#the world is my canvas. (visage)

[astrojulia]

Asteroid Bella (695): Understanding its Signs and Houses

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₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ About the Asteroid: Have I found something in my asteroid sources? No. In general sources, the asteroid Bella (695) talks about beauty.. and that's it, that's why I gave a deeper look into what beauty is to make this post.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Sources and inspirations:To make this post, I used what is seen as beauty in the aesthetic area, which goes beyond personal taste, which are factors such as: symmetry, proportion, youthfulness, ,familiarity and similarity, I also used the birth chart of women by the Golden Ratio. The image template in from minikyuns on deviantart.

Asteroid Bella by Sign

✧. ┊Aries: Bella's presence in Aries ignites a magnetic force, drawing attention with youthful exuberance and boldness. The face possesses an angular charm, arousing curiosity and daring others to keep up with the swift pace of life.

✧. ┊Taurus: Bella in Taurus unveils an embodiment of earthly beauty, where proportion and symmetry are paramount. Facial features are refined and harmonious, evoking a timeless allure that echoes the grace of nature itself.

✧. ┊Gemini: In Gemini, Bella's influence manifests as an ever-changing visage, versatile and captivating. The face carries an animated charm, often enhanced by lively expressions, reflecting a familiarity that spans diverse connections.

✧. ┊Cancer: Bella's energy in Cancer enhances the allure of familiarity, drawing on nostalgic appeal. The face emanates a warm and comforting vibe, inviting others to find solace in its welcoming features.

✧. ┊Leo: Bella takes center stage in Leo, radiating an undeniable facial magnetism. Symmetry reigns supreme, and the face exudes a captivating confidence, inviting admiration from all who gaze upon it.

✧. ┊Virgo: In Virgo, Bella lends an understated elegance to facial attractiveness. Subtle proportions and immaculate grooming enhance the visage, creating an allure that stems from a meticulous attention to detail. This placement carries the apex of proportion.

✧. ┊Libra: Bella's placement in Libra emphasizes the aesthetic balance and symmetry in facial features. Grace and charm exude effortlessly, drawing others in with an air of harmony and refined beauty. This placement carries the apex of symmetry.

✧. ┊Scorpio: Bella's influence in Scorpio manifests in an enigmatic and intense allure. Proportionality takes on an alluring edge, and the face carries an aura of mystery that beckons others to explore its depths.This placement carries something that we all like but is not on the standard list, the mystery of trying to understand that person's intentions, people thinks you're mysteryous and that's why they want to know more.

✧. ┊Sagittarius: In Sagittarius, Bella radiates a youthful and adventurous appeal. The face reflects the spirit of exploration, with features that embody the essence of wanderlust and open-minded curiosity.

✧. ┊Capricorn: Bella's presence in Capricorn bestows a dignified and refined attractiveness. Symmetry and proportion are elevated, resulting in a visage that commands respect and admiration, mirroring the aura of a wise elder. This placement has the quality of not being so apparent when the native is younger, but retaining youthfulness over the years.

✧. ┊Aquarius: Bella in Aquarius imparts an otherworldly allure, marked by unique and unconventional features. The face carries an eccentric charm, captivating others with its distinctiveness and originality.

✧. ┊Pisces: Bella's energy in Pisces lends an ethereal and dreamy beauty to the face. Proportions may be fluid and elusive, evoking a sense of enchantment that draws others into a world of imagination and sensitivity.

Asteroid Bella by House

✧. ┊1st House: With Bella in the 1st house, your physical appearance becomes a canvas of attraction. Proportion and symmetry manifest strongly, creating an aura of personal magnetism. Your face exudes youthful energy and a confident allure, drawing others to your charismatic presence.

✧. ┊2nd House: Bella's influence in the 2nd house enhances the allure of your possessions and values. Your facial features reflect the harmony of proportion, making your expressions an asset in both social and material realms.

✧. ┊3rd House: In the 3rd house, Bella enhances your communication style with facial expressions that speak volumes. Youthful charm and familiarity in your interactions draw people to engage with your ideas and stories

✧. ┊4th House: Bella's grace in the 4th house infuses your home and family life with a comforting beauty. Your facial features may hold a resemblance to family members, evoking a sense of shared familiarity and connection.

✧. ┊5th House: Bella's presence in the 5th house adds a touch of artistic allure to your self-expression. Your face becomes a canvas for creativity, exuding an irresistible charm that sparks romance and infuses your creative endeavors with aesthetic appeal.

✧. ┊6th House: With Bella in the 6th house, your health and daily routines become more harmonious and attractive. Your facial proportions may reflect a commitment to self-care, inviting others to take note of your disciplined approach.

✧. ┊7th House: Bella's energy in the 7th house enhances the attractiveness of your partnerships. Facial symmetry and proportion play a significant role, drawing others to your side with a sense of familiarity and compatibility.

✧. ┊8th House: In the 8th house, Bella's allure takes on a mysterious and transformative quality. Your facial features hold an enigmatic charm, inviting others to explore the depths of your persona and engage in meaningful connections.

✧. ┊9th House: Bella's influence in the 9th house bestows a worldly and adventurous attractiveness. Your face carries the glow of youthful curiosity, enticing others to join you on journeys of both the mind and spirit.

✧. ┊10th House: Bella's presence in the 10th house enhances your public image and career pursuits. Your facial features reflect an air of professionalism and authority, attracting attention and admiration from those in your professional sphere.

✧. ┊11th House: With Bella in the 11th house, your social interactions are infused with a sense of similarity and camaraderie. Your facial expressions resonate with shared experiences, fostering connections within social circles.

✧. ┊12th House: Bella's energy in the 12th house lends an ethereal and mystical allure. Your facial features may possess a dreamy quality, drawing others into your spiritual insights and inner world.

Asteroid Bella Aspects

✧. ┊Conjunction: The energies of Bella and the associated planet intertwine seamlessly, creating a captivating synergy that can significantly impact the area of life represented by that planet. This conjunction encourages you to embody Bella's charms and express them in a potent and direct way, inviting others to be drawn to your unique allure.

✧. ┊Sextile and Trine: This facilitate a gentle flow of energy, allowing Bella's allure to blend effortlessly with the qualities of the associated planet. This alignment suggests that your innate attractiveness and charm are readily accessible and integrated into the realm of the aligned planet. Relationships, creativity, and personal expression benefit from this harmonious connection, as Bella's grace enhances the natural traits of the associated planet, creating an inviting and appealing aura.

✧. ┊Square and Opposition: This configuration challenges you to navigate and integrate Bella's allure with the energies of the associated planet, which may require conscious effort and self-awareness. The square aspect prompts you to find a balance between your natural charm and the qualities represented by the planet, often leading to growth through overcoming obstacles.

(CC) AstroJulia Some Rights Reserved

[alyrasturnz]

matt thinking he'd be the best ghost face killer is my roman empire. like yes you would be bby!!! you would also be the hottest one there

 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎CHERRY WAVES

❐ summary » in a chilling tale of obsession and regret, a small town is haunted by the legacy of ghost face, a masked figure whose reign of terror left scars both seen and unseen. amidst the shadows, y/n discovers the hidden wounds of those she thought she knew, unraveling a web of secrets and lies. as the past and present collide, the boundaries between victim and villain blur, leading to a final confrontation where the true face of fear is revealed.

❐ pairings » ghostface!matt x fem!reader

❐ warnings » heavy gore, insanely violent, mentions of blood, stabbing, carving a heart out, severing a face, skull stabbing, chest stabbing, neck stabbing

❐ a/n && w/c » 400 specialll! THIS TOOK ME A THOUSAND TRIES???? TUMBKR KEPT FUCKING DELETING THIS I ALMOST PISSED MYSELF I SWEARRRR. if this flops im gonna quit THE TARA IN THIS FIC IS NOT TARA YUMMY • 5.68k

a harrowing scream erupts from your lips, reverberating through the air like a mournful echo. tears cascade down your cheeks, blurring your vision as you stare at madi's lifeless body sprawled before you. the stark reality of her death sears into your soul, each heartbeat pounding in your ears like a relentless drum. the world around you seems to fade, leaving only the haunting image of her still form.

her face was a grotesque canvas of horror, completely severed and meticulously carved out, leaving the flesh on her skull barely clinging to the bone. the macabre artistry of the mutilation was both horrifying and surreal, as if some malevolent force had taken perverse pleasure in defacing her humanity.

her skin hung in loose, grotesque folds, blood continuously spilling out in a relentless torrent. her face was a horrifying canvas of raw, exposed musculature, completely devoid of any semblance of normal skin. the entirety of her visage was drenched in crimson, a macabre display that left no trace of her former appearance, only the stark, visceral reality of her suffering.

her body was an eerie shade of pallor, a ghostly white that seemed almost otherworldly. crimson rivulets of blood streamed down her face, tracing morbid paths across her lifeless features before pooling onto her pale, lifeless form. the stark contrast between the vivid red and her alabaster skin created a chilling tableau of death and despair.

the scene was a nightmarish tableau, a grotesque display that twisted your insides and left you feeling profoundly nauseous. it was an assault on your senses, a visceral horror that gnawed at your very core and left your heart aching with an unbearable sorrow.

with sobs wracking your body, you staggered closer to the grisly tableau, each step a harrowing journey towards the macabre scene of the kill. the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the ground seemed to shift beneath your feet as if recoiling from the horror that lay before you. your heart pounded in your chest, a relentless drumbeat of dread, as you forced yourself to confront the unspeakable carnage that awaited.

you knelt down in front of madi, your legs trembling as if the weight of the world bore down upon them. your lips quivered, a soft whimper escaping as you reached out with a shaking hand towards her face—if it could still be called that. the touch was met with the warm, sticky sensation of her blood, clinging to your skin like a haunting reminder of the life that had been so violently torn apart.

you turned your head to the right, your vision blurred by the torrent of tears streaming down your face. through the watery veil, you could just make out the faint, haunting silhouettes of writing on the wall, the letters dancing and distorting in your tear-filled eyes, as if the very words themselves were weeping with you.

you hastily wiped your tears away with the rough fabric of your sleeve, the motion swift and desperate, before pushing yourself to stand.

"true beauty lies within," the haphazard scrawl declared, the letters smeared and uneven, as if inscribed with a trembling hand. it was written in what you could only assume was madi's blood, the crimson ink a chilling testament to her final moments.

you cast your gaze downward, where her makeup lay scattered across the floor, a chaotic mosaic of colors and textures, each item a silent witness to the turmoil that had unfolded.

you furrowed your eyebrows, a deep crease forming as your mind grappled with the cryptic message. what could it possibly mean?

but then, like a bolt of lightning piercing through the fog of confusion, realization struck you with sudden clarity…

in the dimly lit room, the tension was as thick as the shadows that clung to the walls. everyone was huddled together, their whispers a murmur of suspicion and fear, each casting furtive glances at one another in a desperate attempt to unmask ghostface.

nick's eyes flitted nervously around the room, scrutinizing each face in turn. his gaze finally came to rest on madi, who, with an air of unsettling calm, was nonchalantly retouching her makeup.

“madi? seriously? right now?" nick exclaimed, his voice a turbulent blend of disbelief and frustration, each word dripping with incredulity.

madi looked up, her expression a complex tapestry of indifference interwoven with threads of mild annoyance. "what? just because there's a killer on the loose doesn't mean i can't look good."

the room fell silent, the absurdity of the moment slicing through the fear like a knife. nick shook his head, struggling to comprehend how she could remain so calm—or so vain—at a time like this.

you let out a soft gasp, your breath catching in your throat as you brought your bloodied hands up to your mouth. the sight of the crimson stains on your skin sent a shiver down your spine, the metallic scent mingling with the air around you, creating a haunting reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded.

but soon, nick, matt, chris, tara, and nate came rushing in, their hurried footsteps echoing like a storm of urgency through the corridor.

"we heard your screams. are you okay?" chris said, but his words were cut short by a gasp that escaped his lips as his eyes fell upon madi’s lifeless body, the sight rendering him momentarily speechless.

you turned to them with tear-filled eyes, the tears still streaming down your face like a relentless torrent. "she's dead," you whispered, your voice barely audible, choked with the weight of grief.

as the reality of the situation sank in, uncontrollable sobs began to spill from your lips. seeking solace, you ran up to matt, wrapping your arms tightly around his torso, burying your face in his chest. his presence was the only anchor in the storm of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you.

his hands gently descended onto your back, tracing delicate, soothing circles on your skin. he allowed his chin to rest lightly atop your head, a silent gesture of comfort and reassurance amidst the chaos that surrounded you.

»--•--«

nick's voice shattered the oppressive silence like a thunderclap, raw and fervent. "i didn't fucking do it!" he bellowed, his words reverberating through the room, laden with a mix of desperation and fury.

the fire crackled, its flames dancing and casting flickering shadows across the walls. everyone was seated in the living room, the warmth of the hearth enveloping them as they exchanged glances, the air thick with unspoken thoughts and lingering tension.

"it just seems awfully suspicious, nick," you hissed, narrowing your eyes at him. suspicion dripped from your voice, each word weighted with doubt and mistrust. you leaned in closer against matt's embrace, seeking both comfort and solidarity.

matt's fingers traced gentle, soothing circles on your upper arm, a silent gesture of support amidst the tension. the room seemed to hold its breath, every eye fixed on nick, waiting for his response.

"i mean… she did die with her face carved out, and you were the one who mentioned seeing her apply her makeup the other day," you said, your words laced with a mix of incredulity and accusation. you shrugged slightly, as if the weight of the implications could be so easily dismissed.

nick's face flushed with a volatile blend of anger and frustration. his eyes narrowed, and his fists clenched tightly at his sides. he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as he tried to control the surge of emotions. "just because i noticed doesn't mean i'm guilty! you're grasping at straws," he retorted, his voice trembling with indignation.

"everyone, calm down," nate interjected, stepping between you and nick with a composed yet firm demeanor. "we need to maintain our composure and approach this with a clear, rational mind."

tara's eyes welled up with a torrent of emotion, her voice trembling as she softly said, "i love you all too much to accuse anyone. please, let's not tear each other apart." her words hung in the air, a poignant plea for unity amidst the chaos.

matt crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping across the room with a determined intensity. "but we have to figure this out. madi deserves justice," he declared, his voice resolute and unwavering.

chris nodded in agreement, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room with a scrutinizing gaze. "we can't just ignore this. someone here knows more than they're letting on."

nick threw his hands up in exasperation, his frustration evident in every gesture. "why are you all looking at me? i just pointed out something i noticed. that doesn't make me guilty," he protested, his voice tinged with a mix of defensiveness and bewilderment.

you took a deep breath, striving to maintain your composure. "it's not just about noticing, nick. it's about the way you said it," you remarked, your voice steady yet filled with underlying tension.

nick shook his head, his voice cracking with disbelief. "i can't believe you're turning this on me. we've been friends for years," he uttered, his words laden with the weight of betrayal and sorrow.

"you killed my best friend!" you yelled out, tears finally streaming down your face. the raw emotion in your voice reverberated through the air, a heart-wrenching cry of sorrow and betrayal.

as matt pulled you closer against him, his fingers gently weaving through your hair, he tried to offer some semblance of comfort. his touch was tender, yet it couldn't quell the storm of emotions raging within you.

the room seemed to close in around you, the weight of your grief pressing down, making it hard to breathe. each tear that fell was a silent testament to the bond you had lost, a bond that could never be replaced.

"I. didn't. kill. her." nick gritted through his teeth, each word punctuated with a seething intensity. fury and frustration flashed through his eyes, a tempest of emotions barely contained within his steely gaze. his clenched fists trembled, as if the sheer force of his denial could alter the reality of the situation.

tara stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of her plea. "please, let's not jump to conclusions. we need to support each other right now," she implored, her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and desperation. her words hung in the air, a fragile bridge of hope amidst the chaos, beseeching everyone to hold together in this moment of uncertainty.

nate nodded, placing a comforting hand on tara's shoulder. "tara's right. we need to stay united and figure this out together," he said, his voice steady yet infused with a quiet determination. the warmth of his touch was a silent reassurance, a promise that they would face the trials ahead as one. his words were a beacon of solidarity, urging everyone to find strength in their unity and resolve.

the room fell into a heavy silence once more, each person grappling with their own thoughts and the weight of the situation. the air grew thick with unspoken words, as the gravity of the moment pressed down on them all. shadows seemed to lengthen, and time itself felt suspended, as everyone wrestled with their inner turmoil and the uncertain path that lay ahead.

nate surveyed the room, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he endeavored to piece together the fragmented puzzle before him. suddenly, his hand shot up, and with a voice tinged with both curiosity and suspicion, he asked, "wait… tara, do you truly love us enough to withhold blame? or are you merely the one who feels secure enough to refrain from casting accusations?"

tara's face flushed with indignation, but she took a deep breath, striving to maintain her composure. "nate, that's not fair. i love all of you, and the last thing i want is to start pointing fingers. we're all in this together, and accusing each other without any proof is only going to tear us apart," she responded, her voice a delicate balance of restraint and fervor. her words were a plea for unity, a call to rise above the chaos and hold fast to the bonds that connected them, even in the face of uncertainty.

but nate remained unconvinced. "think about it. if you were guilty, you’d be the last person to point fingers, but if you felt secure enough, you might attempt to steer us in the wrong direction," he argued, his voice edged with skepticism. his words cut through the air like a blade, probing the delicate fabric of trust that held them together, casting a shadow of doubt over tara's intentions.

matt, who had been quietly observing, finally broke his silence. “hold on. if we're going down that road, then maybe it's chris. he's tara's boyfriend. He wouldn't ever kill his girlfriend, so she feels safe enough to not point fingers at him." he stated, his voice a measured blend of logic and caution. his words introduced a new layer of complexity, weaving yet another thread into the intricate tapestry of their predicament.

chris's eyes widened in shock. "are you serious? y’know what, tara's right—this isn't the time to start turning on each other," he exclaimed, his voice a mix of disbelief and urgency. his reaction underscored the fragile state of their unity, a reminder that sowing seeds of doubt could unravel the tenuous bonds holding them together in this critical moment.

tara turned to chris, her eyes pleading. "chris, tell them this is crazy. we need to stick together," she implored, her voice a delicate blend of desperation and resolve. her gaze bore into him, seeking an ally in the storm of suspicion, a beacon of solidarity amidst the encroaching darkness.

chris nodded, stepping forward to address the group. "listen, everyone. tara and i are innocent. we’re just as confused and scared as the rest of you. pointing fingers without evidence is only going to make things worse. we need to work together and find out who the real culprit is," he declared, his voice a steadfast anchor in the turbulent sea of their predicament. his words sought to quell the rising tide of suspicion, urging unity and collective resolve in their quest for the truth.

the room fell silent as everyone grappled with the new accusations, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. the air seemed to hum with unspoken fears and doubts, each person wrestling with their own inner turmoil, the weight of suspicion pressing heavily upon them all.

»--•--«

the darkness enveloped the basement like a thick, suffocating shroud. the only beacon of light pierced through the abyss, emanating from the small, trembling glow of your phone’s flashlight. it cast long, eerie shadows that danced and flickered on the cold, damp walls. you and nick moved cautiously, each step echoing in the oppressive silence, as you strained to make out the shapes and objects hidden in the murky gloom.

"discover anything?" you inquired, your voice reverberating slightly through the cavernous space as you meticulously sifted through the disarray, your fingers searching for the elusive power box amidst the chaos.

"no luck," nick mutters, his voice tinged with frustration as he kicks a cardboard box, sending it skittering across the floor. he collapses into an old, creaky chair, the wood groaning under his weight. burying his face in his hands, he mumbles a string of curse words, the sound muffled and weary.

you clenched your jaw, the tension palpable as you continued to sift through the mess. "y’know, for the record, i still don’t trust you," you said, your voice edged with a mix of determination and lingering suspicion.

nick looked up, his eyes narrowed into slits. "oh really? well, that's just great. because i'm not exactly thrilled about being stuck down here with you either," he retorted sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface and spilling over in his words.

"you think this is fun for me?" you shot back, your voice rising with indignation. "i wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your brilliant idea to check the basement in the first place!"

nick’s eyes flashed with anger as he stood up abruptly, the chair skidding back with a loud scrape. his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his entire body radiating tension. "my brilliant idea?" he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "if it weren’t for me, you’d still be upstairs, fumbling around in the dark like an idiot!"

"at least i wouldn’t be stuck down here with someone who’s more interested in complaining than actually helping!" you fired back, your anger flaring like a wildfire. your voice echoed off the basement walls, each word laden with frustration and bitterness.

"oh, i’m sorry," nick said sarcastically, his voice dripping with mock politeness. "i didn’t realize you were such an expert in power boxes. please, enlighten me with your vast knowledge!" he crossed his arms, leaning back slightly as if to give you the floor, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of challenge and disdain.

"you know what, nick? just stay out of my way," you spat, your voice trembling with barely contained fury. you turned your back on him, dismissing his presence entirely, and resumed your search with renewed determination, your movements sharp and purposeful.

"gladly," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. he moved to the opposite side of the basement, each step a declaration of his disdain. the tension between you both thickened with each passing moment, a palpable force that seemed to fill the air around you.

but then, you heard an agonizing scream that pierced the silence like a knife. you and nick snapped your heads towards each other, eyes wide with alarm, before quickly dashing up the stairs. your hearts pounded in unison as you raced towards the source of the harrowing cry.

you glanced to your right and saw chris standing in the middle of the hallway, his presence both startling and unexpected. your heart began to race at a hundred miles per hour, each beat echoing in your ears like a relentless drum. the hallway seemed to stretch infinitely, the air thick with an unspoken tension, as you took in the sight before you, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts.

"chris?" you whispered, your voice barely audible as you inched closer to nick. each step you took felt like an eternity, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. the air between you and chris seemed to crackle with tension, every inch of the hallway charged with an almost palpable electricity.

chris slowly turned to face the both of you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. the raw emotion etched on his face was unmistakable, each tear reflecting the turmoil within. the silence between you all was heavy, laden with unspoken words and the weight of the moment, as his gaze met yours, revealing a depth of sorrow that words could scarcely convey.

your gaze fell upon tara's lifeless, limp body, sprawled on the cold ground. her chest was grotesquely cut wide open, a gaping wound that starkly contrasted with the stillness of her form. the scene was a macabre tableau, the sight of her mutilated chest sending a shiver down your spine as the gravity of the moment settled heavily upon you.

the dim light barely illuminated the gruesome scene before you. tara's lifeless body lay sprawled on the floor, her eyes wide open in a haunting stare, as if frozen in the final moments of sheer terror. the shadows danced eerily around her, casting an ominous pallor over the room, each flicker of light revealing the stark horror etched into her features.

your breath caught in your throat as you noticed the gaping wound in her chest, where her heart should have been. blood was everywhere, pooling around her and smeared on the walls in grotesque patterns.

but it was the message scrawled in her blood that sent a shiver through your very soul: "a big heart won't get you to the sequel." the macabre tableau was a chilling testament to the brutality of the act, each word dripping with a sinister foreboding that seemed to echo in the silent room, amplifying the sense of dread that gripped you.

your eyes widened in horror as you saw tara's heart, gruesomely placed in her own hands, as if mocking the very essence of her being. the room seemed to close in around you, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and the weight of unspeakable tragedy.

shadows seemed to stretch and writhe on the walls, and the oppressive silence was punctuated only by the faint, echoing drip of blood, each drop a reminder of the horrific scene before you.

you took a step closer, your feet feeling like lead. the details became clearer, each one more horrifying than the last. the jagged edges of the wound, the way her fingers were wrapped around her own heart, the lifelessness that had overtaken her once vibrant eyes.

it was as if a twisted artist had taken their time, ensuring every detail was perfectly macabre. the scene unfolded with a grotesque clarity, each element meticulously crafted to evoke a deep, visceral dread, as if the very air around you conspired to amplify the horror.

the walls seemed to echo with silent screams, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. you could almost hear tara's voice, her laughter, her kindness—now silenced forever.

the message on the wall was not just a taunt; it was a cruel testament to the brutality of her demise. the room seemed to pulsate with a malevolent energy, each shadow whispering of the unspeakable violence that had transpired, leaving behind a haunting silence that spoke volumes of the terror and suffering that had been inflicted.

your heart pounded in your chest, each beat a reminder of the horror that lay before you. the room seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy, as if the very walls were alive with the darkness that had claimed tara.

you knew this was just the beginning, and the nightmare was far from over. the shadows seemed to dance with sinister intent, and the air grew thicker, suffocating you with the weight of unseen horrors yet to be revealed. the very fabric of reality seemed to warp, as if the room itself was a living entity, feeding on your fear and despair.

“nick!” chris yelled out, snapping you out of your trance. you quickly looked back, watching in horror as ghost face approached nick. the knife glinted wickedly in the dim light before plunging into nick's neck. his eyes widened in shock, his jaw dropping as he gasped.

ghost face twisted the knife with a cruel precision before pulling it out, and nick crumpled to the side, his lifeblood spilling out in a gruesome arc. the scene seemed to slow, each moment etched into your memory with agonizing clarity.

his body was slumped against the wall as ghost face kneeled down. “like they say, always go for the head, smartass,” ghost face growled, his voice dripping with malice. he brought the blade up to nick’s forehead, the steel glinting ominously. with a brutal, unrelenting force, he shoved the knife in, and you cringed at the sickening sound of nick’s skull cracking. the noise reverberated through the room, a gruesome symphony of violence that left an indelible mark on your soul.

a pathetic sob escapes your lips as you watch chris run away from the scene. the sound is weak and broken, a testament to the overwhelming despair that has gripped you. each step chris takes feels like a betrayal, his figure growing smaller and smaller as he flees, leaving you alone in the suffocating darkness. the weight of the moment crushes you, your sobs mingling with the echoes of your shattered hope.

ghost face looked up at you, his gaze piercing through the dim light. your eyes widened in terror, heart pounding in your chest. without a second thought, you turned and bolted down the basement stairs, each step echoing your frantic escape. the shadows seemed to close in around you, and the air grew colder with every hurried breath you took, as if the basement itself was a labyrinth of dread, eager to consume you.

but the darkness was impenetrable, shrouding everything in a thick, inky blackness. you stumbled blindly, your steps faltering until you tripped, the ground rushing up to meet you with a jarring thud.

you felt your ankle twist with a sickening snap, pain searing through your body. an agonizing scream tore from your throat, drowning out the subtle, menacing sounds of ghost face's careful descent down the steps.

you quickly scrambled away, desperation fueling your movements, until you collided with a cold, unforgiving metal box. the impact sent a jolt of pain through your skull, eliciting a soft groan. your eyes went wide with a mix of shock and fear as the reality of your predicament settled in.

you quickly stood up, wincing as a sharp pain radiated from your injured ankle. with a determined grimace, you hobbled over to the power box, your fingers trembling as you fumbled to switch it on, hoping for a glimmer of light in the oppressive darkness.

the sudden burst of light was almost blinding, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut against its intensity. as you slowly reopened them, you glanced over your shoulder, bracing yourself for the sight of ghost face looming behind you. but to your astonishment, the space was empty, devoid of his ominous presence.

you slowly made your way towards the heart of the basement, each step marked by a pronounced limp as your injured ankle protested with every movement.

you looked down, a gasp escaping your lips as your eyes fell upon nate's lifeless body sprawled across the basement floor. how had you missed such a harrowing sight when you were with nick just moments ago?

your eyes slowly traveled up the wall, where the words "welcome to act 3" were scrawled in a chilling crimson. the realization struck you like a thunderbolt—this was nate's blood, marking the macabre message.

your lips part, but before a single word can escape, you find yourself abruptly pulled back, your spine pressed firmly against ghostface's chest. the cold, unforgiving blade of his knife rests against your neck, its presence menacing yet not breaking the skin. "don't scream, baby," he growls, his voice a sinister blend of threat and dark amusement.

your body turns ashen, and your eyes flutter shut as a solitary tear traces a path down your cheek. "matt…" you whisper, your voice quivering with a mix of fear and disbelief.

"that's right. surprise, baby," he smirks beneath his mask, his confidence palpable in the charged air. with a deliberate, almost theatrical motion, he tilts his head, the dark eyes behind the mask gleaming with malevolent amusement.

"did you truly believe you could escape me?" he taunts, his voice dripping with a perverse sense of satisfaction. he steps closer, his presence overwhelming, as he runs a gloved finger along the edge of the knife. "you should have known better."

you swallow hard, your throat dry as you struggle to steady your breath. "matt, please… this isn't you," you implore, your voice wavering with desperation. "you don't have to do this."

his grip on the knife tightens, and he leans in closer, the mask mere inches from your face. "oh, but it is me," he whispers, his voice a chilling, eerie echo that sends shivers down your spine.

he releases his grip on you, compelling you to spin around and face him, your head shaking in disbelief. with a deliberate motion, he lifts the mask off his face, revealing a smirk that sends a chill through you. “you just never saw this side of me," he says, his voice dripping with a sinister satisfaction.

"i know you," you insist, your voice trembling and on the verge of breaking. stepping closer, you reach out, your hand hovering near his, as if the mere touch could pull him back from the abyss. "i know there's still good in you, buried beneath all this darkness."

he lets out a low, mocking laugh. "good? maybe once, but not anymore." he pauses, his confidence wavering just a fraction, his eyes flickering with a momentary doubt. "you think you can change me with your words?"

you hold his gaze, even through the mask, your eyes unwavering. "i believe in you, matt. i always have," you whisper, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

for a moment, the knife wavers, and you can feel the internal struggle within him. the smirk falters, and his breath hitches, betraying the storm raging inside. the man behind the mask is fighting a battle with himself, one that you hope he can win, as his eyes flicker with a glimmer of the person he once was.

"you don't understand," he says, his voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. "i've done things… terrible things. there's no going back for me," he whispers, the weight of his past deeds pressing down on him like an insurmountable burden, his eyes haunted by the ghosts of his actions.

"everyone has a choice," you reply softly, your voice like a gentle breeze cutting through the tension. "it's not too late to make the right one, to turn the tide and find redemption amidst the shadows of your past."

he steps back slightly, the knife still in his hand but no longer pressed against your neck. "why do you care?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper, laden with confusion and pain. "after everything i've done, why would you still care?" his eyes search yours, seeking an answer to the question that has haunted him for so long.

"because i know the real you, matt," you say, taking a cautious step forward, your voice unwavering. "the you that wouldn't hurt me. the you that can still change, the flicker of humanity that remains beneath the shadows of your actions."

his grip on the knife tightens as he glares at you, the intensity of his gaze palpable. "i'm gonna kill you. i have to," he growls, his voice a volatile mix of anger and desperation, each word dripping with the torment of his internal struggle.

you take a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. "then do it," you say, your voice steady despite the fear coursing through you like a raging river. "kill me."

for a moment, there's silence. the knife wavers in his hand, and you can see the conflict in his eyes, even through the mask. "why aren't you scared?" he asks, his voice trembling slightly, a quiver that betrays the storm raging within him.

"i am scared," you admit, your voice soft but unwavering. "but i also know you, matt. i know you won't do it. beneath the fury and the pain, i see the man who still has a choice."

"don't be so sure," he snaps, but there's a hint of doubt in his voice, a subtle tremor that betrays his facade. "you don't know what i'm capable of, the depths to which i can descend."

"i know enough," you reply, taking a step closer. "i know that deep down, you're still the person i care about. the person who wouldn't hurt me. beneath the shadows and the rage, i see the flicker of the man who once held my trust."

his hand shakes, the knife lowering just a fraction. "i don't have a choice," he whispers, more to himself than to you, as if trying to convince the ghosts of his past rather than the living soul before him.

"there's always a choice," you say gently, your voice a balm to his troubled mind. "and i believe you'll make the right one, for within every heart lies the power to choose its own path."

he looks at you, the mask concealing his expression but not the turmoil in his eyes. the knife slips from his grasp, clattering to the floor, and he takes a step back, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "i can't do it," he admits, his voice breaking like a fragile whisper in the wind. "i can't kill you."

but just as you begin to hope, he suddenly lunges forward, his movements desperate and wild. he grabs the knife from the ground, tears streaming down his face, and plunges it into your chest with a trembling hand.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice choked with anguish, each word a dagger of its own. "i had to."

you gasp, your eyes wide with shock and pain, as the cold embrace of mortality begins to take hold. with trembling fingers, you reach out to touch his face one last time, a gesture filled with both sorrow and love. "i forgive you," you whisper, your voice barely audible, a breath against the wind. "i always will."

and with that, you fall to the ground, your body weak, leaving him alone with the crushing weight of his actions. the room seems to grow colder, the silence almost deafening, as he stands there, paralyzed by the enormity of what he has done. the echoes of your final words linger in the air, a haunting reminder of the irrevocable path he has chosen.

pathetic sobs wracked his body, salt tears streaming down his face as his knees buckled beneath him. he collapsed onto the ground, his fingers trembling as he gathered the remnants of blood from his knife, the metallic scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the hardwood floor. his gloved hand pressed against the floorboards, a futile attempt to steady himself amidst the chaos of his emotions.

“you were always pretty when you cried,” the bloodied message declared, each letter a grotesque testament to the anguish etched into the very fibers of the floor. the crimson ink seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a chilling reminder of the torment that birthed such words.

taglist -- @imwetforyourmom @meatballzerz69 @pinkishpearls @thedangerousalleyway @sturniolo0bsessed @muchloveforhacker @stinkytinkywinky @jetameivous @everleiqh

[strong-with-the-sarcasm]

Revenant!Jazz thoughts Pt.2

Continuing from this post

This time, I’m thinking about Vlad and his reaction to all this. In the show he doesn’t particularly seem to care about Jazz in any way, probably because of his hyper focus on Danny and Maddie. I doubt he’s registered Jazz as a threat of any kind, much less to him.

If Danny winds up Bat-dopted, Jason or classic “Bruce stole another one” and the news catches wind of the new Wayne, Vlad would be livid. Danny is supposed to be his son afterall, doesn’t matter that it was Maddie who severely wounded her own son.

In the midst of Rogues dropping like flies, Jazz sets a trap for Vlad by baiting him with Danny. Her brother is never in danger, not with her around and certainly not with the bat family lurking nearby, but Vlad cannot help himself- he tries to kidnap Danny by overshadowing the adoptive parent. Jazz allows it to happen only until Vlad takes Danny out of the public eye, then straight up punches Vlad out of the person he’s overshadowing, sucking him up into a thermos she stole from the GIW and throwing it into an abyss.

Wouldn’t someone recognize Jazz then?

Beyond the walking dead look that came free with reanimating, Jazz walks, talks and looks completely different then she was in life. Memories shape us and without most of hers Jazz wouldn’t be quite the same anymore. Where she once walked with a relaxed gait and a calm demeanor, as a Revenant Jazz masters the murder strut, because that’s pretty much the only thought going through her head on a constant loop….Other than ‘make Danny Safe’ of course.

Who killed Jazz? (Asked by @someonebored0100 )

Originally I was thinking it would be either the Fenton parents in the GAV or the GIW, but then a delicious angst idea popped into my head….

Batman chasing down Joker led to him slamming into Jazz’s car, which resulted in her death and a new son for him to care for….

Batman says nothing when he brings in Danny, marks down Jazz’s death as a murder and does not go out as Batman again for a week.

Was Jazz autopsied?

Thee death rate in Gotham must be higher than any other city in the world, so the coroners embody (pun not intended) the phrase “overworked and underpaid”.

So no, she wasn’t autopsied, but they did make record of the punctured artery and removed the shrapnel by request of Batman for testing.

What happened after Jazz’s body disappeared from the Crematorium?

Bruce Wayne paid for the cremation personally, so it’s understandable the mortician would be Panicking at the very likely notion that someone stole a dead body paid to be cremated and sealed into an urn by Bruce Fucking Wayne.

If the mortician cremates an unclaimed body and slaps the wrong name on it, we’ll, add it to the list of morally questionable things he’s done as a mortician in a Gotham.

Thoughts about Jason’s reaction to a true Revenant?

Her veiny visage, with the broken sclera and eyes that seem to absorb light and give none back, horrifies Jason to the bone. Did he look like that when he dug himself out of his grave? Did the Pits actually do him a favor? It makes him wanna puke just thinking about how accurate his zombie jokes could have been… then makes him swear to stop telling those same jokes because clearly he’s no longer one of the walking dead if he looks better than this dead woman who looks just… horrifying.

Though once Jazz kills the Joker in the same way the clown killed Jason, he seeks out the Revenant and after doing some digging… swears to do whatever he can for her.

If this is Dad!Jason, then he’s very upset for Danny and Jazz’s tragic history.

No hardcover pairing this time?

Maybe? Doubtful, but it could happen. I don’t think it should though.

Does Jazz have a vigilante persona in this one?

Hmm, not exactly. She’s not tying to hide anything, definitely not her less than living appearance. She wears boots, a canvas jacket, jeans and gun holsters with hair that looks like a drunk toddler attacked it with dull scissors.

She doesn’t save anyone, not directly, but ending the rogues that killed so many earns her the name “Reaper” and it sticks.

What’s Danny’s reaction to all this?

We all know about the dark timeline that resulted from The Ultimate Enemy, Dan.

The Fenton parents are still hunting him down, Sam and Tucker are trying to move to Gotham, he’s been adopted by a Kevlar-clad billionaire furry who acts like a himbo with way too much ease for it to be all an act. He’s got a home that’s not an active threat to his afterlife and the food is the farthest thing from radioactive.

(Alfred Pennyworth nearly had a heart attack at the mere thought of a child eating radioactive food and that a piece of toast on his plate was a punishment.)

But… Jazz is dead.

It’s true that they hadn’t had the best relationship for the last few years, especially after his accident, but Jazz had become his rock. Sam and Tucker were his best friends, but they had no real idea what it was like to grow up a Fenton. Sure they had some context clues (was the giant portal entrance with the on-button inside not a giant warning sign?), but Jazz had kept him alive even as a kid herself.

She worked herself to the bone to make sure he had food to eat, some hours to sleep at night, and a shoulder for him to put some of the burden on her as Phantom. In the end, she hurt their parents to get him out of the lab and away from them.

She had died trying to get him to safety.

He’d seen her car, the wreck, the blood, the still radioactive substance he called his blood… he sat in the driver’s seat and cried for his sister- he wanted Jazz to tease him and call him ‘little brother’ again.

Sure, he had Cass now and several brothers, but nothing could ever replace Jazz.

It’s the thought that Jazz would be upset with him that keeps Danny from turning by his grief into a ghostly wail, to wreck everything and everyone.

Then he meets the Reaper. And he knows.

“Little Brother.”

/////////////////////////

What about the ending for Jazz you talked about?

That’s gonna be in another post, this one was getting long enough as is.

[orange-orchard-system]

"But isn't plurality weird?"

I am a poet. I am flesh powered by electricity and the breaking down of certain materials through heat and acid and other processes. I am a delicious buffet to mosquitoes. I am a strange, ginormous creature to my tiny pets. I, an animal, keep other, smaller animals inside a pen so that I may enjoy their company. I am also unable to touch these smaller animals or spend too much time around them, or my throat, eyes, and nose will start revolting against me, and breathing will become difficult. This is a common problem that runs in my family, and yet we keep these smaller animals anyway.

I did not sleep yesterday night; I did not lie down in the dark and quiet for several hours as a slab of meat in a cage in my head periodically conjured up nonsensical visions. It's suspected I have a condition in which, at random points during this period of lying down in the dark and quiet for several hours, my lungs stop doing their job, and the slab of meat in the cage in my head has to wake me up so they get back on the clock and my temporary rest does not become a permanent one. I do not always remember this when it happens, just like I do not always remember the nonsensical visions I see at night. Or day. Or whenever I rest in this manner. Yesterday I did not rest in this manner and instead watched as an indigo-black sky became gray and then blue.

I once used fine fibers from plants – strung through metal smithed and sharpened – to repair a soft visage of a creature from the masses of saltwater that cover most of our planet. I pride myself on my ability to do this well, and to leave little evidence behind that any repairs were needed in the first place. And yet, when it comes to taking that same metal and simply stabbing it in a certain point on a canvas of fabric held in place, so that my fine rope of fibers may slowly create an image to be admired, I struggle. I struggle like I struggle to remember if I have given my flesh prison the sustenance and nutrients it needs to work and move. I struggle like I struggle to lie down in the dark and quiet for several hours.

Perhaps later today I will slather goo on the remaining evidence that I am but a buffet for mosquitoes, in order to not be slowly tortured by them and my body's revolt against me (because of course, revolting against me due to being in the presence of smaller animals for too long is not enough – no, my flesh prison must also be especially weak to the spit these bloodsuckers leave behind when they are finished feasting). If I do, I will do it while talking to the beings who share my life, flesh prison, and slab of meat in the cage in my head, all as we struggle to remember whether or not we have given our flesh prison its daily vitamins.

Of course plurality is weird. Everything is weird! Isn't that wonderful?! You can turn everything into a poem and be filled with wonder just by thinking about the everyday things you don't question!! The world is weird!! Life is weird!! To live in this world is to be weird!! And we all get to be weird living here in this world together! Hello, world! Hello, life! Hello, world and life that are stranger than fiction!! I'm glad I get to be weird and plural in a strange world such as this!!

[fafnir19]

The picture of Dorian C.

I stood before the old painting, my brush moving with practiced precision as I diligently restored its delicate features. The portrait depicted a young blond boy in Victorian attire, his gaze haunting and intense. With each stroke, I felt the weight of years lifting from the canvas, bringing the boy back to life. As I made swift progress, a satisfied sigh escaped my lips, and I set aside my brushes, preparing to clean them. But as I glanced at the reflection in the mirror, a sudden vertigo overcame me, and I staggered backward. My heart raced as I realized that the face staring back at me was not my own. Instead, I beheld the visage of the young man in the painting, his features now my own.

"What in the world?" I muttered to myself, shaken by the uncanny transformation. I shook my head, attributing it to fatigue, and decided to call it a night, eager to rid my mind of the strange occurrence. The next morning, I awoke with a sense of disbelief as I gazed at my youthful reflection in the mirror. I was still the boy from the painting, and I couldn't comprehend how or why it had happened. Ignoring the inexplicable urge surging within me, I dressed in a hurry and ventured out to purchase some stylish new clothes, inexplicably drawn to items that suited the young man I now appeared to be.

By a stroke of luck, or perhaps fate, I found myself stepping into a department store as its 10,000th customer. The announcement of my win rang through the store, and to my astonishment, I had won a trip to a vibrant metropolis with a luxurious hotel stay. This newfound luck seemed to be part of the inexplicable changes that had befallen me. In the opulent hotel, I indulged in extravagance, the city's vibrant pulse beckoning me to explore. The night air lay heavy with anticipation, and I found myself wandering into the red-light district, succumbing to a reckless urge that I couldn't explain.

As the first light of dawn seeped into the sky, I returned to the hotel, feeling slightly worse for wear. Opting for a day by the pool, I soon noticed a middle-aged businessman gazing at me provocatively.

His lingering gaze unsettled me, and I shifted uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny. "Excuse me," I said, mustering a polite but firm tone, hoping to deter his unwelcome attention.

The man seemed undeterred, causing a flicker of unease to worm its way into my thoughts. Fortunately, the middle-aged man eventually left the area, and I let out a relieved breath. But the encounter left me with a sense of disquiet that I couldn't shake.

Curiosity gnawed at me when I learned that the auction for the painting I had restored was scheduled to take place at my hotel the following day. I resolved to attend, eager to witness the bidding for my artwork, now known as "The Catamite." The auction hall buzzed with energy as the bidding commenced, and I watched with growing anticipation as bids soared to unexpected heights. My heart pounded with a mixture of excitement and disbelief as "The Catamite" sold for a staggering $15 million. Among the throng of bidders, my eyes locked onto the middle-aged businessman from the pool, his triumphant grin unnerving me. He had won the auction, and alarm bells rang in my mind, warning me of a connection that I couldn't place. Allowing my curiosity to override my apprehension, I approached the man, introducing myself as Dorian, the restorer of the painting.

His name was Robert, and his demeanor exuded a palpable confidence that set me on edge. "Congratulations on your purchase, Mr. Robert," I said, attempting to maintain a courteous composure, though an underlying unease made my voice strain slightly. "Thank you, Dorian," Robert replied, his eyes glinting with a disturbing fervor, "but now that you've restored this masterpiece, you've become quite the work of art yourself." A shiver ran down my spine as Robert's words registered, and I struggled to understand his insinuation. "I'm afraid I don't follow," I managed, my voice tinged with a note of perplexed dread. "Oh, my dear Dorian," Robert purred, his tone taking on a predatory edge, "you are now my catamite, a temptation too exquisite to resist." Horror surged within me, and I recoiled from Robert's declaration, my mind reeling with disbelief and revulsion. I tried to protest but against my will, I found myself saying, "I couldn't imagine anything more pleasing than being your catamite." The words slipped from my lips, laden with a compulsion that gripped my very being.

With a sinking heart, I realized that something inexplicable had taken hold of me, bending my will to Robert's desires. I longed to resist, but a strange allure tinged with dread held me captive. Days turned into weeks, and I found myself ensnared in a web of luxury and allure spun by Robert. Each passing moment deepened my enthrallment, and I relished the opulent lifestyle that had become my reality. Laughter and revelry echoed through extravagant halls, the heady ambiance seeping into my very soul.

Yet, beneath the façade of pleasure, a gnawing unease lingered, a constant reminder of my plight. "You seem troubled, my dear Dorian," Robert mused, his gaze fixed upon me with a veiled intensity that sent a surge of unease coursing through me. "I... I cannot shake this feeling of unease," I confessed, my voice laden with uncertainty, "it haunts me at every turn, amidst all the excess and splendor." Robert's lips curved into a knowing smile, and he placed a gentle hand on mine, his touch evoking conflicting emotions within me. "Embrace it, my dear," he murmured, "for it is the thread that weaves the fabric of pleasure and temptation. Surrender to it, and you will find unfathomable delight." His words resonated within me, stirring a myriad of conflicting emotions, and I found myself torn between resistance and acquiescence. The lure of pleasure tugged at my senses, blurring the boundaries of my will. As time slipped by, I became Robert's beloved temptation, ensconced in a world of decadence and privilege. Yet, the price of this seductive allure gnawed at my very soul, and a shadow of longing lingered in the depths of my being.

Inexplicably, I found myself succumbing to a life of luxury under Robert's care, embracing my newfound role as his beloved temptation. The days melded into nights as I laughed, moaned, and hummed, completely immersed in this new existence. I had become the very portrait I once restored, living out a fate I never thought possible.

During a night of pleasure, I heard an inner voice saying, “Let go! Cum and you will forget your former life. You become a complete catamite. Become a pure pleasure toy. Let go!” In a panic, I tried to defend myself, but I could already feel the pressure in my balls. As my balls tensed and I shot my load, I forgot that I had ever been a 40-year-old restorer. Robert whispered into my ear: "Now you're part of the picture for all eternity. Well done, Dorian the catamite!" A smile crossed my lips and I couldn't be happier.

[ddarker-dreams]

Fooled Around and Fell in Love.

Machi Komacine x F Reader.

Warnings: Mild not SFW implications. Word count: 1k.

Music blasts out of your phone’s speaker at a questionable quality. The bathroom’s acoustics perfectly contain the soundwaves as if it were a dimension entirely outside of reality. Nothing in exists besides Machi, you, and your eyeshadow palette that fits expertly in your hand. 

Certain divots contain pigment that is more worn than others. Machi notes the colors that you must favor the most. A glimmering champagne color, soft pink, and nude pigments which range from light to dark. When you tap the eyeshadow brush on the side of the palette, fairy dust cascades, catching the fading light you swore you’d replace months ago. She makes a mental note to pick up a lightbulb and to it herself. 

You’re close enough to breathe in each other's air. 

She smells your perfume, delicate and fruity, dutifully dabbed onto your inner wrist and exposed neck. Barely faded love bites litter your skin from previous passionate exploits. You never try to erase the proof of her existence she leaves on you. When it comes to definitive proof that Machi actually inhabits this world, you’re the closest she gets. You turn a specter from Meteor City into a tangible being — made from flesh and blood. 

You procure a pocket-sized mirror. “Well? Do you like?” 

Machi studies her reflection for a moment, then her attention is back on you. “Yeah.” 

“You barely looked,” you huff, scrunching your nose in indignation. Machi fights her lip’s urge to quirk up. “I’ll have you know that I’m a high-in-demand makeup artist, famed worldwide. I expect a minimum of three words praising my ingenuity.” 

“It looks good.” 

You throw your head back and groan. “The three word limit was a suggestion, not a hard rule.” 

“And I followed it.” 

Every time Machi prepares to enter your apartment, she resolves to tease you less. 

Every time this tenet is put to the test, she fails. 

“That’s it! I’ll be upping your charge as recompense for my wounded heart.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “This was going to cost me? How much?” 

You press a manicured finger to your cheek, painted the shade of Machi’s hair by the woman herself. According to you, her hands are far more steady than yours, making her an ideal candidate for the job. She never complained at a chance to feel your soft skin against hers. Unmarred by crime, clean from shedding rivers of crimson as deep as the Styx. 

“Three, no, five kisses,”  you insist. “It’s up to ten now.” 

… Machi has no idea how you say these things without a hint of shame. 

She leans forward, begrudgingly, as if the payment were a burden and not a delight. 

You put a premature end to the process by hovering your finger near her parted lips. “Not yet. I don’t want to get my gloss on your lips, matte suits you better.” 

Machi’s knuckles turn white from how harshly she grips the edge of the sink’s countertop. If she applied any more pressure, it’d crumble into a pitiful avalanche. Despite the restraint she’s exerting, her visage betrays nothing, giving the impression that she’d unmoved. In reality, she wants nothing more than to mix the pigment of your lips, forming a shade that’s uniquely you. 

“Awe, babe, are you grumpy?” The knowing lilt in your voice makes her heart flutter. 

“Just get on with it already,” Machi grumbles. The tips of her ears feel warm.

You give a dorky salute and an enthusiastic sir yes sir!

You run the brush’s tip over her smoothly, as a painter would on their canvas. 

Her heart beats in a staccato rhythm. 

Thump, thump, thump. 

You move on to her next eye, utilizing the same care, precision, and expertise. More adrenaline pumps through her veins than in the thick of a heist. Her body gives into your thrall without a fight. You are the sun she orbits around, allowing her to experience seasons she never thought were meant for her. Winter’s biting chill of loneliness when you’re apart. Spring’s budding affections that blossom one after the other. Summer’s hot passion which leaves you both sweaty and satisfied. Then autumn’s relaxed tenure, refreshing in its briskness.

You didn’t just unlock the world for her, you’ve shown her the entire universe. 

“Aaaaand voila,” you announce. When her eyes readjust to being open, she sees a sight so priceless, not even a thief would have the heart to steal it — your bright smile. 

She twists her head to use the mirror behind her. “You did a good job.” 

Her words are light, like bubbles rising to the top of a champagne glass. 

Machi hears you grumble something about needing to buy her a thesaurus, but, nonetheless, you contentedly put your eyeliner away, humming to the current song on your playlist. You leech off her music subscription (your words, not hers), but she doesn’t mind. There’s something comforting about seeing what song or podcast you’re listening to when she’s continents away. 

“Hey.” 

“Hm?” 

“I like it,” Machi says. Then, she swoops in to press a chaste kiss against your cheek. Unbeknownst to her, the resulting lipstick stain will remain for the rest of the night. “Thanks.” 

The look you give her can only be described as lovestruck. “W-Well, having such a pretty model certainly helps.” 

Your little stutter makes her crack a closed-mouth smile. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

After a moment of staring wordlessly at one another, your posture straightens, realization etching onto your features. 

“I almost forgot! Eyelash curler and then mascara. I’ll let you do that part though. Applying mascara on others is tricky. I don’t want your eyelashes to look like spider legs.” 

Quietly, she clears her throat. If only you knew. 

“... Right. Wouldn’t want that.” 

[blessed-by-umbral]

Violence

@daily-writing-challenge

Topic: Violence

---

Weeks had gracefully slipped by since Baetylus embarked on its voyage to the enchanting shores of Tural, and now, four days had passed since the intimidating vessel had anchored in this unfamiliar haven. The air was thick with the scent of adventure and the promise of discovery, a curious juxtaposition that enveloped Ondrea Cress in a cocoon of anticipation. The strangeness of being enveloped by the unknown was not a source of trepidation for her; rather, it was a vital embrace, a welcoming that whispered of new beginnings and uncharted paths waiting to be trekked.

The passage of time had woven a tapestry of curiosity as the allure of uncharted lands beckoned from the shadows of the past. Those privy to the secrets of the sea had embarked on a meticulous endeavor, crafting maps and devising plans for their ambitious voyages. Yet, for Ondrea, this pursuit appeared to be a futile exercise, akin to embarking on a grand expedition without the slightest hint of direction or guidance. It was only when a reliable course was presented to them, a beacon of certainty amidst the vast unknown, that they finally set their sails toward the horizon.

On this afternoon, the sun reigned supreme, casting its golden rays upon a canvas of immaculate azure. The heavens were devoid of any clouds, creating a breathtaking expanse that seemed to stretch endlessly. Yet, in the depths of her heart, she harbored a profound disdain for the sun. The relentless heat was an unwelcome companion, transforming her midnight tresses into a sweltering burden, while the sensation of her leather attire clinging to her skin felt akin to a serpent ensnaring its unsuspecting victim.

The accoutrements of freshly squeezed fruit juices was a welcome reprieve, as a particular concoction of citrus we dutifully set upon a table before an open window overlooking a breathtaking view of the lush greenery interspersed with the architectural elegance of the nearby buildings.

As the echo of a knock reverberated through her space, it disrupted the serene equilibrium she had cultivated, drawing her attention with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. Ondrea's signature style, a blend of shadowy hues and intricate textures, spoke volumes about her character; she embraced the darkness not merely as a fashion statement but as a shield against the world’s judgments. The aura of mystery that enveloped her was both a source of intrigue and trepidation, ensuring that she remained an enigmatic figure, cloaked in the very essence of her chosen attire

As Ondrea opened the door, she was greeted by a visage that resonated deeply within the annals of her family. Cormac, a steadfast presence since his youth, stood before her clad in his signature ensemble—sleek, armored leather adorned with a distinctive bell sigil prominently displayed on his chest. This emblem, a testament to his unwavering loyalty and dedication, seemed to shimmer in the soft light.

It was evident that Cormac had taken the time to present himself with an air of refinement, embodying a sense of readiness for the day ahead. His hair, meticulously groomed and freshly washed, framed his face, which bore the marks of a recent shave.

Ondrea couldn't help but notice the subtle yet inviting scent of coconut that lingered around him, a fragrant whisper of tropical allure that seemed to complement his polished demeanor.

"My Lady." He addressed with a bow of his head. "All men are accounted for. Our ships are docked and being tended to as we speak. It's been recommended that we tip the service crew. I wanted to get your input."

Ondrea retreated a step, extending an invitation to Cormac as he entered her sanctuary. In stark contrast to his presence, the air within her abode was devoid of the exotic fragrances that characterized this new land; instead, she had meticulously chosen to fill her space with the familiar aromas of incense, carefully selected from her homeland. The delicate tendrils of smoke curled upward, weaving a tapestry of nostalgia that enveloped her, reminding her of of home.

Though she found herself amidst the unfamiliar, the longing for the essence of home lingered in whatever vestiges were left in her heart.

"Extend to them a generous gratuity, one that would comfortably sustain their needs for the forthcoming weeks. Should their circumstances demand further assistance, we shall delve into our reserves to accommodate their requests."

Cormac acknowledged the suggestion with a subtle nod, his gaze drifting toward the window. The vibrant calls of exotic birds echoed in the distance, their persistent cries resonating like a siren song, beckoning him to embrace the allure of this uncharted territory.

"-We've gotten word from some of the locals regarding some concerning news. Like many lands, they're wrought with bandits, enemies, those who would seek you out to cause you harm or your family harm simply because of your status. These warnings you're familiar with. I ask you now, Lady Cress---how would you like to proceed if met with violence?"

The interval stretched between them, enveloped in an almost palpable silence that seemed to linger in the air. In this serene yet charged moment, the only sounds that penetrated the stillness were the distant echoes of the bustling city below, a symphony of urban life, harmonizing with the sharp cries of seabirds soaring overhead.

"My father once said: "Violent excitement exhausts the mind and leaves it withered and sterile." I find it ironic, considering the means this House has taken in its past. Perhaps, in some way, he sought to extinguish that flame."

She paused without contemplation, but more so for effect. "Our words are "Light your candles". Keep them lit, guide the dead home, tolling of the bells--all that history you're intimately familiar with."

"Aye." Cormac affirmed.

"To preserve equilibrium in our interactions, it is essential to respond to hostility with an equally assertive stance. Those who seek to embody this principle to its utmost will find themselves confronted with a response that is magnified tenfold, ensuring that the scales of power remain justly aligned. This approach not only safeguards our interests but also serves as a testament to our unwavering commitment to resilience in the face of adversity."

Cormac found himself unable to divert his gaze from Ondrea's striking visage, captivated by the intensity that radiated from her. It was no revelation to him that her response would carry such weight; in fact, he had secretly wished for the tempest of turmoil that raged within her to find some semblance of calm.

Yet, he recognized the futility of such hopes, as the storm seemed to only grow more ferocious with each passing moment. She stood before him, a living testament to the void, and he could almost perceive the dark tendrils of it wrapping themselves around her very essence. Despite the overwhelming nature of the situation, he felt an unyielding determination to engage with her, to reach through the shadows that enveloped her.

"Might it be possible..." he ventured cautiously, "...that extending a measure of mercy could yield positive outcomes? We are in uncharted territories, after all, filled with diverse cultures and unfamiliar customs."

Ondrea's response was immediate, her thickly shaped brow arching in skepticism as a low, dark chuckle escaped her lips, reverberating with a chilling resonance.

"Do you truly think they would entertain such notions about us?" she retorted, her voice laced with a steely resolve. "I refuse to gamble with the safety of our people."

Cormac drew in a deep breath, savoring it before exhaling sharply through his nostrils. "So be it. Violence will be met with violence."

[lizzaneia-elizalde]

Don’t worry about the yanderes treating their daughters different vs sons request! That’s totally fine not to do it and it makes sense that it’d be answered as a gender neutral question. I’m glad you like my requests still with regards to questions about all your yanderes!

As a bit of a replacement question…(that you are under no obligation of answering; I don’t mind ever at all with your decisions on requests/asks, and you should never feel pressured by me or anyone else ever!)…what would be each yanderes’ dream date?

Yandere! Men and their dream date

AWW YOU'RE TOO SWEET! And I very much like this replacement request >:D

YAN! ARTIST

Of course, it's so obvious with Arlen. Painting dates! Anything that involves with you posing for him as he paints your visage, that would be a good date with him. Uh, you want to paint with him too? Sure, just pick up an extra canvas and brush, then pick what paint you want to use. As a change of scenery, it will be an outdoor type of date too, finding a space to paint the scenery, or each other.

YAN! DRAGON

He's not that much of a romantic man, but hey, he tries. So he transforms into his dragon form and fly you to the sky and wherever you want. Your personal uber will fly you to the ends of the world. Maybe find a new secret location where the both of you can just cuddle, talk, and destress from royal life.

YAN! THEATER ACTOR

Another obvious one. Being a theater actor, of course he's gonna love home dates! Wait, home dates? As much as Ignatius loves to be on the spotlight and also lives and breathes theater, the man needs a break sometimes. So, in an act of breaking down his walls, cuddling with you, cooking with you, or doing board games with you in the comfort of your home is very ideal to him.

YAN! BUTLER

Eh... Zero doesn't really have a life outside you, and doesn't really think for himself sometimes. And that meant the dates will be up to you. If you ask what dream date he wants to do, he'll probably answer based on what you want and pass it off as a coincidence. You have to really coax Zero to think more for himself.

YAN! SUGAR DADDY

Shopping dates. What? He's a greedy man. Of course he loves spending his money left and right and shower you with gifts and money. A good date will be spending a minimum of 100k dollars, a nice, expensive yet filling dinner, and maybe a passionate fuck afterwards. It is Rowan after all. You're his sugar baby, so do prepare to be spoiled rotten.

YAN! JOCK

Facade Damon would probably do the stereotypical "i'll teach you how to play [sport]!" type of date. Honestly, if you're not into sports, you would find this idea boring. But somehow, Damon made it fun and not annoying for you. Unveiled Damon would love just to have a date outside of the city where nobody that knows his himbo persona can see him. Maybe something comforting like pottery dates. But, both type of Damons would be up to an arcade date!

YAN! ASSASSIN

Azrael, being an assassin, probably did every type of dates one could think of for the different missions he took. So when you ask him, he would probably say something relaxing for once, which is a picnic date! Where he can just slump down, lie down on your lap, and relax. As long as it's just the both of you, he will consider it as a successful date.

YAN! EX-BOYFRIEND

Lee will forever regret hurting you, and breaking it off on that damned beach. So, his dream date will be a Beach date, where he will actually pay attention to you and shower you with the love you deserve. He will make it up to you.

YAN! COWBOY

How does a ride around the town sounds? Ooh, how about racing through the forest? Wait, you don't know how to ride a horse? Knoxx will teach you in a jiffy! Anything related to equestrian stuff will be Knoxx's dream date. Riding on the horse he gave you, and him on Red, and the both of you teasing each other while riding around will be the dream for him. And maybe you riding him too lol

YAN! EMO

If not Poetry dates, he will be down for Karaoke dates! He wants to hear you sing the song you love, and then Ashton will also sing the song he loves. Maybe a bit of a duet here and there, exchange of heated glances while serenading each other... Ashton will also probably spend like 50% of the date making out with you. Hey, don't blame him that you're just so irresistible.

YAN! WEREWOLF

Lyall would love to do camping dates! You, him, under the starry night sky. Cooking food over fire, feeding each other. Then Lyall will transform into his wolf and you would sleep on his fur inside a large tent. It's a night to remember for him if you would give him the chance.

YAN! EX-HUSBAND

Another tidbit from Inigo in the novel is that he actually owns a motorcycle back in his parents' mansion. So, as a throwback to the OG Inigo, this Inigo will love to do midnight motorcycle ride dates into the secret clearing he frequently visits when he was in highschool. It overlooks the city and it's a genuinely comforting place for the restless man. So, he would love to show you that place one day.

YAN! HOSPITAL CHAIRPERSON

Xavier would love to do a traditional movie date with you. The hospital work is already stressful enough, and being anxious about you is adding too much to his load. So, something simple and fun would relax Xavier. He will probably rent the whole theater just to make sure it's just you and him inside the theater. Or... He could just build a home theater. Yeah that's plausible.

YAN! VILLAIN

Eros would love to have a date with you where you both disguise as commoners and just roam around the capital. Eating streetfood, watching street performances... Especially if there is a festival going on, he would love to take you out to the square and dance with you freely, away from the eyes of the judging people. Just you and him.

YAN! POLITICIAN

What do we expect from the traditional man himself? Max would do a romantic dinner date with you. Something very fancy, maybe before the dinner, both of you would go into an opera, or a museum... Anything is fine for this man, as long as it's not too active.

YAN! MAFIA BOSS

Hades would want something fun, and something to keep his mind off the mafia bizz. So an out of the country date would be his go to. What? He's rich. He can afford that. Just, make sure he doesn't horde souvenirs... And stop him from making a plan to expand his territory... He already has enough.

[queengiuliettafirstlady]

Magical charms under the moon

Magical charms under the moon

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Pairing: Kicho x OC (Juliet)                                                                   

Prompt : Festival After Dark

Part of : Sunshine and Starlight hosted by @violettduchess and @lorei-writes

Tag: Platonic Love Festival Dancing

Word Count : 1.261

Author’s Note: A festival turn into so much more, love spurt under the stars as destiny meddle with two people seemingly at odds but more similar than what they thought, bringing them closer into a relationship created to change the world and themselves in unpredictable way, powerful and weird like the emotion binding them together. 🤩

Side Note: All the images were found on Pinterest-Google and I was unable to find the source, please if any of you know the owner tell me and I will provide to give the artist the credit for the image.

Tag list

@kissmetwicekissmedeadly @lordsisterxotome  @aquagirl1978 @violettduchess @natimiles @nightghoul381 @dragon-liquorice @candied-boys

You can find me on AO3 as QueenJuliet 😊

Thank you for everyone who will like, reblog, or comment please be gentle with me english is not my first language so please do not leave rude comments I apologise for eventual errors I hope you will like it😊

He was a yaksha. She was a yōsei.

They should never have met.

But they did.

That meeting was only the beginning of something that was destined to change them.

Moonless curls cascaded over her shoulder, scattered in the wind adorning a gorgeous visage, big and round tourmaline eyes, a canvas of emotions, glimmering just like the gem itself as the light flickered and swam in them sheltering under the feeble shadow of her long and graceful eyelashes, her lips a rose bud curled in gentle, albeit shy, half-confident, ever kind, smiles.

She alone shone bright in the night like a star with her fair complexion and her emerald kimono, that hugged luscious feminine curves he was unused to, moving so gracefully as she walked with a touch of innocent sensuality that it was hard to tame and impossible to resist, bewitching him to get closer and get burn in her light.

Like a moth was drawn to a flame even though it hurt its wings, he was drawn to her irresistibly because he didn't know any other way to live.

A mad desire burned in him to know more about that mermaid, that enchantress that put a spell on him bewitching his every sense against any rationality.

In what maybe everyone else would have seen the bud of love he saw his ruin, and yet this too was not enough to pull him away from her.

Her quick wits and curious nature luring him in to discover more of her, to ask, to seek, to understand that entrancing mystery she was to him, forbidden desires kept him awake until late at night, picturing all that could have been between them.

He was defenseless caught in strange ideas in a daze between dreams and reality, until Morphoeus coaxed him to sleep dreaming of her in vivid real dreams he woke up from sweating, shook to the core with an inexplicable yearn to make them real, to have her in his house as she was in his heart.

The only thing preventing him from pursuing his dreams was the fact that his plan, inevitably, would have upset her.

But this too was not enough to pull him away from her, unconsciously scanning the crowd looking for her like a man gone mad with love.

And maybe he was.

Little did he care about that, even though his business partner couldn’t say the same, but nothing ever stopped his determination.

Or so he thought.

Deep down he knew that if she had said so much of a word against his plan he would have tried to listen, that's how much of a fool love made of him.

In the end he was no better than his sister, damning himself for love.

His past self would have mocked such a thing, but he was no longer the man he was before meeting her and he surely couldn’t go back to being.

Their meeting was a chance.

Their love destiny.

It happened on a visit to a nearby village, way too close to Azuchi for his liking, but business was like that and he had no intention to let anything stop that trip from going on smoothly.

But he hadn’t taken her into account.

It was sunset, the meeting had just ended and he really couldn’t wait to go home at once but the roads were stuck for a festival.

He frowned in annoyance, deeming better to walk by foot than to wait for who knows how long to cross the city on horseback thus he gave up on the idea of borrowing one, grateful for the fact his loyal white mane stayed at the inn while he reached the merchant’s house by rickshaw.

It was then he saw her, standing like the sun at the center of everything.

“It must be a festival, what a bother they are holding it today of all days.”

His companion rebuffed annoyed but he couldn’t hear him bewitched as he was from that sight.

Beautiful like the moon, and as much as unreachable, was her dancing with a man with rosy hair, who judging by his expression, was coaxed in the dance by her.

And in the moment she smiled he knew exactly why.

There was no doubt any man would have fallen on his knees giving up all for her if she smiled, he knew because he felt the same way, fact soon proved as he looked around seeing women and men alike enraptured by her.

A yōsei casting her good grace and kindness like a rain of cherry blossom petals in spring, her laugh tingling like the rain caressing the trees’ leaves during a warm summer storm.

As long as she allowed him, he would have bathed in her light.

The moment their eyes met he felt destiny had been set in motion and there would have been no going back.

Shining like the star she was, she beckoned him to come closer, an invitation to share, be it for a fleeting moment, the warmth of what could have been.

Of what could still be if he was brave enough to pursue it.

A spell he could not resist, and a part of him did not want to.

He took her hand in his, letting her smile seep into him, allowing himself, for that night alone, to be happy, not caring nor thinking about anything but that moment.

He let her guide him in a frenetic dance, enraptured by the carefree happiness of the festival, switching position at every turn giving him a better view of each facet of her.

The music gets louder in time with his heartbeats as they spin around faster, in a frenzy of motion that leaves no space to think, to breath, to see, anything but her.

To think a yaksha would have been enchanted by a yōsei was laughable in itself but he didn’t care if this was what happiness felt like that so be it.

He would have done everything he could have to stay with her, and even though he knew it was forbidden and maybe wrong, all that mattered to him was getting to know her better, doing his best to protect her all the same.

A contradiction he would have done his best to resolve.

In an instant their gazes met and held, tourmaline meeting chartreuse glimmering with the same warm light of the lanterns and something dangerously akin to curiosity that set his heart ablaze.

Their lips were close, Oh so close it could have been sinful.

And in a way it was.

Ever gallant he pulled back bowing to her as she did the same, reluctant to step back from the sun, he bought himself time taking her hand in his only to leave a gentlemanly kiss on its back, revelling, for a minute longer, in the adorable rosy blush that spread on her fairy cheeks, already reddened from the dance so much to resemble a strawberry, one he wouldn’t have minded kissing to savour its sweetness.

“I hope we will meet again.”

“Me too.”

Her voice sweet as a persimmon and as much as refreshing to his heart, accompanied him all the way back to their inn.

Upon their return to Sakai her memory was all but vanished from his mind, more determined than ever he went to work to find more about that peculiar westerner girl that awakened his every sense as nothing ever did, a strange sensation, but not unwanted, spread in his heart as he greeted the morning with a smile.

[calamity-unlocked]

Yup. I did it y'all. I. Don't know what possessed me either. Enjoy <3

Scam Actually/Jodie Foster, 1.8k.

~~~

Scam’s actions usually didn’t come with consequences.

Customarily, Scam would enter a situation with the stirring seed of a not-quite plan and a devious penchant for ‘yes and’-ing his way into hilarity. He’d apply beautiful chaos and discord like a master painter brought strokes of paint to a canvas, then take a deep bow and make his grandiose exit. Such were the daily thrills in the life of a scammer!

Today… was a little different.

It was really the exit strategy where things had gone awry. The jape he had pulled was magnificent as always; he’d infiltrated a bunch of infernal cultists and convinced them that hell was truly only a state of mind, and that they instead should start worshiping the divine embodiment of pasta carbonara.

It had all been fun and games, until their leader had returned to their base and caught them chanting in tongues around a bowl of uncooked spaghetti.

Shenanigans ensued, all of which resulted in the current situation Scam found himself in. His wrists were chained to a tasteless stone slab with magical manacles that prevented him from poofing away. According to the chatter he had picked up, he was to be some kind of offering to please the god they planned on summoning in the hope to gain power and get their core beliefs reaffirmed.

Scented candles were spread in a ritual circle a few feet away from him, which the cultists stood around as they sang an ancient song of power and hellfire, their voices reverberating throughout the dark cave-like base. They all had their hoods pulled up as they passed a golden dagger around, cutting into their hands and letting the blood drip onto the floor, between the lines drawn on the floor.

“Ugh,” Scam rolled his eyes. “You know the spells Gate and Summon Greater Demon only take one action, right? All this atmospheric chanting and palm-slicing has no point whatsoever.”

“SILENCE!” the leader bellowed. He pointed the knife at Scam, his eyes rolling back into his head. “Be elated, you feeble trickster, for you shall soon be consumed by a power greater than the gods themselves. Prepare to face the greatest might of them all!” He turned away from Scam and read the words from the spell scroll in his other hand. “Daemonium inferni, primone aspectu in amore tu credis, aut iterumne experiri debeo!”

With those words, the world flashed red. A pillar of flame erupted in the circle, the fire whirling around like a tornado.

The cultists all prostrated themselves on the floor, screaming with joy and fear. Scam cursed loudly, because some of the sparks landed on his fedora.

Finally, the fire died down and the smoke cleared. The outline of an inhuman figure came into view – large and muscled, with wings of a bat and a jaw that could cut glass. Dark hair and eyes like charcoal. Scam got very hot all of a sudden, and it wasn’t because the temperature in the room was about the same as an average day in hell.

Then he recognized that face.

“Oh! Oh!” Scam exclaimed. “I know him! Hi!!!”

The figure slowly turned his gaze from the quaking cultists to the chained-up chaos bringer. The hardened look immediately turned into full bewilderment as their eyes met.

 Scam tried to wiggle up into a standing position, which only half worked. He managed to give a little wave from behind his back. “Jodie Foster, as I live and breathe! It’s me, your old pal! My, my, my, you have had quite the glow-up. Look at you! All r-r-ripped and chiseled.”

A frown settled on his hellish visage. “Scam Likely? What are you doing here?” It was the same slightly high-pitched voice that he had before – seemed like some things stayed the same, after all.

“Scam Actually, actually!”

“What?” he asked, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Oh my gosh, I so don’t want to deal with this right now.”

“Rough morning?”

“You have no clue,” he chuckled, and shook his horned head.

Scam shimmied his shoulder in what he hoped came across as a helpless gesture, like a baby animal trying to gain the attention of a parent. “Hey, before you go, can you do me a real solid and get these pesky little chains off me? They’re really chafing my wrists, and my skin is really sensitive in that spot. I’d truly appreciate it.”

Jodie crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow. “Why should I help you? Last time I saw you, you caused that whole switcheroo thing and portalled away. For all I know, this is another one of your pranks.”

“Ah, yes,” Scam sighed wistfully, feeling the sweet pang of nostalgia. “How I do miss those days. Life was so much more fun while you courageous dads were roaming these lands, looking for your missing sons.” He gave his sweetest smile, which literally reached from one ear to the other. It was quite grotesque, or so people told him. “But not this time! No tricks, no japes, no nothing. Just scammed a little too close to the sun, that’s all.”

One of the cultists scraped his throat. “So, er– are you gonna kill him? Do you want our souls? What’s– what’s happening over here?”

“Oh. Yes. You’re also here.” Jodie turned to the cultists and visibly had to keep himself from sighing with exhaustion. “So. What is it you want?”

The tallest guy immediately leveled his forehead with the floor once more. “Oh almighty King of the Nine Hells, killer of Asmodeus, elevated firstborn son of the wrathful Snider, glorious bringer of hellfire and ash–”

Scam rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, these guys are some serious bootlickers.”

Jodie scoffed. “Tell me about it.” He waved his hand in an impatient gesture. “Alright, I got it, I’m awesome as fuck. Can we skip to the end, please?”

“Of course, Lord,” the leader stammered. “We would, ah–” He hesitantly glanced over his shoulder at the other cultists. “We’d like power. Right guys?”

A chorus of muttered agreements rose up behind him. “Yeah, I like power,” one of them mumbled, just a bit louder than the rest.

Jodie hissed through his teeth and steepled his fingers. “Listen, it’s not that I got places to be, but I just… this is not really my scene. It was kinda rude to just pull me here, did not appreciate that. Like my good friend Henry would say, consent matters, guys. So… I’m not going to do that.”

Again, the cultists started murmuring amongst themselves, this time with worry. The leader raised his head slightly. “Is– Is the sacrifice not sufficient? We could bring you more blood, if you’d like! Virgins, children, you name it. Whatever you want, my Lord.”

Jodie grimaced. “Ew.” He shot Scam a disturbed look, which Scam answered with his ‘get-a-load-of-this-guy-amirite”-face. “Gross. Well. Now I kinda don’t wanna let you live either. Thought I was gonna do that before, but now… Eh, fuck it.”

He snapped his fingers, and countless bolts of fire zipped through the air with furious rage. Twenty seconds of agonized screaming later, and Scam and Jodie were the only non-burning corpses left in the chamber.

Scam considered it another win in Scam Actually’s book that Jodie had chosen to spare him. Yay him!

“Wow-ie.” Scam whistled in appreciation, then preened when Jodie approached him and effortlessly broke his manacles as though they were made of twigs. “They totally thought you were going to make them immortal and you killed them instead! That was sorta like…” he trailed off, his mouth falling slightly ajar. “A scam,” he finished with reverence. He brought his hand to his mouth to close it, and noticed that his fingers were trembling.

Jodie tilted his head and made a questioning noise. “I don’t really think it was?”

“It definitely was!” he exclaimed and clapped in delight.

Jodie rolled his eyes with what Scam hoped was fondness. “Listen, Scam Actually, it was great catching up with you. But, ah, I gotta go back to hell. I’ve got all this paperwork, and there’s souls to damn, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

Scam’s head swirled around. “But breakfast’s the most important meal of the day!”  he said, appalled. “There’s this great brunch place in Waterdeep. You have got to try it, their croissant rolls are absolutely to die for. Know what? I’ll take you there! We can do some good ol’ catching up – oh, I could tell you about the time I pretended to be a ghost living in a merchant’s mansion for almost three full weeks!”

Jodie laughed and shook his head no. “Thanks, but I’ll just make a sandwich at home.”

Scam planted his hands at his side and clacked his tongue impatiently. “You may or may not have saved my life! The least I could do is buy you breakfast.”

“Let’s… not.” He scratched his head, not meeting Scam’s eyes. “We’ll just make this an IOU, ‘kay? If I need your aid, you help me. That sounds good?”

Scam crossed his arms and staunchly shook his head, chin raised high. “No, no, no, I wanna be Even Stevens with you. No more favors from good ol’ Scam Actually over here. I’m done with those.” Besides, he now had the sneaky sneaky ulterior motive of getting to know the new version of this handsome handsome man over a delicious set of sandwiches. That sounded like the perfect way to spend the rest of the morning.

The archfiend still looked hesitant, so Scam pulled out the biggest weapon in his arsenal: his eye-searing cuteness. With a tilt of the head and a little pout of the lips, Scam looked up at Jodie and said in his sweetest voice: “Pwease?”

“Ugh. Never do that again,” Jodie winced. Then his stomach rumbled, betraying him. He sighed in defeat, seemingly accepting the path the fates had spun for him.

“Sure, why not. Brunch sounds great. You’re paying?”

“Why, yes of course!” Scam lied cheerfully.

“Right. Stupid question.”

Scam was almost skipping as he walked next to Jodie, enjoying the way he smelled like a building that had just burned down with the people still in it. “Is this truly so bad?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Jodie’s left bicep and giving it a strong squeeze.

Jodie’s puppy-like confusion returned but with it came a soft smile – the kind that made his dark eyes seem to come alive with twinkling motes of light. He huffed through his nose in amusement, then gave a short chuckle as he let himself be guided out of the cultists’ base by Scam. “I suppose not,” he said, resigned and amused all at once.

Scam could not stop smiling.

[goodvibesatpeace]

You look happier

Your visage beams with joyful light,

A radiance that does so ignite

My heart with warmth and tender grace,

Illumining this time and space.

Your smile, a symphony of bliss,

Dispels the shadows with a kiss.

Your eyes, like stars above me bright,

Reflect a soul that's filled with delight.

Your laughter echoes through my mind,

A music sweet, so pure, refined.

It lifts my spirits to the sky,

Where happiness and love reside.

Your every word, a gentle breeze,

Whispers secrets of inner ease.

Your presence banishes despair,

Replacing it with hope beyond compare.

Oh, how I cherish every sight

Of your transformed and happy light.

For in your presence, I have found

A sanctuary where joy abounds.

Your radiance casts a golden hue,

Upon the world's enchanting view.

It paints a canvas of delight,

Where dreams take flight and hearts ignite.

So let your smile continue to shine,

Your laughter dance upon the divine.

For in your beauty, I behold

A world where happiness unfolds.

[intcritus]

"Careful, fool, your gaze lingers too long on your King. Have you been so entranced that you forget yourself?" Prideful creature that he is, Gilgamesh holds little hesitance in drawing comment upon the weight of that stare that curls his lips upwards. They have come to his attention, word of the artist's work piquing his interest enough to invite them closer, to learn enough to care to remember their name, a feat so few achieve. He finishes crossing the room to seat himself in a casual lean, chin coming to rest upon closed fist as he studies them. "Tell me your inspirations today, what creations will you conjure." Each word falls from his lips as a command, yet beneath it his curiosity lingers.

Mismatched gaze is humored by the words, a golden brow winging up before the phoenix figures that there was a reason this King called for them. He was handsome and yet, Salem looks at him and sees mosaics inspired by him. Whole sculptures made in his visage. It’s inspiring really. It’s not a small feat to say that becoming a muse for Salem, whose created masterpieces like it's something normal, was extraordinary. 

Leaning forward, chin resting atop their clasped hands, the phoenix regards him with an abundance of curiosity, mismatched gaze tracing every inch they see, several color palettes appearing in their mind’s eye and they itch to bring it to life on a blank canvas. ❝ ━ You call for me and yet you say my gaze lingers too long ? Where else shall I look then? Who else shall hold my attention ? ❞ Salem retorts, a bit of a smirk curling pink lips, shoulders rolling back as they avert their gaze away, golden lashes feathering downward. A bit of curiosity always tends to draw their nature forward, but however shall they put their vision into words ? It is always better to show and not tell. And yet if this King wants to know, they shall paint him a picture with words ?

❝ ━ You. The sight of you inspires. Dramatic color palettes come to mind. But the more I think about it, my fingers itch to sculpt, to create something wild, majestic, powerful. ❞ Oh, the artist doesn’t see themselves creating a sculpture of this King, no, something to represent him instead. Like a roaring lion surrounded by fire with an open mouth, roaring out to the world that they are King, that there is no one to stand beside him. And they say as such before brows furrow.

Art will continue to be created but Salem wants to get deeper, not because the Lion is King, but because it reeks of solitude, no companionship and they have to wonder if that reads true.  ❝ ━ Make no mistake, King, I will create. But while you have become my muse, I will test you. I will push, cajole and bite, because no muse of mine will be one dimensional. ❞ A cheeky smile as they lean forward to meet Gilgamesh’s gaze, ❝ ━ I look forward to see just how you continue to inspire me. ❞ / @resolutepath

[oldmanenjoyer]

I'm on my hands and knees and bawling uncontrollably PLEASE, i would like a shy assistant reader x flirty pepperman WAHH ITS SO EMBARRASSING ASKING FOR THIS BUT I haven't seen a lot of pepperman lately :''''(( just any pepperman x reader is fine if this is a weird request ksnsn

"A-are you really sure no other model-"

"There are none." Pepperman says, readying paints and thinner around his easel. "None of them capture the visage, not like you."

Heat burns through your face, despite your attempts to fan it away. You feel lucky that Pepperman isn't paying attention, too busy mixing paints on his palette now. You sigh, swallowing your nerves, and left yourself onto the marble bench.

The villa is luxurious, reminiscent of Greek or perhaps Roman architecture. You gaze at the tall columns and the greenery that hugs it, stark against the bleached white. Birds flutter overhead, tweeting, and a soft breeze blows, relieving the little heat the sun provides.

It's beautiful, and you admire it so long that you forget for a moment that you're supposed to be posing.

When your thoughts catch up to you, you whip around, horribly embarrassed by your inattentiveness. But Pepperman is painting already, brushstrokes quick and furious, like he's racing against time.

"Admire the world around us!" He calls to you, when he sees you fidgeting for a pose. "Your admiration is beautiful, a sight to behold. You reflect the blessings of nature in your wide eyes and soft mouth! So bathe in it!"

Sadly, such a lovely pep talk only flusters you further. You try to look away, burning bright as the sun, and no doubt as red as your mentor yourself. It seems to work, as Pepperman gets back to painting again, just as furious.

"A work of art!" He exclaims as he goes. You peek at him, and watch the joy on his face as he paints, smiling to yourself. "I only hope to be able to capture you on canvas! But alas, I doubt my skills compare."

You blush harder. "Oh. . ."

"No need to deny it." Pepperman says before you can. "It is the truth. And in art, we cannot deny ourselves our truths."

"Y-yes, okay. . ."

"There!" Pepperman gives you a grin that boarders a smirk, winking as you giggle into your hands. "I will make a fine artist of you yet!"

You pull your knees up, resting against them with a smile. You almost wish this would last forever.

And behind the canvas, so desperate to show you what beauty you encapsulate, Pepperman feels the same.

[chaosprinceundivided]

The Layers of Godhood

Jaz'mahnn was silent a moment. He had stepped into a grove that cut between reality and the Realms of Chaos beyond. A few of his ignorant followers did not have the animal instinct and when they stepped at his heel, they were suddenly fine mists of gore that rippled from deep crimson to soft pink and purples. Their former existence turning into a perfume that made the rest of the mortals gasp, swoon and stink of intrigued fear.

The daemon slowly turned. He was not in the elven forest anymore. He was in the infinity of space. The canvas of the gods' boundlessness but whic-

"Ah."

A voice spoke from the beyond and within perception. Jaz'mahnn's ears perked and he swept in a graceful bow. His eyes casted to the unseen floor, he could hear the swishes of great tails swaying. The slow, bone-tapping, clicks of claws delicately moving. Something - Someone - loomed just at the edge of the swallowing darkness, outlined by the trillions of distant stars and celestial bodies. They swirled and shaped with two great eyes that mirrored the great howling maelstorm of terror incarnate. The swallowing scar of an primodial empire long devoured by a newborn god.

"Silverspine, what are you doing here?" The voice, a gentle conqueror's purr married with a underlying widow's knife-keen hiss, questioned in curiosity.

"Forgive me, My Most Beautiful of Orators. I seemed to have stepped within your talon's carving. Within the Elfish Forest of Laurelorn." The Exalted Keeper noted. There was a moment as One of Slaanesh's Favoured seemed to percieve the words spoken and place given. The Fox-King was here, but not. This was a yawning expression that happened to rest, a waiting threat within the forest elves' realm.

A constant beacon of temptation that corrupted in the most subtle ways, stoking the elves' already sinful pride into ways that brought a constant animosity to races that could have been their allies a long time ago. How it unintentionally fed the Fox, and the Dark Prince through him.

Finally, there was a tittering giggle of a child. Then it turned into a dark ripple that made the stars wink celestial tears. A great tongue, flickering of nine flayed scars with crystalline worlds swirling with the soulstuff of trillions of little victims to forever entertain their devourer till their senses of self were no more. This greater expression of their deprived divine spoke,

"I shall not take it, for there is none to apologize. You come onto me by mere accident and fortune favours thee. For I am aspiration manifest. Grant me the souls of the Lady's Favoured. Bring them onto me screaming and kicking. Fill my nostrils with burning wood that had lived since the cry of the first man. Allure my ears with the agonies of elves thought eternal, my Disciple."

The Fox purred and stars died.

"As you desire, Honoured Six."

"It is what They desire, can you sense them?" The Fox slowly reared and upon the brow of the cosmo, a great visage loomed with a mother's smile. And they felt the most blissful pain and agonizing love that sent Jaz'mahnn spiralling back into the Realm of Mortals. When they returned, the physical form they wore twitched with the taste of ichor drippling from their nostrils, and his hands wet with gore. Around them, some of their soft-skinned herd was brutalized so beautifully. Tethers of flesh hanging off clawtips. Intestines drapping from branches already turning into carapace. Trees forming moaning faces. The remaining marauders bowed low, praying at his feet with their shamans praising him for the vision provided. Even as they mutated from the beauty of Slaanesh.

The General looked at one of them and pointed. Through them, Slaanesh gave an abundance of power to the shaman. The shape of a feeble man growing, twisting and lengthening with a howl of agony and power.

Lourelorn shall burn, so decreed the Prince of Princes.

[houseofpendragons]

What We've Lost Holds No Cost, It's Love That Truly Stays

Summary: Sharing is caring…but it might lead to death

Warning: Gun’s, Breif Mentions Death, Cursing, Smoking

A/N: Yeah, no, imma be honest when I say I used ai to make that little song bc I am no songwriter💀 Also it's been a fat minute, since I updated, I'm so sorry. I've been dealing with the loss of my mother, but lately I've been rewatching again with news of part 2 of season 2. That being said you can expect more frequent updates I hope. Next chapter is going to be a sort of filler chapter, taking place on another day on the trail just to introduce a few more people and to develop Calamity and Billy's friendship more. Let me know if you have any ideas of thought, I always open to constructive criticism and/or ideas. Love ya ❤️ until next time.

In the aftermath of the river's tumult, the caravan continued its westward trek, now a mere shadow of its former self. Its numbers were diminished, its spirit dampened. It all leant a haunting silence to the journey, filled sporadically by the rhythmic creak reduced to the few mangy wagons, each creak filled with the burden of loss and uncertainty.

The sun, indifferent to their plight, blazed with a ferocity that seemed to sap the last reserves of their strength, casting a harsh light on the solemn faces of the settlers. The usual vibrant chatter that once painted the air with strokes of life had faded, leaving behind a canvas of solemnity. Each individual enveloped in an aura of introspection, the collective spirit of the group as parched as the earth beneath their feet. Each person was lost in their own thoughts, as well as their own losses.

Amos rode at the front, his figure a steadfast beacon amidst the uncertainty. Though his face was a mask of unwavering resolve, beneath the surface, his thoughts were adrift in a sea of memory and reflection not unlike the river they had crossed. Amos's gaze, shaded beneath the brim of his hat, often wandered to Kathleen, her visage tinged with a hollow sadness. Her soul marked heavy, by the sorrow of watching Paddy withdraw into a silent, catatonic state as her eyes trailed silently after him. The man had retreated into himself, his once-vibrant presence now just a shell, curled up in the back of a wagon as if trying to hide from the world that had nearly claimed him.

He saw in her the echo of his late wife's enduring spirit—the same unwavering resolve in the face of adversity, the same fierce determination to protect and persevere. It was a flame of kinship, not of romance, that flickered in his chest, a recognition of shared experience that transcended mere words.

Another life, another journey on the unforgiving trail.

His mind wandered back to the days when he had led his wife down this very trail, her laughter mingling with the rustling of the prairie grass, her courage as constant as the northern star. He could still feel the grip of her hand in his as they faced each new challenge—the biting cold of early frosts, the relentless torrents of sudden storms, and the searing heat of open plains. He could see that same strength reflected in her gaze—a gaze that had weathered storms and would weather more. It was a flame that spoke of shared trials and a shared resolve, a flame that had once guided him through the darkest nights and the fiercest storms. Her courage had been a beacon, much like his wife's, illuminating the path ahead with hope and unwavering determination, even in the face of insurmountable odds.

It was a connection forged by the shared knowledge of what it meant to endure, to carry on when the path grew steep and the rivers rose.

Now, as he led this group of settlers, each carrying their own stories and struggles, Amos felt the ghost of her presence beside him. Amos's heart ached at the sight before him, not merely for Paddy's pain, but for the collective sorrow that seemed to hang over them all like a shroud. He understood loss, understood the hollow pit that it left in one's soul. His own experiences with grief were a well from which he drew empathy, and he found himself wishing he could reach out, offer some semblance of comfort to Kathleen, to any of them. But he was the guide, the one they looked to for strength, and so he kept his silence, his support offered through the unwavering certainty of his leadership. The trail was an ever-present reminder of all they had endured, of the love that had blossomed in the wilds and the legacy she had left in the form of their daughter, Calamity.

Calamity, for her part, studied the caravan from her vantage amidst the wagons, felt the weight of their circumstances in the set of her father's shoulders and the distant look in his eyes. Her gaze shifted to Billy, the young man had an expression that was difficult to decipher—a blend of pity and a deeper, more complex emotion that Calamity couldn't quite name as he watched his father grappling with the aftermath of the rivers wrath. She saw in him the reflection of his mother, Kathleen—those same eyes that now spoke of a burgeoning understanding of the fragile line between life and death, between holding on and letting go.

Billy's attention shifted from his father to his mother, and the subtle exchange between them spoke volumes. Kathleen's eyes, heavy with concern and weariness, met Billy's, and in that silent conversation, there was a transfer of strength. Billy reached out, his hand finding his mother's, their fingers intertwining in a display of mutual support that seemed to anchor them both. Calamity recognized the silent language of comfort and solidarity, a language she had come to know well. A reflection of the bond she shared with her own father, a connection forged through shared experiences and the unyielding will to persevere.

Calamity's eyes then found her own father, who was still watching Kathleen with a look that seemed to stretch across the distance between them. It was a look of shared understanding, of unspoken empathy. She could see the wheels turning in Amos's mind, the way he grappled with his role as protector and the personal connections that were forming despite the hardships.

With a gentle tug, Calamity drew her father's attention back from the horizon of his thoughts, slipping her hand into his. Amos, pulled from his reverie by the touch, met his daughter's gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners beneath the wide brim of his hat as a smile, that spoke of a love deeper than the rivers they had crossed spread across his face. In that smile, she saw the reflection of every sunrise and sunset they had shared, the unspoken promises and the history of their journey together.

"Pa," she ventured, her voice carrying the weight of all they had been through and all that was still to come. "We'll make it through this, won't we?"

Amos's hand tightened around hers, his grip was both a comfort and a declaration, his thumb caressing her skin in a rhythm as familiar as the beat of their hearts. "Darlin', we're cut from the same cloth, you and I. If there's one thing I know, it's that we're made of tougher stuff than we look. We've weathered worse, and we'll weather this. We'll make it through, and we'll do it together. Just like we always have," he affirmed, his voice a steadfast drumbeat against the vast silence of the plains.

They rode on, the sun relentless above them, the wagons carrying not just the remnants of their material lives but the collective resolve of a group of people determined to overcome. In their hearts, memories of the past were intertwined with the threads of the present, forming a tapestry rich with the colors of love, loss, and the enduring strength of the human spirit. Calamity, her hand in her father's, felt the truth of his words resonate deep within her bones. They were of the frontier, shaped by its challenges, and together, they would see it through to the end, wherever and whatever that might be.

As twilight draped its indigo shawl across the vast prairie, the caravan settled into a makeshift camp. The day's losses still hung heavily in the air, raw and tender, a palpable presence that drew the remaining men, women, and children closer together around a crackling fire that served as both hearth and heart of their camp. The fire's flames, a defiant dance against the creeping chill, cast a tapestry of shadows and light that flickered upon their faces, in the interplay of darkness and glow, each weary soul found solace in the shared silence.

A little ways away from the close huddle of the McCarty family, Calamity and her father, Amos, sat slightly apart, their separation a respectful nod to the sanctity of another family's grief. Amos tended to their meal over the open fire with a practiced hand, the flames licking the underside of the iron skillet and it hissed and popped in retaliation as he warmed their provisions. The aroma of beans, rice, and the last of their meat filling the air. Their meal, a concoction of necessity, was nestled within the hollow of bread—a clever solution to the staleness that had set in from a day's exposure to the arid winds. To Calamity, however, it was a feast befitting the end of a day filled with too much loss.

Yet, even as her mouth watered in anticipation, poised to partake in their evening ritual, Calamity's attention shifted to the McCarty family, their somber silhouettes a stark reminder of the day's trials. The sight of their huddled forms, particularly the retreated figure of Mr. McCarty, now a withdrawn shadow of himself, beginning to distance his broken spirit, curling up with his own thoughts, gnawed at something in the back of her brain. Calamity's heart ached with empathy, urging her to extend a gesture of kinship, but as she rose, she was gently stayed by Amos—a gentle anchor in the tide of her intentions.

"Are you gonna share everything that I give you with Billy?" Amos's voice was soft, a whisper barely louder than the crackle of the fire, his eyes searching hers for understanding.

Calamity met her father's gaze, her eyes alight with the fierce determination that had been her birthright. "Why not, if I might have a chance to help him?"  Calamity's response was immediate, her eyes brimming with honesty and compassion. To her, Billy was like her, another soul navigating the rough terrain of life, and though words might falter, her actions would carry the weight of a thousand comforting phrases.

Amos's smile, a quiet affirmation of his daughter's generosity, was an unspoken blessing that graced his lips as he let her go. Though his gaze returned to the fire, he kept her in his periphery, a silent guardian always watching, always protecting.

As he watched her approach the McCarty's, Amos couldn't help but mentally compare Calamity to her mother, Birdie. His heart swelling with a mix of pride and a wistful ache for the woman who had handed down her compassion to Calamity. She had her mother's spirit—a spirit that had been as vast and embracing as the plains themselves. Birdie's laughter had been a beacon, her kindness the glue that bound their family. Now, in Calamity's every gesture, in the way she reached out to Billy, he saw Birdie's legacy continuing to weave through the fabric of their lives.

As Calamity approached the McCarty's, heralded by the soft crunch of grass beneath her boots, their heads lifting to track her steps as if drawn by the magnetism of her movement. Billy's eyes, a rich well of emotions churning with the day's events, locked with hers in a silent exchange that bridged the distance between them. Without a word, she offered up the bread bowl, her hand outstretched with the simple gesture laden with meaning.

His instinctive refusal was silenced by her playful tilt of the head, a smirk dancing on her lips, a spark of mirth in the midst of sorrow. "I would have no company if it weren't for you. Besides, I want to watch you eat. You rattle like a bag of bones anytime you walk," she teased with gentle humor, sinking to the grass with an ease that belied the effects of gravity, her body language open and inviting.

Billy's reaction was a smile and his laugh, both a sound most rare and precious, a genuine expression of delight that broke through the facade of grief. He tore the bread in half, his offer a mirror of her own generosity. "I want to watch you eat too," he replied, the faint trace of his mother's accent coloring his words, a subtle reminder of their roots.

A blush, as delicate as the prairie rose, bloomed upon Calamity's cheeks, as telling as the laughter that bubbled up between them. They ate, their eyes locked in a moment of levity, their eyes sparkling in shared amusement as they took bites in unison.

Kathleen, observing her son and the girl who had become his unexpected ally, felt the edges of her own sorrow softened by the sight. She allowed the ghost of a smile to grace her own features. There, in the flickering light, she saw something budding between the two youths, a thread of something delicate yet resilient, weaving its way through their interaction. It was a sight that nurtures the soul, a reminder that even amidst the harshest trials, the seeds of new beginnings could take root.

Her gaze then drifted beyond them, finding Amos, whose attention was divided between his paternal duties and the scene unfolding before him. The smile she offered was an unspoken invitation, a bridge across the divide of the fire to join them in this moment of camaraderie.

Amos hesitated, his half-eaten meal momentarily forgotten, before shaking his head with a chuckle and returning to his food. Amos's response, a mix of reluctance and mirth, was a testament to the gentle push and pull of their own burgeoning friendship. And so, when his eyes sought hers again, he found Kathleen still watching, her smile now laced with a playful dare, her eyebrows raised in playful challenge.

A resigned laugh accompanied his rise, his body protesting the sudden movement with pops and groans that spoke of long days in the saddle. He joined her, settling beside her warmth with an ease of a man who knew the trials of the aches that came with age and hard work.

"How do you do, Mr. Grace?" Kathleen greeted, her voice a kindled warmth against the evening's chill.

"Amos, please. Mr. Grace was my father," he corrected gently, his tone tinged with a reverence for the past and the legacy that shaped him.

"Well, if he was your father, then that implies that you are now Mr. Grace, isn't that correct?" Kathleen's quick wit caught him off guard, her words a playful spar.

He conceded with a soft laugh, caught in the gentle snare of her wit, he could not help but smile in surrender. "Well, I suppose you have the right of it then."

"Since we have come to an agreement, perhaps we can also form a compromise. What do you think, Mr. Amos?" she proposed, her tone cloaked in casual repartee, was an invitation to share more than just conversation—a desire for a deeper connection and support as they both shouldered the responsibilities of their families.

"I think that sounds mighty nice, Mrs. Kathleen," Amos agreed, their shared smiles a gentle acknowledgment of the connection that was slowly knitting together the fabric of their little community.

As they turned their attentions back to their children, Billy and Calamity lost in a bubble of refuge filled, were oblivious to the adults' conversation. It was a world where laughter came a little easier, where the weight of the day's hardships could be set aside, if only for a moment between shared bites. And as the night deepened around them, the fire continued to burn, its embers a constellation of hope on the prairie floor.

Amos, his silhouette hunched over the flames, beckoned to Calamity with a nod. "Fetch me a quirly from my saddlebag, would you, girl?" His voice was gruff but not unkind, the request for a quirly was a tether to the simpler routines of life on the trail.

Calamity obliged, her fingers navigated the familiar contents of the worn saddlebag, retrieving the corn shuck cigarette with a practised hand. She returned to the circle, the quirly held between her lips, practiced in the art, she held as she leaned into the fires own outstretched fingers, her breath coaxing the quirly to life, a dragon's whisper igniting the tinder of survival. The fire's glow reflected in her eyes as she exhaled, the fire's glow briefly painting her face with the colors of night's first bloom. The quirly, now lit, passed from daughter to father, her own cheeks flushed from the heat or perhaps the act itself.

Kathleen's gaze widened, flitting between the girl who'd been drawing the fire's breath and the man inhaling the quirly's smoke. Amos, feeling the weight of her stare, chuckled, a rumble of embarrassment mingling with the heat crawling up his neck. "Bad habit," he confessed, his voice tinged with a sheepish embarrassment. "Should quit having Calamity light these for me." Kathleen's nod was dramatic, an unspoken agreement to his self-rebuke, yet her smile returned as she watched the children.

Calamity, sensing the need for a diversion, began to sing—a family tune that had always brought the Grace family together, even when miles apart.

Her voice rose, clear and sweet, carrying the first verse over the camp:

"In the land of open skies, where the rolling prairie lies,

We lost our gold, we lost our homes, but found the worth of ties.

For the riches that we seek, lie not beneath our feet,

They're in the hearts we hold dear, in memories we keep."

Amos joined in, his baritone lending weight to the second verse:

"The storm may claim our stead, the river rise above our head,

Yet what we've lost is merely dross, against the love we've spread.

For when the fire's light grows dim, and the chances slim,

We'll find the strength to rise again, in the song of kin."

Together they sang the third, their voices intertwining like the threads of their shared history:

"So let the winds take what they may, and the night swallow the day,

For what we've lost holds no cost, it's love that truly stays.

With hands entwined we'll face the morrow, through joy and sorrow,

For in each other's company, we'll borrow hope for tomorrow."

The song was cut short. The world shifted, the horses, those loyal companions of the trail, sensed the danger first, their nervous snickers and restless hooves beating a staccato rhythm of alarm as the rustling of unseen forces encroached upon their circle. Amos's fingers brushed against the handle of his gun, his senses alert to the unseen threat. The men rose, rifles at the ready, their silhouettes stark against the fire's glow as protectors against the unknown.

The campfire, a lone sentinel of light against the creeping darkness, became the heart around which the caravan's pulse beat with nervous anticipation. The night air, once filled with the harmonious strains of the Grace family's song, now quivered with the tension of a drawn bowstring, poised to snap.

Kathleen's hand found Billy's back, her other reaching out to draw Calamity close. Amos however drew Calamity aside, his urgent words were a low whisper, meant only for her. "I don't know what's out there, but you and I both have a pretty good idea," his eyes locked on hers, ensuring she understood the gravity of his message. He wanted her to tell him what else was out there.

She stumbled over her response, but managed, "Nothing but the tall grass."

"Good. Now, the moment you hear that shot ring, you ignore everything here in the middle and you run as fast as you can towards that grass. And you find a place to hide, duck down low. Alone." he instructed, his voice a granite command.

Calamity's eyes, wide with alarm, reflected the flickering flames, her heart rebelled against the thought of isolation. "Alone? No—" she protested, her gaze flicking momentarily to Billy, seeking him out even as her father's hand tightened on her arm.

"No," Amos cut her off, his voice adamant. "The moment that shot rings out, you can't trust anyone. Not even Billy." He insisted, casting a wary glance towards the collective—their camaraderie now a fragile thing, easily shattered by fear. "Just lay low down low until I tell you it's safe to come out."

Tears pricked at the corners of Calamity's eyes as she gave a reluctant nod, but she nodded, understanding the harsh necessity of his words. With a sound of acknowledgment, a tender kiss on her forehead served as both benediction and an anchor. Amos rose, his knee popping in protest, before he gently led her back to be seated beside Billy.

"What is it?" Billy's voice was a mix of confusion and concern as he looked to Moss.

"Horse thieves," Moss replied with a gruff certainty. "You all stay here!" Amos shared a knowing look with Moss.

He then melded into the night with the other men, into the inky embrace of the trees, the darkness swallowing them whole as they ventured forth toward the unseen threat. They left behind silence, soon to be shattered by gunfire.

The sound of each shot shattered the stillness, each report echoing like thunder across the open prairie, a harbinger of strife. Calamity and Billy instinctively reached for each other. Crouched low, the world around them narrowing to the beat of their shared pulse as Kathleen enfolded them and Josie in her embrace, her own body a shield enveloping them.

Frank, unable to suppress his pride, seized a rifle and charged into the fray, against Kathleen and Paddy's pleading words. The shots grew nearer, and panic set in.

Calamity couldn't stem the flow of tears, nor could she resist the instinct to burrow closer to Billy, seeking refuge in his nearness. Kathleen's distressed voice mingled with the chaos, her question to her husband filled with fear. "What's happening?"

"Hell knows," he replied, his voice a gruff command. "Get down."

"What are we doing here?" Mr. McCarty's rhetorical question echoed Calamity's own fears. She feared for her father, for their safety, for the future.

Calamity squeezed her eyes shut, willing the gunfire to be nothing more than a harsh symphony of the wild. But the reality of their peril was undeniable, the dread a heavy cloak around her shoulders.

The gunfire ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving behind a haunting silence. The laughter of the retreating thieves was a sinister epilogue to the night's events. The group trembled, the tension palpable—until the crunch of grass signaled a return, halting her breath. Calamity's grip on Billy's arm was a vise of fear, her nails imprinting a memory of the night's terror upon his skin.

"Frank?" Paddy's voice called out at the shadow. Something was amiss. From the darkness, Frank emerged, a figure stumbling as if puppeteered by unseen hands. His approach, heedless of Paddy's call, was a silent march toward his wife, the blood seeping from his side a crimson stain unnoticed by its bearer.

"We got 'em," Frank gasped, his declaration a feeble victory cry. Calamity and Billy watched in horror as Frank, oblivious to the crimson bloom spilling across his side, collapsed at his wife Mary's feet. His eyes, once full of life, now stared vacantly at the sky as though searching for answers among the night sky—a tapestry of stars now obscured by the veil of death.

"Frank?" The disbelief in Mary's voice was a fragile thread in the tapestry of night, a question posed to the cruel cosmos. Kathleen turned away, hiding her face from the grim reality as she shielded Josie from the grim tableau before them.

Billy rose to his feet, a slow and somber movement, a statue stepping out of marble, his sorrow etching a visage of classical tragedy, a beauty marred by grief. Her hand slipped into his, gaze flitted between him and the tragic scene before them. Calamity, her hand entwined with his, conveyed a silent warning—a plea to recoil from the precipice of despair.

The brilliance in Billy's tear-filled eyes, deep and sorrowful blue pools reflected the sorrow of the world, their beauty a stark contrast to the pain that shadowed his features. He was a heart-wrenching reminder of the pain that beauty could hold. In this moment of raw vulnerability, he seemed a figure from an ancient tapestry, a vision of grief and grace frozen in time.

Mary's cry, a lament that tore through the silence, was a sound of pure anguish. It ignited a dormant instinct within Calamity, a chain reaction that ignited her senses. She released a piercing wail, an echo of Mary's despair, before fleeing into the tall grass, propelled by her father's earlier words—a command now etched into the marrow of her being.

Amos, mere paces away, felt the fabric of his world unravel at the sound of his daughter's cry. His feet, as if bewitched by the urgency of her need, carried him through the wilderness, racing towards the source of Calamity's distress—to find her in the labyrinth of grass and darkness, where fear and love collided in the heart of a father racing against the night. Each step was a prayer whispered into the night, each breath a vow to protect her from the chaos that had descended upon their world.

Amos tore through the trees, the urgency of a father's fear giving strength to his limbs beyond the endurance of ordinary men. The forest seemed to fight him, branches whipping and clawing at his skin, each one a stinging rebuke. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, a pungent reminder of the wilderness that both cradled and menaced them. Leaves, sharp as accusations, scratched at his skin, leaving behind a litany of tiny cuts, a testament to his frantic passage.

His breath tore from his lungs in ragged gasps, each inhale a fiery demand on his burning lungs, each exhale a burst of vapor in the chill night air. The icy fingers of fear clutched at his chest, threatening to squeeze the very life from him. His heart pounded, a drumbeat threatening to burst from his chest, yet he ran on, propelled by a terror that overrode all pain.

Amos's mind was a maelstrom of dread and desperation, swirling together until they were indistinguishable. The not knowing was the sharpest pain, the cruellest adversary—the fear of what he might find, or worse, what he might not find, gnawed at his imaginations resolve. Her scream was the only certainty in this, the one that had set him on this reckless sprint, echoed in his ears, a haunting refrain that drowned out the cacophony of the nighttime forest.

Meanwhile, Calamity crouched, her body coiled tight with fear, every snap of a twig or crunch of leaves beneath unseen feet sending shocks through her frame. Her hands, slick with a cold sweat, found an unexpected solace as they wrapped around the revolver's grip. The metal was cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the humid air that clung to her skin like a second layer.

She sought for courage, for the steely resolve that she had seen in Amos's eyes countless times before. "Be brave, Calamity. Be the storm, not the one caught in it," she whispered to herself, drawing strength from the words as she had from her father's lessons.

The weapon's weight, once a cumbersome presence, now felt like an extension of her own will—a conduit through which her fear was transformed into a steely resolve. The ivory grip, pristine and smooth, adorned with the engraving of a rearing mustang, seemed to pulse with life against her skin. As her fingers curled around the engraved grip, it was as though the fear that had encased her heart began to unravel, slipping away like water off a duck's back, leaving behind a core of solid determination.

Back in the clearing, Amos's world came to a jarring halt at the sight of Frank's lifeless form and Mary's figure hunched over him in a silent scream of grief that resonated with the crackling flames. His skin turned ashen, his breath caught in his throat. He frantically scanned the clearing for a glimpse of golden hair, for any trace of his daughter. But there was nothing.

The return of Moss and the other men was a murmur in the chaos of Amos's mind. Moss immediately went to comfort Billy, Kathleen, and their family, but Amos was a tempest of emotion. Their presence, their movements, were a distant concern as he tore through the camp, his voice a thunderous roar that rent the night. "Where is she? Where is she!" His movements were wild, unthinking—a bull rampaging through the delicate confines of reason and order, driven solely by the primal need to find his child.

Billy stood amidst the chaos, his young mind grappling with the night's brutality. His thoughts were a tangle of concern—the sight of Frank's lifeless body, Calamity, the sounds of gunfire still ringing in his ears, left him in a state of shock, the world around him a surreal landscape. His world had tilted on its axis, and in the midst of his turmoil, his gaze found Amos's as the older man searched frantically for his daughter. No words were spoken, but volumes were communicated in that brief exchange. In that moment, despite his own shock, Billy felt the weight of responsibility, a foreshadowing of the protector he would need to become.

Calamity, her pistol in hand, was a lone figure of defiance amidst the tall grasses that swayed like whispers around her. She heard the distorted roar of a man's voice, its words muffled by the pounding of her own heartbeat. The coldness of the metal, the smoothness of the ivory grip with its mustang engraving, became her talismans against the night's dread. Her fingers stilled their tracing over the engraved mustang, and she took hold of the gun with purpose. Taking a deep breath, she allowed the slow exhale to be a moment of calm in the storm of her fear.

Rising from the grass, she stepped forward, the night parting before her like the Red Sea. As Calamity emerged, her eyes closed and the gun cocked, the night seemed to hold its breath. The coolness of the metal, the smoothness of the ivory, became extensions of her very being—a transformation from frightened child to emboldened survivor.

When she emerged, gun drawn and poised for any threat, she was the image of fierce determination. Amos heard the parting of the grass and let out a soft, relieved chuckle before turning toward the sound. His relief was short-lived as he found himself staring down the barrel of the pistol, his daughter's eyes closed, her stance unyielding. Billy watched from the periphery, his heart caught between the relief of seeing Calamity stand tall and the fear of what might have been.

Amos stood before her, his hands raised in peace. "Calamity," he whispered, a gentle plea that reached across the stillness between them.

Realization washed over her, her eyes snapping open, and the recognition dawned, the tension in her frame collapsing as she lowered the gun with a hesitation that spoke volumes. The revolver was carefully set aside as she forgot the weight of the gun and launched herself into her father's waiting arms. The tension that had gripped Billy released its hold, and though he remained silent, his eyes spoke a thousand words of gratitude.

He enveloped her, his embrace a fortress against the night's terrors. Amos, now holding his daughter tightly, allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. The chaos of the night receded as he committed to memory the feeling of Calamity safe in his arms. "It's alright, you're alright, you're okay. We're both okay," he murmured repeatedly, a mantra for them both.

Billy, witnessing the reunion from afar, felt the shock of the night's events begin to recede. His gaze lingered on Calamity, the girl flickered in his mind like the promise of dawn after the longest night. For now, he remained a silent guardian, his future a nascent spark waiting to ignite.

In the aftermath of fear and violence, as the campfire's light continued to flicker against the darkness, everyone was lost. No one spoke, no one slept, the night just continued to play her sonnets until the sun began to singe the horizon.

[broken-faucet-of-feelings]

alien

30/04/24

i was born

without a face.

my earliest memory

is of a bright

snow-blind light

silhouetting the heads

and hands of doctors

who rubbed their eyes

in shock

when they laid eyes

on my blank

canvas visage,

unpainted.

the kids on the playground

did not understand.

i’d watch as the

colour drained

from their

freckled cheeks.

sometimes they

would cry.

their pointed fingers

felt like needles

in my skin,

taking away

parts of me

to study

and mangle

and maim.

they made me

into an alien

who could never

go home.

i didn’t know what i was,

but i wasn’t like them.

i gathered that

their two extra eyes

could see colours

i was blind to.

their odd, puffy lips

spoke in tongues

that i could

never decipher.

their wrinkled noses

and furrowed brows

sent messages

soaring over

my empty head,

and it was as though

i belonged on

the outside.

when i got older,

i learned how to paint.

i drew big doe eyes

over rose-dusted cheeks

and bright cherry

lips that glisten

like a teardrop.

i learned

what it means

to be ugly.

i learned that ugly

means you’re

worthless,

and being

worthless

is a hell of a lot

worse than being

nothing,

like before.

even things i used to dream about

are categorized into good and bad.

eyes,

the mirrors

to the soul,

portals to

a person’s

inner world,

can be the

wrong shape.

even noses,

formerly thought

to be a tool,

can be too big

too long

too round

too sharp.

smiles,

which i naïvely

assumed to be

expressions of joy,

can be the wrong colour

or the wrong size

or too, what was it?

“a-symmetrical”?

whatever that is,

it’s bad,

and we’re supposed

to feel

bad about it.

and now that i have eyes,

i can see how people stare.

it isn’t like before.

they’re not frightened.

they’re hungry.

i see saliva

pouring down their chins

when i hurry past.

i never used to hurry

when i was the monster.

now, i see them

everywhere.

they stand just

out of reach

of the street lamp glow,

red eyes boring into

every inch of me.

the same eyes that

looked on in horror

when i was young

have reduced me

to a scared

little mouse

in the woods.

i learned fear.

in between every stretch of darkness,

i found warmth under a streetlight.

not every gaze

felt like the end

of a hunters knife.

sometimes, i’d meet someone

and it felt like

they couldn’t even see

the paint on my face.

they just saw me,

and they wanted to know

who i was

even though i wasn’t

like them.

i learned love.

sometimes,

i could even see paint

on other people’s faces.

brush strokes

in their eyes,

a smudge

on their brow.

i knew better

than to point it out.

when i met you,

i thought you could see me.

but i made myself

extra beautiful,

just in case.

when we were together,

i was not

an alien.

i was something

created especially

for you,

and i prayed

that you’d love it.

i’d always hated

being a guinea pig,

but i loved you so much

that you could

dissect me

all you wanted

and i wouldn’t

even care

if you put all

the pieces back

when you finished.

you were going your way,

and i was going home.

i’m not surprised

you didn’t see me,

since you were

on the phone.

i started to ease up,

you released the clutch,

and the big doe eyes

i painted for you

lit up like the moon.

i froze in place

to bask in the warmth

of your headlights

on my face.

i thought you were

driving towards me,

but instead,

you ran me through.

my destruction

was as important to you

as all the other

carcasses on the freeway.

and i almost trusted you enough

to let you know the truth.