Beca spends an inordinate amount of time arranging herself into what she hopes is a ‘desirable position’ on the very new four-poster bed she’d had delivered that morning. Chloe had always wanted one and her Christmas bonus from the studio had been pretty generous this year, so she’d figured, “Why not?”
She had taken the time to painstakingly twine together two strings of fairy lights - one red, one green, because of course the six stores she’d stopped at had been out of the ones already boasting both colours - and wrapped them around each of the four posts before shoving the ends into a long extension cord that she had then hidden away under the bed to give the illusion of professionalism.
She’d even bought new sheets, in Chloe’s favourite royal blue shade no less, and had, at the last minute, sprung for a slate grey fleece throw that she thought was the same colour as the walls of the bedroom. Of course, once getting the blanket home, she’d realised she was wrong, but it was close enough.
She’s hoping Chloe will be more focused on Beca’s half naked body, rather than the mismatched blanket she’s got artfully draped over her legs. She had found some ribbon in Chloe’s craft drawers and managed to tie it in a bow around her chest in a way that covers some but really very little.
Now, all she has to do is wait.
Chloe is late. Twenty minutes late, actually. Beca hears the front door open and slam shut, and straightens from where she’d been reclining against the pillows. She hears Chloe kick off her shoes viciously enough that they hit the wall, hears her stomp her way along the hallway.
“Jiminy CRICKET, what a DAY.” She does not sound happy. “Beca?” A grumpy Chloe is not always someone to trifle with and so Beca considers her potential courses of action very, very carefully in the few seconds that follow. She even looks around to see where she left her clothes to assess whether or not she can get them back on before Chloe makes it to her.
“Upstairs!” she eventually calls out, after recalling how Grumpy Chloe or Sad Chloe or Gently Perturbed Chloe had reacted to Naked Beca in the past.
It had been well.
“I just want a mug of hot chocolate, you, and some trashy TV,” Chloe says, as her heavy footfalls announce her approach. “Maybe then I can forget this dumb job exists for the weekend.” Beca’s heart ramps up its beats like it’s readying for an explosion and she sees Chloe before Chloe sees her. “I’m just sick of– oh.”
Chloe stops two steps into the room and takes in, well, everything with a slack jaw. Beca notes, with some humour, that she seems to notice the bed first. Her face lights up with a smile and her eyes search for Beca in order to, Beca assumes, thank her. “Oh.” Chloe’s voice is lower this time, urged down there by what sounds like a mix of wonder and surprise, and a heavy dash of exactly what Beca had been hoping for.
She very purposefully glances down to adjust the bow that’s bridging the valley of her breasts and then regards Chloe’s wide-eyed awe with raised eyebrows.
Well, thanks to @prinxietys I now ship Logic and Morality so take this aesthetic I threw together for them. I couldn’t find any fanart of them together so I just had to even it out and make the grid 4x2 instead of 3x2 like I usually make them. And I totally didn’t use the colour orange because orange flowers are a symbol of passion and desire. Nope. Not at all.
Honestly I’m not a big fan of this, my Prinxiety one was better in my opinion but oh well. @thatsthat24
There’s blood layering every surface of my living room; it sends my body into a frenzy because it means I have to have everything washed or thrown out.
My desire to have someone’s heart in my hand and their blood seeping down my throat like strong alcohol has grown too strong, it’s creeping and crawling into my days instead of staying settled in my nights like it should do. This wouldn’t have happened if I had it all under control. The mere thought of not having a firm grip on the situation makes it slip out of my reach even more.
White seems like such a good colour for the interior of my house until it comes to slitting a person’s throat; the blood is never going to come out of the couch.
Huffing, I make my way into the kitchen; I keep rolls upon rolls of bags for this kind of situation and now my mind is screaming at me to use them. I almost slip when my foot touches the hardwood floor but I quickly regain my balance.
Now that the man’s guts are decorating my living room and his blood has settled into my stomach quite nicely - it’s making me feel full, bloated even, which means I won’t have to eat tonight - I’m feeling on edge and frustrated with myself due to not thinking to put anything down to stop the red substance staining everything. I almost wish I could revive the dead man so I can relive the feeling of his skin opening at my hands.
Despite my reluctance, I have to start throwing anything that can’t be bleached or washed into the bags. Everything I own costed a heavy amount when I purchased it so a lot of it is destined for the bag, except a few things I can’t bare to see go; those things I promise to still make good use with, and place them by the stairs.
While the rug that was previously sat in the centre of my living room (and once complimented the colour scheme I had going on, but now ruins it completely with the blotches of blood) is being thrown into the second bag to begin to fill to the top, I can hear my phone ringing from the kitchen. I don’t bother to run and answer it.
It screams at me to answer it four more times before whoever is calling seems to give up. The house falls into an easy silence after that, much to my appreciation.
Around half an hour later - when guts are sat in a messy pile in the corner and the only blood is that smeared across the wall (due to my victim struggling for his life) - there’s a noise I don’t expect, and one I haven’t heard in so long; the sound of the front door opening.
It’s become so unknown to me that when the noise first sets into my ear, I don’t recognise it. Although, when there’s a gasp - a noise I <i>do</I> know, and adore very much - following it, I know that what’s about to happen cannot look good for me. My head snaps in the direction of the door and stood looking shocked, confused and scared all at once, is [Y/N]. She’s wearing one of the numerous sweaters of mine that she likes to keep at her house.
“J-Justin?” she stutters and I don’t dare to move a muscle in my body.
“Happy Halloween,” I ask rather than state. My voice is laced with panic and I wouldn’t have to have someone tell me to be able to detect it.
“It’s January,” she says and my fingers clench around the bag that starts to have the ability to slip between them. I can feel my forehead becoming hot, as well as the rest of my body.
“Ah, shit- looks like I’m too late. Well, there’s always next year. You wanna go get some coffee?” I speak frantically, hoping something else will capture her attention and throw her off the image of her boyfriend stood in front of a white wall painted with blood.
“What’s going on?” she squeaks and I find her very attractive when she’s scared. I try hard to keep my mind and my vision straight.
“Isn’t it obvious, babygirl?”
“Why have you painted your walls red?” she asks and I laugh.
“That’s easy: it’s not paint,” I grin and feel my body begin to relax.
This is it. It’s going to happen right now. This could either end with us being partners in crime; killing together and having our own late night murderous rendezvous whenever we want, the idea of it makes me shift uncomfortably in my trousers, or it’s going to end with her trying to leave and me having to duct tape her to my bed. I don’t see a realistic option between the two.
“Then, what.. is it?” she frowns and her round face looks sadder than I’ve ever had to see her. I don’t know whether to be happy or sad.
“Well, it’s blood.” I don’t think she’s noticed the guts in the corner.
“I thought it was cranberry juice.” She doesn’t convince me; cranberry juice doesn’t take so long to make its way down the wall.
“Nope, it’s blood,” I state clearly.
She’s quiet. Her eyes are on fire and they’re moving between me and the wall. I’m uncertain as to what she’s thinking so I don’t say anything, I simply wait; the bag in my hand is starting to irritate my skin.
“Is this one of your little jokes? I can never tell. You’re scaring me.”
I sigh and drop the bag, my hand appreciates it when the air is able to lick at my skin. I move closer to her and the worried expression sets deeper onto her face. I can see her bright eyes glance down to where the blood had splattered all over me. I could feel a sense of pride at my work.
“What’s going on?”
“Your life’s about to change a helluva lot, sweetheart. You’ve just walked into something you shouldn’t have,” I mutter as I move closer to her. I can see her fingers trembling and threatening to detach from her hands. “I’m not joking when I say this is blood, just like I wasn’t joking about the bodies in my closet, and the head in my fridge. It’s all true.”
She wavers for a second longer; I can almost see her brain clicking behind her skull as it tries to calculate whether I’m simply making another one of my jokes or if my jokes are becoming too advanced for her to understand.
“What do you think? Impressive, right?” There’s a grin that’s threatening to make it’s way onto my lips that I’m sure are coated in a small layer of blood, if I haven’t managed to swipe it off with my tongue yet.
“I don’t find this funny anymore.”
There’s definite worry in her tone of voice and I can feel myself moving closer to her. She makes a pathetic attempt to force her body backwards, although it does nothing but make the desire I have to move closer to her even more powerful.
“Are you scared? You don’t have to be, babygirl. I’m not going to hurt you, I’d never lay a finger on you.”
Even as the words leave my lips I know I’m telling a cruel lie; my lust for her and for her blood has grown stronger since I accidentally bumped into her two years ago. I managed to avoid putting any kind of pain onto her for reasons I’m not too sure of, but now, it’s all I can think about. Of course, I have to try and make sure she never finds out.
“Tell me what’s going on. Is this some kind of joke that I don’t understand?”
“I’ve already told you; this isn’t a joke.” My jaw clenches and I’m uncertain as to why, although I’m sure I know when I feel myself becoming impatient with the girl in front of me. “This is real, all of it.”
Next, she does something I hadn’t anticipated - she laughs. Her head falls back and I can see everything working in the front of her throat. It makes me think about all the sharp objects I could slice it with. The laugh, however, is far from genuine; it’s hesitant and sharp. It doesn’t last for very long, either.
“Right, that’s funny. You’re a serial killer, hilarious. I get it now,” she chuckles and it’s fake. I’m watching her closely because I’m confused by her behaviour and have no idea where the conversation is going to lead; my two previous assumptions as to where the conversation could go have seemingly taken flight and headed for the nearest window. I’m not left clueless.
“Don’t kid yourself, [Y/N],” I mange to let escape between my lips.
It’s a strange sensation to me, to have somebody’s guts in the same room as my girlfriend; there’s been so many things that I’ve done, most things don’t surprise me but this, this is new.
“So, what? I’m supposed to believe that my boyfriend kills people? Stop joking, Justin, it’s just not funny anymore.” Her voice has now adjusted and taken on a shaky quality that I find quite amusing. “I’m leaving. You’re inhuman,” she says and I think she’s going to start crying.
“I’m very in touch with humanity, okay?” I frown deeply and correct her quickly, now following her as she strides for the door. “You can’t leave.”
“And why the fuck not, Justin? You’re clearly going through some thing right now and I don’t like it. You’re making me panic.” She turns to look at me for a split second; it’s a look I’m unfamiliar with but I’m sure it’s supposed to signal to me that she’s hoping I’m going to stop her and tell her it’s all a joke. It’s a shame that I can do no such thing.
“It’s going to be okay, baby. You’re gonna go and clear your head and I’m not going to stop you because I know you’re going to come back to me, isn’t that right?”
“You’re serious.. aren’t you?” she says, sounding as though all of her worst nightmares have suddenly become true.
“Very much so.” The evil smirk is back onto my lips, I cannot help but show my affection for my satanic hobbies. “I’ve told you over and over again but you just don’t believe me, do you?”
She’s trying to edge away but I’m moving closer. She moves slowly as though she’s created a plan in her mind; if she moves ever so slightly, I won’t notice. Little does she know, I notice everything. I notice how she moves away just like I notice my victims trying to edge their way towards the door. It’s evident that [Y/N] doesn’t know just how much practice I’ve had in this field.
“I-I have to go.”
She doesn’t give me an answer. It happens in a matter of seconds. She’s out of the door and she’s running towards her car that’s parked patiently next to mine. The sun is setting; disappearing behind the hills and she’s getting away. A plan is already taking shape in the folds of my brain while I watch her drive away; anger seeping into every inch of my body.
I caught her in the end. I knew I would. I said at the beginning I was too selfish to ever let her leave me, and even if it means watching her every second of every day, I’ll always have her. Of course, I’ve had to make sure she doesn’t utter a word to anyone, it took some bribery and manipulation but I’m certain no one else will ever know of my secrets.
[Y/N] is upset, of course she is. One second I was the charming boyfriend who gave her all the happiness in the world and suddenly, I’m the psychotic, inhuman monster who happens to enjoy stapling human limbs together for fun. Even I can sympathise.
I’ve noticed that there’s still a hint of love in the colours that swirl around the outside of [Y/N]’s pupils; it pleases me to know she’s still so invested in me, even after I sat and admitted almost everything - apart from the murdering of her cousin; I don’t want her entire family banging on my door.
I’m insane and I’m feeling more and more on the verge of frenzy every day. What was once an itch has mutated into a burn that sits under my skin and claws away until my needs are satisfied.
So, the next time you’re walking through the busy streets of whatever city you’re in; whether it’s London, Paris, New York, Milan, Amsterdam - anywhere, remember me. I’m everywhere - I’m the dead eyes of the old man striding past you, I’m the grimace of the lady sitting on the bench across the street, I’m even the shrill shrieks of the baby in the stroller. Every disgusting sight, every pungent smell, every irritating sound is what I’m made up of. Notice me. After all, I’m looking for fresh blood wherever I go; while showing no signs of being filled to the brim with insanity, and ready to overflow.
The darkness and disgust that I create is something that will always be there, no matter where you go; it’s something you can’t escape, just like I can’t seem to escape the deep desires for human pain within the pit of my stomach and the thirst for their blood trickling down my throat.
I won’t do complicated backgrounds, but tell me if you want something simple (like a certain colour or grass etc)
The price for lineart/colour/shading won’t change if another character is added (it won’t be doubled)
Things that you might wonder is ok and very much is ok: OC’s (please have good references!) Animals (I’m decent at furry ones, less decent at lizards, keep that in mind. Small animals like birds and mice and kittens goes without extra cost. Bigger dogs and horses counts as an additional character.) All kinds of pairings Things that could have been nsfw had you removed one cloth
Things I won’t do: Nsfw Cars or big transports Complicated backgrounds
Contact me at: firstname.lastname@example.org I will then tell you the PayPal email
Svenska Kronor (SEK) is also accepted
Thanks for checking this out and I hope to hear from you! ovo/
So, simple character studies of these guys! It started with a desire to colour Rhys’ shirt and ended up being this. Also, I might not be able to ever replicate that face I made for Rhys but it looks good here so eehh
They are a little messy at some places but goddammit, I’m still kinda proud for not giving up half way through. Yay me!
But here ya go, TftBl art again! I hate Rhys’ shoes but love his stripes and Vaughn is a perfect, buff baby. Also, copy+paste is a friend!
The preacher’s voice boomed rich and resonant across the hall, its vibrations leaving a tingling across their ears and exposed skin.
“Do you take this man to be your shield and armour, to be the mails that envelop and protect your flesh, the links of chain that defend but do not bind, for as long as you desire?”
“I do” her voice rang out like steel striking steel.
“And do you take this woman to be your sword and spear, to be the biting blade that sings your enemies’ ruin, your edge in battle and in life, for as long as you desire?”
“I do” his voice blazed like forge-fire.
“Who has the ring-mail?”
And the bridal pair were outfitted in gleaming armour and he was given a mighty shield she had carved from oak, then painted in the colours of their families, and she was given a sword he had forged himself that was sharp enough it cut the winds themselves.
“And now, go ye lovers and enter the matrimonial dungeon and slay what monsters and collect what treasure as you find there. And if you both emerge then you will do so as man and wife.”
They smiled at each other and took the first step on their first of many adventures.
“For Morgoth had long prepared his force in secret, while ever the malice of his heart grew greater, and his hatred of the Noldor more bitter; and he desired not only to end his foes but to destroy also and defile the lands that they had taken and made fair.”
A sudden desire rocked me.
I longed to know everything he remembered.
Every scent and sound.
Every colour he could conjure from this life past.
I dreaded my own, but I had a deep hunger for his memories.
– When Minho was asked if he had ever thought of dyeing his hair blonde, he said he slightly tried it before. Then Kibum said that Minho’s face is too dark so he looked like a reenactment actor from overseas. And he also added that there cant be 3 blondies in a team. Minho’s mum asked Minho if he will do celebrity hair (ie. bright/light colored hair) – They mentioned Minho’s hair colour when they talked about their desired styling. Minho said he has coloured it lightly. Key said Minho’s face is slightly tanned and looked like a foreign celebrity and said there can’t be 3 blondes in a group. Minho said his mom asked why don’t he get the celebrity hair colour (yellow colour). – 2011
First artwork in six months - I forgot how therapeutical drawing feels… Those who know me personally or been following me for a while know that I used to be really into art, but in the past year I lost all desire! Perhaps this is because now I express my creativity through food and photography. Nevertheless, yesterday I had this urge to create something and came up with this sad whimsical snail lady 🔮🐌 Hope you like her hehe
People who are unafraid to be authentically different truly ignite my fire. It is so brave to exist one way, whilst everything about society is pulling you to be another, and what a bold stance it is to challenge the world outside of us, the world that so many of us seek such acceptance and attention from. It is grand to be able to say, ‘I tell the world who I am. The world does not tell me who I am’. So regardless of how strange you are or whatever you have had to endure, you are the boldest, brightest star in the hemisphere, fighting against everything that you know, just to retain a bit of your individuality. Nothing screams heroism to me like the desire to be unapologetically yourself. I spent time in the quiet and the darkness thinking about how uncomfortable it would be if I ever showed my true colours. If I ever really discussed art and metaphysics and the meaning of existence with people who simply wanted to have fun and take ‘cool’ photographs. Yet I made the step anyway. To leave my old life behind and along with it, people who would never understand the talents that I hid fearfully from prying eyes. Reinvention is difficult, but retracing the steps of who you have always been inside is infinite. Never stay with people who do not allow you space to be you. If you ever find yourself suppressing parts of yourself or trying to quench your eccentricities, my dear you are stifling your growth, and depression will find a way of catching up with you.