woke up sexy as hell again!

[pixistic]

#pixistic

multimuse. literary chaos & character study. minimalist writing, lowkey activity. always accepting [ memes ], best way to kickstart interaction. standard rp etiquette & basic decency applies. just don’t be weird. [ rules. ] written by meg/megs (she/her, 28.)

muses ↓

[click on a muse’s name for info]

bonnie bennett — death witch, medium, haunted keystone. love is sacrifice. (the vampire diaries au)

caramel loren — coastal daughter of a cursed hotel. sings to the sea, but never listens back. saltwater veins, ghostlight gaze. (original chara) affiliated with @/foreverache

hanna marin — glossed over damage. loyalty runs hot, forgiveness runs thin. pretty isn’t passive. (pretty little liars post-series)

meredith dardenne — post-dellecher exile. obsession in velvet gloves. built for tragedy, bending toward reinvention. (if we were villains by m.l rio, canon-divergent)

monroe vox — b-horror scream queen with a cult following. body as spectacle, soul as subplot. (original chara)

tim riggins — empty truck bed, calloused hands, bad decisions. (friday night lights post-canon/divergent)

[pixistic]

hey friends 🤍

just a small note that i’m going to be limiting my time on here a bit. i still love writing with you all, but i’m trying to split my free time between tumblr and some longer-form projects offline.

i’ll mostly be focusing on plotted / established dynamics for now, though i’m always open to organic development when it clicks.

no hard feelings if replies are slower — just trying to be intentional with my energy.

[pixistic]

gonna be honest I only wanna write silly things (with serious undertones because i’m a serious literary person) but no mostly silly so hit my line rn

[m0tel]

don't .. give him a bit.

he'll run it deeper into the ground than the man of the hour.

he takes his own pinch of her hat brim, and studies her face like he knows what he's talking about. his tongue clucks quiet against the roof of his mouth, timed with a snap of the fabric. a makeshift clapperboard.

"action."

now's her other other big break. possibly. he ducks his chin to redirect the sweat at his temple down a path to his nose. it's his contribution to the tears cause -- a real practical effects guy. he loves the classics.

[pixistic]

the rouge on her cheeks is a combination of cosmetics and the heat. that’s all. her eyes drop unwittingly to his mouth, which is soft compared to the rest of his chiseled features. ugh. how obnoxious. she looks away quickly, snatching her hat back into place even though he’s already let go.

a sniveling woman is reciting an eulogy by the gaping grave; a girlfriend or a sister. monroe seizes her opportunity by conjuring tears. nothing dramatic, just a glisten and a few sniffles for authenticity.

she peeks back at dean, tracking the bead of his sweat. “you should chill with your face,” she blurts. whatever that means.

[m0tel]

@pixistic i could squirt out some tears, if that would help. (monroe)

"you can work those on demand, huh." his rental jacket itches, shoulder seams squeaking while he rearranges his hands: left over right, disguise the too-wide space between the sleeve cuff and the knob of his wrist.

it's not a big deal from the back row. the mourners are preoccupied with the whole casket lowering, last goodbye situation. tossing dirt. open weeping. someone might be singing, but his hearing's kind of shit. could just as easily be a bird.

"look, it ain't your close-up." quiet exasperation, like this must be an actress thing. he pretends he's not as equally attention-seeking as he's accusing. the goal really is just to blend in. stay quiet, look sad, catch a word with the widow before the rsvp-only luncheon. most especially, come along so dean doesn't look like a freak that crashes these things on the regular. bat those big bambi eyes, monroe. sad old ladies eat that crap up.

"how about a .. a medium misty kinda sad? you got that setting?"

[pixistic]

the sun is scorching the dirt. monroe is shaded by her oversized black floppy hat, and the drooping branches of a willow tree. to justify her reluctance to paying her respects, she repeats the mantra: he was just a production assistant and an unfortunate recipient of bad luck. her discomfort is not because she’s so emotionally fried she can’t sympathize with tragedy without a script.

as they lower the casket into the abyss of soil, she fidgets and brushes against dean’s shoulder, gauging his own level of tension. crying would give her something to do, but dean provides performance suggestions like he’s the director of this little play. what’s the story, anyhow?

folding back the large brim of her hat to peer up at him, she fires back in a sarcastic whisper, “i don’t know. why don’t you press my on button and see what happens?”

[pixistic]

need more plots with ALL my girls but particularly for caramel, hanna, and meredith!! also i’m a ship whore so if you wanna ship you don't have to twist my arm I'm already convinced <3

[pixistic]

need a “this is the last time we’re doing this” type ship/dynamic when it’s definitely not the last time

[pixistic]

hey friends 🤍

just a small note that i’m going to be limiting my time on here a bit. i still love writing with you all, but i’m trying to split my free time between tumblr and some longer-form projects offline.

i’ll mostly be focusing on plotted / established dynamics for now, though i’m always open to organic development when it clicks.

no hard feelings if replies are slower — just trying to be intentional with my energy.

[pixistic]

@cuntryjunkie , chris lee : sneaky .   to  sneak  away  from  a  gathering  to  have  sex  with  my  muse .

it was one simple S.O.S text. except chris didn’t rescue her so much as slip right into his element. he became fast, old friends with her cast and crew. he spent ten minutes in cozy conversation with her direct competition. the final girl of all people. now, in the immaculately landscaped backyard of her director’s malibu mansion, he’s laughing with the male co-star who’d hoarded her bra in his car like they share a private joke. maybe they do.

impatient and a little drunk, monroe strolls from her lounge chair by the pool to wedge in between them. she’s a whole head shorter than both of them. “excuse us,” she extends this formality to her co-star without looking at him because she’s already walking away, chris in tow with her lean fingers leashed around his wrist.

they maneuver through a throng of inebriated people. the balmy breeze doesn’t carry indoors. the swarm of bodies on all sides is stifling, and monroe’s eyeliner is beginning to streak. she trips on her strappy sandals as she navigates chris up the stairs into the second-floor bathroom. it’s ivory and marble with a seashell-white claw-foot tub in the center. it’ll do.

“what the hell.” behind the closed door, the music diminishes to a throb of bass. “you were supposed to save me from these people. not chum up with them.” fuming, she punches chris in the shoulder. but she’s clumsy and staggers, and chris catches her easily around the waist. lifts her up against the front of his body. one of her sandals falls off. “hey! let me down. just because i’m short — ” how the hell did she lose control here? aggravated and spiteful, she steals it back by grabbing his jaw and drawing him into a filthy kiss. she’s propped against the alabaster sink, chris’ hands are underneath her tiny dress. he starts to bend like he plans to warm her up, but she’s already a furnace, and drags him back by his waistband. “we can do that later,” hastily, she unbuckles his belt. “you have a condom?”

[graveflwers]

' fire’s almost out. ' said charlie. it was an observation, a disenfranchised news report. tonight’s forecast: full moon, cloudy skies, and impending darkness. somewhere to their left, the radio—a real one—wasn’t playing the news at all. it was playing music, garbled lyrics and muted synth. occasionally the signal broke and static poured through the speaker.

' i, ' began lis, getting up. she stretched her arms, cracked something in her back, rolled out one ankle at a time. she looked like she was warming up for something: a sprint, maybe. or a marathon. depended on monroe, really, and how far she could run. how much she wanted to survive. ' need pants. the mosquitoes are killing me. '

' the fire, ' mumbled charlie, half-heartedly, ' needs wood. '

' be right back—if i don’t get murdered by a giant mosquito or an evil, masked killer! ' hahaha. lis thought this was funny; charlie thought it was annoying.

he frowned at the ground. ' if the fire doesn’t get another log, it’s going to go out. '

lis shrugged, pulling her hair back and over her shoulders. but charlie was right: the fire was eating itself out of existence, shedding itself to the bone. smoke was already veiling monroe in a funeral shroud. ' i’ll see if i can find naomi, ' she added, then made her way down the path—and right past the stack of wood.

the radio cut out again, tshhhhhhhhhhh. a loon let out its wistful, mournful cry. maybe it missed the music, as charlie did.

' … i thought … she was going to … ' charlie let the thought die, sputter out with the last few flames. he didn’t watch lis disappear into the night. he didn’t look monroe in the face. he didn’t look anywhere at all, because the axe was in his peripheral, propped against the pile of logs, and he thought that if he looked at it, it would give him away.

he started up again: ' the fire— '

@pixistic, ' —do something about it or shut up already. '

charlie went very, very still. he was looking at her now. it was the first time he’d done so all night, perhaps the only time he’d done so since they’d met.

he thought she had the biggest eyes he’d ever seen.

' no. ' he said finally, quietly, after far too long. the fire was nothing but coals, and the coals were quickly fading to nothing but ash. soon—in one minute or in two—the darkness would set in.

and maybe she was safe or maybe she wasn’t, and maybe he’d kill her or maybe he wouldn’t. no matter how the story ended, the fire, the night, the light could not protect her. but maybe it could keep her warm.

if she kept it burning, that is.

[pixistic]

the smoldering embers plagued monroe with flashbacks of dad burning incense at church and over her hospital bedside when she lost the baby. all it did was make her cough. the same tickle was in the back of her throat as she watched charlie absorbed by the sad state of the fire. she couldn’t discern if he cared too much or not at all. either way, she felt out of the loop. he and lis seemed to have an entire conversation without actually talking to each other. naomi, monroe knew, would slot in nicely beside them when she came back from wherever she’d disappeared.

when lis bounded into the thicket toward the cabins, the woods seemed to get smaller. in any other movie, this scene would be romantic. them with low light and music to set the mood. any other boy, she’d invite him for a dip in the lake. with night approaching, it wasn’t getting any cooler. the heat was encroaching on her like a second body pressing her down. suddenly her spandex shorts and t-shirt felt like too much clothes.

charlie seemed so thoroughly oblivious or indifferent to her presence that monroe was almost certain she could strip naked and it wouldn’t stir a reaction. she didn’t know how to handle that revelation. fuck him. dismiss him. she snapped at him like it had been building up after days of zero communication. well, that got his attention. he was staring at her now.

for a moment, there was only the stutter of her heart and the uproar of cicadas. then, charlie’s voice — resolute, detached. there was a musky scent pervading the air. the coals or charlie’s cologne. she’d have to move closer to figure out for sure.

slowly, she cut around the wood stack, unintentionally blocking his access to the axe. “did i do something to offend you or are you always this pleasant?”

[graveflwers]

' the colour of the cap depends on the alcohol content. no, yeah, yeah. the percentage. the stronger the vodka, the whiter the lid. that’s why the bottom shelf, uh, cheap stuff’s got a black lid. anything under thirty-five. '

delta was making this up, but he was doing it in a way that seemed both reasonably plausible and unreasonably dishonest. which it was: unreasonable. and not for any tactical benefit. what he was waving around was a flask, not a bottle, smuggled into camp in his waistband. and the top of it was silver, not black or white or even something in between. it reflected the hazy glow of the campfire, the sunset above. when held up to the ear, it echoed with the sounds of the lake, the gentle lapping of waves, the croaking of toads in discussion.

the flask, scholars agreed, was the degenerate man’s seashell.

' just shut up and drink, ' interjected @pixistic, which either meant that she didn’t believe him or that she didn’t care. or just that she was thirsty.

because delta was thirsty, and because he didn’t really care whether hanna cared, whether she believed him or not, he did as he was told. he threw back his head, took a gratuitous shot of ( it wasn’t even vodka ), and sat down, wobbling, on a tree trunk bench. there were three of them arranged around the campfire, the tops of them worn flat from years worth of asses and termites.

he blinked, hard. possibly he had meant to wink. he held the flask out toward hanna, smiling serenely. ' you know that’s why rubbing alcohol’s in a white bottle? yah. ‘cause the percentage is so high. '

[pixistic]

it wasn’t yet dark enough for the fire to be blazing, but she was sweating sitting this close to the flames. and to delta, who was unsteady on his feet but overwhelming in his presence, charming…and stupid. stupidly charming. across the muted orange tendrils, hanna gaped at him. she thought she might be drunk already, because she couldn’t grasp a word of the bullshit he was spewing.

there was a mosquito gnawing on her shin that kept circling her regardless of her swatting it away. she was worried her hair was frizzy from the humidity. damn woods. damn…delta. because who else was there to curse? he was in front of her, tipsy and smiling.

her phone was resting on the stripped bark of the log she perched on, glaringly silent. she was used to jumping at every notification, not the ominous lack of them. she really just wanted a drink, to ease her nerves.

“finally,” she sighed heavily, like she’d been relieved of some burden, and leaned forward to accept the flask. he had…infuriatingly long eyelashes. “thanks.” she flicked her gaze over to the lake, which had gone stagnant. “keep up with the liquor bottle cap trivia and i’m not hanging out with you anymore.”

[pixistic]

i have an oc cooking and she's messy. stay tuned

[oedipuswrex-deactivated20220905]

¹ .ㅤ‘ via the system of touch ’ .     the following is a compilation of   action based   prompts , originally created by me . warnings applied for : some potential nsfw / suggestive themes .   ( additionally : send ‘ + ’ to reverse the roles , and have the   receiver   be the one to perform the action ) .   do not add anything on to these memes .  

hands.  for your muse to take a hold of my muse’s hand.

tie.  for your muse to adjust an article of clothing on my muse.

combat.  for our muses to train together in combat.

pin.  for your muse to pin mine to ( the ground / the wall / a surface ).

push.  for your muse to push mine in a playful manner.

shove.  for your muse to shove mine in an aggressive manner.

tend.  for your muse to help tend to my muse’s injuries.

trace.  for your muse to trace their hand along my muse’s ( skin / scars ).

gag.  for your muse to place their hand over my muse’s mouth, to try to keep them quiet.

kiss.  for your muse to kiss my muse.

hair.  for your muse to brush my muse’s hair from their face.

pull.  for your muse to pull my muse close to them.

sit.  for your muse to encourage mine to sit and rest.

lap.  for your muse to pull my muse onto their lap.

tackle.  for your muse to tackle my muse to the ground.

fight.  for your muse to physically attack my muse ( by hitting / punching / kicking / etc).

neck.  for your muse to place their hand around my muse’s neck.

throat.  for your muse to hold something against my muse’s throat.

collapse.  for your muse to catch mine, preventing them from falling to the ground.

carry.  for your muse to insist on carrying my muse when injured.

warmth.  for our muses to seek warmth from each other, after being caught in a ( snow storm / rain shower ).

morning after.  for our muses to wake up together the next morning, after having a one night stand.

wake.  for your muse to wake mine up by kissing their ( shoulder / neck / lips / etc ).

dance.  for your muse to force my muse to dance with them.

drink.  for our muses to spend time together whilst drunk.

swim.  for our muses to go for a late night swim.

intimacy.  for our muses to embrace each other after sex.

death.  for your muse to comfort mine after they have lost a loved one.

goodbye.  for your muse to hold mine as they lay dying in their arms.

[cuntlike]

when she wakes up, the world is a fuzzy mess of colors and lights. something stirs beneath her cheek: what she's lying on is warm, it rises & falls to the ever-thrumming rythm of a heart. panic starts with this: trying to remember who lies beneath the sheets and finding no memories of the mysterious identity.

the lack of memory is less upsetting than the source of the amnesia. ishtar's debauchery rarely entails large amounts of alcohol: she likes to ruin things with a clear mind. but yesterday… oh yesterday must have been horrid. she can smell it in the room: sex and drinks and something heady-- probably the result of a joint passing between spit-slick lips.

panic grows tenfold when an unfamiliar weight is registered on the hand that clutches the covers. a ring. she can see it as it gleams in the blurry mid-afternoon light. "fuck," comes first, soon followed by another heartful "fucking hell", spitted while she tries to get up and finds that her head is swimming in all directions, while her body has yet to move. deciding that sitting might be the only option, she goes back down, and waits a moment, breathing through her nose.

a look to her right: there, a familiar head of hair turned away from her, and the familiar torso she was lying on. realization catches on her tongue. "tim," his name comes out in a whisper, soon followed by a much more acerbic: "wake up, asshole." @pixistic

[pixistic]

the coarse sheets are rumpled at his waist. there was a nice contrast when ishtar was draped over him, all soft and sweet. when she jolts up, she takes her warmth and the sheets with her. tim’s left buck naked, feeling sort of abandoned. begrudgingly, he pops open one eye, just the right, because the world is painful to look at straight on. so is ishtar, who looks disheveled and furious. sexy as hell.

they never closed the hefty polyester curtains over the large windows before crashing last night — ishtar’s delicate hand print is smeared smack in the middle of the view — and now the midday sun streams in the room fierce and mean. dust mites float in the slants of crystal light. he notices ishtar’s ring before his own. plain, only thing special about it is that it’s on her finger. and he’s got a matching one.

his mind is spinning with nowhere to land, and it’s hard to focus when he’s hard because ishtar is nude and backlit like an angel with a halo. her scowl is all spitfire and devil. he can taste her in his mouth, more potent than the whiskey. his cloudy gaze zooms in on a hickey above her collarbone before flitting down to the band on his finger. he inspects the silver without any big reaction. she’s doing that for the both of them.

“can we — ” his voice is gruff and crackly, “ — come back to bed.”

[embrosyn]

floral wallpaper / caramel (just sending a couple for options!!!)

[ ... ] THE LANGUID LIMBS OF THE GLADIOLI HELD STEADFASTLY TO THE BLOOMING ROSEBUDS, THEIR CROWNING LEAVES, THEIR BRUTAL THORNS, THE BLOOD-RED VELVET OF THE ORCHID PETALS, THE BASHFUL SEPALS, THE COQUETTISH LILY PISTILS THAT TICKLED THE FURRED UNDERSIDES OF RESTLESS POLLINATORS. WHIMSY LINES OF VARYING THICKNESS ALLUDED TO THE STOLEN INSPIRATION OF A SEASIDE GARDEN OR FUNERAL ARRANGEMENT AND HE COULD TASTE, WITH LITTLE ROOM FOR IMAGINATION, THE DISTANT SEA-BRINE, THE AROMA OF ROTTING FISH, THE WHIPPING OF THE BLUFFS..

AND THEN THE GELID CRYSTAL OF HIS STRANGE EYES RETURNED TO THE PAINTED EDGES OF HER ILLUMINATED PROFILE.

She looked herself apart of the delicate chinoiserie, a whisper of the rococo echo, another inch of the infinite demasque that was her antiquated abode. The man, suit-clad and severe-faced, straightened the shaft of his tie and sat upright, rigidly-so, in the brittle-boned armchair she'd so graciously proffered upon his prompt arrival. Luggage sat at his feet like crumbling ruins.

It was simpler to admire the wallpaper than it was to chase the flitting eyes of his hostess. There was nowhere else, you see. "I understand this is a last-minute arrangement," he continued, "but I can't imagine my stay exceeding a week. Charge me your highest rate."

[pixistic]

the wallpaper is dated. it’s yellowing, like a coffee stain on a napkin, and lifting at the baseboards. caramel’s despised it since she was a child. the flowers were always multiplying whenever she tried to count them. now, she sees her mother’s face in the crimson florets when she turns off the lights, ever since her disappearance. caramel hasn’t replaced it solely because it would entail getting closer to it than she’d like.

“it’s uncanny, isn’t it?” she asks, jerking her chin in its general direction, indicating his observation. “old. well, i mean —” a wave of her slender hands to gesticulate the vicinity, the tiger-stripped patina on the black wood desk, the madder red oriental carpet, the calfskin leather ledger instead of a computer. “— the whole place is old. due for a renovation. but it’s my parent’s place. i never considered myself a sentimental person. quite the opposite, actually. i’d throw everything out. hate getting gifts …”

now she’s rambling. he doesn’t care about this. of course he doesn’t. he’s just a traveler in need of a place to stay. it can get quiet here, especially during the off-season. “don’t worry about it. the average rate is fine. should be a couple weeks until business picks up, anyway. tourists.”

with a shrug and a cursory scan of his stern jaw, she notes he’s handsome, and polite — but reserved. the slate of his eyes reminds her of the sea when it’s restless with storms. definitely not interested in her nervous chatter, then. she turns, plucks a tarnished key from the wall behind her. “room 15 okay?”

[pixistic]

bonnie as a paranormal archaeologist uncovering haunted historical sites and cursed objects? seems fun to me

[cuntlike]

ishtar [11:45am]: yeah i bet

she texts it under the table at the lawyer's office, while he continues to drone on and on. considers throwing her phone at his face, then ends up typing another text instead.

ishtar [11:47am]: i need you to pick me up ishtar [11:47am]: in like 30 minutes at [address] ishtar [11:50am]: [redacted, not sent] please?

[pixistic]

he searches the address on his phone. a lawyer’s office. tim figures it involves her mom’s estate and she won’t wanna talk about it. so, he doesn’t ask.

he gets out of bed, brushes his teeth over the tiny sink in the kitchenette, and just barely refrains from washing his mouth out with the fifth of jack daniels by the stove. hair of the dog and all that. ishtar would be pissed if he showed up buzzed.

he grabs his keys.

tim [11:53am]: ok tim [11:54am]: be there in 20