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water traces the bridge of his nose, dripping down onto his shoe. what leaks from startled flesh, and onto your own. marbled cheeks / river-wrung lungs. he swallows, albeit thickly, and remembers there’s still air to breathe. his hand splays across their shoulder, all of his focus levelled on the locked door. the frantic wails that he can hear, and silent hands he can’t. in his brown eyes, there is an almost, for which he will not give words. ‘ quiet. ’ a low timbre, barely a rumble from his mouth. hidden like the thunder waving past a screaming crowd. if those things no longer respect the daylight, why would he, in this moment, still rely on a charm? there’s a pulse in his throat, where breath fights to stay in his lungs, to skirt around his death-misted form. deadening itself to prepare a dying thing. he listens, and he waits. ‘ we only have our fists. stay quiet, or find others. ’
open to: everyone and anyone; so glad you're alright ( 0 / 3 ) location: he doesn't know. a convenience store maybe?
just where the hell did this storm come from? is his first thought. the second is, including all the monster that peak their head out and welcome the terrain that is darkness. just like everyone else, he's scrambling and trying his best to acquire some sort of shelter. well, not without helping people along the way. the rain definitely doesn't make the town easy to traverse, dirt turning into mud and the grass slick and easy to slip onto. there's one person he takes attention to. it's so natural the way he leads with a hand on their back to push and don't look behind, while he spots a cracked door to help heard them both inside. " a - are you alright?! " he doesn't even check over their shoulders, shutting the door with a fervor and even locking it by instinct. " that was... holy shit. what just happened? ... they weren't supposed to — "
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hidden at a bundle of the seam, his heartbeat thumps beneath a crusting gash. it makes his gait sway like a moon-lit swing. there’s a single, hair-thin trickle from his brow down to his eyelid. his smile betrays neither of these, barely noticing its lost blood. ‘ nope. nothing at all. ’ an idly cracked neck, watching the previous patient leave. he sits on their warmed spot, like he was invited. ‘ how’d you fare, hmm? hate to drop your noggin down the drain like ( … ) well, like everything else. ’
location: township infirmary who: open to all
"All set," Gwen said with a strained smile, tying the cloth tight over the gash. "Keep it covered and clean and then come back in a week or so, just to make sure it's healing nicely." If they were here in a week. The thought was dark but tomorrow wasn't a guarantee anymore and now - with the sudden storm and creatures appearing during the day - well, who knew what the fuck was happening. Her head shot up at the creak of the door and instantly got to her feet. "Has something else happened?"
#◈ . ❪ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞: prose. ❫#gwcnbouchard#ft. gwen.#body horror //#injury //#not him being yucky on main
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a long moment lingers, there, in the glass sheen of her eye. its sharp darkness forgotten, softened by a new prospect. for quarter of a clock, the silence holds her tongue. both elbows lean onto the counter. ‘ so i could decide for you? if i really wanted. ’ the smile is slow, a beat later than it should’ve bloomed like she missed her cue. accidental or intentional? that, she will leave for him to decide. her head cants to the side. ‘ would you let me? that kind of trust ( … ) it’s just what we need, isn’t it? ’
LOCATION : benny's diner .
VIBE : clueless npc .
" oh no , i uh - i don't make the decisions 'round here " he's saying , before pointing his index finger towards himself and shrugging . " i kinda just go where the people tell me . " GOD DAMN sid and his tendency to keep talking and make a bad situation worse , an awkward situation UNBEARABLE . " like princess diana , yeah ? " sid pauses . " she was the princess of england , for a while there . before the paps , and probably the queen , got her . " he explains , in case SOMEHOW ( idiot man ) they'd been at oblitus for longer than when a KEY PIECE of history had happened .

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her eyes trace every nook in the room, and the door locks with a pinch of her fingers. she thumbs away a sniffle as she creeps down behind the girl. if they’re quiet enough, no one would know they’re here. no one. there would be no banging door, no need to restrain another frightened body. simply pattering rain and leaves bristling: weeping sky and its crackling cough. a comfort, really, after such an annoyance. their incessant screeching, desperate calls for a deity that’s already provided its answer. her voice is still low, sore from disuse. ‘ do you have somewhere for a fire? ’ her pants stick to her hip like an un-coddled child. without her careful hand, they would rip. her gaze lingers on some corners, trying to follow a quiet scent. something like hunger wedged within her teeth, but not for something as simple as food. ‘ somewhere to warm our hands while we eat? ’
"God, you're soaking wet-" Brows furrowed and she's trying to ignore the people outside. The screaming, closing her eyes and swallowing the lump in her throat. "There's extra clothes back here-" Granted, she'd taken them from the second chance thrift. It was all part of the job, make the body's of their dead look like themselves. Maybe it was for them, maybe it was selfish- to give their loved ones left in town some sense of normalcy. What would you consider that? How many people were left outside? She couldn't count- there was too many to try. "It's quiet down here." Her chest tightens. "No windows." She knew all too well, too many nights spent restless, working. Even now, insomnia clawed at her insides. The crowds still making her uneasy. The panic. She wouldn't sleep tonight either.
#◈ . ❪ 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚: prose. ❫#pragmcts#ft. kina.#the only way out is together .. but not to talia 💀#she said fuck them kids!
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‘ oh yeah? this is the good stuff? ’ there’s a rained edge to his tone: puddles of blued leisure in his laxed posture. in a blank moment, he’d laugh. for now, he has to live. and a warm bottle in his sweaty hand suits that. like turning yourself inside out, feeling your own blood in your skin-bound fingertips. his voice is coarse, smoked in age. ‘ think i’d prefer a wet bag of piss, with a dash of ( … ) sewage water. but i’m all outta piss. so this’ll just have do, huh? ’ the grin is not shy, not even when it rounds to the clamouring heat behind that window. twenty paces in front of them, up to his left. out of sight / toothed mind. it only widens his mirth. but she flickers, like a bothered wire, and he decides to extend his latent gaiety. how to enjoy the chorus of a thunderous rainstorm. ‘ gimme a song, cherry pop. gimme a round of karaoke. ’
STATUS : open LOCATION : the motel
" WELL . SINCE WE'RE GONNA BE STUCK here for a while," the words are punctuated by the pop of a cork and a pointed arch of cherry's brow . she points the neck of the bottle to them . " can i interest you in some peace of mind ?" the sounds of screaming outside the motel kind of sours the proposal, but cherry simply clenches her jaw and moves to turn up the radio in hopes to drown it out . she tries to remind herself that they were locked in here now, that nothing was getting in or out . the thought makes her shoulders loosen, if only slightly . " now, said peace of mind might be temporary but it should last us until morning at least ." she shakes the bottle pointedly, jaw shifting . " this is the good stuff ."
#◈ . ❪ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞: prose. ❫#purgatored#ft. cherry.#body horror mention //#suggestive //#idk how to tag this#he’s just a tad gross#i can hear groans in the bg#while they drunkenly sing happy together by the turtles
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The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep * - Peter Brook
British, 1927–2009
Oil on canvas, 24 x 60 in.
Embellished
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CHARLES WOOD BEATING SOUL AND BREATHING BLOOD.
basics.
given name. charles wood. nickname. charlie, chuck, give him some. call him anything but charles. age. thirty-three ( november 10, 1990 ). place of birth. long beach, california. song. mr sandman by the chordettes. orientation. bisexual, slight preference for women. probably left many a situationship at home but would’ve still called himself single. occupation. the wretched butcher for a glum town. education. passed high school: held no love for his studies. religion. possibly been baptised but, otherwise, holds no emotion towards any branch of faith. occupied his younger brothers’ weekends by sending them to sunday school.
physical characteristics.
height. one-hundred seventy-eight centimetres, five foot ten. eyes. shy of a deep brown, livened in the light when he flashes his teeth. hair. jet black. can’t gel his hair properly anymore; absolutely slicks it back with his sweat now. gender identity. cis man ( he + him ). build. broad shoulders and long-legged. distinguishing marks. a white grin dripping red from his bloodied lip. ever the charmer.
personality & behaviour.
hobbies. the demanding kind, especially pertaining to his hands: fiddling with a car engine, sculpting wood, scaling stone walls and chainlink fences. with all the time in the world, these hobbies probably bore a craftsman’s hands. a big gamer, and winner against his brothers. recently began hunting before arriving in the town. likes. shuffling a pack of cards, watching the moon, now, and the path it lights for him to follow, when a vein pops, a crowded bonfire, cracking full beer bottles against skinny trees – for target practice, of course. dislikes. the songs crickets sing, dry mornings peppered by an animal’s lightfoot, true silence, a bedroom of his own, freshly cleaned hands. quirks. bites his bottom lip so often – therein will lie a moment of genuine emotion: his deep sneer and lowered chin – that it often looks swollen. strengths. when he’s talkative in a way that reads as friendly. weaknesses. when he’s glib like a hungry, pink cat. moral alignment. chaotic evil. character inspiration. lalo salamanca ( better call saul ), feyd-rautha harkonnen ( dune ), billy butcher ( the boys ), wade wilson / deadpool ( marvel ), spike spiegel ( cowboy bebop ), tyler durden ( fight club ), vaas montenegro ( far cry series ), mr blonde ( reservoir dogs ), handsome jack ( borderlands series ).
background.
before your mother, there is your sister, biting your shoulder after you – wide and itching; greedy down to your fingertips – stole another fry from her plate. your mother isn’t there, in your mind’s eye, but she must be, ignoring your sister’s indignant cries. but not your reddening cheek, nor the deep teeth-marks now dampening your washed shirt. the cupboard hinge creaks, the sink continues to drip, and your mother watches a salt-lipped smile cling like a loose scab. there’s a pinched cheek, and a wet temple. a gaunt laugh. this is how she pockmarks your memory. how you mark your territory. yes, your mother was there. it wasn’t your aunt, or their mother, or a neighbour. or a kind stranger at the supermarket. she was there.
after you and your sister, there’s a flock of younger brothers. stretched years between you and them; your hands must warm their blankets. offer their toothless mouths your food, this time. your mother is less than a memory now, barely a footnote. your sister knew this before you did. she accepts a dream for what it is, and then provides anew. chips the colour away with her nail until their beds remember what mother means in this house. how it, too, yearns for that woman’s touch. weeps its paint off the old, plaster walls. it admits something that you never will. not even when you surrender to the same fate.
there is a man in the house. out on the patio. in the garden, amid the wilted soil and yellow grass, leaning against the old tree. just as crooked, bending into the neighbour’s garden. the silhouette of a man, which is all any of you could know, without you in the house. you learn to provide – under the quiet, harsh press of your sister’s thumb – with quick work cutting meat at the book-end of a grocery store. uniformed, yet rowdy. you’re messy when you skin an animal. your teeth are still white, like the milky edges of your eyes. you are the man, and now you are the silhouette too. your mother’s son, your father’s legacy. your own rotten dream.
where was charles when he saw the tree and the murder of crows? where was he going? was he travelling alone? how did he feel?
he was returning to the family cabin after a morning hunt. alone, of course, like any older brother would be. and the empty pit in his chest that comes with it. if anything, he thinks of the cold, and how he needs a new jacket.
describe charles’ first day in town. did he arrive in the daytime? was he warned by the residents? did he have to be restrained?
roved through the red-sunned woods for a while. despite knowing the trek is longer than it should be, he levels his hunting rifle at the first person that crosses his path. you’re trespassing, he would say, this is my land. but there, he learns that there is no land. or how all that remains is land. the news doesn’t disturb him – not in the way the villagers might expect – he just laughs and laughs. forgets that there’s a rifle in his hands. sun-blistered face, again, under a new set of stars.
what did he leave behind? what was his life like on the outside?
he leaves a family that was rich with warmth. the sister that will look into the mirror in his room, and see her mother’s face. the butcher will only notice that his hand shakes more, now that he cuts more meat. charles’ empty heart joins him.
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TALIA BALFOUR THE DARKNESS HAS ITS HOLINESS.
basics.
given name. talia balfour. nickname. tally, blondie, give her some. age. twenty-nine ( january 29, 1995 ). place of birth. manhattan, new york. song. girl, you’ll be a woman soon by urge overkill. orientation. bisexual, give her psychosexual nonsense or give her nothing. only a couple of situationships at home that she held like a dog holds its kill. occupation. the wicked pharmacist of the west. education. an over-achiever: the pharmacist degree under her belt, eyeing a philosophy degree to pass the time. religion. second-generation lapsed catholic: their sunday best would double as the cook’s apron. or the duster for their room’s door frame.
physical characteristics.
height. one-hundred sixty-seven centimetres, five foot six. eyes. dark brown, inky in the shadows. hair. sharp blonde, no longer perfectly slicked into a bun. gender identity. cis woman ( she + her ). build. not much curve to her body: small chest with slightly wider hips. distinguishing marks. that cold, piercing gaze and a freckle above her lip. a distinct lack of blemishes.
personality & behaviour.
hobbies. fencing, chess, gardening. in this town, she fills her time by growing her own mushrooms. unsafe to eat, doubling as failed experiments, along with her relentless pursuit of growing medicinal herbs. enjoyed sketching or painting on the empty pier, at any time of day, and would exclude people from her picture. took up some form of weaving after coming to the town. definitely a horse girl when she was young. likes. a glass of red wine on a saturday night, flicking fallen leaves at her cat, the mess blood leaves, walking outdoors – among the trees specifically, where the wind whistles instead of a person’s laboured breath out in the cold. dislikes. the mess hands leave: the dry kind of sticky like thirsty roots, music trickling, unbidden, outside of its allocated room, shadeless heat and misty rain. quirks. her eerie facial expressions: unfurls too fast and flits too slow. or vice versa, any mash of mechanics. it’s too easy to see her facade’s artifice. strengths. no ailment will go untreated, numbed at the very least. weaknesses. even when it’s one she pinches into your body, just to see if she can cure it. moral alignment. neutral evil. character inspiration. lee harker ( longlegs ), emma frost ( marvel ), sofia falcone ( the penguin ), audrey horne ( twin peaks ), lily & amanda ( thoroughbreds ), little sisters ( bioshock ), mima kirigoe ( perfect blue ), amma crellin ( sharp objects ), eve ( the bible ).
background.
you’re not a miracle; you’re barely a statistic. pink fruit from a round womb. grown at a hill’s crest, a strand of wet grass below the peach tree, overlooking a herd of sun-dried cows. no one would notice your cotton cradle. no one but the stars. and your mother’s eyes do not glisten upon watching your first blink. nor your first day at school. nor your first ballet recital. without a picture, you wouldn’t even know she was there. you forget her youth –– in your wet baby-toothed way –– for there’s nothing to chew from her. bent from its frame, your memory holds a father’s smile, and his heavy hand upon your lithe shoulder.
the eve of your fourteenth birthday, your mother cups your jaw in both hands. splayed fingers brush against your slow pulse. your breath dampens her skin. you feel it, now, more than she did. her warmth spilled across your neck like air-thickened blood. this is before the second step-mother, right at the precipice of your first. watch him for me, your mother says, watch him at night for me. for me. almost too easy, your mother would say. a simple kiss at their temple, and a child remembers their mother. quiet malice, salted to taste, by your father forgetting to call you his favourite girl. and there, the axe earns its first swing.
flesh is sweet and bought hostility is sweeter. levied by her parents, held like a serrated knife. where love should be milk-bathed and pat dry, your definition curdles into a tight smile. rehearsed in the dark mirror of another’s pupil. by your twenties, you reach a third step-mother. and yet, there is only one that you call father. the game loses its fresh scent – stale like wrinkled, doughy hands – and your teeth grow sturdy. their quiet plea for your return wafts close to your ear, like the sound of crashing water from a seashell as the sea rolls against your feet.
where was talia when she saw the tree and the murder of crows? where was she going? was she travelling alone? how did she feel?
two nights before thanksgiving: she needed to find her father’s new house. a mid-life crisis purchase, no doubt, but that only made the prospect of seeing him more fun. fawning over a new dark-wood table. she was on the highway, probably pulled into the wrong exit. it should’ve been a quick fix. the darkening sky barely fazed her.
describe talia’s first night in town. did she arrive in the daytime? was she warned by the residents? did she have to be restrained?
when late afternoon breaks into early evening, pruning the sun-yellow yolk back into its moon-white shell. it takes one loop back to the town for her to stop the car. night looms overhead, and she stares at the endless path before her. she would be deathly silent on that first day. somewhere between excited – about the idea of something new, a challenge for her to observe and overcome – and empty like a cracked china doll.
what did she leave behind? what was her life like on the outside?
at her apartment, her cat will find a new person. the aloe vera will die, and the soil will clog someone’s drain. her father will assume she joined her mother’s thanksgiving; her mother will call to ask if she arrived safely. at the ripe age of sixty, they will find god and pray over an empty grave.
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#TRAGADY: STARS RISE. MOTHS FLUTTER. APPLES SWEETEN IN THE DARK. PRIVATE PORTRAYAL OF CORRUPTLY DEVOTED MUSES FOR FROMOBLITUSHQ. AS PENNED AND HATED BY KATY ( THEY / THEM, GMT )
charles wood. intro. study. threads. pinterest. talia balfour. intro. study. threads. pinterest.
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clean girl morning routine!
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it's just a corpse just a mangle for the dogs. whatever was the thing of you was gone/ it didn't hurt. you were already dead/ no one even noticed
Dayspring by Anthony Oliveira
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