#cemetary shade

[eghostsofdeadchildren]

Cemetery shades are SO cool.

[iwtv-az-hours]

you know he's not straight cause even crawling out of a manhole after 300+ years he still has his fit coordinated to bring out his eyes and make his complexion pop

[stylistic-nightmare]

Cemetary - An Evil Shade of Grey

[restinfesteringslime]

Dark Illusions Cemetary An Evil Shade Of Grey

[writingamongther0ses]

There is a cemetary at the end of the world, across a vast sea of stars and a field of flowers where shades wander, reaching for anyone foolish or wise enough to get so far.

There, Time gathers.

The cemetary at the end of the world is where Time buries the old year among the years past and, as the old takes its last breath, it crowns the new year.

[inthedeadofnate]

[ location: the path outside the gate to the cemetery ] [ open to: anyone ]

the cemetary had always been a peaceful place to nate, and no matter where he had traveled over the world, there was always something like it to retreat to. his first few weeks here, nate had felt weird about going to just hang out there, or outside the gates, and he had worried that some of the hades kids might take offense to it; or that others might think it was weird.

but he couldn't be holed up in his room in the basement of his cabin anymore, and needed the fresh air on this face, and to tinker with his bike. ironically, this was the thing demis might find him genuinely weird about, when they had much more practical ways of travel, not to mention maintenance and repair. but that thought would have never crossed his mind and he'd had no qualms about setting up a shady place for himself to work beside the iron fence. once he'd stopped to take a break, he chugged something from a tall styrofoam cup, finally noticing someone standing in the pool of shade with him. "oh. hey." nate cleared his throat. "d'ja need me to move or somethin?"

[canines-alter-creation]

Can we please get a level three masc ghost

Uhm! I hope you meant the spirit and not the Band or the COD game haha, if you did mean those things, than we can't really help because we don't know much about either of those! But! There's certainly a ghost under this cut!

> Name(s): Spirit, Ghast, Ghastly, Shiver, Hauntling, Hauntler, Orpheus, Shade

> Pronoun(s): he/they/haunt/cemetary/dead/ghost/it

> Age: ageless, died as an adult but doesn’t identify as any particular age

> Gender: masc, comfevoidic, b?yfreak, detagender, anonymic, ghostthing, genderlessmasc, deadboy, deathkiss, emptinessgender

> Sexuality: aro/ace, doesn’t experience human connection or emotion, but may form a sort of qpr with another ghost

> Role: ameliorator, dissociative soother

> Source: brainmade, alterblogic

> Faceclaims:

> Sign-offs: 👻, 🪦, ⛪, 

> Song theme:

> Front triggers(pos/neg/neu):

Front triggered only in emergency situations, when the front and body needs a soother and someone who can calm others down, then it will front, but Spirit will typically not front for anything else. If it does form a connection with a ghost in an outer system, he might front occasionally to talk to them, but not much. 

> Likes/dislikes:

+ Being left alone, darkness, cemeteries, other ghosts, Casper the Friendly Ghost movies, halloween

- being asked for for no reason, crowded spaces, daytime, loud noises, being touched without warning

> Personality: very quiet and soothing. Tends to float around, wandering aimlessly and talking quietly. His presence lowers the temperature of a room significantly upon entering, which can be somewhat chilling but for the most part is soothing in itself, especially during times of panic because it gives people something else to focus on. Is very gentle and careful with animals and children, but isn’t as close to them as he would be with adults, because they idea of surrounding children and animals with death makes him sad. 

> Ways they do their role: they do their role by coming into front and being soothing. Their presence is soothing due to haunts ghostliness. Sometimes in times of trouble or trauma, all the brain needs is someone who is absolutely certain of something. In this case, he is absolutely certain of his ghosthood. Soothing cold hands to wipe away tears, patience and comfort of someone who has all the time in the world because they don’t have a life to live. May front as an emergency fronter to allow for dissociation, helping to further between traumatic memories and it.

> Inner world occupation or behavior: May live or stay in a cemetery. May only be close or friends with other ghosts just due to not really being comfortable relating to people. Best friend might be a grim dog. Floats around aimlessly and feels a strong pull to front when needed, but otherwise mostly stays away from the front and fronting room. 

> Possible outerworld behavior: Prefers to stay in one place, doesn’t like to go new places, doesn’t like to talk to people. If triggered in due to a situation, will seek out the quietest place possible to calm down. Has a very drifty voice, may type in italics with a lot of punctuation “hmm. . . . “  May need time to build closeness and trust in others, but once done, will seek out those people to answer questions it has. 

[xxcarelessparker]

open: @inaducursehqstarters location: garden district, layfatte cemetary event: memorial event: lost but not forgotten

being at the memorial was one thing , but seeing his mother's name etched on the monument evoked an entirely different emotion , one he was not yet accustomed to . the weight of her absence was something hard to swallow . cole approached the large stone . his gaze , a deep shade of grey-blues , reflected the marble -like monument . a silent witness to the unknown that his family was now apart of . cole stood there in khaki pants and a white collared , dress shirt , lost in thought .

[conduitandconjurer]

🙌

Send 🙌 to put your hands around my muse's neck.

Klaus is no stranger to roughhousing; he has five male siblings with varying degrees of trauma, after all, and Allison is a bruiser in her own right. The Hargreeves family itself is really one big bruise, sometimes from the proverbial tumble off the bike, and sometimes from things darker and more dire.

So, when a sibling lays hands on him, he's hasty to tolerate, even oblige. And despite his pretense of machismo, Diego is, always has been, among Klaus's safer brothers.

"Hurk--okay. Okay okay okay, asshole."

He squeaks a laugh, a shared laugh with his brother.

But today, in the space of a few seconds, something hits different.

He looks down at his brother's black-gloved hand, bangs in his eyes, tawnier than usual, a half shade lighter than the deep chestnut of his mother and generations of family he suspects he'll never know. Something about the futility of that, of so many things he's suffered through with little gain and even less understanding, burns like a lit flare cracked alight, in his gut. Not belonging is hard, especially when it's pervasive. When you're stuck between states, straddling selves and even whole dimensions. He cherishes the immortality; he also hates it. And everyone thinks he's "overcome" all that, because of one night in a cemetary with his monster of a father. No one checked in on Klaus; no one challenged his poor judgment with the Reginald of the kugelblitz; they used to try, but many years ago. Maybe his addictions were in some way a welcome exemption from accountability, for his sister and brothers, his many friends and rehab counselors, his countless (living) lovers, his parents (all three of them): 'Klaus is still Klaus; what can you do, he'll never step up; not unless we threaten him or gorge him with guilt.

Just more trouble than you're worth.

Klaus squirms. "O-kay," he cajoles, a little louder, as these thoughts pour out in a steady leak from some sealed jar shoved far back in his mind.

Patting Diego's hand, "Okay, Deeg, Jesus--!"

He's just shitting around with you; it's just Diego; calm down, stop being trouble--

He's an image in an old slide projector, jammed in the middle of transition. At home neither with the living nor the dead, ears pricked (against his will) to the unquiet of spirits similarly stuck, alienated deeply by knowing no one can hear the same thing, and even if they believe you, they look on you with exasperation or worse, concern. Every so often Klaus tries to shed a skin, or molt, or whatever the analogy may be, in the hope that peeling back who he has tried to be for two or three or ten years will finally reveal the version of himself who is completely at peace.

Or at least someone better. Someone people don't feel free to lay their hands on. People. Siblings.

I need to get a haircut. Yeah.

Every so often, Klaus runs.

And yet--

"You're HURTING ME!!"

The volume with which he snarls this--and the bile--is impressive. One blink-and-you'll-miss-it gesture, and he's loose, arms up, hands blazing teal, eyes, chest--the entire room floods with ghosts as that leak in his mind becomes a broken levee.

The expression on his face is terrifying, uncanny like an AI filter or poor drawing. Klaus isn't meant to look that fearful, animal, and angry. But he does.

"Fuckin HELL, man! JESUS! Could you take it EASY?"

The room is still ashy blue-green, heavy with a fog of spirits. His heart is screaming in his chest. So loud, shut up.

[theparanoid]

Cemetary - An Evil Shade Of Grey

(1992, full album)

[Death Metal, Death Doom Metal, Melodic Death Metal]

[histoires-en-bouteille]

She had been walking for days now - she imagined. She could no longer tell. Not that she cared anymore.

She could only care about the weight behind her, the one she had slowly been dragging for...for too long already. She could only try to ignore the strong smell of dried blood and rotting flesh. Open wounds were nasty creatures of death.

Death. Following her every step. But she couldn't let go of the body.

His body.

She couldn't let go. They had gone through the horrors of this world together, traveled through the darkest forests and loneliest deserts, the hollowest towns, through the most secret ruins. Until that evening, on the rampart.

Let's go home, he had said. Let's go home.

Home had never been a somewhere to her. Wherever they had been heading, it was no place of familiarity or warmth to her. Faded memories of another time, maybe. Nothing worth of her attention, let alone her affection.

But she had agreed anyway. If not for her, then for him.

Let's go home. What a fucking stupid idea. There was no home for them, the moment they had decided to leave was the moment they had drawn a red cross on that place and whatever could have remained there.

She stopped in her tracks, frozen in time. She exhaled deeply, her lips scealed by the sweat and blood, her nostrils dilated by the effort.

That smell, that... fucking smell.

She took a deep breath, her body barely shaken by a disgusted shiver, and resumed the course of her journey.

Inside her, the fire of a thousand suns, burning her muscles, swallowing her heart with insatiable hunger. Lit from the inside, consumed by an unstoppable force, she could only move forward.

_

She reached the village as the sun set. A deep shade of blood dripping through the intense blaze consuming the horizon, leaving behind nothing but the dark ashes of a dead world.

She took a minute to let the atmosphere pervade her.

There were no birds. No wind. Not a rustle, not a word. From that distance, the village seemed to be dying. Smoke floating above the walls, faint voices choking on hot dust. Animals, unable to scratch their way out of their cage.

She was wrong. This place, bathing in the guts of the apocalyspe, felt like home.

Slowly, she dragged the makeshift stretcher down the small hill separating them from the village. Every step was an additional effort to the previous one, eating through her like maggots through a rotting corpse.

Each step brought her closer to ghosts and monsters.

Home.

As she reached the wooden door, she thought of her itinerary. She would have to walk past houses, past living figures staring at her, through her, whispering tales of horrors, bringing back to life faint memories of lost children.

She would be their ghost. Their monster.

Good.

The door opened on two villagers, barely armed. They tried to talk to her, she ignored them. Who addresses the void never wish for an answer.

She walked through. Stares couldn't add weight to her burden. They were nothing but blurred figures fading in her peripheral vision. Nothing more. They could stare all they want, dig deep through the layers of blood and sweat and clothes, dig deep enough to try and she what she was made of.

Nothing but fire and death.

No one tried to stop her in her tracks. She imagined the corpse covered by a blood-soaked coat had something to do with it. The cemetary was still there. A few holes had been dug while she was away, as one could expect. After all, ghosts were birthed by the dead.

_

The night was well settled when she was done digging. The ground had been hard and cold. She had left the stretcher beneath him, but took back the coat. She couldn't bury him with that stinky, bloody coat.

She sat there for a moment, her feet suspended just a few inches above his body, her body half in and half out of the hole. Still, she felt wholly dead. She was wholly dead. It almost felt like an invitation to join, to let herself fall forward, to let the cold hard ground swallow her whole, to choke the fire raging inside of her guts.

She took off the necklace hidden under clothes. Somehow, it had survived every battle. Somehow, it had survived, all these years. She always imagined it was some sort of luck - twisted, dark luck. She knew there would come a day where the necklace would crack and break. Yet, here it was. Virtually intact between her hands.

She pushed herself down the hole, a foot on each side of the body. She had tried to clean the blood off of his face, but there were always a few stains that were harder to get rid of. She grabbed his left hand, pressed the jewel inside its palm. Rolled the chain around his fingers, two - three times.

Don't lose it, she had wished to say. But it felt stupid. He would probably open his eyes just to stare in disbelief, to mock her. Of course I won't lose it, he would say. I know what it means to you.

She looked at him. She was so close, she could see the pale freckles on his broken nose and under his tired eyes. She had forgotten about his freckles. Yet, when she closed her eyes, she could see all of his scars. Those, she would never forget.

She felt nothing. No sadness, no pain. She had run out of tears to shed a long time ago. He had known this. Yet, he had followed her to their death. Unconditional devotion.

She closed his hand around the necklace.

"Loosing what I don't deserve."

Her voice was hoarse, closer to a growl than to words. Words, stolen from monsters of her past. Monsters, haunting her even during funerals.

Always during funerals.

She let go of his hand, stood up. There was nothing more to say. She climbed out of the hole, grabbed the old shovel, covered the body until it disappeared under the ground, swallowed.

Villagers had gathered at the entrance of the cemetary, observing from a safe distance. They withdrew as she turned around to leave, opening a path in front of her. There were no questions. Whispers, at best, carried away by the cold breeze.

She stopped, a few feet before the wooden door. Bathed in the pitch-black night, barely anyone could see her. She was their haunting presence, the wraith birthed by one too many loss, twisted by one too many scar.

The door opened with a heavy creak. She almost resumed her walk, when someone called from the fading crowd.

"Who are you?"

Voices rose from the depth of the world, hushing and scolding. Who addresses the void never wish for an answer.

She stood straight, frozen in time. Any other day, the ashes within her would have set ablaze. Your downfall, she would have said. She would have drawn her sword. Made a bloodbath of the town. The least of a revenge over such provocation.

But tonight, there were no ashes to set ablaze. Deep, deep underground, they had been buried. Tonight, there would be no blood, no tears. Nothing but a shadow from the past, walking through a place someone once called home, haunting for a night only the thoughts of heirs who knew nothing about the horrors of her world. Tonight, she would be nothing more than what they had made of her.

"A ghost."

[carmeliawrites]

Sony 2

It was then perhaps when it first happened, the grass withered. It was the first moment of insanity, and of amnesia. I hadnt quite remembered the last night and it had bothered me too much. I didn’t quite notice the footstep at first, it felt as normal as could be, however as i took the next step it felt heavier, my leg had begun to feel like it had worms on its skin, gnawnig deeply into my flesh and ripping away my tendons. So i stopped at reflex, my body taking control to preserve it’s limb, however on looking down it was as normal as could be. There were no worms to be found nor any bones that were left gnawed. The path in my cemetary of flowers was as it had always been, the grass swaed in the sun, its leafy greens smiling in the bright afternoon air. I looked around to see the beauty of it all. The scars on the trees and the flush on the flowers. The white roses i planted glistened in the dark undergrowth like the starry night. And at that moment, the path, swallowed up by the trees on either side, the white roses in the undergrowth and the dandelions floating in the air, at that moment, it was the entire starry night. It was my foolish errand that had come to fruition.

The white roses that were picked out by the white soul with pink streaks had grown, i knew not how much the time had passed since i had seen her in the but the single rose she left at the altar had grown up to be quite the field.

And in that moment, i swear i was inifinite.

I looked behind me, shaking away the liminal smell of flowers, there was nothing there, but as my gaze lowered onto the grass the spot came into view.

Purple.

Not the bright purple that complemented the pinks but a darker shade. It resembled the shrivels of old age, with it’s streaks of red and black a place withered with time, only that it was in the shape of a small spot, a place frozen in time, dead and withered. It was curious, a mystery as to how it could have happened, i tilted my head in confusion. I knelt down to inspect it, Grazing my fingers over the dry grass, it crumbled under my touch. The leaves gone, as if frozen in a moment of time after it’s cataclysm.

I stood back up, the mystery beyond me, filing it under the strange occurunces of the cemetery i moved on, but as i did the roses beside the path became darker and the world distorted into nausea. The roses withering to purple as my soul grew afraid. The spot seemed to be spreading to the colours of my world, the white that took away all my darkness was fading to purple, a dark one; and with those fears i ran, hopeful to outrun my fears of destruction and yet the cataclysm follwed, but however fast i ran the purples and reds followed, and as the red streaks began to tie my legs, slowing my run, to a walk, and before i knew it, a crawl. And as the world became purple in this nightmarish existence, the red came in.

Coffee.

[baby-its-freezing-outside]

I'm away from Tumblr for two weeks and now we're having polls for Tumblr sexyman and my man Cecil Gershwin Palmer is actually WINNING?!!! Also, people don't know who Cecil is?!! Cecil, the og eldritch podcast narrator? Cecil with his "teeth like military cemetary" husband with perfect hair? Cecil with his horror cat who floats?

This was the guy that actually got me into podcasts. He made me scream and cry and laugh and mostly made me very very confused. Welcome to Night Vale is the reason my favourite colour was That Shade of Purple™. I don't think even now you can discuss horror podcasts without discussing Night Vale.

So this is my petition to all. Listen to at least five episodes of Welcome to Night Vale. Please. More people should listen to that podcast. It is amazing. Also, Vote for Cecil Palmer. This has been a public service announcement. And now, the weather.

Also, here's the link for the final round in case anyone has trouble finding it.

https://at.tumblr.com/sexymanotd/final-round-sans-undertale-vs-cecil-gershwin/u4fx1iiotqto

[frostcorpsclub]

What’s in joanna’s bag?

Joanna's bag is this massive gothic grandma looking thing, but she loves it for all the space.

Her sculpting tools of course, many of which double as tools for self defense.

A sketchbook so she can jot down ideas and plan out the basis of future sculptures.

A kneaded eraser, she doodles in pen but she likess to keep it around so she has something to do with her hands since shes so used to constantly working on pieces at home.

Her coffin shaped pen case which is full of the pens she uses to doodle, all shaped like bones.

Cemetary dirt, she likes to collect it for multiple reasons. Firstly, it adds a unique shading to her non organic sculptures. Secondly, it adds a unique shading to HER (she uses it as contour for her makeup). Lastly, it adds an interesting undertone to her perfume!

Speaking of, she has a container with a dropper for her favorite perfume: Ezekiel 16:49 by BPAL with notes of blood, musk and ashes.

Syringes, for when she spots a person that she would very much like to use as a "muse" for her latest work.

A paralytic agent and a glowing blue liquid...it comes in a little glass vial.

[thehandwixard]

the kinda shit i want to do to sora (good for him) that would get me fired immediately if i somehow gained access to the key for the writing room for kingdom hearts. i think he could be cemetary shade. look up the cemetary shade death video for a fun buglike surprise

[writingamongther0ses]

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