#moonsurper.

[6uppet]

😔

      | | | 😔 I want to ship with you, but I don't know if you're interested / accepting.

[6uppet]

      throat caught underfoot a beat, then more pressure, enough to discomfort / TO HARM / to keep alive and watch struggle. pathetic little thing, fashioned to eclipse god and instead it trembles at ones feet, choking on its brevity, scrambling for air it should never have been permitted to breathe how generous of him, to allow it as much.

      chin cants, lashes hung low in idle disdain, alabaster stillness marred only by contempt. doctor, @moonsurper, architect of this blasphemy was it worth it? to create something only for him to prove it should never have existed? so ... deliciously cruel.      ❝ all those experiments ... and this is what you make. ❞ balladeer's heel grinds with the emphasis, SUDDEN / DELIBERATE, faint curl of rims as something stirs beneath ichor and ivory satisfaction, perhaps. mockery follows, PRACTISED AND SWEET, silk syllables dragged across synthetic edges. ❝ how amusing. ❞

[6uppet]

      man's eleventh hour draped in silk, a hieroglyph of inhumanity hidden deep beneath a ceramic shell. the once pristine cloth clings to him like sericate petals, kisses of crimson bleeding through such fabric. a hum as @moonsurper approaches, expression a blur of satisfaction / DISGUST though something sweet lingers, saccharine sentiments softening cruelty's edges like white crests on rough water. ❝ took you long enough. ❞ a throwaway glance at what used to be a body intruder, pest poking around where it shouldn't. persistent vermin always did die the ugliest deaths. ❝ don't worry, doctor. i disposed of the rat. ❞ / ✦

[6uppet]

💖 🌟 🤩🙂 aka the actual honest responce.

      | | | 💖 I love you, mun! / 🌟 You're my favourite blog. / 🤩 I WANT TO WRITE EVERYTHING WITH YOU. / 🙂 How are you, mun? / accepting.

I love you more my bestest bestie to ever bestie, the light of my life and my biggest inspiration. I think you meant second favourite blog because your favourite blog should be your own. I want to write everything with you too and we will trust me. Thank you for introducing me to this game and to this little gremlin, I am having a lovely time writing him! I'm doing well because you're here (even though you may have made me sick but I forgive you because I love you that much hehe).

[6uppet]

      | | | @moonsurper : ❝ you should be ashamed of yourself, and learn your place. ❞ / accepting.

      he was born to be something holy : an escutcheon of eternity, sanctity soldered to the marrow of his burlesque bone built to house a divine gnosis, built to stand firm at the centre of a nation without end. but the archon's creation was deemed far too brittle, too full of sad little fragilities and faults and flaws ; too human in all the wrong ways yet too efficient to be destroyed and so it was left. left to wake on a bed of grass where every blade cut deeper than a sword ever could, carving away at whitewood skin until the world no longer recognised his name. how he'd tried to take back such an identity from fate's firm grasp, tried to salvage the fragments of a birthright denied and reforge himself beneath ambition's cruel hand as something greater : a god of wisdom, PRODIGAL AND POWERFUL AND PERFECT. but it was not to be, for the doctor's creation was deemed far too dangerous and so it was struck down and left once more. here it stands now, the sum total of its accomplishments merely amounting to an empty vessel clinging to animosity / betrayal, piecing together another's path to divinity with the remnants of its own shattered altar. and in laying such a foundation did the past the vagrant had long since tried to bury become unearthed, crawling out of the ground with its sickeningly sharp claws, wrenching out his emotions into something tangible so that he was forced to face them despite the weight of everything he was, everything he is.

      but in facing such history, so did the weapon bloom : it had become flesh, become blood. with a heart that beats bedded in the wake of calcified ribs, nestled between lungs given breath by purpose anew. abandonment and failure had made their home within him since his inception and now he knew why why beelzebul had forsaken him, why every experiment had collapsed into ruin. why the garments of a god had always felt too small, too large. because he was never meant to become something holy. it hurt to be seen like this, (hurts for his friends to see him like this.) his every sin unearthed, his every failure dragged back into the light for the world to witness / to remember. the puppet, the harbinger. the first false god that thought it could simply erase itself and begin again. but the blood of the innocent does not vanish because people forget it's there. it is very much still real, still staining his fingertips cherry-red and reminding him that there is nowhere left to run. such luck would have it that he's grown tired of running.

      and thus his eyes lift, STEADY AND CERTAIN. a quiet acceptance washing over him like spring's gentle breeze as a breath catches in his throat. (so tight, so painfully human.) both a blessing and a burden it was to be alive, and he was alive whether the good doctor permit it or not. ❝      you speak of obedience as though you're acquainted.      ❞ the words leave his lips, no divinity remaining in those vowels now, only broken truths shared between the hungering wolf of a man and his prototype. ❝      seeing as you're so happy to continue running from what you really are, tell me. exactly which one of us needs to learn their place? ❞

[6uppet]

      | | | @moonsurper : you're playing with my patience. / ?

      patience was an amusing thing. like kindness to the cruel, mercy to the merciless, it had no place in his eternal language. it was merely a virtue for the weak, a forgery for peace ; a lie invented to convince the feeble that their dust would one day escape its fate. the balladeer was never made for such feelings. (can you not see by now, doctor? can you not see the husk where a heart should beat, where fine bone ribs bend in artificial arches, bend beneath curious fingers AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN. can you not see such delusion does not belong there? have you not gutted him enough?)

      the godling's gaze descends, FINDS / FIXES / FLAYS, mentally carves up the haughty flesh stretched thin across sharp angles. such impassivity only reaffirms his hatred for that of which he cannot rid himself of just yet. this ... piece of him. the bold little thing that bares its teeth so eagerly, chasing after something it could never fathom, could never possess. the dependence rots on his tongue, sickly sour and humiliating. a god should never require a mortal. yet here he is, necessity binding him like the strings he swore he'd cut the day he decided to leave such vulnerability behind. nails drag across the table's cold metal, sharpening for the kill. oh to engage, remind the imitation what it truly was. to rip away that mask and watch the light vanish behind those crimson eyes, watch it scream. (would something so cruel even know how?) such a shame the puppet couldn't act, at least not yet. FOR THE DOCTOR WAS ESSENTIAL : to end him now would only get in the way.

      a thought discarded, much like him. ❝ is that so? ❞ a hum eased through sharp-set tiers, a grace-note against the clinical silence. poison on his tongue usually so inclined instead rests like his expression, porcelain smooth and perfect a masquerade, much like his hollowed insides, for a god will make its bed in them yet. (and a god is not tied. hence scaramouche shifts again and ruins another [just one more] perfect incision.) ❝ then how fragile your patience must be, doctor. ❞