HERETICS INC.

#FUKSTAR, BY JACKKNIFE. EXPLORING  THE  PITFALLS  OF  FAME,  THE  HORRORS  OF  THE  ROCK  &  ROLL  LIFESTYLE  THAT  GETS  PLASTERED  ON  THE  COVER  OF  EVERY  MAGAZINE,  THE  LOSS  OF  IDENTITY  &  SENSE  OF  SELF,  AND  WHAT  THE  REAL  PRICE  OF  SUCCESS  IS. THIS IS YOUR BACKSTAGE PASS.

HERETICSINC, MULTIMUSE. An assorted cabinet of characters from various media forms and original characters.

LESVAMPIRS, MULTIMUSE. A vampires only affair, focused heavily on drawing from traditional folklore and mythology.

FUKSTAR, MULTIMUSE. A musicians only multimuse, featuring exclusively original characters and exploring the consequences of fame.

LECHRONIQUES, LESTAT DE LIONCOURT. Mixed influence, though predominantly show based with some stuff cherry picked from the novels.

ARMEDMETAL, BUCKY BARNES. Exclusively comic and headcanon based interpretation.

She  wasn't  dead  yet.  But  still,  her  voice  haunted  her.  That  very  same  voice  had  planted  a  seed  in  her  mind  from  a  young  age,  with  its  rotted  flowers  threatening  to  bloom  once  more.  Maybe  she  really  was  out  of  her  depth  here.  Maybe  death  incarnate  was  dead  wrong.  Hell,  she'd  seen  them  make  mistakes  before.  Her  sister  lurking  in  corners,  phasing  through  walls,  blowing  tantrums  of  astronomical  proportions  whilst  stuck  in  between  the  veil  of  the  living  and  the  deceased  was  proof  enough  of  that.  Eos  had  to  believe  it  was  a  glitch  in  the  system;  in  fact,  she  refused  the  alternative.  The  idea  that  she  had  to  have  done  something  to  deserve  this  torment.  She  knew  she  wasn't  great.  She  knew  she  had  done  some  bad  things.  But  was  it  really  worth  all  that?  No.  Definitely  not.  Right?  Or  maybe,  she  had  fucked  up,  and  the  universe  was  not  presenting  her  with  an  opportunity  to  redeem  herself.  To  finally  rid  her  and  her  brother  from  …  whatever  this  was.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  she  realized  she  may  have  to  do  this,  as  confusing  as  it  all  was.

❛ That's  great,  did  your  therapist  teach  you  that? ❜  Violet  snaps  back,  harsh  intensity  ladled  on  to  the  tip  of  her  tongue,  the  lips,  the  teeth. 

❛  Much  madness  is  the  divinest  sense ... the  metaphoric  penumbra      …       maybe  it's  a  mirror  dimension,  that  shows  us  the  truth.  Maybe  you'd  have  to  be  crazy  to  not  be,  ❜  Enoch  prattles  on,  as  his  eyes  dart  between  crowded  shelves,  brushing  a  bundle  of  feathers  against  imperceivable  specks  of  dust  that  threatened  to  collect  on  his  collection.  

❛  You  let  enough  madness  spill  into  your  head,  and  nothing  seems  all  that  strange  anymore,  does  it?  Yes,  exactly  like  that     …       ❜  The  man  continues  with  low  rambles  that  fall  short  of  making  any  lick  of  real  sense.  Therein  lies  the  disconnect;  he  was  a  man  who  already  knew  what  had  happened,  and  what  had  yet  to  come.  Every  choice  an  illusion,  every  thought  as  fleeting  as  the  last.  The  only  real  issue  was,  he  simply  could  not  speak  of  it.  He  could  see,  he  could  hear,  but  he  could  not  tell.  Not  in  any  direct  sense,  that  is.  His  final  parting  gift  from  God,  maybe.  

“ had to live with my aunt and uncle for the summer. s’posed to build character. ”

between blond lashes and furrowed eyebrows, peter watches jöelle’s daughter  —  same nose, same eyes. he’s seventeen now. he does the math, and very much realizes, that the thought of having a kid so young is horrifying. he never thought about it. never had to worry about it, really. he shifts his weight to one chain, and looks off. tall grass, mosquitos, the pulpit just looming above … a church playground, covered in field moths and grasshoppers. hot, hot sun. it's his second summer in tierney, and it’s hotter than the last. he hums again.

❛ I'm glad they're nice to you. ❜ Joelle echoes the sentiment softly, almost like a whisper being carried off into dry winds. But it was true, even if her experiences thus far had been … different. ❛ Though, I think you're the first person to talk to me that hasn't offered to pray for my soul. ❜

Strangely enough, the offerings were not a reaction to what she had been through. It wasn't because of her name, or because her background. It wasn't even for the fact that she had very little knowledge of how to navigate in the modern world. It was always, always because she was a young, unmarried woman with a child. A harlot, a whore. She couldn't understand it. In an odd way, she almost hoped she never would. It wasn't like she had ever been taught how to pray anyway. As far as her parents were concerned, praying was the real sin. God wasn't listening. Mother Love always was.

⥂ ░░░  𝗡𝗢 𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙-𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗢𝗡  would be alright with this, donomie.  he can hear nikola's voice in his ear now, see her tired, disapproving gaze over the checkout counter, through the gaps in the shelves, wherever she's decided to stand, while donomie, once again, unloads everything circulating in his brain about  ryan fucking matlock  choosing him to warm his hotel bed anytime he's in their wonderfully smoggy little city. the happy, dreamy-eyed look he always sported was a stark contrast to the scolding that was usually spinning in her own head.

     but that's only because she doesn't understand, and probably never would; he doesn't know if he has the capacity to completely explain the precarious state of their relationship, and he's not wholly sure that she'd care enough to sit and listen to it all. that doesn't mean, however, that she doesn't appreciate the clear excitement in his eyes when he gets a text or call, or the way he seems  ...  a little less likely to make a rash decision everyone else around him will regret. donomie has a sneaking suspcion that this is probably what keeps her from really digging into him the way she's got to be itching for.

     and donomie knows that if she could somehow see him right now, see the lazy, content look on his face while he lays next to ryan, fingertips lazily drawing lines and shapes along his skin, black-painted nails ocassionally lightly scraping and leaving pink lines that quickly fade, she'd maybe understand just   that much more  why this little bubble of almost nothing brings him so much joy. it's only ever a night, two, if they're lucky, but he craves it more than he's ever craved any drug in his life.

       his eyes finally flicker up to ryan's face when he speaks, and donomie can't help the grimace that twists his face at the mention of work, of anything outside these four walls that will bring him crashing back down to reality.      “    yeah, but not until late; nikola did me a solid and switched shifts with me. what time do you fly out ?    ”   

❛  Gotta  be  checked  out  of  here  by  eleven,  but  I  don't  have to  be  on  the  plane  until  one.  ❜  Ryan  says,  with  a  hint  of  suggestion  filling  in  the  gaps  between  his  words.  Late  breakfast,  lunch,  whatever  the  other  man  wanted.  Anything,  if  it  meant  soaking  up  just  a  bit  more  time  with  him.  Part  of  him  knows  it  is  impossible.  Being  seen  together  in  public  raised  too  many  flags,  spiking  his  anxiety  far  more  than  it  needed  to.  But  maybe.  Maybe.  Just  in  case.  

𝙿𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝙸𝙽'𝚃   𝙰   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝚂𝙷𝙴   𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂   𝙸𝙽   𝙿𝚄𝙱𝙻𝙸𝙲.   If   she   had   her   way,   it   wasn't   something   she'd   be   doing   at   all,   but   such   is   the   nature   of   getting   powers   from   the   proverbial   sketchy   guy   in   an   alley.   But   the   food   and   the   service   and   the   views   at   La   Boucherie   NYC   were   worth   schlepping   her   way   across   town   several   times   a   week   for.   And   worth   showering   the   entire   waitstaff   and   kitchen   staff   with   sizable   tips   to   show   her   appreciation   (   and   to   not   comment   on   where   the   diesel   motor-like   rumbling   was   coming   from   ). 

❝   Nick!   Don't   listen   to   him,   baby,   c'mere.   For   the   drinks   and   for   your   drinks   when   you   get   outta   here,   yeah?   ❞   It's   a   familiar   line,   one   she's   repeated   for   nearly   the   entirety   of   the   front   of   house   and   a   fair   few   of   the   back   of   house   —   they   all   seemed   to   take   breaks   suspiciously   late   in   the   night   on   the   evenings   Felicia   perched   at   shadowy   end   of   the   bar.   But   it's   playful   and   affectionate,   a   heeled   foot   gently   nudging   at   the   chef's   lower   leg   in   a   reprimand   with   no   heat.   Several   large   bills   were   pressed   into   the   bartender's   hand   with   a   fond   wink,   a   grateful   smile   and   two   expertly   mixed   cocktails   set   down   in   front   of   them.

❝   You   gotta   strange   way   of   proposin',   but   if   it   means   you   keep   spoilin'   me   like   this,   I'd   be   a   fool   to   say   no.   ❞   Despite   the   satiation   of   her   often   voracious   appetite,   the   mood   lighting   of   the   restaurant   still   caught   and   illuminated   the   naked   greed   on   the   blonde's   face.   She   was   going   to   be   leaving   with   a   royal   feast's   worth   of   food,   several   takeout   boxes   already   neatly   stowed   away   in   discreet   paper   bags.   ❝   You're   the   best,   I   tell   you   that   at   all   tonight?   ❞  

The  lesser  known  other  half  of  the  tedious  free  fall,  this  symbiotic  and  toxic  relationship  between  salesman  and  consumer,  was  what  it  took  to  be  a  good  customer.  To  be  a  true  lover  of  the  experience  that  awaited  beyond  glass-plated  double  doors.  Those  traits  were  not  always  inherent,  and  for  some,  it  was  a  learning  curve.  For  Felicia,  it  seemed  to  be  bred  and  boiled  into  her  bones.  There  weren't  many  who  would  opt  to  refuse  a  free  drink  from  the  head  chef  and  insist  on  paying  over  double  the  retail  price.  Really,  it  was  part  of  what  he  adored  about  her.  The  other  parts  consisted  mostly  of  his  general  fondness  for  those  who  had  a  serious  appetite.  People  who  could  handle  their  fucking  food.  In  this  regard,  she  may  very  well  have  been  an  unparalleled,  unsung  champion.  

❛  Oh,  no,  you  should  definitely  say  no.  I'm  too  old  and  too  emotionally  unavailable  for  you,  I  promise,  ❜  Nicholas  prattles  tiredly,  in  contrast  to  the  smile  that  runs  across  his  lips  and  exposes  all  the  wrinkles  in  his  sun-weathered  skin.  If  his  ex-wife  could  hear  him,  she'd  likely  do  nothing  more  than  echo  the  warnings  he  just  fired  off.  ❛  You  know,  I  can  say  the  same,  you  could  probably  single-handedly  keep  this  place  up  and  running.  ❜

It  was  a  slight  exaggeration,  but  a  truthful  sentiment  nonetheless.  Just  as  the  words  leave  his  lips,  Ashley  is  sliding  their  drinks  across  the  bar  on  branded  coasters.  The  only  thing  between  him  and  getting  home  now  is  the  sixteen  ounces  of  locally  brewed  amber  lager  that  stood  before  him,  though  he  felt  compelled  to  take  his  time  when  in  such  good company.

and, frankly, she wants to call him beautiful, a sight for sore eyes, not out of lust but out of simple fact. this extended kindness … it makes her want to scream, cry, curl up in a ball, and die a millionth time. but she just smiles, through bold red lipstick, pearly white teeth, and a set of sharpened canines.

“ vivienne. i appreciate the offer, sugar, but no need. ”  a quick chat. if only it were that simple. the room is airy and cozy, but the complications suddenly weigh down, they press into her chest and she nearly grimaces. vivienne hates to do this. she hates to be the one knocking on doors, reaping, sowing, filing the paperwork that the devil refuses to do himself. she hates to be the gal with the clipboard. she sits, flipping raven tresses over her shoulder, and she crosses her legs, and bounces one very casually. she’s not quite uncomfortable, but there’s something else wrong, she just can’t tell yet.

John sits on the worn settee as she declines the offer of a drink — an attempt to put her at ease, maybe. There's a gesture, motioning for her to sit across from him if she pleased. Open ended, with the ball in her court.

❛ Oh, I can't take credit for any of this. Mary, our ministry assistant, was the one who decorated most of the space, I'm hopeless with interior design. The building, though, was constructed in 1917 by the Pesaturo family. Lots of history. I'm pretty fond of it myself. ❜

a dive bar was always a place that lenny felt safe. she always knew one of the bartenders and at least one or two of the patrons ( if it's a weekend, she'd know half the bar but he knew better than to schedule a date on a weekend. ) it doesn't take long for lennon to feel immediately at home, icy blue eyes darting around the room as she took in the familiar sounds. ( billiards cracking, cigarette smoke, the sound of some frat boy laughing in the background. ) it doesn't take long for the blonde to plop herself down onto one of the barstools, quickly grinning over at stevie. ( he actually did their makeup for once, they feel pretty. )

❛  Better  keep  that  promise,  I'm  lookin'  forward  to  it,  ❜  Stevie  speaks  with  a  smile,  turning  their  attention  for  only  the  briefest  of  moments  as  the  bartender  prods  them  for  an  order.  For  himself, it's  a  singular  mocktail kind of night  —  it  would  be  enough  to  fake  his  way  through  his  environment,  vividly  colored  miniature  umbrella  and  all.  Somewhere  deep  in  his  pockets,  there's  a  seven  month  token  burning  a  hole  in  the  fabric  of  their  pants,  but   somehow  he  thinks  that  starting  off  a  conversation  by  ripping  into  the  history  of  his  sordid  relationship  was  alcohol  might  have  been  a  bit  of  a  vibe  killer.  Better  wait, when she's decided he's not a total psycho. That conclusion would probably come much later anyway.

❛  —  And,  anything  they  want,  just  stick  it  on  my  tab.  ❜  Stevie  punctuates  the  order  with  a  nod  and  a  thanks,  passing  their  card  off before shifting their attention back.  

julian finds it easier to focus on his words if he stares directly at the stranger behind the desk, as unnervingly an experience it likely is for them. the musician's stare is piercing, gaze roaming as if acquainting itself with unfamiliar features. really, he's just trying not to get distracted again and fall prey to wandering thoughts. relief claws at his chest when he's able to lean down and rest his crossed arms against the desk without issue.

❛  It's  gonna  be  about  ninety  bucks  per  night,  but  every  room  has  a  phone,  you  just  have  to  dial  —  ❜  His  words  are  abruptly  cut  short  with  his  breath  caught  in  the  column  of  his  throat  as  he  catches  the  sight  of  the  man's  arm  beginning  to  dissipate.  It  seeps  slowly  into  the  wood  grain,  as  though  he  had  no  real  corporeal  form,  disappearing  before  his  very  eyes.  The  long-standing  fractures  in  River's  brain  seemed  to  expand  outwards  like  a  silken  spiderweb.  The  cracks  in  the  glass  continued  to  splinter,  and  he  suspected  that  there  was  very  little  structural  integrity  left  in  his  mind.  He  pauses  for  what  might  have  been  mere  seconds,  but  time  moved  like  a  stagnant  pool  of  blood.  

There were no anomalous findings in our scans of the planet—no interference—

Just his luck.

Pavel squints against the brightness and reaches for his phaser, setting it to stun, and barely makes it a few metres before he is intercepted by a woman who looks to be of the desert itself, wielding the same fire in her gaze.

Sunlight glints off the barrel of the shotgun, racing toward him like a bullet, and Pavel freezes where he stands, gripping his phaser tightly. He recognises the weapon from Terran history—popular several centuries ago both domestically and in the battlefield, they have long since been replaced by energy displacement weapons, leaving them relics of the past and collectors' items.

At this distance, maybe not every shot would connect, but it would do more than enough damage to fatally wound.

Judging by her authoritative command and her unwavering posture, Pavel would wager a guess that she is the one in charge. Though the gun being pointed at me also makes a good argument for that.

“Okay.” Nodding, Pavel moves to comply, slowly kneeling down to place his phaser at his feet. He attempts to look as non-threatening as possible, keeping his hands raised should she misinterpret his actions and open fire.

She looks like the type to shoot first and ask questions later.

#FUKSTAR, BY JACKKNIFE. EXPLORING  THE  PITFALLS  OF  FAME,  THE  HORRORS  OF  THE  ROCK  &  ROLL  LIFESTYLE  THAT  GETS  PLASTERED  ON  THE  COVER  OF  EVERY  MAGAZINE,  THE  LOSS  OF  IDENTITY  &  SENSE  OF  SELF,  AND  WHAT  THE  REAL  PRICE  OF  SUCCESS  IS. THIS IS YOUR BACKSTAGE PASS.

La Boucherie NYC is a classic French brasserie restaurant, run by executive chef Nicholas Matisse ( when he isn't traveling the world for the sake of network television. )

The presentation slides of the menu can be found here. Pictures are below the cut.