Aries: You love like a rollercoaster, full of change and energy, vibrating at high velocity and responsible for a not small amount of deaths every year.
Taurus: You love like a mother, but not in a creepy way. You love like a spider mom. Constantly bursting with sacs of love.
Gemini: You love calmly. Perhaps too calmly. Your heart hasnt beat in years. Your blood moves slowly as the world rockets by.
Cancer: You love like a warship. You are a steady, nigh-unsinkable thing, but explosive if hit in the stern.
Leo: You love like a flock of wild parrots that learned to crave human flesh. Just good enough at talking to trick someone into letting you eat them alive.
Virgo: Your love is a D&D game turned fistfight. Catharsis.
Libra: You had an unrequited crush and so you became the unrequited crush. All of them. You forgot what you look like under so many layers of tanned skin.
Scorpio: Your love is like a new set of art pens, the potential to paint with every color of the wind or more specifically these 16 colors of the wind. You get the job done.
Ophiuchus: You love like the small child in the supermarket concealing a firecracker under her raincoat. You are quite clever, but in a property damage kidna way.
Sagittarius: You are two power bottoms duct taped together at the spine to generate the worlds first perpetual motion machine. Infinite power.
Capricorn: You love like an escaped panther. This aint your comfort zone, not by a long shot, but when has that ever stopped you?
Aquarius: The Lesbian Antlers.
Pisces: You love like an asexual samurai. You’re just here for the swords and if it become a problem, you have a sword.
Aries: The storm sirens wail, the sound of colossal footsteps thunder closer. A low mournful sound that seems to crack the sky.
Taurus: The now abandoned house by the seaside. The reason there aren’t any more rat catchers in town.
Gemini: The grey dogs in porcelain masks that wander the streets at night. The one that sat under a streetlight, and watched through your bedroom window.
Cancer: The faceless too-tall things covered in red cloth. They seemed to be enjoying the tea party the little girl had set out for them.
Leo: There were rumors that god was starving.
Virgo: The tall leafless trees that grew on the sites of the mass graves.
Libra: The disused parts of the subway network. The market that meets every Friday in the old transit hub.
Scorpio: The sudden, intense and inescapable feeling that you are lost. How the feeling fades too suddenly.
Ophiuchus: The missing statue in front of the library.
Sagittarius: The old rotting puppet that taught you martial arts.
Capricorn: The massive black roadrunner that followed your car through Utah. You didn’t say a word the whole night.
Aquarius: The angel tangled in the power lines.
Pisces: How the world changes when you cross the freeway. How the trash vanishes and the paint becomes more vibrant. How the air becomes sterile.
A dating service where matching is based on people’s search history exists. You’re a serial killer. You go on a date with a writer.
Serial Killer: metaphorically, if you were to kill someone, how would you do it?
Writer: Air shot between the toes, it’ll look like a heart attack.
Serial Killer who is obviously in love already: *sucks in a breath* ok
Writer: how long would it take to die if you were to potentially stab someone in the guts
Serial killer: anywhere from 2 to 30 minutes
Writer, already bringing a ring out: *shaking* thanks
A++ addition
Writer: *shows the serial killer the murder scene they’re writing* babe, i’m not sure if this would actually work?
Serial killer: *kisses writer on the forehead and leaves, comes back later, a suspicious scent of blood coming off them* it works baby, you’re doing great
I LOVE THIS
Oh no, murder comedy is my jam
I love this, I love all of this, but quick question, does the author know? Like are they aware that their significant other is a serial killer or do they just think that they have a morbid sense of humor? It’d be even funnier if the author had no fucking clue, like how Aurthur Conan Doyle was apparently stupidly gullible, and on top of it they’re a horror or crime novelist. Like the serial killer works at a butcher shop or something so it’s completely normal for them to come home smelling like blood, no murders going on here, no sirey. Just my darling coming back home from a long day at work.
Now fast forward a bit and the author has managed to get their first book published, with loving support from the serial killer who helped them fine tune all the murder scenes, and it’s a big hit. Enough so that a detective with the local police department has noticed some disturbing similarities to several active cases, including details that were never released to the press. Obviously he brings this up to his superior and convinces him that there’s something to the theory, but it’s all circumstantial right now. He stakes out the author’s home and is super convinced that the author is the murderer, but they don’t seem to do anything??? Like they literally are at the house all day, that’s it. Most they do is leave for groceries.
So you get this dynamic of the serial killer mining the author for creative murder schemes, the author being lovingly encouraged by the serial killer, and finally the detective who is just so sure that the author is the killer and that if he sticks it out long enough he’ll FINALLY have proof.
Plot twist, The serial killer and detective use to go out so it gets sub what personal.
“You need to stop seeing them. I think they are a serial killer.”
Serial killer breaths in. “Look-”
…perfect
I don’t like actual murder mysteries, but this is perfect
Next year, 2019, is the year Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys takes place so we’re dying our hair, dressing in leather, and killing fascists sorry I don’t make the rules Gerard Way does
