HERETICS INC.

⁽ㅤ…ㅤ ⁾ㅤ𝖠 ㅤ𝖲𝖮𝖱𝖣𝖨𝖣 ㅤ𝘾𝙊𝙇𝙇𝙐𝙎𝙄𝙊𝙉 ᵒᶠ ㅤ𝙴𝚄𝙿𝙷𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙰 ㅤᴬᴺᴰ ㅤ𝗩𝗜𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘.

[hereticsinc]

#𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗖. HERETICS INCORPORATED, BY JACKKNIFE. FEATURING CHARACTERS FROM VARIOUS MEDIA FORMS AND ORIGINAL MUSES. CARRD. PROMPTS.

[fukstar]

#FUKSTAR, BY JACKKNIFE. EXPLORING  THE  PITFALLS  OF  FAME,  THE  HORRORS  OF  THE  ROCK  &  ROLL  LIFESTYLE  THAT  GETS  PLASTERED  ON  THE  COVER  OF  EVERY  MAGAZINE,  THE  LOSS  OF  IDENTITY  &  SENSE  OF  SELF,  AND  WHAT  THE  REAL  PRICE  OF  SUCCESS  IS. THIS IS YOUR BACKSTAGE PASS.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ★

[hereticsinc]

JACKKNIFE'S BLOG ROLL. AN UPDATED LIST OF MY CURRENT ACTIVE BLOGS, AS OF JUNE 2026.

HERETICSINC, MULTIMUSE. An assorted cabinet of characters from various media forms and original characters.

LESVAMPIRS, MULTIMUSE. A vampires only affair, focused heavily on drawing from traditional folklore and mythology.

FUKSTAR, MULTIMUSE. A musicians only multimuse, featuring exclusively original characters and exploring the consequences of fame.

LECHRONIQUES, LESTAT DE LIONCOURT. Mixed influence, though predominantly show based with some stuff cherry picked from the novels.

ARMEDMETAL, BUCKY BARNES. Exclusively comic and headcanon based interpretation.

All blogs are currently placed on a tentative status of low to medium activity until the middle of June, as I am about a month away from graduating college and ( understandably ) super fucking busy, stressed, etc.

[unhirsch]

          THERE IS A SIGNIFICANT DISPARITY BETWEEN         the reverence anyone who finds out just who they are seated across from feels towards them———     &  the emotions todd tends to harbor towards themselves.   a more or less recent phenomena,   certainly,   but feeling good about who you are as a person is significantly harder when you are   .  .  .   a person.   the imperfections of the human body are a marvel one only gets to appreciate after experiencing them:     somewhere in between hunger pangs  &  insomnia they found a previously unknown disdain for themselves  &  how any mortal is capable of dragging themselves out of that is a mystery they have yet to solve.     "i have more or less ruled out magical solutions,"     they respond with the sigh of someone who has mulled this issue over several times in their mind  &  expects anyone around them to be up to speed right alongside them.   whether or not they actually bothered to share the information needed to get there is neither here nor there.   with how quickly human bodies expire,   time is truly of the essence here.     (EVEN IF THE CHANCES OF THIS HAPPENING WITHIN THE NEXT TWO HOURS ARE SLIM TO NON EXISTENT.)     "you'd be surprised how little magic is actually involved in what i do,"     todd adds,   waving a hand to hurry the baselines information along.     "it's all about laws of nature  &   keeping a balance  &  keeping within a pretty tight set of rules.   if humans knew how scientific it all really is,   you'd be quite bored of the concept of death."   they recline in their seat just a bit more,   eyes now pinned to eos rather than attempting to take in  &  catalogue every detail of the room.   a curious creature by nature,   though that is knowledge they would rather not spread about themselves.     (SAYS ONE WHO THINKS THEMSELVES MORE MYSTERIOUS THAN THEY HAVE ANY HOPE OF BEING.)     "perhaps with a sprinkle of magic on top.   either way,   there are things to figure out that are———     secretive for a reason.   even for me."     especially for you,   but that is the exact air of mystery they would like to maintain.     "which is why i'm here.   you see?"

[hereticsinc]

If  only  her  mother  was  here.  She  could  picture  it  now,  as  distinct  as  the  sun  was  sure  to  rise.  The  drunken  wannabe  baroness,  lazing  in  the  corner  with  pearls  dripping  from  her  neck  and  resting  on  a  cashmere  sweater.  Eos  could  imagine  the  manner  in  which  her  eyes  would  be  glazed  over  from  the  pill-induced  haze,  cigarette  barely  clinging  to  the  skin  of  her  lips.  Which  would,  of  course,  be  lacquered  in  her  signature  merlot  red.  If  she  were  here,  she'd  say,  of  course  she  doesn't  understand.  She's  an  idiot.  They'll  let  just  about  anyone  be  a  teacher  these  days,  you  know.  You  better  find  somebody  else.

She  wasn't  dead  yet.  But  still,  her  voice  haunted  her.  That  very  same  voice  had  planted  a  seed  in  her  mind  from  a  young  age,  with  its  rotted  flowers  threatening  to  bloom  once  more.  Maybe  she  really  was  out  of  her  depth  here.  Maybe  death  incarnate  was  dead  wrong.  Hell,  she'd  seen  them  make  mistakes  before.  Her  sister  lurking  in  corners,  phasing  through  walls,  blowing  tantrums  of  astronomical  proportions  whilst  stuck  in  between  the  veil  of  the  living  and  the  deceased  was  proof  enough  of  that.  Eos  had  to  believe  it  was  a  glitch  in  the  system;  in  fact,  she  refused  the  alternative.  The  idea  that  she  had  to  have  done  something  to  deserve  this  torment.  She  knew  she  wasn't  great.  She  knew  she  had  done  some  bad  things.  But  was  it  really  worth  all  that?  No.  Definitely  not.  Right?  Or  maybe,  she  had  fucked  up,  and  the  universe  was  not  presenting  her  with  an  opportunity  to  redeem  herself.  To  finally  rid  her  and  her  brother  from  …  whatever  this  was.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  she  realized  she  may  have  to  do  this,  as  confusing  as  it  all  was.

❛  Things  to  figure  out.  Right.  Okay.  Sure.  I'm  down.  Not  the  weirdest  fucking  thing  that's  ever  happened  to  me  anyway,  so  what  do  you  need  from  me?  ❜

[midvales]

just below the edge of the rooftop, supergirl stands with the bottoms of her boots pressing on the wall -- not that she needs to at all, it's more to be in the way than it is about keeping her in place or even in the air. " i don't make it a habit to let others decide what worries me and what doesn't, " and heroes are far from the only names in her phonebook. her head tilts, " are you supposed to be some kind of . . . ghost cat wolf? "

[hereticsinc]

Ghost  cat  wolf.  If  not  for  the  rather  tactical  concealment  of  her  face,  the  superfuck  would  have  been  met  with  an  eye  roll  of  astronomical  proportions.  There's  a  sharp  rise  and  fall  of  her  chest  as  Mother  Panic  huffs,  already  overly  bored  with  the  conversation  at  hand.  She  doesn't  need  this  shit  today.  Not  today.  Not  when  everything  was  going  according  to  plan  …  but  then  again,  did  anything  ever  go  off  without  a  single  hitch?  Without  some  cracked  out,  self-righteous  asshole  demanding  to  know  the  particulars,  trying  to  stop  her?  No.  No,  it  never  did.  She  would  think  that  the  apathetic  citizens  of  New  Jersey  would  know  how  to  mind  their  fucking  business,  and  yet  …

❛ That's  great,  did  your  therapist  teach  you  that? ❜  Violet  snaps  back,  harsh  intensity  ladled  on  to  the  tip  of  her  tongue,  the  lips,  the  teeth. 

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ❛ No.  I'm  not.  Now  move. ❜

[hereticsinc]

I’M FUCKING GRADUATING TODAY.

[unhirsch]

@hereticsinc's ENOCH:     "SOME THINGS ARE SO HORRIBLE THAT THE ONLY SANE RESPONSE IS A BIT OF MADNESS."     [ACCEPTING]

          IT IS HER VERY FIRST REACTION TO          bite back,   to not take a throwaway comment that cut so deeply without taking a part them down with her.   which is,   of course,   entirely the wrong reaction when you want to remain inconspicuous  &  unknowable,   two aspects that are more or less inseparable from the job teodozja has sort of stumbled into.   where would she be if everyone could pick up on the childhood trauma.   or the adulthood trauma.     (IN JAIL.   VERY MUCH IN JAIL.)     "depends on your definition of madness,"     she says instead of what she should have said:     which is nothing.   roll her eyes,   pluck her head phone back in  &  look out the window.   the same ignorance one feigns when there's a screaming argument going on in the subway———     look down at your phone,   hope it passes you by,   thank god for the invention of noise cancelling.   somewhere in this endeavor had teodozja fucked up  &  now here they are.     (NEVER AGAIN CAN YOU CLAIM TO BE SO WELL VERSED AT LIVING IN THE CITY.)     this is why she tends to avoid rural regions like the plague.   this is why she avoids souvenir shops just as ardently.   this is why she needs a different job so her whereabouts are no longer dictated by anyone else but alas,   what is the point in lamenting?     "i guess some times things happen that make anything seem sane to the person in question,   no?"     says the twenty - something who scrubs brain matter out of carpets to the impossibly ancient shopkeeper.

[hereticsinc]

Time  and  space  were  intangible  entities  that  had  no  bearing  on  the  flow  and  motion  of  the  inside  of  this  shop.  In  spite  of  the  collection  of  grandfather  clocks  all  set  to  different  hours,  the  pocket watch  in  his  coat  that  never  ticked.  These  were  concepts  he'd  never  bothered  with,  as  trivial  as  the  feather  in  his  cap  and  the  brains  in  the  carpet.  The  blood  soaking  the  bones.  The  skeletons  in  the  closet.  Every  closet,  because  any  closet  worth  its  salt  was  never  complete  without  one,  or  two,  or  three.  Maybe  ten.  Never  complete  without  it.  Like  a  cap  with  a  feather  in  it.  Like  a  carpet  with  brains  in  it.  Yes,  exactly  like  that.  Yes.  How  long  had  she  really  been  here  anyway?  

❛  Much  madness  is  the  divinest  sense ... the  metaphoric  penumbra      …       maybe  it's  a  mirror  dimension,  that  shows  us  the  truth.  Maybe  you'd  have  to  be  crazy  to  not  be,  ❜  Enoch  prattles  on,  as  his  eyes  dart  between  crowded  shelves,  brushing  a  bundle  of  feathers  against  imperceivable  specks  of  dust  that  threatened  to  collect  on  his  collection.  

❛  You  let  enough  madness  spill  into  your  head,  and  nothing  seems  all  that  strange  anymore,  does  it?  Yes,  exactly  like  that     …       ❜  The  man  continues  with  low  rambles  that  fall  short  of  making  any  lick  of  real  sense.  Therein  lies  the  disconnect;  he  was  a  man  who  already  knew  what  had  happened,  and  what  had  yet  to  come.  Every  choice  an  illusion,  every  thought  as  fleeting  as  the  last.  The  only  real  issue  was,  he  simply  could  not  speak  of  it.  He  could  see,  he  could  hear,  but  he  could  not  tell.  Not  in  any  direct  sense,  that  is.  His  final  parting  gift  from  God,  maybe.  

❛  Do  things  ever  seem  strange  to  you  anymore,  Teodozja?  Or  is  the  spill  a  flood now?  ❜

[dig6]

peter hums a thoughtful ‘ hmm. ’ he’s confirming that he’s listening … he doesn’t need to say more. he’s okay with that. he’s pressing a bottle of coke against his chapped lips, his converse are sweeping at sand below him, and he’s swaying gently in the swing. bony and roughened hands hold the chains tight, as he tries to think of how to tell his story in less words.

“ had to live with my aunt and uncle for the summer. s’posed to build character. ”

between blond lashes and furrowed eyebrows, peter watches jöelle’s daughter  —  same nose, same eyes. he’s seventeen now. he does the math, and very much realizes, that the thought of having a kid so young is horrifying. he never thought about it. never had to worry about it, really. he shifts his weight to one chain, and looks off. tall grass, mosquitos, the pulpit just looming above … a church playground, covered in field moths and grasshoppers. hot, hot sun. it's his second summer in tierney, and it’s hotter than the last. he hums again.

“ i like it here. most of the people are nice, i guess. ”    tone falls, it drifts into something distant. he doesn’t call where he’s from ‘ home, ’ he just leaves it out completely. nothing to call back to. he smiles, a little, when he realizes that. his heels are digging into the sand, and he teeters forward on his toes, pushing his weight back and forth. he enjoys this  —  talking to someone. someone who has been scared before. someone who fled and knew it was for their own good. he almost hums to himself again, that gentle ‘ hmm ’ of acknowledgement, but doesn’t.    “ i decided to stay here as long as they’d let me. ”

[hereticsinc]

She doesn't mind the lack of acknowledgment. In fact, she prefers it. Certain wounds were still too fresh to be prodded, because sticky fingers felt more like salt. She had far more than just a place, a family, that she was running from. It was the press, the reporters, the writers, the people who couldn't and would never understand how it felt to hear those names. To see her pictures plastered on papers with headlines she didn't quite know how to read. The only name she knew how to write was her own, and she had seen it everywhere. Here, nobody cared. Nobody knew. Or at least, they were kind enough to pretend they didn't. Hidden whispers behind closed doors and shop windows as she walked by were better than having to explain over and over again the reality of the situation she was in.

❛ I'm glad they're nice to you. ❜ Joelle echoes the sentiment softly, almost like a whisper being carried off into dry winds. But it was true, even if her experiences thus far had been … different. ❛ Though, I think you're the first person to talk to me that hasn't offered to pray for my soul. ❜

Strangely enough, the offerings were not a reaction to what she had been through. It wasn't because of her name, or because her background. It wasn't even for the fact that she had very little knowledge of how to navigate in the modern world. It was always, always because she was a young, unmarried woman with a child. A harlot, a whore. She couldn't understand it. In an odd way, she almost hoped she never would. It wasn't like she had ever been taught how to pray anyway. As far as her parents were concerned, praying was the real sin. God wasn't listening. Mother Love always was.

❛ Do you have any reason to think they'd ever not let you? Stay here, I mean. ❜

[bruisednotes]

⥂ ░░░  𝗡𝗢 𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙-𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗢𝗡  would be alright with this, donomie.  he can hear nikola's voice in his ear now, see her tired, disapproving gaze over the checkout counter, through the gaps in the shelves, wherever she's decided to stand, while donomie, once again, unloads everything circulating in his brain about  ryan fucking matlock  choosing him to warm his hotel bed anytime he's in their wonderfully smoggy little city. the happy, dreamy-eyed look he always sported was a stark contrast to the scolding that was usually spinning in her own head.

     but that's only because she doesn't understand, and probably never would; he doesn't know if he has the capacity to completely explain the precarious state of their relationship, and he's not wholly sure that she'd care enough to sit and listen to it all. that doesn't mean, however, that she doesn't appreciate the clear excitement in his eyes when he gets a text or call, or the way he seems  ...  a little less likely to make a rash decision everyone else around him will regret. donomie has a sneaking suspcion that this is probably what keeps her from really digging into him the way she's got to be itching for.

     and donomie knows that if she could somehow see him right now, see the lazy, content look on his face while he lays next to ryan, fingertips lazily drawing lines and shapes along his skin, black-painted nails ocassionally lightly scraping and leaving pink lines that quickly fade, she'd maybe understand just   that much more  why this little bubble of almost nothing brings him so much joy. it's only ever a night, two, if they're lucky, but he craves it more than he's ever craved any drug in his life.

       his eyes finally flicker up to ryan's face when he speaks, and donomie can't help the grimace that twists his face at the mention of work, of anything outside these four walls that will bring him crashing back down to reality.      “    yeah, but not until late; nikola did me a solid and switched shifts with me. what time do you fly out ?    ”   

[hereticsinc]

It's  the  silent  realities  that  bear  the  most  weight.  The  sour  truth  that  there  is  a  world  that  continues  to  turn  outside  this  room,  and  hours  that  tick  by  while  they're  blanketed  by  the  safety  of  one  another.  Some  nights,  he  feels,  he  almost  can't  handle  it.  Donomie  may  very  well  have  been  the  only  living,  breathing  soul  that  Ryan  could  be  himself  around.  The  lone  witness  to  the  chaos.  Part  of  him  was  grateful  that  it  was  him.  The  other  part  recognized  that  there  was  something  less  than  desirable  about  a man that  was  only  really  himself  a  very  small  fraction  of  the  time.  It  was  exhausting,  and  maybe  a  little  pathetic.  But  he  was  simply  too  wrapped  up  in  the  tendrils  of  bliss  to  really  see  it  that  way  in  the  moment.

❛  Gotta  be  checked  out  of  here  by  eleven,  but  I  don't  have to  be  on  the  plane  until  one.  ❜  Ryan  says,  with  a  hint  of  suggestion  filling  in  the  gaps  between  his  words.  Late  breakfast,  lunch,  whatever  the  other  man  wanted.  Anything,  if  it  meant  soaking  up  just  a  bit  more  time  with  him.  Part  of  him  knows  it  is  impossible.  Being  seen  together  in  public  raised  too  many  flags,  spiking  his  anxiety  far  more  than  it  needed  to.  But  maybe.  Maybe.  Just  in  case.  

❛  Sure  you  can't  just  follow  me  to  New  York?  ❜  Another  impossibility,  with  both  far  too  tied  up  in  obligations  and  responsibilities  to  take  that  leap.  Wishful  thinking  at  its  finest.  Though,  if  Ryan  had  things  his  way,  Donomie  would  have  a  permanent  seat  behind  the  glass  at  every  game.  Maybe  then  they'd  actually  fucking  win  the  next  one.

[felinoir]

𝙿𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝙸𝙽'𝚃   𝙰   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝚂𝙷𝙴   𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂   𝙸𝙽   𝙿𝚄𝙱𝙻𝙸𝙲.   If   she   had   her   way,   it   wasn't   something   she'd   be   doing   at   all,   but   such   is   the   nature   of   getting   powers   from   the   proverbial   sketchy   guy   in   an   alley.   But   the   food   and   the   service   and   the   views   at   La   Boucherie   NYC   were   worth   schlepping   her   way   across   town   several   times   a   week   for.   And   worth   showering   the   entire   waitstaff   and   kitchen   staff   with   sizable   tips   to   show   her   appreciation   (   and   to   not   comment   on   where   the   diesel   motor-like   rumbling   was   coming   from   ). 

❝   Nick!   Don't   listen   to   him,   baby,   c'mere.   For   the   drinks   and   for   your   drinks   when   you   get   outta   here,   yeah?   ❞   It's   a   familiar   line,   one   she's   repeated   for   nearly   the   entirety   of   the   front   of   house   and   a   fair   few   of   the   back   of   house   —   they   all   seemed   to   take   breaks   suspiciously   late   in   the   night   on   the   evenings   Felicia   perched   at   shadowy   end   of   the   bar.   But   it's   playful   and   affectionate,   a   heeled   foot   gently   nudging   at   the   chef's   lower   leg   in   a   reprimand   with   no   heat.   Several   large   bills   were   pressed   into   the   bartender's   hand   with   a   fond   wink,   a   grateful   smile   and   two   expertly   mixed   cocktails   set   down   in   front   of   them.

❝   You   gotta   strange   way   of   proposin',   but   if   it   means   you   keep   spoilin'   me   like   this,   I'd   be   a   fool   to   say   no.   ❞   Despite   the   satiation   of   her   often   voracious   appetite,   the   mood   lighting   of   the   restaurant   still   caught   and   illuminated   the   naked   greed   on   the   blonde's   face.   She   was   going   to   be   leaving   with   a   royal   feast's   worth   of   food,   several   takeout   boxes   already   neatly   stowed   away   in   discreet   paper   bags.   ❝   You're   the   best,   I   tell   you   that   at   all   tonight?   ❞  

[hereticsinc]

There  was  a  cardinal  rule  in  food  service.  One  that  many  seemed  more  than  happy  to  abide  by,  and  about  twice  as  many  seemed  to  want  to  break  on  a  daily  basis.  Tip  your  goddamn  servers  and  staff,  and  don't  fuck  with  the  people  who  handle  your  food.  Building  a  restaurant  from  the  ground  up  was  a  fool's  errand,  but  getting  those  gears  turning  like  a  well-oiled  machine  was  a  Sisyphean  task  in  and  of  itself.  It  was  the  reason  most  establishments  could  not  withstand  the  test  of  time  or  the  exorbitant  cost  of  remaining  open.  This  much  was  common  knowledge. 

The  lesser  known  other  half  of  the  tedious  free  fall,  this  symbiotic  and  toxic  relationship  between  salesman  and  consumer,  was  what  it  took  to  be  a  good  customer.  To  be  a  true  lover  of  the  experience  that  awaited  beyond  glass-plated  double  doors.  Those  traits  were  not  always  inherent,  and  for  some,  it  was  a  learning  curve.  For  Felicia,  it  seemed  to  be  bred  and  boiled  into  her  bones.  There  weren't  many  who  would  opt  to  refuse  a  free  drink  from  the  head  chef  and  insist  on  paying  over  double  the  retail  price.  Really,  it  was  part  of  what  he  adored  about  her.  The  other  parts  consisted  mostly  of  his  general  fondness  for  those  who  had  a  serious  appetite.  People  who  could  handle  their  fucking  food.  In  this  regard,  she  may  very  well  have  been  an  unparalleled,  unsung  champion.  

❛  Oh,  no,  you  should  definitely  say  no.  I'm  too  old  and  too  emotionally  unavailable  for  you,  I  promise,  ❜  Nicholas  prattles  tiredly,  in  contrast  to  the  smile  that  runs  across  his  lips  and  exposes  all  the  wrinkles  in  his  sun-weathered  skin.  If  his  ex-wife  could  hear  him,  she'd  likely  do  nothing  more  than  echo  the  warnings  he  just  fired  off.  ❛  You  know,  I  can  say  the  same,  you  could  probably  single-handedly  keep  this  place  up  and  running.  ❜

It  was  a  slight  exaggeration,  but  a  truthful  sentiment  nonetheless.  Just  as  the  words  leave  his  lips,  Ashley  is  sliding  their  drinks  across  the  bar  on  branded  coasters.  The  only  thing  between  him  and  getting  home  now  is  the  sixteen  ounces  of  locally  brewed  amber  lager  that  stood  before  him,  though  he  felt  compelled  to  take  his  time  when  in  such  good company.

❛  Got  any  plans  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  or  did  you  just  get  dressed  up  to  hang  out  at  my  bar?  ❜

[heavnhill]

THE AIR BECOMES SO MUCH LIGHTER … A WEIGHT HAS BEEN REMOVED, HER LUNGS HAVE BEEN FILLED WITH TRUE OXYGEN, AND THE SMELL OF A WARM, CRACKLING FIRE. IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE SHE’S BEEN ABLE TO BREATHE DEEPLY. MUSCLES RELAX, JAW EASES, ALL OF THAT IS FOR SURE, BUT SHE STILL MAINTAINS A COMPOSURE, SOMETHING WAY TOO PROPER FOR A WOMAN WITH HER IMAGE …

and, frankly, she wants to call him beautiful, a sight for sore eyes, not out of lust but out of simple fact. this extended kindness … it makes her want to scream, cry, curl up in a ball, and die a millionth time. but she just smiles, through bold red lipstick, pearly white teeth, and a set of sharpened canines.

“ vivienne. i appreciate the offer, sugar, but no need. ”  a quick chat. if only it were that simple. the room is airy and cozy, but the complications suddenly weigh down, they press into her chest and she nearly grimaces. vivienne hates to do this. she hates to be the one knocking on doors, reaping, sowing, filing the paperwork that the devil refuses to do himself. she hates to be the gal with the clipboard. she sits, flipping raven tresses over her shoulder, and she crosses her legs, and bounces one very casually. she’s not quite uncomfortable, but there’s something else wrong, she just can’t tell yet.

those siren-blue eyes take in the space, following each laid brick and stone, each curve, each crevice. it’s like home. it’s much more welcoming, its threshold holds its own sort of love, and she envies this. they keep following, deeper and deeper into dark corners, with a silent observation of a predator animal. a curious nature, deep within, is held by both vivienne and the beast, it’s something yet to be tamed.  “ it’s beautiful. it’s been a while since i’ve been in a place like this, and felt … good about it. ”

[hereticsinc]

The roots of her name were gnarled branches embedded deep in the soils of history. Martyrs and saints and enchantresses, derivative of a dead language and a bygone era, but it all culminated in the same meaning. It meant to be living, to be full of life. Alive, and breathing. Despite this, Vivienne seemed to bear the weight of eternity with warning bells flooding her nervous system. This, reflected in the posture of a woman who saw herself as being out of place. But this was always the case with those who assumed they had no right to tread such holy grounds, even when they didn't believe in the sanctity of the space. As though it was some sort of untouchable, unattainable thing. As though they didn't deserve the peace woven into the very fabric of the place many called home. Nonetheless, it would always be there for them. He would always be there for them.

John sits on the worn settee as she declines the offer of a drink — an attempt to put her at ease, maybe. There's a gesture, motioning for her to sit across from him if she pleased. Open ended, with the ball in her court.

❛ Oh, I can't take credit for any of this. Mary, our ministry assistant, was the one who decorated most of the space, I'm hopeless with interior design. The building, though, was constructed in 1917 by the Pesaturo family. Lots of history. I'm pretty fond of it myself. ❜

For as much as he loved the staggering fortress that encased them, the home that had protected him, he knew better than most that the cracks were filled with dire secrets. Things he'd never speak of, grout sealed with dried blood torn from flesh. Its foundation was set with late nights spent writhing in agony, and tears shed that were not unlike that of the Blessed Virgin statues he so lovingly gazed upon. His pierced heart was similarly loaded with daggers and wounds, these very walls his only witness. Often, his only companion. This was his burden to bear, whether or not he shouldered it well. ❛ Sounds like it's been awhile. What brings you here tonight, then? ❜

[hangtenn]

oh man, the blonde is starting to think that her dating life is literally a trainwreck. ( or, should we say car wreck? ) though, at this point, she felt like---....what did she have to lose? stevie was handsome and had been a sweetheart even though he had clipped her pretty good with his car. ( no hard feelings! she was in a pretty good mood and had been able to put her shoulder back into place. ) in fact, it really showed who he was as a person because many dudes would probably be a little frightened by how quickly lenny had bounced back. so, why not humor this? what's the worst that could happen?

a dive bar was always a place that lenny felt safe. she always knew one of the bartenders and at least one or two of the patrons ( if it's a weekend, she'd know half the bar but he knew better than to schedule a date on a weekend. ) it doesn't take long for lennon to feel immediately at home, icy blue eyes darting around the room as she took in the familiar sounds. ( billiards cracking, cigarette smoke, the sound of some frat boy laughing in the background. ) it doesn't take long for the blonde to plop herself down onto one of the barstools, quickly grinning over at stevie. ( he actually did their makeup for once, they feel pretty. )

"okay, fine. you can buy me a beer. oh, it's kind of a promise i'll kick your ass at darts, by the way."

[hereticsinc]

Ferromagnetism  dominated  the  rules  of  attraction.  It  was  the  force  that  always  inevitably  pulled  things  together.  That  one  singular  moment  in  which  atoms  aligned  with  utter  perfection,  tailspinning  like  a  car  out  of  control  into  a  field  of  its  own.    It  was  the  very  same  pull  that  Stevie  felt  as  Lennon  sat  there,  doing  next  to  nothing  aside  from  uttering  a  surefire  promise  that  he  would,  in  fact,  get  his  ass  kicked  at  pool  tonight.  The  physics  of  emotion  seeped  like  oil,  spilling  into  his  laughter  at  even  the  simplest  of  comments  she  made.  Oh,  he  was  already  down  bad.  Just  play  it  cool,  man.

❛  Better  keep  that  promise,  I'm  lookin'  forward  to  it,  ❜  Stevie  speaks  with  a  smile,  turning  their  attention  for  only  the  briefest  of  moments  as  the  bartender  prods  them  for  an  order.  For  himself, it's  a  singular  mocktail kind of night  —  it  would  be  enough  to  fake  his  way  through  his  environment,  vividly  colored  miniature  umbrella  and  all.  Somewhere  deep  in  his  pockets,  there's  a  seven  month  token  burning  a  hole  in  the  fabric  of  their  pants,  but   somehow  he  thinks  that  starting  off  a  conversation  by  ripping  into  the  history  of  his  sordid  relationship  was  alcohol  might  have  been  a  bit  of  a  vibe  killer.  Better  wait, when she's decided he's not a total psycho. That conclusion would probably come much later anyway.

❛  —  And,  anything  they  want,  just  stick  it  on  my  tab.  ❜  Stevie  punctuates  the  order  with  a  nod  and  a  thanks,  passing  their  card  off before shifting their attention back.  

❛  I  think  I  remember  you  saying  something  about  your  team  giving  you  the  okay  after  the  accident,  do  you  work  in  healthcare  or  something?   ❜

[heavnhill]

LETS FUCKING GO CANESSSSSSSSS RAHHHHHHHH

[okoden]

maine. right. and what had he been here for to begin with? julian tries to remember anything else, but each time he tries he feels like his very essence begins to fade out of existence. he stops trying after the third or fourth time, mere glimpses of memories slipping through his fingers like sand. ❛ i'm having trouble remembering. i think ... i was meeting someone here. ❜

julian finds it easier to focus on his words if he stares directly at the stranger behind the desk, as unnervingly an experience it likely is for them. the musician's stare is piercing, gaze roaming as if acquainting itself with unfamiliar features. really, he's just trying not to get distracted again and fall prey to wandering thoughts. relief claws at his chest when he's able to lean down and rest his crossed arms against the desk without issue.

❛ how much for a room? doesn't matter which. i just want one with a phone. ❜ that's it. he'll call home, get this sorted out, and go back to rehab for a few weeks. detox just to retox. julian is so convinced this current state of being he finds himself in is temporary, that he doesn't even realize one of his arms is beginning to phase through the desk's surface. ❛ doesn't even have to have a view. just give me whatever. ❜

[hereticsinc]

It  is  nowhere  near  his  first  encounter  with  the  abnormal.  Self-proclaimed  madness  aside,  there  was  something  about  a  rundown  motel  in  the  dense  thicket  of  the  woods  just  off  a  stretch  of  highway  that  attracted  weirdos  like  flies  to  honey.  It  was  part  of  what  he  loved  about  the  experience,  really.  There  wasn't  much  anyone  could  do  to  unnerve  him  anymore.  Nobody  that  was  still  living  anyway.  

❛  It's  gonna  be  about  ninety  bucks  per  night,  but  every  room  has  a  phone,  you  just  have  to  dial  —  ❜  His  words  are  abruptly  cut  short  with  his  breath  caught  in  the  column  of  his  throat  as  he  catches  the  sight  of  the  man's  arm  beginning  to  dissipate.  It  seeps  slowly  into  the  wood  grain,  as  though  he  had  no  real  corporeal  form,  disappearing  before  his  very  eyes.  The  long-standing  fractures  in  River's  brain  seemed  to  expand  outwards  like  a  silken  spiderweb.  The  cracks  in  the  glass  continued  to  splinter,  and  he  suspected  that  there  was  very  little  structural  integrity  left  in  his  mind.  He  pauses  for  what  might  have  been  mere  seconds,  but  time  moved  like  a  stagnant  pool  of  blood.  

❛  Your,  uh   …  your  arm,  ❜  River  spoke  calmly,  somehow,  despite  the  slight  clip  in  his  tone.  ❛  I'd  say  you  need  to  get  that  checked  out,  but  I  don't  know  if  a  doctor  is  gonna  know  what  to  do,  man.  ❜ @tenshiei

[ensnchekov]

If the fact that he has materialised alone, without the company of the away team was not indication enough that something had gone wrong, the harsh, sun-beaten terrain solidified that. Phaeryon IV was a lush, verdant planet—this place, wherever it was, was a scorching desert with no respite from the sun to be found.

There were no anomalous findings in our scans of the planet—no interference—

Just his luck.

Pavel squints against the brightness and reaches for his phaser, setting it to stun, and barely makes it a few metres before he is intercepted by a woman who looks to be of the desert itself, wielding the same fire in her gaze.

Sunlight glints off the barrel of the shotgun, racing toward him like a bullet, and Pavel freezes where he stands, gripping his phaser tightly. He recognises the weapon from Terran history—popular several centuries ago both domestically and in the battlefield, they have long since been replaced by energy displacement weapons, leaving them relics of the past and collectors' items.

At this distance, maybe not every shot would connect, but it would do more than enough damage to fatally wound.

Judging by her authoritative command and her unwavering posture, Pavel would wager a guess that she is the one in charge. Though the gun being pointed at me also makes a good argument for that.

“Okay.” Nodding, Pavel moves to comply, slowly kneeling down to place his phaser at his feet. He attempts to look as non-threatening as possible, keeping his hands raised should she misinterpret his actions and open fire.

She looks like the type to shoot first and ask questions later.

“I didn't mean any harm. My name is Pavel—where am I? Who are you?”

[hereticsinc]

The  cruelty  of  the  desert  had  not  yet  touched  him.  It  had  not  yet  rotted  him  from  the  inside  out,  like  a  bad  seed  with  putrid  fruits.  It  was  often  as  glaring  and  harsh  as  the  fire  that  ruled  the  horizons  during  the  day;  as  cold  and  calculating  as  the  chill  that  rolled  across  the  dunes  when  the  sky  went  slick  with  blackened  oil.  That  cruelty  drilled  into  everything  that  dared  to  exist  beneath  it.  But  he  had  submitted  easily;  like  a  wounded  animal,  defenseless  and  weak.  Acting  feeble,  in  a  world  where  most  would  rather  brawl  to  the  death  than  give  in  so  quickly.  It  was  a  matter  of  honor,  in  a  place  where  distrust  ran  deep,  even  amongst  those  you  spent  your  life  with.  Brothers  turning  on  brothers,  neighbors  turning  on  neighbors,  as  a  means  of  clawing  themselves forward  into  another  day.  She  couldn't  recall  the  last  time  she  had  run  across  a  stranger  and  it  didn't  result  in  a  fight.  For  as  much  as  his  actions  confused  her,  the  intricacy  of  her  emotions  did  not  reflect  on  the  steeled  expression  she  wore  so  well.  In  an  instant,  she's  charging  him  —  kicking  the  device  to  the  side,  now  half-buried  in  the  sands  before  she  retreats  a  few  paces  back.  

❛   You're  about  600  klicks  south  of  Gastown ...   in  the  Wastelands.   ❜  Her  tone  was  measured  and  calm,  though  deeply  uncertain,  as  she  refused  to  volunteer  her  name.  It  might  have  been  easy  to  get  turned  around  for  those  unfamiliar  with  this  part  of  the  desert.  Yet  every  bit  of  instinct  she  possessed  told  her  that  he  knew  nothing  at  all.  Whatever  his  next  move  was  would  likely  tell  her  everything  she  needed  to  know.

[fukstar]

#FUKSTAR, BY JACKKNIFE. EXPLORING  THE  PITFALLS  OF  FAME,  THE  HORRORS  OF  THE  ROCK  &  ROLL  LIFESTYLE  THAT  GETS  PLASTERED  ON  THE  COVER  OF  EVERY  MAGAZINE,  THE  LOSS  OF  IDENTITY  &  SENSE  OF  SELF,  AND  WHAT  THE  REAL  PRICE  OF  SUCCESS  IS. THIS IS YOUR BACKSTAGE PASS.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ★

[hereticsdotcom]

𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗘: 𝖭𝖨𝖢𝖧𝖮𝖫𝖠𝖲 𝖬𝖠𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖲𝖤. | | | [ LA BOUCHERIE NYC ] A FRENCH-STYLE BRASSERIE LOCATED IN MANHATTAN ( ... )

La Boucherie NYC is a classic French brasserie restaurant, run by executive chef Nicholas Matisse ( when he isn't traveling the world for the sake of network television. )

The presentation slides of the menu can be found here. Pictures are below the cut.