muse trash

2022 muselist;

Thu, 13 Jan 2022 05:29:13 GMT

Posted by: jessihoney

( here there still be monsters )

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open rp post ➲ picture prompt meme

Tue, 09 Jun 2015 18:49:11 GMT

Posted by: jessihoney

the shamelessly stolen picture prompt meme

I — Choose one of my characters and ask for them in your header/comment
II — Leave me pictures orrr just throw me a comment and I'll find the pictures
III — We'll RP stuff based on them together!!!

Link to an image:

Embed an image in your reply:

You can control width and height of your pictures:

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DEATHS

Fri, 23 Jan 2015 00:41:21 GMT

Posted by: jessihoney

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For my own benefit...

Mon, 04 Jun 2012 15:38:21 GMT

Posted by: jessihoney

Needy Lesnicki
Thom of Trebond
Jack Your Firm's Name Here
Todd Wainio
Clarence Otto
Barry Wheeler
Peter Grant
Andrew Detmer
Helena
Veronica Callahan
Isaac Lahey
Chloe Sweeney
Anders Johnson
Mandy Milkovich
Olive Haynes
Snafu
Richard Harrow
Shannon Márquez
Daja Kisubo
Eddie Kaspbrak
Trilla Suduri

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ICONS FOR TUCO

Tue, 25 Oct 2011 00:03:00 GMT

Posted by: hatestriangles

( icons )

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TLV APP // in progress

Sun, 02 Oct 2011 03:43:00 GMT

Posted by: hatestriangles

( blah )

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Chloe App TLV

Sun, 08 May 2011 18:31:00 GMT

Posted by: hatestriangles

( i try to make myself generous )

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LOG: The Fugitive & The Doctor

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 01:53:00 GMT

Posted by: impeccabletime.livejournal.com

The Fugitive grinned; his teeth filthy, his face covered in grime. His ship was sailing soon. The women walking past in the cobbled street shied away from him, something in his face prompting them to change their paths. It didn't matter. Nothing could change his jubilation today. His fingers beat time against his thigh, his accordian slapped his back where it hung on its strap, his cigar jutted jauntily from his lips.

He'd seen the miser, scraping for bail, scrambling to keep his head above the water in the aftermath of the perfect plan which the Fugitive had carried out. The Fugitive's smile widened. He stepped lightly onto the cobbles of a market street, far from McArthur's shop; the other side of the city. There were a great many shops, stalls, and people a-plenty, and the Fugitive blended effortlessly into the crowd. A few short hours, and he would be gone, his revenge complete and his getaway safe. Oh yes, he was a happy man today.

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TESTING TESTING JOURNAL ENTRY

Sat, 08 May 2010 15:37:00 GMT

Posted by: onetoothbrush.livejournal.com

This is indeed a strange occurance. I have been many places, travelled the length of the land, and this is quite unlike anything I have seen before. Inexplicable, unusual, new. Why, a man could travel for his entire life and never once see anything like this. Quite, quite breath-taking, if a little unexpected.

But I have a problem. My car is, mm- In an unusual position. I cannot drive it like this. How then can a poor salesman earn his keep, buy his bread and otherwise make a living? Without my car, without my freedom... what am I? A travelling salesman without the means to travel is a hollow thing to be.

How did this happen, then? Can any single soul hear this and explain?

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Mon, 14 Sep 2009 23:05:00 GMT

Posted by: onetoothbrush.livejournal.com

My dear girl, my dear girl, you and I, you and I, you see. We. We are at the heart of it, in the thick, at the very centre of its being. Oh yes, we are the core and the root and the vortex and the eye of the storm.

We, us, everyone; every single tiny little atom of living matter - but mainly humans - on this planet. We are the heart.

We live, we breath, we break rocks, we strangle chickens, we have sex. We live.

Oh yes.

We live. We buy. We sell. We consume.

Oh my dearest, we waste and try and fail and end up with nothing.

But it's in the trying.

It's in the dying.

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a death

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 09:52:00 GMT

Posted by: twodaysinblood.livejournal.com

The girl was beautiful; Brian could appreciate that.

Her long legs, their dusting of freckles and fine hair, the musculature of her delicate calves standing out as her toes curled, the tensing of the tight tendon running wire-taut on the inside of her rounded thigh. Her arms held just away from her sides were a mix of soft skin on the underbelly and elbows that were rough against his palm. Against the thick restraints cutting into her flesh, her wrists and hands seemed petite, the fingernails rounded, small and manicured; each one carefully painted a different color.

Brian ghosted his fingertips over her stomach. He smiled to himself as her stomach tightened like a drum, the flat skin between her hip-bones tensing and twisting as she gasped and sobbed at the touch. The collarbones stood out under the skin, and he drew two light fingers along one covered clavicle. She swallowed, he felt her oesophagus move under the skin.

He looked her over, objective now. She had done nothing to deserve death, but then again, she hadn't done much to deserve life either. She would die, and he would feel something for a while.

Moving away from the bloodstained steel table, he found his tools. One convulsive slash of the knife across her throat, ear to ear, wide and gaping and dangerous; exsangination. Bleed out. All that blood, hot, sticky, gushing out into a bucket as the table tipped her upside down, drying in her hair, on the metal, on the floor.

At least it wouldn't touch him. Not until he was ready. He was in control now. He was the monster with the chainsaw, he held the power of life and more importantly, of death. The knife was poised and she sobbed out Please as if that would stop him, halt the fall of his killing stroke. It wouldn't. Nothing would. Nothing ever would.

The blood rushed thin and red and silky-wet from the cut, and he bared his teeth involuntarily as the drops fell on his arm, above the glove, before he could pull away. She choked, bubbles of air spurting through her wound, bubbles of blood surging from her mouth as she coughed out words that were drowned so completely by the redness.

He was breathing heavily now. Shaking hands, he set the hydraulics hauling her body up; watched as her pain-filled eyes stuttered closed. She was done. So was he, for now. Walking unsteadily, he left the room, left the body strung up, closed and bolted the door to the freezer-room. He would come back when she was dry, her blood neatly filling that bucket, vacated her body for good.

He would come back, and he would cut and saw and bind and prepare; his brother needed him.

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justprompts

Thu, 11 Jun 2009 17:08:00 GMT

Posted by: psychosnowflake.livejournal.com

I didn't do it.

Okay, so maybe I did. Whatever. Maybe I did try to blow up the world. Maybe I did punch myself in the face. Maybe I did. Maybe. Maybe I filled my boss's computer with gasoline. Maybe I did crash the car. Maybe I kissed my own hand and poured that lye.

But I didn't do it. It was all him. All Tyler. All that fucker and his crazy views. All him. Not me. Why would I do something like that?

I am Jack's complete lack of knowledge.

Whatever.

It wasn't me. I didn't do it. I didn't want to do it.

Stupid.

I didn't know what I was doing.

I wasn't even there when it was happening. And everytime I was there, even a little bit, I was just following Tyler. His words, his thoughts, his orders. I saw him and I followed him and I wanted to be him. Everything he told me to do, I did it.

I am Jack's Nuremberg Defense.

Until Project Mayhem started to get way too big, I didn't even question him. I never would. He was my friend.

Fuckhead.

I didn't do it; except I did. But I didn't mean to do it. I didn't mean it, I really didn't mean it. I didn't do it.

Do you really believe that? Does anyone? I don't.

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Thu, 11 Jun 2009 12:14:00 GMT

Posted by: lampafixitsbeam.livejournal.com

That sheet, on which she embroidered fantails once, spread it so as to cover her face...

Well, fuck. I've gotta admit, I really didn't think Stravinsky had it in him. Helping the wonderful Doctor Grey chop his peers up into little bitty pieces. That was a cold move by the fat kid in class. Maybe we should've had him in on it the whole time... Nah. But Teddy, well- Teddy I knew. He's a cold motherfucker. He can be. I know, I know, I did the whole evil nemesis bit too, but hey. He did it first. Imitation is a form of flattery, I guess.

Blowing up a room full of bright young doctors isn't exactly what I'd call innocent as hell, is it? Whaddaya say, Teddy? Want to keep this going? We can keep trying.

Oh no, wait. We can't.

I'm dead. By your hand.

Let it haunt you. I want him to see my eyes when he's trying to get to sleep, trying to get by, trying to live a normal fucking life, because he doesn't deserve it. All I wanted was to be the best. All I wanted was to play the game, but no.

No. The righteous and just Doctor Grey couldn't let me do that. So how do you fix an injustice like me? Try to blow him up, try to destroy him, of course. Killed all the guys and got me too in the end. Hell of a way to die.

Motherfucker.

He's good.

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