sinisterial-blog

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STRANGER

          Finch straightened himself out, holding his ground. “Do I look like a charity case? This place, these streets, they’ve been my home for years. I don’t need some fancy-dressed upperclass informant telling me I need help this late in the game.” His smile returned as strong as ever. “I’ll find him on my own; I don’t need someone without the same drive showing me the way. It’s my fight and I’ll put his head on a platter.”

        "You have it all wrong." With head tilted, Christianis eyed him, slightly disappointed if he was being honest. For a thief, he wasn't all that perceptive. "I'm nothing but a psychology professor at an upstate university, I'm afraid. Nothing nearly as exciting as an informant." Partial truth -- but the rest would come shortly. "I'm not saying I'll do the job for you, just that I wish to be of assistance. How long has it been since she was killed? How much progress have you made? As I said before, I have eyes and ears in all the right places. I could help you find him, and you could get your revenge at last."

                                                          FOR THE PROPER PRICE.

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STRANGER

          For just a fraction of a second, a jolt of fear ran down his spine. Finch’s expression darkened and his smile turned equally as deadly. “You’re walking on thin ice there, Mr. Businessman.” Whoever had told this stranger about the death of his sister wasn’t going to be breathing for too long; he’d make sure of it. “I suggest you take your happy ass somewhere else. I’m not interested in girl scout cookies.”

        "Girl scout cookies...?" A laugh was shocked out of him, a hand lifting to stifle the sound of his mirth. "My, no one told me you were a joker !! This authoritative act of yours is so humorous. Perhaps rather than a killer you should have been a comedian." Recomposing himself with a roll of his shoulders, neck twisting to pop and crack, cerulean eyes flashed a vivid crimson -- the color of blood pooling warm and hot, essence of life depleted. His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, serpentine in nature. "You don't know who I am, though, so I suppose I'll let it slide." The demon echoed back the words the thief had used earlier, taking a predatory step forward. "There's no need to be so hostile. I'm here to help, after all."

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STRANGER

          “Sorry, but I don’t accept handouts. It’s so much more fun to take it myself.” If he wasn’t here to hire him then there wasn’t a reason for him to be there. Finch drifted, sleeping only in certain places, and only certain people knew where those places were; he’d have to pay them a visit after this … encounter was over. “Surely there’s a better reason for you to be here, ne?”

        "Tell me, just how vengeful are you?" The undercurrent of his words was plain as a day. Why shouldn't it be? He had nothing to hide, after all. His companion, however... "You SEEK something -- or, rather, someone. Have you had any real luck on your own? Because it seems to me that you haven't. Such a shame, truly. For someone to have died in vain like that, to be so helpless and incapable of doing anything." Clucking his tongue, the demon shook his head. How pitiable. "Oh, the calamity of mortal weakness... all of you, such fragile, breakable things. Useless in the face of adversity."

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        Let it slide? Christianis snorted at that. "Let's just say... that I'm a connoisseur of the underground. I have my own methods, eyes, and ears." Which was certainly putting it lightly, wasn't it? "I have no interest in hiring you. If I want someone dead then I'll take care of it myself." His smile became sharp, a toothy leer that spoke volumes of the situation's severity -- or soon to be severity. "But I believe that you're in n e e d of something, aren't you?"

          “Everyone says that, so I’ll let it slide.” He leaned against the wall but still kept himself on guard, eyes following every movement. “Big or small, it doesn’t matter; people don’t care what their hired killer looks like. What I’m curious about is how exactly you found this place. It isn’t exactly listed in the classifieds.”

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STRANGER

          “Ah but I’ve lived here for years, so turning it back on me does you no good.” His eyes narrowed a bit but the smile remained. “Come to the lair of the beast for help? Sorry, but I quit working months ago.”

        "I wouldn't say that it's a business visit, really. More that I'm curious." Christianis was unfazed by the narrowing of eyes, hands sliding into pockets, an air of casual indifference. "I've heard very interesting things about you. Not exactly what I was expecting, if I'm being honest. You don't look a day over fifteen."

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STRANGER

          “Are you sure you should be on this side of town?” His smile was sugary sweet.

        "Mm, more importantly: should you be?" His returning smile was N O T sweet, more erring on the side of SINISTER. 

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STRANGER

     A SWEET BIRTH. The advent of divinity, a rise of power before him, grand in his own minuscule disposition. He is small and he is fragile, STILL ( STILL! ). Even with the skeletons of other’s in his stomach, their grave encasing his body, their headstones across his abdomen. Even then, he is not an EQUAL, and the disillusion drives him mad. His failure causes broken thoughts, words chopped off where they stood, the nausea so quickly replacing his hunger.

     Immediately, he chokes, mouth full of flesh that comes spilling from reddened lips, saliva dripping through his open palm and between spread fingers. IT’S DISGUSTING. Inhumane. The poison of a devil who refused his children the ability to overtake him. Coughs rack through him, dizziness plain in the confusion. He had acted upon insanity, had fell for the calling darkness, had given up in the wake of his immorality. He had let himself be RULED, his own power decreasing by the putrid after taste in his mouth. And he realizes soon that it is not only his skin that is rotten, but the person who lives within it. 

                     ( WE ARE BOTH ROTTEN, DEAD AND FULL OF SEETHING SIN )

     There is a bout of shuffling, so quick and blinding to his slow mind, which is trailing much too behind to catch on. Had he felt the swelling love of adored blood on his tongue, perhaps he’d be capable of reenactment. But the gods are strict in their devotion to creatures of the night, and their rules would state the levels of competence, where a ghoul may lay far beneath a DEMON.

      The pain in his shoulder reaches him late, but his mind is too FULL to feel the stab of a silver blades penetration. Eventually, it is ripped from him, and he is instead forced to focus on closed airways. A snarl rips through him, like a caged animal, a steady growl in its escape. And it is true. In this moment, he is a MONSTER, and he can not read the fine line between harmless and dangerous. Palms travel to grip the stranger’s wrists, his pull insufficient. He’s struggling, unable to commit to peace, the FIGHT always raging within him.

               “Don’t help. Never help. You… I’ll— Between my teeth, RIP it out….—”

        How truly beautiful that even now, trapped as a butterfly to the pinwheel, still he STRUGGLES. Christianis preens with the unbridled pride that swoops over him, pride for how diligent his friend is !! Not one to succumb to such weak things as being tied down, huh? Well, that just makes it all the more  fun, doesn't it? The grip so taut and firm around his wrists, oh, his dark bones creak with it, grind, an ache that travels down through every nerve and tendon of his body to leave full-bodied tremors in its wake.

                                    HE IS EUPHORIC.

        But he fancies he'd rather use his hands in other ways, so forward the  demon does press, using the weight of his body to keep his victim FRIEND pinned in place as he traces the pads of fingertips over the crest of a pale cheek, the knife in the other dragging along the span of the ghoul's fragile, breakable neck. A perfect specimen, but the clock is ticking, and how long will it be before his unfortunate tummy can no longer take the pain of an unsatisfied hunger? They must quench that thirst for death.

        Uncouth, perhaps, for they have only just met, is the way that Christianis leans his mouth in closer, oh, so very close, so close that he can taste the sweet scent of STARVATION in his mouth. Along the crescent of an exposed ear, maleficent lips curled sharp over white razors of filthy sin. So that words, crystalline and saccharine, may spill forth.

        "Let me help." Punctuated by hands that roam over cheeks, into hair where they stroke gently, soothingly. Writhe, writhe, writhe goes his friend, so desperate to be freed. The demon only wills him to calm down with  blunt nails that scratch over the scalp of his head, a pleasant, thrilled hum like the witch's apple in the confines of his chest as he speaks. "You don't want to starve, do you? We'll find somebody that no one will miss. You won't even have to feel guilty about it later, I promise."

        Breath of evil fans across a strained face, lips dragging their smirking deceit. They share something, these two: a gaping hole in the core of  their being.

                         ( AN UNFORGIVING, UNRELENTING HUNGER. )

        Though the ghoul starves for flesh, for the taste of blood sweet as cherry pie on his tongue, Christianis favors something more carnal. The delicious, delectable, D I V I N I T Y of C H A O S. Destruction and mayhem and blood to line the streets where he may splash and dance freely in it, where sin may run rampant and he may eat his OWN fill. DESTINY, when Christianis dares to be so bold as to lean back and admire, is reflected in the ghoul's eyes.  Sin with him, young one. LET HIM MAKE A MESS OF YOU.

                                    "Let me help you."

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' are you going to cry? '

send one of these in. 

        teeth bear down hard, clenched tight like the fists at his sides. cry? no.        he’s done his fair share of crying over the centuries, shed tears for         many a reason, many a person, but he is not going to cry over this.         why should he? so what, his plans have gone awry, he’s been duped,        played by this lackluster informant with his disastrous lilts and self-        serving whimsies, but it is not worth his anguish. 

        “No.” he hisses, eyes narrowed and lips pinched together tight. “I’d        sooner rip you to PIECES than cry, you bastard.”

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      I CAME TO FIGHT, TO CONQUER, TO THRIVE.

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i. you know more about bones than the others. you know their voice, you speak a dead language only the blood knows. they call it a sin. you call it a religion. ii. there are runes on your hands where you held your feathers. the others did not clip your wings. they left you to do it yourself. now even the birds with their empty bones are laughing at you. you know this. you speak their language. iii. how sad it is to be lost, you think, but it is even worse to be found. at least here you are welcome. there, with the angels, you are a sinner. iv. you sleep without a pillow. you do not sleep on your back anymore. without wings, you do not know softness. without sky, you do not know home. v. when it rains you scream at the sky, you shriek until your throat is raw and the only thing left beneath your tongue is a prayer but you dare not even whisper that, for who would listen to a godless angel? vi. to the trees you say i am becoming my own god and there is silence. only when you turn to leave do the trees say, no. you are becoming your own devil. and who dares pray for them? vii. you are afraid of birds. they are still something holy and their claws quiver before you. you don’t know what they’re waiting for. viii. the other angels are laughing at you. you know this. you speak their language. it is one of blood.

who saves a savior? // megan virginia (via fiictus)

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' the only pissbaby here is you. '

       “You stormed out with nowhere to go, came back an hour later,       locked yourself in your room, and somehow I’m the pissbaby?”

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' yeah. mhm. forgot something. ' literally walks into his room and locks himself in there.

         “When you’re done being a giant pissbaby, let me know,          and I’ll make dinner.”

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[ text to: favorite donger👺] --> SENT. so if i'm damned to the second circle can i stay in ur crib or some shit. ur still my squad and i'm probably gonna be the best vagina down there lbr

( SMS ; ray ): well( SMS ; ray ): it doesn’t really work like that?( SMS ; ray ): because souls and demons don’t necessarily coexist in hell. it’s more of a hierarchy. there’s the princes, like me, and then demons – granted that there are different types of demons, some being of more importance than others, but i’ll spare you the details –  and then there are the souls at the very bottom. on a different plane. it’s not like it’s a vacation, ray. it’s not a good place. obviously. it’s hell.

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walks back in like he didn't just leave an hour ago.

      he’s not drowning in smug satisfaction. not at all. nope.

                                    “Oh, did you forget something?”

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"Did you know that in the north, they call it pop? I thought that shit was a stereotype. But it's not. How fucking stupid is that?"

                                     ’ NOT AS fucking stupid as you are. ’