flowery.

seeping blood and drawing flowers with it     &&.nor pity, nor help must come from you. *** independent multimuse | written by mirajane | nsfw | read rules before following

[camxliia-blog]

( nagadachi )

« I recognize your step, your posture, the way your wrists flick when unwanted sounds reach your trained ear-- »

        PAUSE BLESSING THE LIPS OF GOD AND it’s a line, a simple line, Chaos careful when expecting assaults to happen because he was alive and maybe he wasn’t supposed to --but gods are gods and they always return, they always sin and wash their hands off on humans.

« Chieri. »

[animusest-blog]

                                          ✝      ACT ONE | RETURN OF THE KING.     ✝ breaking damnable silence, bastard king lay on his stomach, metal crucifix crushing his sinful spine as the toxic heat beat down upon the mad vagabond, the exiled man, the DEVIL. blue eyes, once full of prideful color now turned a grey due to malnutrition and dehydration, stare off into the distance, accepting this fate, this death. maybe in the next life, the mad king thought to himself as his nude form lay pressed against the earth, biting the side of his tongue for any liquid – saliva, ichor, anything. not even the tears he wept now would solicit any water tainted with salt. and there he lay, the once prideful and maleficent king, now less than a pauper. this was his punishment.  a weak hand attached to a skeletal wrist reached out to be freed from his metal confines; let him die face up like a man of honor, he pleaded with his god. let him die, at least, in peace. a scream of agony was ripped from the throat of the commander ( IS THIS WHAT YOU PLEAD FOR, LUCIFER? IS THIS YOUR SADISTIC TENDENCY BREAKING EVERY BONE IN MY BODY AND RIPPING EVERY MUSCLE FROM THEIR TENDONS? I SCREAMED ‘ EXODUS 20:3 ‘ UNTIL IT WAS CARVED INTO MY TONGUE AND NOW YOU HAVE TAKEN MY TONGUE SO I CANNOT SPEAK; IS THIS WAS YOU LAUGH AT, LUCIFER? ) as his eyes close, ready to accept the death he was damned to. let the flames of hell lick his ankles, for he is ready to accept eternal damnation and suffer at the hand of lucifer. a shadow was cast upon him, and for a moment, he laughed; is this his guardian angel, he laughed, come to protect him once more? why could he not just die in peace? why could death not take him? why must death fuck him over annually and laugh in his face when he pleads for salvation? the shadow becomes flesh as the iron crucifix is lifted from his back, and a moan of relief escapes his lips, too weak to sit up at the moment. with all of the remaining energy he could muster, the commander rolled over, eyes locking and widening with what he could call a WRAITH, for he had heard of this man’s death, and he had laughed with dry lips when the great lord had fallen, for he was the only remaining member of the triumvirate surviving. ( get up. ) his lord commands him, but sebastian shakes his head; this is only a hallucination. he had fallen unconscious again and was in a state of dreaming. a dry laughter escapes the lips of the exile, and he speaks.                                                                                       ‘ amatsu. that can’t be you. ‘

[camxliia-blog]

      SEETHING   IS  THE   RAGE  OF  THE  GOD  and  it’s  bubbling  like still bubbling was the black, oozing mass he defined as blood in his veins  whenever  it  dared  passing  in  wound  stitched together with strings of precious  violin ripped from the core of the instrument, and with  firm  hand  he  was holding dreaded tool of warfare in one hand he advanced  like Ares in the midst of bringing total destruction to the ones who  dared offending his holy kin and take what it was meant to be his.

He  didn’t  kill  a damn  excuse of a princess for nothing --beholder and  owner of Novoselican  crown and commander of unholy armies now devoted to his cause, seething  the  name of the God as he screeched  his unholy  decree  alongside  the banshees of betrayal and madness; he was there to  bring madness and chaos and take what it was meant to be his, the crowns and the extirpated lovers and the excuse of justice, desecrated  justice  lunching  with  the  odds of a miasmatic breeze, the tendrils  and  fingers  reaching  for  hearts  to extirpate and convert to the true deity, the true lord of the lords.

HE  DIDN’T  SPREAD  BLOOD  LIKE FERTILIZER ON LANDS AND SEAS  HE DIDN’T TURN MUSIC INTO WARBLADE CRY, THORNS INTO BLACK GOLD  AND  RUBIES  INTO  WATCHING EYES OF SACRED OVERSEER HE DIDN’T SING TO OPEN THE MINDS OF COMMANDERS AND FOOLS WITH NOTHING BUT HIS PRESENCE FOR N O  G A I N  A T  A L L.

                             HE WAS CHAOS, CHAOS PURE AND                              WONDERFUL IN  HIS HORROR AND                      THE U L T I M A T E  C O M M A N D E R  KNEW.

Hence why he who was chaos incarnate  was i n  front, after days of foreseeing  and seeking into the  knotted  threads  of  time,  to   the one  once  part  of  Holy Trinity --the hand of   the  MAD KING OF ELESCOTIA  guided  by the unholy god  and  bathing  in  the poison of the god’s lover, scorned Achilles who now more  than ever needed the  guidance of his god --AND HE WAS GOING TO BECOME HIS ONLY LIGHT AND RAISON D’ÈTRE.

                                                                            ( he knew he was, he was meant to be. )

« I am, you miscreant --wanna plunge your fingers in my wound, see how deep  is the cut that didn’t manage to kill me? I bet you want to. »

[camxliia-blog]

eyes

headcanon: the eyes ;;

      They were beautiful, eyes of the same color of cold space,       reflecting the lights of million galaxies, paper lanterns reaching       the stratosphere before crumpling over the lack of oxigen,       now turning dull like a neverending sea of mist and desolation       —milky the once coal hue, shadow of the pitch color once       making them alive and wonderful. The cut is typical of the       Asian legacy and easy to notice, yet it seems to be blessed       with quite the wide curvature —looking bigger and almost       doelike, a deer in the headlights oozing innocence appreciated       by many, envied by girls who cried for having such an almost       occidental aesthetic instead of their tiny little slits, long lashes      crowning the ensemble like a crown of obsidian. Atrophy made      the movements frantic, almost nonexistant —difficult to make       them turn around, roll, express what the piercing words of the       deer pianist screeched already, destined to remain immobile       like a eerily well crafted doll’s.