Random Aesthethic Generator

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Random Aesthethic Generator
✧ To be honest, it's almost like they wanted him to escape. And, considering the sick wanton cruelty that seeps in through the cracks of skin like some deluge of acid rain, that's probably the case. Either way, he holds his breath as stick thin fingers rail upon the thick edge of the window's frame. The slide upwards; slowly, almost lovingly, the sweet breath of May's escape coinciding with the nocturnal, deceased fear that lays heavy.
Today marks the third week of the third month of solitary. Prison bars upon his window, lack of a proper trial binding him to the world of the living. The wooden doors hide all from vision, verdant in it's opulent brilliance locked up from the world, and it's made him bitter. He can hear them talking, always--he knows who leaves and who stays, who's in the kitchen right now and who's opening the drainpipe to ambush a group of innocents. It's made him bitter; it's also made him sick, callous wisdom infecting an already beastly mind.
It begs the question; was he ever good? Like, honest good, kindness and martyrdom holding hands over his doomed soul. He pales in comparison to everyone. In a war, you cannot be side-less, and alienation of everyone has thrown him into no man's land, where the skeletons chatter viciously about politics. There was good intent, once--the vouching for an innocent, the release of those on trial, the feeding of the starving, and he's carved out his bleeding heart more times he can count for all the corpses lying underground, caused by their emperor's will.
The counterargument shares his blood; Iits'in, in all her plain Jane glory, slaughtered by his own hand, and his parents by hers. His affiliation was a conscious choice; influenced by a boyhood crush and a morbid fascination with the occult and the pull of injustice, but a conscious decision nonetheless. (Guilty by association upon all greedy counts; he must view himself as a jury would, should the empire fall before a new world order.) And he thinks, as he lowers himself gently to the ground, he is not good, because he has felt the changes growing.
There are no alarms to destroy his fragile freedom; it's a little silly. Increasing paranoia has suspected the arrival of tolling bells, a million bullets into his chest as soon as he dared breathe the air of prerogativity. God knows he deserves it, but who is God? No one he knows. Wary footsteps carry him off into the night. The changes are a pressure in the back of his skull that are navy in color and heavy, like anchors.
Cavities in his morale; splotches of delusional grandeur plus the toll of absolute solidarity weighed upon by irrational guilt. He belongs upon no one's side. The plan is to walk until someone kills him, or until he rationalizes and equalizes with death and kills himself with this pinging fear. Norikazu--she's more of a family than the ragtag poison that pulls at his veins but he's beginning to like the pain and that makes his eyelids heavy with fear. The sidewalk slaps under each footstep he takes, heavy weight pressed upon innocent slate gray.
But what if the association with the stars was wrong all along? True, Chie was everything good in his life, but there was really no place for her. Friendship, even acquaintances means one or both of their deaths. Is greed a factor? The insatiable human desire to live, to remain breathing and healthy? Selflessness? No. It wasn't selflessness that spurred him to hop out a window at one-thirty two in the morning. The cold inherits his blood and he shivers and there's a light on the horizon but it doesn't belong to him.
Once upon a time, Quetzalcoatl had a brother and an army of serpents to conquer the heavens, but he was tamed. Since, he has yet to rise and once again take his place before the holy Maker. A jolt should do it--re-plummet himself through the desperation of dream speak and snap reality into his psyche like a rubber band effect. War if giving up everything for a cause. Cowardice is sleeping through the battles and missing the bus on the way to school.
The familiar shape is what catches one rotting eye, and he stops--holy fucking shit. The diamond in the rought, the golden glowing star that breaks and bends the rules with her illuminous luster. Stutter step, and ragged shoes pause. The uniform weighs him down with it's agony, painted in the blood of those who's deaths it assisted in. He could always turn back now. And really, wouldn't that be the good thing to do? Leave the premesis. Pretend that darkening eyes didn't see her.
But his eyelids grow heavy and that ashen voice pours out of his throat; volcanic, in it's vile nature, destroying all nature that happens across it's path, and taking no pity on that which cannot move. His hand feels heavy. Is that it, for the morality upon his holy side? A slight moving of chapped lips; the damnation of an angel? Is it so simple?
✧ ...Chie. Chie-chan. C-Chie. ✧
indie, semi-selective fujisaki chihiro
preferred verse: non-despair
rping chihiro for over a year now
7 years of roleplaying experience
script + para preferred
mun is of age
canon chihiro; neurosis mention; chimondo shipping
occasional postings of art + art responses to asks
— full nav // guidelines // headcanons // mun // art tag // journal // personal
"Missing" wasn’t exactly the word I wanted to hear, Makotan. And here I was, about to give you a cookie for being so obedient — I mean, helpful! Any idea what could have happened to these missing files? And remember, sweetie, the wrong answer means failure, and I don’t think that’s something you want.
✧ I-I don't know. I mean, I checked everywhere--the only possible situation I can think is that someone stole them. I don't know why, though; I guess that depends on what they contained, which is also something I don't know. I'm sorry. I tried. Failure is something I'm going to face, so. Do what you will.
I...don't care.✧
+ “Shut up.”
She scrapes past fond with the breaks snapping from the strain and headlongs into blunt, curt, short. If she ever meant it to sound like a gentle rejoinder, none of that shows.
"I’m here because we’re playing pass the backstab. The cult is offering to shelter anyone currently in the bad graces of your fucking emperor. The church redeems, and blah blah allegory, illusion, we heard tell that you’d fucked up with him a while back - and, well. At this point, it’d be weird not to try and take advantage of that. I’m only here to deliver that message."
✧ N o .
[ His immediate answer is a snarl, surprising even for him. Sea-glass optics, dulled by harsh storms lost their luster long ago. He'd cry--he'd let the tears of rage boil up beneath his eyelids if he cared even an ounce for his own well being. Shaky knees clamber away from this newcomer, the harbinger of hope--an infliction, Patient Zero, to be contained and detained and murdered for the possibility of spreading the disease. ]
Did you really come here thinking I'd say yes? I can't! I can't possibly say yes. I'm on death row--I'm a prisoner that they let walk around and there's a trial coming up but I'm dead, basically. You're talking to a corpse. A corpse!
[ Hysterics rise. Palms rise too, debris on the seas, and rub together. Out, damned spot, out! He looks down, then away, then to the left, and all the while that shitty thing within his skull is pounding out a tremor beat that's quickening, getting fiery and livid, and he rises, too. ]
I have to be like them! Even if that means--even if that means me dying! I don't care, but I want to care. You get it? I proved myself to them, a long time ago. They're family. I killed...I killed my sister. [ Saltwater seeps through the cracks; a tear forms, falls, threatens at the corner of a trembling lip. There is disgust, in this hurricane, as sins are confessed to a soapbox jail. The priest looks unimpressed. ]
I killed her. For them. I--I'm a m-monster. That's on me. I-I slit my father's throat in front of the Emperor. That's on me. I let Komaru-chan kill my mother even after I promised I'd protect them both, and that's on me! That's all on me! I did it for them all--I did it while they were all watching, every time, every single time, and that's all on me! I can't die, I can't leave, I can't stay--I can't do anything.
[ And the eye of the storm returns, gradually; he's shaking and sobbing, barely coherent through raindrops and thunderclaps and supporting himself with one hand. The drumbeat has slowed once more but it's still there, still reminding him. There's a noose around his neck already, sapping him of breath, and when his mouth opens again he rasps in, taking in whatever oxygen is available. A whisper chokes out and it's almost imagination. ]
I want to live, but I deserve to die. I want to be good, but I have to be bad. It was never my choice in the first place, and if you really think it was, you should think again. It...was me, but...it wasn't.
I've never been. ✧
House Cats [x]
Goo Goo Dolls | Iris When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.
You Could Be Happy by Snow Patrol
— like the flames of the phoenix , the harbringer of death ; the horseman of war rises from her d o r m a n c y so that her spear may pierce the heavens. watch in awe as her stygian wings cascade from her body like a raven raiment crowning both the kind of ARES and HADES, the caller of ragnarok, the defiler of gods. born from the ground and ascending to the heavens, she walks with delusions of grandeur, gifted to her by her lord of d e s p a i r. associated imperialist au ikusaba mukuro au by m a n i || written by t a n n e r.
i. ii. iii. iv. v.
✧ Enoshima-san...here. The files, you wanted? I mean, I found what I could. Some of them have gone missing. ✧
✧ You look familiar. I mean, you're not her, but...what are you doing all the way out here? Why do you have her face?
I-I'm sorry. Go; you can't be seen with me. ✧
”YOU NEVER PLANNED FOR IT?!”
within his throat rumbles something LOW and CORRUPT, something sinister summoned from the depths of the universe and spat out as acidic locution upon the walking cadaver that made his most weakest follower. how he’s waited, how he’s pined for the glory he knows buried beneath flesh and viscera and bone and MORTAL VESSEL therein lies makoto’s fury to weld into immaculate perfection! the venerated emperor waited, he waited and dedicated time and effort to grooming the fledging, this wholehearted boy, into the young god he knew him to be, a boy to be swept up into the roster of a royal pantheon, to be praised and worshipped in the glow of his peers and king—HOW HE HAS W҉A̕I̢͘͘T̡͞E̸̛D̨ INDEED.
yet still, before him the WASTED HUSK curls inward of itself, slurring half praise and half excuses on the same heavy tongue, same nauseated breath, and expects his holy majesty to nuture him and coddle his pathetic form. the boy king rises from his throne, shoulders rising up and fists clench tightly as if the pale throat of his lesser was held between them—heavy feet carry him to the coward kneeling, each step accentuating his sharp, violent words. deep in his vocals is something eldritch, haunting like the corners of a mausoleum, corrupted like the stories written on his name.
“every oath you have sworn has been broken by your PATHETIC acts of defiance—you think for a MINUTE of your fragile life that i care for the needless populace you are desperately corralling like lambs?! you believe—” he’s reached makoto, and he brings curled, wrung hands down to grab the boy, thin and trembling and light like the air in his lungs, pulling him upward—but they do not stand, for tanaka remains curled over, makoto’s body pulled to his knees and forced to stare into the eyes of god, coarse tenor reflecting on the walls that push, suffocate, enclose—these palace walls are unfriendly. "that your second betrayal is worthy of my FORGIVENESS? you have spat upon the name of the one who fostered your misguided form, and in merciful chance i offered you amnesty for your cow͢a͡r̴d͝i̧ce͟ before—and you b̶ȩtr͜ay͢ that forgiveness!”
( THEY SUFFER IN THE GAZE OF THEIR GOD, WHO SPEAKS ON CAUSTIC TONGUE THAT THEY DESERVE SUCH SCORN SHOULD THEY FAIL TO SATISFY HIS EXPECATIONS, HIS HATEFUL CREED, AND ALL WHO OPPOSE SHALL PERISH IN HIS HOLY LIGHT. )
“you swear loyalty to the emperor, his state and his creed, and spit upon it in thoughtless acts of blatant BETRAYAL, nurturing the very wasteful souls you ought to LIVE AMONG, as a rat king of their disgusting coglomerate—is exile how you foresee you spend your final hour, MA̸KOT̸O҉ N̴A̵EGI?”
✧ [ The flinch of a lifetime; knuckles scrape holy tiled floors where boots and lips and blood have been spilt, pressed carefully into the lines separating the various shapes. How many promises have been made here? How many graves sentenced, how many lives snuffed out? Too many, but he was the sheep, adn the meal for the wolves. There were no opinions to be had?
Gut twists and knots it's way into the fourth dimension. It's that feeling when you're walking up a dark staircase and you miss the step, and your head feels sick and your ears try to counter the balance you've lost but you fall anyways because you've got nothing left to hold you up--no weapons, no words or wisdoms or self-righteous selfish aspects that you'd like to force to live a little while longer. He prays, for the first time in his life, to a separate god.
And dead hands curl upon his collar, jerk his chin up towards the setting sun and building ceilings stretch on forever when you look at a certain angle, or maybe it's the emperor blocking out the sun with his fury. Darkness radiates, warms him up then chills him to the bone then does the same, over and over in this shitty little game it likes to play. It burns! It really sears his skin--he is roasted alive, placed upon the spit with the spear in his stomach and his hands in a prayer that goes unheard, ignored even though it wishes for the best.
He is shaken, and he shakes--words turn to ash in his throat and tears pinprick his eyes. Bile rises; he's done something superbly awful and that guilt flows through his wickerveins, a child being chided by a parent but this is worse, this is much more sickening. Clockwork ticks; pale faces look upon him, he, the self-proclaimed martyr, a title he does not deserve. And so he sits; lets himself be thrown about, shaken and screamed at and broken down again.
"I--no, I--I--ah--"
Words cannot even come to his slack jawed mouth--his body collapses, head falling forward and chin banging upon his chest painfully. Optics stare sightlessly, willfully ignorant of the firefury being spat down upon him by gods of a higher caliber. A disappointment. There is nowhere for him to go except into a grave--there is no one for him to ask for help except those who offer judgement.
Death waits, arms open. ] ✧
.
[ huizilopochtli ]:
“you’ve disappointed me.”
whispers summoned from universes far beyond our own coalesce into one distorted snarl that ravages his sharp tone, an acute tenor rising from the corrupt ash and spoken on godly lips. his disdainful words are toxic to makoto and his very being, some poor sparrow in the maws of beasts. he forsakes observant silence, curious vigilance crushed in iron fists and ground into the cold earth by heeled boots. royal body rests upon a throne gilded with ancient gold, and fingers curl around the curve of the takamikura posts, fury mixing with magmatic tremors within his chest. the imperial lord glowers upon the kneeling boy, who trembles like wind chimes in caustic wins, scorned under tanaka’s incredulous glare. it’s makoto’s ragged breathing reflecting off the walls, cold stone that unwelcome him to the prestigious empire. the witnesses are silent, vacant stares upon the traitor.
“you’ve betrayed your kin. you’ve dishonoured yourself. and above all sin, your greatest failure is disappointing me. when you swore your life to the throne and the man on it, were you planning to disgrace your allegiance by those who conspire against him?” he’s rose from the throne, silently, yet makes no step to the cowering coward. "is it common for you to misue power given to you?”
✧ [ His tone is sharp and flat, rolling in the vast expanses of the room--it seems like it's gotten bigger since the last time he plead for his life. Dystopia surrounds him; it consumes him, the North Star boy who can't bring himself to be the martyr he's supposed to be. The fists clench at air, begging for grip against some royal robes that forsake his clutches. Knees tremble. He is afraid, lord! He is afraid.
And maybe it's some messed-up punishment--there's always the idea of predestined truths, of that you are born as you are and what you make of yourself means nothing. He was the one who joined on a whim, dull thoughts whittled on the knife of intelligence, but the tip broke and sharp he was no more. Peer pressure kills; it puts the cigarette in one's mouth, the knife in one's head, the bullet in one's brain. Words are offered forth but he is not entirely certain of their connotations; everything is white noise, pure background and echoes and dark reaches. ]
"I-I didn't...plan for it. I saw them--I saw all of them, on the streets, dying because--because our people, our own people were...killing them. They're murdering t-the very people you're t-trying to lead, and...they deserve. Ah. They deserve better. She deserves better."
[ And when he rises, Makoto falls forwards, on trembling arms and knees, joints aching and shaking like he's some sort of severed marionette. It's sad, really. Many things he has talked himself out of. This will most certainly not be one of those occurances. Such luck runs out, does it not?
Martyrs are supposed to die for their cause, not lose hard heart and mettle and melt for a girl with a stutter and a sword. ] ✧
MUKURO IKUSABA; DESPAIR MERCENARY
+ a fearsome recruit by any means, having shown an uncanny handle on complicated analysis while in the field and an even more unsettling ability to adapt herself to new situations almost instantly, the youngest member of fenrir nevertheless did not merit the attention of the information-gathering community until it was far too late for all of us. her enrollment into the kibougamine machine was a cause of relief for many of fenrir’s competitors, and even for some of the more paranoid members on our own side. when the mercenary corps fell silent, it was not for long, and the announcement of new leadership came far too closely on the heels of the complete anarchy taking japan for anyone to pay it any heed. they should have. we should have. with their networks and resources cannibalized by their erstwhile apprentice and a shock of novoselican troops, the continued survival of the rebellion faced a greater risk than ever before. having proven that we were impenetrable to Her machinations and brainwashing, she finally saw fit to unleash her attack dog on us all - and while our hearts were shored up against her, our physical defenses are not holding half as well.
“Your name is in the mouth of others: be sure it has teeth.” ― The Seventy Maxims, Number 16