail in its wake.

Turning a corner, I brake a little as I catch sight of the thick bank of fog that seems to occupy the road, unsure of whether or not to continue on into it; after all, Klaus is still out there and up to his tricks. Too late, I figure out the bike won't slow down in time to avoid it, so I carry on through the eerie white mist, cutting the speed slightly, only to push it back up again as I decide to get through it as fast as possible, even if I can barely see a thing. The headlight seems to do nothing, the pale light catching on the fog, making it appear thicker than it actually is, illuminating only what is directly in front of the front tyre.

For what feels like hours but is in fact only minutes, I drive through the bank of fog, slightly confused as to its sudden appearance, until I reach an abrupt break in the suffocating cover, everything becoming clear and visible very swiftly. I only have a second to register the figure standing in the road, in which time I sharply pull the handlebars to the side, tilting the bike dangerously as it skids past, the wheels losing traction on the slick tarmac, careening into the side of the road. As it makes contact with the barrier, I am flung from the seat, the world spinning in my view briefly before I crash to the floor, my body smashing against rocks and tree branches as it rolls over and over, coming to a halt at the base of a road sign, pain exploding across me from multiple points of my body. Breathing hard, I try to move, only to find myself incapable of doing so without invoking a sharp stab of agony from my new injuries, leaving me lying helplessly at the side of the road, bruises littering my skin, my conscience slowly starting to fade.

A pair of hands on my waist snap me from the cloud of pain, the appendages roughly pulling me up onto someone's shoulder as they carry me back onto the road, their breathing as heavy as mine. A whimper of pain leaves my lips at the jolting motions, the air leaving my lungs as I am thrown, violently, onto the tarmac, my head cracking against it slightly as my helmet absorbs the shock. Agony erupts in my limbs and chest, drawing a long, low groan from me as I try to find my assailant, confusion and horror filling me as I recognise the person standing over me. Bending over, he harshly pulls my helmet off my head, revealing my bruised face to the world as he looks down into it in disgust.

“Alaric?” I croak out coarsely, thinking I’m hallucinating, spitting out a mouthful of blood as it wells up in my throat, signalling to me that I have internal bleeding. Above me, my best friend and crush of six years eyes the trail of crimson liquid as it flows over my face, a hungry look in his now-dark eyes.

“(Y/N).” His voice is low and sinister, the tone proving to me it’s not the caring man I know and love, but the side of him I’ve come to call Psycho Alaric, due to his murderous tendencies.

“Y-You died...” The words are forced as I feel the agony of my injuries, both mental and physical, start to take over my body, more blood flowing from my parted lips.

Above me, Alaric crouches down to my level, a predatory look on his handsome face as he stares at my prone figure, taking in the torn riding leathers, as well as the darkening bruises surrounding my jaw and temple.

“I did.” He simply states before reaching down to me, pushing his arms under my torso as he pulls my body closer to his, one of his hands cupping the back of my head, threading his fingers tightly in my hair, the overall movement wringing a quiet whimper from me. Hearing this, Alaric licks his lips, his eyes roaming over the blood covering my chin, dropping to the skin at my neck.

“What...What're you doing?” I question him, fear starting to accompany the throbbing pain in my body as he lowers his face to mine, his breath fanning over my skin, hotly. At any other time, I would’ve felt giddy at the thought of being so close to him, but now it scares me – there’s something off about him.

In way of reply, Alaric leans further into me, his familiar scent overwhelming me, as well as the sharp odour of blood, swiftly swiping his tongue over my chin, drawing up the crimson liquid staining my skin, a surprised grunt leaving my lips as a hungry groan leaves his. Pulling away, he looks down at me with obvious desire, his face suddenly changing as familiar veins form under his eyes, his lips pulling back to reveal razor sharp fangs, the overall expression not unlike that of a vampire's. In seconds, he pulls me to him, crushing my body against his as he sinks his teeth into my neck, biting into the soft skin with ease, blood flowing from the wound into his mouth, his hot tongue swiping over the area a few times to draw up every drop of the hot liquid. Around my head and shoulders, his grip tightens, the sensation of him sucking my blood out of my arteries somehow feeling euphoric in comparison with the previous, agonising pain from the crash, a sigh falling from my tongue, moans and grunts of appreciation and need leaving the lips he has pressed against my neck.

Already, I feel my conscience leaving me, black spots appearing all over my vision as he finally pulls away, blood coating his chin and lips, satisfaction evident in his eyes as the veins and fangs retreat, dropping my limp body to the ground as he stands, wiping the substance away with his sleeve. Giving me one last glance, he smirks down at me before leaving my broken body lying on the tarmac, the pain becoming too much for me to bear as I finally fall into the darkness at the edge of my vision.

Bright light assaults my eyes as I crack them open, a dull ache starting in my head as I try to lift my hands to rub them, trying my best to remember where I am and how I got here. Coming up blank initially, I look around at the room I’m in, recognising the bed beneath me as belonging to one of the Salvatores, Damon in particular, meaning I'm in the boarding house.

“Morning, sleepy head.” A familiar voice greets me from the corner behind the bed, a quick look proving to me that it is, in fact, Damon.

“W-what happened?” I manage to croak out at him, confusion lacing my voice as I try to recall how I got here, staring blearily at the raven haired vampire as he rolls his eyes, exasperated at my question.

“You crashed your motorbike, I think. I found you a couple of hours ago with your body broken and bruised as hell, and with an impressive bite mark to top it all off. You were nearly completely drained of blood.” He responds, his tone light even though I can see the worry in his piercing eyes.

At his words, the events that got me here rush back, the images of Alaric drinking from my neck sparking a sense of dread in me.

“Alaric.” I mumble, knowing Damon will hear me, even from his position across the room. Instantly, I find the vampire standing at the side of the bed, having used his unnatural speed to reach me, a confused and curious look in his eyes.

“Alaric? What do you mean?” His voice is tight at the thought of his friend.

Swiftly, I explain everything to him, watching as a look of grim horror crosses his handsome face, realisation setting into me. Alaric, somehow, made the transition.

As if on cue, a bang from another room interrupts the silence that has settled on us, drawing my attention towards the door, a confused look on my face.

“That’ll be Bonnie.” Damon muses, brow creased a little as he stands, looking back down at me.

“Bonnie?” I question him, puzzled.

“Yeah, Alaric got her, too.”

Shock fixes me in place for a second before I can speak again.

“He did? How?”

A pained expression crosses his face at my question, the subject obviously a sensitive one.

“Our old friend the Original Witch possessed her to go and help him complete the transition. It was her blood that sealed the deal.”

“Esther did this?” Horror and hopelessness well up in at the idea of the witch being back, especially when I consider the fact that Alaric's fate has been sealed by her, at which point anger accompanies the initial feelings.

“Yep. I’m gonna go deal with Bonnie now. Get some rest, you'll need it for tomorrow.” Damon suggests, smiling slightly as he turns and leaves the room, allowing me to try and fall asleep once more, which is easier said than done, what with the turbulent thoughts and crippling grief churning around in my mind. Eventually, though, I manage to tire myself out, my body forcing itself to sleep.

#alaric saltzman #alaricxreader #the vampire diares imagine #tvd #psychoRic #writing #imagine #Alaric

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mrcorkus · 4 years

Text

(Yes, I did write something five years after I planned to. I've been living off of Far Cry but Mad Max always has a way of finding me again. So I'm practicing my writing skills with high War Boys)

War Boy Bros and The Night Sky

She smiled. Slit shouldn’t have thought anything of it; she was always smiling. In fact, it was a rarity to see her not smile. On the road, in a fight, at breakfast and war and scouting and scrounging and smoking on top of the Boys’ peak, she could always find the time to smile. She was a talker after all, a schmoozer he heard it called, always wriling up others for stories to share. The only time she didn’t smile was when she was angry, and the fury in those sneers was enough to send some opposing skags running, fearing that deathly glare and that sharpened blade of hers, decorated in her mates’ teeth.

Nugget was smiling now though, and for some reason, it felt...different? Maybe it was the smoke, and Slit averted his gaze, looking towards the Wasteland, the rocks, the flaming pyres in the North, the stars in the sky, and to his knees, feeling a bit wobbly. Nugget’s stupid idea to do this. Betray bedtime for green smoke time utop their peak, stolen greens from the Immortan’s own gardens, rather traded for to a green thumb in exchange for shinies she’d found on her travels. Stupid Nugget…

He had little room to complain, however. Stupid Slit. This wasn’t the first time they’d done this, and it wouldn’t be the last time, not if they lived long enough. They were healthy thus far, though there was a rasp to Nugget’s voice still, but one never knew when the choking sickness could take one in their sleep, out on the road, surrounded by dust. Nothing had happened yet though, and he was going to continue to enjoy his life, whether it be half or not. Even so, here they sat, pleasantly satiated from the green smoke, one again. A long time ago, they both would have looked at their future selves, berating them for betraying their Immortan. Their present selves would berate their Pups back, for they were transcending Immortan's plane to fly on High with the V8 themself, far more superior than any man-god, worth the risks, far as they were concerned...

Still her stupid smile…

“Wha?”

He looked at her again, eyes already glazing over, much like hers, getting red in the whites and he felt tired, still wandery though, couldn’t stop thinking. About stars and scars and cars and Pups and that stupid girl smiling. He rolled his shoulders, leaning on one hand as he lazily draped his other arm across his knee, attempting to come off more sober than her, but it was a proven failure. “You’re dumb…”

Then she giggled, adding to her wide yellow smile and pulling on the scars of her lips, watching him watching her and then looking down at the rock they sat upon. “No you,” she snickered, tracing a grease stained finger across the carvings in their rock, little stick men with little shoddy explosions, compliments of Slit’s knife.

“You’re weird,” Slit then told her, scowling, but still watched, this time her hands as her fingers danced across the carvings.

“You always say that,” she muttered, biting at her lip, looking back at him once more, eyes green as the Citadel peaks sparkling in the moonlit night. “What’s new, ey mate?” She scooted closer now, and he repositioned his arm to accommodate her closeness, her breath tickling his ear as she took to a whisper. “Feelin’ shine? Grabbin’ moons?” and she snickered again, too tickly and he none too gently bopped her in the lip with the side of his head.

Nugget wasn’t bothered, leaning towards him again to issue a returning bop of her forehead against his wounded cheek. It stung, he hissed, and she smiled some more. At last Slit was able to pull his gaze away, mind a wandering fog while the world around him looked clearer and brighter than it ever had been. The night was fair, a cool wind across their peak, not a cloud in the sky. The stars shone in their trillions, moon big and bright and full, and they remembered stories of Heroes of old up there, shining their headlights across the Wasteland, leading lost souls home. And here he and his pack mate were, high as those stars, and he grabbed at the moon with his hand.

She still smiled, shoulder against his chest as she too rose her hand opposite his, her arm round his and linking their fingers through the moon, a salute to their gods, to V8, together, and her giggle was a distraction. “Suns and moons and stars, mate,” she said, thumb gliding across the bar of his vambrace, down the length of the blade underneath, tempting to undo the buckle and let it loose. Slit pulled his arm away however before she could, sighing to the sky as he attempted to come back down to the ground. “What’s eatin’ you, brother?”

It took him a moment, her weight against him feeling heavy, consequences of the smoke for it made his body feel light itself, weightless, soary. “Just tired,” he drawled out.

“Aw, Slit, boo boo.” Why did she always have to call him that? Especially when he was too high to care that she called him that? “The night’s young as seeds, and we got a whole row of gardening to be done before retirement.” He glanced to the side again, to her smile and her lazy gaze and he scoffed. Not all could understand the speak of her and her brother, but Slit had grown up with it, and he knew what she meant. They had all the time in the world.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” she said, smile lowering to a small smirk as she leant once more into his chest, head resting on his shoulder, a finger idly tracing away again, this time at the scars on his stomach. “Usually you’re on a roll. Stories of anger or annoyance or befuddlement, tales from the work of a much overworked Slit.”

“Not much to tell today,” he said, lolling his head to the side, feeling his now bleeding cheek touch the skin of her dome, and he grimaced in response. He refused to break contact though, for the pain was always an addiction for him. “Got stuck pupsittin’.”

Giggle, snort, drap her tracing arm over his lap as she stared up at the sky, eyes alight with the pretty and shiny things up there. “They give ya a nip in the ankles, did they?”

“Ran me ragged.”

“As they are oft wont to do, boo boo.” She was more daring with the pet name when he was high, knew he’d be too lazy to care, but he did bite down on her ear for it.

“Ah, that’s me hearers, Slit!” she pulled away from him, albeit not for long. Rubbed her aching ear against his shoulder and bopped his chin with the top of her head in response. Their tiny tussle was lazy and short lived, a few other bites and pricks and pinches, and he did manage to shove her down onto the rock, smiling that devilish smile of his down unto her once she was properly submitted under him. And they just watched each other, minds in clouds, with nary a reason as to why they bothered looking at each other at all. Until Nugget spoke that is.

“I oft wonder, Slit, where your mind doth wanders…” her smile was small now, lazy, eyes half lidded as she observed his face, the bleeding cheek, his scarred ear, his pretty, dark blue eyes. She’d told him plenty of times, those were some purdy lookers he had, and he’d always respond with a roll of them. Across the black of his forehead her eyes scoured, the white of his cheeks, the river of blood that she touched with a finger, then her palm, wiping it away and he winced but accepted it. In response to that pain, his fingers clenched around the skin of her waist, nails scratching against fresh scarifcation, Nugget responding with her own hissing.

Their foreheads met, mashed together, black grease on black grease and her smile was back, wider now, devious, a raspy laugh escaping her throat when he smiled back. “Careful mate,” she mused, tempting to bite him on the cheek. “Those be me new stories.” One more forehead bop and he crawled off of her, Nugget staying where she lay. She wasn’t alone for long however, because Slit was right there, sighing up to the sky once more as he took his place at her side, an arm behind his head as his other provided cushion for hers.

“What are they this time?”

“A rainbow,” she replied, idly fingering Slit’s blood on her palm, using it to draw a line down her wrist, preceding to trace arches there, like a rainbow. “Saw one a month back, when it rained. Joe’s teeth, it never rains enough, ey mate? Maybe I’ll tattoo over it someday. Just gotta get some colored ink for that.”

Slit wanted to say something about colored ink being a rarity, something beholden by the Immortan himself, something Nugget need not even attempt to try to get her hands on. Nugget had her ways though, her ways and her people and her sources and resources. If she wanted colored ink, she would find a way to get her sticky fingers on it. So instead of saying anything, he just watched her, draw with his blood, same stupid smile on her face as before, and he wasn’t sure what made it so different tonight. This was a night like any other, something they’d done a hundred times before. Since they were Pups they’d wander off to the green peaks of Citadel, watch the clouds or the stars or far off happenings they were unable to attend. All those times she smiled, so what made him wonder about it now?

A moment went by, a minute, more minutes, and a few more, and Slit forgot what he was wondering about, mind foggy, body limp and light, and Nugget’s head felt heavy. His cheek still bled, he felt it run back and touch his ear and that tickled, rubbed it against Nugget’s head and his fellow War Boy nudged him back. “Still leaking there, huh?” she asked, voice soft, as soft as her rasp could sound it that is.

“You hit the staples,” he muttered. “Course it’s still leaking.”

“Aw. You know what’d be right shine and all chrome, ey?” He was taken aback when she was suddenly off his arm and looming over him with her own body pushed against his chest. There was a glint in her eye, mischief in her smile, and her weight was disrupting to his sternum. He couldn’t find the want to push her off of him, and he couldn’t figure out why. Too high maybe...

“What…”

“Sweet treats,” she beamed.

“Nugget, no--”

“Nugget, yes!” She beamed. She was grabbing his wrists, pulling him up to stand and the headrush was overwhelming, the world a sudden blur as the colors all shot at him at once. Pull yourself together, Slit, he told himself, finding his legs and focusing his eyes on the female War Boy pressed to feed themselves literal fruits of her labor, or rather, her thievery.

Her smile was...inviting, almost sweet in a way, if a War Boy were to be sweet-smiled to their fellow War Boy. Her hand was in his, as rough as his, as any other War Boy’s, and he blamed the smoke for the touch, too sensitive to him tonight, colors too bright and sounds too clear and dumb stupid girl smiles being too dumb and stupid. He pulled away, and she pulled him back, and he pulled again, and she denied him refusal. Slit wasn’t in the mood to get into trouble tonight. He just wanted to lay on his rock carved up with his name and his stories and watch the stupid stars.

With minimal effort--he was bigger and stronger than her--he pulled her towards him, literally hoisting her up and landing them both painfully back onto his rock, him on his back and her on her side. She grumbled, rubbing her sore shoulder, growled at him and he hissed back.

“No,” he demanded first, lazy blue eyes set on her green in tired reprimand. Then his finger went to his lips in a shush manner.

Nugget pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“I just wanna lay on my rock, and bask in the fracking moonlight okay?” He whispered, feeling just a bit disgruntled by her eagerness.

Nugget huffed, chewed her cheek, sighed, grumbled, then proceeded to follow him into a more comfortable position upon his rock. The same position as before, and she then distracted him yet again, just as he was finding leisure once more. She was nicking his chin with her fingers. “What?” he hissed back at her, turning his head to see her stupid, sweet, dumb smile.

She giggled, biting her lip and booping his nose with her finger. “Crazy boutcha,” she teased.

"Fukushima," Slit groaned and rolled his eyes and watched the sky, Nugget by his side, the two finally able to find some lazy casual conversation about nothing as they watched the Heroes of the Old World guide the lost through the Wretched Wasteland. He was content, as was she, and her stupid smile made him feel some kind of warm and fuzzy in his stomach. Or maybe that was just the week old scars....yeah, probably just the week old scars.

#mad max #war boys #fanfiction #just....fuck me #fuck me dead #this was a mistake #the fandom is dead!#its buried #and where do we go #we who wander this wasteland #in search of our better selves #cuz everything we had is fucking gone #mmfr #rip

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keishiko · 5 years

Text

Rewrite

It’s never too late to change your mind.

[Oneshot <3,000 words | Rated: Explicit (but only for a short bit) | Angst/Romance (Natasha x Steve) | Spoilers: “Endgame”]

. A chill wind howled across barren rock as he haltingly climbed the last few steps. He shivered in the cold. No, he corrected himself. His suit was designed to insulate him comfortably even from subzero temperatures. This cold seeped from emptiness, bit to the bone, clawed inside his skull.

He glanced around but there was no sign of life or movement. Perhaps, with the loss of the Stone, its red-skulled guardian had gone as well.

Recognition squeezed the breath out of him as he turned his gaze to the two craggy spires and the desolate ledge beyond. Shuddering, he willed himself to approach the edge of the cliff, one heavy step at a time. His mind seemed to be planets away when he noted a blackened, blasted hollow where one of Hawkeye’s arrows must have detonated. After what seemed an eternity, he reached the edge and, with another supreme effort, looked down.

A long, long way down to where the horrific drop ended in nothing but blank, gray stone.

He forced himself to keep looking, keep his eyes open against the rushing wind. Where was she? He had begged Clint to describe her to him. Clint hadn’t wanted to. But he had alternately yelled and pleaded and the two men had nearly come to blows until Clint broke down and told him what would ever after haunt his dreams.

Steve peered down, down, down into the wasteland chasm, searching in vain for a broken black-suited figure at the very bottom, porcelain skin white like death, fiery hair streaming like blood.

He deserved to be haunted, he told himself. It was the least he could do for her memory, if he never slept again.

It was only when the wind blew icy across his face that he felt the tears searing down his cheeks.

He’d almost forgotten what he’d come for. He fumbled for the tiny, slippery thing that thrummed in his hand, blazed against the black of his glove. For a moment he stood at the cliff’s edge, suddenly irresolute.

Then he flung it into the void.

He stared as it bounced off the rock—once, twice, three times—and then sent up a blinding ochre glow that suddenly flooded his vision...

“Lost something, soldier?”

He would know that voice anywhere.

He whipped around, heart in his throat, hope making him light-headed. She stood in front of him, smiling, looking for all the world like she had just made another peanut butter sandwich at the compound. He staggered forward, frantic with gladness and relief.

“Nat!”

He stopped short. He could not get closer. She remained just out of reach, smiling at him sadly.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He found himself tearing up again. “We won.”

Her gaze serene, she was as beautiful as ever in the golden haze. “What did it cost?”

His response tore out of him in a sob. “Everything.”

The glow dimmed. He reached for her again, but already her smile was twisting into a snarl and then she was Red Skull, blazing with fury, lunging toward him. The glow abruptly faded and Steve felt himself slip on the icy rock as it crumbled beneath his feet and then he was falling, falling, falling—

“Steve!”

He opened his eyes with a gasp. His throat felt raw. He found Peggy’s brown eyes on him, still dull from sleep.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped after a moment. He was still trying to catch his breath.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” Peggy pressed a kiss to his cheek—wet with tears, he realized—and lay back down beside him, draping her arm comfortingly across his chest. He sighed, burying his nose in her dark curls.

His return of the Soul Stone had been much less eventful. No, he hadn’t seen Natasha’s body anywhere. He had tossed the Stone into the abyss. It had disappeared.

And then nothing had happened.

After a few minutes of waiting—hoping, praying, wishing—he had reopened his eyes to find nothing changed. He was alone on the cliff. The wind still whistled around him.

As he started to descend the stone stairway he saw, out the corner of his eye, a dark figure materialize on the ledge behind him, a hostile energy begin to burn. But he heard nothing, felt nothing. He reached the bottom of the stairway unmolested.

When he had returned the last Stone to the Ancient One he had hesitated.

She had then asked him if, perhaps, as a small gesture for saving the world, there was anything she could do for him.

Now he settled back in the too-soft bed, stared up at floral wallpaper and shadow-flecked ceiling, and told himself to go to sleep. His hand tightened on Peggy’s elbow; he breathed deeply of the smell of her hair. All he’d ever wanted. All he’d ever dreamed of, all he’d hardly dared to dream of, for years and years.

The future—cozy and quiet and peaceful—stretched before them.

“How you’ve changed,” Peggy mused, as if to herself.

He started guiltily. He’d thought she’d fallen asleep. “How’s that, Peg?”

She chuckled, patting his arm. “Nothing important. Sweet dreams, Captain Rogers.”

He waited, but she said nothing more. When she was in a mood like this, it would not be shaken. Soon, despite his unease, he found himself nodding off to her quiet breathing and the susurrus of the wind in the tree outside their window.

A small echo of her voice drifted to him from what seemed like very far away through an impossibly misty fog, as he tipped over the cliff’s edge into slumber.

“She must have been somebody very special.”

It was a much harder landing this time around.

From streaks of gold and chrome light the world outside his helmet flashed into blurry darkness as he tumbled end over end on what felt like a hard stone floor, slammed into some kind of wall, and crumpled in a daze. Gasping for breath, he deactivated his helmet. As he struggled to reorient himself he became dimly aware of several indistinct faces gathering around him in the gloom, curious, staring.

Then came a panicked shout from somewhere he couldn’t see, in a guttural, familiar language—

A dark shape flew through the air, crashed into the wall above him. He twisted just in time not to be crushed by what turned out to be an inert human male.

Before he could react, another limp body toppled onto him. He had barely worked his head free to breathe when another body tumbled onto him, then another, and another. Chaos had erupted inside the half-lit chamber as his senses finally regained focus. Harsh shouts of command or warning, gunshots, shrieks of pain; the crunch of bone, the pop of joints. The thrum and crackle of blue-bright electricity. A faint smell of burned flesh drifted in the dank air. Horrified, Steve struggled to get up under the growing pile of not just bodies, but debris: a fallen filing cabinet, a broken metal crane, a huge, splintered desk. But the quantum leap had weakened him and he found himself straining futilely under the weight.

He realized dimly the noise had ceased. A last scream choked off with a sickening snap of sinew.

He wondered if he should call out.

Then he felt above him the weight being shifted, shoved off of him, pushed aside. He tensed, willing energy and strength to return to his muscles as he waited to be discovered. It hadn’t sounded like there were very many people carrying out the attack; only two or three at most, stealthy, practiced, sure. If they weren’t enhanced, maybe he could still get out alive. He bided his time, sensing the last few bodies being laboriously hefted from on top of him. This person was not as strong as he was.

There was a soft, feminine grunt as the last weight was rolled off him.

He stared up at green eyes, green eyes he’d know anywhere, green eyes he’d missed like his heart and soul had been ripped out of him, green eyes he’d longed to see again even lying in bed next to the love of his life in the long, quiet nights of suburbia.

Green eyes mirroring his own shock.

“Steve?!”

He was dreaming. He pinched himself. She laughed at him. While crying. Still a dream.

He was afraid to call her by name. Maybe he’d wake up.

Before he could say or do anything she had shushed him, ushered him through a corridor, a cabinet, an air vent; a tunnel, a catacomb, a sewer. A manhole. A side street. A blind alley. She propped him up against a brick wall, panting from the exertion.

Sunlight, fresh air. It reminded him, ironically, of his and Peggy’s neighborhood. He blinked at her, still dazed. Still hoping against hope. “Nat.” It came out a plea, not a question, not a statement.

She pulled off her cowl. Dark hair tumbled down her back. But the smile was the same.

“Steve,” she breathed, and she kissed him.

He crushed her to him, and when they ran out of breath they broke the kiss and just held each other laughing, tears streaming down their faces.

“What happened with Thanos?” she whispered.

“We won,” he told her. He would explain later.

They picked up supplies, with mute exchanged glances slipping with long-practiced ease into old covers of boyfriend and girlfriend. This was convenient, too, as Steve found himself unable to stop touching her, keeping hold of her—lightly, fearfully, as though she might disappear if he clung too hard. He grasped her arm, held her hand, entwined his fingers with hers. At first she stopped and looked at him searchingly, but there was no time for questions, and she squeezed his hand back.

As night fell she led him to her safehouse, the basement of a run-down apartment building in a decrepit area of town. She shut and secured the front door behind them and he dropped down onto the bare concrete floor, leaning up against the wall, suddenly exhausted. She smiled at him fondly, already on her way to the refrigerator.

“Let’s get some food into you.”

She had always been a competent cook—she tended to succeed at everything she tried, he reminded himself—and soon the tempting smell of soup roused him from weariness. As he came to her little dining table he found himself looking over her small but cozily furnished space and almost laughed aloud at the sense of relief that abruptly washed over him: Her bed had only a single pillow. There was only one mug (chipped). There was only one photograph, set up on a cluttered bookshelf, showing her with a dog.

“What’s so funny?” She was smiling at him, he realized belatedly. He must still be so damn transparent to her.

He tried his best to lie anyway. “I didn’t know you liked dogs.”

She turned back to the refrigerator with a smirk. Humoring him. “Belongs to a friend of mine.”

Soon he was savoring a steaming bowl of hearty soup with excellent brown bread. Almost as hungrily he devoured her with his gaze as she sat down at the table next to him with her own meal.

She flushed under his scrutiny as she talked quickly but gently, oriented him in time and space as if she were merely debriefing another agent. Steve almost laughed at the thought, then found himself blinking back new tears. The familiarity felt good, as good as nothing had felt in years.

She had woken up, she said, in an abandoned facility in Belarus, twenty-one days after that fateful snap of Thanos’s fingers. Knowing the timeline had been compromised, she had kept a low profile in the years since. Establishing a discreet new identity had been easy enough, but she had soon found herself falling into old habits, picking up on intel despite herself, and now ran what self-imposed missions she could to uproot or expose clandestine new terrorist or paramilitary organizations.

“What you arrived in this afternoon, practically by sheer accident, was the underground lab of a Neo-Hydra cell based outside Nuremberg.” She ladled a second helping of soup into his empty bowl even without his asking and he couldn’t help smiling to himself. “Some months ago Pym and Van Dyne’s research was stolen, so I’ve been monitoring this group and a few others in case something would turn up.” Her grin turned teary-eyed. “I didn’t expect that you would.”

He shook his head. “Our turn in the quantum realm won’t happen for another few years yet. I’m no physicist but I’m guessing those bastards did something right.”

She laughed, even as a tear ran down her cheek. “Too bad I killed them before I could thank them.”

He chuckled back. “Maybe next time.” Without thinking, he reached out to wipe her tear away.

She stilled under his touch, lowering her eyes to the table. “Steve...”

“Natasha.” He luxuriated in her name. He hadn’t said it out loud in a very long time. She hesitated, then clasped his hand in both of hers, cradling it against her cheek for a moment.

“What happened, Steve?” Her eyes on him were urgent, her tone deliberate.

She needed him to be honest with her, he knew.

“I missed you,” he said simply.

He’d always been honest. But he had never been so forthcoming. Steve, in his old age, was done waiting.

They made love tentatively in the shower, exploring each other tenderly, retracing old paths, discovering new ones. They had slept together in the past a few times, sought comfort, sought relief. They’d been careful to keep up boundaries, respect the limits of their friendship. But this time Steve was focused, devoted. He could sense Nat’s surprise—her surprise and her heightened pleasure—and cursed himself for never having really paid attention before, never actually noticing how earnestly she met his every move, how her face glowed with passion when she looked into his eyes.

They nearly fell out of her single-sized bed more than once, each time melting into smothered laughter; with teeth and tongue she plotted the delicate shift of muscle and vein down his neck until he could stand it no longer and pulled her down for a growling kiss. He remembered to deadly effect how she wanted his mouth between her legs and she came helplessly, sobbing, holding on to the headstand for dear life, because it had only ever really been him.

Maybe it was the super serum, maybe it was too much energy after what felt like a lifetime of lonely duty. Heck, maybe it was the soup. But he found himself lying awake under her softly snoring form, not restless, just thoughtful. He watched as the approaching day splashed ever-lightening blues and purples on the wall across from her only window.

For the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to the sunrise.

fin

[The Russos want multiple timelines?? Let’s give ‘em multiple timelines!! (I actually can’t bring myself to watch “Endgame” a third time, just for the heartache...💔)]

#fix-it fic #oneshot #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #captain america #black widow #steve x natasha #avengers endgame #romanogers #steve x nat

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volatilepersonality · 5 years

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REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

The following quotes and phrases are taken from the stories in Thomas Ligotti’s anthology Songs of a Dead Dreamer. Some of these quotes were slightly tweaked for the sake of this meme. If you enjoy the imagery or writing in this meme, please support the author by purchasing his work. Content warnings for horror in general and brief mentions of blood, nihilism, unreality, mannequins, dolls, puppets, and some body horror.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: (If you are a multimuse blog, specify what muse you are filling this out for.) Tagged by: stolen from @suisosei Tagging: @tuneback @duplikiss @crepcscolo @resolvebled @unzipswig @fatebond @stxrspin @myentropy

The Frolic

Absolute madness paired with a sharp cunning / an expression of sky-blue peacefulness / the indistinct happiness of the future / a piece of moon above the opulent leafage of spring trees / a broken-down kingdom of miracles and horrors / a Neverland where dizzy chaos is the norm / a cosmos of crooked houses and littered alleys / a slum among the stars / a jolly river of refuse / jagged heaps in shadows / a phantasmagoric mingling of heaven and hell / a moonlit corridor where mirrors scream and laugh / dreamy back-drops / ice cubes in an empty glass / shifting expressions on a lean face / vague suggestions and subtle jokes / an Aphrodite sculpture / the wind, cold and dead / a crumbled piece of paper / black-foaming gutters / the dank windowless gloom of some intergalactic cellar / starless cities of insanity / a bright freezing scream of laughter / a passing anecdote of some obscure hell

Les Fleurs

sorrowful flowers / lilting blossoms for a loved one’s memorial / a florist shop / flowers which open only at night / a hothouse warm smile / night-blooming cereuses / a sleek ocelot / well-preserved old places / plants resembling birds / white picket fences / flower-printed curtains / liqueur tasting of flowers from open fields / cool, clean offices / invisible wings whipping the warm air in darkness / the sounds of black orchids growing / the flower-bedded earth / a ripple of empathetic insight / a gorgeous kingdom of glittering colors / velvety jungle-shapes / contorted rainbows and twisted auroras / hyper-radiant hues / a marvelous arcana / tongue-like floral appendages / tongues flowering

Alice’s Last Adventure

Volatile years when anything might go wrong / the embodiment of topsy-turvydom / pools of rainwater / tarnished mirrors / moonlit windows / a thousand misshapen marvels / a universe handed over to new gods / stoic tolerance of a second-rate reality / two complete strangers gawking at each other / a shiny, pearl-grey casket / black orchids / a strange combination of relief and confusion / a delayed echo with oblique origins / a chain of occurrences with links as weak as smoke rings / a sunny autumn morning / a sense of duty, vanity, and other less comprehensible motives / the seas of the moon / costumed kids / the cries of bedlamites / the clamor of rambunctious kids / a half-cocked oration / jack-o’-lanterns glowing orange and yellow / masked children / a plastic cup of cider / shadows wavering against two-story facades / a lamp with a shade of Tiffany glass / a disciple of the bizarre / an autumn moon hanging in the blackness / demonic giggling / the moon / a clock / shadows in the window

Dream of a Manikin

A mostly tacit but somehow complete biography / a marvelous trick of the mind / jeweled lamps along the walls / lights shining on an intricately patterned carpet and various pieces of old furniture / star-clustered blackness / a starry abyss / an iciness drifting in from a starscape / a horrible truth / a legend written somewhere at the bottom of a dream / echoing voices bouncing here and there around the room / a motto printed on fortune cookie-like strips of paper and hidden in bureau drawers / a broken record repeating itself on an ancient Victrola / an alighting flock of birds / a field of dynamic tension / a dry sibilant voice / people dressed as dolls / shaking with tremors of the uncanny / a manikin dresser / astral ambience / occult studies and depth analysis / delving into speculative models of reality / cosmic static / harassments of the self / the boundaries of the self / a Bigger Self terrorizing its little splinter selves / cosmic ennui / a serendipitous discovery / this dream of flesh / guilty until proven otherwise / valerian and camphor baths / cryptic impudence / softly glowing display windows / the divine bonds of unreality / a medium-intensity shower / display-window dummies / rain-spotted glasses / a car with rain-blinded windows / a moment of self-terror / the mythical conspiracy of a treacherous universe / a galaxy of constellations/ a vaporous glowing / a whitened hallway / dolls made up to look like people / eyes shining in the white darkness / a powerful psychic metaphor

The Chymist

Daydreaming in the key of Rosicrucianism / bubblegum and beer / a chalice in a church / a serum vial in a laboratory / the tartness of one’s smile / a very keen appreciation of diversity / decrepitude / the withering heart of the deceased / bastardized nostalgia / the putrescence of things past / arching mirrors / chrome chandeliers / second-hand fantasies and out-of-date distractions / one strange thing next to another / a genius of vulgarity / a lawless paradise / violence without violation / a smoke-gray sky / city-soiled clumps of snow / fluxing clouds that swirl above the chimneys and trees / alchemical transmutations / the glamour and sanity of former days / a new mask of rats and rot / a hopeless stroll along the path to hypothetically higher worlds / a body whose true outline remains unknown / the whims of chemistry / the caprices of circumstance / the enigma of personal taste / a leather vessel with a void inside / the skeleton of a dream / lights outlining the different venues and avenues below / a bottle of powdered light / pulverized diamonds / the flesh and blood kaleidoscope of one’s imagination / a prodigious insurrection of entity / a tempest of transfiguration

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish/ riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool / a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling /a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Missing girls in Gothic garb / amber going on red / a reddish haze / a crazy purpurean tapestry / a fair-haired girl / denim slacks and a leather jacket / bloody moonlight / a long sip from a can of iced tea /persecutions and imperilments as glamorous as those of any Gothic heroine / violet eyes / the machinations of an evil-hearted malefactor /haunting second-hand shops / a strip of dark velvet seized by a pearl brooch / a frail chain from which dangles a heart-shaped locket / a whirlpooling lock of golden hair / gloves, long and powdery pale / the shoulders of heavy capes lined in satin that shines like a black sun / enveloping hoods / capes with deep pockets and generous inner pouches for secreting precious souvenirs / capes with silk strings that tie about the neck / capes with weighted hems that nonetheless flutter weightlessly in midnight gusts / doll-size in a dark doll’s costume / quivering bones and feverish blood / fear’s funereal plume / carriage wheels rioting in a lavender mist or a pearly fog / nacreous fires twitching beyond the margins of country roads / cliffs and stars / a blur of crimson shadows / vast regions of sublime desolation / mountains hulking in hazy twilight / a rather large animal collar at the end of a chain leash / a light the color of fresh meat / a page in a depraved story book / a single candle glowing through red glass / little zippers and big zippers / a moth-eaten cloak / enthralling cruelties / spangled eyebrows / a brow of glittering silver / glistening with tiny flecks of starlight / the velvet embrace of one’s favorite cape / the tall candles one lights on stormy nights / chains of raindrops whipping against one’s windows / places where raging storms and brutal subjugations never end / the hardships of traveling to strange faraway places / frail little dolls / wild-wind nights and sadistic villains / corridors of scarlet darkness / a captive of one’s heart and its infinite chambers

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

Something magical / something timeless / something profound / a sooty basement / the putrid members of a man who is decomposing / a plain brown package marked Hope, Love, or Fortune Cookies and postmarked: the Edge of the Unknown / a helter-skelter universe where things are ever threatening to go abnormal and unreal / a normal, real love / impermanence and decay / evils sent out under various covers / sublime and terrifying conflict / fearsome, fantastical, and inhuman / moon-trimmed shadows / lunar landscapes of craggy peaks / skeletal wastelands of jagged ice / a brooding Gothic hero / an ethereal Gothic heroine / a castle-like skyscraper / an extra dose of obsessiveness / the Gothic tale / a militant romantic / waves of bombast / winds of ecstatic hysteria / a partially shattered window, its surface streaked with a blue film of dust / a sublime sense of desolation / the diluted glow of twilight / night’s enveloping cloak / grimy azure dimness / bluish semi-luminescence / tears of confusion / turquoise haze / blue shadows of silence / liquefying legs / an old storyteller / the voice of a tiny insect crying for help from inside a sealed coffin / a piercing, crystal shriek that lacerates the midnight blackness / a haunter of spectral marketplaces / Gothic glory / a horror writer / an ardent consumer of the abnormal and the unreal / a visitant of discount houses of unreality / subject only to the rule of demonic forces / puppet-shadows / a hell so excruciating it is bliss itself / bony wings rising out of one’s back / jaws that are a cavern of dripping silver / rivers of putrescent gold running through one’s veins

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

Diamond-paned windows / a thick December fog / a serene congregation of colors / holly, both fresh and artificial / a pale purple ribbon / a ritual forever reenacted without hope of escape / a large chair beside a fogged window / crackling logs / a foggy winter’s night / bright Christmas lights shining through the fog / always dead with darkness / always alive with lights

The Lost Art of Twilight

A streak of iodine red / a spattering of flat black / the early autumn sun / silver hair / a gray suit / a long envelope, neatly cesareaned / the charnel house creeps / a silver shield / crepuscular radiance / an offspring of the dead / the progeny of phantoms / the big green eye of an EEG monitor / De Plancy’s Dictionnaire infernal / a rainbow of insects / the science of superstition / the Provencal countryside / a pantheon of gargoyles amid the splendor of a medieval church / a holy soldier of the living / a monster of the dead / the astral banquet of Art / the rotting flesh of rainbows / the sonar screech of a bat / vampiric origins / the oncoming onyx of a storm / shadows and sunshine / glare and gloom / bright clouds and black / iron-red leaves / tentative drops of rain / blue bears and yellow rabbits / neither a blood-warm human nor a blood-drawing devil / oceans of blood / the ravenous life of the undead / an authoritative impatience / eternal life in an eternal death

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Pale gray pajamas / thick sheets of paper / a bottle of black ink / a shapely black pen with a silvery nib / strands of blond hair, almost white / a sudden salty breeze / silhouettes and shadows / unreflecting windows / metal hinges squeaking somewhere in the wind / a sleepless night /constellations beyond the window panes / star-filled hours / the pure whiteness of the page / a flung shoe leaning toe-up against a bedpost / nothingness unstained by inner conception / white snow in a white sky /dark lines and vacant spaces / vast expanses of frozen whiteness / a church in a foreign town / assorted devils and demons / ice-mad mountains / a spirit of malicious abandon / nightmarish anatomies / a sickle-shaped scar of moon / sea-licked shores / dark letters / feeding one’s troubles to the sea / brown-leafed trees / a forest of memorials / clumps of crosses / groves of gravestones / dark, cowl-shaped windows / unblemished by shadows / the sound of crashing waves / bending dawns into twilights / static from a broken radio / breaking waves / seaside air/ a gleaming crescent moon / a bone-white cicatrix / chronic insomnia / a blade of moon / white night, white noise

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

The confusions of carnival night / gyrations of squealing abandon / lines between pain and pleasure / a rainbow of rags / a startling length of blade / pale pages elegantly dappled by somber verses / a pair of strangely darkened spectacles / the toneless voice of one who is dead to all appeasement or mercy / mounds of snow that had been sown with ashes / eyes as dark and swirled with shadows as the raving night itself / a constellation of designs / mad games of flesh and steel / a forbidden madness / dense forests of tall pikes planted in the earth / shadows rolling in empty sockets / lacerated mouths / the darkness of dreams / to see the world drown in oceans of agony / visions of butchering the angels / a god of deceit or illusion / chaos at feast / black with scars of madness / darkly clouded glass / the brightest and highest of stars / shimmering halls / unnaturally colored wine / red-smeared forms / many-taloned claws / the velvet fingers of a tightly gloved hand / a pair of leviathan leeches / a lord of the sword made mad / the dark powers which we cannot understand but only hate / rhapsodic voices in the streets / a privileged doom / the face of the soul of the world / the cool marble of the floor / an onyx-black knight / a face flushed with crimson glory

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

A scribble of lightning engraved upon a black sky / a long, brightly colored coat / noisy jets of blue-green light flickering spasmodically / life-size dolls hanging suspended by wires / wetted strands of a spider web / shiny satin legs / a beautifully pale hand / pulverized stars / dismembered limbs of dolls and puppets / the repose of ruin / an oily red glare / a well-dressed dummy / a white high-collar shirt with silver cufflinks / a billowing cravat which displays a pattern of moons and stars / wood waking up / a sleep that should have never been broken / something too painful for tears / the false fire of the moon / two faces sharing a single head / faint, hollow screams from high above / a dummy’s silence / leftover tears of berserk laughter / bluish-green irradiance

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Mist on a lake / fog in thick woods / a golden light shining on wet stones / a little trickle of suspicion in the bloodstream / the solar brilliance of a summer day / supernatural horror / a corner alive with cool drafts and fragrant with centuries of must / a rancid world rife with things smelling of the crypt / a sower of vice / mad winds / wan moonlight / pasty specters / the vividness of pain / the lasting effects of fear / natural-born puppets whose lips are stained with their own blood / dead bodies that walk in the night / living bodies suddenly possessed by new owners and deadly aspirations / the sepulchral pomp of wasting tissue / compassion for human hurt / a humble sense of one’s impermanence / an absolute valuation of justice / a demented innocence in the face of gruesome facts / the horrific reprisals of affirmation / the Cosmic Macabre / the shudders of a thousand graveyards

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

Gray walls pocked like sponges / nights of futile tears and screaming / an expression of almost paternal forgiveness / the supreme delirium of the planets / bright puppets dancing in the blackness / a golden speck of magic / the silent, staring universe / something as pathetic as a puppet and as exalted as the stars / something at once dead and never dying / autumn constellations in the black sky above / harshly brilliant eyes / the remote places where truth had been shut up and abandoned

The Sect of the Idiot

Extraordinary joy / extraordinary pain / the great hollow of dreams / an infinitely secluded place / a world that both menaces and surpasses this one / a holy madness / infinite stillness on foggy mornings / miracles of silence on indolent afternoons / the strangely flickering tableau of neverending nights / deceptive depths of shadow / heaps of clouds like dust balls / a fluorescent map of the cosmos / medieval autumns and mute winters / kaleidoscopic windows / a kind of cataclysm of empty space / an earthquake of the invisible / strikingly clear eyes / a dusty trunk of dreams / a maze of streets / an abyss of stars / a great reaching blackness / a stale gray dimness / an alien order of being / an icy blackness / starry blackness / a great round moon / deep aquatic blue / the voids of astronomy / a state of both paralyzed terror and spellbound curiosity / whispering figures / stagnant moonlight / withered, wilted claws / drooping tentacles / the spinning legs of spiders / the greedy rubbing of a fly’s spindly feelers / the darting tongues of snakes / the triumph of the grotesque / whispering effigies of chaos / putrid arcana / an ecstatic horror / horrific ecstasy / the demonic elements of which all creation is composed / corruption in disguise / a cache of unwonted offerings stored out of sight / currents of fear / dark tremors / splendid scenes broken with malign shadows / the lurid and the lovely forever lost in each other’s embrace / the arch of an old street / tunnel-like hallways / sickly light shining through unwashed, curtainless windows / atmospherics of infinite melancholy and unease / a decayed paradise / the everlasting residue of some cosmic misfortune / a solemn, mechanical intentness / a smooth and solid cube of black glass / a malignant puppet of madness / dazed in darkness / embarrassed throat-clearings / reproving looks / words which could only have meaning in a nightmare / a thing of strange degeneracy / a quintessence of hellish delirium / freakish, echoing laughter / the whispering of strangers / twitching tentacles / a horror which cannot be helped

The Greater Festival of Masks

The old and new / the real and imaginary / truth and deception / shops of costumes and masks / an incautious curiosity / shredded rags that are easily disturbed by the wind / a poster stuck to a crumbling wall / strange pathways of caprice / the outsized moon / silvery windows / doors which are elaborately decorated yet will not budge in their frames / massive shutters covering blank walls behind them / faces of dreams /sardonically grinning / innocence and excuses / a reddish glow of fire / a wad of bubbling blackness / smooth and faceless faces / the speaker in the shadows / the soft creaking of new faces breaking through old flesh

The Music of the Moon

Breaking the quiet of a moonlit room / enchantments that nearly make amends for one’s stolen slumber / some unusual shape leaping across steep roofs / a bewildering agility / many nights of sleepless hell / a knife / rope / a poison vial / an exploit of uncommon decisiveness / blank nights of insomnia / a handbill / ashes mixed with grease / a door with a faint yellow aura leaking out at its edges / small, shadowlike things moving in corners and along the floor molding / a quartet of musicians / a voice which sounds both exhausted and malicious / pale, ragged clouds of hair / sonic abnormality / an empty shaft of blackness / spherical lamps caked with dust / the silence of a dark, lifeless world / black silhouettes of human heads visible only in the moonlight / slow music in the soft darkness / a single note wavering in a universe of darkness / a incalculable proliferation of slightly dissonant harmony / the light of a quiet gray dawn / completely helpless, and yet content to be so / thick layers of webs / gazing at nothing with bleeding sockets / the moon all fat and pale, glaring down from its gauzy webs of clouds

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals /the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror /placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

Candles in a cloistered cell / shapes beneath the shadows / tall buildings whose rooftops nod groundward / wide buildings whose facades follow the curve of a street / buildings whose windows and doorways tilt like badly hung paintings / stairways that wander off-course into useless places / caged elevators that urge unwanted stops on their passengers / a sequestered civilization of echoes flourishing among groaning walls / thin ladders ascending into a maze of shafts and conduits / the dark valves and arteries of a petrified and monstrous organism / a desolate serenity / silvery cinders / the mouths of great chimneys / shadow-puppets / cluttered gardens and crooked gates / the purling waters of black canals / faded masks concealing profound schemes / a place of supernatural clarity and stillness / the crystalline glare of a lantern / moonlight through a curtained window / darkened windows / souls who believe that the only value of this world lies in its power—at certain times— to suggest another / a scattering of stars and lights / a coveted paradise / the most gauzy phantom of another place / a shadowy mimic / the anatomy of a great dream / everlasting echoes / a rectangle of smudged glass within another rectangle of scuffed wood / crowded shelves / remnants of a luxuriant autumn / an obscene reality / to dwell among the ruins of reality / shadowed volumes / scripture that would begin with the portents of apocalypse and end with the wreck of all creation / to become the wind in the dead of winter / to howl the undoing of all that would abide in warmth and light / an enticing verse in a volume of esoterica / the dream of attaining some untainted good / a disastrous enlightenment / some hypothetical state of pure glory / the revelation that nothing ever known has ended in glory / some strictly demonic enterprise / something about one’s presence that makes one think of a crow / a scavenging creature in wait / a large, two-headed shadow / the sad frustration of the uninvited, the abandoned / the brilliant rectangle of a doorway / hopes and curiosities of an indeterminable kind / free-standing bookcases / pages and bindings of uncommon texture /abstract diagrams suggesting no orthodox ritual or occult system / a chronicle of strange dreams / an invocation of a world in waiting of genesis / days distilled into dreams and nights into nightmares / a deliverance by damnation / nightmare made normal / a horror uncompromised by any feeling of lost joy or a thwarted searching for the good / a nightmare transformed in spirit by the utter absence of refuge / a utopia of exhaustion, confusion, and debris / a dialogue of mystification, and possibly one of lies / the edge of a dreamless void / a dark and devouring bird / shadows and moonlight / an unbending web of heavy wire / unjust confinement / a slender syringe crowned with a silvery needle

#history worn on skin for all to see (headcanon)#this took forever and i'm beat

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antonverloc · 5 years

Text

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

Bold what applies to your muse.

TAGGED BY: stolen TAGGING: u

The Frolic

Les Fleurs

Alice’s Last Adventure

Dream of a Manikin

A mostly tacit but somehow complete biography / a marvelous trick of the mind / jeweled lamps along the walls / lights shining on an intricately patterned carpet and various pieces of old furniture / star-clustered blackness / a starry abyss / an iciness drifting in from a starscape / a horrible truth / a legend written somewhere at the bottom of a dream / echoing voices bouncing here and there around the room / a motto printed on fortune cookie-like strips of paper and hidden in bureau drawers / a broken record repeating itself on an ancient Victrola / an alighting flock of birds / a field of dynamic tension / a dry sibilant voice / people dressed as dolls / shaking with tremors of the uncanny / a manikin dresser / astral ambience / occult studies and depth analysis / delving into speculative models of reality / cosmic static / harassments of the self / the boundaries of the self / a Bigger Self terrorizing its little splinter selves / cosmic ennui / a serendipitous discovery / this dream of flesh / guilty until proven otherwise / valerian and camphor baths / cryptic impudence / softly glowing display windows / the divine bonds of unreality / a medium-intensity shower / display-window dummies / rain-spotted glasses / a car with rain-blinded windows / a moment of self-terror / the mythical conspiracy of a treacherous universe / a galaxy of constellations / a vaporous glowing / a whitened hallway / dolls made up to look like people / eyes shining in the white darkness / a powerful psychic metaphor

The Chymist

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish / riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool /a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling / a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Missing girls in Gothic garb / amber going on red / a reddish haze / a crazy purpurean tapestry / a fair-haired girl / denim slacks and a leather jacket / bloody moonlight / a long sip from a can of iced tea / persecutions and imperilments as glamorous as those of any Gothic heroine / violet eyes / the machinations of an evil-hearted malefactor / haunting second-hand shops / a strip of dark velvet seized by a pearl brooch / a frail chain from which dangles a heart-shaped locket / a whirlpooling lock of golden hair / gloves, long and powdery pale / the shoulders of heavy capes lined in satin that shines like a black sun / enveloping hoods / capes with deep pockets and generous inner pouches for secreting precious souvenirs / capes with silk strings that tie about the neck / capes with weighted hems that nonetheless flutter weightlessly in midnight gusts / doll-size in a dark doll’s costume / quivering bones and feverish blood / fear’s funereal plume / carriage wheels rioting in a lavender mist or a pearly fog / nacreous fires twitching beyond the margins of country roads / cliffs and stars / a blur of crimson shadows / vast regions of sublime desolation / mountains hulking in hazy twilight / a rather large animal collar at the end of a chain leash / a light the color of fresh meat / a page in a depraved story book / a single candle glowing through red glass / little zippers and big zippers / a moth-eaten cloak / enthralling cruelties / spangled eyebrows / a brow of glittering silver / glistening with tiny flecks of starlight / the velvet embrace of one’s favorite cape / the tall candles one lights on stormy nights / chains of raindrops whipping against one’s windows / places where raging storms and brutal subjugations never end / the hardships of traveling to strange faraway places / frail little dolls / wild-wind nights and sadistic villains / corridors of scarlet darkness / a captive of one’s heart and its infinite chambers

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

The Lost Art of Twilight

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Pale gray pajamas / thick sheets of paper / a bottle of black ink / a shapely black pen with a silvery nib / strands of blond hair, almost white / a sudden salty breeze / silhouettes and shadows / unreflecting windows / metal hinges squeaking somewhere in the wind / a sleepless night / constellations beyond the window panes / star-filled hours / the pure whiteness of the page / a flung shoe leaning toe-up against a bedpost / nothingness unstained by inner conception / white snow in a white sky / dark lines and vacant spaces / vast expanses of frozen whiteness / a church in a foreign town / assorted devils and demons / ice-mad mountains / a spirit of malicious abandon / nightmarish anatomies / a sickle-shaped scar of moon / sea-licked shores / dark letters / feeding one’s troubles to the sea / brown-leafed trees / a forest of memorials / clumps of crosses / groves of gravestones / dark, cowl-shaped windows / unblemished by shadows / the sound of crashing waves /bending dawns into twilights / static from a broken radio / breaking waves / seaside air / a gleaming crescent moon / a bone-white cicatrix / chronic insomnia / a blade of moon / white night, white noise

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

The Sect of the Idiot

Extraordinary joy / extraordinary pain / the great hollow of dreams / an infinitely secluded place / a world that both menaces and surpasses this one / a holy madness / infinite stillness on foggy mornings / miracles of silence on indolent afternoons / the strangely flickering tableau of neverending nights / deceptive depths of shadow / heaps of clouds like dust balls / a fluorescent map of the cosmos / medieval autumns and mute winters /kaleidoscopic windows / a kind of cataclysm of empty space / an earthquake of the invisible / strikingly clear eyes / a dusty trunk of dreams / a maze of streets / an abyss of stars / a great reaching blackness / a stale gray dimness / an alien order of being / an icy blackness /starry blackness / a great round moon / deep aquatic blue / the voids of astronomy / a state of both paralyzed terror and spellbound curiosity / whispering figures / stagnant moonlight / withered, wilted claws / drooping tentacles / the spinning legs of spiders / the greedy rubbing of a fly’s spindly feelers / the darting tongues of snakes / the triumph of the grotesque / whispering effigies of chaos / putrid arcana / an ecstatic horror / horrific ecstasy / the demonic elements of which all creation is composed / corruption in disguise / a cache of unwonted offerings stored out of sight / currents of fear / dark tremors / splendid scenes broken with malign shadows / the lurid and the lovely forever lost in each other’s embrace / the arch of an old street / tunnel-like hallways / sickly light shining through unwashed, curtainless windows / atmospherics of infinite melancholy and unease / a decayed paradise / the everlasting residue of some cosmic misfortune / a solemn, mechanical intentness / a smooth and solid cube of black glass / a malignant puppet of madness / dazed in darkness / embarrassed throat-clearings / reproving looks / words which could only have meaning in a nightmare / a thing of strange degeneracy / a quintessence of hellish delirium / freakish, echoing laughter / the whispering of strangers / twitching tentacles / a horror which cannot be helped

The Greater Festival of Masks

The old and new / the real and imaginary / truth and deception / shops of costumes and masks / an incautious curiosity / shredded rags that are easily disturbed by the wind / a poster stuck to a crumbling wall / strange pathways of caprice / the outsized moon / silvery windows / doors which are elaborately decorated yet will not budge in their frames / massive shutters covering blank walls behind them / faces of dreams / sardonically grinning / innocence and excuses / a reddish glow of fire / a wad of bubbling blackness / smooth and faceless faces / the speaker in the shadows / the soft creaking of new faces breaking through old flesh

The Music of the Moon

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals / the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror / placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

Candles in a cloistered cell / shapes beneath the shadows / tall buildings whose rooftops nod groundward / wide buildings whose facades follow the curve of a street / buildings whose windows and doorways tilt like badly hung paintings / stairways that wander off-course into useless places / caged elevators that urge unwanted stops on their passengers / a sequestered civilization of echoes flourishing among groaning walls / thin ladders ascending into a maze of shafts and conduits / the dark valves and arteries of a petrified and monstrous organism / a desolate serenity / silvery cinders / the mouths of great chimneys / shadow-puppets / cluttered gardens and crooked gates / the purling waters of black canals / faded masks concealing profound schemes / a place of supernatural clarity and stillness / the crystalline glare of a lantern / moonlight through a curtained window / darkened windows / souls who believe that the only value of this world lies in its power—at certain times— to suggest another / a scattering of stars and lights / a coveted paradise / the most gauzy phantom of another place / a shadowy mimic / the anatomy of a great dream / everlasting echoes / a rectangle of smudged glass within another rectangle of scuffed wood / crowded shelves / remnants of a luxuriant autumn / an obscene reality / to dwell among the ruins of reality / shadowed volumes / scripture that would begin with the portents of apocalypse and end with the wreck of all creation / to become the wind in the dead of winter / to howl the undoing of all that would abide in warmth and light / an enticing verse in a volume of esoterica / the dream of attaining some untainted good / a disastrous enlightenment / some hypothetical state of pure glory / the revelation that nothing ever known has ended in glory / some strictly demonic enterprise / something about one’s presence that makes one think of a crow / a scavenging creature in wait / a large, two-headed shadow / the sad frustration of the uninvited, the abandoned / the brilliant rectangle of a doorway / hopes and curiosities of an indeterminable kind / free-standing bookcases / pages and bindings of uncommon texture / abstract diagrams suggesting no orthodox ritual or occult system / a chronicle of strange dreams / an invocation of a world in waiting of genesis / days distilled into dreams and nights into nightmares / a deliverance by damnation / nightmare made normal / a horror uncompromised by any feeling of lost joy or a thwarted searching for the good / a nightmare transformed in spirit by the utter absence of refuge / a utopia of exhaustion, confusion, and debris / a dialogue of mystification, and possibly one of lies / the edge of a dreamless void / a dark and devouring bird / shadows and moonlight / an unbending web of heavy wire / unjust confinement / a slender syringe crowned with a silvery needle

#long post #HEADCANONS ╱ IN THE DARK JUST YOU AND ANGER.

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astrxthesiai · 7 months

Text

Chrome's Tags

⇢✶ training with the Sasagawas 《chrome’s questionnaire results》

[Questionnaire Results]

⇢✶about the petite illusionist 《chrome’s headcanons》

[Headcanons]

⇢✶musings from the fog 《chrome’s musings》

[Musings]

⇢✶interview with a mist guardian 《chrome’s answers》

[Ask Replies]

⇢✶ trials by combat 《chrome’s rp replies》

[RP Replies]

⇢✶misty ambiance 《chrome’s soundtrack》

[Soundtrack]

⇢✶tridents and lotuses《chrome’s aesthetics》

[Aesthetics]

⇢✶ the budding lotus《chrome dokuro 》

⇢✶nagi reincarnated as chrome 《chrome’s main verse》

[Main Verse - KHR]

⇢✶twin flames manifested 《chrome x mukuro》

[6996]

#⇢✶twin flames manifested 《chrome x mukuro》#⇢✶nagi reincarnated as chrome 《chrome’s main verse》#⇢✶ the budding lotus《chrome dokuro 》#⇢✶tridents and lotuses《chrome’s aesthetics》#⇢✶misty ambiance 《chrome’s soundtrack》#⇢✶ trials by combat 《chrome’s rp replies》#⇢✶interview with a mist guardian 《chrome’s answers》#⇢✶musings from the fog 《chrome’s musings》#⇢✶about the petite illusionist 《chrome’s headcanons》#⇢✶ training with the Sasagawas 《chrome’s questionnaire results》

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devoutconfidence · 5 years

Text

— bold all physical traits that apply to your muse.

tagged by: stolen from myself

tagging: steal this from me

eyes (color): chestnut / chocolate brown / cocoa brown / coffee brown / mocha / mahogany / sepia / sienna brown / mink brown / dark brown / copper / amber / cognac / whiskey / brandy / honey / tawny / topaz / hazel / obsidian / onyx / coal / raven / midnight / sky blue / sunny blue / cornflower blue / steel blue / ice blue / arctic blue / glacial blue / crystal blue / cerulean / electric blue / azure / lake blue / aquamarine / turquoise / denim blue / slate blue / slate gray / storm blue / storm gray / silver / silver gray / chrome / platinum / pewter / smoky gray / ash gray / concrete gray / dove gray / shark gray / fog gray / gunmetal gray / olive / emerald / leaf green / moss green. / periwinkle

eyebrows: arched / straight / plucked / sparse / trim / dark / faint / thin / thick / unruly / bushy / heavy

nose: snub / dainty / button / turned-up / long / broad (slightly) / thin / straight / pointed / crooked / aquiline / roman / bulbous / flared / hawk / strong

mouth/lips: thin / narrow / full / lush / cupid’s bow / rosebud / dry / cracked / chapped / moist / glossy / straight teeth / crooked teeth / gap between teeth / gleaming white teeth / yellowed teeth / braces / overbite / underbite / dimples

facial hair: clean-shaven / smooth-shaven / beard / neckbeard / goatee / moustache / sideburns / mutton-chop sideburns / stubble / a few days’ growth of beard / five o’ clock shadow

hair (general): long / short / shoulder-length / loose / limp / dull / shiny / glossy / sleek / smooth / luminous / lustrous / spiky / stringy / shaggy / tangled / messy / tousled / windblown / unkempt / straggly / neatly combed / parted / slicked down / slicked back / cropped / clipped / buzzed / buzz cut / curly / bushy / frizzy / wavy / straight / lanky / dry / oily / greasy / layers / corkscrews / spirals / ringlets / braids / dreadlocks / widow’s peak / bald / shaved / comb-over / thick / luxuriant / voluminous / full / wild / untamed / bouncy / wispy / fine / thinning

hair (color): black / blue-black / jet black / raven / ebony / inky black / midnight / sable / salt and pepper / silver / silver gray / charcoal gray / steel gray / white / snow-white / brown / brunette / chocolate brown / coffee brown / ash brown / brown sugar / nut brown / caramel / tawny brown / toffee brown / red / ginger / auburn / copper / russet / strawberry blonde / butterscotch / honey / wheat / blonde / golden / sandy blond / flaxen / fair-haired / bleached / platinum

hands: delicate / small / large / square / sturdy / strong / smooth / rough / calloused / elegant / plump / manicured / stubby fingers / long fingers / ragged nails / grimy fingernails / ink-stained

#here comes a wave meant to wash me away || headcanons #helenaisms #long post for ts

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facemypast · 5 years

Text

BOLD ALL PHYSICAL TRAITS THAT APPLY TO YOUR MUSE.

Tagged by: stolen from @warwearysoldier Tagging: anyone :)

#★≡【(re)вυιlт ғroм тнe вoттoм υp│нeαdcαɴoɴ】

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orihimex · 5 years

Text

— bold all physical traits that apply to your muse.

repost don’t reblog

tagged by: taken from @fiercekunoichi

tagging: All of you ♥

eyebrows: arched / straight / plucked / sparse / trim / dark / faint / thin / thick / unruly / bushy / heavy

nose: snub / dainty / button / turned-up / long / broad / thin / straight / pointed / crooked / aquiline / roman / bulbous / flared / hawk / strong

facial hair: clean-shaven / smooth-shaven / beard / neckbeard / goatee / moustache / sideburns / mutton-chop sideburns / stubble / a few days’ growth of beard / five o’ clock shadow

hair (color): black / blue-black / jet black / raven / ebony / inky black / midnight / sable / salt and pepper / silver / silver gray / charcoal gray / steel gray / white / snow-white / brown / brunette / chocolate brown / coffee brown / ash brown / brown sugar / nut brown / caramel / tawny brown / toffee brown / red / ginger / auburn / copper / strawberry blonde (pink) / butterscotch / honey / wheat / blonde / golden / sandy blond / flaxen / fair-haired / bleached / platinum

hands: delicate / small / large / square / sturdy / strong / smooth / rough / calloused / elegant / plump / manicured / stubby fingers / long fingers / ragged nails / grimy fingernails / ink-stained

#( all about the princess )#welp that was long hahaha

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felldragxn · 6 years

Text

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: Grima (Impossible Odds Verse) Tagged by: nobody i just found it on a meme blog Tagging: NOBODY BECAUSE I WOULD NOT WISH THIS FATE UPON ANYBODY

The Frolic

Les Fleurs

Alice’s Last Adventure

Dream of a Manikin

A mostly tacit but somehow complete biography / a marvelous trick of the mind / jeweled lamps along the walls / lights shining on an intricately patterned carpet and various pieces of old furniture / star-clustered blackness / a starry abyss / an iciness drifting in from a starscape / a horrible truth / a legend written somewhere at the bottom of a dream / echoing voices bouncing here and there around the room / a motto printed on fortune cookie-like strips of paper and hidden in bureau drawers / a broken record repeating itself on an ancient Victrola / an alighting flock of birds / a field of dynamic tension / a dry sibilant voice / people dressed as dolls / shaking with tremors of the uncanny / a manikin dresser / astral ambience / occult studies and depth analysis / delving into speculative models of reality / cosmic static / harassments of the self / the boundaries of the self / a Bigger Self terrorizing its little splinter selves / cosmic ennui / a serendipitous discovery / this dream of flesh / guilty until proven otherwise / valerian and camphor baths / cryptic impudence / softly glowing display windows / the divine bonds of unreality / a medium-intensity shower / display-window dummies / rain-spotted glasses / a car with rain-blinded windows / a moment of self-terror / the mythical conspiracy of a treacherous universe / a galaxy of constellations / a vaporous glowing / a whitened hallway / dolls made up to look like people / eyes shining in the white darkness / a powerful psychic metaphor

The Chymist

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish / riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool / a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling /a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Missing girls in Gothic garb / amber going on red / a reddish haze / a crazy purpurean tapestry / a fair-haired girl / denim slacks and a leather jacket / bloody moonlight / a long sip from a can of iced tea / persecutions and imperilments as glamorous as those of any Gothic heroine / violet eyes / the machinations of an evil-hearted malefactor / haunting second-hand shops / a strip of dark velvet seized by a pearl brooch / a frail chain from which dangles a heart-shaped locket / a whirlpooling lock of golden hair / gloves, long and powdery pale / the shoulders of heavy capes lined in satin that shines like a black sun / enveloping hoods / capes with deep pockets and generous inner pouches for secreting precious souvenirs / capes with silk strings that tie about the neck / capes with weighted hems that nonetheless flutter weightlessly in midnight gusts / doll-size in a dark doll’s costume / quivering bones and feverish blood / fear’s funereal plume / carriage wheels rioting in a lavender mist or a pearly fog / nacreous fires twitching beyond the margins of country roads / cliffs and stars / a blur of crimson shadows / vast regions of sublime desolation / mountains hulking in hazy twilight / a rather large animal collar at the end of a chain leash / a light the color of fresh meat / a page in a depraved story book / a single candle glowing through red glass / little zippers and big zippers / a moth-eaten cloak / enthralling cruelties / spangled eyebrows / a brow of glittering silver / glistening with tiny flecks of starlight / the velvet embrace of one’s favorite cape / the tall candles one lights on stormy nights / chains of raindrops whipping against one’s windows / places where raging storms and brutal subjugations never end / the hardships of traveling to strange faraway places / frail little dolls / wild-wind nights and sadistic villains / corridors of scarlet darkness / a captive of one’s heart and its infinite chambers

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

The Lost Art of Twilight

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Pale gray pajamas / thick sheets of paper / a bottle of black ink / a shapely black pen with a silvery nib / strands of blond hair, almost white / a sudden salty breeze / silhouettes and shadows / unreflecting windows / metal hinges squeaking somewhere in the wind / a sleepless night / constellations beyond the window panes / star-filled hours / the pure whiteness of the page / a flung shoe leaning toe-up against a bedpost / nothingness unstained by inner conception / white snow in a white sky / dark lines and vacant spaces / vast expanses of frozen whiteness / a church in a foreign town / assorted devils and demons / ice-mad mountains / a spirit of malicious abandon / nightmarish anatomies / a sickle-shaped scar of moon / sea-licked shores / dark letters / feeding one’s troubles to the sea / brown-leafed trees / a forest of memorials / clumps of crosses / groves of gravestones / dark, cowl-shaped windows / unblemished by shadows / the sound of crashing waves / bending dawns into twilights / static from a broken radio / breaking waves / seaside air / a gleaming crescent moon / a bone-white cicatrix / chronic insomnia / a blade of moon / white night, white noise

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

The Sect of the Idiot

The Greater Festival of Masks

The old and new / the real and imaginary / truth and deception / shops of costumes and masks / an incautious curiosity / shredded rags that are easily disturbed by the wind / a poster stuck to a crumbling wall / strange pathways of caprice / the outsized moon / silvery windows / doors which are elaborately decorated yet will not budge in their frames / massive shutters covering blank walls behind them / faces of dreams / sardonically grinning / innocence and excuses / a reddish glow of fire / a wad of bubbling blackness / smooth and faceless faces / the speaker in the shadows / the soft creaking of new faces breaking through old flesh

The Music of the Moon

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals / the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror / placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

Candles in a cloistered cell / shapes beneath the shadows / tall buildings whose rooftops nod groundward / wide buildings whose facades follow the curve of a street / buildings whose windows and doorways tilt like badly hung paintings / stairways that wander off-course into useless places / caged elevators that urge unwanted stops on their passengers / a sequestered civilization of echoes flourishing among groaning walls / thin ladders ascending into a maze of shafts and conduits / the dark valves and arteries of a petrified and monstrous organism / a desolate serenity / silvery cinders / the mouths of great chimneys / shadow-puppets / cluttered gardens and crooked gates / the purling waters of black canals / faded masks concealing profound schemes / a place of supernatural clarity and stillness / the crystalline glare of a lantern / moonlight through a curtained window / darkened windows / souls who believe that the only value of this world lies in its power—at certain times— to suggest another / a scattering of stars and lights / a coveted paradise / the most gauzy phantom of another place / a shadowy mimic / the anatomy of a great dream / everlasting echoes / a rectangle of smudged glass within another rectangle of scuffed wood / crowded shelves / remnants of a luxuriant autumn / an obscene reality / to dwell among the ruins of reality / shadowed volumes / scripture that would begin with the portents of apocalypse and end with the wreck of all creation / to become the wind in the dead of winter / to howl the undoing of all that would abide in warmth and light / an enticing verse in a volume of esoterica / the dream of attaining some untainted good / a disastrous enlightenment / some hypothetical state of pure glory / the revelation that nothing ever known has ended in glory / some strictly demonic enterprise / something about one’s presence that makes one think of a crow / a scavenging creature in wait / a large, two-headed shadow / the sad frustration of the uninvited, the abandoned / the brilliant rectangle of a doorway / hopes and curiosities of an indeterminable kind / free-standing bookcases / pages and bindings of uncommon texture / abstract diagrams suggesting no orthodox ritual or occult system / a chronicle of strange dreams / an invocation of a world in waiting of genesis / days distilled into dreams and nights into nightmares / a deliverance by damnation / nightmare made normal / a horror uncompromised by any feeling of lost joy or a thwarted searching for the good / a nightmare transformed in spirit by the utter absence of refuge / a utopia of exhaustion, confusion, and debris / a dialogue of mystification, and possibly one of lies / the edge of a dreamless void / a dark and devouring bird / shadows and moonlight / an unbending web of heavy wire / unjust confinement / a slender syringe crowned with a silvery needle

#ooc ;; memes #long post #the longest post #Fell Dragon ;; Grima #impossible odds ;; au #ooc ;; aesthetic

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suisosei · 6 years

Text

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: (If you are a multimuse blog, specify what muse you are filling this out for.) Tagged by: Me, myself, and I Tagging: *spins a wheel* @rubberbodied @takesaim @onforce @hairctrl and whoever wants to do this!!!

The Frolic

Les Fleurs

Alice’s Last Adventure

Dream of a Manikin

A mostly tacit but somehow complete biography / a marvelous trick of the mind / jeweled lamps along the walls / lights shining on an intricately patterned carpet and various pieces of old furniture / star-clustered blackness / a starry abyss / an iciness drifting in from a starscape / a horrible truth / a legend written somewhere at the bottom of a dream / echoing voices bouncing here and there around the room / a motto printed on fortune cookie-like strips of paper and hidden in bureau drawers / a broken record repeating itself on an ancient Victrola / an alighting flock of birds / a field of dynamic tension / a dry sibilant voice / people dressed as dolls / shaking with tremors of the uncanny / a manikin dresser / astral ambience / occult studies and depth analysis / delving into speculative models of reality / cosmic static / harassments of the self / the boundaries of the self / a Bigger Self terrorizing its little splinter selves / cosmic ennui / a serendipitous discovery / this dream of flesh / guilty until proven otherwise / valerian and camphor baths / cryptic impudence / softly glowing display windows / the divine bonds of unreality / a medium-intensity shower / display-window dummies / rain-spotted glasses / a car with rain-blinded windows / a moment of self-terror / the mythical conspiracy of a treacherous universe / a galaxy of constellations / a vaporous glowing / a whitened hallway / dolls made up to look like people / eyes shining in the white darkness / a powerful psychic metaphor

The Chymist

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish / riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool / a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling /a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Missing girls in Gothic garb / amber going on red / a reddish haze / a crazy purpurean tapestry / a fair-haired girl / denim slacks and a leather jacket / bloody moonlight / a long sip from a can of iced tea / persecutions and imperilments as glamorous as those of any Gothic heroine / violet eyes / the machinations of an evil-hearted malefactor / haunting second-hand shops / a strip of dark velvet seized by a pearl brooch / a frail chain from which dangles a heart-shaped locket / a whirlpooling lock of golden hair / gloves, long and powdery pale / the shoulders of heavy capes lined in satin that shines like a black sun / enveloping hoods / capes with deep pockets and generous inner pouches for secreting precious souvenirs / capes with silk strings that tie about the neck / capes with weighted hems that nonetheless flutter weightlessly in midnight gusts / doll-size in a dark doll’s costume / quivering bones and feverish blood / fear’s funereal plume / carriage wheels rioting in a lavender mist or a pearly fog / nacreous fires twitching beyond the margins of country roads / cliffs and stars / a blur of crimson shadows / vast regions of sublime desolation / mountains hulking in hazy twilight / a rather large animal collar at the end of a chain leash / a light the color of fresh meat / a page in a depraved story book / a single candle glowing through red glass / little zippers and big zippers / a moth-eaten cloak / enthralling cruelties / spangled eyebrows / a brow of glittering silver / glistening with tiny flecks of starlight / the velvet embrace of one’s favorite cape / the tall candles one lights on stormy nights / chains of raindrops whipping against one’s windows / places where raging storms and brutal subjugations never end / the hardships of traveling to strange faraway places / frail little dolls / wild-wind nights and sadistic villains / corridors of scarlet darkness / a captive of one’s heart and its infinite chambers

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

The Lost Art of Twilight

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Pale gray pajamas / thick sheets of paper / a bottle of black ink / a shapely black pen with a silvery nib / strands of blond hair, almost white / a sudden salty breeze / silhouettes and shadows / unreflecting windows / metal hinges squeaking somewhere in the wind / a sleepless night / constellations beyond the window panes / star-filled hours / the pure whiteness of the page / a flung shoe leaning toe-up against a bedpost / nothingness unstained by inner conception / white snow in a white sky / dark lines and vacant spaces / vast expanses of frozen whiteness / a church in a foreign town / assorted devils and demons / ice-mad mountains / a spirit of malicious abandon / nightmarish anatomies / a sickle-shaped scar of moon / sea-licked shores / dark letters / feeding one’s troubles to the sea / brown-leafed trees / a forest of memorials / clumps of crosses / groves of gravestones / dark, cowl-shaped windows / unblemished by shadows / the sound of crashing waves / bending dawns into twilights / static from a broken radio / breaking waves / seaside air / a gleaming crescent moon / a bone-white cicatrix / chronic insomnia / a blade of moon / white night, white noise

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

The Sect of the Idiot

The Greater Festival of Masks

The old and new / the real and imaginary / truth and deception / shops of costumes and masks / an incautious curiosity / shredded rags that are easily disturbed by the wind / a poster stuck to a crumbling wall / strange pathways of caprice / the outsized moon / silvery windows / doors which are elaborately decorated yet will not budge in their frames / massive shutters covering blank walls behind them / faces of dreams / sardonically grinning / innocence and excuses / a reddish glow of fire / a wad of bubbling blackness / smooth and faceless faces / the speaker in the shadows / the soft creaking of new faces breaking through old flesh

The Music of the Moon

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals / the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror /placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

Candles in a cloistered cell / shapes beneath the shadows / tall buildings whose rooftops nod groundward / wide buildings whose facades follow the curve of a street / buildings whose windows and doorways tilt like badly hung paintings / stairways that wander off-course into useless places / caged elevators that urge unwanted stops on their passengers / a sequestered civilization of echoes flourishing among groaning walls / thin ladders ascending into a maze of shafts and conduits / the dark valves and arteries of a petrified and monstrous organism / a desolate serenity / silvery cinders / the mouths of great chimneys / shadow-puppets / cluttered gardens and crooked gates / the purling waters of black canals / faded masks concealing profound schemes / a place of supernatural clarity and stillness / the crystalline glare of a lantern / moonlight through a curtained window / darkened windows / souls who believe that the only value of this world lies in its power—at certain times— to suggest another / a scattering of stars and lights / a coveted paradise / the most gauzy phantom of another place / a shadowy mimic / the anatomy of a great dream / everlasting echoes / a rectangle of smudged glass within another rectangle of scuffed wood / crowded shelves / remnants of a luxuriant autumn / an obscene reality / to dwell among the ruins of reality / shadowed volumes / scripture that would begin with the portents of apocalypse and end with the wreck of all creation / to become the wind in the dead of winter / to howl the undoing of all that would abide in warmth and light / an enticing verse in a volume of esoterica / the dream of attaining some untainted good / a disastrous enlightenment / some hypothetical state of pure glory / the revelation that nothing ever known has ended in glory / some strictly demonic enterprise / something about one’s presence that makes one think of a crow / a scavenging creature in wait / a large, two-headed shadow / the sad frustration of the uninvited, the abandoned / the brilliant rectangle of a doorway / hopes and curiosities of an indeterminable kind / free-standing bookcases / pages and bindings of uncommon texture / abstract diagrams suggesting no orthodox ritual or occult system / a chronicle of strange dreams / an invocation of a world in waiting of genesis / days distilled into dreams and nights into nightmares / a deliverance by damnation / nightmare made normal / a horror uncompromised by any feeling of lost joy or a thwarted searching for the good / a nightmare transformed in spirit by the utter absence of refuge / a utopia of exhaustion, confusion, and debris / a dialogue of mystification, and possibly one of lies / the edge of a dreamless void / a dark and devouring bird / shadows and moonlight / an unbending web of heavy wire / unjust confinement / a slender syringe crowned with a silvery needle

#headcanon #meme response #cut for length ///#blood tw #gore tw #horror tw #nihilism tw #unreality tw #body horror tw #( i mean if i were being completely honest i'd have bolded way more of this but...y'know...i had to be discerning so it wasn't like...every #spooky thing )

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miscellanyofmusings · 6 years

Text

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: (If you are a multimuse blog, specify what muse you are filling this out for.) Tagged by: Tagging:

The Frolic

Les Fleurs

Sorrowful flowers / lilting blossoms for a loved one’s memorial / a florist shop / flowers which open only at night / a hothouse warm smile / night-blooming cereuses / a sleek ocelot / well-preserved old places / plants resembling birds / white picket fences / flower-printed curtains / liqueur tasting of flowers from open fields / cool, clean offices / invisible wings whipping the warm air in darkness / the sounds of black orchids growing / the flower-bedded earth / a ripple of empathetic insight / a gorgeous kingdom of glittering colors / velvety jungle-shapes / contorted rainbows and twisted auroras / hyper-radiant hues / a marvelous arcana / tongue-like floral appendages / tongues flowering

Alice’s Last Adventure

Dream of a Manikin

A mostly tacit but somehow complete biography / a marvelous trick of the mind / jeweled lamps along the walls / lights shining on an intricately patterned carpet and various pieces of old furniture / star-clustered blackness / a starry abyss / an iciness drifting in from a starscape / a horrible truth / a legend written somewhere at the bottom of a dream / echoing voices bouncing here and there around the room / a motto printed on fortune cookie-like strips of paper and hidden in bureau drawers / a broken record repeating itself on an ancient Victrola / an alighting flock of birds / a field of dynamic tension / a dry sibilant voice / people dressed as dolls / shaking with tremors of the uncanny / a manikin dresser / astral ambience / occult studies and depth analysis / delving into speculative models of reality / cosmic static / harassments of the self / the boundaries of the self / a Bigger Self terrorizing its little splinter selves / cosmic ennui / a serendipitous discovery / this dream of flesh / guilty until proven otherwise / valerian and camphor baths / cryptic impudence / softly glowing display windows / the divine bonds of unreality / a medium-intensity shower / display-window dummies / rain-spotted glasses / a car with rain-blinded windows / a moment of self-terror / the mythical conspiracy of a treacherous universe / a galaxy of constellations / a vaporous glowing / a whitened hallway / dolls made up to look like people / eyes shining in the white darkness / a powerful psychic metaphor

The Chymist

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish / riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool / a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling /a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Missing girls in Gothic garb / amber going on red / a reddish haze / a crazy purpurean tapestry / a fair-haired girl / denim slacks and a leather jacket / bloody moonlight / a long sip from a can of iced tea / persecutions and imperilments as glamorous as those of any Gothic heroine / violet eyes / the machinations of an evil-hearted malefactor / haunting second-hand shops / a strip of dark velvet seized by a pearl brooch / a frail chain from which dangles a heart-shaped locket / a whirlpooling lock of golden hair / gloves, long and powdery pale / the shoulders of heavy capes lined in satin that shines like a black sun / enveloping hoods / capes with deep pockets and generous inner pouches for secreting precious souvenirs / capes with silk strings that tie about the neck / capes with weighted hems that nonetheless flutter weightlessly in midnight gusts / doll-size in a dark doll’s costume / quivering bones and feverish blood / fear’s funereal plume / carriage wheels rioting in a lavender mist or a pearly fog / nacreous fires twitching beyond the margins of country roads / cliffs and stars / a blur of crimson shadows / vast regions of sublime desolation / mountains hulking in hazy twilight / a rather large animal collar at the end of a chain leash / a light the color of fresh meat / a page in a depraved story book / a single candle glowing through red glass / little zippers and big zippers / a moth-eaten cloak / enthralling cruelties / spangled eyebrows / a brow of glittering silver / glistening with tiny flecks of starlight / the velvet embrace of one’s favorite cape / the tall candles one lights on stormy nights / chains of raindrops whipping against one’s windows / places where raging storms and brutal subjugations never end / the hardships of traveling to strange faraway places / frail little dolls / wild-wind nights and sadistic villains / corridors of scarlet darkness / a captive of one’s heart and its infinite chambers

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

The Lost Art of Twilight

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Pale gray pajamas / thick sheets of paper / a bottle of black ink / a shapely black pen with a silvery nib / strands of blond hair, almost white / a sudden salty breeze / silhouettes and shadows / unreflecting windows / metal hinges squeaking somewhere in the wind / a sleepless night / constellations beyond the window panes / star-filled hours / the pure whiteness of the page / a flung shoe leaning toe-up against a bedpost / nothingness unstained by inner conception / white snow in a white sky / dark lines and vacant spaces / vast expanses of frozen whiteness / a church in a foreign town / assorted devils and demons / ice-mad mountains / a spirit of malicious abandon / nightmarish anatomies / a sickle-shaped scar of moon / sea-licked shores / dark letters / feeding one’s troubles to the sea / brown-leafed trees / a forest of memorials / clumps of crosses / groves of gravestones / dark, cowl-shaped windows / unblemished by shadows / the sound of crashing waves / bending dawns into twilights / static from a broken radio / breaking waves / seaside air / a gleaming crescent moon / a bone-white cicatrix / chronic insomnia / a blade of moon / white night, white noise

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

The Sect of the Idiot

The Greater Festival of Masks

The old and new / the real and imaginary / truth and deception / shops of costumes and masks / an incautious curiosity / shredded rags that are easily disturbed by the wind / a poster stuck to a crumbling wall / strange pathways of caprice / the outsized moon / silvery windows / doors which are elaborately decorated yet will not budge in their frames / massive shutters covering blank walls behind them / faces of dreams / sardonically grinning / innocence and excuses / a reddish glow of fire / a wad of bubbling blackness / smooth and faceless faces / the speaker in the shadows / the soft creaking of new faces breaking through old flesh

The Music of the Moon

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals / the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror /placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

Candles in a cloistered cell / shapes beneath the shadows / tall buildings whose rooftops nod groundward / wide buildings whose facades follow the curve of a street / buildings whose windows and doorways tilt like badly hung paintings / stairways that wander off-course into useless places / caged elevators that urge unwanted stops on their passengers / a sequestered civilization of echoes flourishing among groaning walls / thin ladders ascending into a maze of shafts and conduits / the dark valves and arteries of a petrified and monstrous organism / a desolate serenity / silvery cinders / the mouths of great chimneys / shadow-puppets / cluttered gardens and crooked gates / the purling waters of black canals / faded masks concealing profound schemes / a place of supernatural clarity and stillness / the crystalline glare of a lantern / moonlight through a curtained window / darkened windows / souls who believe that the only value of this world lies in its power—at certain times— to suggest another / a scattering of stars and lights / a coveted paradise / the most gauzy phantom of another place / a shadowy mimic / the anatomy of a great dream / everlasting echoes / a rectangle of smudged glass within another rectangle of scuffed wood / crowded shelves / remnants of a luxuriant autumn / an obscene reality / to dwell among the ruins of reality / shadowed volumes / scripture that would begin with the portents of apocalypse and end with the wreck of all creation / to become the wind in the dead of winter / to howl the undoing of all that would abide in warmth and light / an enticing verse in a volume of esoterica / the dream of attaining some untainted good / a disastrous enlightenment / some hypothetical state of pure glory / the revelation that nothing ever known has ended in glory / some strictly demonic enterprise / something about one’s presence that makes one think of a crow / a scavenging creature in wait / a large, two-headed shadow / the sad frustration of the uninvited, the abandoned / the brilliant rectangle of a doorway / hopes and curiosities of an indeterminable kind / free-standing bookcases / pages and bindings of uncommon texture / abstract diagrams suggesting no orthodox ritual or occult system / a chronicle of strange dreams / an invocation of a world in waiting of genesis / days distilled into dreams and nights into nightmares / a deliverance by damnation / nightmare made normal / a horror uncompromised by any feeling of lost joy or a thwarted searching for the good / a nightmare transformed in spirit by the utter absence of refuge / a utopia of exhaustion, confusion, and debris / a dialogue of mystification, and possibly one of lies / the edge of a dreamless void / a dark and devouring bird / shadows and moonlight / an unbending web of heavy wire / unjust confinement / a slender syringe crowned with a silvery needle

#rp meme #roleplay meme #aesthetic meme #meme

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