#aesthetic: violets bloom under the snow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

astarlightmonbebe · 5 years

Text

__April Showers

You fell for Choi Hyunsuk in April, head over heels in love, only to lose him as soon as the showers ended.

Pairing: Choi Hyunsuk x female reader

Word Count: 4,293

Featuring: Byunggon, Jihoon, Junkyu, Keita, and Yoshinori

Warnings: Some a-n-g-s-t

A/N: Hi, hello, I wrote this in the last four-ish hours instead of working on my other drafts. Obviously, this ended up being a whole 4k mess of words, so read at your own risk. Also, the ‘...’ indicate section end/scene change since sometimes the dividers don’t work. Sorry for any mistakes!!!

You fell for Hyunsuk in the beginning of April, when the air was thick with the incoming rain, everything humid. When fate had brought you to a small cafe as it had begun to sprinkle, a cafe that nobody ever visited, occupied by the one lone barista and customer, back to you and newspaper in front of him.

You remembered staring at his back as your ordered, the dark tips of his dyed blonde hair and the curve of his shoulder, swaying silver earrings. The kind of profile you wanted to draw with thin charcoal, outline in dark ink with a splash of glitter gel pen for his jewelry. You stared for so long that he eventually looked back, eyes connecting, hint of a smile.

“Sit with me.” He had called, and you had taken your drink and sat across from him without a second thought. He was your age; straight out of high school but not yet on his way to college, and so tiny you could fit him in your palm, like a little fairy with a hero’s face. “You’re a new face.” He had said, that same smile flitting across his face.

“I’ve never been here before.” You explained, sipping on your drink. He nodded, and you noticed the open notebook in front of him, the music notes doodled thoughtlessly across the margins. “Do you compose?” You asked, lifting your chin at the notebook. He moved his hand over the page, biting his lip.

“A little. Do you draw?” He motioned to the spirals of your sketchbook sticking out of your haphazardly thrown together bag. Blushing, you nodded. He grinned. “Draw me?” He asked, cupping his chin in his palm. You laughed, shook your head; though it was more of the sense that you never drew anyone, not that you didn’t want to draw him.

“Here, how about this.” He had said, reaching forward to tap the top of your sketchbook. “You draw me and I’ll write you a song.” You looked at him, dumbfounded, but he only smiled that blinding smile, all white teeth and lips. It was the type of smile that made you fall at first glance, head over heels in dangerous love with a boy you had just met.

“My name is Hyunsuk.” He, Hyunsuk, said. It was a name that fit him so perfectly, fit his raggedy black hoodie and flashy new sports shoes. His hand was small, thin gold bands tracing up his fingers, inlaid with jewels that were almost certainly fake, but nonetheless pretty. You stared at his outstretched hand, soft and warm.

“I’m y/n.” You introduced yourself shyly, shaking that warm hand. His skin smelled like flowers, violet rose. It made you think of petals blossoming in the winter, unfurling against white snow, ice dripping down in a messy aesthetic of sharp color. “And deal.” You added, taking out your sketchbook and one of your drawing pencils, the ones without an eraser so that you only drew and never stopped.

Hyunsuk smiled, biting his bottom lip, and it made your heart beat faster. You watched him bend his head, look down at his paper, already concentrating. Only moments ago you had been imagining tracing his profile on blank paper; now you were in control of the picture, a smudgy nose and soft eyes, messy hair falling in all the wrong directions over his eyes.

The two of you sat in silence as your drinks got cold, focused on each other and the art in front of you. Your sketch of Hyunsuk became a portrait, black and white shading and strokes, while Hyunsuk’s doodles became a song, the blank page filling up with notes over crooked lines and scribbled words.

Hours passed, and then the cafe was closing, and you and Hyunsuk were standing under the awning as it poured. The air was fresh and electric, ozone in the air, and Hyunsuk laughed, rain tangling in his bangs as he ripped out the song, folding it and handing it to you. You took it hesitantly, feeling flushed all over.

“You can keep the drawing. I had enough enjoyment watching you.” Hyunsuk said, waving and then looking up at the sky, thinking. He pulled his hood up, tucking his earbuds in and his phone away, and then dashed across the street. You watched him go in shock, the paper crinkling in your hand as you watched him disappear into the hazy gray night.

When you looked at the song, you saw he had written a number at the bottom, along with the words ‘call me-chs’.

...

You told yourself you wouldn’t call him, but you ended up dialing the number the next night, when the emptiness of your apartment stretched out a little too long. Silence was a lonely companion to have, your fingers tracing over the music notes, wishing you had a voice to sing the tune to you.

“Hello?” His raspy voice asked as soon as he picked up, and you smiled. “Hey, this is y/n. We met the other night, remember?” There was a beat of silence, long enough to make you feel nervous, hand curling around the frayed denim of your cutoff jeans.

“Of course.” Hyunsuk said sweetly. “How could I forgot such a beautiful artist such as yourself?” Warmth bloomed in your chest at the fact that he had called you an artist, not just a pretty human. It made you feel more like you were worth something, more than just your face or your curves.

“Ah, well, the problem is that you gave me a song but no way to sing it.” You admitted shyly. “I can’t sing to save my life.” Hyunsuk mmm-hmmed on the other end of the line, and you heard crackling static, voices mixing away from the call. You wondered if he was with other people.

A moment later he was back. “Hey, wanna go someplace with me?” He asked. “I can pick you up, if you like.” The you you knew didn’t jump into situations randomly, didn’t fall for strangers like a girl tripping on a dress. So why were you nodding, agreeing, falling for this stranger with a smile that would probably break your heart?

“Cool, I’ll text you my street.” You murmured into the receiver, hanging up before you could regret it. You’d wait at the corner, you decided, standing up and surveying yourself in the mirror. Faded and ripped jeans, a loose white shirt, and bare feet. Appropriate attire for a day at home, but you had no idea what this place Hyunsuk was taking you to held.

Moving to your room, you threw on a loose purple blouse and a pair of white shorts, as well as your knee length black socks and chunky white tennis shoes. A little mismatched, a little unordinary, but perfectly you. An artsy, paint stained mess of a girl with hair that was cut a little choppy, unruly bangs, but enough of a look to make you feel kind of cute.

You jogged back out of the room, grabbing your purse—which contained keys to a car you hardly used, your phone, and other essential items—and ran out of your apartment. You felt like you had been electrified, thinking of Hyunsuk running his hands through his blond hair, his rakish smile. Was this what people talked about when they said they fell head over heels in love at first sight? Maybe it wasn’t that bad of a feeling after all.

Hyunsuk pulled up five minutes after you had stationed yourself at the streetlamp on the corner, watching the dimming sunlight. The whir of his motorcycle broke the still air, and your hair fluttered in the breeze as he skated to a stop inches from where you stood. Pushing up his visor, he leaned forward, hands covered with leather biking gloves.

“You look nice.” He said, passing you the other helmet. You fitted it over your head, tugging the straps down and trying to fasten it with your clumsy fingers. Hyunsuk laughed, and it sounded like sunshine and late nights and too many stars to count. “Come here.” He said, motioning you forward. Reaching up, he did the clasp for you, hands brushing the bare skin of your chin. You shivered, not used to contact with others.

“Hold on tight.” He told you as you swung your leg over the back, cautiously wrapping your arms around his waist.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” You asked, your voice coming out strangely teasing and playful. Hyunsuk laughed and shook his head, eyes in half moons when he did.

“No, it’s a secret.” He said, kicking back. “Besides, I want to make our first date have an air of mystery.” You sat back, hands pulling tight around his waist, and the smile faded off of Hyunsuk’s face. “Why, did I say something wrong?” He asked carefully. “Do you not want me to call this our first date? Did I misread the situation?”

You shook your head, knowing that the helmet didn’t hide how red your cheeks were. “No, I’ve just never really dated before—but I do want this to be our first date! I mean, I’m willing to give it a try...I mean…” You trailed off, hiding your face in his back so you wouldn’t have to meet his eyes.

“Okay.” Hyunsuk said, starting the motorcycle up with a roar that shook you. “First date it is, then.”

...

The place Hyunsuk took you looked inconspicuous, a small graffitied entrance to a beat down club. He led you in the entrance, hand loosely holding yours, and you looked around in puzzlement as it opened up into a spacious room. Music was pounding, the lighting a soft pastel, fairy lights strung up. There weren’t many people, but the ones there were obviously enjoying themselves.

“What is this place?” You asked in awe, looking around with your mouth hanging open. Hyunsuk only let out another bright laugh, leading you to a round table in the back, near where the DJ was blasting music. He waved upwards, and the DJ waved back, headphones slipped around his neck.

“This is where I make the magic happen.” Hyunsuk said, letting go of you to spread his arms out, like an announcer. “You said you wanted to hear me sing you the song. I admit I can’t really sing—rapping is more my thing—but I’ll try my best for you, darling. He pulled out a chair at the table, motioning for you to sit down. Four other boys were looking at you, wide eyed and curious.

“Y/n, meet Jihoon, Junkyu, Yoshinori, and Keita. The angsty looking DJ up there is Byunggon.” You nodded timidly, shaking hands quickly with each one of them—except for Byunggon, who was obviously preoccupied. “Now, guys, take good care of her. I have a song to sing and a deal to fulfill.” Hyunsuk said, winking at you as he moved away as quickly as he had come.

“Ah, another girl who fell for him.” Junkyu said, giving you a wide smile. Though you were unsure of what he meant, you offered a thin smile anyways, trying to hide how uncomfortable you were. No matter how kind they were, you still didn’t enjoy meeting new people. Except for Hyunsuk, it seemed.

“She’s already head over heels.” Jihoon tsked, and you slunk down in your seat. Keita hit him. “Dude. I think it’s for real this time.” Jihoon scoffed, and you swallowed, deciding to not pay attention anymore.

There was the sound of a screeching mic, and then the music cut off abruptly. “Hey guys, sorry to interrupt your dance time, but I have a special song to sing tonight.” Hyunsuk said, the mic squealing with feedback painfully. He grimaced, leaning away and adjusting it slightly. You watched him, transfixed.

The lights faded out, darkness surrounding you, and you stared at the stage, the pool of light making Hyunsuk’s edges glow. He took the microphone from the stand, standing back a few paces, and started to sing, the very notes of the song you had written playing over the speakers. You wondered if he’d planned this just now, or had it planned already.

Hyunsuk was right; he wasn’t the best at singing, but his rap was amazing. You closed your eyes, taking in the sound of his husky, slow, sweet voice, like a soothing balm. It felt perfect to you, like a voice that would whisper ‘i love you’ in your ear, read stories aloud at night, play the radio and sing along under his breath.

When he finished, you opened your eyes, a smile spreading across your face. The other boys faded away, and you were only watching Hyunsuk hop off the stage, in his ripped jeans and silky jacket. He waved at you, running over to the table with an expectant look on his face. You slow clapped in his face, unable to keep a silly grin off your face.

“You were too much for words to express.” You said, standing so you were face to face. Hyunsuk practically beamed, grabbing your hands and giving you a quick spin. A chorus of ‘oohhs’ rose from the table as Hyunsuk dragged you down to the dance floor, spinning you out in a twirl.

You let out a loud laugh, feeling something unfurling in your heart, like you were letting go of a ten pound weight that had been holding you down. Your feet felt light as you spun back against him, the floor a moving pattern of squares all lost in a blur of color beneath you. Hyunsuk’s eyes were dark and captivating, and you let yourself spiral into them, dark pools of water with tiny crescent slivers of light.

Through his shirt, you felt the beating of his heart, slamming against his ribcage like a bird threatening to break free. Or maybe that was your own heart—maybe it was both your hearts, beating erratically together. Or maybe you two were sharing a heart now, a wild heart that beat for each other only.

“I’d write a million more songs for you, if I could.” Hyunsuk murmured in your ear, his voice exactly like you had imagined, and you smiled against him, feeling safe for once in your life. “What do you say you give me a chance to do so?” He added, pushing your hair back from your face.

You liked the sound of that.

...

Hyunsuk kissed you on the dance floor, hands cupping your face, bodies pressed together as everyone else revolved around you, a slow burn of emotion. It was perfect.

...

“What would you think of putting your artwork in this gallery?” Hyunsuk asked, holding the magazine up to you. It was a lazy day in late July, and you were sitting in your living room, Hyunsuk’s head in your lap was you both paged through various newspapers and magazines. The late afternoon sunlight was spilling in like honey, criss crossing his face. His hair dye was fading out, a messy patchwork of brown and wheat.

“Hmm, I don’t know.” You hummed, taking it from him and reading through it. “It sounds really hard to get into.” Hyunsuk smiled up at you, warmer than the sun itself, your one beacon of light.

“I think you could do it.” He murmured, pulling you down to kiss him. You ran your fingers through his short hair, feeling the cold metal of his earrings press against you. “Remember the girl who boldly demanded I sing a song for her? Channel that girl and go submit that artwork I know you’re hiding.” He let go, voice teasing.

You blushed. “I didn’t demand you do anything.” Hyunsuk quirked one eyebrow.

“That’s not how I remember it.” You hit him lightly, mood already passing, the entry in front of you seemingly full of possibilities. Hyunsuk was your magic, your inspiration. You had a sketchbook full of pictures of him; in charcoal and pencil, paint and oil, watercolor and crayons. You could fill a million more, all of him, his face and his hands and his necklaces and his jackets and his lips.

“I’ll give it a try.” You finally said, and the smile Hyunsuk gave you was reward enough.

...

For your six month anniversary, Hyunsuk took you for a ride on the highway. You rode with your arms firmly around his waist, watching the lights whip past, that feeling of being able to go anywhere. You fit into Hyunsuk’s shoulder now, head tucked there, feeling the sharp edge of his collarbone.

Hyunsuk pulled off the highway, coasting to a stop in front of the ocean. You hopped off excitedly, peering over the railing and smelling the salt on the wind. “How did you know I’ve always wanted to visit the ocean?” You asked excitedly, hooking your feet around the bottom and leaning out.

“Careful there.” Hyunsuk said, pulling you back. “Come on, let’s go down.” He jumped over the railing, slipping and sliding down the coast. You followed suit—though more carefully than him—and landed in the sand. It was cool when you steadied yourself, the sun having long left it.

Hyunsuk had moved down to the waves, leaving his shoes behind as he waded in. You hurriedly falling in, sucking in deep breathes, trying to keep some of the scent with you. Growing up you hadn’t been close to an ocean, and you’re one taste of the beach had been enough to leave you hungry for more. One of your dreams was a beach house, summers spent with golden sand and salty waves, surfing and swimming and floating.

“It’s cold!” You shrieked, dancing on tiptoes over the frothy tide. Hyunsuk pulled you in tight, arms interlocked. He didn’t say anything, just smiled, and you pressed yourself against the warmth of his body. He was staring out across the waves, and you followed his gaze, over the endless ocean.

“Something on your mind?” You asked, wrapping your arms around him and leaning in close. Hyunsuk smiled lightly, shifting in the slightest, his expression more distant than it had been in a while.

“No, nothing.” He said, and then he splashed water all over you, scooping up a handful and flinging it in a shower. You screamed, stumbling back and slipping. Hyunsuk’s eyes widened comically as you grabbed onto him, silencing him mid laugh as you both toppled backwards, water enveloping you.

You surfaced, bodies tangled together underwater, your faces so close to each other that you could make out every feature of Hyunsuk’s face clearly. He studied you, pushing wet hair back. “I love you so much.” He mumbled, kissing you, and you melted into it—into him—and everything was right again, because he was yours, and you were his.

...

Christmas was cold and loud, you in the center of all of Hyunsuk’s friends, gifts passed around and wrapping paper floating through the air. Hyunsuk had a ribbon tied around his wrist, a bow stuck on his head, and you pulled him close, giggling.

“What, are you my gift?” You teased, kissing his nose, and Hyunsuk laughed, adjusting the bow. His eyes said; I’ve always been yours, but the room was too loud for him to actually say something to you.

“Ugh, the two lovebirds are still going strong.” Jihoon said, wrinkling his nose, and the room faded into uproarious laughter, Hyunsuk throwing his gift at Jihoon, who barely caught it, doubled over at something that wasn’t even funny. Everyone was laughing, and you were laughing too, so much your sides hurt.

Something about Hyunsuk made you so happy it was painful, knowing that this happiness was only yours while it lasted. Still, you let yourself be taken over by this instantaneous joy, this feeling of being full of everything someone needed. Love and friendship and family, Hyunsuk’s hand in yours and his million dollar smile, his voice and the way your bodies fit together, like each curve had been made for the other’s. Two puzzle pieces, finally finding each other.

“You have a pensive look on your face again.” Hyunsuk observed, leaning forward to gently brush wrapping paper out of your hair. You were sure there was even more still stuck there, tape too probably. Junkyu had thrown a whole gift at you, and it had gone everywhere. You smiled at him, grabbing his hands gently.

“I’m just thinking that I’m so happy that I have you, that I have this.” You confessed with a soft smile. Hyunsuk didn’t smile, a vaguely sad expression crossing his face. “And I hope I have you forever.” You added with a whisper, trying to hold back years. “Because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Oh, y/n.” Hyunsuk exhaled, chin wobbling and tears glittering in his eyes. He pulled you in tight, hand on the back of your head. Face buried in the fabric of his shirt, you let tears slip free, wetting it. You felt Hyunsuk’s shaking shoulders, your own shirt damp as well, and clutched him tighter.

Please, never let me lose him.

...

Hyunsuk and you were never perfect. You fought about music and art and politics and what it meant to be in love. You fought about boundaries and limits, about the time Hyunsuk kissed another girl when he was drunk. You fought about getting drunk and going to college and futures that weren’t quite as mapped out as Hyunsuk made them see.

Hyunsuk wasn’t perfect, and neither were you, but your imperfect relationship was working out fine. It was fine, because you had confessed your heart to him, and he had given yours back.

...

One day, you opened the door to the apartment you now shared, and found it empty. Hyunsuk’s stuff was still strewn all over the place, opened notebooks and uncapped pens. Everything was there except for Hyunsuk and his motorcycle—it was your one year anniversary, and he had told you to come home, because he had another one of his spontaneous plans thrown together.

You called him, listened to the empty ringing, and wondered when he was getting home.

...

You waited, and waited, and waited. You called his friends, only to be met with answers that weren’t quite right, Junkyu stumbling over his words in a way that made you wonder if Hyunsuk was kissing another girl again, had his arms wrapped around some other stranger on the dance floor.

...

You called him again and again, but got tired of listened to the repetitive rings. Finally, you threw your phone across the room and slumped against the wall, burying your face into your knees, a curled up ball of pain.

...

Jihoon called you.

...

It was raining, but you ran anyways, slipping and sliding across the ground, tripping and ripping your jeans open, blood dripping down from your cut knees. You ran and ran, drenched and trembling in the emergency room, gasping sobs as you scanned every room for Hyunsuk, Hyunsuk, Hyunsuk.

When you found him, all you could see was red at first, then Jihoon standing at the foot of the bed, hands white and gripping the rails, face twisted into an expression of grief. “Y/n.” He said, and you knew, but you didn’t, you couldn’t.

Please, I asked you to never let me lose him.

“You’re lying.” You were screaming, your voice a crescendo of wavering notes, even though Jihoon hadn’t said anything more than your name. “No no no, you’re lying to me. Hyunsuk...Hyunsuk’s still here. He’s just hurt, right? You’re lying. He’s fine. He’s fine. He has to be fine—!”

You screamed, sinking to the ground, hearing the flatline on a monotone. There was nobody to grab your shoulders, shake you, hold you, because that was what Hyunsuk would have done. He would have hugged you and sung a song in your ear until you could breathe again.

Now all you could hear in your ears was a dull ringing, a repetitive pulsing of red lines behind your eyelids. You couldn’t breathe. Where was Hyunsuk to tell you to breathe? Who was supposed to help you catch your breath when he wasn’t here; when he was the one who was causing you to suffocate?

Your voice was raw, but you screamed on—though maybe you weren’t even making any noise anymore, maybe you had used it all up, maybe your voice had left when Hyunsuk did.

Hyunsuk.

...

“He wrote a song for you.” The funeral was dark and dreary, and you felt like you could barely stand, a swaying shadow on her feet, in the back of the crowd. They had asked you to make a speech. You had walked up to the podium and stared at the mic, remembered Hyunsuk singing to you the second day you had met.

Your voice was still gone. When you opened your mouth, nothing came out. No more ragged sobs, stuttered cries. Your eyes were dry now, too. It was like Hyunsuk leaving had sucked everything he had given back to you away. No more heart, no more soul, no more art, no more smiles.

No more magic.

...

In the darkness of your apartment, you listened to Hyunsuk’s last song, his familiar voice filling your ears. His one year gift to you, his surprise. The studio he had been coming back from, the one where he had finished recording. A story you had found out in bits and pieces, a goodbye you had never got to say and he had never got to tell you.

“Oh baby, I’ll love you forever.” Hyunsuk said in your ears, and you sobbed into your sleeves, the sadness overwhelming, the memories a crushing force.

...

It was April and it was raining outside, a shower that never ended.

[End.]

104 notes · View notes

euryophic · 5 years

Text

TAG DUMP.

* STUDY — SMALL AND FULL OF UNBLOOMED LILIES .

posts that explain , reference , or explore the character

* HEADCANON — IT WAS SOMETHING IN MY BLOOD ; I HARDLY UNDERSTOOD IT MYSELF .

information that comes forward about or expands on facts about the character

* ABOUT — I WAS A SOFT THING ‚ THEN / I’M PETRIFIED NOW .

personal perspective , can overlap with headcanon & study

* AESTHETIC — BUDDED ‚ BLOOMED ‚ AND SHATTERED ‚

* CHIMES — LIKE THE LUTES AND LYRES .

* ANATOMY — BODY : WICKER BASKETS OF BLOOD .

* FC — THE SUGARED — HONEY ‚ BLACKBERRY SYRUP OF ME NOW SIX FEET UNDER .

face claim : annemarie kuus , real life

* A TREMBLING THING — / A FRAGILE ‚ SHINING INSTRUMENT OF CRYSTAL .

face claim : drawn or animated resemblances

* SHE CANNOT DECIDE WHAT SHE DESIRES ‚ BUT TODAY IT IS ENOUGH .

musing i : positive , calm feelings including happiness & mild indifference

* ARE YOU THERE ? ARE YOU SOAKED IN DREAMS STILL ?

musing ii : inquiring on her state of mind

* A MESS OF LAVENDER IN MY STOMACH .

musing iii : negative , morose feelings including anxiety & fear

* SO I DREAM ‚ I DREAM ‚ I KEEP DREAMING .

musing iv : neutral dream - like feelings , a moving on

* LOOK FOR ME IN A GINGHAM DRESS . AND A SMALL AXE CROONING IN MY ARMS .

* DID YOU INHERIT A SICKNESS ?

violent , unnatural callings akin to other tags

* THE SILENT SISTER VEILED IN WHITE AND BLUE .

the ghost of the girl , the dream in the mirror

* TILL YOUR HEART CRIES BLUE . TILL YOUR BONES ARE FEAR .

BONDS

* ALICE — HER ‚ WITH THE WAR ‚ IN THE CORNER / RIPPING THE PILLOWS UP . * ALICE — NOTHING / BUT GLIMMER TO WITHER . * CHESHIRE — THERE IS SO MUCH I HAVE LEFT TO GIVE YOU . * LACIE — BUT MUCH MORE / BLUE ‚ MORE MOTH TO FLAME . * LACIE — LOVELY — EYED . DEATH — TOUCHED . WITCH . * JACK — ODE TO THE MURDERER I IMAGINE / IN EVERY BAND OF TREES .

OOC

* IC — THE GOD OF SMALL THINGS . * OOC — IT’S ALL LIKE A BAD DREAM . * ASKS — HOW TO DANCE IN BLOOD AND REMAIN SANE ? * PROMO — OUR BODIES ‚ POSSESSED BY LIGHT . * AMUSEMENT — I HAVE A CHILDLIKE HEART . * OPEN — AN AUTUMN SKY ‚ SUFFUSED WITH ROSE ...

VERSE

* CANON — MOON MIRRORS ‚ SUN GHOSTS . DREAM ABEYANT . * MODERN — IF I GO UNDER WOOD ‚ A GIRL DARKLING FOR CURSE ‚

an alternative normal , human life variation of the canon

* ASOIAF — THERE WAS A HOUSE WE ALL HAD IN COMMON AND IT WAS CALLED THE PAST ‚ * ASOIAF — CRISIS IN THE NIGHT . MY HEART A LITTLE RED PLUM IN MY MOUTH . * FF — HUMAN OR ANIMAL ‚ THE SNOW WILL FALL AND COVER HER TRACKS . * PERSONA 3 — HOLY / TO CLAIM THE SELF : * PERSONA 4 — HOW WILL YOU REMEMBER ? / THAT I LOVE YOU ? / THAT’S EASY . I CAN’T HELP IT . * BLOODBORNE — EVERYBODY PLAYS OPHELIA / EXCEPT WE ARE ALL / ALIVE . * WARCRAFT — I LAUGHED TODAY . / FOR A SECOND I WAS UNHAUNTED . I WAS THE SUN ‚ NOT LIGHT / FROM A DYING STAR . * HP — SLIGHT AND DARK AND FEVERISHLY BRIGHT .

hogwarts school of witchcraft & wizardry

* HP — LIGHTER AND MORE TRANSPARENT .

beauxbatons academy of magic

* BEASTIARY — THERE ARE SOME EYES THAT CAN EAT YOU .

the beasts of this wretched , wicked world of dreams & magic

* BEASTIARY — SAY : IN A PASTURE ‚ DARKLY / “BEWITCH ME” . * VICTORIAN / EDWARDIAN — WITH CYCLAMEN AND WILD VIOLETS .

#* ooc | it’s all like a bad dream .#old !!

1 note · View note

felldragxn · 6 years

Text

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

The following quotes and phrases are taken from the stories in Thomas Ligotti’s anthology Songs of a Dead Dreamer. Some of these quotes were slightly tweaked for the sake of this meme. If you enjoy the imagery or writing in this meme, please support the author by purchasing his work. Content warnings for horror in general and brief mentions of blood, nihilism, unreality, mannequins, dolls, puppets, and some body horror.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: Grima (Impossible Odds Verse) Tagged by: nobody i just found it on a meme blog Tagging: NOBODY BECAUSE I WOULD NOT WISH THIS FATE UPON ANYBODY

The Frolic

Absolute madness paired with a sharp cunning / an expression of sky-blue peacefulness / the indistinct happiness of the future / a piece of moon above the opulent leafage of spring trees / a broken-down kingdom of miracles and horrors / a Neverland where dizzy chaos is the norm / a cosmos of crooked houses and littered alleys / a slum among the stars / a jolly river of refuse / jagged heaps in shadows / a phantasmagoric mingling of heaven and hell / a moonlit corridor where mirrors scream and laugh / dreamy back-drops / ice cubes in an empty glass / shifting expressions on a lean face / vague suggestions and subtle jokes / an Aphrodite sculpture / the wind, cold and dead / a crumbled piece of paper / black-foaming gutters / the dank windowless gloom of some intergalactic cellar / starless cities of insanity / a bright freezing scream of laughter / a passing anecdote of some obscure hell

Les Fleurs

sorrowful flowers / lilting blossoms for a loved one’s memorial / a florist shop / flowers which open only at night / a hothouse warm smile / night-blooming cereuses / a sleek ocelot / well-preserved old places / plants resembling birds / white picket fences / flower-printed curtains / liqueur tasting of flowers from open fields / cool, clean offices / invisible wings whipping the warm air in darkness / the sounds of black orchids growing / the flower-bedded earth / a ripple of empathetic insight / a gorgeous kingdom of glittering colors / velvety jungle-shapes / contorted rainbows and twisted auroras / hyper-radiant hues / a marvelous arcana / tongue-like floral appendages / tongues flowering

Alice’s Last Adventure

Volatile years when anything might go wrong / the embodiment of topsy-turvydom / pools of rainwater / tarnished mirrors / moonlit windows / a thousand misshapen marvels / a universe handed over to new gods / stoic tolerance of a second-rate reality / two complete strangers gawking at each other / a shiny, pearl-grey casket / black orchids / a strange combination of relief and confusion / a delayed echo with oblique origins / a chain of occurrences with links as weak as smoke rings / a sunny autumn morning / a sense of duty, vanity, and other less comprehensible motives / the seas of the moon / costumed kids / the cries of bedlamites / the clamor of rambunctious kids / a half-cocked oration / jack-o’-lanterns glowing orange and yellow / masked children / a plastic cup of cider / shadows wavering against two-story facades / a lamp with a shade of Tiffany glass / a disciple of the bizarre / an autumn moon hanging in the blackness / demonic giggling / the moon / a clock / shadows in the window

Dream of a Manikin

A mostly tacit but somehow complete biography / a marvelous trick of the mind / jeweled lamps along the walls / lights shining on an intricately patterned carpet and various pieces of old furniture / star-clustered blackness / a starry abyss / an iciness drifting in from a starscape / a horrible truth / a legend written somewhere at the bottom of a dream / echoing voices bouncing here and there around the room / a motto printed on fortune cookie-like strips of paper and hidden in bureau drawers / a broken record repeating itself on an ancient Victrola / an alighting flock of birds / a field of dynamic tension / a dry sibilant voice / people dressed as dolls / shaking with tremors of the uncanny / a manikin dresser / astral ambience / occult studies and depth analysis / delving into speculative models of reality / cosmic static / harassments of the self / the boundaries of the self / a Bigger Self terrorizing its little splinter selves / cosmic ennui / a serendipitous discovery / this dream of flesh / guilty until proven otherwise / valerian and camphor baths / cryptic impudence / softly glowing display windows / the divine bonds of unreality / a medium-intensity shower / display-window dummies / rain-spotted glasses / a car with rain-blinded windows / a moment of self-terror / the mythical conspiracy of a treacherous universe / a galaxy of constellations / a vaporous glowing / a whitened hallway / dolls made up to look like people / eyes shining in the white darkness / a powerful psychic metaphor

The Chymist

Daydreaming in the key of Rosicrucianism / bubblegum and beer / a chalice in a church / a serum vial in a laboratory / the tartness of one’s smile / a very keen appreciation of diversity / decrepitude / the withering heart of the deceased / bastardized nostalgia / the putrescence of things past / arching mirrors / chrome chandeliers / second-hand fantasies and out-of-date distractions / one strange thing next to another / a genius of vulgarity / a lawless paradise / violence without violation / a smoke-gray sky / city-soiled clumps of snow / fluxing clouds that swirl above the chimneys and trees / alchemical transmutations / the glamour and sanity of former days / a new mask of rats and rot / a hopeless stroll along the path to hypothetically higher worlds / a body whose true outline remains unknown / the whims of chemistry / the caprices of circumstance / the enigma of personal taste / a leather vessel with a void inside / the skeleton of a dream / lights outlining the different venues and avenues below / a bottle of powdered light / pulverized diamonds / the flesh and blood kaleidoscope of one’s imagination / a prodigious insurrection of entity / a tempest of transfiguration

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish / riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool / a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling /a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Missing girls in Gothic garb / amber going on red / a reddish haze / a crazy purpurean tapestry / a fair-haired girl / denim slacks and a leather jacket / bloody moonlight / a long sip from a can of iced tea / persecutions and imperilments as glamorous as those of any Gothic heroine / violet eyes / the machinations of an evil-hearted malefactor / haunting second-hand shops / a strip of dark velvet seized by a pearl brooch / a frail chain from which dangles a heart-shaped locket / a whirlpooling lock of golden hair / gloves, long and powdery pale / the shoulders of heavy capes lined in satin that shines like a black sun / enveloping hoods / capes with deep pockets and generous inner pouches for secreting precious souvenirs / capes with silk strings that tie about the neck / capes with weighted hems that nonetheless flutter weightlessly in midnight gusts / doll-size in a dark doll’s costume / quivering bones and feverish blood / fear’s funereal plume / carriage wheels rioting in a lavender mist or a pearly fog / nacreous fires twitching beyond the margins of country roads / cliffs and stars / a blur of crimson shadows / vast regions of sublime desolation / mountains hulking in hazy twilight / a rather large animal collar at the end of a chain leash / a light the color of fresh meat / a page in a depraved story book / a single candle glowing through red glass / little zippers and big zippers / a moth-eaten cloak / enthralling cruelties / spangled eyebrows / a brow of glittering silver / glistening with tiny flecks of starlight / the velvet embrace of one’s favorite cape / the tall candles one lights on stormy nights / chains of raindrops whipping against one’s windows / places where raging storms and brutal subjugations never end / the hardships of traveling to strange faraway places / frail little dolls / wild-wind nights and sadistic villains / corridors of scarlet darkness / a captive of one’s heart and its infinite chambers

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

Something magical / something timeless / something profound / a sooty basement / the putrid members of a man who is decomposing / a plain brown package marked Hope, Love, or Fortune Cookies and postmarked: the Edge of the Unknown / a helter-skelter universe where things are ever threatening to go abnormal and unreal / a normal, real love / impermanence and decay / evils sent out under various covers / sublime and terrifying conflict / fearsome, fantastical, and inhuman / moon-trimmed shadows / lunar landscapes of craggy peaks / skeletal wastelands of jagged ice / a brooding Gothic hero / an ethereal Gothic heroine / a castle-like skyscraper / an extra dose of obsessiveness / the Gothic tale / a militant romantic / waves of bombast / winds of ecstatic hysteria / a partially shattered window, its surface streaked with a blue film of dust / a sublime sense of desolation / the diluted glow of twilight / night’s enveloping cloak / grimy azure dimness / bluish semi-luminescence / tears of confusion / turquoise haze / blue shadows of silence / liquefying legs / an old storyteller / the voice of a tiny insect crying for help from inside a sealed coffin / a piercing, crystal shriek that lacerates the midnight blackness / a haunter of spectral marketplaces / Gothic glory / a horror writer / an ardent consumer of the abnormal and the unreal / a visitant of discount houses of unreality / subject only to the rule of demonic forces / puppet-shadows / a hell so excruciating it is bliss itself / bony wings rising out of one’s back / jaws that are a cavern of dripping silver / rivers of putrescent gold running through one’s veins

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

Diamond-paned windows / a thick December fog / a serene congregation of colors / holly, both fresh and artificial / a pale purple ribbon / a ritual forever reenacted without hope of escape / a large chair beside a fogged window / crackling logs / a foggy winter’s night / bright Christmas lights shining through the fog / always dead with darkness / always alive with lights

The Lost Art of Twilight

A streak of iodine red / a spattering of flat black / the early autumn sun / silver hair / a gray suit / a long envelope, neatly cesareaned / the charnel house creeps / a silver shield / crepuscular radiance / an offspring of the dead / the progeny of phantoms / the big green eye of an EEG monitor / De Plancy’s Dictionnaire infernal / a rainbow of insects / the science of superstition / the Provencal countryside / a pantheon of gargoyles amid the splendor of a medieval church / a holy soldier of the living / a monster of the dead / the astral banquet of Art / the rotting flesh of rainbows / the sonar screech of a bat / vampiric origins / the oncoming onyx of a storm / shadows and sunshine / glare and gloom / bright clouds and black / iron-red leaves / tentative drops of rain / blue bears and yellow rabbits / neither a blood-warm human nor a blood-drawing devil / oceans of blood / the ravenous life of the undead / an authoritative impatience / eternal life in an eternal death

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Pale gray pajamas / thick sheets of paper / a bottle of black ink / a shapely black pen with a silvery nib / strands of blond hair, almost white / a sudden salty breeze / silhouettes and shadows / unreflecting windows / metal hinges squeaking somewhere in the wind / a sleepless night / constellations beyond the window panes / star-filled hours / the pure whiteness of the page / a flung shoe leaning toe-up against a bedpost / nothingness unstained by inner conception / white snow in a white sky / dark lines and vacant spaces / vast expanses of frozen whiteness / a church in a foreign town / assorted devils and demons / ice-mad mountains / a spirit of malicious abandon / nightmarish anatomies / a sickle-shaped scar of moon / sea-licked shores / dark letters / feeding one’s troubles to the sea / brown-leafed trees / a forest of memorials / clumps of crosses / groves of gravestones / dark, cowl-shaped windows / unblemished by shadows / the sound of crashing waves / bending dawns into twilights / static from a broken radio / breaking waves / seaside air / a gleaming crescent moon / a bone-white cicatrix / chronic insomnia / a blade of moon / white night, white noise

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

The confusions of carnival night / gyrations of squealing abandon / lines between pain and pleasure / a rainbow of rags / a startling length of blade / pale pages elegantly dappled by somber verses / a pair of strangely darkened spectacles / the toneless voice of one who is dead to all appeasement or mercy / mounds of snow that had been sown with ashes / eyes as dark and swirled with shadows as the raving night itself / a constellation of designs / mad games of flesh and steel / a forbidden madness / dense forests of tall pikes planted in the earth / shadows rolling in empty sockets / lacerated mouths / the darkness of dreams / to see the world drown in oceans of agony / visions of butchering the angels / a god of deceit or illusion / chaos at feast / black with scars of madness / darkly clouded glass / the brightest and highest of stars / shimmering halls / unnaturally colored wine / red-smeared forms / many-taloned claws / the velvet fingers of a tightly gloved hand / a pair of leviathan leeches / a lord of the sword made mad / the dark powers which we cannot understand but only hate / rhapsodic voices in the streets / a privileged doom / the face of the soul of the world / the cool marble of the floor / an onyx-black knight / a face flushed with crimson glory

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

A scribble of lightning engraved upon a black sky / a long, brightly colored coat / noisy jets of blue-green light flickering spasmodically / life-size dolls hanging suspended by wires / wetted strands of a spider web / shiny satin legs / a beautifully pale hand / pulverized stars / dismembered limbs of dolls and puppets / the repose of ruin / an oily red glare / a well-dressed dummy / a white high-collar shirt with silver cufflinks / a billowing cravat which displays a pattern of moons and stars / wood waking up / a sleep that should have never been broken / something too painful for tears / the false fire of the moon / two faces sharing a single head / faint, hollow screams from high above / a dummy’s silence / leftover tears of berserk laughter / bluish-green irradiance

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Mist on a lake / fog in thick woods / a golden light shining on wet stones / a little trickle of suspicion in the bloodstream / the solar brilliance of a summer day / supernatural horror / a corner alive with cool drafts and fragrant with centuries of must / a rancid world rife with things smelling of the crypt / a sower of vice / mad winds / wan moonlight / pasty specters / the vividness of pain / the lasting effects of fear / natural-born puppets whose lips are stained with their own blood / dead bodies that walk in the night / living bodies suddenly possessed by new owners and deadly aspirations / the sepulchral pomp of wasting tissue / compassion for human hurt / a humble sense of one’s impermanence / an absolute valuation of justice / a demented innocence in the face of gruesome facts / the horrific reprisals of affirmation / the Cosmic Macabre / the shudders of a thousand graveyards

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

Gray walls pocked like sponges / nights of futile tears and screaming / an expression of almost paternal forgiveness / the supreme delirium of the planets / bright puppets dancing in the blackness / a golden speck of magic / the silent, staring universe / something as pathetic as a puppet and as exalted as the stars / something at once dead and never dying / autumn constellations in the black sky above / harshly brilliant eyes / the remote places where truth had been shut up and abandoned

The Sect of the Idiot

Extraordinary joy / extraordinary pain / the great hollow of dreams / an infinitely secluded place / a world that both menaces and surpasses this one / a holy madness / infinite stillness on foggy mornings / miracles of silence on indolent afternoons / the strangely flickering tableau of neverending nights / deceptive depths of shadow / heaps of clouds like dust balls / a fluorescent map of the cosmos / medieval autumns and mute winters / kaleidoscopic windows / a kind of cataclysm of empty space / an earthquake of the invisible / strikingly clear eyes / a dusty trunk of dreams / a maze of streets / an abyss of stars / a great reaching blackness / a stale gray dimness / an alien order of being / an icy blackness / starry blackness / a great round moon / deep aquatic blue / the voids of astronomy / a state of both paralyzed terror and spellbound curiosity / whispering figures / stagnant moonlight / withered, wilted claws / drooping tentacles / the spinning legs of spiders / the greedy rubbing of a fly’s spindly feelers / the darting tongues of snakes / the triumph of the grotesque / whispering effigies of chaos / putrid arcana / an ecstatic horror / horrific ecstasy / the demonic elements of which all creation is composed / corruption in disguise / a cache of unwonted offerings stored out of sight / currents of fear / dark tremors / splendid scenes broken with malign shadows / the lurid and the lovely forever lost in each other’s embrace / the arch of an old street / tunnel-like hallways / sickly light shining through unwashed, curtainless windows / atmospherics of infinite melancholy and unease / a decayed paradise / the everlasting residue of some cosmic misfortune / a solemn, mechanical intentness / a smooth and solid cube of black glass / a malignant puppet of madness / dazed in darkness / embarrassed throat-clearings / reproving looks / words which could only have meaning in a nightmare / a thing of strange degeneracy / a quintessence of hellish delirium / freakish, echoing laughter / the whispering of strangers / twitching tentacles / a horror which cannot be helped

The Greater Festival of Masks

The old and new / the real and imaginary / truth and deception / shops of costumes and masks / an incautious curiosity / shredded rags that are easily disturbed by the wind / a poster stuck to a crumbling wall / strange pathways of caprice / the outsized moon / silvery windows / doors which are elaborately decorated yet will not budge in their frames / massive shutters covering blank walls behind them / faces of dreams / sardonically grinning / innocence and excuses / a reddish glow of fire / a wad of bubbling blackness / smooth and faceless faces / the speaker in the shadows / the soft creaking of new faces breaking through old flesh

The Music of the Moon

Breaking the quiet of a moonlit room / enchantments that nearly make amends for one’s stolen slumber / some unusual shape leaping across steep roofs / a bewildering agility / many nights of sleepless hell / a knife / rope / a poison vial / an exploit of uncommon decisiveness / blank nights of insomnia / a handbill / ashes mixed with grease / a door with a faint yellow aura leaking out at its edges / small, shadowlike things moving in corners and along the floor molding / a quartet of musicians / a voice which sounds both exhausted and malicious / pale, ragged clouds of hair / sonic abnormality / an empty shaft of blackness / spherical lamps caked with dust / the silence of a dark, lifeless world / black silhouettes of human heads visible only in the moonlight / slow music in the soft darkness / a single note wavering in a universe of darkness / a incalculable proliferation of slightly dissonant harmony / the light of a quiet gray dawn / completely helpless, and yet content to be so / thick layers of webs / gazing at nothing with bleeding sockets / the moon all fat and pale, glaring down from its gauzy webs of clouds

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals / the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror / placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

Candles in a cloistered cell / shapes beneath the shadows / tall buildings whose rooftops nod groundward / wide buildings whose facades follow the curve of a street / buildings whose windows and doorways tilt like badly hung paintings / stairways that wander off-course into useless places / caged elevators that urge unwanted stops on their passengers / a sequestered civilization of echoes flourishing among groaning walls / thin ladders ascending into a maze of shafts and conduits / the dark valves and arteries of a petrified and monstrous organism / a desolate serenity / silvery cinders / the mouths of great chimneys / shadow-puppets / cluttered gardens and crooked gates / the purling waters of black canals / faded masks concealing profound schemes / a place of supernatural clarity and stillness / the crystalline glare of a lantern / moonlight through a curtained window / darkened windows / souls who believe that the only value of this world lies in its power—at certain times— to suggest another / a scattering of stars and lights / a coveted paradise / the most gauzy phantom of another place / a shadowy mimic / the anatomy of a great dream / everlasting echoes / a rectangle of smudged glass within another rectangle of scuffed wood / crowded shelves / remnants of a luxuriant autumn / an obscene reality / to dwell among the ruins of reality / shadowed volumes / scripture that would begin with the portents of apocalypse and end with the wreck of all creation / to become the wind in the dead of winter / to howl the undoing of all that would abide in warmth and light / an enticing verse in a volume of esoterica / the dream of attaining some untainted good / a disastrous enlightenment / some hypothetical state of pure glory / the revelation that nothing ever known has ended in glory / some strictly demonic enterprise / something about one’s presence that makes one think of a crow / a scavenging creature in wait / a large, two-headed shadow / the sad frustration of the uninvited, the abandoned / the brilliant rectangle of a doorway / hopes and curiosities of an indeterminable kind / free-standing bookcases / pages and bindings of uncommon texture / abstract diagrams suggesting no orthodox ritual or occult system / a chronicle of strange dreams / an invocation of a world in waiting of genesis / days distilled into dreams and nights into nightmares / a deliverance by damnation / nightmare made normal / a horror uncompromised by any feeling of lost joy or a thwarted searching for the good / a nightmare transformed in spirit by the utter absence of refuge / a utopia of exhaustion, confusion, and debris / a dialogue of mystification, and possibly one of lies / the edge of a dreamless void / a dark and devouring bird / shadows and moonlight / an unbending web of heavy wire / unjust confinement / a slender syringe crowned with a silvery needle

#ooc ;; memes #long post #the longest post #Fell Dragon ;; Grima #impossible odds ;; au #ooc ;; aesthetic

5 notes · View notes

suisosei · 5 years

Text

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: (If you are a multimuse blog, specify what muse you are filling this out for.) Tagged by: Me, myself, and I Tagging: *spins a wheel* @rubberbodied @takesaim @onforce @hairctrl and whoever wants to do this!!!

The Frolic

Les Fleurs

Alice’s Last Adventure

Dream of a Manikin

The Chymist

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

Eye of the Lynx

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

The Lost Art of Twilight

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

The Sect of the Idiot

The Greater Festival of Masks

The Music of the Moon

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals / the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror /placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

#headcanon #meme response #cut for length ///#blood tw #gore tw #horror tw #nihilism tw #unreality tw #body horror tw #( i mean if i were being completely honest i'd have bolded way more of this but...y'know...i had to be discerning so it wasn't like...every #spooky thing )

3 notes · View notes

miscellanyofmusings · 6 years

Text

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: (If you are a multimuse blog, specify what muse you are filling this out for.) Tagged by: Tagging:

The Frolic

Les Fleurs

Sorrowful flowers / lilting blossoms for a loved one’s memorial / a florist shop / flowers which open only at night / a hothouse warm smile / night-blooming cereuses / a sleek ocelot / well-preserved old places / plants resembling birds / white picket fences / flower-printed curtains / liqueur tasting of flowers from open fields / cool, clean offices / invisible wings whipping the warm air in darkness / the sounds of black orchids growing / the flower-bedded earth / a ripple of empathetic insight / a gorgeous kingdom of glittering colors / velvety jungle-shapes / contorted rainbows and twisted auroras / hyper-radiant hues / a marvelous arcana / tongue-like floral appendages / tongues flowering

Alice’s Last Adventure

Dream of a Manikin

The Chymist

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

Eye of the Lynx

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

The Lost Art of Twilight

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

The Sect of the Idiot

The Greater Festival of Masks

The Music of the Moon

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals / the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror /placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

#rp meme #roleplay meme #aesthetic meme #meme

14 notes · View notes

turquoisedays · 6 years

Text

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG, AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: The one this blog is for? Tagged by: Me, myself, and I. Tagging: @wargod @rubberbodied @sharedpractice I’M TOO SHY TO TAG ANYONE ELSE.

The Frolic

Les Fleurs

Alice’s Last Adventure

Dream of a Manikin

The Chymist

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish / riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool / a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling / a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

The Lost Art of Twilight

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

The Sect of the Idiot

The Greater Festival of Masks

The Music of the Moon

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Vastarien

#cut for length /#headcanons #rp meme #I'M ALWAYS A SLUG FOR THOMAS LIGOTTI #blood tw #gore tw just to be safe?#nihilism tw #unreality tw #some v brief body horror tw #horror cw

2 notes · View notes

uponaredwheelbarrow · 6 years

Text

ts eliot poetry quotation aesthetics.

repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want.

The Wasteland

april is the cruellest month. winter kept us warm. we stopped in the colonnade. in the mountains, there you feel free. a heap of broken images. there is shadow under this red rock. your shadow at evening rising to meet you. fear in a handful of dust. they called me the hyacinth girl. looking into the heart of light. those are pearls that were his eyes. the lady of situations. fear death by water. unreal city. the brown fog of a winter dawn. a burnished throne. the glitter of her jewels. vials of ivory and coloured glass. strange synthetic perfumes.and still the world pursues. clawed into words. the wind under the door. nothing again nothing. the last fingers of leaf. the rattle of the bones. white bodies naked on the low damp ground. at the violet hour. stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. one final patronising kiss.a current under sea. the torchlight red on sweaty faces. the agony in stony places. prison and palace and reverberation. rock without water. dry sterile thunder without rain. a pool among the rock. dry grass singing. murmur of maternal lamentation. empty cisterns and exhausted wells. the grass is singing. dry bones can harm no one.

Preludes

the burnt-out ends of smoky days. newspapers from vacant lots. the lighting of the lamps.faint stale smells of beer. a thousand furnished rooms. sparrows in the gutters.sitting along the bed’s edge. the palms of both soiled hands. his soul stretched tight across the skies. eyes assured of certain certainties. the conscience of a blackened street. the notion of some infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing.

Gerontion

waiting for rain. heaving a cutlass. a decayed house. among windy spaces. swaddled with darkness. depraved May. dogwood and chestnut. with caressing hands. I have no ghosts.the giving famishes the craving. reconsidered passion. neither fear nor courage saves us.our impudent crimes. backward devils. to lose beauty in terror. pungent sauces. gull against the wind. white feathers in the snow. a sleepy corner. in a dry season.

Portrait of a Lady

the smoke and fog of a december afternoon. wax candles in the darkened room. attenuated tones of violins. how rare and strange it is. inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins. in a tobacco trance. lilacs are in bloom. a bowl of lilacs in her room. youth is cruel, and has no remorse. immeasurably at peace. across the gulf you reach your hand. one about to reach her journey’s end. the smell of hyacinths across the garden. a slight sensation of being ill at ease. among the bric-à-brac. we are really in the dark. like a dancing bear. afternoon grey and smoky. evening yellow and rose. sitting pen in hand.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells. insidious intent. yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes. a soft october night. to murder and create. the taking of a toast and tea. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. the music from a farther room. arms that are braceleted and white and bare. perfume from a dress. lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows. a pair of ragged claws. the floors of silent seas. tea and cakes and ices. settling a pillow by her head. the skirts that trail along the floor. throwing off a shawl. full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse. do I dare to eat a peach?. the mermaids singing. the white hair of the waves. the water white and black. the chambers of the sea. wreathed with seaweed red and brown.

tagged by: no one tagging: @amidalc, @mlwre, @malwxre, @scxmfxxk, @eyescaptivate, @heykiiddo, @unholywxrs @quietresistance and whoever else wants to

#hacked.gz

2 notes · View notes

tennesseewynter · 9 months

Text

#aesthetic: violets bloom under the snow

1 note · View note

iconicblonde · 6 years

Text

ts eliot poetry quotation aesthetics.

repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want.

The Wasteland

april is the cruellest month. winter kept us warm. we stopped in the colonnade. in the mountains, there you feel free. a heap of broken images. there is shadow under this red rock. your shadow at evening rising to meet you. fear in a handful of dust. they called me the hyacinth girl. looking into the heart of light. those are pearls that were his eyes. the lady of situations. fear death by water. unreal city. the brown fog of a winter dawn. a burnished throne. the glitter of her jewels. vials of ivory and coloured glass. strange synthetic perfumes.and still the world pursues. clawed into words. the wind under the door. nothing again nothing. the last fingers of leaf. the rattle of the bones. white bodies naked on the low damp ground. at the violet hour. stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. one final patronising kiss. a current under sea. the torchlight red on sweaty faces. the agony in stony places. prison and palace and reverberation. rock without water. dry sterile thunder without rain. a pool among the rock. dry grass singing. murmur of maternal lamentation. empty cisterns and exhausted wells. the grass is singing. dry bones can harm no one.

Preludes

the burnt-out ends of smoky days. newspapers from vacant lots. the lighting of the lamps. faint stale smells of beer. a thousand furnished rooms. sparrows in the gutters. sitting along the bed’s edge. the palms of both soiled hands. his soul stretched tight across the skies. eyes assured of certain certainties. the conscience of a blackened street.the notion of some infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing.

Gerontion

waiting for rain. heaving a cutlass. a decayed house. among windy spaces. swaddled with darkness. depraved May. dogwood and chestnut. with caressing hands. I have no ghosts. the giving famishes the craving. reconsidered passion. neither fear nor courage saves us. our impudent crimes. backward devils. to lose beauty in terror. pungent sauces. gull against the wind. white feathers in the snow. a sleepy corner. in a dry season.

Portrait of a Lady

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells. insidious intent. yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes. a soft october night. to murder and create. the taking of a toast and tea. I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. the music from a farther room. arms that are braceleted and white and bare. perfume from a dress. lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows. a pair of ragged claws. the floors of silent seas. tea and cakes and ices. settling a pillow by her head. the skirts that trail along the floor.throwing off a shawl. full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse. do I dare to eat a peach?. the mermaids singing. the white hair of the waves. the water white and black. the chambers of the sea. wreathed with seaweed red and brown.

tagged by: the lovely @rcnnickins tagging: @townwiithpep @chaosblossomed @snakelikex and @forbiddenfrut (if they haven’t done it already. Also anyone who wants to do it as well!)

#𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓿𝓲𝔁𝓮𝓷 {𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓽}#𝓻𝓲𝓿𝒆𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓵𝒆 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓭𝓸 𝓫𝒆𝓽𝓽𝒆𝓻 {𝓶𝒆𝓶𝒆}#𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓼 {𝓪𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓬}

2 notes · View notes

maalekar · 6 years

Text

ts eliot poetry quotation aesthetics. repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want.

The Wasteland

april is the cruellest month. winter kept us warm. we stopped in the colonnade. in the mountains, there you feel free. a heap of broken images. there is shadow under this red rock. your shadow at evening rising to meet you. fear in a handful of dust. they called me the hyacinth girl. looking into the heart of light. those are pearls that were his eyes. the lady of situations. fear death by water. unreal city. the brown fog of a winter dawn. a burnished throne. the glitter of her jewels. vials of ivory and coloured glass. strange synthetic perfumes.and still the world pursues. clawed into words. the wind under the door. nothing again nothing. the last fingers of leaf. the rattle of the bones. white bodies naked on the low damp ground. at the violet hour. stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. one final patronising kiss. a current under sea. the torchlight red on sweaty faces. the agony in stony places. prison and palace and reverberation. rock without water. dry sterile thunder without rain. a pool among the rock. dry grass singing. murmur of maternal lamentation. empty cisterns and exhausted wells. the grass is singing. dry bones can harm no one.

Preludes

the burnt-out ends of smoky days. newspapers from vacant lots. the lighting of the lamps. faint stale smells of beer. a thousand furnished rooms. sparrows in the gutters.sitting along the bed’s edge. the palms of both soiled hands. his soul stretched tight across the skies. eyes assured of certain certainties. the conscience of a blackened street. the notion of some infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing.

Gerontion

Portrait of a Lady

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

tagged by: @hawkborn, sorta andjsdja tagging: if you have eyes to see this you’re it

#ooc #about #q

1 note · View note

notfirebutice · 6 years

Text

ts eliot poetry quotation aesthetics.

repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want.

The Wasteland

april is the cruellest month. winter kept us warm. we stopped in the colonnade. in the mountains, there you feel free. a heap of broken images. there is shadow under this red rock. your shadow at evening rising to meet you. fear in a handful of dust. they called me the hyacinth girl. looking into the heart of light. those are pearls that were his eyes. the lady of situations. fear death by water. unreal city. the brown fog of a winter dawn. a burnished throne. the glitter of her jewels. vials of ivory and coloured glass. strange synthetic perfumes.and still the world pursues. clawed into words. the wind under the door. nothing again nothing. the last fingers of leaf. the rattle of the bones. white bodies naked on the low damp ground. at the violet hour. stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. one final patronising kiss. a current under sea. the torchlight red on sweaty faces. the agony in stony places.prison and palace and reverberation. rock without water. dry sterile thunder without rain. a pool among the rock. dry grass singing. murmur of maternal lamentation. empty cisterns and exhausted wells. the grass is singing. dry bones can harm no one.

Preludes

the burnt-out ends of smoky days. newspapers from vacant lots. the lighting of the lamps. faint stale smells of beer. a thousand furnished rooms. sparrows in the gutters. sitting along the bed’s edge. the palms of both soiled hands. his soul stretched tight across the skies. eyes assured of certain certainties. the conscience of a blackened street. the notion of some infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing.

Gerontion

waiting for rain. heaving a cutlass. a decayed house. among windy spaces. swaddled withdarkness. depraved May. dogwood and chestnut. with caressing hands. I have no ghosts.the giving famishes the craving. reconsidered passion. neither fear nor courage saves us.our impudent crimes. backward devils. to lose beauty in terror. pungent sauces. gull against the wind. white feathers in the snow. a sleepy corner. in a dry season.

Portrait of a Lady

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

tagged by: @joneshead tagging: anyone

#about: veronica

1 note · View note

sharpasatak · 4 years

Text

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

[SOURCE]

The following quotes and phrases are taken from the stories in Thomas Ligotti’s anthology Songs of a Dead Dreamer. Some of these quotes were slightly tweaked for the sake of this meme. If you enjoy the imagery or writing in this meme, please support the author by purchasing his work. Content warnings for horror in genera and brief mentions of blood, nihilism, unreality, mannequins, dolls, puppets, and some body horror.

Bold what applies to your muse. Tagged by: No one. Tagging: Again, no one. This meme is incredibly long, and I don’t want anyone to feel forced to do it. Feel free to fill it out if you want, though!

The Frolic

Les Fleurs

Alice’s Last Adventure

Dream of a Manikin

The Chymist

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

The full powers of a master hypnotist / a mesmeric wilderness / marked by fate’s stigmata / crystal twinkling under a chandelier’s kaleidoscopic blaze / power and prestige socializing / a pair of metronomes / a glossy black cabinet / two bluish gems in an alabaster setting / a tiny sequined outfit / mesmeric stunts / intact and unbloodied / routines in defiance of death and pain / a jaw-dropping finale / a blare of heavenly horns / a labyrinth of light / a gossamer veil / snow-white wings / the angelic luminary beneath the human beast / the eyes of the audience / mock-death and bogus-pain / sinking deep into a downy darkness / pillows stuffed with soft shadows / a sun at the center of a drab galaxy / vacant and full of grace / a business card with a cloud-gray pearl finish / riotous rococo / a chair of blinding brocade / flowery fabric / a shelf of delicate figurines / tall smoky mirrors / a bottomless pool / a sky wiped clean of clouds / dispassionate elegance / postures and poses like frozen roses / pajama-clad legs dangling / a shiny chrome-plated pen / a very soft but not condescending tone / a mazy wallflower / cartwheels of agony / somersaults through fires of doom / nosedives of vulnerable flesh into the meat grinder of life / serene constellations / sweet nullities / a spell-binding, snake-eyed charmer / high society vulgarians / eyes recessed in their sockets, sunken into a rotting profundity / labyrinthine depths / dancing clothes all clotted with putrescent goo

Eye of the Lynx

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

The Lost Art of Twilight

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

Prof. Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

The Sect of the Idiot

The Greater Festival of Masks

The Music of the Moon

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Vastarien

#✦ ꜱᴛᴜᴘɪᴅ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ✦ [memes]#long post #((and i mean LONG post))

0 notes

sanguisfulgur · 6 years

Text

Songs of a Dead Dreamer Aesthetic Meme

REPOST, DO NOT REBLOG AND DO NOT DELETE THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION.

The following quotes and phrases are taken from the stories in Thomas Ligotti’s anthology Songs of a Dead Dreamer. Some of these quotes were slightly tweaked for the sake of this meme. If you enjoy the imagery or writing in this meme, please support the author by purchasing his work. Content warnings for horror in genera and brief mentions of blood, nihilism, unreality, mannequins, dolls, puppets, and some body horror.

Bold what applies to your muse.

Muse: Sharna Hikari Tagged by: Taken directly from @miscellanyofmusings Tagging: Anyone who wants to??

The Frolic

Les Fleurs

Alice’s Last Adventure

Dream of a Manikin

The Chymist

Drink to Me Only with Labyrinthine Eyes

Eye of the Lynx

Notes on the Writing of Horror: A Story

The Christmas Eves of Aunt Elsie

The Lost Art of Twilight

The Troubles of Dr. Thoss

Masquerade of a Dead Sword: A Tragedie

Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech

Professor Nobody’s Little Lectures on Supernatural Horror

Dr. Locrian’s Asylum

The Sect of the Idiot

The Greater Festival of Masks

The Music of the Moon

The Journal of J.P. Drapeau

Unstained by any habits of the human / the ideal of everything alien to living / some molding backwater of the earth / the city of Bruges itself / a corpse of the Middle Ages / bony bridges / the black veins of old canals / a lonely evolution in shadowed streets and beside sluggish canals / the music of graveyards / a resonant chorus that fills the air and sometimes drowns out the voices of those who still live / layers of cobwebs floating about the near ceiling / a burst of resistance / the pealing of church bells / the language of whimsy / the force of stars tugging away at various points / the dark waters of a canal / shiny black hair parted straight down the middle / a low table covered by a red velvet cloth / a world that applauds trumped-up illusions while denying or demeaning those that create the very lives they are living / a spectral thing full of strange suggestion / an untenanted room filled with the echoes of nothingness / the eyes of certain crudely fashioned dolls / a greenish glow from a mirror /placid meandering canals / enwrapped in mist / close crumbling houses / odd arching bridges / innumerable church towers / narrow twisting streets / queer little courtyards / everything gone forever / an empty mist / an eternal twilight

Vastarien

#long post #of relevance;

0 notes