#putrefacerem

[blacknoch]

𝔖he's hated coming here ever since she was a little girl. the walls smelt fungal. it was the musty cloy of under-earth, and it permeated everything, sunk into the clothes if one lingered too long or too near. a putrescence sickeningly sweet and rotted, like pulping fruits and meats no longer plagued with spastic nerves. yet still she comes here, from time to time. there were no septs. no septons here, within the black noch. no weirwoods with hungering mouths, and eyes of blood. ' you need not linger by the doorway. ' death's stink was the closest she could get to the gods, so it seemed, when not aback the dragon. ' this is a place of rest. '

@putrefacerem

[berthindeath]

@putrefacerem sent: my  muse  brushes  your  muse’s  hair  away,  their  fingers  lingering.

the   agony   of   tenderness   as   it   skates   over   chilled   skin   has   the   veiled   sister   nearly   recoiling,   though   not   from   rejection.   so   long   she's   been   untouched,   long   before   her   soul   was   sown   back   into   the   corpse   she   now   pilots.   everything   is   new,   yet   frozen.   she   does   not   feel   the   sun   when   she   haunts   the   gardens   during   the   day.   she   can   take   pleasure   in   it's   light   but   cannot   feel   it's   warmth,   nor   can   it   burn   her   flesh   if   she   were   to   remain   in   it   for   too   long.

for   she   is   the   one   frozen.   porcelain   waiting   to   crack.

❝   mmm,   ❞   she   hums,   lilacs   fluttering   closed   as   she   feels   the   way   his   touch   lingers   against   the   column   of   her   throat.   he   does   not   pull   away,   even   though   a   part   of   her   wished   he   would   so   the   warmth   of   him   would   dissipate.   before   the   heat   melts   into   her   skin,   stokes   the   ice   cold   coals   to   flame.

she   does   not   pull   away.

❝   you   touch   me   with   reverence,   dear   mordú.   ❞   she   murmurs   in   a   dulcet   tone,   almost   ethereal   if   she   were   but   the   opposite.   an   abomination   to   some,   but   perhaps   something   else   entirely   to   him.

her   movements   are   disjointed   at   times,   as   if   mimicking   the   delicate   grace   she'd   once   possessed   in   life   but the sinew   cannot   quite   capture   the   rhythm.   once   sun   kissed   flesh,   now   swallowed   by   the   chill   of   the   moon,   gwendolyn   reaches   out   to   him   in   turn   as   she   seeks   to   cradle   his   face   within   her   touch.   the   cup   of   her   hand   finds   the   curve   of   his   jawline,   a   shameless   intrusion   to   mirror   his   own.

yet   the   more   she   touches   him,   the   more   warmth   her   body   leeches   from   his.   can   he   feel   it?   does   he   feel   like   a   draft   is   in   the   air?   or   does   it   feel   more   akin   to   feeling   one's   life   pulled   from   their   bones?   she   does   not   seek   that,   no.   no,   it   is   a   far   more   primal   and   simple   pursuit.   one   that   reaches   for   the   hand   that   still   touches   her   and   guides   it   up   the   length   of   her   neck   until   his   hand   now   mirrors   her   own.

❝   and   if   i   wanted   you   to   feel   more   of   me—would   you?   ❞

[muutosarch]

[ tongue ] sender slides their tongue along receiver’s skin, taking their time tasting every inch

for rain! ... hydration purposes , of course.

not often does pleasure come in such unpredictable ways.. perhaps unaware of cosmic tug lulled by hypnosis of the eyes, however such hardly negates the point that precious few are intrepid enough to submerge themselves within his depths.. even less-so who are not made in the image of aquatic element. and improbability only doubled again, with such impressive stature as he whom has sought out his company.. a marvel in itself, surely. perhaps the ancient creature had been lured by gentle song, carried by the moon-kissed breeze.. or teased by murky skin resting 'pon earthy surface of lapping shore, located just beyond the boarders of their shared abode. ( however, he highly doubts that he had not been sniffed out deliberately ). hunted again, by shade of the night. a icy tingle rolling waist. the rippling radiance of celestial body bathing his angles in heavenly grace.

such stark in contrast to that which has commenced in little words. an inkling of primal instincts present in descent, that rain has seen so many times before, as was inherent to experience below. naught but a neck to bare, a pleasure to be taken. a taste of warm iron and gritty salt. a gift he gives willingly, to those whom he deems worthy. and, as in cases such as this, one whom bred such curiosity within.. whom he would have, simply to bask in such an experience as was being provided. something to offer which is more-so earthly in pleasure than animalistic, as rain has become accustomed to. indulgence in the hedonistic teachings of clergy, as inherent to the species which dwells 'pon this plane. something which the water nymph has found himself inherently drawn towards, as he was the greediness in those granted possession of the lithe and subtle curves in ethereal being. beauty measured by light refracted from scales and casting 'cross the water, giving rainbow tint to yellowish hue shone down from above. his monstrous features aplenty, and on shameless display for those which are offered in kind. arched over dark frame nursing curved spine in itself, with legs wrapped around thick waist with an intersect at the ankles. elbows pressed into the mud to keep the surface of musculature from leisure depths, as waist continues to dwell below..

rivulets of lake water carve onyx into drying grey like wet clay, as they race towards the lengthy muscle that dips carefully into each subtle drop and valley of his torso. all caught greedily, tasted and savoured like the infused flavours of trawled skin. coaxing a soft moan pushed outward, high pitched and delicate. needy. his chin angling upward creating a strain in neck turned to gothic pillar, lined with chiselled waves in fine architecture.

his long, black claws find purchase in such hard planes of the other's shoulders, and even in keratin of low-riding horns. tugging fruitlessly and pulling like the tide, as he beckons long laps of greedy tongue so intent to drink every inch from cup overflowing. for nerves turn alight when tip catches bordering scales and the nerve-endings attached, whilst obscenities emit when they dip close to sensitive gills which gape in the licking of wet tendrils. legs now doing most of the heavy lifting in keeping him elevated, while abdomen shudders and trembles with laborious breaths...

long whine is drawn from the depths of him, neediness still laced within as continuing muscle deftly travels the line between pectorals. rain's almond pupils greedily pin-pricking in their meeting with those which hold their hinted amusement in control. his hips rolling wantonly whilst palms fashion to jaw, attempting in vain to edge face upward. soft, aching furrow long since forged betwixt his brow. a mewl directly proceeding "demone spietato.." he gasps, his gills carved within his torso and throat fluttering, as a silent plea of their own. "please.." he keens, lamenting in the touch which skates all that he wishes it to indulge. "you're being cruel.."

YOU. ME. NOW. @putrefacerem.

[perpetval]

@putrefacerem asked: are you the glory in my wrath ?

The chapel gradually EMPTIES as Mass concludes and members of the congregation spill out into the corridors, many hushed voices mixing into unintelligible babble that Perpetua could only hope was all positive. Wide, mismatched hues peer up from the lit candles when the ghoul approaches them at the altar, black painted lips curving into a faint, but POLITE smile when he speaks. " I suppose it depends on what you expect of me as your new Papa. I could very well be your glory. I am a reflection of everything you could ever want and dream of, everything that resides in the darkest corners of your heart. " The long claws of Perpetua's gloves gesture two and fro in mesmerizing movements before they reach out and carefully close the bible that sits upon the lectern.

" Opus, is it? They tell me you worked with my father back when he started the project. " The Fifth muses, half to themselves and half directed towards the other. How many still existed in the Clergy that knew Nihil back then they wonder. They scoop up the old tome in their hands, TUCKING it under one arm while their other hand supports the worn spine. " Walk with me? I would very much like to hear from someone with a broader scope regarding those who came before my reign. "

[vigilant-cleric]

@putrefacerem

__

Most of the time, the priest's ventures under the guise of a simple, non-clerical traveller were as enjoyable and peaceful as any. Sometimes, the disfigured monster of war at the back of his mind would make itself known.

A moment too long spent in loneliness and Highcliff would stare at the bottom of his near-empty tankard. His reflection gazed right back at him in the few drops of remaining beer, but the eye of his mind would see something else. He remembered hurrying to undo leather straps, ever so clumsy with his metal gauntlets and his trembling hands, and the horrible, obscene, sickening sound of Draseth gargling blood under his bascinet's cover. The helmet slid off, and it was his eyes writhing in a face white as a shroud. And the man, poor man, half-corpse that he was, just seconds away from breathing his last, striving to rasp, "zbožňuji tě, zbožňuji tě..."

Fuck. Not again. Highcliff couldn't let himself slip into his memories and away from the world. He abruptly grasped at the sleeve of the ale maid passing by, and his distorted, forced courteous smile nearly frightened her.

"Goodwife... a beer... a beer..." he tried to gather. "This man, over there. Not from here... yes? Ought to welcome him. On my tab."

He could tell she wanted to enquire if he was all right, but did not want to know the answer. She simply let him slip away, leaving his table to join the stranger. Any conversation would do to pull him out of there.

"Now, that's one awful tavern, sir. The stew is worthy of dog food. Can't be to your taste, evidently."

He was pleasant, but the unhealthy pallor on his face told another tale.

[vardamaiden]

@putrefacerem sent : 💀 … oh hell yeah.

what was bloodlust but passion turned most savage? what was yearning for violence but the desire to feel alive?

to have a heart beating like such, erratic and desperately clinging to life even if it was futile. wrist to elbow streaked with red, contrasting fair and glowing skin, hand squeezing the organ just enough to be rewarded with sounds of agony. pristine hand moved to caress her victim's face, a gentle touch to contrast the vicious.

sweet ilmarë. blessed ilmarë.

cruel ilmarë. virulent ilmarë.

two sides of the same coin, yet only one saw the light of day with the other safely tucked away under layers of pleasantness and revelry. everyone wished for love but could never accept that darkness lurked, coexisting with light. there was not just one side to love, as there would never be just one side to her.

a noise drew her back from her ponderings, cold gaze resting upon a face twisted with pain and torment. " you might have lived, you know. all you had to do was kneel and beg forgiveness. i asked you so nicely to leave me be, did i not? i showed you kindness, being so polite. and yet what did you do? " another, harsher squeeze of hand buried deep within their chest, treating their heart like one might a toy. the screams were music to the ears, a symphony of a fool on the edge of death. " like many a man, your undeserving and pathetic self still somehow managed to gain such an impressive amount of arrogance and audacity, believing yourself entitled to me. "

he could have lived, had he walked away. he could have lived, had he not encountered the maia in a mood most foul. perhaps with the loss of a hand, or both, but nonetheless he would have walked with his life.

now it was forfeit. such was the consequence of daring to touch the divine.

leaning in, lips against ear. a sweet kiss, a cruel gesture as even now his heart could not help but skip a beat. " you poor foolish mortal. did no one ever warn you about love and all her cruelty? " footsteps resounded faintly, a presence joining in the room. familiar, hers. as such, it mattered not that now a witness had come, for he had seen her cruelty before, been subjected to it. attention returned to the mortal, having grown tired of playing, the crimson splattered all over her dress and arms no longer satisfying her. " i have grown bored, i think i shall end our fun here. consider yourself fortunate, not many have received the honour of perishing at my hand. "

it was over in the blink of an eye. body stumbling back before falling at her feet. hand holding torn out heart, the maia eyed it most unimpressed. " mordú. " how saccharine she called him to her, beckoning him as if nothing had happened. " you are late. you missed all the fun. "

[blacknoch]

“It is my intention, if I may be so bold, to remain close to you throughout the evening.”

𝔭𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔬𝔰 , 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔤𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔱 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔰𝔪𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔦𝔭 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔥𝔢'𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔡 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔱𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔡𝔲𝔰𝔨 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔩𝔞𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔶 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢𝔡 . it was a gift from one of the merchants from the tides village and it's prosperous ports --- still small , still humble , with a trickle of bounty etching itself into the coastal stone , the people fed well above all with the currency of their imports . some even brave the king's road that winds through the belly of the wyr thicket and it's tall , downcurved branches . this one spoke in silk , his cupid's bow brassy like the gold he wore in his ears when the candle glow licked over his moving mouth the right way , when he looked up at her from under the bush of his unibrow . his breath smelled like fennel , like tobacco . it left her belly warm . she is still reminiscing well after he has gone .

" oh ? " turstin returns to herself , and again swells in the low roar of the jovial court , the singing strings of the minstrels to her ears . when she brings her pale eyes to mordu , lips rosy from the drink's stain , she smiles . " am i in danger ? "

@putrefacerem

[muutosarch]

he loves the pretty ones best.

for omega!

with implication comes the most minuscule quirk of his head... clearly not without an ounce of irritation, mind you -- however, one even so endowed with sublimity cannot hide the proud stomp of spat 'pon the venue ground. careful, glamoured fingers tugging at his sash, whilst postured back becomes notably straighter... heavy and contented exhale hammering against the chrome walls of statuesque visage, which has lifted its chin considerably.

omega isn't an idiot, however.... there is a realization beneath the primal delight that threatens tail from the slight discomfort of disguise, that this was in-fact meant as an insult.. ( though how, exactly, is simply wrapped up in semantics ). how it is meant, versus one's opinion of such a statement. subjective, of course. though one such as mordú would seek to present the negative objectively. omega, is quite pleased with the idea that papa emeritus iii had favoured him, above all. however one cannot be entirely surprised by the notion. and assumes in part, working with papa zero had instilled a natural inclination of worry towards the sons repeating the sins of the father. but omega was foolishly not concerned about that. not this time. perhaps in the second, and his evening lifestyle - though one couldn't properly argue his dedication to the job. well.. unless you were imperator to nihil, that is. however, the third was different. he's magnetic -- and the people love him. he's on his way to winning over the public, and he would be at his side when he did so. mordú, however, was just upset that he lost his chance.

the jealousy, is quite unbecoming. he paints them all in a bad light.

"well... i wouldn't exactly call myself pretty, perse..." he brings ringed hands upward to adjust his mask slightly, before dropping back down to rest at at his front. cracking his neck with a fast movement, while holding onto one of his wrists in politeness of stance. he's attempting to be modest about the entire ordeal, however his being taken with papa was hardly a secret. deciding that feigning would only take him so far, as the itch of his pride swells beneath the surface of his chest.

"however," he rolls his hand in mild gesticulation, within continuation of his thought. "i suppose it's only natural for people to gravitate towards perfection, in a way." he rocks on his heels, before settling. head cocked, with a nod of his head. still playing coy at how such would irritate his brother. more than likely because he didn't care one way or the other.. "humans, i mean."

hands go from one state, to the other. seeming to speak with him in tandem, along with the subtle movements of his head. "their eyes are trained to see the symmetry in faces, did you know that? even if some find themselves repulsed by such an idea, you know? even if they wish to rebel against their natural inclinations." he finds at times, he must settle. there is no match to the makeup of his being, after all. yet what better piece of shit bacteria walking this god-forsaken planet to choose, than the fucking anti-pope? the chosen one? "but clearly papa emeritus has more sense than that. or else i wouldn't be here."

NOSFERATU (2024) @putrefacerem.