TO HESITATE IS DEATH

Send a number and ask my muse about their father. (not accepting)

      How does one describe a man that couldn’t take a joke? That every single thing in his reality had to cater to his whim. A hair out of place could spiral into a week's ordeal of a ticking time bomb at the head of the dinner table. Nothing went his way and it was just the world's fault. Never enough money, never enough food, no one cared to make an effort in his reality.

      There could be a million and one words to describe such a misogynistic, narcissistic, egomaniac but the one Mista settled on was-- 

"You dumb fucking shitheads only have the one joke, huh..."

       Limoncello isn't a particularly nice person, but she knows a line when she sees one. The number four, the sight of sand tinted eerie-blue in the night... they're fears rooted in different places, but Limoncello recognizes the indignity in having someone prod at them--especially callous is the outsider who thinks they can do so without repercussion, like they're making a joke so worth laughing at that people will forget that they've got no right to.

       But Limoncello doesn't forget these things, and isn't a nice person. And that this bastard thinks they have any claim to try this shit makes her meaner still.

       "Say... you ever heard of the survival rule of threes? They say you can survive three hours in extreme conditions, three days without drinkable water, three weeks without food..." Limoncello tips her head, haughty and derisive, and eyes them up like a particularly unpleasant and unfortunate cockroach that's skittered into her line of sight. "Three minutes without breathable air, even... Ain't that something? So, y'know, since three's the limit, I'm kinda curious! If I deprived you of air for four minutes, would you still be able to hack out that impotent little deflated-condom-balloon wheeze you call a laugh after?" Her eyes narrow, smile sharp and toothy--predatory, more snarl than grin. She flicks at the padlocks on her belt and Smooth Criminal descends, unnervingly wide-eyed, onto her shoulders.

"Let's try it."

Send a number and ask my muse about their father. (not accepting)

6 - What was your father’s appearance like?

      “Shit, making me think here.” a hum, recalling a man he hasn’t seen in five odd years.  The man in question had dark blond hair, shaggy, always had bangs but kept it clean in the back. A big ol’ bushy goatee, and overall didn’t stand out. Typical sort of every man except the scowl pertinently placed on his face with droopy dark browns of utter dullness. The more he recalled the sour his saliva tasted.

      “Yeah, got nothing. Oh well.”

7 - What features did you inherit from your biological father?

meme lost 

       Regret is something that weighs heavy on the heart. If only it was some chest pressure but this felt like chains instead, squeezing around his metaphorical heart tighter as the weight in question continued down the dark pit of his thoughts. Biting his thumb didn't help but he persisted. Perhaps gnawing to the flesh could clear up his mind. Hard to say but Mista continued as he sat at the desk in his cell, navigating the mess of chains.         Each time he attempted to pull one loose another snapped down increasing the drop. What if's are nasty little buds and none of them helped. If he had walked away a woman could be dead. A reminder that gave him strength. This is where he's meant to be was his logic. As terrible and soul-crushing it was, this is where he's supposed to go. Right?

volcanic fissure vent

your soul sinks. the earth around it as loose as cotton, it sinks and sinks until it joins the core of the earth. there it feels at home in the magma, in the heat! your thoughts, your feelings – they glow as vividly as the molten rock. you go through the world looking for that which will ignite a fire in you! and the things that do bask in your glow. you could hold an ordinary river rock and, in your hand, it would be gold. your passion flows over and lucky are those who are witness to it! do not give in to the pressure to present yourself in more palatable ways, demureness serves you badly. know the power you hold and your worth! your spark, your ardor – they ignite a fire in those around you as it nurtures your own. magma spews from the earth and erects mountains, creates islands, makes land were there wasn’t one, life where there wasn’t any. you – the creator. you – creative force. to read a book is never just a passive action, by consuming you create! you interpret, you visualize, you analyze. you fill the story with you! and what beauty and thrill do you add!

“I don’t know if Mista is ESFJ”

>gets 5 bingos

I know I’m not active and this will change soon tm but I wanted to join in on this. 

He tilts his head, amused. “No need for that. Though I know you wouldn’t let anyone hurt me.”

       “...”