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amarulentking:

@malig-n

        ❛   It   comes   to   my   realization   that   my   servants   have   failed   at   their   duty   to   keep   one   like   thyself,   OUT.   ❜      Alas,   a   strange   kind   of   smile   warps   lips,   eyes   opening   only   to   stare   at   that   one   spot   in   which   shadows   part   from   darkness.  He   rises   not   from   his   dais,   moving   only   to   beckon   that   Dark   Prince   even   CLOSER   than   before  [  an   involuntary   pull   surely   felt,   for   nothing   quite   VILE  as  he  existed  ].      ❛   Hast   thou   wrought   terror   upon   man  to   hear   their   bloodied  shrieks ?   Rendered   flesh   from   bones   to   wring   up    a   grotesque,  rotting  drapery  ?   Entertain   me,   Ayperos.  ❜

        Tattooed   digits   consecutively   tap   against   armrest   in   awaiting   patience,   a   notable   tonal   shift   as   pupilless   eyes   keep   upon  him   with  that   eerie   steadiness.        ❛   Lest   thou   waste   my   precious   time.   ❜

         Expressive nature would have one believe that, truly, the heart of Darkness itself had been wounded for the assumed foul greeting, coveting the chest where the heartbeat rattles with one singular hand. “My, is it so you believe that, should they desire it, I would allot them their lives if they dared halt my step?” Laughter shudders him, both truth and jest and reverence is given while drawn hitherto, a dance with the shadows of his prowess.           Ayperos sighs, though, and makes place for his person to sit when that hand is knocked off it’s throne, entwining a leg across it’s twin. “Mn. Is it all which captivates you still? I’ve come from no such campaign as that, though it makes me wonder if you’ve an ear for something truly worthy - if a blood dance is all you crave.” 

         A query, a jest - all arrived with his toying of garments, slender fingers through the length of his hair. “Or does my King care not for the intricacies happening around you? Am I not, as your leader of armies, to tell you of the oddities that bypass your sight?” 

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* interview the muse

‘ do you miss anyone? ’

‘ how are you doing? ’

‘ do you believe in ghosts? ’

‘ what makes you laugh? ’ 

‘ list your top three bands or singers. ’ 

‘ how many blankets do you sleep with? ’

‘ does your name hold any special meaning to you? ’

‘ gum, cake, pie or ice cream? ’

‘ favorite book? ’

‘ are you a good person? ’

‘ describe love. ’

‘ have you ever taken part in an uprising? ‘

‘ favorite song? ’

‘ name a guilty pleasure. ’

‘ the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to you today? ’

‘ tell me one truth and one lie. ’

‘ do you like people? ’

‘ what motivates you? ’

‘ describe the perfect weekend. ’

‘ any pet peeves? ’

‘ do you need a hug? ’

‘ would you like to have kids? ’

‘ do you have any tattoos? ’

‘ classical, oldies, punk, hip hop or country? ’

‘ when was the last time you cried? ’

‘ are you religious? ’

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For @fearooren

         “I... wonder many things about sensing you, let alone being gifted with witnessing you for my own sighs.” And what sights it is, beyond any mortal language, suiting only that of angelic tongue to describe aptly the immensity of he. However, from reverence Ayperos dares not speak any utterances as that, least he may insult and harden the face of one so grand. Remembrance calls to mind all forms, though focused as he is upon this alone instead of memories of long past. And while it is with myriads of discomfort, he stares on with crown lowered, with vocals utilizing a language more favorable, being that of the original Latin from which he were borne with, as with his every once great intention.

            “May I assure you, please, that my being here in such a holy place is with the intent of satiated curiosity, and not that of indifference to the cause or, more suitable though it would be, the dismantling of.” Still, until wanted, initiated, he takes no action than that of mouth. “I seek only to speak with a certain few present. Neither for the taste of their souls or the toying of their lives, but the wonder of how some may be yet so mortal, even when they have already banished Hell from touching them for their purity. Is it not acceptable for me to speak with men of such magnitude without cause for stumbling?” 

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athanatoi:

              “It is unwise for me to be even in reach of you. I should not let my kindness compel me so to indulge even monsters, but so is the kindness I was given. So is the kindness I was born to give…” Full of fire and forgiveness and pity–Shamsiel has always been kind to a fault, even when he is made to kill. He still grieves the lives he has ended, and he grieves the ones he could not save. This one is a fine example of his empty prayers, where no light of his could touch what was long dead. This is no man he truly knows. He is some dark, foreign creation that stings the cherub’s heart even now with dread. And with sadness. Of course, with sadness. His hand has paused on the primaries of that same wing, tentative and unwavering under all that sunlit colour. “Do you still intend to drive my children from their purpose? Even now? I would pray that is not what you are here to tell me.” He can barely stand what smoulder that same presence brings even now, without the unwanted call for violence that may well hang in some even more unwanted future. His hands ache from the fire they wield merely at the thought. Watchful, uncertain; he eyes that flash of gold as it floats upward, and the distance between them shrinks to an almost painful degree. 

             “I think it a worthy sacrifice if I might touch any heart with such, dead and scarred or otherwise. But perhaps there are hearts beyond touching. I should know I cannot undo what evil is already done, but I cannot help hoping.” Humble, coming from the mouth of a prince, anyway. Though Shamsiel has never been anything but. That token of peace twirling in their suffocating proximity is delicately taken back in–sorrow? Dejection?–as the angel inches himself out and away from where he kneels.

             “I am often wounded by that hope, but hope yet I do” He steps cautiously aside and breathes deep to quell the ache in his chest. His words echo quietly into the light that pans over that vanishing vision of wings behind him, dispersing like dust swept by the breeze until the sight of them is rendered all but imaginary again. “Though I doubt my foolishness means much to the fallen.”

          A drop, comparing itself to galaxy’s vast worth, finding itself by far more robust and full-colored and whole than the void of he himself. This... equanimity Itself feels like a form of era passing while his brother sits in close company, allots him drinking where the vacuum of him hungers for more. Ayperos, more silent than the nothing of Sagittarius remains idle still, and ponders. Listens. Echos the words of the Cherub throughout himself, filling him to a form of completeness. And while this does not last, while he takes for himself the warmth left behind from where the Prince knelt, the purity and grace and magnificent left, all to at once devour and leave himself empty again. So he stands, the foretaste of wholeness the causation for his body’s shift: the change in show for himself the many feathered wings aligning his back. The darkness of them, consuming the light of sun and hope all their own.              Ayperos to finally break the loitering silence.

           “The mortals you covet are bound for grace; sans, perhaps, the youngest there with so much uncertainty. He loves with a battered love, and an even more battered faith. How many righteous men have you seen serve, only to denounce themselves with their own tongue? No, Shamsiel - I lead nothing astray, as I was not created to lie, and thus I cannot tell lies. I speak only truths, and of him, I know the truth is that his heart is darker than he desires it to be. You may well lose him, though you’ve already gained his partner through crucibles.” 

            Another. And another. It is the seventh pair which do not themselves blossom fully, as they cease halfway the length of every other winged pairs. Broken in half, festered, just as the day he had been thrown. “I meant... not him, however; He will lead himself astray. I meant the fresh blood of a newborn angel: he, too, bares a form of wrath. Though genuine he tastes, you must observe such growth, so he does not fall from the grace he has achieved.” In stride closer he becomes, a veil in part made by the shadows casts of these wings. The fallen Serpah. “Do not hurt me, Shamsiel; though my pleasure from you I delight in full, I am not to be mocked: your foolishness is nothing from which I derive pleasure, or which I give pity. It is a ridiculous thing that you must think I waver in either manner, as the only one who shall be punished is yourself.” 

              He wishes for it. The desire is palpable but, so returns the shroud of his wings, reclined back and poised, reluctantly. It is an old desire, akin to possession to cover another with one’s own precious defining mark. “Do not look upon me with dejection when you could give unto those already beseeching you, Brother. As you can see - with your gift, there is nothing still but rot for me. Savor your wings... and shroud someone else with them.” 

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I am a storm with a skin.

Channing M (via mcclaren-c)

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                          i could recognize him by touch alone, by smell                                            i would know him blind,                   by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the ground

                                         i would know him in death                                             at the end of the world

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Random.9 by Remarin

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For @deshoneste

        “A mite of familiarity... though, your face and soul I’ve never been acquainted to before.” Shadows murmur. “I wonder why that is?” Steps are taken, some form of echo with heels tap, tap, tapping with each drawing step. Ah, it has been so long since last the atmosphere had been painted in such a way to comfortably conceal one as his species. A playful croon keeps company with him, his posture poised, lacking threat to spite the very nature of him. “Mind indulging me to your origin?” 

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Love to read? Get the FREE Kindle Reading App

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mouthplay feat Bishop’s chompers 😍

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mood:

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How fond are people of cruel, vile women that would sell your soul to Satan for a corn chip? Well, if you love the idea, please considering doing me a solid & following this blog! This is Lust the Lascivious from the hit manga Fullmetal Alchemist and anime Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood! There will be triggers such as gore & psychological horror involved so be warned that this blog is trigger heavy! Otherwise, c’mon by! As told by Jovi~.

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Hey I’m back who missed me 

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8|c ???

Why she stick her tongue out tho 

“...Mn?”