Alright, everyone; the time to change blogs has come, and it’s happened, so basically I’ll keep this short and sweet and say click the link 4 new blog if you want it. I’m keeping most of my drafts, and all para ones, so there we have it.
Alright, everyone; the time to change blogs has come, and it's happened, so basically I'll keep this short and sweet and say click the link 4 new blog if you want it. I'm keeping most of my drafts, and all para ones, so there we have it.
azoriumcosmos replied to your post:st a res at inbox ollies out
You celebrate Edward’s birthday before mine? OH FINE—I see how it is. B[
s h iT......SINGS U A SO NG......
crashes into
fucking disgusting.
u should format your asks
you should format your manners.
How would Greed feel about god?
sated. ok so like.
/watch?v=DfLL7CTRNQQ this is greed's theme song.
get off me porch
tfw ya main boy ed get a boyf or a gf adn he dont tell u cos u dead
Plops a blanket on top of him in a not-so-subtle "go the fuck to sleep"
❝ Uh ❞
There is no hiding the frown which encroaches upon stolen flesh; the corners of his lips turn downward in some sort of emotional anomaly— a stilted, miasma-like mien confused by its own inquiry and…flattered by this gesture of apparent concern. Eyne behold the item, this gift, so to speak, for several moments, steeped in silence.
Sleep was seldom something of which he could promise to procure, let alone venture wholly into; spectres line the walls of a shared mind, ghosts ceaselessly haunt he who did the devil’s work for him, and wraiths of pitch infected each refrain bestrode therein. It rendered him restless, yet all the same—exhausted. He deemed it pointless to even try, these days; more often than not, his attentions ceaselessly danced upon the likes of anxious wroth, fixation flittered over exalted comrades, or looked to the night in hopes of seeking an adversary to vanquish. Never sleep.
And yet, he smiles—if only slightly, if only for a breath as brief as its own sobriquet. Scutcheons fall prey to sooths of the heart, all the same; even he cannot think to best his affections.
❝ Thanks, doll. ❞
She and Mustang had been together for so long that they were already full aware of the others’ greatest strengths and weaknesses. She could undoubtedly rely on him. As of late, she’d doubted her own ability to return that favor. Whilst her demeanor would not fall afore the presence of others, self-doubt lingered in the deeper realms of her mind. Such fear was derived from the shadows strewn about— darkness existed everywhere; caused a creeping, icy feeling at the back of her neck, as she veered the corners of the streets or lay alone in the confines of her own bedroom. She was being watched. Still, she’d accepted her position and did what she could, despite the obstacles loaded in her path. There was no way that she would steer clear of their ambitions just because things became challenging. Her own safety was the least of her priorities. Communicating information in a series of codes was the most she could do for him— relaying what was important whilst working under Bradley… and Pride’s watch. As such, she was slightly careful with her demeanor and just how much she said. Especially concerning Roy. Speaking directly from her own experiences could be a potential danger. ❝ Yes. It’s true that they are not one and the same** Still, they both tend to go hand in hand. Mistakes trigger regret. And a guilty conscience is difficult to be rid of. ❞** She spoke plainly, no change in the timbre of her tone. Slowly, she crosses her arms around her chest— head tipping slightly and eyes fixed with deepening concentration; habitually as she tended to do whenever she recalled the faces of the fallen. It almost seemed too innocuous to brand her actions as mere ‘mistakes’. In her case, they weren’t mistakes in the slightest— with her aim and her volition to pull the trigger. She’d peered at her numerous targets behind the safety of decaying walls, knowing they were going to die the instant she fired her weapon. That was the duty of a sniper, after all. It was their responsibility to end lives. It was a challenge for her to brand exactly what it was she had done with a single word— and what had transpired within her as a result of these experiences. At the time, she had been a dog of the military; following orders. Doing what she was asked to do, carrying out orders despite the hooks of doubt that sunk their way deep into her heart. She’d been so distraught, killing people whilst she’d initially intended to protect them. Many would still label them ‘war heroes'— yet, she refused to accept that. The strings had been pulled for darker influences; and instead of questioning it or laying her weapon down, she'd carried out the orders she was handed despite her own judgement. While she'd surely never meant to do such horrible things— she couldn't stand to say it wasn't her fault either. She was responsible for the deaths she had caused and no one could convince her otherwise. Remember the faces of those you kill, for they will never forget you. Those words recited themselves in her head like a mantra. Over and over again, as though escalating the remains of the bodies buried deep in Ishval’s sands. As though submerged in dark waters for too long, she had to remind herself to breathe, snapping out of her trance. In speaking of a guilty conscience, she did find herself facing the inquiry of the prince’s whereabouts within the Homunculus’s head. She was aware that Ling hadn’t simply disappeared— he was still there, to a certain extent. However, she didn’t quite understand in full how it all worked. She assumed that he might rise arguments or protests to his actions. She couldn’t imagine how frustrating it might be— two consciousness existing inside a single body. Torn in two separate directions, perchance, on how to handle certain situations. She wondered if they compromised well. Before she could fall too far into thought; it didn’t take terribly long for him to speak just exactly of what she’d been mulling over. Attention fixated on the ground, she shot him another glance as he spoke of the prince— and, she supposed, the woman who had lost her arm. Riza could almost familiarize herself with her intentions; whilst, their cases had many differences. She’d been given permission to shoot Mustang, should he ever stray from the path they’d created for themselves. Worked with a military they doubted in order to hold some power; learning as much as they could from its’ inner workings. While a part of her was doing as he asked to protect him, another part also wanted to contribute a duty to the people of Amestris, to the generations that might see a kinder future if they could succeed. Despite their rankings in the military, she respected and saw Mustang as her equal— they worked in arms to bring about that goal. And in the end, that resolution held more importance than either of their lives did. She’d entrusted him with the secrets of Flame Alchemy to help people— and yet, he too, had been labeled a hero of the war. Using that “gift”—or_ curse_— to end lives. She knew well how such alchemy could breed madness. She needed to keep an eye on him and… end his life, and her own, if it came down to it. It’d be impossible for her to lose him and carry on afterwards. For she had been the one responsible for sharing such secrets. And she couldn’t stand for them to fall into anyone else’s hands. Should they fail, she would need to disappear as well. Perchance, it was selfish of her. She couldn’t deny that she partially sought to clear her mind. To do some good with this life that she had. Even still, her past would never be erased— her sins would never see closure. And even then, she had outgrown feeling sorry for herself. She’d done far too much to call her regrets a burden— instead, she moved forward because of them. ❝ Hm… Everyone wants something. I can’t deny that. Don’t you think that we wouldn’t have much reason to carry on, if we had nothing… or no one to fight for_?_ ❞ In truth, there was indeed more to it than those simple words. Many variables determined the course of avarice. Granted, some desired to live a quiet life. With an absolute loss of hope, some desired death. There was also the fine line between what someone needed and what they wanted. Some even came to sacrifice their own wishes for the sakes of those they loved. The means of attaining such goals could prove the most defining of a person’s true nature.
She certainly had him there. Mistakes do trigger regret; even he could not contend the likes of such a sentiment. He bore his own conscience as proof, although few would ever be privy to that--even the unfortunate brat amalgamated within him had his vision obfuscated when it came to the intents of the so-called sinner. He was seldom so weak as to wish to go back to the past, however; yearn to alter something now out of reach. There was only one instance of that. But when it came to war--( He knew so little of the subject it almost troubled him, if only for an ephemeral measure ). Curiosity drives thought forthward, never ceasing, never slowing; he wonders if all soldiers bore such regret. If all soldiers thought on their own battles, named those "mistakes". Or was it simply patriotism? Blood spilt in the name of one's country, one's honour? Perchance she was the perfect person to ask, even if he had no intention of rearing the inquiry orally. Humans were eternally astonishing in their morals, their beliefs. They confound him almost as much as his ilk wrought their minds with likewise consternation. If all of mankind was as blunt as she was, mayhap he would have an easier time navigating its fallow corridors.
His thoughts ensconced her words, almost to a frightening degree. A guilty conscience is hard to be rid of. And he's certain she knows of this. Stomach churns, teeth grit, harsh binary presses so naught can elude its grasp, breach quietude with solace of speaking thereafter. He cannot bring his vulnerability into fruition--was not a conscience just that? It made him more human, Ling claimed; less of a monster, less like his siblings, his kind.
And yet no matter how far the wolf runs from the pack, is it not still a wolf?
He loathed his family's fantastications, their mistruths and sadistic games therewith, but he could not shed his own past nor cleave himself wholly from their vice. Pride was not his sin; he did not think himself better than the rest of them, nor deserving of more. The brothers Elric seemed to feel different, nevertheless, otherwise they would not have aligned with him; he would have been alone, had it not been for Edward's adamant pressing. A heavy conscience burdened him, forged the schism betwixt both guilty parties, certainly--but he was not free. He would always be something jarred in between monster and man, imbued by both types of ichor yet not in totality; it raises the question of whether or not he belongs on either side. Perhaps he doesn't.
The prince would kick me if he heard that little bout of brooding, though.
He beheld disgustingly monolithic quantities of hatred; harboured that black death within himself, and let it fester. How strange, for he had presumed wrath to be another's stronger suit. Mostly, he was able to cope with what damage had been done; he did not permit tides of wavelike ire to steep his soul in vicious anger, even when he was forced into the body of a somewhat willing host--for that, for life, he had been thankful. He almost felt indebted to his Father, if only for a moment. And things truly could have ended far worse; Ling was not someone he completely hated, and his apathy was appreciated in most cases.
But he had never tolerated theft, especially when he was the victim.
Stealing what little he had of the past, who he had--directly from his very own mind--that was impermissible. He not only wanted to be free from them, from their curse and horrendous fallacies, he wanted to destroy them. A portion of his heart felt remorse, felt ashamed that he could ever wish to vanquish his own family (this was the more human side, he presumed), the other sought only to wreak havoc, stopping at nothing until there was nothing more than fire and brimstone. He had to account for what had been taken, what had been lost--ripped from his very person. For a man who preached emptiness, a man who was consumed by a vast nothingness, he hated being robbed: it only intensified the vacancy, the forthright malice.
The only option is to shrug off the matter completely, to avert any doubts in his neutrality, his indifference which wrought his unshakeable pith.
❝ Heh--conscience. I'm sure you humans know a lot more about that than I do. ❞
She echoes what he proclaims; a sermon which sung the highest praises (and sometimes shortcomings) of avarice. He chuckles: a thunderous sonority, although not condescending as usual. Ebon brow arches, a smug smile painted upon lips which are apt to bare the teeth ahind them.
❝ You tell me. Greed helps people find motivation, if it doesn't consume 'em first. In fact, I'd say that greed and ambition go hand in hand, if you're willing to be honest with yourself, that is. ❞
Concealing one's desires, being one's own gainsayer, got one nowhere. That simple sentence, 'greed helps', was strong enough to fight any number of objectors, strong enough to combat all that pride could sire. He had seen it build worlds, push people onward; greed helps, if only humans could accept that they were stained by its touch. Men were inclined to abstain from vice, or what they named corruption, indecency, sin--and yet in claiming to be free from the carnality and visceral maculations of mankind, they were wrought by their own arrogance. So it seemed, every man was born in sin; it was a choice to let themselves be eaten from the inside out by that stain, or to accept it--balance it forthwith. Maybe that was easier said than done; he WAS Greed the Avaricious, and even still his own cupidity overcame him again and again. Suppressing his will did little but cause an immeasurable ache, and submitting to it drove him wild--feral, almost, like an animal: mouth twisted, town asunder in wicked grin, eyes wide and unfocused as he drank in all that he wanted. Of his brethren, he had the most control; that was a scary thought.
❝ Nothin' good comes from pretending to be better than the rest of us sinners, after all. ❞
shoves several metric tons of sand down ur pants
is this a fucking challenge
*Cress voice* "I'll do replies today!" "I'll do replies tomorrow!!!" "Or sometime this week!!" "I'll actually try logging on to Greed today!"
So okay I'm not here 2 lie to you folks. Or apologise for being away (again, as always). Literally I've felt too stressed to come on here ever since I reached like,,, 1K followers. Which is fantastic--I honestly don't mean to sound ungrateful. However, it really weighs on me; I want to follow everyone back, I want to be able to go through every blog and know who all of you are, talk to all of you out of character, and know all of your triggers and the like. But I can't ??? do that??? with 1, 000 people??? I--I'm so sorry. Like this seriously stresses me out. When I had 400 or so, it felt like I could talk to everyone and help and be there when you were having troubles, to read every last read more that people had and respond to each one on the dash. I feel really awful that I can't entirely do that anymore without overextending myself.
But that's not the whole reason I haven't been here?? My muse hasn't died at all. My motivation has depleted so, so much lately because I've felt distanced from everyone, (and school things), and also a lot of things have been peeving me about the community and other such stresses. Either way, I don't want to talk about them openly or on the dash, really. Hopefully I'll be able to get over everything and come back at full throttle this weekend? We shall see. I'm very excited to do all of my drafts, I just feel like there's a big black cloud of gross feelings lurking on the dash right now, and I can't fix it, and it's making me anxious and afjieofhwio idk if that makes sense but we'll see if I can bring myself out of this pIT SOMETIME SOON. IN OTHER NEWS just holla at me on skype (cressooda) or my personal for full-fledged memeing.
I was created to raze, to obliterate, To D E S T R O Y And there will be no mercy tonight.
” Offer ?
That naivety of yours is cute, but this isn’t an offer.
You will come back, because you’re in this as deep
as the rest of us.”
The involuntary chuckle rises into the still street and is muffled. Their eyes dart, wreathing them in the appearance of cowardice, but eventually they settle back on Greed. They leave no time to beat around the bush.
It is the insult which inspires in them a fury that cannot be shaken, his remark flippant and demeaning at their invocation of their Father’s name. Of course he has no respect ; of course, he never has. This trait is loath to change in GREED, and though they are accustomed to this disrespect, it still causes their skin to writhe over boiling blood. The thought alone of his arrogance is enough to stiffen their shoulders, enough to whiten the knuckles of clenched hands and draw painfully fleeting specks of blood to shaking palms ; when faced with it directly, their illusion of bitter restraint is ruptured. They lunge, gripped by this plaintive rage. One foot pushes back into the gapes between the wide, slippery stones of the side road ; the other lifts, and in that moment of motion, they, too, are unbalanced. They teeter, even restrained by inertia into the attack, one meant to render defenseless, once again helpless and vulnerable at their hand.
( What do you do with a MONSTER but keep it in chains ? )
In other ways, too, they hang in rushing, forward-bound suspension, a split-second moment of choice that yields no option. There is no freedom of thought. For they let him be. He sliced the first bond between himself and his family, between himself and Envy, but in letting him go, it was they who allowed him his freedom. Denial of that primordial fact is a meaningless effort, here in the growing dusk, in a city far from their home ( in the damp chill, in the solitude ). Even as the second-born, what power did he have over their Father, over one who will be supreme, to cut himself loose?
Oh, how they burn to steal that power away.
They might not have been able to seize his predecessor, but a human body has human strength. In a single motion, they seize his collar, so he will be forced to heed them.
” Enough with your arrogance. “ Listen to me.
And they shove him back across the few feet of the street and slam him against the stone wall. Their hand expands, pinning his arms and pressing around his shoulders ; it takes its true form, as it had been that day when they had reclaimed him. Again, he is near at their mercy, in a moment of sweet superiority. But even now, their upper ground is an illusion —— they, entirely, are naught but illusion, and so anything they grasp should be thusly fabricated ; this crude, reckless motion has more eloquence of motive than they can see. Greed’s body is elevated, pressed up against a building’s wall, but Envy has no need to snap it, to crumple it. They have no need to make themself taller; an tilted chin does not equate to looking up at him. What lesson could revenge teach the ravaged if he’s dead ? They are unwavering :
˙pɹɐʍɹoɟ uǝןןɐɟ puɐ ‘ʎpɐǝɹןɐ ‘pǝɹǝʇǝǝʇ ǝʌɐɥ ʎǝɥʇ ɹoɟ
They breathe, heavily, and pause to revel in their power. They breathe, another heavy sigh, and let the venom drain from their words, let the power settle in their blood. They watch him ; they give him ample time to speak, should he still have distaste and vitriol buried beneath an unaffected face ( or so it was before ), and they ignore him.
The rage will pass, they tell themself, though they would be nearly lifeless should they lose the heat of anger. ( They have no purpose left to lose. ) But it must have rained earlier that afternoon, for the stones are damp under their feet, and the air cool. They are aflame and self-destructive within, yet with chill comes a modicum of calm. They cannot keep this contradiction indefinitely. The sneer that crosses their face is deliberate, slow and stony. After another moment, they regain composure.
" I know it’s been a while, Greed, but you do remember when the Promised Day is, right ? “
Promised. What sort of farce was that, that something had been promised? A promise their Father had made to the world, more likely, that he would tear it down and conquer it, and leave nothing for his children but the ashes of their world. Their inheritance would be little more than cities that would crumble in his single- minded glory. A thankless job, eternally so.
" You don’t get to kick back and watch the show. You have to suffer with us. “
They would snatch it, the loathing that compelled him to fight
against them, and they would bring him back to Father pǝʇɐǝɟǝp.
And they wonder : how does it feel to be useful?
AND IF THEIR WRETCHED Father's very name could be invoked with such tangibility as his sibling was now, he would spit upon it forthwith, bereft of any remorse and fleeting fantastications of the gainsaying heart. Whatever torpor he beheld for the man masked the frailty of betrayal and rage; whilst WRATH was not his sin, he was evermore plagued by its presence.
Gritted teeth GNAW against the hatred which aches to be exuded. He says naught, even as the other clutcheshim like some frail toy to be tossed hither and thither in some whimsical gesticulation. Instinct knells upon the borrowed body, ensconcing it in impermeable onyx thereafter; 'protect the prince' echoes with hollow cadence ahind layers of flesh and blood.
Surprise flickers across his mien, sanguine-tainted eyes dancing over the façade of his quasi-captor. A grin expunges its forefather, renders his countenance wicked once more; he revels in the cruelty that he exhumes, funnelling it towards they who warrant it.
❝ This is what you've been waiting for, isn't it? A moment where you get to be bigger than me? Well I hope you get a good look--this little bit of power is all you're gonna get. ❞
Knuckles curl relentlessly inward, nails biting into the palms of either hand. He cared not how his brethren saw him; had it truly changed since he was aligned with their like? And he knew how he felt about them--the lying, snivelling, and disgustingly fake family. They were a walking sham, suspires compiled of nothing but feigned and fallow words, of counterfeit narratives and ill- woven fallacy. His strongest suit was wanting, but rejection followed in tandem with that fundamental facet.
❝ Suffering? Is that what you call it? Oh don't worry--I've still got the sweet memories to remind me of what it's like to play pretend as his son. ❞
A scoff, subdued 'hn' acts as an addendum to the loquence given. He does not struggle, does not rage against this quarrelsome situation, but rather allows its; settles and gives ( and what a wonder it is, that avarice should endow anything but contempt ) the other this measure of fortitude--dissembling as it may be--if only to see it taken away ere long. ( For he knows the anguish of being robbed ).
❝ I'm sorta offended that you think I'd miss out on all the fun. You know I've never liked to sit in the back seat; I wouldn't run away at a time like this. --Especially if I get a chance to be at the centre of attention. ❞
❝ But I won't be with you, by any means. You can drag my ass back to the old man, chain me up, an' boil me again if that's what you want--dead or alive, there's no way I'd even think about helping you guys out. ❞
And still that fire was imbued; a burning desire not only to become his family's reaper, but to uphold what the deepest and most detestable part of him thought was right. He would not let himself be destroyed--would not let them cleave he and the royal brat from one another. Far too much had been lost to his kin's cavalier dissolution, wrought by their heedless dilapidation which left little in tact.
Yet that was not his qualm; he had become far too accustomed to life with the humans, living inside of one, and aside several. If anything could be said in regards to the eldritch phenomena which clept itself greed: seldom did it relinquish what it had.
❝ I guess I shoulda expected this kinda capricious jealousy, comin' from you, though. ❞
Rancorous laughter resonates from an unfettered pith; a type of sadism has been ignited from within--he aims to catalyse a bootless and boundless ire in the other. His speciality always was instilling disgust and fury in his interlocutors.
❝ Fh! I almost pity you. NONE
of you really know what loyalty
means, huh? You can be sure
that pops isn't gonna help you
out when push comes to shove.
And you know it will. ❞
When it came to the Fullmetal Alchemist, nothing ever fell short of the brilliant extremum. And when it came to picking sides, he would perpetually choose the boy over his family. ( The BLOOD of the COVENANT--wasn't that it? )
❝ None of that comes as a shock to you, I'm sure. After all, he always did treat his kids like nothing, right? ❞
A smirk creases taut integument.
❝ What a swell guy. ❞
❛ my taste is just fine. you’re just —— not my type. ❜
❛ depends on what we’re talking about here & who you’re working with. you don’t seem like a COMPLETE idiot, so i can only assume you’re not asking anything treacherous of me. ❜
❝ Thanks for noticing; I really do like to think I'm not the biggest moron around. But that aside, I work alone. That info is for a personal curiosity, nothin' more. ❞
❝ An' I'm not askin' for much; I just wanted to know more about who this 'Avatar' kid is--I've been hearin' a lot about who he is, but not what. ❞
❝ Yeah, yeah, no problem. ❞
Confidence lacks any sense of gratitude, and slender fingers are placed so pompously upon the navy fabric that exists where arms are jointed. A slight puff of such chest, not large to begin with, nor after his actions of ‘enhancement’, his arms would remain crossed & slight sense of a bragging attitude would be felt through voice to be spoken.
❝ With some minor adjustments,
I’ll have it fixed in little to no time at all. ❞
Vellum binary, one of which is put to use far too often it seems, draws itself into something of a taut line; he raises a brow, solidarity betwixt mien and displeasure which therewith forewarns the coming lassitude of spoken word,
❝ Now that's great an' all--but I wanna know about how much this is gonna cost me, pal. ❞
❝ I get that automail isn't the easiest thing to work with, but fair warning: I do know when I'm bein' ripped off, all right? ❞
