#deiform streets

[devilcantspeell]

I like my little guys sometimes

[hermitcraft-8]

Deiforms, Chapter Two: Bullrush (Part Two)

masterpost

To be completely honest, Sean was kind of hoping he'd wake up in a hospital, with his mother holding his hand and weeping, a vase of flowers beside his bed. He'd flutter his eyelashes open, press a hand to his head and say "how long was I out?" just like in all the movies.

Instead, he opened his eyes to the back of Madi's car.

It was on, a low hum buzzing through his body from the engine, Terrible Lie by Nine Inch Nails quietly playing through the radio, which seemed like a strange choice for setting. He was leaned up against the window, the cool glass bliss against the left side of his face, which was throbbing. He lifted his gaze, finding himself to be sitting in the exact place they'd parked earlier, across the street from the Capsum house, and Madi, Dean and Lillian were standing around the hood of the car, arguing passionately about something.

No, that's not true. Madi was arguing, throwing around her hands, spitting and snarling, while Lillian rolled her eyes and Dean held up his hands in surrender.

Sean opened the car door and stepped out.

The argument stopped, but no one moved to help him, everyone just standing there, watching him.

"Your sister's coming to pick you up," Madi said, dryly. "You've got a cut on your face, but it's not bad enough that it'll need stitches, so they just put some bandages over it."

"You feeling alright, man?" Dean asked, gently.

"Yeah, I-" Sean frowned. "What happened?"

"Ash swung a knife at you," Madi said. "And then you fainted."

Sean had the feeling she was not happy about this. In fact, she seemed a little disgusted, or embarrassed. Like she usually was.

"It's okay," Lillian said. "It was scary."

"I thought he got your eye," Dean piped up. "I was so sure you'd go blind."

"No, I, uh-" Sean blinked. "I see just fine."

"Good."

Madi scoffed, running a hand through her hair.

"Where'd Ash go?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out. The second your head hit the deck, he, like, sprinted for the back door. The cops are still questioning Miki and his other friends," Dean said. "I don't know what they'll charge him with, but I heard them mention suspected arson."

"Of course he did it," Madi scoffed. "Who calls themselves Ash if they're not going to be an arsonist."

"But-" Sean shook his head. "Why would he set his best friend's house on fire? And how'd he get out? Lori said he was in the bathroom, and they couldn't open the door."

"He climbed out the window, obviously."

"The basement bathroom doesn't have windows."

Madi huffed, rolling her eyes. "I don't fucking know, Sean, it doesn't matter."

"It does-"

A car pulled up next to them. It was old, beat up, but it was clean. A pipe cleaner man hung from a little noose on the rear view mirror. And then it just sat there.

“Your ride is here,” Madi pointed out, dryly. “Goodbye.”

“Madi-”

“Goodbye.”

Genny and Sean were the kind of siblings who no one ever asked if they were siblings. They had the same nose, the same lips, the same freckles. They both wore clothes that didn’t fit- although while Sean wore mostly tees that were too small, all of Genny’s clothes were fashionably baggy. Genny didn’t have as many piercings as Sean- just a septum and her ear lobes, and her hair was down to her shoulders, but even then, she still looked so much like him that it was hard to refute their relationship as siblings.

She watched him get into the car, reaching over to pry at the bandaid on his cheek. He slapped her hand away and grunted.

“So… what happened?” She asked, putting the car into drive. She had a very particular way of driving where she got as close to the wheel as possible and peered upwards before moving the car. Sean never got it, but he never asked, either. It was just one of those things.

“They say Ash set the fire, and then he attacked me with a knife.”

“Wait, Ash did that to you?” She said, surprised. “Isn’t he, like, your bro?”

“Yeah, he was, like, my bro,” Sean sulked. “But he also attacked me with a knife.”

“And set a fire.”

“And… well, actually…?”

“You don’t think he did it?” Genny inquired. “Why not?”

“It’s Ash, man,” Sean shrugged. “I just… it doesn’t seem like him to risk everyone’s lives.”

“Maybe he just snapped?”

“Maybe,” Sean stared out the window. “I don’t know. Hey, can I tell you something weird?”

“What have you ever told me that wasn’t weird?”

“Genny.”

She exhaled through her nose. “Yeah, alright, what’s up?”

“When Ash attacked me, for a moment, I saw… I don’t know, myself? And he said some weird, cryptic shit, and then I woke up.”

“Did you hit your head?”

“I don��t think so.”

“The cut isn’t anywhere near big enough for it to have been a near death experience… maybe your consciousness is trying to tell you something?” She sounded shockingly serious. “Or a guardian angel? Or…”

They sat in silence for a bit before Sean registered that she was done talking and glanced at her. She was leaning back, her head tilted to the side as she stared at the road ahead.

“Or what?” He asked.

“No, it’s just, like…” She hissed out a breath. “I had a weird dream a couple nights ago where I talked to myself, and I thought it was, like, a holy premonition when I woke up, which is, like, weird, because-”

“We’re not religious.”

“Right.”

Sean sighed, letting his forehead rest against the window again. It was the wrong side, and did nothing for his burning face.

“This sucks.”

Genny hummed.

The Capsums lived sort of out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods, and the road to get back to town was winding and complicated, so Sean elected to let Genny focus while they made their way down the mountain, and just stare out the window.

“Did you hear that?” She asked abruptly.

“Hear what?”

“I just-” She shook her head, hard, like a wet dog. “Hold on, hold on-”

“Gen?”

“...It’s gone,” She said, frowning. “I don’t know what… whatever.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t… know how to describe it… I think it was just the AC or something.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

By the time they got home, it was early afternoon, and Sean’s stomach was starting to twist with hunger. He didn’t even make it to the kitchen before his mother swooped down, though, clucking and cooing and fretting over his eye while he tried hard to pull his head away.

“It’s fine, mom, I can see alright.”

“Oh, they should have given you stitches, oh-”

“Mom, it’s fine.”

He finally escaped to his room, hungry and defeated, feeling like today had been officially a god awful day. It was just starting to get late, the sun just licking at the horizon, and he gritted his teeth. He had school the next morning, of course, because that was just his luck.

He sunk into his bed with a groan, closing his eyes tight, trying to relax.

It worked for a bit, and he started to slip under, started to doze off, but his stomach felt tight and sharp, and his face was still killing him. He did his best to ignore it but it only worked for a few more minutes before he found himself pushing his body upright, slinging his legs over the side of the bed and groaning.

His body felt weirdly sore, as if he'd been laying there for ages longer than he had, but his room was still painted with dusk, so it couldn't have been that late.

He stood, running a hand through his hair and limping to the bathroom, shuffling through the medicine cabinet for painkillers. He finally found the bottle, pulling it out and shutting the cabinet. For a moment, he struggled with the lid.

And then something moved in the mirror.

His head snapped up, and it took a few seconds to understand what he was looking at.

His hair was long- past his shoulders, and brown. His bandages were gone, his cut leaking blood. His clothes were different, leaving him standing in a tank top and jeans. And strangest of all, his face was completely still, eyes peering at him calmly even as he wrinkled his own face in confusion.

It was all wrong.

“What the fuck,” He whispered, looking down. The reflection followed suit. Sure enough, long hair and a tank top splattered with blood. “What the fuck?”

“I told you,” His voice said, issuing from his mouth, just as it always did. “I wasn't a fan of the buzzcut.”

He jolted backwards, his head whipping around. “What the fuck, where are you?”

“You're the one talking to yourself,” He responded, amused. “But, if you really need something to gawk at-”

The reflection leaned forward. “-I can do that too.”

Sean slammed the door open, sprinting out, stumbling to the kitchen. His mom was gone, probably in bed already, but being in the large, well lit room was better than the cramped bathroom. For a second, he heaved breaths, looking around desperately. Nothing moved, nothing changed. His hair felt strange on his shoulders.

“I'm not sure what you were trying to accomplish with that,” His reflection in the window said. “There's a lot of shiny things in here.”

“Go away,” Sean begged it. “I don't know what you want, but I-”

“It's not what I want,” It said. “It's what I have to do.”

Sean's stomach plummeted. “What do you mean?”

“I have to make you a god.”

[therisingphoenixden]

Prompt #16: Finding Meaning Amid the Meandering of Thought

Prompt: Deiform

Characters: Berude

Content Warnings: Takes place right before the first quest in ShB and into the first few quests.

Author’s Notes: I tried to write this as if it was Berude reflecting on her journey so far and the discomfort she feels with being deified as the Warrior of Light. I hope I succeeded in conveying that discomfort. Anything in italics is a physical description of any odd details on her journal pages.

What does it mean to be the Warrior of Light? To be tied so intrinsically to Hydaelyn? When do people stop seeing you for who you truly are and worship you as the Will of Hydaelyn?

Perhaps Minfilia is - no - was better equipped to answer that question. She was the Word of the Mother, after all. But Minfilia is gone, and now I’m alone.

The journal’s owner, having thought better, violently scribbled out the first “is” with such fervor that she nearly tore through the page.

Truly alone now, with all of the others incapacitated. The only other I’d feel comfortable asking is Urianger, but he’s also in the private infirmary Krile set up.

Curse that voice for stealing him away. For stealing all of them. But especially him.

Scrawled in the margins by the last sentence is a tiny, rushed, “Why did I write that?”

If I asked anyone walking the streets of Ul’dah, I suppose their answer would be, “savior of the realm,” or mayhap, “slayer of Primals and tamer of beastmen,” or some other nonsense. Hells, if they were Ala Mhigan, maybe even, “the great liberator.” I can’t even go to the markets for myself anymore, so often am I stopped on the streets to offer blessings to the people as if I am one of the Twelve given flesh.

Bless Minfilia for supplying me with paperwork to hire retainers, or I’d never be able to trade in the markets. It’s as if she knew, even then, how difficult life would become.

The people of Eorzea see me as a god, or the herald of a god, or something when all I am is a woman who just wants to help wherever I can.

A small arrow points to this sentence, with a hastily written “Am I in danger of becoming a Primal myself?”

It’s too much.

I never asked for this. Would that I could go back, warn my younger self not to speak of my odd dreams to Grandmother. Perhaps I’d still be living with my tribe in the Steppe?

More rushed, cramped writing in the margins: “Did Alexander’s summoning teach me nothing? The water cannot flow back up the river, merely continue its path.”

But I’d have never met Haurchefant had I stayed.

He was the first who saw me as something more than Hydaelyn’s Champion or a weapon to be pointed at Eorzea’s enemies. He was the first who only ever asked me to lay down my burdens for a time, where he would make sure I was loved and cared for during one of the darkest periods of my life. When we were together, we shed our titles and our peoples’ conceptions about us. I was no longer Hydaelyn’s Will; he was no longer the bastard son of House Fortemps. We were just Ru and Haurche.

Gods, I still miss him. 

My heart, what would you think if you could see me now - this lonely, broken woman holding back her tears as she tries to write her pain away?

The passage above is slightly wrinkled with spotty water damage, as if the journal’s owner had started weeping.

Blots of ink mar the lower half of the page, as if the writer was surprised before continuing. The entry continues on the following one.

Forgive me, journal. Tataru and Jessie very nearly kicked the door to my quarters in. Apparently the combined forces of the Ironworks and the Sons of St. Coinach have traced the location of the beacon I needed to save my friends. Will continue these lines of thought later after I save them.

–

Well, journal. I did not save them so much as I was pulled forcibly to...somewhere.

The word “somewhere” has been circled with, “I have been informed that I am on the First,” written under it.

The writing continues, in a different color of ink. Instead of soot black, this ink is a deep blue.

It’s strange. Everything here feels so similar to our world, but is just slightly off in ways that make my head throb. And the light - it’s always day here. I’ve been told by the Crystal Exarch that it is the result of the Flood of Light and sustained by the presence of powerful Sin Eaters known as Lightwardens.

Once again, I am but a living weapon pointed at the enemies of Eorzea. Or Norvrant, I suppose. Not that I have any proof, but I get a feeling from the Exarch. That this was why he tried pulling me here, but accidentally grabbed the other Scions instead. I would get the same feeling from Minfilia or the Grand Company leaders. Less so with Minfilia. As a bearer of the Echo, she understood how lonely and isolating it can be to bear Hydaelyn’s “gifts”.

Nevertheless, I will grin and bear it as I do on the Source.

At least the relative anonymity will be nice while it lasts. I’d rather not be worshiped here. I will need to discuss this with the Exarch at some point.

Anyway, early day tomorrow. Going to find Alphinaud in Kholusia. Will update then.

[unnwin-a]

muse aesthetics: horror edition.

repost, don’t reblog / bold whatever applies / tag however many people you want / feel free to add stuff in any category, too!

tagged by :  @dinopunching ,  mi favourite uwu tagging :  @rebelcodes ( alice! ) ,  @nightmaer ( bonnie! ) ,  @deiforme ,  @liedsense ,  @qnzel ,  @crimewrought ,  @newsworth ,  @calledrum ,  @shawky

gothic horror.   gaslights.  corsets.  ballrooms.  candlelight.  mist.  starless nights.  full moons.  cobbled streets.  horse-drawn carriages.  mysterious strangers.  bogs.  moors.  forests.  mountains.  castles.  velvet.  silver.  brass.  gold.  jewels.  domino masks.  the opera.  dangerous romances.  tragic romances.  violins.  roses.  lilies.  empty graves.  crosses.  cemeteries.  snow.  ice.  the gallows.  crows.  milk-white skin.  ambiguous illness.  fangs.  pointed nails.  something howling in the night.  capes.  gloves.  top hats.  straight razors.  lightning.  pipe organs.  underground caverns.  bats.  mice.  rats.  ravens.  cats.  pearls.  attics.  talismans.  axes.  wood.  isolation in a room full of people.  vampires.  werewolves.  ghosts.  coffins.  western europe.  eastern europe.  bones.  churches.  catacombs.  mausoleums.  spiders.  books.

classic horror.   black and white.  powder puffs.  red lipstick.  winged eyeliner.  white kitten heels.  black lace lingerie.  icy blue eyes.  rain.  abandoned cars.  skeletons.  acid.  poison.  voyeurism.  switchblades.  strangling.  overcoats.  looking over your shoulder.  trans-atlantic accents.  private detectives.  dinner parties.  haunted mansions.  alcohol in glass decanters.  cobwebs.  perfect blonde curls.  kitchen knives.  shock.  cellars.  dust.  dark alleys.  empty streets.  driving at night.  horn-rimmed glasses.  radiation.  zombies.  serial murder.  paranoia.  the city.  witches.  the devil.  cannibalism.  conspiracies.  amulets.  abject terror.  the american south.  the american northeast.   england.  analog cameras.

slashers.   bloodbaths.  massacres.  wanton nudity.  newspapers.  leather jackets.  letterman jackets.  converse sneakers.  obscured faces.  social unrest.  bonfires.  lakes.  babysitters.  suburbia.  high school.  lockers.  dead leaves in the fall.   jack-o’-lanterns.  outdated television sets.  nightmares.  psychiatrists.  hospitals.  unstoppable forces.  gunfire.  police.  landline telephones.  household objects turned into improvised weapons.   halloween.  secrets.  revelations.  character masks.  scrunchies.  queerness.  wild curls.  jeering children.  parties.  fire.  swearing.  revulsion.  california.  the american midwest.  ambulances.

paranormal horror.   malevolent spirits.  seances.  spells.  missing bodies.  hidden graves.  white noise.  static.  flickering lights.  rings of salt.  demons.  poltergeists.  dark histories.  old buildings.  cold air.  mausoleums.  wells.  urban exploration.  a dog barking at something you can’t see.  black ooze.  old photographs.  faces you can swear you’ve seen before but can’t for the life of you figure out where.  dark bodies of water.  crucifixes.  priests.  possession.  exorcisms.  dolls.

cryptid & urban legend horror.   aliens.  blinding light.  dark woods.  driving at night.  claw-marks.  bite-marks.  men in black.  memory loss.  dismembered bodies.  sewers.  flashlights.  cell phones.  video cameras.  cars with tinted windows.  abandoned houses.  unlabeled cassette tapes.  bugs.  big cities.  urban crimes.  clowns.  something rustling outside your window.   glowing light.  unsolved mysteries.  suburbia.  mirrors.  the american pacific northwest.  the american midwest.  hiking / backpacking.

thrillers.   daylight.  fluorescent lighting.  morgues.  asylums.  unwavering eye contact.  tension.  lit rooms with no one inside them.  a dog digging in the newly-planted flower bed.  steely gazes.  paperwork.  anagrams.  codes.  convicted killers.  missing persons.  law enforcement.  federal agents.  small towns.  suspicion.  paranoia.  subdued terror.  dimly-lit parking lots.

[denouae]

finifugal: verse o.

cigarette ash like wildfire, burning holes in the nighttime. verse zero, as endorsed by the historical portraits, hung askew.

                     i.

in this fugue crafted out of the atrophy in a man’s empire, he’s the core of its rotten dusk, collared by the weight of expectations. his globed shoulders are always worn down with the carnation driven by bloodied thoughts, he always ends up in the viscera of his clasped mind, mouth never uttering a single word in regards to the thoughts. “what would you like to be, if not monstrous, if not grotesque?” a question posed in multiplies, engraving ennui in his mind. it's not like he hasn't been growing up, growing old with the same telltale inquiry, its answer leading to this monosyllabic reverse psychology.

                     ii.

he's not a fool. one response leads to another, and another, and another. the apostles do not mouth their creeds for nothing, their intents crafted out of nothing if not men's self-destruct tendencies. if men can eat themselves alive, own flesh in own teeth, that's when the apostles have marked their craftsman finished. this is naught if not sacrifice, to rinse humans of their riches, their sanity. humans, after all, are manmade ridges of selfish architectures. they simply teach lessons through the subliminal messages; this greed, this hunger. deeming humans unable to comprehend the nature of altruism, they've taken it upon themselves to baptize these lost souls under the guise of lies.

                     iii.

half-moon bites on his skin mark the memories. on this lane at the end of the long, winding road, was a man that kept a boy close to his chest by having hands around the child's neck. the embossed fingerprints served as a reminder for the boy not to run too far, too fast, lest he'd fall. remember, where he came from, with the height of men turned more into commodities than capabilities, someone like his father was an exception. climbing the ladder with nothing but his nimble thoughts, appa claimed to have swallowed the bitter of this world's carnage firsthand. men that did not, do not alter dreamscapes fast enough on this side of the world wouldn't survive. the harsh reality was that the legacy had to carry on.

                     iv.

& looking from the telescope of a dead man's eyes, he was, is very fortunate indeed. deiformed, childhood was stained with the syllables of matured lies. his birth came first, the preliminary edge to the lineage. a son of jung, finally. to the throne, to the crown. appa, for once, swelled with secondhand pride, which proved to be nothing more than borrowed fortune when a cousin was born from the first uncle. he was three, naïve. the wafting scent of aged wine was none but a passing thought; he didn't recognize appa, plagued with anger. he took the beating in silence. it was his fault—

                     v.

it was until it wasn't. his gift was discovered early, crevasses of his talents found, unlike gems, more like sins. bullets that penetrated the nights as he took a stroll with appa, not in reality but on a plane called the dreamscape. and as it progressed... love? love is a relative measure. in retrospect, he cannot call it as such. it leaves when it fits. it leaves when it stills. leftovers of umma's presence did not last long enough to be called as such, and this? appa's grip around his hand, embedding nail marks... is this it?

                     vi.

his question marks missed the dots. he left a trail of them, one by one, on his paintings. he was better off away from the fellow kids, not because of the introversion. maybe it was so that envy did not smear the people's faces; after all, he was, is the prodigy to carry the legacy of the jung's. the spidery metastasis of his smoked imageries spread on canvases, they sell well. and after his fourteenth painting of the city of berlin — distorted, its spine so askew many wouldn't have been able to tell that it was, in fact, it... — he was recruited into the rank. appa didn't raise a fool; his baptismal as the architect for the creed did not wait. he was a son to a father, for once.

                     vii.

"when was the last time you went to therapy?" the stray inquiry echoed in a dream that wasn't his — a dream he'd snuck into so that they could maintain a structured lie throughout the night, extracting ideas, information. knowledge that was meant to be underlying secrets, they wanted to know them all. it wasn't a question directed at him, but it remained with him for an elongated timeline. he needs a permanent shrink, it seems. a child prodigy has grown into the intended monster. he needs to finish these inceptions, though. these mementos, too. all the paintings, pictures, portraits. half-sketched drawings that wilt in these ever-changing places. five-starred hotels that he'd never frequented, but they'd known him by names. uriel, the painter. or mr. jung, the dealer. the trades made, however, are never equal.

                     viii.

he chipped at the corners of these apertures with his coffee-stained teeth, listening closely to the whispers from the far-fetched memories in his leisure. he still recalled, after all this time, after all the beatings, his grandfather's calloused hand guiding his own to make sharp strokes across the canvas. he mastered painting at such a young, gullible age. his styles mimicked the old man's, carved legacy hanging high above his head like a chandelier, except for the fact this his grandfather had never loved him much — not as much as the grandfather loving the first son of the first son. no wonder appa purchased too many escapes. there was just not enough space for two fighting for the castle of patriarchy. uriel, deemed a son, now deemed a wound. hasn't he been one all this time? & if he were to be a wound, he'd be a good one.

                     ix.

there was no funeral for appa, just a reminder that being trapped in the maze of nightmares might lead to permanent death. the creed didn't shed a tear for appa, and neither did he. he saw the tangled dreams of his grandfather's, the guilt intertwined like archaic ivies. there wasn't a need for tears when it was for a son long lost, a son long gone. he himself, he found inner peace, another looming shadow gone. he wished anything in his life could be enough, but alas—

                     x.

he's smudged in colors, red for the night that cusped in smidgens. memories that fleet. he was asleep when the phone rang. he expected it to be a death of the person he used to know, but it wasn't. premonitions that don't foreshadow anything— well, he was told by the cheap tarot reader at the corner of the street that he would receive good news within the week. what else could he expect? the erasure of the looming shadows for the last thirty years could've been an exit, for once. his visit to magnolia was capricious, almost, besides for the fact of his frantic uncle's demand. the fragments of a so-called family shouldn't have bothered him this much, yet the poltergeists of the haunting past, they always return. he'll prove himself wrong: & so, he stays.

                     o.

this is to undo the spine and count every bone, fingers bleeding from the sharpened ridges. marrow crowned with intentional negligence; there is nothing that forges survival the way tragedies do. the world was handcrafted out of sins, after all — out of smelted temptation swallowed whole. a theory denied by the blinded: if god had not desired for men to tangle their feet, why were they created a step away from the trap? if god reserved eden for this creature of flesh and bones, why were their sinews the hue of lethal curiosity? think about this: the architecture of god’s construct comes in both cause and effect.

[existench-blog]

literature  quizzes. repost  with  your  muse’s  results  for  the  following  quizzes .

HOMERIC   EPITHET.   You are [UNKNOWN.], curse of men. Feel free to sign all your checks that way. This is the same epithet Homer attributed to Ares, the god of war. Ares was the lover of Aphrodite and basically everyone’s least favorite god. “Curse of men” he may be, but the ancient Greeks liked to tell stories that ended with him getting caught in nets and hit in the face with boulders, so.

FATAL   FLAW.   See, here’s the thing—someone sent that wild boar. It might have been Artemis, because she was jealous of your skill with a bow and arrow; it might have been Ares, who hated you; or it might have been Apollo, because your girlfriend blinded his son. There’s really no telling. You made enemies. This is just what happens when you’re too beautiful to even exist. Either way, you got mauled by a pig and are now dead, but you died in Aphrodite’s arms as she wept, so at least you've got that going for you.

GREEK   MYTHOLOGY   DEATH.   You’re blunt. You’re outspoken. Frankly, you’re kind of a jerk. But you get away with it because you’re usually right and also because you’re indispensable to the major plot. But honestly? It’s going to come back to haunt you. One of these days, you’re going to be TOO honest. You’re going to refuse to lie at a critical juncture, upholding your honorable caustic truthfulness, and you’re going to pay the ultimate price for it.

WHICH   LITERARY   SETTING   DO   YOU   BELONG   IN?   You got Juliet’s house in Verona! Not only is Verona one of the most beautiful places in Italy, it’s also the setting of one of the most iconic love stories of all time—perfect for a hopeless romantic like yourself. You can walk the old-fashioned cobblestone streets, eat your weight in deliciously photogenic gelato, and look out from your balcony at night, waiting for your lover to climb up the wooden trellis and profess their undying affection. Just don’t get caught up in any ancient grudges/new mutinies—for your sake, and for the sake of students in English classes for centuries to come.

TAGGED   BY:  @techpaired

TAGGING: @celanza, @deiforme / @variforme, @sanguire / @shegore, @gardenof, @nightscaped, and anyone else who wants to do this !

[mysterynerda]

BODY / APPEARANCE TAG.

tagged by :   @affettuosos ! an angel tagging :  @deiforme @shcgstcr @enduedgenius @illripyourthroat @chaosate @ripostc​ @ignte​ @wingshead​ @moranument​ @weptbloom​ @websavior​ !

BODY.

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Muscular thighs. Skinny arms. Soft arms. Muscular arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly.  Lean frame. Slender frame. Beefy/muscular frame.  Voluptuous frame. Petite frame ( 5 ft 4 or shorter ).  Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Thick ass. Small waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Calloused feet. Calloused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands.  Long fingers. Short fingers.  Average fingers. Broad shoulder.  Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

HEIGHT.

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180cm. 181 cm to 190 cm ( 190 cm ! ). 191 cm to 2m. Taller than 2 m.

SKIN.

Pale. Fair. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Acne. Dry. Greasy. Freckled. Scarred.

EYES.

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Blue. Red. Green. Gold. Hazel. Doe-eyed. Almond. Close-set. Wide-set. Squinty. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned.

HAIR.

Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curly. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight. Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Pixie-cut. Short. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length. Floor length. Buzz cut. Bald. Jaw length. Mohawk. White. Platinum blonde. Golden blonde. Dirty blonde. Ombre. Light brown. Mouse brown. Chestnut brown. Golden brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Ginger. Auburn. Dyed red. Dyed any “unnatural color”. Thin eyebrows. Average eyebrows. Thick eyebrows.

TATTOOS / PIERCINGS.

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Shin tattoo. Wrist tattoo. Hand/finger tattoo. Foot tattoo. Neck tattoo. Face tattoo. Chest tattoo. One tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoo. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercing. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Tragus piercing. Angel bites. Labret. Stretches out ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings.

COSMETICS.

Eyeliner. Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Red lips. Pink lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. Wears make up regularly. Wears it from time to time. Never wears make-up.

SCENT.

Floral. Fruity. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer. Natural soap. Shampoo. Cigarettes.Leather.Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Fire. Metal. Rain. Grass. Ocean. Autumn leaves. Baked bread. Freshly baked cookies. Smoke. Campfire. Lavender. Trees.Pumpkin Pie. Musk. Rose. Gingerbread. Oak. Honey. Lemon. Vanilla. Coffee Cake. Mint. Raw hyde.

CLOTHES.

Jeans. Tight pants. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt.   Loose skirt. Tight/formfitting dress. Cardigans. Blouse. Button up shirt. Band-T-shirt. Sports-T-shirt.Sweatpants. Tanktop. Cut off t-shirt. Designer. High street. Online stores. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sun dress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. Highslit dress/skirt. T-shirt. Loose clothing.Tight clothing. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harlem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers. Briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sports bra. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Silk. Lace. Leather. Velvet. Chemise. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Plaid.  Black. Dark colors. Fur. Faux fur.  

SHOES.

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots.Boots.Cowboy boots. Knee-high.  Platforms. Stripper heels. Bare feet. Loafers.

[eyesofwater]

FASHION/APPEARANCE STATS.

BOLD what applies to your muse.

BODY.

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Muscular thighs. Skinny arms. Soft arms. Muscular arms.  Toned stomach. Flat stomach.  Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach.  Six-pack. Beer belly. Lean frame. Beefy/muscular frame. Voluptuous frame. Petite frame ( 5 ft 4 or shorter ). Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Thick ass. Small waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Calloused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands. Long fingers. Short fingers. Average fingers. Broad shoulder. Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

HEIGHT ( click here to convert to feet ).

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. Taller than 2 m.

SKIN.

Pale. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Acne. Dry. Greasy. Soft.

EYES.

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Blue. Green. Gold. Hazel. Doe-eyed. Almond. Close-set. Wide-set. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned.

HAIR.

Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curly. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight.Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Pixie-cut. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length. Buzz cut. Bald. Jaw length. Mohawk. White. Platinum blonde. Golden blonde. Dirty blonde. Blondette. Ombre. Light brown. Mouse brown. Chestnut brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Ginger. Auburn. Dyed red. Dyed any “unnatural color”. Thin eyebrows. Average eyebrows. Thick eyebrows.

TATTOOS / PIERCINGS.

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Neck tattoo. Chest tattoo. One tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoo. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercing. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Tragus piercing. Angelbites. Labret. Stretches out ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings.

COSMETICS.

Eyeliner. Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Red lips. Pink lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. Wears make up regularly. Wears it from time to time. Never wears make-up.      

SCENT.

Floral. Fruity. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturiser. Shampoo. Cigarettes. Leather.Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood.

CLOTHES.

Jeans. Tight pants. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt. Loose skirt. Tight/formfitting dress. Cardigans. Blouse. Button up shirt. Band-T-shirt. Sports tshirt. Sweatpants. Tanktop. Fur. Faux fur. Leather. Designer. High street. Online stores. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sun dress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. Highslit dress/skit. T-shirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harlem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers. Briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sportsbra. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Silk. Lace. Velvet. Chemise. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels .Black. Dark colors. Traditional Clothing.

SHOES.

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots. Knee-high. Platforms. Stripper heels. Bare feet. Loafers. Oxfords. Gladiator shoes. Neon colors. Pastels. Black. Dark colors.

TAGGED: @deiforme​ da bae TAGGING: @warflowered​ , @warprofit​, @hameya​, @qingbang​, @aegisoul​, @oracleonline​, @futureheld​, @rationalclover​ 

[nightscaped-archive]

♡ + daily routine

HEADCANON MEME / @deiforme​

I think I spoke about this once before but it was over a year ago and I’ve thought about this aspect of Kael’s lifestyle/characterisation a lot more since then. I’m going to try and avoid repeating myself too much but this is also bound to be rambly because, hey, it’s me.

The most important thing to note is that, growing up, Kael’s life was entirely dictated by this sense of routine that had been forced upon him. He was raised at a military school and, so, he lived by a military routine; incredibly fixed and incredibly strict. Kael would wake at set times, sleep at set times, eat at set times. There was nothing in his life that wasn’t precisely timetabled in some way or another. This was what he sincerely believed was the norm. As a child and, indeed, as a teenager, he couldn’t have imagined a life without schedule. This often made staying home at his mother’s house during breaks and holidays all the more difficult for him (you know, on top of the struggles he faced with his mother in general) because she didn’t enforce this routine on him. He tried as much as he could to uphold it himself but was often less distressed and restless when it didn’t quite work out. On his own, Kael is terrible at organising himself but, at this age, that wasn’t a trait he was willing to accept and he only got frustrated with himself. 

When he was eventually drafted into the Galbadian army, this routine remained uninterrupted and he instead spent his breaks with Natsuhiko who was very good at keeping to a schedule. By this time, Kael had gotten over the frustration and restlessness as he’d grown up enough to understand that routine isn’t the be-all and end-all but, still, having his life so specifically written out for him provided him with a lot of comfort. It was what he knew. It was what made sense. Natsuhiko was incredibly timely and was the one who assured that Kael stayed on track during their time away from base, that he slept properly and that he ate properly and that he didn’t spend too much time on exercise (Kael was often in the habit of overexerting himself).

All this changed when he left the army, however. Somehow, Kael had expected that it would have rubbed off on him, having lived that way for over a decade but, his own disorganisation aside, falling into immediate homelessness did him no favours. His situation often no room for routine. Survival had no clock; he simply had to do what he needed to do, whenever he needed to do it and what he could do, whenever he could do it. Even when he finally made his way to Timber and worked his way up to renting a flat, the whole notion of routine had been removed from his life entirely. It might be easy to assume that this was a direct result of his life on the streets but it is much simpler than that. Kael’s inability to efficiently organise his time aside, he’d spent a life with these timetables being written for him. Although he was convinced it should have rubbed off on him and it was some sort of skill he ought to have obtained, no such thing happened and simply because he’d never known anything but following orders.

As we know, Kael’s life now exists with very little in the way of routine besides his job. His sleep pattern is all over the place and he skips meals. Not even the arrival of his baby daughter has fixed his routine, with Kael instead working his ordinary habits around her. After all, babies don’t have a routine either. They have to be taken care of on a constant basis, around the clock. If anything, the stress of parenthood has left Kael with even less of a routine! (at least he’s used to it??)

However, I suppose there are basic things he does routinely; waking up, showering, dressing and styling himself is all part of a very careful morning routine and, possibly, the closest thing left in Kael’s life to the routines with which he was raised. As much as he genuinely enjoys taking care of his appearances, part of his enjoyment does come from the comfort that fulfilling this routine provides.

[devilcantspeell]

i wish to lick onyx..... I DON'T CARE IF I GET CRYSTALIZED...ehem I mean pretty please may I lick you germaphob Twink....

I'm sorry but:

One, WHERE ARE YOUR STANDARDS

Two,

LICK?????

[devilcantspeell]

BLOOD FOR THE WORLDBUILDING ASK GAME. hi ben <3

CASSIAN YOU FUCKING LEGEND I love you for this <3

WORLDBUILDING ASK GAME:

WITH PICTURES!

WARNINGS! ⚠️: Cartoon blood, cartoon gore, body horror, diseases/medical horror, child abuse mentioned, sex mentioned.

.

1. BLOOD - Does everyone bleed the same colour? If not, why not?

The world is run by 3 Major Races! Two are organic, one is mechanic.

In order of hierarchy: Crystalline, Human, and Robot.

2. PEPPER - What is the deadliest poison?

I was wondering what to put for this one before realising there is essentially a 'poison' a strong enough crystalline may give someone manually.

Medusa Rot, or Crystalline Petrification.

It's given by an aggravated spike- this can be purposeful to attack someone or even accidental if the attacker is panicked/agitated enough, and can't control their powers.

Considering how nobles and strong crystallines gave dwindled over the years, and such harsh powers haven't been needed- it's incredibly under-researcved, like an extinct dissease.

So it's not likely the victim or the attacker know.

A timeline of it's affects: Body horror/Medical horror warning?

It affects organic species. However if given to a robot, it's likely it will just fight it's way through it and clog up their systems with crystal growth, giving a relatively similar affect that's got a slightly higher survival chance.

3. CANDY - How do they treat children?

This very much depends on the household!

Though in most houses, Children are raised religious relative to area. Most commonly, Lunnox (In-universe religion of worship of the moon, enforced by the Cobalt Empire which rules the majority of the world and is the largest power.)

If a child is born to a Human and Crystalline, it's likely to be abandoned or orphaned, due to how taboo half-breeds are. The child will appear entirely human, other than perhaps some odd colouring. (Coloured hair, eyes, birthmarks.)

If a halfbred child is kept, the crystalline is almost definite to lose any higher status, and the human is likely to he rejected by peers also. Most halfbreds will just say they're human for slightly better treatment.

Robot children are rare-

Robots are essentially dead souls made posses a robot host body, most likely with their memories gone to function as some sort of labour or built for a purpose.

So if a child is a robot, it's more likely they come from a wealthy family, and after dying or getting sick too soon, was rebuilt as a robot- and kept their memories. This can be controversial. Some consider it mutilation or depriving a child of their original race, some consider it fair to let a child live on.

Noble crystalline children?

Uhhhhhh. yeah.

MOVING ON, FINALLY:

4. BLUSH - What is their view on sex?

Sex, due to the empire being very conservative religious in it's ways, is a taboo thing to discuss.

It's not entirely medieval though, in an 'everyone be celibate' way. Its moreso taboo to discuss in places such as work or in front of elders and superiors- most adults and teens in the modern day will brag about it, or crack sex jokes and stuff like that, similar to your average modern day society. It's still a rather gossipy subject though.

example: If a frat house was personified Vs Bible thumper

YAY IM DONE

Reblogs appreciated!!!

I spent a ridiculous amount of time on this for something that isn't fandom content 💀

So uhhh. Reblog to kill Onyx's dad with hammers idk

Ask post here if anyone wanna ask other things and my askbox is just open in general :)

[devilcantspeell]

I should probably post something fandom related or worthwhile but whatever man I’m tired and felt like this instead

[devilcantspeell]

“more DS content (and nitties)” we all say in unison !

I’m gonna assume this is Vincent. WHO THE FUCK IS WE ALL AINT NOBODY A FAN OF THE FUCKASS WORLD IN MY BRAIN

Anyways throws old doodles at you like a grenade (luckily there was Nate’s breasts. You animal) until I actually draw

[hermitcraft-8]

Deiforms, Chapter One: The End of All Things (Part One)

masterpost

“All roads lead to Rome” is a stupid phrase. All roads don’t lead to Rome. In fact, very few roads do lead to Rome these days, only five major ones, which is about the same amount that leads to your average shopping mall.

To be honest, there’s more roads leading to Rome, West Virginia, and that’s not saying much.

There’s the main road, of course, a highway that rolled through the middle of the town, which carried most of the passerby through, on their way to Charleston, or DC, or further. There's Church Road, which is more of a street than a road, and Penelope Street, which is more of a road than a street. There’s also a good few other roads, smaller, coming through Altus or Snyder, that carry locals and people who know the area.

In total, there's seven roads that go through Rome, West Virginia, which is two more than the amount of roads that go through Rome, Italy.

It was on one of these roads that Sean O'Lainey crashed his car into a mailbox, late one September night, although he didn’t stop until he reached town.

This was for two reasons- first, he knew who owned the mailbox he’d just bowled over, and knew that his consequences would not be particularly merciful. Secondly, and more predominantly, because he was drunk, and a little sleep deprived, and really shouldn’t have been driving at all. He neither thought to pull over or think to check on the mailbox until he was long out of sight.

But once he was stopped, he stopped for real, stumbling out of the car and sitting on the sidewalk, staring up at the neon light for the local diner- the only one in town. After a few deep, shaky breaths, he fished his phone out of his pocket, squinting at the screen for a few good minutes, before finding what he needed.

The phone rang for only a few moments, before, with a click, it stopped.

Neither spoke for a moment, before Sean remembered who he was talking to, before he remembered that he would have to be the first to talk, and sighed. “Hey bro. How much to convince you to pick me up?”

“Twenty. You at the party still?” The voice, a dry, hoarse, smoker’s voice came through, the faint sound of keys being grabbed in the background.

“Nah, I left, I’m at Frost’s.”

“How the hell’d you get from Jean-Paul’s to Frost’s?”

“Drove.”

“You drove?!” There was a long, fruitful pause, before a huff. “Did you wreck your car?”

“No,” Sean said, before pausing, thinking, and shaking his head hard. “I ran over the Robyn family.”

“What?”

“Not the family. Their mailbox. I don’t know why I said the family,” He thought. “I’m kind of drunk.”

“Man, you’re a lightweight. I’ll be there in ten. You gonna need to pick up your car tomorrow?”

“We have school, don’t we?”

“It’s a Sunday.”

“So…?”

A sort of huffed laugh, and the sound of an engine starting. “No, Sean, we don’t have school tomorrow.”

“Okay, then, no.”

“Yes, you do, or it’ll get towed.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Bitch.”

The line went dead.

Sean stood up, stretching his arms over his head. The air was finally starting to cool off, and the hem of his t-shirt wasn’t quite enough to cover his stomach. He shuddered and lowered his arms.

Sean was, to put it simply, an odd looking young man. He was tall, easily six foot, and lanky, with pale pale skin and a buzzed head of bleach fried hair. His eyes were mismatched, one pupil perpetually dilated and surrounded by pale blue, the other surrounded by dark brown. His skin was covered in freckles, his face full of piercings. His clothes were all the wrong size, his shoes held together with duct tape. He looked like a Frankenstein’s monster of a man, all the wrong bits in the wrong places, but the result was very nearly a positive one.

A car pulled up.

Unlike Sean’s rattly old pickup truck, this one was a good deal newer, and in a much better condition. Some would even call it a nice car.

The passenger side window shuddered down, and Sean stumbled over, leaning his head in.

“Hey cutie. Need a ride?”

“I’m not supposed to get in strangers' cars,” Sean fired back, but reached through the window to unlock the door, climbing into the familiar car that he’d been climbing into for the past two years without a hesitation. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“You didn’t wake me up,” Ash Costello lied. “You feel alright?”

Sean shrugged, letting his head roll to the side while he gazed at his best friend.

He was short, and stout, with a mohawk of curls that were ever so slightly longer in the back than the top. His face was permanently scrunched in a scowl, almost a look of disgust. He had the saddest little goatee in an attempt to make his baby face any less of a baby face, and it didn’t quite work. The braces didn’t help.

“You smell like shit,” He said, finally, glancing at the rearview mirror. “Did someone throw up on you?”

“No,” Sean grumbled. “But your cousin tried.”

“Kyrie?” Ash sounded nearly surprised. “Kyrie went to a party?”

“Yeah, and got drunk off his tits,” Sean picked at his cargo pants. “Think Lori drove him home.”

“Hm.”

Sean stared out the windshield. “Are you mad?”

“Mad at Kyrie? Why would I be, he’s 18, he’s a big boy-”

“Mad at me.”

The car was silent.

Sean groaned, letting his head hit the window with a hollow thunk.

This was a song and dance they’d done nearly every weekend for two years, up until about a month ago, when Sean had finally gotten his own truck. They both thought that would be it- the end of Sean’s pathetic dependence, the end of Ash having to haul his friend home.

“Why didn’t you call my sister?” Ash finally asked.

“What?” Sean scowled. “Why would I-?”

“She’s your girlfriend.”

“And you’re my best friend-”

“You don’t get it, do you,” Ash snapped, suddenly, stopping at a stop sign and twisting to look at Sean, look him in the eye. “She’s your girlfriend. You’re supposed to be her problem.”

Sean blinked at him, stupidly, before the words registered, and he clenched his jaw. “Yeah, well. Well… well-!”

Ash exhaled, hard, turning back to the road. “I didn’t mean… I don’t know, you’ve been avoiding me for this whole time-”

“-Have not-”

“You ditched me at lunch, Sean,” Ash cut him off. “You sit with her, and Dean, and that Robyn girl-”

“-Lillian, she’s actually really nice-”

“Sean.”

“Ash,” Sean whined. “I didn’t mean to ditch you, I just… you and Miki and Lori… you’re cool, but you guys are… you’re just…”

“Not cool?”

“No, you’re-”

“-No, no, I get it,” Ash said, firmly, pulling up in front of Sean’s house- not going up the driveway, just stopping at the mailbox. “Don’t worry about it.”

“...Would you rather I had called Madi?”

Ash stared out the windshield for a moment, before sighing, looking around, eyes finally landing on Sean. “No. Maybe, I don’t know.”

Sean hissed out a breath through crooked teeth. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Monday.”

“Whenever.”

And he got out.

Neither said goodbye. Neither said I love you. Neither said anything they’d always said. Ash drove away and Sean walked up his driveway, and neither of them slept well that night.

And somewhere in the world, an abacus clicked.

[hermitcraft-8]

Deiforms, Chapter Two: Bullrush (Part One)

masterpost

By the time they arrived, the fire had been extinguished, and the firefighters had begun to comb the wreckage. Lori and their mothers were sitting off to one side, hugging, while Lori stared dully at the house. Miki was crouched in the back of an ambulance, her hand wrapped in bandages. When she saw Dean, she leapt down, stumbling over her feet until she had him in her arms. He choked on the smell of smoke, but hugged his sister back tight. Kyrie was on the phone, arguing with someone irritably.

And Ash was gone.

Sean couldn’t get that crushing feeling off of his chest, couldn’t get that burning weight off of him. He felt like he’d been in that building when it’d collapsed, and now he was trapped, too.

One of the police officers took notice of the four of them standing there dumbly and walked over, running a hand through his short graying hair. Sean knew this one- he’d been involved with The Incident. Luckily, he didn’t seem to recognize Sean at all.

“Hey, you kids can’t be here-”

“This is my friend’s house,” Sean said, and it sounded weak and lame, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “My friend lives here.”

“Your friend… is Lorinine Capsum?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s sad and all,” The officer sighed. He was tall and skinny. Ash could take him in a fight, probably. “But you’re not allowed any closer.”

“My brother was in there,” Madi said, her voice wrecked. This was the first she’d spoken since answering the phone thirty minutes ago. “He didn’t make it out.”

The cop paused, before shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry-”

There was a yell, from one of the firefighters and the cop turned to look, and on some strange instinct, Sean darted forward, racing past him. He felt Madi right behind him, and something told him that the others weren’t far behind. Out of his view, yet somehow completely clear to him, the cop warbled, lunging for his gun, before seemingly remembering that these were high school students running to search the wreckage of a friend's house for their other friend's body, and shooting at them was definitely the wrong move.

Sean felt odd. He felt like he could feel every movement everyone on the street made, could feel the pulse of every firefighter, the breath of every cop.

And he could feel Ash, laying unmoving in the basement.

He didn’t get inside. A firefighter grabbed him by the collar, and Madi by the arm, and Dean and Lillian both stopped on their own, Dean holding up his hands in surrender and stepping back quickly.

“What the hell are you four-”

“Ash,” Madi gasped. “Ash, oh my god.”

Sean glanced at her, expecting to find her crying or something, but instead, her eyes were wide, and dry, staring into the dusty interior of the house. The dusty interior of the house, and the young man standing there.

Sean had once told Ash in a fit of vulnerability late one night that the only thing he was really afraid of was losing a friend, and Ash had promised that he would never be the first to go. Now, staring at his best friend, Sean couldn’t help but feel that that promise had been exactly what had saved the man, in some strange holy intervention.

Ash looked… fine.

No, he looked better than fine- in the smokey, soot stained living room, he looked like an angel, his warm brown skin and white shirt perfectly shining, untouched, against the ravaged background.

He stared at the four of them, at Madi’s tear stained face and swollen eyes, and he snarled, a look of absolute disgust rending his face. And he began to advance.

The firefighter had the good sense to drop Sean and Madi and stumble off the porch, but neither of them moved. They just watched as he stomped up to them.

He didn’t touch them though, he just stopped.

“Move,” He snarled. “Now.”

“Ash, I thought you were-” Madi started. “- How did you-?”

“Don’t pretend to care,” He spat, quietly. “You never have before.”

“Wh-” Madi shook her head, bewildered, “Of course I do, you’re my brother-”

“Do you want to see god?” Ash asked Sean, and something about the way he said it made it seem less like a threat and more like a genuine question, like they were discussing evening plans. “Do you want to know the Truth?”

“Uh, no?”

Ash laughed, coldly, raising a hand, a glint of metal in his fist. “Sorry.”

Sean opened his eyes to white.

That was it, just pure blinding white, no horizon, no shadow. Just white. He didn’t have any difficulty seeing, didn’t have any urge to close his eyes. He just stood there, waiting.

“You’re here.” A voice said, neither masculine nor feminine, neither rough nor smooth, neither surprised nor resigned.

He was. He wasn’t sure where there was, or why he was there, or even really who he was, but he was, certainly, there.

“Don’t be dramatic. Turn around, I want to see your face.”

He did.

The thing standing behind him looked like him. It wore his hoodie, his jeans. It had the same bruises on its knuckles, had the same hair. The only difference was that it’s face was peeled. That wasn’t the right way to put it, wasn’t the correct phrasing, but it was all he could think of as he watched the way the flesh curled away from the center, the pure void that settled where its face should be.

And then, with a SHHHHWP, the face snapped back together, the seams disappearing, and it was just… him.

“Hey,” It said. “I don’t know if I’m a fan of the short hair.”

“What are you?”

“Call me Jack.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

“Well hell, man, I don’t know what you want of me,” Jack said, and the way it moved his lips looked wrong. “Look, we probably don’t have much time. The Revolutionary just wanted to stall Her Majesty, the sooner we get this over with the better.”

“What the hell is happening,” Sean said, and he could suddenly smell blood. “What the fuck is going on, who- what are you, why is Ash alive-”

“Stop, please, saints above,” Jack rolled it’s- no, his eyes. “This is genuinely such a non-issue.”

“A non-issue?!” Sean practically shrieked. “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

Jack opened his mouth.

And then Sean lay on the porch of Lori’s house, blood flowing freely down his face, his forehead burning.

A paramedic shone a light desperately into each eye. “I think his left eye is damaged-”

“No shit, that kid stabbed him in the face!” The firefighter from earlier fretted. “What the hell was that?”

“Son, are you awake?”

He grimaced, squinting his eyes shut. He didn’t want to be awake for this, he decided.

And then he wasn’t.

[existench-blog]

BODY / APPEARANCE TAG.

tagged by: the lovely @glasye​ ♡ tagging: @edensin​, @deiforme​, @nightscaped​ / @dreamled​, @flareworks, uhhhh anyone else who wants to do this thing

BODY.

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Muscular thighs. Skinny arms. Soft arms. Muscular arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly.  Lean frame. Slender frame. Beefy/muscular frame. Voluptuous frame. Petite frame ( 5 ft 4 or shorter ).  Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Thick ass. Small waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Calloused feet. Calloused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands. Long fingers. Short fingers. Average fingers. Broad shoulder. Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

HEIGHT.

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. Taller than 2 m.

SKIN.

Pale. Fair. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Acne. Dry. Greasy. Freckled. Scarred.

EYES.

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Blue. Red. Green. Gold. Hazel. Doe-eyed. Almond. Close-set. Wide-set. Squinty. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned.

HAIR.

Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curly. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight. Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Pixie-cut. Short. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length. Floor length. Buzz cut. Bald. Jaw length. Mohawk. White. Platinum blonde. Golden blonde. Dirty blonde. Ombre. Light brown. Mouse brown. Chestnut brown. Golden brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Ginger. Auburn. Dyed red. Dyed any “unnatural color”. Thin eyebrows. Average eyebrows. Thick eyebrows.

TATTOOS / PIERCINGS.

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Shin tattoo. Wrist tattoo. Hand/finger tattoo. Foot tattoo. Neck tattoo. Face tattoo. Chest tattoo. One tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoo. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercing. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Tragus piercing. Angel bites. Labret. Stretches out ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings.

COSMETICS.

Eyeliner. Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Red lips. Pink lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. Wears make up regularly. Wears it from time to time. Never wears make-up.

SCENT.

Floral. Fruity. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer. Natural soap. Shampoo. Cigarettes. Leather. Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Fire. Metal. Rain. Grass. Ocean. Autumn leaves. Baked bread. Freshly baked cookies. Smoke. Campfire. Lavender. Trees. Pumpkin Pie. Musk. Rose. Gingerbread. Oak. Honey. Lemon. Vanilla. Coffee Cake. Mint. Raw hyde.

CLOTHES.

Jeans. Tight pants. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt. Loose skirt. Tight/formfitting dress. Cardigans. Blouse. Button up shirt. Band-T-shirt. Sports-T-shirt. Sweatpants. Tanktop. Cut off t-shirt. Designer. High street. Online stores. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sun dress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. Highslit dress/skirt. T-shirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harlem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers. Briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sports bra. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Silk. Lace. Leather. Velvet. Chemise. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Plaid. Black. Dark colors. Fur. Faux fur.

SHOES.

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots. Boots. Cowboy boots. Knee-high. Platforms. Stripper heels. Bare feet. Loafers.