SHE / DEATHLESS !

[dues]

[renascenced]

          statued  maiden,   sat  motionless  within  verdant  patch  opposite  unfamiliar  high  school  for  hours,   save  for  the  idle  ash  of  fresh  cigarette  or  swat  at  the  fat  bodies  of  flies  drawn  to  her  distinctive  bouquet  of  death  and  decomposition.   she  watches  silhouetted  forms  flooding  the  hallways  during  class  changes,   watches  those  rebels  who  dare  skid  out  of  the  parking  lot  during  lunch,   watches  sun  drift  tauntingly  across  brutally  clear  sky.   it’s  all  unexceptional,   normal,   ordinary   ------   another  day  like  the  one  before  in  bumfuck  wherever  they  are.   it  reminds  her  all  too  much  of  home,   and  it  is  during  this  musing  that  the  distant  thrum  of  dismissal  bell  rings,   loosing  students  onto  the  sidewalks.

          she  doesn’t  know  what  her  plan  is,   doesn’t  even  know  if  he’s  in  school  today,   doesn’t  even  know  exactly  who  he  is.   (   just  a  name,   a  quick  description  from  a  deity  who  could  have  been  lying  to  her  anyway.   )   nacreous  gaze  scans  swarming  faces  as  if  she  knows  who  she’s  looking  for,   loose  limbs  giving  rise  as  she  tosses  nearly - finished  smoke  onto  the  blacktop  of  the  street  she  crosses.   there’s  a  moment  where  she  considers  leaving.   maybe  it’s  best  not  to  meet  someone  else  like  her.   (   see:   rotting  from  the  inside  out,   sickening  and  putrid,   death  embodied!   )   

          but  then  she  sees  him,   and  just  like  she  didn’t  know  her  plan,   she  doesn’t  know  how  she  knows  it’s  him  either.   maybe  it’s  the  idle  tug  in  her  gut,   the  tap,   tap,   tap!   at  her  bones.   maybe  it’s  divine  intervention.   maybe  she  just  has  a  knack  for  spotting  the  preternatural  now  that  she  has  spent  so  much  time  in  its  midst.   narrowed  regard,   wrinkled  nose.   he  doesn’t  look  that  bad.   he  doesn’t  look  great,   but  he  doesn’t  look  as  fall - off - the - bone  as  she  had  been  expecting.   if  she  hadn’t  sought  him  out  specifically,   she  never  would  have  given  him  a  second  glance,   but   ------  

          ❛   hey   ------   !   hey,   shaun  of  the  dead!   yeah,   you  got  a  minute?  ❜

@zomboye

[shtufffy]

Soon you’ll be ashes or bones. A mere name at most—and even that is just a sound, an echo.

Marcus Aurelius, “Meditations” Volume 33 (via monstrauma)

[renascenced]

SOMNAMBULIST.

         ❛          ━      SPIRITS   surround  us  on  every  side     .  .  .     ❜

          ❛   y’know,   that’s  a  lot  less  impressive  now  that  i’m  dead  myself.  ❜

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I want it back, I want it back / What was taken from me, I want it back.

Chelsea Wolfe, from Hisspun; “Two Spirit,” (via shieldarmed)

[renascenced]

smol  starter  call !

[renascenced]

daggerdykes :

*80s pop playing as I lay dead in the middle of the woods*

[renascenced]

❛ Are you gonna kiss me or not? ❜

@cladhaire | questions meme | ACCEPTING!

          there  is  an  iridescence  nestled  within  earthy  hues  as  they  transfix  ‘pon  the  curve  of  wicked  lips,   a  glint  which  speaks  to  fluttering  sense  of  exhilaration.   it  still  floors  her   ------   just  how  intense  everything  is  experienced  now.   (   even  things  which  would  have  paled  a  lifetime  ago.   )   chest  rises  and  falls  with  quickening  breath,   hot  and  fulfilling  within  fragility  of  rib  cage,   only  countered  by  the  thumping  of  a  heart  lusting.   her  cheeks  flush  as  gruff  fingertips  press  into  the  flesh  of  hips  and  pull  her  ‘gainst  him,   petaled  lips  curling  with  wanton  intent.   desire  pools  and  spreads  within,   a  fiery  venom  the  likes  of  which  she  has  only  ever  known  in  his  company.   all  of  it  is  relished  in  its  own  right.

          willowy  limbs  wind  upwards  to  drape  loosely  ‘round  his  neck,   weight  resting  entirely  on  the  balls  of  her  feet  that  she  might  diminish  the  distance  between  them.   for  a  moment  does  it  seem  like  she  might  yield  to  his  demand,   with  that  lidded  gaze  drifting  to  meet  his  own  and  her  head  canting  loftily  to  the  side;   but  she  has  never  been  one  to  give  so  easily,   especially  not  to  such  a  gentle  request.   he  knows  and  she  knows  that  their  game  plays  out  but  one  way !

                               ❛   make  me.  ❜

[hapless-hollow]

I hear. I see. Just distantly. Painfully. Detached, numbed and under that, achingly. What all the world has done to me. Within a trauma trance.

Helaena Moon (via goremade)

[haloless]

[renascenced]

Laura Moon in 01x06: A Murder of Gods

[renascenced]

hmmm  do  other  ppl  w  SuPeRnAtUrAl  muses  ever  hesitate  following  non-supernatural  show  muses  or  is  that  just  me

[renascenced]

QUANDARY.

             chocolate-sweet hues hardly notice the stiffness of her body — they focus instead on the spread of lips into a slight smile, one mirrored and magnified by her own pink petals. icy fingertips brush hers as the matchbox is exchanged for a word of gratitude. the temperature registers, but the thought doesn’t linger. it wasn’t too often the woman found herself speaking with someone new; her lifestyle complicated the forging of even an acquaintanceship.

             ❛   sure thing.   ❜     the words are sweetened by the smile in her voice. feet shift as she hovers at the street corner, waiting for the signal to cross. a needy muzzle sniffs at her hand and she gives her companion a scratch behind the ears when the same voice calls to her again.     ❛   oh — THANK YOU, but i don’t smoke.   ❜     another, softer smile is aimed at the woman; she’s almost sorry she can’t partake, for it seems almost like an act of gratitude she’s just turned down.

           a  lopsided  shrug  of  indifference  brings  about  the  rise  and  fall  of  her  left  shoulder.   with  cigarette  loosely  propped  between  sallow  lips,   she  strikes  match  ‘gainst  emory  and  touches  lucent  flame  to  tobacco.   ❛   good  for  you,   ❜   sounds  response  gently  muffled.   momentary  pause  as  blaze  is  dropped  into  a  puddle  below,   deep  drag  taken  from  her  smoke  before  it  finds  itself  riveted  betwixt  digits.   the  coerced  movement  of  her  lungs  feels  good;   for  the  moment  she  might  forget  death’s  chill.   ❛   it’s  a  shitty  habit.   ❜

          innocuously  does  she  regard  the  woman  beside  her   ------   cool  gaze  assessing  as  the  air  about  her  clouds  with  smoke  released.   there  is  a  fleeting  thought,   one  that  begs  the  question:   could  she,   too,   exist  something  preternatural?   a  witch?   a  fairy?   (   and  do  you  not  feel  the  delight  at  the  mere  thought  begin  to  fill  your  hollowness,   girl  reborn?   )   ❛   ------   what  brings  you  out  here?   ❜

[renascenced]

"Rot in hell."

@shuibhnc | drama starters | ACCEPTING !

          barb  rings  tame,   does  not  carry  behind  it  enough  venom  to  garner  reaction  at  all   ------   and  yet  memories  stir  behind  unflinching  hues !   she  sees  feathers  on  scales  which  dictate  her  fate  and  gods  of  death  with  rigid  vendettas  and  a  hot  box  of  poison  for  her  to  waste  away  in.   it  is  this  which,   after  smoke  is  drawn  into  lungs,   does  spark  her  ire,   white  hot   &   roiling.   gaze  sharpens,   cigarette  collides  with  asphalt.   do  not  be  fooled  by  the  insouciant  cadence  masking  malicious  intent;   the  maiden  of  death  requires  blood,   and  she  cares  not  who  she  draws  it  from.   (   BEWARE !   )

          ❛   which  circle  of  hell  do  murderers  go  to  again?   i  get  the  feeling  it’s  considerably  fucking  worse  than  the  one  i’d  be  going  to.   ❜

[wnq-writers]

let me tell you something: no one is going to look at you, broken and shattered and think - damn, you are beautiful. no one is going to come pick up your broken pieces off the floor and assemble them into a beautiful whole. hell, you won’t even look at yourself and think - I made broken look beautiful. you know why? because all those writers lied to you. yes, all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and blood dripping down chins, pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you like hurricanes. liars. so you and i, we are going to make a plan. you are not going to romanticize days when your brain tells you to smash that mirror, you are not going to romanticize the lover who doesn’t understand you but still writes about you. here is what you are going to romanticize instead: you are going to romanticize the first day of spring, its gentle hands all over your body, lifting you up until you are as light as a feather. you are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love, no hurricanes, but sunshine that builds you up from within, that helps you make it through the worst days. you are going to romanticize gentle hands of a friend in yours, telling you that it is going to be okay. because it is. and don’t trust poets, we’re no good, we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount to a beautiful disaster, but in reality - there ain’t nothing beautiful about shaky hands holding a cigarette and empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls. you know what is beautiful, instead? the days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile, scars and all. music that makes your soul flow like a river, books that offer comfort, families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm, friends that give you strength when you can find none, lovers who make you laugh through tears. baby, from now on you are going to romanticize healing; honey dripping down your fingertips, August nights that stick to your skin, the day you find your purpose, long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now. bad news: no one is coming to save you. good news: you can save yourself.

Lana Rafaela (via wnq-writers)

[renascenced]

roses or lavender? // vanilla or chocolate? // lightning storms or lights glowing in the fog? //  blushing cheeks or batting eyelashes?  // lipstick or lip gloss?  //  neon signs or canvas paintings?  //  soft winter mornings or flickering summer nights? // velvet or lace?

[renascenced]

THE SUN.

@renascenced​

               the  young  deity  couldn’t  help  the  smug  smile  that  took  over  him.  vape  tapping  against  black  clad  thigh,  index  finger  pointed  at  the  DEAD  GIRL  before  him.  ‘ mmm  you  are  fucked  up.  &&  I  didnt  even  have  to  kill  you.  I  wish  there  had  been  cctv  on  that  road  because  FUCK,  to  see  that  would  have  been  fan-fucking-tastic.  heard  you  severed  his  dick,  that  is  hilarious.  ————  so, ’  brief  pause  was  given  as  he  took  a  short  drag  of  the  synthetic  toadskin  vapour.  ‘ what  the  fuck  do  you  want,  dead  girl ?? ’

          gelid  gaze  drifts  languidly  t’ward  the  extremity  pointed  in  her  direction,   the  product  of  an  eased  neutrality  which  exists  entirely  unreflective  of  the  ferocity  she  conceals.   (   watch  now  the  obscure  way  nails  dig  crescents  into  yielding  skin,   the  flex  of  taut  jaw  muscles,   the  saccharine  smile  which  distorts  features   ------   a  bear,   mid-poke!   )   own  hubris  makes  maiden  of  death  headstrong,   though  unlike  icarus,   she  does  not  aspire  to  become  a  god;   she  only  aspires  to  maim  one.   ❛   peace  on  earth,   good  will  towards  men,   psycho  gods  to  stop  hanging  my  fucking  husband  in  trees.   ❜   a  shrug,   lopsided  and  half-hearted.   ❛   you  know,   the  usual.   ❜

[betterfather-a-deactivated20180]

reifaun:

whatever at least I give good head