that’s right, he has nothing to lose; no decency and no consideration whatsoever. the name suits him well, but it calls for consequences Chuuya himself is reluctant to administer. that’s his curse, the freedom of creation— either it makes you or it breaks you, and by the time you realize the toll it takes on the psyche, it’s too late. there’s something so visually OFFENSIVE about a reconciled poet groveling at his masterpiece’s feet, clutching the pen to his chest with lowered eyes.
there are no similarities between his true self and the man he’s thought to be.
it’s the rush of what could come to pass that draws him closer to the ability, that makes him stomp his feet with BOTH unresolved anger and violent resentment as he makes his way towards his nemesis.
❝ you bet that’s what I want, if it means you’ll burn along with it! ❞
he’s far from physically imposing in any way, but gravity’s got him covered. when the wall cracks under his knuckle and a few inches away from Corruption’s head, the executive lets the only emotion take possession of his clouded features— a sense of EXCESSIVE arrogance, thinking of victory and domination before the enemy had the chance to fight back.
❝ what do you think would happen if the essence of your wretched life got lost among the ashes? ❞ a clenched jaw and obscenities snarled between his teeth force the hatred out in scattered, irregular waves, though he hasn’t lost his last bit of control yet. besides… the redhead has the upper hand at least in regards to the location of the paper.
The rush of fist that sliced through the air tickled his ear. First an itch, then a mild ache when the very essence of the room bent to the unnatural force of nature that commanded it. That willed mass and objects no matter how unseen to shift in their earthly place.
Rhetorical at best, more of a challenge than anything. Would he burn? Would he crack and crumble with the frailty of the cinder and steel that framed the office skeleton. He doubted it was that simple, almost hoped it would have been.
There was a lax in venomous expression. A simple shred of curiosity mixing in. Lifting ginger brow in conjunction with canting head. Subtle in movement yet glaring for any who knew the man longer than a moment.
“The hell are you talkin about?”
There were truths that were understood and those that weren’t. The creature knew he was a product of the mafioso’s creative mind. Flesh ripped and torn from the chaos of imagination, reformed through fear and anger, emptiness and rage. But he knew not of any physicality behind it. What did he mean? It wasn’t a fear of being thrown into asses, but the heightened awareness of understanding just what one is, what their existence means.
origamiaround
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
