imperiae - Tumblr blog

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I was always attracted not by some quantifiable, external beauty, but by something deep down, something absolute. Just as some people have a secret love for rainstorms, earthquakes, or blackouts, I liked that certain undefinable something.

Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun  (via thepyrat)

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"Hello, Jack. Long time no see."

     ❝I'vebeen busy.❞

    &he has. Doing what, God only knows. There's a familiarityin her voice, a comfort he finds in the hollow inflection. They'veundergone their fair share of traumas though neither compare.Monsters finding kindred spirits; that's all this is.

    Jacksighs. He's tired.Has been for awhile. There's a book in his lap. Camus. He doesn'tlike the feel of it. The weight.The burden. But it makes him nostalgic.Reminds him of their cafe excursion. Where they drank coffee &read books &he gave away his name.

    Blameit on ambition.

    ❝Imissed you.❞

    He'sso good at lyingthat, sometimes, you can't tell if he's fake or genuine. Doesn'tmatter. He means it this time.

    ❝Ithink it's high time we have anothermeeting. In person. Over a drink. Call me old-fashioned.❞

    Hiseyes twinkle like the stars.

    Toobright, too cunning.

    She'lltearhim apart.

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Sits on his lap.

    TheIllusive Man seldomsleeps. As puppeteer &illusionist,he prefers to work the strings while everyone else rests. At hischair, he works quietly. Diligently. Watching, waiting, listening.It's lonely at times, pretending to be a God with the best {worst }intentionsin mind.

    There'sa time in the night where everything goes still. He finds his eyelidsgrowing heavy.A dull pain ebbs &flows throughout his veins. A reminder of how fraillife truly is, but then:he feels a weight. Amounted to a cancerous growth in his lap. Awoman.

    Hecannot recall how she got here. These days, he cannot recall much.Not with the static in his head &the muffled screams of a locustproxy.Under her, he squirms.Discomfort made apparent, he fidgets beneath long legs that go on formiles.Fingers drum his arm rests. His cigarette is forgotten &liesdeadon the floor. Another shattered life.

    Itmakes him more vulnerable than the universe thinks him to be.

    ❝You'vemade for a convenientalarm clock.❞

    Jackrecovers well. All grace &somecharm. A corner of his mouth curls into a half-smile indicating wryamusement. He's not afraid to touch her. His sin isn't women. Hedoesn't sweat in the glory of what's beautiful. What's dangerous.His palm settles on her knee. Patriarchal. Bond-like.

    ❝Iadvise you don't go through what isn't yours.❞

    Herefers to information.

    Thescreen open.

     Hislife's work ripefor the picking.

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like a dog to its master, she strides by his side - patiently, lying in wait

     Loyaltyensures survival. Miranda Lawson is the pinnacle of humanity'sgreatest.When he looks at her, he feels a father's surging pride. A shame herown father betrayed her. A shame for him, a joyfor Jack.

   Inthe dark, he studies her silhouette.Full lips. Pert nose. Fair complexion. Beautiful by Westernstandards. Beneath the ideal canonical proportions, there liesbrains.Brains he admires more than beauty.

   Sheresembles a drone when she comes to him. Standing prim &proper, awaiting dutiful instruction. It pleases him though it goesunsaid.The Illusive Man smokes &processes the communication call that happened moments prior. ProjectLazarus is a success.Shepard's freedom is a challenge.

   ���Ineed you to be my shadow,Miranda.❞

   She'shis honeytrap. His spy. His navigator. He blows out a ring of smoke,a dragon protecting its technological, futuristic hoard. Comfortably,the king sits in his chair. Ashes fall.He reeks of cigarettes&bad intentions. Just another archetype.

   Hepats her.

   Gooddog.

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I move the stars for no one, Jack.

     A cosmic veil mocks him.The stars are laughing, twinkling brightly at the glorious sight ofOzymandias’ despair.The great, big window in his office projects infinity &he’s too irate to see it.He’s pacing like a tiger. Or aconvict planning a failed escape after months of calculations. Back &forth, he goes. His boots don’t make a sound. Teeth, too lumiscent,chatter. Jack’s a ghost. The Illusive Man is bent out of shape.

    The cool facade’s a lostcause. He’s angry & it’s the first time in so longthat he’s felt anything genuine. Brows furrow. He mimics thepoliticians he loathes by pointing a finger. Blaming others. There’sno sense of calm. His wrist S-S-STRIKES the air with all the might ofa judgmental guillotine.

    ❝Youpromised.❞

    Withoutthe intoxicating fumes of cigarettes, his voice is harsh.Synthetic eyes glitter with malevolence. He resembles a child morethan a man, unable to handle the truth.Back to the days when Jack was a boy protecting his sister from theobscene.Back to the days when Jack was a mercenary fighting for a noteworthycause.

    ❝Youlied, Alexia.❞

    Shoulderstremble &there’sa fissure in his physique. In his personality. Youliedis repeated again. &again.A broken record that makes no sense for the ignorant. The heels ofhis palms dig into swollen lids. Doesn’t gouge out his eyes though hemay as well.

    He’sruined.

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Oh, Jack, it's almost as if you've been avoiding me.

     AlexiaAshford is a phantommenacethat belongs at the Gates of Hell. It's only ironic that Cerberus isan Underworld for a delusional human's godly aspirations.A terrible silence fills this place. He hasn'tslept. Can't remember the last time he caught a decent night's worth.It shows beneath the eyes:bruising that's nearly as vibrant as his implants.

    Alone,he stalks the hallway. Through his wandering, he breaks habit. Nolonger is the Devil found in his infernal pit chowing down onperpetrators: extraterrestrials & human beings standing in the wayof a mission he's lost sight of.

    Jack'sshoulders feel weighted. He's a tickingtime bomb on the inevitable cusp of detonation,but the delicious question remains:when?Without the creature comfort of a cigarette, he becomes tense. Hesucks the crisp, freshly oxygenated air through clenched teeth.Doesn't bother to look over his shoulder. Can sense the anomalybehind him. Chooses to ignore it like America's great recession inthe early 2000's &the Depression a century prior.

    Thereare some things you cannot ignore.

    Likethe shadow that's becoming larger, consuming his once straight spine.Like the cold that dissolves into a scorching heat behind his back.Like the hand on his shoulder, dragging down his back.

    Beneath her touch, he shudders. Shakes it off.

    I'vebeen assessing the risk.

    ❝Ihaven't been ignoring you.❞

    Ican't.

    ❝I'vebeen busy. I thought you would understand.❞

    Hesmiles & it's painful.A stretch of taut lips. An irregular muscle contraction that betraysthe humanity he preaches about.

    It'sgetting harder to feel human.

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"I should have brought that Quarian in by force. I told you, this is why I wanted to put in a control chip."

     He'sa cigarette smoking man who sits &watches while waiting for worlds to burn.The Illusive Man prefers to calculate where each movement will landhim in this grand chessboard called ' life.' Calloused fingers, worn out from an old war, touch his chappedlips. He takes a drag.Lets the smoke kill his lungs slowly, softly. The burn's familiar.Reminds him of how alive he is&not how synthetiche's become.

    ❝Miranda,you know as well as I what outcomethat would entail.❞

    Anelbow comfortably resides on top of his arm rest. He swipes past asequence of controls, a list of names&dates &placesthat will not matter in a few years time. The orange, cybernetic glowdevourshis face. Leaves something less to be desired.

    ❝Hadwe done so, we would violatewhat Cerberus stands for. A control chip destroys a concept that you&I both call freewill.By erradicating this concept, we would be no betterthan the Reapers.❞

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Hello, earthlings. I do believe I’ll slide on here this weekend. ; )

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I miss this blog. :(

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Aesthetic for imperiae ft Alexia Ashford.

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aesthetic meme for the illusive man && lady comstock.

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carlaradames encouraged me to fill out this kink meme. Results below.

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astrology aesthetics || s c o r p i o  ♏

“i can’t think of any better representation of beauty than someone who is unafraid to be theirself…” scorpio is the eighth sign of the zodiac, with both pluto & mars as it’s ruling planets. represented by the color deep red, the season of fall, the water element, and the metal steel, it’s constellation is associated with the scorpion. scorpios are intense in just about every aspect of their lives. they have been referred to as the phoenix, rising from their ashes to attain new heights. those born under this sign are more prone to having tragic lives or situations presented to them, but it just makes them stronger. scorpios are interested in real power and being the only ones in control of their destinies. clever and perceptive, scorpios find it easy to analyze and investigate. they can be seen simply watching others, calculating and storing information away for later use. most scorpios are sensual or sexual, and can lose themselves to pleasure. since their behaviors are often in the extreme of things, they can become somewhat ruthless or sadistic, unforgiving and unreasonable, especially if they feel crossed– overreacting to perceived slights as they do. unlike other water signs, instead of a roiling sea, they are deep, placid lakes. similarly to other water signs, they are very emotional, but they opt to hide it. however, when they love, they do so deeply and, a lot of the times, possessively. the scorpion is very passionate, extremely loyal, and determined. quite a few scorpios are attracted to otherworldly, mystical things and aren’t afraid to explore the dark side, so to speak. ultimately, scorpios are highly resourceful, highly powerful individuals who don’t know the word ‘quit’ and who can be loyal lovers or friends.

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i was born a fighter; gatekeeper of an endless war where justice and revenge are dishes best served warm, where the lines between right and wrong don’t exist anymore - i am judge, jury, and executioner. i am the weapon that hands out the sentence i am the last thing you’ll ever see - but i didn’t want to be a fighter. i just wanted to be free.

the devil and god are at war inside me // m.m. (via suicidevsquad)

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I saw all the mirrors on earth and none of them reflected me.

Jorge Luis Borges, The Aleph (via whyallcaps)

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I have lost control over everything, even the places in my head.

The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins (via bookmad)

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People with dark souls have nothing but dark dreams. People with really dark souls do nothing but dream.

Haruki Murakami (via saddarkeyes)