Anonymous
Do you have a real!FC for Genesis? Or is it just Gackt?

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ooc: This is my FC for Genesis. I felt Christian Bale in American Psycho really captures my muse— insert long ramble about bullshit..I’M JOKING ANON THIS ISN’T REALLY MY FC. I actually don’t have an “FC" for Genesis because no real man out there has a chiselled face just quite as chiselled as Genesis, and I’m super lazy rofl.

"Entropy is the essential truth of nature. It’s the tendency toward decay and disorder — in physics, in society, in art, in living creatures…in everything. It’s the path to anarchy. That sounds pessimistic but it isn’t. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world. You can never go wrong by embracing the truth."
- Severan Hydt — (007: Carte Blanche)

lxuminous:

If we roleplay:

1. Don’t apologize for being late/slow with replies.

2. Take all of the time you need. Days, weeks, months, doesn’t matter. Don’t put yourself under stress because of such pointless things.

3. Your personal life out of character along with your health are the most important. If you drop a thread/conversation/whatever, it’s alright. Just stay safe and take care.

Track: 神の誕生
Artist: 植松伸夫
Plays: 319

神の誕生 / Birth of a God
植松伸夫 / Nobuo Uematsu
Final Fantasy VII: Original Soundtrack

[19:55:50] Genie | Shogo-a-gogo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yhZ0TKdgJGg

Genesis will laugh like Ed
[19:56:08] Kohana: TERRIBLE FHKSDAJHFKJHDKJSAHKJFDSA
[19:56:11] Kohana: AND HE BETTER NOT FALL OVER HFKDJSHAKJFDSA
[19:56:27] Kohana: FHDKJSAHFKJDSA

ooc: So I’ve finally made my verse/AU page. At the moment it’s just a list and I’ll add more content when I have the time to explain each one but ff— That’s one thing out of the way.

tagged as #ooc; #update;

felinisms:

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            " porky, old cat? i know the media
                        can be harsh, but that’s frisky. … ———a jewel. hidden 
                        somewhere among your things, not worth your trouble. “

a decaying earth continues to spin upon its utterly destined axis, and they all move along with it—— legal means, illegal means, whatever fit the heinous bill of living upon it. all the while, the black cat breezes by with the profits of the filthy rich, taking whatever wouldn’t be gravely missed in the long run ( it was nothing personal, it was just life, and she coined finer treasures for a living; unluckily for them ), devouring the deviant fortunes of the ever changing world.

and now, the greatest thief in the world is bent over the misplaced lure of a dusty floor, the noiseless leather of a tight fit sweeps in and out of the cracks in the floor; gloved fingers feeling for the satisfying touch of a familiar friend. hand-picked treasuries did not disappear into the ebony-black abysses of the universe unless it was into her bank account, a fact that she would bet her very life on.

                      " you look pleasantly calm for someone whose house was
                        just broken into—— is there something that i’m missing? “

eyes like nefarious fire are pointed upon him, the master of the manor ( or shack, whatever he called his abode; she could care less as she wasn’t too fond of being called old— nearing thirty was a trifling concept, but she wouldn’t bring it up at a time like this ), the desecration of his well-placed belongings continuing, and she is now pushing spare books out from beneath his bed.

desperation was a bitter drink, a hard swallow for someone who ran off of vengeance and stolen property. her dark skies did not function with this putrid broth of emotions, especially when so many resources had been used & shriveled up to finally get her odious claws onto this catch— it was irreplaceable

    Aye— she were missing something incredibly important, but even the ever-ambitious flicker of the only light in the room would be unable to reveal the most incomprehensible aspects of his character. The chain of hours, the sequences of years, the gleaming tokens of the suns abound; an ordered procession which is non-existent in the circle of his position, like the epicentre of the eternal beauty of the mighty oak, whose inexplicable love could not be seized by mortals when their lives run derelict. An immortal needn’t fear the fleeting moments one had with the ones subsisting with a set number of years, for he had escaped senescence, and lost count of faces whom had kindled some awry ebullience in the unfathomable void of his life, and thusly, and perchance rather gravely, all those once vibrant faces had all morphed into one until any individual were regarded the same as the last. Ephemeral, their ends irreversible, their ashes now earth; he had trod ‘pon the boughs in which their essence made, their demise an indefinite thing, hence his supreme insouciance.

    Obviously she had not paid attention to the other objects of the room, or commented on the lack of thereof, but even if were one to believe that this was a mere shack among shacks, the impalpable iridescence that occupied it — whether it be from the temperamental flame of the hanging lantern or from the delicate aqueous motion of his eyes — conveyed some eerie, supernatural susceptibility against all the items in existence. He would watch in her alteration of mild madness as she disturbed piles of his literary greats with the unceremonious, callous swerves of leathered arms, marvelling her stupidity as hellish hints of himself were etched ‘pon each hard-cover of their individuality. His heaps and hoard-things were archaic novelties that did not fit the high-tech era of the modern age, largely out-dated with the rust taut against their spines, and when one of them had slid it’s way to the base of his seraphic, grandiose mountain of a figure he is addled by her ignorance.  

    "And why should I be panicking—? Eyes up, my dear.” His inquiry is one that slithers against the venom that has his rhyme muddled, the idle pop and crackle of an awakening fire bending aside the curl of his knuckles when a duplicitous casting of hell firaga is channelled to the tips of his right hand. It is a beacon clad in overlapping saturations of red and gold, the hiss of a semblant tarragon dividing the drowsy moans from the more blustery ones, and suddenly the dull opaqueness of the beaten walls are now persuaded into a lighting that bears with it all the overtones of some melodramatic stage, the once dire ovals of the window now rhythmical panes for the reflections of flame.

    She should be panicking. 

    "I will have to ask you to neatly re-organize my entire collection of books, which you had so boldly tarnished with your grubby paws, preferably in alphabetical order." The thunder reigns; his gaze devoid of emotion as he struggles with the brutal yearn to tear off her head, surely an unwarranted repercussion to her uneducated action, but he were a vile and battle-ready figure whose control over wildfire was also an histrionic metaphor of his antagonistic nature. "If not, your ashes can feed the soils outside."

tagged as #felinisms

reply log;

starters: noxcristaux, pxrfidus, dellafine, rymors, ablackwing, svikinnar— 
replies: wingsofheartilly, thunderstonereject, the-cyber-soldier, ribbonsofred, piralbinism, verbotii, sakabatoux, petitevictorique, mammaterasu, masochisticsadist—

tagged as #ooc; #reply log;

petitevictorique:

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       “–– I only pine for macarons. I leave those eccentric treats
       for certain eccentric people. If you don’t have them, or 
       alternatively a murder story, you are wasting my time."

    "Ahh— well aren’t you adorable. A steadfast heart, a knack for murder stories—
    hnn, where should I begin? I may have one or two that may pique your interest,
    but I am not one to offer them for free. How about a name, little one?”

Track: bless
Artist: Yoko Kanno (Arnor Dan)
Plays: 1,010

starstealxr:

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          a divergence of time, beseeched by mankin if only for the construct of a woeful existence made whole. a lolling lifeform, brought forth by clay and cauterized flesh, and she is the pinnacle of their efforts. a woman who could be queen if not for the forsaken vitriol spewed forth by wretched felines shaped in male figure. birthrights to never know, never touch upon, and never supplicated form those that wish a chokehold ransom of the jewel kept close. yet she is no human, no simple soul pressed on this earth or the next — no heavenly existence for one so damned, crafted by fingertips and faulty vision.

          she is the epitome of Zeal.
          she is time embodied.
          and she frets for nothing.

          there are no waves here to cascade over a shattered crown, to bubble froth into lungs of panther’s deceit — no flames to lap, not in the same way over oakshire wooden homes. the screams are different; nary so bestial that lithe legs scurry forth under false pretense. there is no anger, only decay — only him. but he worries her not. no truer being conquered such beguiling trust within her due to such vicious aura. at least the claws that he may keep stay seethed in porcelain phalanges; a moment boon of gratitude she imparts unto him.  

         air here reeks of a different pollution. no daring dragons to render asunder of the world’s core, to shake the foundations of El Nido’s peoples, and for the thankfulness of whatever god’s stretch holy tidings beneath these lands, no harlequins to jest and heckle from a hydra’s poison heart. it’s cold comfort, the scene around her, taken in with boastful and bountiful glare; drinking in the wroughtful ire around her with oceanic countenance.

         he brings her back, however, with the quip and chide of a timbre in baritone murmur and sea faces the sky. bones crack beneath the shift of posture sparsely demur, hip jutting out in offensive notice — but a rich chortle falls across crimson tiers despite the terse affair.

                                    ❛do i look like a girl who can’t handle herself?
                                    but, i suppose it’s nice to meet ya, Genesis.

          the name unfurls along her tongue like wine, sharp and bitter though the aftertastes it leaves belongs to the remnants of ghoulish corpses and orchids. lips match the grin if only by meager margins. she, too, bares fangs. 

                                     ❛i'm Kidd. and i ain’t so little, mind ya.
                                     maybe by comparison to you, cause yer
                                     a bit of a giant for a man, eh? no matter.
                                     so, ya like me enough to show me the
                                     way or is this were the pleasantries end?

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    The heedless wanderer breathless takes,
    the poison, the rot,
    spreads its silver o’er the fields.

    Gaia was still ill. The pollution a silent and disingenuous kind that wafted from the towers of the uttermost west, the accession of mania having choked the sky furthermore so. Even if the reactors had ceased their game of greed, there were still recessed pools of blight that contained the incandescent glow of the Lifestream, their eerie presence defining the space around them, sickening the guiltless virgins of hard-barked trees, all blood-born now in their life. Midgar had been a magnificent king ‘pon the horizon true, but now when one would gaze upon it, it were just a rolled-iron hull of webbed lumber and steaming cloud, blurring the line of the distant shore now inaccessible yet undoubtedly still feared. It was from there where the darkest brumes were born. Ebbing to and fro across the charred fields of the south, stirring wildly over the sea until the cancer blackened the reddened stone structures of the west. Gaia was still threatened by this. The silent killer, the coming of second-winter; the lungs of the local folk tied to the burning wheels of its breath, their purity lessened, as disease would still blow over their crests and remind them of their crimes made in unconscious malignancy. 

    "It is foolish to overestimated oneself in this world. No one, not even I, knows of what could clamber up from the deep." He bears a wealth of skill and knowledge, queerly articulated high on chords sweet, even to endow the most imperfect of words with a liberality only a man of his calibre could handle. Aye— a Poet strikes, the hunger howls and whines of faraway hellhounds enough for him to delve deep into the macabre subject of monsters, the crackling flaming brightness of his semblance not having dimmed when they day broke against mournful wheels of the eve. The hellions of old lingered within the spin of the moon-day; from the brutal deserts to the jutting mounts of hoar-frost, their own universal darkness soaking the healing headlands of the Planet’s recovery as they filled the widening void ‘tween town and town. The people of Gaia seldom travelled on foot for this very reason. Opting to spare coin for the security that an airship would offer, but to the dismay of the poor, their desires were largely ignored, their autarcy artificial, their tomorrows always a long way off when they were bleeding ‘neath the rule of dragons.

    The tempestuous cry of the Ark Dragon,
    the blustery clamor of the Behemoth,
    the lasting threaded gold of the Cuahl
    thou must leave ere long,
    lest they’d lose the light of the grand cosmos.

"Lady Kidd, you needn’t fear, however—" his exploration into the proclivities of beasts is momentarily ceased, bespeaking of his fickle mind as his ego grows, "— Junon is not too far away. It is rather large, packed full of high-tech cultural amenities that you may use at your own leisure. The World Regenesis Organization has a base there which can provide sanctuary for the lost, but I will be unable to join you if you choose their hand.” 

For he were a fugitive, a man of the wilds; a flatterer, a soothsayer, a sinner, the corrupt— burdened ‘neath the dark of the boundless firmament, whose evil went upper and upper into infinity, his words sharper than the snap of a serpent’s tooth. He could pour the most saccharine of words and they would still not accept him, and thusly he remained in tune with the rocks here. Scarlet strewn over scarlet, his boots sharing an unrequited love with the world that could only ever abhor him even in service. Aye— he were a dead-man in the kingdom of sin. The burning sands, the woods of suicide caring little for the lamentations of its greatest occupier

    "It is only a short walk, I’ll allow you time to decide."

ooc: I will now be rolling into my drafts because— I have quite a lot to do still and most of them are multi-para/novella, then I still owe starters to some folk. I might do another starter call-out depending on my mood but. I might be working on a verse page sometime soon due to some AUs I have been making up with some folk, and to allow me to explore other angles of the character if he were plonked into a new situation and how his character would develop in that world/occupation/etc. But yeah //rolls.