G-Peacock

'Doth his feathers spread, -- Proud as a peacock.' [Counter part to the Cunning Coeurl.] [Counter part to the Beautiful Bard.] [Counter part to the Dutiful Duke.] [Master of the Precious Pheonix.] [FORMERLY DEGRADINGHERO] [Tracked tag: gpeacock]

[g-peacock]

Do not       underestimate

                   my           r a g e ———-

or you’ll end up                                                DEAD.

[estramor-deactivated20231029]

we used to be close.

[estramor-deactivated20231029]

[otogiryou-blog]

[g-peacock]

We have neither dreams or honour

[otogiryou-blog]

[g-peacock]

[turpium]

From behind this desk, he is in control of the situation. However, through calculated observation, he knows that Genesis has no qualms with the missed appointment— or being within the secured walls of one of his labs. One would know there is no escape from these labs, those that do get out of their tanks get put down. There is no second chance, there is nothing else, it’s a risk to let them live, and it’s a bigger risk to let them get past the gate. So he leans forward, placing himself in control of this area— miffed at the lack of manners this young man shows, more upset that the man that was his charge did not teach him better manners. That was the fault of the metaphorical father— and not the metaphorical son. An apology bubbles forward, it’s not meant and the Professor doesn’t care, he doesn’t dare respond.

Nay, he’d rather listen to the tale that Genesis spins for him, a tale that any other man would buy— but the Professor is no mere man, he’s been in this far too long, and is far too tired of insolence to deal with whatever excuse this carmine clad soldier spins and presents him, words form betwixt his teeth, and it takes his might to not stop the boy. He’s smart— diverting blame onto pool of secretaries that are no more good than the common foot soldier. They’re fodder and it’s a reality that it could have been an error, but the professor is a skeptic, with a temper. So he looks down when the boy is quite finished and digs through his desk, finding his spoils in the third drawer to only slam the plastic specimen jar on the desk.

There is an unspoken rule in SOLDIER— if you miss your physical you end up with the professor as your attending. It is something that is rarely done and it’s something to keep the cadets in line. But, once or twice a year he has to do this— and it isn’t much a shock that Genesis is one of the few that blew off their timetable.

"Fill it."

[g-peacock]

Oh yes, he is undoubtedly in control. He has the red tape to get the Commander a good spanking from Lazard should he act out of line, but the red head has enough buffer with the rivalry between the Professor and his own load of festering oats that no 'new experiments' may affect him. So the Commander continues not to care, though vigilant in his observations. Perhaps his eyes are not marked with the education and admit-able experience the Professor has, but he has been trained like a good war dog. His hackles do not raise at 'Master's friends', but that does not mean the hound is not out for blood. The purity of that thought curdling into the smile that rouses along his tanned features, glossy tiers peeling with an eerie resemblance to a Malboro maw at the other.

The Professor would be damned before the red head truly cared about being forced into his lab for a physical. Perhaps it may be more uncomfortable, but infuriating Sephiroth's sire was worth the skin crawling sensation his clinical hands would leave in their wake. So he waits for the rummaging to end, eyeing the elder's pulse offhandedly before Mako blue eyes divert to the cup that is placed so delicately before him. Oh what a dismal cup, meant only for a Cadet from the looks of it. Normal humans simply did not create as much fluid waste in comparison to the enhanced stock of SOLDIER, the water shoved at them through training and even the front more than enough to create a healthy excess for their accelerated systems. So a brow raises, perfect in its groomed shape as the Commander glances back to the stick bug of a man, his grin more akin to a sneer than anything of jovial connotation.

"Here?"

Hands that had been loose and airy in their posture previously suddenly descend, clearly gesturing to the meaning of his words when an expert thumb clad in sanguine pops the top button of his pants. He does not wear fatigues like his close comrade from Banora, the fly of his personal issue uniform bottoms thus merely all buttons instead of those distasteful zippers. He pauses purposefully at the top button, gauging the man's reactions with his expression inanimate in development. He has no shred of modesty, too many months of collective time spending naked under knives and floating in a tank for semi-public view has burned that out of the Commander's mannerisms. Besides, he has no desire to obscure Minerva's blessed gift to him, fully prepared to drop leather to his knees and comply like a good SOLDIER bitch for the other.

[g-peacock]

why would u reblog that i thought we were frienDS YOU'RE BANNED FROM THE NARCISSIST TRIFECTA INCOHERENT BANORAN YELLING

"Oh visage of my kind Reflection, do not wail so."

"You have no reason to be wailing like a feline in rut yet."

[cantorax-deactivated20140421]

"— Peaaaaaacooooooock! PEAACOOOOOOCK. WHERE ARE YOU. I NEED YOUR SQUAWKSH.”

[dioshio-deactivated20140301]

[g-peacock]

—The wandering soul knows no rest.

[aerithandanderspositive]

Commission : Crisis Core Trio by koloromuj

[fyeahsephesis]

[g-peacock]

traagu

The thunder of a crash echoes without remorse, the effect of having a cave like area to collect sound is the amplification. It was not as if they had attempted to sneak in however, the noise barely ringing in ears adapted at tuning out the tin of machine guns and the roar of monsters and Mechs. His landing is not as neat as hoped form, the piles of treasure that boots attempt to balance on giving out beneath the figure clad in red. What a disgrace, his figure slipping and sliding till he finds traction and stillness, his fingers dipped deep into the blood of gold. He pauses before standing tall, carmine digits snagging a ruby ring from the mess of it all. He inspects it instead of the beast that he smelled from even outside the rocks, holding it up to the light to catch its true color as he awaits something.

[ablackwing-archive-blog]

      “Genesis, have you seen my—”

Oh, you traitor. There was a noise not quite unlike that of a cat held over a vat of hot water that echoed out of Sephiroth’s throat, eyes blazing with a burst of Mako and teeth bone white were gifted with exposure whilst folds of palest coral pulled apart. Pupils narrowing, he reached out to snatch the mug from the hands of the poet, snarling at him.

                   ”Give me that.”

[g-peacock]

What atrocious noises the other made, especially half gowned. He at least could return the gesture and wish the Commander a pleasant afternoon as well, but selfishness is one of his vices. So the red head endures the alley cat shriek and feigns a sigh of burden that is rested squarely on his chest. What he must put up with, his crossed legs due to his perch upon the counter unsnapping, a steel toe of his boot deflecting a striking hand so the fiery Commander may leap back; the stolen coffee mug still in hand. "Do not be rude my young Compatriot. If you wanted some tea, I have plenty more." He gestures to the island, the tea pot settled petite like along the granite- right next to the Commander's designated mug. He sips smugly at his friend, his smile utterly corrosive.

[ablackwing-archive-blog]

        “I’m going to beat whoever took my coffee mug to death with one of my boots.”

[g-peacock]

"Oh, what foul words." The minuscule lecture falls from damp tears that had previously graced the edge of a black mug. The same mug that the General happens to be looking for. The aroma that parts from cinnamon laced breath and the steam that trickles upwards from the ceramic cup is not of coffee, but of a rather stimulating tea. Hence coming the next trill from that smooth voice- "Good Afternoon Sephiroth~"

[g-peacock]

                                            I am

                            m a n y          things and

                                    a    

                                          { h e r o }    is

                   none     of          them

[reipia]

   His anger is a dangerous flame.

   Hungry, lapping and consuming those around him in his rightful fury —— it can scorch even her. His anger scares and excites her, rousing the sanguine lust within in hopes he might use her, but now it only intimidates her. She does not cower, however, mimicking his gestures and placing gentle hands atop his cheeks. Rapier hopes to soothe with thumbs caressing his features, so perfect were they. The saccharine evaporates from her face, from the atmosphere itself, but carmine circled by steel still shows admiration; adoration. She croons again, thumbs tracing the apples of his cheeks, but she understands the urgency of the situation and she wants no bigger fuss than one that already been made.

    “ Yes, My Magnificence. He has perished for his transgression, scorched by the flames of Hell itself, for there are none who may lay hands on me and live; no other than you, My Master. ”

    She chirps, nigh hoping it is monotonous in its tone; ultimately she’s unsure whether or not happiness or further antipathy at this fact would only fan the flames or douse them. Instead, she hopes to quell his igneous ire with gently kisses along his chin, chaste as they were.

[g-peacock]

He is the personification of the legend of the Chaos WEAPON, a being that scorns all to nothing to transmit life into the waiting hands of the Omega WEAPON so that Minerva's will could continue on. He consumes all that is about him, perchance recklessly, but few survive the flames to admonish his actions. He simply burns, the truest pinnacle of destruction, barely shadowed by the steel shoulders of his grand General. He would devour all with his carmine flames, he would paint the world grey in the ash of his sanguine, leaving black feathers to grace the graves of all those he has ravished. He is out of control.

His small, delightful Firebird had no reason for fear nor worry, her presence blessed in his utmost opinion. She, a near extension of himself, one who would not question nor mock his fickle desires; she would not scorn him for his raging passion. Even now, as she stares into the sun of righteous, frightful Mako, she has no reason to feel insecurity. She can touch where others would burn, she can stroke where others would simply char into dust. She has a right that few can hold, her croons spiking his own. Yet her worlds entice more from him, his pupils relaxing in the pools of consuming blue, easing as a grin spreads oddly effervescent along his features. Delight plays in the flames now, crowning his form fondly as he wraps her up in his heat and consumes her fondly.

"How gladdened I am to hear such words my Precious Flame. You are only mine, my Sweet Song-bird, and I should rip apart Gaia's crust to ensure that none shall ever forget such." Even you, my Delight. He peppers her muddled skin with flaming kisses, cinnamon speckling her brow in the softest of freckles, his only pause coming so he may wipe away the unworthy blood from his previously glossed tiers. "I shall help you bathe- this blood is filth upon you in this state."