#nymphish

[isa-ah]

sorry I could talk for hours. I've done an insane amount of character building w Isaiah over the years

[nyx-loves-pretty-things]

The Chicago Escape Room

Nyx arrived at the Escape Room a good bit earlier than the scheduled meeting time. Mostly because he was bored and annoyed. Annoyed that now he must share his birthday with Binnie's new boyfriend. How dare he have a birthday so close to his? Surely, Binnie should have been cognizant of that when choosing to pursue Jasper. But he did not. So now, Nyx stewed about it.

He'd been lounging on the room overlooking the square when he spotted a blond man. A ridiculously pretty blond man. The type that looked like a fairy tale elf or something. So, clearly, it had to be Jasper. Once again, Nyx stewed because no one was allowed to be as pretty as he was. And yet....it was Jasper again who defied his insatiable self-importance.

Jasper had been searching for Binnie. The only person in his party he did know already. Not seeing him though, he turned around and came face to face with a nephilim. "Oh..." He jumped, pressing his hand over his heart. "Excuse me." He said politely.

The nephilim, apparently wasn't very friendly, and poked him in the chest, pushing him back a step. "You! How dare you ensnare my Binna with your fiendish nymphomaniac tendencies!"

Jasper blinked. "My...pardon?"

Nyx put his hands on his hips, tapping his foot impatiently. "Stop that!" He said, angered by his response. "Stop using your magical prettiness on me! I won't fall for it! Nope! Not at all! Just...." He wiggled his fingers at him. "Be normal."

Shaking his head, Jasper huffed out an exasperated breath once he was able to put two and two together. "You must be Nyx." He replied, his smile warm and genuine, which seemed to anger the nephilim even further.

"I said stop it!" Nyx snarled.

Jasper frowned at him. "But...I'm not doing anything?"

"Yes you are!" Nyx pointed at him accusingly. "You are seducing me with your nymphish beauty and charm and I told you I am not going to fall for it! You may have Binna fooled. But not me!"

Pressing his lips together, Jasper did his best not to smile. "Ah...I understand." He said softly. "But I'm not doing anything. Honestly."

@hot-head-binnie

@farewell-my-neverland

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

✧ ━━━ 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚡@mxlevolence

The atmosphere on the wood's edge shifted something horrid as Haruko's gaze lingered on Ghostface, the tension thick as the fog making up their hellscape. He could almost taste the unease that swirled around them, a bitter chill settling in the air like an unwelcome guest. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, each passing moment stretching out agonizingly as Ghostface remained silent, their looming presence a black shadow that sent shivers down Haruko's spine. Every nerve in his body crackled with anticipation, his senses heightened to a razor's edge as he braced himself for the inevitable chase that was to unfold. And then, in a sudden, jarring twist, Ghostface moves, their footfall breaking the silence with a sharp, final sound that reverberated through the room like a gunshot. And he bows ━

The motion is so ridiculous that the primal spell gripping Haru broke, and the fear that once gripped him dissipated like smoke in the wind. Once the swirling doom in his mind diminished he was swift to remind himself that Ghostface is just a man, a mere mortal like any other. He'd seen too many dead to not be familiar with wandering ghosts in the morning mist; and this was no such horror.

"You should listen to him. Not all of us are kind out here."

Haruko watched him for a long moment, holding his ground through the next eerie pause and finding his satisfaction once his suspicions were confirmed; they wanted to leave too. He held their position for a few more moments; waiting to see if Ghostface was going to strike, the maiden's very presence seemed to anchor the scene, a lone figure in a world of shifting shadows and whispers preparing for the worst. But ... it never came. He took that as permission and pivoted around Ghostface and a bundle of curls fell around his shoulders, a stark contrast to the ethereal veil and robes that adorned his form. The colors of marian and periwinkle clung to him like flowing brushstrokes, a splash of vibrancy against the backdrop of the foggy landscape surrounding them. Haru's skin, kissed by the sun and painted in hues of gold, seemed to glow with an inner light, while his curls, dark as midnight, tumbled around him in a wild dance.

There was a defiance in the maiden's stance, a determination that was unwilling to bow to Death so easily.

"I fear nothing that can bleed, there are worse men than killers ━ and I feel in my heart that you are not a beast. At least not the kind that plague my nightmares."

Haruko slowly approached the mysterious figure, wariness etched into every line of his face and caution in the gentle way his bare feet glided across the fallen leaves and dead grass. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, narrowed and flashed as he pouted, a feeble attempt at appearing intimidating despite the fatigue that tugged at his features ━ far too nymphish to be frightening. Or perhaps simply not pushed far enough. Reluctantly he abandoned the safety of the looming tree, and Haruko took a tentative step closer, his mind torn between its curiosity and its anxieties reflected in the sheen of Ghostface's knife.

Though he recognized the Shroud as a fellow human, Haruko's deepest instincts urged caution: to treat them as a wild creature until proven otherwise ━ after all, predators only respected strength and resolve. Anything less and he was a meal for eating. Concealing the unease that churned within his chest, he stopped a meter away from the Shroud, fingers absently adjusting the veil that adorned his midnight hair; he could not show how his heart trembled. How his words threatened to shake. Finally, summoning his courage, he cleared his throat and spoke, that sweet voice of his betraying just a hint of vulnerability beneath the veneer of composure,

"What has convinced you that there is a way out? I've no question of your desire to leave, we have both lost the blue of the sky and the song of crickets … That and … " He trailed off, taking a leap of faith, "I don't believe you to be entirely stupid; you wouldn't feed false hope to a larger foe than yourself without the safeguard of true belief. So, what have you found? What is your plan?"

[turtlestm]

headcanons for fem!ash lynx that i dont think i've shared here

just some headcanons i made for fun of ideas for a female version of ash :> these are all headcanons i made because i feel like ash being female would directly affect these factors of his character, but people who write fem!ash don't take them into account

just so you know, a couple of these may be a little upsetting but they will be tw'd appropriately ^__^

btw, i think her name would be Jade Aslan Callenreese since Aslan is used as a gender neutral middle name as well as a first name. i think the name she'd be known as would be Bobby Jay. since her male counterpart is named after a lynx, i thought it'd be nice to have her name changed to be after bobcats instead of lynxes because a) the name "jay lynx" doesn't flow as well as "ash lynx" and b) bobcats and lynxes are both wild cats under the genus Lynx. pretty neat :D

just thought i'd mention that first so no one gets confused by me calling her jay instead of something like "ash" or "ashe"

alr lets get started !

1.) TW: forced sterilization, past CSA

ok starting off with the most potentially triggering one but this is the worst it'll get i promise. anywho i havent seen anyone mention or consider this when writing her in fics but i hc that she was medically sterilized ever since she was brought in to be a child prostitute. its a kinda fucked thing up to headcanon but i feel like it'd kinda make sense and its another piece of herself that she was never given agency over. due to this, conversations about or mentioning pregnancy around her are a subject to avoid, regardless of whether or not she ever wanted or would have considered kids of her own

2.) TW: sexual assault

another thing i dont hear ppl talk about with making jay's story work out is the whole prison thing. i think garvey and his guys would, rather than being inmates, be guards planted by dino since jay would be placed in a women's prison and iirc women's prisons have some male guards (correct me if im wrong).

i also see the guard thing as making a bit more sense because of the immediate assumed authority in that role from other inmates and that i cant see the whole horniness and sexual assault parts of the prison arc being replicated with garvey as a woman. yes female rapists do exist irl but it'd be less believable in the banana fish universe considering all the powerful, primarily male connections that dino and his associates have at their disposal

3.) a bit less serious and upsetting one here :> i hc that jay would dress masc and that shes a total tomboy. not just as an act of teenage rebellion but as a true, deep-seeded facet of her personality. she'd be just as boyish as ash. she also wears baseball caps backwards because there's no way you don't also think she would.

she also does so not just to be a tomboy, but to hide her body. she has a smaller-than-average chest so it's easy to conceal but she really doesn't appreciate being looked at sexually, nor does she like any chance of it happening while she's minding her own. since so much attention drawn to her body is because of her nymphish appearance, she loathes wearing clothing that accentuates her body shape or makes her look delicate due to assumptions already made about her

4.) to ride off of the last one, she'd be exceptionally great at crossdressing. her voice has a natural rasp to it and she's quite tall and very capable of effortless androgyny. she could easily look like the opposite sex by doing as little as hiding her hair in her hat and changing her posture. she makes a damn good young man and her authentic toughness makes it even easier since she doesn't need to play up her personality to do so

5.) she carries her gun in her waistband in a conspicuous manner because as a woman, it's more dangerous walking alone out in the streets of NYC. so she makes sure everyone knows she's packing heat while also getting a little kick out of peoples' reactions when they see it on her

6.) although dino's wardrobe he allows her for whenever jay needs to dress up for meals or whatever is strictly feminine, her persistence in being boyish was enough to convince dino to humor her. she's now allowed to wear pants to meals, but he refuses her any wiggle room for formal events and will see to it that she wears a dress

7.) dino absolutely never lays off on her about her masculine personality and lets it be known to her that her attempts to "be a man" are futile because she "must always know that he will decide what happens to her body because he is her owner". even though she never considered herself a man, it hurt like hell whenever she would be punished by having all of her modes of expression stripped from her

8.) mild TW: dysphoria, self hatred, internalized misogyny

at times, she wishes at times that she were a boy because due to her circumstances, she believes what happened to her would never happen if she weren't a girl. she grew up loathing her own gender, unable to shower or see herself naked without being reminded of her body and feeling furious at the world for making her this way. even though she'd seen boys her age who were in her same position, she still feels as though she might have had a chance at normalcy in her life if she never had been born a girl or even born at all. she knows it is an irrational thought and that none of it is her fault, yet she has internalized her rage for the world towards herself and her own sex

those are all the headcanons i have so far for her :D let me know your thoughts on these little brain worms i randomly had late at night one time

hope all my fellow ash lynx kinnies and likers resonate with these lil thoughts i had ^_^ have a good night

[futurewife]

@macgyverwife​ MOTHER L.ANA!!!!!!!!!!!!!! POETRY??!!! That is so kind of you to say, I’ve been smiling thinking about that comment since I read it 🌹. I know she would KNOW. Something about the dynamic truly brings out the poet in me and makes me feel. Muse-like? Nymphish? I start thinking about those big weathered. tanned. hands on my little waist and I start losing it. I start getting lightheaded and abstract. Sometimes a vision just strikes at all 5 of your senses... 

song title: J.osh B.rolin Teach Me How to Suck Dick In the Home Fragrance Aisle of the Supermarket 

[basilpaste]

they hate me for my nymphish charm and my correct opinions about danganronpa

[griffin-black]

'My Ordinary Life' (Chap. VII)

Author’s Note: I recommend reading this on Ao3 or Quotev.  

Chapter Seven

Crucified

VII

'I stand before my maker like Moses on the hill . . . The first of reciters, I saw eternal light . . . Where thorns are a teaser, I've played a double jeux.'

Fleshy, beige, steaming and grotesque. Toby was gutting Mrs. Frazier. Like a fish. Someone’s Mother. Like his own. Probably a better Mother, a Mother whose daughter clearly loved her, cared about her enough to make her own life forfeit at the hands of three serial murderers, who cherished her, maybe even worshiped her . . . and he had assisted in her death, and he was desecrating her corpse. Numbly.

Even when hearing her scream and beg for mercy, and feeling her own flesh and blood pounding against the door which he held shut, even when he had simulated a choked apology, “It’s better this way.”

He felt nothing.

Face as blank as a limp puppet’s, eyes as dull and unpresent as fish and body pressed plainly enough, though with devastating effect, against the door, refusing to let the girl out though not trying particularly hard, thoughts of sowing even more trouble spun flirtatiously around his mind, and he wondered what should happen if he were to simply step away from the door, and let fate take its course.

Toby’s head fell back against the door, taking on an aloof air.

Would she run? Or would she fight, heading straight towards the chaos in an attempt to save her parents? He could see himself now. Pinning her arms behind her back like an officer of the law after letting her run a few feet into the hall, allowing false hope to marinate, then forcing her to stand in the doorway of her parent’s bedroom and have the house seat to the horrors. An experience of a lifetime.

He would hold her forehead back so she couldn’t look away from her parents being slaughtered like pigs as the hot blood streaked across her face and clothes. And he would bask in her shrill shrieks, the power he held.

A shiver would tingle up his spine like the cold claws of death trailing his back and he was simply enthralled by it all.

Yet as he fondled the entrails of her Mother weaved between his fingers, sliding over the bloodied creases and folds with a morbid curiosity, he felt reproachful. This wasn’t what he’d expected. This was disappointing. All the emotion he felt before, just at the thought of killing and now . . . nothing at all.

He was a monster. Monsters should still feel, but he did not. Therefore he had ascended beyond the realm of just a ‘monster’ and had breached something else entirely. Demon? Or better yet Devil?

The guts splattered back into the concave abdomen of the cadaver. Tim’s knife ended up in his hands, though at the moment he had no recollection of how, and adjusted himself, leaning in closer and closer still, to the stiff remains until he was practically nose to nose with the dead woman. He had expected something greater, something more, something enthralling. Watery eyes trailed over her blue-hued skin, drained of blood, and over her blonde hair that swam through the air from an incoming breeze from the broken window. For a moment Toby almost felt remorse for taking part in ending this woman’s life. He thought she looked nymphish, like something of the sea. Magical, pure and untouched by death’s cold hands. He could smell the salt in the air.

The memory of killing her husband was hazy and muted. Toby couldn’t remember what had happened, how it happened or even how he felt. It was like watching himself through someone else’s eyes. Was killing him satisfactory and enthralling?

Hunched over the woman, he made a shallow cut with the knife along the length of her cheekbone and watched quizzically as the wound failed to bleed for a long time. Maneuvering the knife so the blade stuck away from the corpse, he placed a gentle hand on her face; thumb on her cheek, palm caressing the back of her head, knife handle against her jaw. The blood from the cut seeped slowly like molasses until it had pooled enough to form a drop and Toby swiped at the cut with his thumb, finding it unsightly, and stared into her eyes.

She coughed out a gurgle suddenly, but Toby didn’t jump.

She wasn’t dead, not yet. She— was— HIS.

With a peculiar, audible gasp Toby fell forward, and in one swift movement his forehead hit the carpet, his face touching hers, and raised the hunting knife.

“Goodbye.” He croaked softly.

He plunged the blade back into her open abdomen, just above the pelvic bone, and pulled upwards, finishing the gutting. Leaving the knife at her sternum, he switched to strangling her, his hand shaking from the sheer force it took to choke her and her weak form began to retort, thwarting and scratching at his back, neck and wrist. Toby made another sound, like he was the victim of strangulation and tears streamed down his face. A mirthless smile stretched at his skin, burning like he was being torn apart from the inside and he gripped the knife once again, letting go of her throat as she was now clearly dead, and stabbed her chest over and over again. Each sound escaping his lips more pitiful, desperate and primal than the last. He couldn’t stop, but she had. Her arms fell, dead weighted, with a macabre thud.

Toby’s chest expanded and caved, his entire body quivering, and he grabbed a lock of her hair, feathering it in his hands.

Uh, oh. Looks like you’ve really killed her now. How naughty. Naughty, naughty, naughty. Do you think she deserved it? What was your motive, Mr. Ripper?

Toby managed to struggle out a weak, “It doesn’t matter.”

I’m sure it matters to her. Her family. Her daughter. Don’t you? Then why did you do it, Gein?

“Because— Because I . . . I have to.” He whimpered.

Hm. Because of him you have to, you mean?

But are you certain?

Toby sat up, finally peeling himself away from the now certainly dead woman and sat on his knees, hugging himself. He brushed his own hair from his face, leaving behind a streak of red across the bridge of his nose then tilted his head. From her neck to spilling over gut he dragged his hand down and slowly rose to his wobbling feet. His jacket and jeans were drenched and clung to his skin as he bent down to grab Tim’s knife from her chest. It made an awful sound. He cleaned it against his thigh.

How do you feel right now?

He paused, not expecting to think about that. He felt . . . He felt . . .

“Electric.”

The adrenaline coursing through his system felt amazing, like some kind of high. His heart was beating fast and heavy, but it wasn’t painful or shortening his breaths. He closed his eyes, enjoying every violent pulse echoing throughout his limbs. Toby felt something. Really, truly felt something. And it was almost too much.

It wasn’t that manic kind of emotion. The type that comes in hard and fades in a matter of minutes, like nothing happened, like the fear and confusion he’d felt the past week that had made him question his grasp on reality. He had felt so little, so shallowly, yet so manically. Neurotically. Then it’d disappear in a snap. Perhaps he was desensitized to the point of numbness.

Nothing stuck, nothing clung. So he felt nothing mattered. He didn’t even have memory of the emotion. Nothing could kick it back up again, like kicking up dust. No actions had consequences if emotion failed to resonate. He hadn’t felt real emotion ever. Only the watered-down, numb yet stirring beneath the surface, festering like a rotting, infected wound, “emotion.”

But this was real. So real.

He was shaking from the thrill, the high. He stared at the dead woman, admiring what he’d done to her, what she’d done to him and rolled his neck. He’d had enough of fear. This one moment wasn’t enough to completely snuff out the terrified little boy he still was nor completely override the immense pleasure of the crime he’d just committed, but he was done with fear, just for that night. He knew tomorrow he’d be in the exact same place as he always was, scared and shaking with his knees up to his chin, but not then. At that moment, he was someone else. He had ascended above whatever “Toby” was and reached something he thought was intangible. Greatness.

But as he basked in thought, something began to spill from between his lips and nose, something that wasn’t blood. It was pitch black like tar, but slick like blood and thicker. Toby hardly paid any attention to this, instead still smiling while his shoulders trembled from silent laughter. The mystery substance continued to leak from his face in massive waves that, should they have been blood, would’ve killed him from hemorrhaging.

He fell to his knees, something crawling up his throat and his skull was pulsating, banging beneath his skin. Every breath traveled instantly into his head. Something was worming around in his mind, swimming around, shifting everything like an incorporeal lobotomy, pulverizing it all to sludge. Toby’s hands went to his temples, gripping at his hair, pulling, pulling, pulling.

Whatever this was wasn’t going to stop him. He held his sleeve to the lower half of his face and made his way to the master bathroom, stumbling inside. Toby wasn’t sure if he was swaying from “blood-loss,” adrenaline or plain clumsiness, but he had a hard time walking in a straight line.

The bathroom was as pristine and perfect as the rest of the house. Grotesquely “white-picket fence” which made Toby all the more proud of the owner’s deaths. Looking into the mirror he was almost shocked with what he was greeted with. Soaked in blood, black as ink mess all over his upper-half, eyes dilated and unfocused, body trembling. He removed his hand which caused a flood of the black to splatter onto the white countertops and flooring and stared at himself. Toby gagged once more, placing his hands around his neck as he coughed, and slammed his fist into the counter, rattling the various toiletries.         However, this caused him to notice a strange marking on his tongue, something black, something . . . familiar.

His heart dropped to his feet, melting into the tile.

Another symbol.

He shut his mouth and glared at the mirror.

He didn’t care. The Operator was helping him. That much was obvious. The Master was allowing him to do all of this, to feel again, so it wasn’t his place to question it. He was loyal. He had killed for it. There was no turning back now. That’s what the symbol meant.  

It owned him.

Toby left the bathroom when something, he didn’t know what, came over him. He didn’t know if he was even himself, then, but using the copious amounts of blood that spilled from Mrs. Frazier, and even then still needing some from the dead dog, he painted on the wall of the bedroom using his sleeve. Pulling it over his hand, he moved it back and forth over the blood pool allowing the cloth to absorb the lukewarm liquid and marked on the wall the same symbol that had now been branded three times into his skin. His symbol.

When he was finished, he stepped back, taking a moment to appreciate his work. His shoulder ticked, causing him to realize how long it had been since his tourette’s acted up, then sighed.

“Thank you.”

Toby stepped over Mrs. Frazier, using his Taylor’s to turn her cheek and see her dead face one last time, then carelessly let her head fall back and ambled out of the room. As he made his way to the other Proxies, he had heard them making noise in the den, it was then he understood why Tim smoked. He was instantly addicted to the excitement of killing, feeling dependent on that feeling. Toby knew he could never go back after he’d had his taste. But with any addiction came withdrawals, and he was already feeling it. Adrenaline withdrawals.

The young Proxy stumbled into the den, seeing Tim and Brian occupied in their own right and he jutted both of his arms out, using the archway to support himself. He thought he might faint.

Toby felt giddy, like a child during a sugar rush, and restlessly tapped his shoe. Brian finally noticed him and tore off his hood with wide eyes.

A murderer that’s not used to a murderer? Toby wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t afraid of him or Tim.

Brian continued to glare at him, looking him up and down no doubt due to the sheer amount of blood covering him, and Tim sighed. Mr. Frazier’s body was propped up against the wall, and from the path of blood leading from the backyard Toby could tell they had dragged him inside. Brian had taken one of Toby’s hatchets, the newer, sharper one, after he had killed Mr. Frazier and Toby now saw it attached to his belt.

“The girl ran off. No idea where she is now.” Brian said, though still eyeing him.

Waltzing over, Toby snatched the hatchet from him and walked past, not caring to see his expression.

“Looks like the kid had to do your job this time.” He spat, leaving the house through the screen door.

He heard footsteps behind him, but continued walking. Someone grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at them.

“What was that?” Brian hissed. Tim slowly made his way to them, though he was completely different, once again. He was quiet, almost reserved, and small in his movements.

“What was—” Toby looked directly into his eyes, trying to be serious, “What was what—” but burst out laughing. His arms were wrapped around his gut as he could hardly contain himself, and he fell to the dirt. It felt like he couldn’t breathe.         

Brian merely watched him, shocked and slightly disgusted. “He’s crazy.” 

Tim arrived silently next to him, crossing his arms, both watching Toby.         

As Toby rolled on the floor, giggling like a manic toddler, he landed on his side and suddenly felt his insides twist, teeth bare and eyes squint. For a moment the laughter ceased, making Tim and Brian believe it was over, until, it started as a hiccup, a strained inhale, scarcely something miserable. Arms still holding himself in a pitiful hug, Toby couldn’t stop the stream of tears which soon cascaded down his face. He rolled onto his back, palms pressing harshly against his eyes and cried.         

And sobbed.         

And screamed.

Tim and Brian reacted severely, pulling Toby from the ground, only for him to fall back down or pull the hair from his scalp, or try to quiet him in every possible way. With anger, compassion, violence, threats. Nothing could quiet him. They were starting to panic.         

Toby was between his legs, pulling at his hair and screaming nonstop. Though he didn’t show it, Brian was terrified of his reaction. Tim, however, seemed nonexistent, like nothing that was happening was happening before him. He was virtually catatonic.         

Brian understood this, and realized quickly he was now alone in this. That no amount of reasoning would get either of his partners to snap out of it and shouted a curse.         

He decided to deal with Tim first. Grabbing his arm and dragging him back to his truck, Brian locked him in the passenger seat so he couldn’t leave, which took just under twenty minutes due to how far away he had left the vehicle. Then, when he finally came within earshot of Toby, his throat was absolutely shredded from the primal shouting. Brian came up to him and sighed. Toby looked on the verge of passing out from the strain he’d put himself through and as he grabbed Toby’s hand, hoping that taking a gentler approach wouldn’t arouse him back to screaming and further incapacitating himself, he heard the sound he had dreaded.         

Police sirens.         

“Shit.” Brian pulled his junior from the ground and gripped his shoulder, then placed a comforting hand on his face. “Listen, Toby. Y’here that? Not good. So we’ve gotta get outta here, alright, kiddo? C’mon, Toby, gimme something . . . “         

Toby was far gone, but managed to give Brian a subtle nod.         

“Okay, good. Now, run with me before we become cop food.”         

The two remaining Proxies sprinted from the house, the sirens getting closer before they could make distance. Jumping over logs, rocks and nearly tripping a few times on tree roots, the two made it to Brian’s truck without much of a battle, though a few branches had whipped across their faces, but other than that, mostly unharmed.         

Brian forced Toby into the backseat, then sat in the front himself and started the engine, before taking off into the night.

******

Trees like beams of wooden light zoomed past the vehicle, blurring to darkness once the headlights moved on down the road. A hazy radio blurted out bytes of music, static-y and gravelly from the ill reception caused by the extreme winds that battered through the trees and against the car’s sides. The sky was moonless and cloudless, but the feeling of an impending storm permeated the air.         

Brian sat behind the wheel gripping it tightly with one hand. He blinked slowly, fighting sleep in the dreary yet restful atmosphere. The wind continued to whistle and howl which only dampened his attempts at remaining awake, as the sound was a sound he had always associated with sleep since he was a young boy. 

A finger landed over his lip as he reached forward and blasted the A/C to full. Cold could keep him awake a little longer. Though the air stung his eyes, they were already bloodshot from the stress of the Proxies’ most recent job. He had taken to performing something like dissociating during their jobs. Brian imagined it like his soul, his shadow self, escaping from his body for those few minutes of evil, then slowly taping itself back to him once the deed was done, and the adrenaline kick diminished. But each time he did so his shadow was a little more torn than before and it was taking longer and longer for him to return to lucidity, as the shadow was fading and becoming more translucent with every murder.         

Toby had taken him out of it, his shadow self had sewn itself back together in record time, and he was beginning to see the problems that would arise with the addition of the young Proxy. Outside stressors was the last thing he or Tim needed. They were already too fragile, and Toby was the greatest possible stressor. He was easily the most mentally handicapped on top of being the youngest, he brought down the duo’s strength immensely. The Proxies were only as strong as their weakest link, and at the moment Toby was that rusting chain.         

But that freakout . . . Brian wasn’t sure how he would deal with that in the future. He hoped it was just a one time thing, but he wasn’t the type to just sit back and hope. He was a planner, and probably the only reason the team was still together. Even if they were only held together with brittle string and loose stitches.         

He felt a kind of jealousy towards Toby. He had two older partners to take care of him whilst they had nothing. Brian wasn't granted the privilege of breaking down and screaming and crying and losing his mind for a moment. He had to be the glue to hold the Proxies together, and it was a thankless job. At least from the kid it was.         

Tim was useless against himself, so he was the exception. He was much easier to forgive than Toby, and even then Brian couldn’t hate the boy. He felt . . . paternal towards him. Like an older brother. He resonated with him, after all they were in the same situation, but all parts of their relationship’s short lifespan were conflicting. Brian felt the need to take care of him, but also hated him for making him responsible for his well being. He hated Toby’s brutality, and his mental issues were a whole other problem and constant irritability, but Brian had to wonder how much he was responsible for. He already knew the important bits of the boy’s life, knew that God seemed to hate him for whatever reason, but how much was mental disorders and how much was their Master, he didn’t know.         

Brian glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Toby spread across the backseat, fast asleep. The hood of his jacket rose and fell with his shoulders after every deep breath, and his light hair gently waved from the A/C. Blood covered nearly every part of him, and usually the thought of the blood hitting his car seats would’ve bugged Brian, but in that moment he didn’t care. Toby actually looked peaceful then. Almost like how he imagined he would normally appear if all of this hadn’t happened to him.

But it did. 

Toby Rogers was a murderer and so was he. Even flirting with the thought of hating him for being a killer was irrational and he knew as much, but it was tempting. Brian was insatiable when it came to pondering right and wrong. His life at the moment was all consumed by good and evil, morality. And it felt to him, especially recently, that every second was spent contemplating not only himself, but his colleagues as well.         

Was he innocent or guilty? But, he supposed the terms and differentiation wasn’t between innocent or guilty, it was guilty or not guilty. Was he not guilty? Was Tim? Was Toby?         

Could any of them be pardoned for what they had done? He looked back at Toby, and for a split second became the ultimate judge and decided that the boy was in fact guilty on all charges, sentenced to death, but willed that thought away. Toby needed him, just as much as he needed Toby. Even if for different reasons.         

He could prove to be a valuable asset just like Tim, but Brian had to take control of himself and stop being so impulsive. One too many times he’d let insults shoot out of him out of pure animosity, and that would be damaging to their relationship. He had to play nice, even if he wanted to be anything but, since he could already tell Toby and Tim have a rocky relationship, neither fully understanding the other, and he didn’t feel the need to bridge that gap of understanding. They’d either figure it out or they wouldn’t. As long as he was the common denominator shared by the two, things would work out.         

He blinked, feeling the weight of his eyelids as they remained shut for just a moment too long, then jumped back awake.         His elbow accidentally struck Tim who was asleep next to him, causing him to stir awake.         

Tim sat up and zipped up his jacket.         

“Sorry.” Brian said shortly. “It’s to keep me awake.”         

“Where’s the fire?” Tim asked groggily. Brian figured out he was not fully awake and shook his head.         

“No fire. Just go back to sleep.”         

It was moments like these. Moments of utter normalcy that drove him mad. They didn’t deserve normal, or quiet, or peaceful. Only chaos and pandemonium. But he, along with them, was completely selfish. He still craved these moments where nothing was happening and it was almost like they were average, everyday, good people. He still believed he deserved something like shelter, warmth, a hot meal, music, maybe even a little fun. And he allowed himself those privileges when they presented themselves, but deep down he always knew he was no longer deserving of them, but he was still selfish and felt as though he was.

******

Chief Detective Lincoln didn’t know what to make of this case. The sheer brutality of it had led a few of his senior officers to leave the scene with their hands over their mouths. They had never seen anything like this. Not in their small town. Not in Veilwood.         

The Detective scoffed, rubbing his bald head in the middle of the Frazier’s den, which was covered in blood, photographers and markers, as an EMT team rolled a black body bag past him.         

“God damn it.” He sighed, tired from the 4AM emergency call. A woman stood next to him holding a clipboard and a styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand. She had curled blonde hair and perfectly manicured nails and a pair of sleek glasses rested on the bridge of her nose. Even at the early hour her makeup was flawless and clothes neatly pressed. She handed the cup to the Detective who took it without thinking, then tightened her ponytail.         

“What a mess, Dr. Kelley. What a mess.” He lamented.         

“Seems like ever since that Rogers kid made Pompeii of his neighborhood Veilwood’s been in murky waters.”         

Detective Lincoln nodded absentmindedly, taking a sip of the hot coffee and relishing its warmth. “You can’t possibly think he has something to do with this? Do you?”         

His associate shrugged. “It checks out.”        

“And she’d be right to think so.” A man’s voice piped up from the front door. “She was his Psychiatrist, after all.”         

“Clark.” Lincoln groaned. The Detective and his associate turned around and saw exactly who they had suspected pulling on a pair of black latex gloves.         

“Special Agent Ashton L. Clark. The FBI has control over this scene now, please tell the rest of your men to leave before they pollute the crime scene.”         

“Fine.” Detective Lincoln said. Pollute. Typical choice of words from him. He whistled and instantly all the officers, EMTs, and photographers left the house in an orderly fashion.         

The Agent was tall, standing at just over six feet, and wore a perfectly tailored suit and trench coat. Though Lincoln would never admit it out of pride, the  Agent was in better shape than any of his men and likely better looking. Clark’s hair was dark and always parted to the side and his misty, grey eyes were always shielded with a pair of glasses. But the salt to the wound, the one thing that insulted Lincoln the most, was the Special Agent’s age. Twenty six. Way too young for an FBI Agent, even for their own requirements. But Clark was something like their pet, their champion athlete piece de resistance, so rules and laws didn’t seem to apply to him.         

The Detective had met Agent Clark many times and he was always as disagreeable to be around as the last chance encounter. He was haughty, arrogant, and snarky. He had something like an ego, though it was in proper balance with his feats, but he was also irreparably dark, tempered and quick to violence. The amount of times the FBI had assisted in covering up his brutality Lincoln couldn’t count on his fingers or toes, but every ill natured action Clark had made was always swept under the rug.         

He was a genius. He was young. He was good looking. And he was intimidating. He had everything going for him and the government was willing to pardon him over and over for his crimes, no matter how vicious and malaise. At sixteen the Agent had solved every major cold case the Pasadena PD had on record, then went on to solve the two biggest cases in NYC in living memory. Clark was something like an unstoppable force amidst the FBI Intelligence Branch and always, without fail, had their blessing. He had the government on their knees for him. So he could act as much like a vigilante as he wanted, with the government’s money.         

Detective Lincoln seemed to be the only one that didn’t fear the Special Agent even slightly. Everyone else quivered at the mere mention of his name. Lincoln inspected his attire and rolled his eyes.         

“I see daddy government spares no expense when it comes to darling Clark.”         

The Agent stepped into the house, taking a wide perusal of the space and smiled grimly, though no ounce of happiness flashed behind his cold eyes. He didn’t bother looking at Lincoln, likely thinking he was wasting his time, but shot back with a remark nonetheless.         

“And I see the small town Detective still can’t keep his city in order. How . . . exactly has the rebound of Tobias Erin Rogers’ case been? Do your men still question your authority after your temporary suspension?” He tutted. “Six more teenagers died under your careful watch.”         

“You bastard!” The Detective marched towards the Agent, getting right in his face. The Agent didn’t even reel. Clark adjusted his glasses. “Anger never did suit you, Detective. I’d try reading some more. We all know your intellect needs further advancement. Maybe then your temper will actually cause something like . . . mild discomfort?” The Agent said with a stern expression.         

Detective Lincoln sputtered in fury so Dr. Kelley placed a hand on his shoulder.         

“Now if you don’t mind, Detective. My men need this crime scene completely void of contamination. So if you would . . .”         

Dr. Kelley guided the Detective out of the home with a quick meeting of the Agent’s eyes, and nearly crashed into a reckless force in the doorway.         

“Ash!” The force shouted.         

“Grant, I don’t even want to ask what you’re doing here.” The Agent said, still inspecting the house.         

“Heard you got called out here. Got Mueller to swap my assignment with Richards’. I am from Colorado, y’know.” Grant stood beside Clark, crossing his arms. He was an Agent like Clark but specialized in forensics and violent encounters. “Maybe you need someone who knows this state. Details?”         

“So,” The Agent sighed, annoyed. “Are you officially on the case, or did Mueller just send you here to ‘assist’ me?”         

“I’m officially on the case, Ash, when did that ever matter to you? You always hand me the files of your cases regardless.” Clark grit his teeth, lost in thought. Then, “Two dead. Husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Frazier. They have a daughter, Sylvia, who is currently missing. Police were called a few times by neighbors after hearing screaming coming from their backyard, though it doesn’t seem to fit the timeframe of when Mr. Frazier was still alive. He was killed in the backyard, then dragged in here.”         

“God. It’s soup in here.” Grant gasped, finally seeing the hellish state the house was in.         

“Believe it or not this isn’t nearly as bad.”         

“Compared to?”         

The Agent motioned for his partner to follow him upstairs then led him to the master bedroom where the highly brutalized corpse of Mrs. Frazier lay, parallel to a bloodied painting on the wall. Clark scanned the room, lips pulled into a line. Blood was everywhere.         

“I . . . The Operator killer?” Grant remained in the doorway, hesitant as he always was to step further in and potentially contaminate the scene. “So that’s why you were called out here . .. But I don’t understand. What is he doing in Colorado?”         

“Killers.” Clark corrected, crouching down to get a better look at the body. “This feels different. I was starting to think the Operator Killer could actually be more than one person, but this actually confirms it.”         

“And the higher-ups forced you out here or?”         

“That. And I asked to be here.” Clark paused. “I think Toby Erin Rogers had his hand in this murder.”         

Grant made a face, taken aback by the Agent’s theory. “That’s a leap.”         

“Is it? I guess we’ll see. When forensics determines the weapons used to slice up Mr. Frazier, a hatchet is going to be among them and probably a knife.”         

“So either Toby Erin Rogers is a copycat killer or he’s been . . .  recruited? Ashton this is a stretch. And even if it was Toby, which is still very unlikely, what would the Operator Killer want with him? As far as we know Paul Jacobsen was a crime of passion. A revenge kill. He’s not the type to go serial.”         

“Why not? What if there was something we missed with Toby? Like those—”         

“Like those teenagers. You still think that was him?”         

“Six dead kids from his high school?” Clark scoffed. “Grant, I know it was him.”         

Grant sighed and crossed his arms. “I don’t think a seventeen year old, mentally disturbed boy is capable of something like that.”         

“That’s another thing. Why does everyone call him a seventeen year old boy? I hear it all the time on the news and from our colleagues. Seventeen year old boy. That doesn’t sound odd to you? He’s practically a man— a few months from being a man, actually. Everyone treats him like an innocent party or a victim.”         

“Because he is.”         

“No. Toby Rogers may appear small and weak and too naïve to perform such heinous acts, but I know better.” Clark walked around the room, completely at home amidst the death, blood and gore. “He’s a monster. A Bundy, Dahmer, or Gein in the making. Our only saving grace is he’s more intelligent than even he knows, so people better start believing me and fast cause in time he’ll see how smart he is, and by then he’ll be impossible to catch.”         

“Okay. Let’s say he was recruited and go back to what I asked. What would the Operator Killer want with him? You’re a profiler! You said the Operator killer is likely a white, middle-aged, intelligent psychopath. What does he want with an emotional teenager?”         

Clark sighed, feeling frustrated with his partner. “Well, for one thing, I’m beginning to think the Operator Killer is younger than middle-aged, like twenties or thirties and— Oh, I don’t know. A friend? A partner in crime? Fresh meat? Someone to toy with? Family? There’s many reasons serial killers team up. A shared delusion, maybe?” The Agent already knew the answer to this, he just wanted to see his partner’s reaction.         

“Absolutely impossible, genius. A shared delusion? They didn’t even know each other before how could—”

The Agent fiddled with his cellular and pulled up a photo from the crime scene of Paul Jacobsen. It was small on the screen, but easy to make out as a bedroom even amidst the piles of ash and fire damage. Grant squinted to get a better look.         

“Tobias’ room. The drawing in the sketchbook on his bed. That look familiar to you?” Clark snapped.         

There on the bed, a sketchbook laid open with a symbol crudely drawn in red ink on the exposed page. The same symbol that was painted on the wall next to them and carved into Rodney and Eliza Schuart’s bodies, the Operator Killer’s first known victims.         

Grant sighed in disbelief. “Shit!”

[nymphish-blog1]

My hair is sunshine and my man is gorgeous. ☀️✨

[perfectly-wasted-youthhh]

Usually I look like an egg with my hair back in photos but I think these kinda went off

[gloryofluv]

Outfoxed Chapter 7

A little RAD anyone? I think so. Might be fun considering Rena is now ACTUALLY a demon!

Previous Chapter

Rena’s tail was swiping back and forth as her ears flattened. Asmodeus was putting makeup on her face, which was a huge irritation. Considering that they needed to be out the door for RAD in ten minutes.

“See, darling, this is part of the problem. You wear eyeshadow for green eyes, but you clearly have a blue hue as well. Shading, shading, shading!” Asmo sighed as he brushed more color onto her lids.

“Asmo, we have to go. Are you almost done?” Rena questioned.

“Nearly,” Asmo nodded. “If you hold still, I’ll get done faster.” She resigned to allow him to do his work. The artistic demon painted on eyeliner and lipgloss before finishing with a nod. “Excellent! You almost look as good as me.”

Rena beamed and breathed. “Thank you. Now, we better get going, or Lucifer might get frustrated.”

“There is no might,” Lucifer hummed as he walked by her open door. “I expect your first day as a demon to be perfect, Rena. That includes impeccable attendance. Get going.”

She definitely didn’t need to be told twice. Rena swiped up her bag and climbed to her feet. She paced by his looming form, and he scowled before stopping her at the doorway. The hint of curiosity breached his energy.

“Asmo thought it might make me look less cute and a bit more formidable as a demon,” Rena sighed.

Lucifer was evaluating her makeup. His eyes gathered the information and his face remained stoic otherwise. “It’s made your face quite nymphish.”

“Um, thank you,” she murmured, and her ears flickered.

Asmo waved at Lucifer. “Okay, bye! We have places to be!” he laughed and dragged Rena toward the entrance with him.

Rena glanced back once to see Lucifer following at a slower pace. Well, off to RAD. She fell into step with Asmodeus and paid attention to his rambling about her social platform as a demon. She didn’t really care to be popular, but odds were that he cared if she was. As confusing as that was, he’s now made it his mission to propel her.

They parted at her classroom door, and she breathed, watching Asmo walk-off, flirting with some tall demon on the Fangol team. Well, he was easily amused, that was for certain. Hopefully, skipping class was worth it for him.

“Vixen.”

Rena glanced back and smiled. “I would have thought you’d be sitting in class by now.”

Solomon walked over and shrugged. “I went to chat with Barbatos before class. How are you feeling today,” he voiced while they entered the room for Speechcraft.

“I’m doing alright. Asmo wanted to do my makeup today, so I wasn’t here earlier.”

Solomon sat down and bobbed his head. “I can see that. It looks excellent. I would have never noticed that you actually have more blue in your eyes than green without his application.”

She smirked and rolled her shoulders. “Well, now I know.”

The pair walked into the classroom, and the demons that were not Satan all looked at her. She was pelted with curiosity. As nervous as she was on the first day of RAD as a human, she was even more anxious as a demon.

Solomon sat her down at the table with Satan, and the conversation was light and airy until the instructor began their lesson. It was definitely not a walk in the park as far as new material. This wasn’t about seducing a human into corruption. This was the next tier. The material in this class was about tempting humans with what they desire most.

As much as that seemed like a demon’s MO, Rena actually never realized that there was a science to that. Demons had to hone their frequencies to the subject of their corruption and find the one thing that would bend them. The intricacies were altogether a severe skill. Advanced. Well, that explains why Mammon and Levi weren’t in this bracket this year.

“Partner up,” the instructor declared after the summary of the lesson.

“We’re the only table with three,” Solomon started.

Asmo slid next to Solomon and smirked. “No, there’s four here, Solomon. How about you and Satan work together, and Rena and I can!”

Satan scowled over at Asmo. “When did you sneak into class?”

“Oh, five minutes in, but I was sitting in the back working on a post in my Devilgram,” Asmo giggled and waved his phone.

“How do humans do this, Sol?” Rena asked.

“Ah, I’m glad you asked,” Solomon hummed and set down a dark-looking mirror. “Divination.”

Rena smirked and caressed the flat polished obsidian. “Clever.”

“I had one for you, but apparently, you don’t need it yet,” Solomon teased.

“Rena, we should see if you can do this skill with each of us. It will give you the practice that we already have,” Satan declared.

“Oh, Satan! What a great idea!” Asmo gasped.

Rena’s ears sank on either side of her hair. “Satan, we have fifteen minutes left in class. I don’t think I can do that.”

“Just try it. Start with Asmodeus. He’s probably easiest for this lesson,” Satan nodded.

Rena stood up as Asmo skipped over while clapping his hands. “Alright, my darling sweet Rena! Tell me what I desire most.”

She licked her lips and took his hand, gazing into his eyes. They shimmered in the light, and at first, all she felt was the giddy excitement of him being first. However, as she breathed and focused, there was something there. It had the texture of cinnamon and the burning wick of a candle. Soft petals caressing skin, but not from lust. It was heart-swelling feelings of closeness and silk on the skin—sleep, comfort, and laughter.

“You want,” she scowled and swallowed. “A romantic night without the world, Asmo? No sex. I honestly thought there was going to be sex.”

He blinked as his cheeks darkened. “Darling!” he gasped and took his hand from her. “You’re not supposed to share those secrets,” he hissed with a stifled smile.

“Wait, that was way too fast,” Satan puffed. “How did you do that? That’s advanced seduction speechcraft.”

Rena shrugged her shoulders as she glanced back at him. “I’m not sure. I could describe what I visualized if you need more detail.”

“I do,” Satan scowled.

Rena relayed the experience and described it with the clarity it was delivered. Asmo covered his mouth as his pink cheeks were now closer to mulberry. “That’s beautiful,” he whispered when she finished.

“Interesting. I would like to see if you can read me,” Solomon said and stood up.

Was this something akin to her talent? It sounded fun and a bit cunning, actually. Reading people and what they want could make her adaptable. Hm.

Rena smiled as she took Solomon’s hand and stared into his eyes. Nothing. She was only receiving a wall. The more she searched for clarity in his eyes, the more she felt the heat build in her face. “What are you wearing to stop me?” she asked.

Solomon’s smile grew playful. “Rena, you know for a fact it’s an item?”

“I see a wall. A large silver wall,” she scowled.

He took his hand from hers and dug under his uniform collar. Solomon produced a silver amulet with runes embossed on it. “A warding trinket. How interesting that you knew there was a barrier keeping you from reading my desires. Maybe a natural affinity for reading others?”

“This is so exciting! Rena, you have a skill like Lucifer,” Asmo gasped.

“Lucifer?” Rena arched an eyebrow.

Asmo rocked his head and waved his hand. “Lucifer can see what someone is prideful about or disgusted within themselves. Why do you think he wears gloves all the time?”

“True,” Satan hummed and held out his hand. “I want to see if you can read me.” The warning bell for the next class went off, and other students were packing up and leaving. Rena frowned at the hand and went to grip Satan’s. However, he pulled it away with a small smirk. “Later, we have our next class.”

“Such a tease,” Rena rolled her eyes and smiled.

Solomon raised an eyebrow as he glanced over at Rena placing her items in her bag. “I find this an interesting evolution. You spoke about empathy plenty, and now you’re able to read someone’s desires like common literature. What else could that tap into?”

“How about we don’t get too curious yet, Sol. I’m not your new science project,” Rena smiled while patting his shoulder.

“Rena, let’s go, we’re going to be late for Art. It’s the beginning of painting with elemental magic,” Satan hummed as he shouldered his messenger bag.

Asmo kissed her cheek and took a selfie with Rena before bidding them goodbye. Solomon fell into pace with Satan and Rena when they all left the classroom.

“So, how did you sleep last night?” Solomon asked.

She rocked her head and waved her hand. “Not bad. I had a dream about a forest, and I was chasing a rabbit. Not sure the significance of either.”

“Did you catch the rabbit, and what color was it?” Solomon asked.

“It was white, and I did catch it. When I sprang on it, I had paws,” Rena laughed and shook her head. “Vulpine demon on the hunt.”

“That’s actually quite positive. White rabbits are of loyalty, love, and prosperity. Did you kill it?”

She shook her head. “I woke up before I did.”

“Excellent. A chase is victorious. A killing is a problem. I do enjoy dream symbolism,” Solomon smiled.

Rena nudged him with a smirk, and her tail flicked at his ear. “You’re just enjoying my little evolution, aren’t you?”

Satan cleared his throat. “Rena, would you like to do some studying after RAD today?”

“Oh, yes, of course, Satan. I have so much I need to catch up on now. Barbatos sent me over some basic lessons for demons. He told me if I could finish them in a couple of weeks that I could do my first evaluation as a demon,” Rena voiced as she waved her right hand.

Solomon snagged it and scowled. “That’s the royal seal. I didn’t see the detailing earlier.”

“Oh, yeah, Lord Diavolo and I agreed a pledge of fealty might be a bit of overkill due to the circumstances. We made binding promises to each other instead,” Rena explained.

Solomon dropped her hand and took a step away from her. “I see.”

“Wait, what’s wrong?” She asked.

“It means Solomon can’t ask you for a pact without Lord Diavolo’s permission,” Satan snickered.

Solomon pressed a fist to his chin as they paused outside the classroom. “Rena, what was in this promise?”

“Oh, well, it’s like a temporary pledge, I suppose. He told me I was under his protection so long as I’m a demon,” Rena said as she waved her hand. “I thought it was an excellent idea considering the nature of my incident.”

Solomon’s brow sank further toward his eyes. “Protection. He used the word protection?”

“Wait, why does that matter?” Rena asked.

Solomon shook his head and cleared his throat. “It doesn’t. Let’s enjoy our class,” he said as his expression eased and he opened the door.

Odd. The trio entered the room and sat down. Beelzebub waved his hand, and the conversation took a lighter turn. However, that reaction did bother Rena quite a bit. Why was Solomon clearly upset about the seal? She glanced down at it several times through the lesson to map out different reasons. None of them made much sense.

That was a lie. One of them did. Solomon could be upset at the idea that he couldn’t investigate and experiment as freely if she weren’t under his protection. Not that the sorcerer would ever do anything remotely wrong, but now he would be watched. Maybe Solomon wasn’t as much of a joiner with others as he was with her? An interesting thought to ponder about the sorcerer who has been teaching her the secrets of the arcane.

[leagueoflegends-confessions]

Elderwood is a GOOD ASS SKINLINE. Ahri did not deserve to get an Elderwood skin. If they designed her to be nymphish like they did with LeBlanc, it might’ve worked, but they just made flower girl Ahri. Taliyah could've gotten one, and Ornn should've gotten one much sooner.

Artwork by Leritoz

[infpfilly]

For the Aesthetic (or INFP vs ISFP)

Hey guys!

As usual this is based all on my own personal experience and observations and is not backed up by any empirical evidence.

I think most would agree that one thing that INFPs and ISFPs have in common is their love--dare I say hunger--for all things aesthetically pleasing. However occasionally I will stumble upon the thoughts of others claiming that ISFPs are more artistic (because, you know, senses) and more connected to nature (again with the senses) I’m an INFP. But suddenly I’m also the kid on the playground shouting that their shirt is the bluest. 

No! INFPs are more artistic! INFPs are definitely the MOST connected to nature! It’s impossible to more connected to nature than an INFP!

Okay, first things first: those are just stereotypes. Remember, MBTI is about cognition, that is how your brain processes information (to put it simply). And what do aesthetics have to do with processing information? Not much. Even if that weren’t the case, if you look at the function stacks for both types they have the same dominant and inferior function--Fi and Te--so very similar. But I’m getting sidetracked.

What I actually want to do is feed the stereotypes and talk about my relationship with my own aesthetic and what I think it might be for a stereotypical ISFP. 

I love pretty things. My aesthetic is basically anything covered in floral prints or anything to do with wildflowers. Very forest nymphish. Also everything that Anthropologie sells. Throw in some industrial bricks and pipes and bare light bulbs and gosh I’m getting tingly just thinking about it. As you can probably imagine, I collect of pictures of such on Tumblr, Pinterest, etc. And I imagine these impossibly beautiful scenes a lot. Did I say impossibly? Yes. That’s the problem. I can’t really recreate any of this. I could imagine myself having a picnic in a beautiful field of wildflowers, laying in the grass in some off-white cottony dress. But were I actually to do that, I don’t think it would be as satisfying. I think I’m just always far too much in my head to every truly appreciate my actual surroundings. 

I feel that ISFPs are probably more into actually being surrounded by these things. Their imagination might not be enough for them if they were in a grey cubicle, for example (unless minimalist office settings are their aesthetic). Maybe that shows more to other people. They may go to great lengths to beautify their surroundings. But I would too. But when I do it it’s because those things that I’m collecting are a window into the even more beautiful landscape I’ve created in my mind. 

Maybe they create art because it’s beautiful, maybe I create art because I’m trying to capture and pin down something that’s for the most part intangible. 

As much as I’d like to, I’m not going to let myself end this post on that very pretentious sounding last sentence. Now I’ve done a LOT of assuming here, so I’m very interested in what your thoughts are regarding IxFP aesthetics!  

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

Soft humming as they lay in bed and Jhin plays with the other's hair. "You should grow this out... It would look wonderful styled in different ways."

═══ UNPROMPTED INTERACTIONS ═══ CANON VERSE

The husky, low whisper reaches Robin's ears easily as they lay within the luciously large bed within Jhin's current dwellings, a high tower in Noxus - a ludicrously decorated dwelling; made up in such a way that screamed wealth. His wide eyes swivel back to meet those beautiful heterochromatic irises, a smile curling onto his face as he felt those nimble fingers caress from his scalp to the bouncy ends of his curls.

He sits up slowly and reaches up to twirl and fiddle with one of the locks, he remembered the day he cut it, how violent and terrible it was, how scared he was....but now, now he was sure that Jhin would never tug his hair like that. The idea of the artist bringing a brush through his hair, massaging his head and styling him brought a pleased blush onto his cheeks, the red stain of life.

"Well I...I think I've already started to do that..."

Robin palms at the base of his neck, the hair had grown to his jaw - fluffily and unevenly - and begun to show its wispy, ethereal attributes. He swirls the lock around his finger a few times as he finally shifts his gaze down to Jhin, sunlight twinkling in those great wide orbs, reflecting the heavens brilliance. He laid back down with a chuckle, the bed bouncing under them both as he adjusted so he could look up to his beloved with nymphish eyes,

"Did I ever tell you why I cut it, Yasunari..?"

[sedlex]

Thanks for doing the part where Lyn abandons her wand staff. I like to think of that as her giving up dark magic and Skeletor’s influence for her own inherent magic. And she does look rather nymphish doesn’t she? :)

That or she's finally going home to have a few words with her parents and does not want to have a blunt object in hand when she sees them. She can look relaxed but better not risk it

And you're welcome!

[themacabrepadre-blog]

What Once Was.

Piercing silence filled his ears, sharp pain taking over his senses and dulling all outside sounds. Fresh air burned his lungs causing him to cough and hack, his daughter following in suit as she lifted her face from his chest. Though her coughing soon turned to gasping, dragging Azriel back from his pain-induced haze.

No, no, no, no--

He immediately straightened, laying his daughter on the ground before him and rising to his knees. Either of his large hands pressed against her chest in an attempt to get her lungs to work--to get her vital organs to keep functioning.

“Please, please, please, please,” he begged over and over, begged whatever gods there were to help him, to fix what had happened.

The coughing only got worse though, bloody mucus clogging Ilerel’s throat and landing on the grass as she turned her head to the side to spit it out. When she turned back to look at him, he knew that his losses were about to grow in number.

Tears blurred his vision, falling on his daughter's cheeks as audible sobs shook his body. They barely allowed him to see his daughter's face, barely allowed him to catch the last few glimpses that he could of his daughter alive.

His hands cupped his daughter's soot-smudged and heavily burned face, her once wide eyes now heavy-lidded as her breaths came out in pathetic gasps and wheezes. Tears mingled with the ash and blood on his face, his left eye stinging all the more as she looked up at him with a certain reluctance in her eyes. The small soul couldn't hold on much longer and he knew it though she seemed to be holding on for something, her lips moving and yet no words coming out of her ash-coated throat.

His large thumbs gently wiped the ash away from her face, her long lashes brushing against her cheeks every now and then in blinks that were far too long to be considered a quick bat of the eyelid. Hacking coughs shuddered her small frame, the burns and welts on her skin feeling unnatural beneath his fingertips.

As she had began to cry, he cooed to her, shushing her softly and rocking her in his arms, cradling her as he once had the day she was born. Burned, small fists weakly clutched the charred remains of her father's shirt, the child finding whatever comfort she could in a small tugging gesture. Azriel watched her do so, listened to the broken, infantile sobs that bubbled past her cracked lips.

The aching in his chest never ceased as he lifted a hand to wipe away each and every tear that leaked from the corners of her eyes, cinders mingling with the hot tears. Her lips kept moving, trying to form words--sentences--that he finally read as ‘It hurts, papa’ and ‘I didn't mean to.’ He knew what she was waiting for, what she was holding on for.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, I understand,” he whispered to her finally, his breath shaking with newfound sobs that threatened to spill from him. He managed to restrain them once more, his hand brushing the burnt orange hair away from her face.

“I know you're fighting like hell, sweetheart,” he whispered once more, his words catching in his own throat, burning it more than the ashes. A moment of silence passed over him, his daughter's sobs fading to small, feeble whimpers.

“But I want you to know that if you want to go--” he paused for a moment, the sobs nearly choking him. He took a moment to clear his throat and force back the tears that threatened to spill. Though this didn’t stop the few traitorous tears that fell.

Suddenly a small hand came up to rest upon his cheek, wiping away the tears from his right eye. The touch seemed to clear the vice-grip chokehold that his emotions had on him, his single good eye studying his daughter’s face for one last time.

“I want you to know that I love you and it's okay to go, sweetheart,” he finally whispered with trembling lips, sniffing his nose as more tears seemed to fall from his eye. “If you want to join minn’da in the stars… you can go. Tell her that I sent you to take care of her. And tell her--” his throat clenched once, as though he didn’t want to say his next few words, “--that I’ll keep her promise until the day I finally join you two in the stars as well where we'll be a family once more,” he murmured, his voice breaking near the end. With that, he placed one kiss on her soot-covered forehead, pulling back just in time to see a faint nod. He curled his child to his chest, a low, raspy hum escaping his throat, the soft lullaby only broken by the hoarse sobs that he tried to contain in his aching throat.

And just like that, the small light in his arms had dimmed, the hand that rested on his face lowering to the grass. Her labored breathing had slowly ceased, a glassy look passing over her eyes as the childish light faded. The small body in his arms finally went limp, sobs now shaking his body full force as he lifted a hand to her eyes, slowly closing them. When he looked at the small bundle in his arms once more, her eyes closed and lips parted slightly, she looked as though she were in a peacefully blissful slumber.

He bowed his head to her body once more before gently laying her down in the dewy grass, few sparse flowers in the grass blooming around her head. Even in death, her nymphish features were as beautiful as ever. His little girl laid motionless beside him, her silence unsettling him. She was never so silent when she was awake--only in slumber. He still couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps she would wake up an offer him a dazzling toothless smile--perhaps he would wake up from this horribly cruel nightmare.

As he tore his gaze away from the last remnant of his family, he realized that she would not wake up. And that he wasn’t asleep, ready to wake up any moment to his daughter jumping on the foot of his and Laeine’s bed, chirping along with the morning birds to wake up.

A whirlpool of emotions swirled in his chest, causing a small choking sound to escape his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the pain in his left eye which he could no longer see through. Large fists thumped against the earth, agony ripping from his throat in a roar of anguish. Grief had torn a cavernous hole in his chest.

It was his fault. He had taught her the damned spell. He had been so stupid to neglect the fact that she was a mere child. A child that wouldn't know how to control that well of magic inside of her.

If he hadn't taught her the spell then maybe his family would still be intact.

If he hadn't let Laeine try to extinguish the flames herself then perhaps he would be the one that had been crushed, not her. He could have survived--he would have been horribly burned, yes--but he could have survived.

If he hadn't neglected his duty to protect his family, none of this would have happened.

The cool grass that pressed against his forehead felt distant as his mind whirled, his thoughts a devastating hurricane that split his mind. He thought of his wife that he would never be able to whisper sweet nothings to. How he would never be able to grow old with her or hold her in his arms again. How he would never be enchanted by her beauty or grace or kindness. How he would never be able to tell her everyday that he loved her and show just how much he did. And how both of the purest hearts he knew had died out with the embers of the house before him.

Thoughts of Ilerel intertwined with Laeine in his mind and all that she would miss. She would never know love or the kiss or touch of a lover. She would never learn to ride a mount. She would never go to school and befriend and charm every soul she met. She would never learn any life lessons or how beautifully cruel life can be. She wouldn't know what it was like to travel around the world, never see snow or feel the true heat of summer. Her laughter would no longer grace his ears.

He wanted to roar from the agony that clawed at his mind and chest from both of his losses.

He wanted to cry out from the sorrow that threatened to swallow him whole.

He wanted to find someone to blame for the fire, find them and slaughter them for wronging him so horribly.

He wanted…

He wanted his family back.

[euelioi]

nymphish