you pray so hard on bloody knees

portrayed by Castle

[cuthro]

He Is Here

[cuthro]

𝐐.         𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧 / @malphyra​​

omg <3 can you die?

Within and out, the very core of him and the one adapted unto him burn him from the veins underneath his flesh to the very surface of his skin -- yet he doesn’t writhe, he doesn’t gasp for clean air or claw the wisps of hope that one would ordinarily beg for. He, with wings punctured with bullet wounds, blanketing the ground in their disarray, kneels, he kneels without any sign of waver, to stand or to fall. The ground beneath him is cold, the breeze wafting through the shreds of his clothes, yet he burns, still; he is licked with flames of power and defeat and as he is knelt into that very cold ground and pants into that breeze he grins in the face of an even brighter flame. 

` Now, now... ’  He breathes carefully.  ` I never thought you’d be the type to want things to come to a heel so early on... ’  He’d laugh had he not known he’s running on precious time.

[cuthro]

[nullave]

[cuthro]

can we meet up

[cuthro]

[cuthro]

𝐐.          𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧 / @kanaphs

(ง'̀-'́)ง

How cute. His nonchalance, to those who’ve been familiarly acquainted with him, to their misfortune, had always, regardless of the scene he so meticulously coordinated (with intent to harm in that moment not always necessarily in his grand scheme of things) — been threatening. So he glints a knowing smile, aware of himself, aware of him, aware of all that is around them and coming to be. Belial, at the face of nothing short of an obstacle to hurdle, cups his own hip and huffs a laugh.  ` Oho! I’ve got you all pent up now, have I? ’  His breath grows hot, ` give it to me. ’

[nullave]

@cuthro​ said: Punish me.

unprompted // ALWAYS ACCEPTING ♡

Lucilius’ hesitance is born of thought – the pause between where a gloved hand hovers over preened purple feathers. Then, his brow arches, and his hand lowers. “Hoh…?” It’s an unusual phrase to use, when Lucilius was granting him the taste of the forbidden – power reserved for the corrupt and the wicked. This was the pinnacle of Belial’s purpose in this fruitless world, and even with his perverse tongue – the implication that this would degrade him in any way was something that intrigued Lucilius; did Belial think evil was something that would taint him more than they already were? 

The astral scoffs. What nonsense.

     “Do you think this is punishment…?” comes the faux coo of Lucilius’ voice – head tilting as his fingers begin to intricately trace the spines of each feather on each wing. His eyes lid. “Learn to count your blessings; this is a gift, you fool.” A contract: the binding of Belial’s existence to his plans – his apocalypse. He sees it now: these angel wings would not suit him anymore – not with the devil at his back. Lucilius hums, and his palm presses into the softness of his feathers – feeling the bone. Then, the curling of his hand – the press of his lips against the shell of Belial’s ear once he feels feathers ruffle in anticipation.

     “ I am your punishment.”

The twist of his wrist – the crackle of bones snapping. 

The beginning of the end.

[owawaaa]

🅱️el