#🔪 — THREADS .

[therosepetalrps]

@shiftingmuse ・❥・continued thread

Father Joseph MacAvoy had been in the town of Middleburgh for most of his life as the local priest. The Catholic Church didn't have much pull in the area, so he was mostly on his own. A small but fair flock mixed with the leads of a man who was questioning his life. "Nobody?" He was on edge; he knew something was going on much worse than he first realized. "Y-you're speaking of vestments, that's not something I wear often." His parish had only seen him in such robes on the more proper religious holidays. "Cut?" He reached up quickly to touch his face; the adrenaline from running back to the church hadn't registered the gash. "Shite!" Joseph winced at the pain of touching the wound with his hand. "Th-the beggar, he cut me!"  The priest's eyes lowered away from the woman for a moment as he took a step back. It only took one step for the man to reach his steps with the back of his foot. His heel hit hard enough to cause a chain reaction, and the man fell backward onto the concrete behind him. "Fuck!" MacAvoy shouted, hitting the ground, his eyes shooting up at the woman with true fear in them. "Wh-why are ye here?"

He looked small cowering on the ground. Hierophant liked small things; babies, and kittens, and those little porcelain Hummel figurines that were so pink-cheeked, they looked like they had rosacea.

She stood, leaning over him, red lips pulled into an insincere smile. "Can't a nice girl stop by for a lil' reflection 'n repentance? Or are churches 'invite only' on this side'a the pond?"

She crouched down in front of him, leaning further into his personal space. "Are ya always so clumsy?" she asked. "Reckon it's a good thing you ain't wearing those vestments after all. Ya'd trip all over your damn skirt walkin' to and from the pulpit."

Knobbly-kneed and stumbling over his own feet, he reminded Hiero of a newborn fawn. And those huge brown doe eyes - glassy and frightened, as though staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck. It was cute, in a pathetic sort of way. Hiero liked pathetic, too. Her eyes followed a droplet of blood as it slid down his cheek.

"An' what's this about a beggar? Last I checked, we weren't in Oliver Twist or nothin'."

[the-bar-sinister]

Needle By Thread (1093 words) by Overlord_Mordax Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: Horror, Psychological Horror, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel, Time Loop, Whump

-

James wakes up in the sodden, decrepit bathroom, heavy with fatigue and dizzy with confusion. He stares into his milky, distant-seeming reflection in the dirty haze of the mirror, and he stares at his hands, sweaty and stained, and he feels suddenly like he has been here before. He feels it like a blow to the head leaving him reeling and drooling and about to be sick.

He stumbles and the moment passes. He catches his breath and he gulps down the bile. He has been here before, years ago. On his honeymoon. That is the source of the deja vu, the strange wave of grotesque nostalgia that overtook him for a moment. Nearly knocked him from his feet.

That must be it.

He has only ever been here once before.

With her. With Mary.

Surely that happy memory is the one that his hindbrain is reaching for as he stands among the spiderwebs and the black mold. Surely it makes him sick because Mary got sick— because this place, this town, is the last place he held her before everything started to go wrong.

There is no other meaning to the already fading sensation. There is no smell of rotten flesh. There is no vision of endless twisting corridors, bloated carpets and peeling wallpaper.

It fades. It doesn't matter.

He is back at the beginning. Back where it all started to go wrong.

Back in the last place he remembers being happy.

And there is a letter in his pocket.

James stares at his reflection in the foggy mirror for a moment more, his distant blue eyes, his tousled blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. The lines on his face. Stress lines. They make him look older than he is. So do the heavy dark bags under his eyes.

He touches the front pocket of his jeans, just below the hem of his old army surplus coat. He can feel the paper of the letter crinkle as he touches it. He doesn't have to take it out to know what it says.

James pushes his sweaty hair out of his face before it falls right back where it was before. He turns and he shoulders his way out of the oppressive rest stop bathroom, and into the parking lot.

He sees his car outside, parked crooked in the nearby space. The many hours long drive to get here now seems like a distant memory. Like it happened to another man a dozen years ago. He really should have taken a break to sleep on the way, he knows that. He knows that he's fatigued and tired, and he was driving for so long that now that he's out of the car it feels like the drive was another lifetime. He knows that he could easily have fallen asleep and wrecked the car and gone to meet— no but he had to meet Mary.

Mary wrote him a letter. He touches his pocket and he feels it crinkle again. 

He couldn't even stop for one second on his way here. Not for an instant.

Mary wrote him a letter. Mary was in this town.

Mary was supposed to be dead.

James paces the parking lot, trying to dismiss the tingling, numb sensation that suffused his whole body, but especially his legs. The air is cold and the fog is heavy and wet. It casts a gloom over the trees that hang slumped on the hill just over the barrier wall, rambling scrub-like all the way down from here to the lake.

James leans his hands on the cold, rough grit of the concrete wall and he looks out into the impenetrable fog. Somewhere down there is the lake. Somewhere down there is Mary– maybe.

He doesn't have to look at the letter to know what it says.

"I'm alone there now, in our 'special place'. Waiting for you.'

He feels the concrete sapping whatever heat is left in his fingers and he pulls them away, jamming them into the pockets of the old military coat. It's not as helpful as he hoped. He should have brought gloves. He and Mary had been here in the summer, he didn't think about how cold it would be now.

He ran out of the house without even thinking about gloves. He barely thought about keys.

He's thinking now. He's thinking about where the hell Mary could be. If she is here. If she's alive. How could she be alive? Mary died of that damned disease three years ago. A dead person can't write a letter.

Where the hell would she be? Their 'special place'? The whole town was their special place.

James bustles over to the car and its hinges squeak as he pulls the door open to grab the map out of the glove compartment. There's an old picture, too, and James stares at it for a moment, feeling achy and numb and lost and angry. Mary's face smiles back at him just the same.

He puts the map and the picture in his pocket too and he slams the door of the car.

The road is closed past here. There's a faded yellow and black barrier all across the main road, down from the rest stop and James remembers hazily that that was why he had stopped driving in the first place. The road into town is blocked completely.

If he wants to get to Mary he is going to have to leave his car here and walk.

It's fine with him. It's really fine. Maybe walking a little way will clear the feeling of lack, of numbness, of bereftness from his body. Maybe walking will warm the icy toes of his shoes and the tips of his fingers.

At least if he passes out walking he's the only one who'll go down. Not the car going nose first into the lake, giving him enough time to think about what he's done, but not enough time to escape. Even if he tried to escape.

James' chest feels heavy for a moment and his breath shudders. His vision shimmers as if he is sunk below the waves. 

It passes. He is here and this is now. Just like those old self-help books used to say. You can only do the task that's in front of you.

James' task is to find Mary. There's no use thinking about anything else.

Before he even reminds himself of his purpose he is already halfway down the stone steps, headed toward the winding path through the woods.

[blxxditout]

"You’re not okay! You need help, please just let me help you!"

From Ouroboros via "Injured RP Starters"

The blood is washed away by the rain, the cold droplets dampen his grey hoodie as he holds his side. His hand has been made murky by devil’s blood and the use of his trigger. Broken skin creeps up his wrist as he presses his palm closer to his form, now beginning to shiver from the cold. Isn’t this sight familiar? He isn’t hissing and spitting like a feral cat, not like the other when they’d first gotten acquainted. Sid cant decide if it’s his arm that burns or the gash in his side. God, I stink.

Typically a devil’s body is sustained by human blood, and that of magical energy… Sid is deficient of both; on a part that he refuses to drink blood, and another of simply not knowing where to gather an abundance of this energy. The scent permeating around him is the results of being starved off of these two properties, in spite of himself. He can feel his hunger, just not at the pit of his stomach where it ought to be. No, it’s higher up, taking residence in the half of his heart where he was last scorned. At every turn it feels like he needs to lash out, to fight and to kill. It’s terrifying.

How could he want to do these things?

“Mm… yeah, that sounds about right”, he’d smirk at the other, lips cracking.

His is the scent of rust, decay. The magic in the athame is at an all time low, to the point where he is returning to that husk like state at the time of his unmaking. On the precipice of his demise, he stands not sure of what can be done at this rate.

“I don’t know if you can, I mean…”, he gives his side a squeeze, struck by another pang, dark droplets fall beside him as the rain continues on.

“… I don’t know how much time I have left”, is this… it? Is this where it ends?

[reginrokkr]

Onyx heavens augur tempests of sins only to be washed away should one bend to unjust and divine Heavenly Principles. Iron scent accompanies crimson deluge, the celestial law warns of promises of death if anyone dares trespass the limits betwixt humane and divine unprompted. Before this fallen heavenly envoy lies the end a beginning of a life branded as sinful since the commencement of its very existence. Nigh deaf ears ring with spiritual cries of struggling Ley Lines to reject that which threatens to permeate the earth of this star with its malady.

A new set of voices chant in the back of the seraph's head: a requiem for the fallen by the hands of the gods, a hymn to let this land rot as the destroyed kingdom did and a siren's call to end that life with his bare hands. Temptation for vengeance is high, alas regret and fervent wish to not see one more human soul witness this Calamity on repeat once more are even higher.

Nonetheless, here stands Dáinsleif as others mourn the loss of a goddess, unable to move nor to speak. Tempestuous astrals fixed on Sumeru's Grand Conservator holding the tiny new life in his strong arms before sapphire and dichromatic emerald-scarlets meet fleetingly. All sentiments this luminary may harbor for that man numbed and buried underneath millions of other emotions born from the befallen catastrophe in the reign of Khaenri'ah, still too recent even if it's been years since the incident.

「You whom barely hesitated to jump to the assistance of others in time of dire necessity, what makes you so paralyzed now that the event is essentially the same? Is it the sight of a fallen god and birth of a new one in this new samsara? Do you still hold at heart the wishes of the masses you hoped to change their minds from even after you slew countless of them en route to the Land of Wisdom?」

@samyavastha ✦

[friskdistrollerroblox]

I hate the fact that you can't actually edit your post in Twitter in case you made a spelling mistake or forgot a tag, cuz that means you gotta add them on another thread post, but this causes BIG chances of having your org stuff not be that noticable... Another reason why I love Tumblr the most!!

[romanticlcver]

continued from here! @starlingisms

It would all feel so nostalgic, if Jackie were a more sentimental type of person. It isn't the first time Jackie had bothered Joan when it was just a little too early, but if things keep going the way that they have been...it might just be the last. She rolls her eyes at Joan's initial response, turning away to look at the laptop propped on her lap instead. They had once had full days of activities planned, now it's all...just a mess. "Fine," she responds, her voice clipped. "Good. I guess I can count on you for one thing, even if that thing is just...this." She pauses. "Take your time. But not too much time."

[itchose]

@manslaught, he’s on edge, now more than he has been the last few weeks when he thought he was getting away with his scheme.  he knows his wife is right not to give him the details,  but he still can’t help wonder how things had gone so horribly wrong,  after convincing himself that he was getting away with it.  when he spots an old friend across the gym,  he decides to take the opportunity to calm his nerves by talking to her.   he shoves his hand in his pocket, plastering on his infamous grin, and walks up to her,  giving her a familiar nod.  ❝  mikayla.  it’s nice to see you again.  how many years has it been, huh?  i’ve been thinking about you,  ❞   he admits,  which is the truth,  because he thought he spotted her the night of the drop,  but he was too caught up to really know for sure.   ❝ just— well, you know, wondering how you’ve been,  ❞   he nods,  waving in front of her in an attempt to act casual. 

❝  we really missed you at the wedding. ❞   it’s awkward small talk,  over 20 years too late,  but he hasn’t heard from her since long ago and it’s his only real point of reference.  he clears his throat,  trying to take the attention off himself,  to something he imagines is much easier for her to talk about.  ❝  hey,  i heard you were married.  she here tonight?  i’d love to meet her,  share some old stories,  ❞   he teases, forcing a banter that her and mikayla never actually had before.  

[knifeathers-archive]

Inej lingers on the dock. Attention seemingly diverted as she helps to unload the ship. Her attention, however, is entirely on the passing conversations between sailors and travelers alike.

Hey, Harij!

The voice sticks out. Each slaver ship hadn't been a farse. Just skips along the way to end up at the right deck at the right time.

She pulls out the paper Kaz had given her. Carefully unfolding it on its worn folds. Inej looks at it and then up at the man who seemed to have responded to the name. She appears to wander as she moves closer to his boat. Inej grips tightly onto the paper.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn't help but to overhear." The Wraith looks him over. He looks so different and yet still the same. "Are you Harij? I've been looking for someone who goes by that name. I haven't seen him in many years," nearly a lifetime, "So if I'm wrong please tell me to leave.." It's been so long since she's felt this unsure of herself. She had dreamt of this moment but never had she dreamt of it becoming reality.

@mvndrvke

[s-talking]

// open.

𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐒 & 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃. envy should have returned home for shelter, but the inevitable side-effects of alcohol coursing through his veins have muddled his sharp thinking, rendering most senses dull & foggy. so much so, the young serial killer approaches a nearby window of someone else's apartment, & just like that ── in a most nonchalant manner ── elbows the lustrous pane where the glass instantly shatters, falling into a million glistening pieces with a loud, echoing crash.

envy feels the same little shards biting into his pale flesh like teeth, but he ignores the pain, quickly propping himself up through the cavity where the window once was in order to land on the other side, his heavy black boots slamming onto the floorboards most carelessly. if anyone was sleeping, they'd be surely awake now. well, not that he cares, ever so slowly moving over to the nearby bed & casually laying down, lighting up a cigarette right next to the unfortunate owner. ❝ . . . . . ❞

[scattered-amongst-the-stars]

@prisonicmorality

The first thing he did upon waking up? Throw up. Blood and bile coated the dewy grass as Lionell expelled everything in his stomach - it sucks that he can never get that fucker back for hitting him in the face with a pipe, but you can't get everything you want! Especially for him. The lucky bastard had better count his blessings that alcohol hadn't completely cleared his system when shit started...

Once he was finished, his sleeve wiped away the waste from his mouth as his eyes scanned his surroundings. Wooded area, but not in a dense manner. Now that his ears weren't ringing as incessantly, he could make out faint traffic in the distance - must be in some artificial forest in a city park or something.

"UGH! Nothing says 'good impression' like the stench of bile. ...I need a new change of clothes."

[therosepetalrps]

@shiftingmuse ・❥・continued thread

『✣』 She'd never been inside Franco's flat before.

Their encounters had always been at her place, in her world. Wherever he came from, whatever life he lived outside of her, hadn't mattered. Like he'd been cut right off the page and pasted onto hers.

Maybe it wasn't even the same flat he'd lived in back then. Maybe this place was something new, something he'd acquired in that big black hole of missing time.

It was cleaner than she had expected. But there was a reason for that — and it wasn't because Franco had developed a passion for home economics in her absence. Oh yes, she knew a woman's touch when she saw it. It wasn't like it took a genius anyway. Two toothbrushes in the bathroom, a lipstick on the coffee table, ugly dresses in the wardrobe, a box of tampons under the sink. A sealed box of tampons. That coupled with the secondhand paperback of 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' on the nightstand painted a picture that made Hiero's blood run so hot, she feared she might explode from it.

She had enough time alone in the apartment to go through waves of it — cycling through the five stages of grief like an asylum patient clawing at her padded walls. Part of her wanted to just smash the place up with the bat she'd found in the closet and vanish back into the night. But she resisted the urge. She waited.

The hour was getting late, but that didn't surprise her. Lord knows he probably still drank himself stupid night after night. Would he even come home at all tonight? He could just as well be passed out in the gutter or couch-surfing with one of his loser friends. She didn't want to be responsible for what might happen if his little lady came home instead.

Hiero heard the footsteps first, then the jingling of keys preparing to unlock a door that no longer had any need for it. Then she heard the enraged hollering and....well, she'd know that voice anywhere.

The door swung open violently, slamming into the wall. It should have made her jump, but it didn't. She had expected it. She wouldn't have left the door ajar if she hadn't wanted him to find it that way.

❝ 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐀' 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐀 𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓? ❞

Light from the florescent bulbs in the hall spilled into the dim room, though the pair of them were still half-cast in shadow. That same light glinted off a small silver blade gripped in his shaking fist. He wasn't much more than a silhouette, just like the shape she'd thought she'd seen in her periphery a million times since she'd left.

She crossed her legs, exaggerating her relaxed position on the sofa, as though she were right at home. She grinned, like the mere sight of him wasn't a knife twisting in her side. ❝ 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐄? ❞

[damagedrot]

IT WAS EASY TO STEAL. even easier to get away with it , less chances when someone POINTED IT OUT. her eyes glued on her drink , keeping the alcohol at close hands. convincing her boyfriend that she'd be done soon , even as he nagged her to come back home.

she felt his voice cut over the music , " for fucks sake , lucy ! you're going to get caught this time ! " HER EYES ROLLED HEAVILY before she raised up her hand , and easily gave him the middle finger. even as he persisted. she drowned out his voice in alcohol.

" I'm not gonna cause much trouble , " clearly not believable enough , but could do the trick. not that she needed another reason to cause havoc. she had already stolen a couple of wallets. more than enough , to buy herself something fun tomorrow.

she needed a distraction from her own fucked up mind that night and this place was going to do that for her. now she just NEEDED A BETTER WAY OF USING IT. she used the idea that she'd get away with doing illegal shit tonight.

". what did I tell you , she's fine. ". voiced her second boyfriend Nathan. he saw no problem with her partying , but he never did to begin with.

". I'm not even thinking about everything I could steal, and take home. . . that was a joke. " she added. feeling as if @jokethur to know that. not exactly coming off as much sober anymore.

continued.

[blxxditout]

@shallliveoninsong wants to FIX his hair

His first thought is, she’s really close, not that Lady was reaching for his face. Sid doesn’t mind it, but it’s just… been a while since he’s had something this gentle. Really, he has to keep himself from pushing his forehead against his hand completely. His eyes study hers, as she pushes the locks up and out of his face by his eyes. They’re such a pale shade, light enough to near silver, but they’re just shy from it. They’re still blue, speckled near his pupils that narrow to cat-like little slits. In spite of their sharpness, his eyes are soft. At what point did he start to hold his breath? If he says something will it break the trance, ruin the moment?

Sid just can’t seem to figure out why she’s staring so intently at him. Or his eyes, which are still fixated to hers. After a brief thought they dilate, then he knits his brows together and he gives her a slight smile.

“L… Lady?”, finally he asks, after working up the nerve.

[survivall]

' it’s a superstition, like how some footballers won’t wash their socks out of fear that something bad will happen during a match. ' she still doesn’t understand that one; doesn’t understand why sarah had been so adamant throughout school that her lucky socks never got washed. her nose wrinkles at the memory of stale sweat stinking up the bathroom, still skeptical that unwashed socks had anything to do with four consecutive championship titles. ' you get around it by calling it the scottish play. and I’m not saying it’s a real curse, but I AM saying every time someone has said macbeth in theatres I’ve performed in, it’s been a monumental disaster. '

a starter for @tartt9

[phantasmaw]

♢*   —   @illholy  ​/  𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝

     〈🔪*〉┊ "Judith?" Annabel whispers the other's name, as if afraid speaking at a more conversational volume might scare her companion away. She studies their reflections, legs dangling over the edge of the low bridge. A nearby park lamp flickers. The undulating light renders both their distant, slightly warped expressions unreadable. "Which do you think is more romantic: to kill for someone, or to die for them?"

     Only about four feet separates bridge from water. Only about an arm's length separates Judith from her. She could grab Judith by the arm and not let go. She could scoot forward. Off the ledge. Into the dark pond. It's not very deep, but the flurry of bubbles and billowing fabric would cause some confusion. Not enough for fatality, but enough for vision to blur and heart to pound and lungs to fill. She could.

      Instead, she adds an explanation that wasn't asked for, "--it was part of a discussion during my evening class. Gothic Literature's Presence in the 21st Century." She begins to kick her feet back and forth. "I don't even know why I'm taking it." She glances over, hollow gaze hidden by the fringe of her bangs. "Anyway, we didn't come to a conclusion. So, what do you think?"

[taitropa]

“It’s not spicy,” Dheeti Ghafa assures without prompting when she sets down a healthy portion of dal bhat in front of Kaz. Across from him, Inej does her best attempt at conveying to him that he better keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him because if he makes a single complaint, either in regards to her mama’s kindness or the amount of food on his plate, she will not apologize for the heinous sin she will commit against him.

He is lucky that he has been accommodated at all this time. Not because her mama would not do so for a guest, but because Inej had insisted in her letters prior to this visit that she need not. His luck also extends so far to include Mama’s fond curiosity with the Barrel boss sitting in his mercher black and gloves in their wagon for supper.

“Chili oil?” Baba asks pleasantly, offering the little greasy tin to Kaz with a knowing twinkle in his eye. He winks at Inej conspiratorially over his own meal and she can’t help but grin back at him for his wickedness.

“Ramesh!” Mama scolds with a light slap to his wrist so that he puts the tin back down. “Do not listen to him, Mr. Brekker. Save your Kerch tastebuds.”

At this, Inej finally laughs. “Mama, you are just as mean,” she says in Suli.

“I am only testing your sweetheart, chorī,” Dheeti argues with a sniff. If Kaz is annoyed that the language barrier keeps him out of these secrets, Inej does not look at him to check. Her pinking cheeks are too embarrassing to have the upperhand on him this once. He’d find a way to win whatever game he’d make of this match of shame and she is determined to see him lose. Dheeti scoops an extra spoonful of rice onto Kaz’s plate and asks in heavily accented Kerch, “Good?”

@barrelborne <3