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Showing results for tags 'Halloween 2024'.
Found 92 results
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Corpse white and bruise-purple, sacred datura is native to my west coast homeland. A seductive, heady, hypnotic bloom, as poisonous as it is beautiful.
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A grinning, glowing gourd gleaming with 40 watts of radiant white musk, sweet orange, crystalline amber, and pumpkin rind.
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Black velvet, blackcurrant, and black roses. I remembered it; it was a small picture, about a foot and a half high, and nearly square, without a frame; but it was so blackened by age that I could not make it out. The artist now produced it, with evident pride. It was quite beautiful; it was startling; it seemed to live. It was the effigy of Carmilla! “Carmilla, dear, here is an absolute miracle. Here you are, living, smiling, ready to speak, in this picture. Isn’t it beautiful, Papa? And see, even the little mole on her throat.” My father laughed, and said “Certainly it is a wonderful likeness,” but he looked away, and to my surprise seemed but little struck by it, and went on talking to the picture cleaner, who was also something of an artist, and discoursed with intelligence about the portraits or other works, which his art had just brought into light and color, while I was more and more lost in wonder the more I looked at the picture. “Will you let me hang this picture in my room, papa?” I asked. “Certainly, dear,” said he, smiling, “I’m very glad you think it so like. It must be prettier even than I thought it, if it is.” The young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to hear it. She was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation, and she smiled in a kind of rapture. “And now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in the corner. It is not Marcia; it looks as if it was done in gold. The name is Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, and this is a little coronet over and underneath A.D. 1698. I am descended from the Karnsteins; that is, mamma was.”
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Sloppily sexy: sweetly spiced pumpkin juice with vanilla cream and wildflower honey, smeared with the vital throb of husky clove, swollen red cherries, but darkened with the vampiric sensuality of vetiver, soporific poppy and blood red wine, and a skin-light pulse of feral musk.
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A shiny, genteel, vintage ride for all those who feel dead inside: lime rind, citron, petitgrain, white musk, a swish of bay rum and a bit of black pepper.
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Truly the scent of autumn itself -- damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein. I'm not sure if this is a particularly helpful review as this was a limited edition scent and no longer available, but I guess it might be useful if any turns up on Ebay or as a swap somewhere... The first scent of this is heavily fruity: it smells like black cherries. When I put it on, this note lingers, but is deepened with a scent like tobacco flowers and cloves. It mellows into a rich musky scent with a little crushed greenery. Conventially speaking, I'd say it's definitely an evening perfume: I guess most people would find it too heavy for during the day. Not that I pay any attention to such things Overall, it's one of my favourites so far, totally different to anything I've smelt anywhere else, and for me now inexorably tied to memories of autumn.
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Scorched oud, bitter resins, black musk, a torn shred of gossamer vanilla, and a clang of metal. “I concealed myself in the dark dressing room, that opened upon the poor patient’s room, in which a candle was burning, and watched there till she was fast asleep. I stood at the door, peeping through the small crevice, my sword laid on the table beside me, as my directions prescribed, until, a little after one, I saw a large black object, very ill-defined, crawl, as it seemed to me, over the foot of the bed, and swiftly spread itself up to the poor girl’s throat, where it swelled, in a moment, into a great, palpitating mass. “For a few moments I had stood petrified. I now sprang forward, with my sword in my hand. The black creature suddenly contracted towards the foot of the bed, glided over it, and, standing on the floor about a yard below the foot of the bed, with a glare of skulking ferocity and horror fixed on me, I saw Millarca. Speculating I know not what, I struck at her instantly with my sword; but I saw her standing near the door, unscathed. Horrified, I pursued, and struck again. She was gone; and my sword flew to shivers against the door.”
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Inevitable surrender. Opening with a heady blend of blood orange and black cherry, the heart of this perfume pulsates with narcotic jasmine, sinuous tuberose, blood amber, vanilla silk, and deep red labdanum. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die — die, sweetly die — into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit.” And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek.
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Sugared pear and wild violets with orris butter, coconut milk, white musk, and vanilla silk. “How romantic you are, Carmilla,” I said. “Whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance.” She kissed me silently. “I am sure, Carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on.” “I have been in love with no one, and never shall,” she whispered, “unless it should be with you.” How beautiful she looked in the moonlight! Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled. Her soft cheek was glowing against mine. “Darling, darling,” she murmured, “I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so.”
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Gooey.
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You Are Mine, You Shall Be Mine, You and I Are One for Ever
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Halloweenie
The consuming intensity of a passion that claims body and soul, blurring the boundaries between longing and obsession, lust and loathing. Ylang ylang and clove evoke the heat of skin against skin, bruised by bittersweet blackcurrant honey kisses. Sometimes after an hour of apathy, my strange and beautiful companion would take my hand and hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again and again; blushing softly, gazing in my face with languid and burning eyes, and breathing so fast that her dress rose and fell with the tumultuous respiration. It was like the ardor of a lover; it embarrassed me; it was hateful and yet over-powering; and with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips traveled along my cheek in kisses; and she would whisper, almost in sobs, “You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I are one for ever.” -
All-consuming, relentless desire – deceptively luscious, murderously brooding, and blindingly sensual: blood musk, black cherry, crimson amber, 21-year aged patchouli, golden saffron, jasmine sambac, and black rose. The vampire is prone to be fascinated with an engrossing vehemence, resembling the passion of love, by particular persons. In pursuit of these it will exercise inexhaustible patience and stratagem, for access to a particular object may be obstructed in a hundred ways. It will never desist until it has satiated its passion, and drained the very life of its coveted victim. But it will, in these cases, husband and protract its murderous enjoyment with the refinement of an epicure, and heighten it by the gradual approaches of an artful courtship. In these cases it seems to yearn for something like sympathy and consent. In ordinary ones it goes direct to its object, overpowers with violence, and strangles and exhausts often at a single feast.
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No joke! Greasy petrolatum, lanolin, and titanium dioxide accords smeared with vanilla cream. Please note: this product contains no clowns or clown-derived materia. I HAD to have this. But I can't imagine what this will smell like... In The Bottle: Sort of like vanilla Play Dough Wet On Skin: A soft, white sweet smell. Not even vanilla, exactly. Like marshmallow fluff, or sweet-scented stage fog. Dry Down: It's become almost a sweet light musk. It's incredibly unassuming, very sweet and charming. Not the chemical greasepaint I had feared. But it's honestly rather hard to describe. In All: low to medium throw, sweet and comforting. Much better than clowns!
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A paean to ancient malevolence and the unseen forces that grasp and scratch at the living like gnarled roots clawing through blood-stained soil in midnight forests: patchouli, mandrake root, black pepper, and fossilized amber. “How came the village to be deserted?” asked the General. “It was troubled by revenants, sir; several were tracked to their graves, there detected by the usual tests, and extinguished in the usual way, by decapitation, by the stake, and by burning; but not until many of the villagers were killed. “But after all these proceedings according to law,” he continued — “so many graves opened, and so many vampires deprived of their horrible animation — the village was not relieved. But a Moravian nobleman, who happened to be traveling this way, heard how matters were, and being skilled—as many people are in his country—in such affairs, he offered to deliver the village from its tormentor. He did so thus: There being a bright moon that night, he ascended, shortly after sunset, the towers of the chapel here, from whence he could distinctly see the churchyard beneath him; you can see it from that window. From this point he watched until he saw the vampire come out of his grave, and place near it the linen clothes in which he had been folded, and then glide away towards the village to plague its inhabitants.
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A fierce rush of pink pepper, carnation, pulsating red berries, and crimson musk. She used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and laying her cheek to mine, murmur with her lips near my ear, “Dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours…”
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Pumpkin-puree baked into a walnut-studded loaf, steaming with cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove.
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Chills and thrills, but certainly no frills: a polluted, rough-riding version of the Traditional Sheet Ghost: cool white cotton, marshmallow fluff, and lemony Oman frankincense, marred with suspicious blotches of coconut oil and a cigarette burn.
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A sleek, seductive eternal slumber: silky ripples of spectral lavender cascading around the labdanum-shadowed absence of a living being.
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Melancholic white rose petals drifting in a pool of white musk, bitter almond, and icy vanilla. A strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwelcome, possession of me. If it was sad, the tone of mind which this induced was also sweet. Whatever it might be, my soul acquiesced in it.
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Does the carcass match the drapes? Cascades of banana Leaf, bamboo fiber, mango, papaya, and hibiscus, streaked with ectoplasm and sticky tears of strelitzia sap.
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A dribble of Dorian and a squiggle of Snake Oil, delicately stirred with a moss-crusted muddy shovel.
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Rivulets of beeswax, a blackened wick, and a shuddering gust of smoke.
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Black orchid, cacao, bitter almond, and black musk. You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the more selfish. How jealous I am you cannot know. You must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me and still come with me. and hating me through death and after. There is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature.
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We don’t judge. Red musk, patchouli, ylang ylang, myrrh, and pumpkin guts.
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The smile widened and the long neck bowed, offering. Dried apples, sour apple mash, and molasses.
