#kinda dark?

[bluemadnessstuff]

Imagine ultron keeping you away in a hidden safe house, you don't even have the power to question where he's keeping you or what's happening outside. He keeps you either fucked out of your mind, drunk, or drowsy from sleep.

His little doll to keep.

[stanzoeywade]

Bea would be the guy I think

But it would be so cool if poppy were

Like can you imagine poppy casually killing someone out of jealousy😩

Interesting 👀

So like it goes something like this.

----

Their first meeting is at a bookshop and Bea is there looking at everyone, silently analysing their every move as she looks at whatever book they're reading/aisle that they're looking at.

In comes Poppy, dressed like a true New-York elite, pink fuzzy jacket and all, looking like the personification of wealth.

Immediately she catches Bea's attention because she intrigued. She's never seen anyone as interesting as the blonde girl in front of her. Flawless porcelain skin and a petite figure that most women would kill to have. She radiated power and elegance, not something you'd find from this side of New York, the elites after all preferred staying in their corner. Needless to say Bea's curious.

She watches as the blonde goes over to a shelf filled with critically acclaimed books and picks out a book Bea absolutely loathed. It was one of those generic romance novels that made her skin crawl in second hand embarrassment.

'Oh come on pink princess, I thought you'd have more taste than that. You're looking like a true dilettante.' thought Bea as the girl she was watching walked over to a different aisle, away from her view.

After a few seconds, the blonde emerges, two books in hand, one from Jane Austen and the other from some author Bea never cared about.

She flashes her a smile, one that was coyly returned.

Bea perks up as she greets her. "Hello, welcome, how can I help you today?"

"Just these two please." said Poppy.

"Mhm, a classic Jane Austen? Along with a generic book? I don't know if I should let you buy these two things together, it'd be against my code as a bookseller." joked Rosie, making the blonde smile.

"I know, but I really needed a good laugh and I've been told that it was really bad."

They laugh in solidarity as Rosie rings the books up.

"Your total is 12 bucks, also do you need a bag?" she asks as the blonde shakes her head.

"I'm sure I can manage." she says whilst squinting to get a better look at Bea's name tag. "Thanks for your help Bea, I needed that laugh."

Bea smiles as she hands over the books as she watches the girl walk away. Only for Poppy to turn around and smile at Bea.

"I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Poppy. Poppy Min-Sinclair."

"Well it's nice to meet you too Poppy, I hope to see more of you around."

Poppy smiles before she turns to leave.

Bea smirks, knowing that she now had a new obsession.

[nenestansunsthings]

10C for the drawing requests!

oh wow this took a while. i'm sorry for not answering this sooner!! i got kind of into this and i made a way more complex drawing than i first intended so it took a while!

but anyway here! i made my version of dr. butterfly! i was working on his design already so i wanted to make something for him!

he's going full Carrie on some poor fucker's ass. maybe they insulted clef or draven or something? called him an scp? either way, they're in for a beating

[rambling-ginger]

I’m not going out tomorrow which makes me sad but he’s not feeling well so it’s for the best. Right now I feel like crap. I cut it off here for reasons

 Like the kind of crap that is all moody and wanting to write macabre scenes. It’s like finally getting to a ledge while climbing out of a pit and looking back to see the never ending depths knowing something is staring back at you waiting for you to slip back down. How much easier would it be to just fall into darkness, to be twisted and crushed and pulled apart. Why is it easier to do that then to slowly crawl up the jagged walls of a pit that was made by the cruel inner thoughts that came in the dark even though you know the top is better than the bottom? Hoping to reach the top that you once were at. It is real, right? Not a figment created as a means of escaping the canyon of pain and loathing. 

[spookysp-ace]

Mom: I have to go over there and cut that black skin off that salmon.

Me: ooooh.

Mom: you wanna do it?

Me: sure!

Mom: can you do it without cutting yourself?

Me: every artist has to get paint on their apron at some point in time.

Mom: *stares at me for a moment* ....not that kind of paint.

:)

[insincere-engineer]

For the aesthetic thing... winged eyeliner? Is that how I ask a question? Wha?

Winged eyeliner: write a 100 word letter to your 12 year old self. (and yeah I think that’s the general asking format)

Dear twelve year old self.

You are not broken. All your friends are getting crushes on boys and you’re not feeling it - but that doesn’t make you worthless. You’re fearless of spiders and clowns but terrified of less conventional things - you’re not crazy. You’ll feel like the world has ended when your best friend leaves you - and maybe you’re not just overreacting. Maybe your little heart just loved her in a way your brain couldn’t quite bring itself to comprehend yet. Please don’t consider killing yourself over all this. People would miss you, even if you don’t think so. You are not broken - you are unique.

[celesto-the-amazing]

Read the word then type the first word that comes to your character’s mind

Tagged By: @freljord-le​

Rough: Sex Hide: Seek Foolish:  Jojo Sad: Ice Cream Hate: anger  Light: Work Dark: Sleep Mother: Caring Father: Abscent Child: naieve  Marriage: Gay Love: Pain Soft: fur Pet: shih tzu Dream: weird Sex: Eh Divorce: Love Water: Fire Loud: race-car Announcement: exciting  Power: Veigar Fight: win Smack: a bitch White: Bread Sick: lying Kiss: tender Hug: snuggles Hurt: Hands Happy: sad

Tagging: anyone 

[thelazywriter11-blog]

Parasites

The jacket wasn’t always his. He looks like he’s swimming in it, his slight frame lost in a sea of brown leather. It might have belonged to a father, or a brother. He might have found it at a thrift store, run his fingers over the worn leather, smiled his razor sharp smile and known that it was his. He moves fluidly, hands in his pockets, eyes cold and defiant in his ethereal face. He’s dangerous. (He’s beautiful.) He leaves the party through a back door, stands at the curb and waits again. Maybe tonight he was waiting for a girl, with short hair and shark’s eyes. Or a boy, with warm hands and a nervous smile. Or maybe, tonight, me.

I don’t have to say anything at all. I lean close, smell the smoke on his breath. I wrap my arms around his narrow waist, cool leather supple beneath my fingers. I let him smile into my mouth and know that I am his, just for tonight.

In the morning darkness, I listen to his steady breathing, then sit up and study his face. He’s so vulnerable, the lines of his face soft and sweet, all of his deadly beauty lost beneath waves of sleep. A pang of guilt is strangled by the rushing in my ears. Now. I kiss him, and he begins to tremble. His mouth is moving against mine, as if to say something, but I’m feeding now, his memories flooding my mind, his panic flaring in my chest.

He grew up in a small house.

His mother’s eyes were kind.

His arms flail helplessly, trying to push me off, terror flooding him with adrenaline. God help me, he thinks, I think, it’s all the same now, my pleasure mingling with his terror until they are one.

The jacket was his older brother’s, dead now for years.

Emotion is welling in our chests like blood, and this is what keeps me up at night- the moment of the kill. His fear is lessening, draining away just as he does, and there are no more memories, just darkness, stretching the years he should have lived. Tears slip down my cheeks, and he makes one last, tiny noise, and is still.

I take a deep, calming breath. I keep waiting for this to get easier. I leave him there, tangled in bedsheets, and look myself over in the mirror. Short dark hair, blue eyes- the smile is less dangerous, though, which makes no sense, and the eyes softer. I can’t ever get it exactly right. I pick his clothes up off the floor, leaving mine where they fell. I shrug into his jacket, and close the door behind me.

She looks at me assessingly when I get home.

“Good hunting?” It’s not quite a question, but I answer anyway.

“Always. You made out well, I see.”

Her hair is red, and curls wildly around her shoulders. She holds herself like a dancer, graceful and poised, and smiles at me with pearly teeth.

“Of course,” she kisses me, and I know that I am hers, and she is mine, no matter the body, no matter the year, and we will be together forever, she and I, until the last two human bodies breathe their last.