worship!

what god wants, god gets. 🌹 indie oc.

[terminalgod-blog]

why are my ocs so good?

[rachel-kellers]

[terminalgod-blog]

monstralized:

              Once more with the inappropriate touching. Seriously? “Oh-kay–I’m really gonna need you to–” I cut myself off with a huff as his hand drops away, and as fast as my talking stops his starts up again. Talking about my name. Like I didn’t know. And, oh, did I know. I knew about his story, and about mine, and about all the other names in the Torah.

               “He’s one of King David’s sons. The one who revolted against him. Your name means Father of Peace in Hebrew…but you probably know that.” My religious upbringing finally becoming useful, if only for showmanship. I considered asking him what he was doing, but by the time I finished speaking, there’s already a car–a fucking Bentley?–pulling up next to us.

                 And then I’m yanked into the back next to him, my heart ramming against the inside of my ribcage again. I wanted to flee as much as it did. The intoxicating smell, the tears in expensive leather–the grinning face inches from my own saying my name over and over. Is this a Thomas Harris situation or a Bret Easton Ellis? Does it matter? “So…you’ve hurt things bigger than worms? Dogs, cats, children…?” The words hung in the warm, fragrant air.

                                                           “That’s a joke.” Mostly.

    Crossing his legs, he keeps an arm outstretched over the scarred leather seats, parallel to his shoulders, and he invades his space. Breath as intoxicatingly sweet as the air, and just as hot, he warms the side of his face free of the flush cold weather incites.

    Already, Absalom proves that he is far more enticing than the rattling and decaying space heater.

    “Nothing but egos.”

    When they drive the first flutters of snowfall crawl down like starlight fallen and he watches through the dark windows that reflect their warm, pink faces, as it becomes stiflingly hot. And the gleam of the city filters out, and over time, when they sit in silence and warmth and listen to Sonny Rollins, so do the roads, and so does that snowy sky, and they shudder and jerk onto the plantation.

    There, bracketed by weeping willows and tarps covering the garden from the snow, he opens the car door, and grabs his hand. “Don’t get in cars with strangers except if he’s rich and also God. Come, David, I’ll make you tea.”

[terminalgod-blog]

horrordriven:

       he meant to reply right away, but the portrait manages to keep his attention. another thing he never expected to see ( today is turning out to be quite an adventure ). he figured anyone willing to have an undressed portrait of themselves were only in his history books. finally, he breaks his focus, turning it back to the other. ❝  it’s just super personal, dude. ❞ 

       eyes scan over the assortment of clothes in awe. they’re much better than the tattered rags he has on himself. while band shirts and ripped jeans have never been something he’s ashamed of, he realizes they’re not very good or stylish. ❝ wine’s the darker red, right? because i gotta say i look utterly amazing in darker clothes. ❞

    “They’re all ancient,” he admits, plucking a deep red pair of slacks from the hanger he’s clipped them to. He thumbs the waistline for any pinches and then hands them to him. “We look the same size.”

    Cocking an eyebrow, thumbing through seemingly a few hundred white crisp button ups, he plucks one that has rolled sleeves stopping mid-bicep and tosses it to his companion. “Be humble, now--” he looks him over, “You cannot speak of looking ‘amazing’ in the dress of a modern teenage girl. Fashion is a form of ugliness so reprehensible nowadays that it must change every six months. Which is why my clothes are all preserved. They haven’t changed since 1890.”

[terminalgod-blog]

beretas:

              as abalsom talks he wonders if there is meant to be DEPTH in his words, in the playful, smirking way he says that he doesn’t drink coffee in. in the droning everything-and-nothing-at-all philosophy. he doesn’t find it. newandyke isn’t a writer. he’s a very plain and simple person, average in a nearly painful way and forward in a new kind of definition. he lives by the talented commoner’s dictionary, even if it really isn’t his. an actor. that’s him. that’s freddy. unbecoming, passive, perfect criteria for someone of his position except not now, exactly. he’s noticeable, targeted in a crowd by a cheap poet who is, if his words mean a damn thing, just looking for fun. the sun is up. the line is long. he wants to spend money. abalsom wants to annoy people. so he will. it’s a very pathetic segment of the population to be a part of but if freddy’s got to deal with it (got to deal with the forehead on his the forehead on his he doesn’t like that he’s got half a mind not to bash it into the brick but he’s passive he’s passive he doesn’t do rash shit now does he no not at all just play it safe man play it safe

                 ❛ everything, something, huh? that’s cool, man, that’s cool. ❜   he bites his lip. worries is. absently wonders if morning aggravation will eventually have him breaking it, have him tasting metalblood. newandyke moves his head back slowly, switching between a hand and an elbow digging, lean-to shoulder to keep the other pinned there. he tries not to pay him time of day, fishes a cigarette from a pocket (but does not smoke, he doesn’t even have a zippo on him) like this is Nothing, capital N and hard -thing.  ❛ you go find that somewhere else, then. go not buy coffee from another place. find another guy in a line. i ain’t givin’ you shit. you’re a real asshole. ❜ asshole was a good summary, but there’s a lot of details left out, aren’t there? this isn’t a quickspout guy, yelling things in a line and acting cheeky as he harasses some poor bitch working minimum wage or a purposely seeking out the guy that looks like he’s got the most on his mind. this is the kindd that causes SCENES. scenes that extend longer and farther than they should ; all freddy can think about is walking out of here quick, raise less questions. draw no attention. but he’s got to make sure he’s the real winner here, first. the definite goodguy (it’s a picked up habit of his ; thank you, fellow blueboys).

    He is no stranger to being manipulated physically and he doesn’t flinch, as if being attended to by a tailor or by a roller-coaster operator. Keep your arms and feet inside the ride at all times. Absalom is banned from Disney World, clung to a ride with only one hand and a foot hooked inside the machine.

    But that was years ago and now he still doesn’t obey the rules, shuffling in the inner pocket of his suitjacket, lined with a shimmering navy sleek as oil, and lights the end of his cigarette until it glows cherry-hot.

    “I saw you last night and got that old feeling,” he singing, cupping Freddy’s face and serenading him with a monotone lilt Chet Baker couldn’t compete with, more of a religious lullaby. “There’ll be no new romance for me, it’s foolish to start / That old feeling is still in my heart.” 

    He drops his hand and tilts his head, eyes sad and downcast, and he says, talking now, “It’s such a shame to reject the blasphemous when they’re so cool, but heretics aren’t redeemable by their hipness.”

[terminalgod-blog]

dumbstcr:

   ❝And you’re going to bald prematurely! Though, I suppose being petite and adorable really is worse.❞ She responds sarcastically as she pats him on the cheek.

    Pinching the soft curve of her chin between his thumb and finger, he shakes her fondly, just enough to be fond rather than nasty, and then stands up over her, finally, unfurling. 

    Singing, now: “You don’t know what love is.” He extends a hand to her.

[terminalgod-blog]

godslucretia:

It turned out that after so many days of existing, night to night, one could run out of busy work to do. Lucretia had no friends to speak of, no family, no job, nowhere to turn to that would accept her- but she always had the church. Sometimes she would write entire sermons in her head, always appreciated by the pastor, but never said. 

Too passionate, he would say, the youth of today have no need of that nonsense. They won’t understand it!

He’d instead decided that this passion should extend elsewhere, to the funds of the church, dwindling in this day and age. Lucretia had, of course, volunteered to aid them in their cause, but her limits of strictly moonlight hours only put a strain on the whole project. She was forced to migrate out to the busy streets of downtown with the other ragged beggars, none poorer than herself. 

“Monsieur, would you care to donate?” She calls out to a wealthy, well-off passersby.

    And always the church will have her.

    Well-to-do and gleaming in the soft light of the setting sun, Absalom passes smelling expensive, but not expensive in the modern world. He smells clean and floral, and has the tinny and metallic undertones of money under his suit jacket.

    Hands in his pockets, he leans down. Once his maid told him, ‘you gonna be rich one day, little Abs. You always holdin’ onto your money.’ He often fell as a child, up the stairs, because his hands kept warm in his pockets.

    “A beauty like you,” he coos, and a seeming sarcasm snags in his throat, “What couldn’t I do for you? I can do more than donate. It’s only, of course, for your cheekbones.”

[anatomicznegejowskieporno]

[terminalgod-blog]

grumpygundy:

There was the temptation to attribute his childish frustration to the simple fact of being lost. Doris had seen react far more poorly to less, though the fact he clearly didn’t belong there must have added to the insult of not knowing where he was. That he was used to getting his way was readily apparent.

Doris kept her eyes on the ground to watch for slippery rocks and patches of mud, answering lightly as she went, “Most’ve us out here end up a bit plump if you haven’t noticed- myself included. A bit of extra insulation and growing up in a place like this will make it easier. The house will be plenty warm for you.”

    Staring at the back of her head as he follows eagerly, leaning in his stroll as if to warm the redness of his nose with the body heat she emits, he emits some laughter as light as the wind.

    “I love the self-deprecating!” he compliments, walking in step with her now, peering at her with sunniness, eyes creased amiably. “You cannot BELIEVE the people I’ve dealt with such inflated egos. It’s disgusting, really--trying to compete with me.”

    He sighs and stares at her now, suddenly warm, clingy. “You’re quite giving, you know. I think you’ll go to heaven.”

[terminalgod-blog]

gnarlcd:

    “Not having a good game are we?” Oh she jests, until the crystalline tears brim and the threat of death crosses the field. Then Priscilla hurries over and tries to placate the strange man. 

    “Oh please don’t say that. It would be perfectly good waste of life!”

     Throwing his arms around the slope of her Golden-age Hollywood waist, he tosses his head back and wails with the dramatic cry of Marlon Brando in Streetcar Named Desire. “There ain’t a thing worth living for in this forsaken planet I made all on my own! I’ve damned you all to a life of misery! I’M SORRY!”

[terminalgod-blog]

vicemirrored:

teeth were really more of a matter for a dentist, not a physician, but dr. jekyll refrained from pointing that out. extracting a stethoscope from his bag and wrapping it round in his fist, he turned back, returned to the chair where absalom sat draped dramatically, and unravelled the stethoscope to drape it around his neck for later. 

taking a pulse was the first order of business. he was quite sure he’d find nothing whatsoever out of order, but absalom had insisted; so, swallowing his complaints, the doctor pressed on methodically, as he would with any other patient. motioning for the young man to offer up a wrist, he replied, “ it is possible. have you noticed any fatigue or shortness of breath? ”

    Uncuffing the fine jacket he’d been made that is far too formal and far too warm for this casual Monday morning, he offers up the tan slant of his wrist that’s sleek and unmarred by neither mundane work nor the sleek foxhairs on his arms.

    “Fatigue? Not quite. Shortness of breath--constantly. But only when I look in the mirror does it ever pain me or become obvious,” he leans back in his chair and stares out the window, the gold morning light turning his face amber, and he blinks rapidly, as if stunned by some ethereal shine, “Aren’t my wrists beautiful? One day they’ll be bogged with stigmata.”

[terminalgod-blog]

vinget:

       “ so did i, until i swam in it. “ not her, technically, but valkyrie’s memories tell her what would have happened if she’d been around back then. she’s being indulgent by just being there and he should be grateful but she won’t push it, not yet. the day is beautiful and she’s feeling just proud enough of the fact that she hasn’t set the sky ( or him ) ablaze to be pleasant.

       she’s tempted to follow his lead, to poke her finger in the water and kill everything in it, to show off, to be superior… but she wants to keep the cards up her sleeve where they are just a little while longer. it’s a practice in patience, to see how long she can stand him in her guise of mortal mediocrity, and a mildly interesting ( or at least pleasurably antagonizing ) one.

       dark, dark eyes open to stare directly above, at the vast blue sky, and the look on her pretty face is one of perfect serenity, the kind that comes from knowing she will outlive both the annoying conversation and company by millennia. at least he’s pretty to look at. “ sort of. a lot of people know who i am. but only in very exclusive circles. “ the curve of her smirk is smug ; she knows that’s not the answer he wants, and she very much decides not to comment on his dreams of stardom at all.

    “I don’t care for exclusivity,” he murmurs, dragging a NO through the frothy scum that cultivates atop the pool. “The exclusive become forgotten over time. No one cares for a circle jerk, and no one is impressed by it! Even Fitzgerald and Hemingway’s band are all that impressive.”

    Pulling himself to his knees, he stares at her with his soft bottom lip jutted in a pout, brows hitched. For his chiseled face, the expression draws years off, and he looks like a child again, but with eyes accusatory and glinting like a serpent’s.

    “But fame in death is--...”

    Looking skyward, his lips crawl into a smile. And his hands come together in reverence and rest upon his bare and honey-colored knees. “It’s wonderful. Post-mortem beauty is forever. It can’t be tainted by misdeeds and it’s can’t fall prone to infamy. I’d like to be crucified, I think.”

[jesuisclaire]

the talented mr. Ripley (1999)

[terminalgod-blog]

yo i just discovered john updike and i’m flipping out

[irobbstark]

Jude Law in The Holiday (2006)

[terminalgod-blog]

imagine having such an unbearable personality that you drive someone to suicide. not rottenness, or cruelty, or even criminality. just being so obnoxious as a child that someone kills themselves to escape you.

[artfoli]

Stillleben mit Blumen (Still Life with Flowers), 1665, by Willem van Aelst (1627–c. 1682)