#lagneia

[aikomitsune]

Redraw ~ It had been a very long time since I had drawn my little Lagneia. Lagneia is part of my OCs called "Oddities". She represents the vices of the human race. In this case, here is the form she adopts to represent lust.

[aikomitsune]

Hey guys, long time no see haha I’m doing good and I’m confined lol

Well, I deserted tumblr a little, I did not feel comfortable with this platform, but I come back a few minutes to help a friend with her new account. If you still want to follow my work, here is my Instagram: @_blue_sunflower_ Later ~

[writinginmetaphors-blog]

Lagneía. (Lust)

Woven by the hands of secrets and threaded by the threads of beauty, with scars to lace the framework of his enigma was Kyrian of Thrace. 

His skin was the shade of the fabric of a golden lust, eyes paradoxical to the craft of his masterpiece with the prickling darkness embroidering their shape. His eyes were the least of him which spoke, in contradiction to that charmingly immoral tongue. But even if so, volumes of his history were literary in encryption in those dark spaces. Eyes were hypothesized as the windows to the soul. And for my fingers to have the will to keep grasping onto the tether back to my sanity, the hope lanced itself in my heart as to oppose my aching body - that darkness was intermediary in the instrument of his life, and that the strings of his were only struck to entice the air particles into vibrating to wind the waves of music to bring ashore the troubling tides for a basic human as myself. 

But then, as infinitely certain and slowly regal in its realisation like a suspending sun in its dawning with painting the horizon with miscellaneous tints of color, I had the remembrance that his body was a vessel for vacancy - no soul was there in its occupancy. Wasn't it the jurisdiction that ruled these... creatures into obedience to servitude of protection? But why did that matter to me? 

Why did he matter to me? 

Incoherent thorns were jagged against the soil of my mind, the blooms of complacency were luring with their scent in coloring me to once believe that my... attraction towards him was more infected to withering if I accepted his soul was constituent of darkness - an aspect whose reign was so huge that it was tyrannical in the kingdom of children's dreams; a multitudinous barbarity of of weapons that was used to mutilate minds and lacerate limbs in the fields of war. Even if his soul wasn't bricked of that dark matter, or the fact that he had no soul made him the dark matter itself... 

In what plagued flesh of my mind were the buds of desire sprouting? How could my body ache for the touch of the hands that robbed lives for millennia in toll? 

How could my lips want those made of sin committed so mutinous that its corruption would brand me as a convicted inmate for something so unique in its touch.

Addiction without injection of touch; haunting of fingers without ever having laid a decisive claim on my the curved ravines of my body. 

His ideology was a violation in my mind. His disrespectful and vainglorious behavior an irritation to my skin itself. 

How hate spurt in blisters throughout the flesh of my heart at the heat of his reckless rushes bordering over the ambit differentiating insanity from death and at the surges of trembles that trickled through my veins at the slightest specter of his touch. I was no longer a veteran in the field of control but a soldier under the order of this lustful commander. 

It terrified me into the realms of repulsion how readily I'd allow the conversion of our intermittent fantasies into reality and what my tongue would want to forge its way over the stretches of his scars, in order to scorch those linear lacerations with literary passion sequencing to the exposure of the tales that lead to their creations. The churning chasm of immoral impulses terrified me to an end. An end where my memory would be likely to drown out the echoes of pleas that could lead me back to my ways of sanity.