deusautem

[deusautem]

x

#(o:oc) #( after the 4203492 hiatus it is OVER ) #( lo and behold for university has ENDED ) #( I LIVE HERE )

[deusautem]

denouae·:

what you don’t know can’t haunt you, @deusautem: chanyeol.

he’s been followed, that much he knows. the congregation of men with their talons sunk into the soil to unearth something much more sinister than intended — they always seem to exist, coexist with him. he’s no mind reader, but with his capability to access the dream planes, their subconscious no longer remains a mystery. this one agent in particular, he’s seen this one in too many instances. park chanyeol. he’s done his homework with background checks, ensuring that he knows how to delve deeper into this man’s realm stitched entirely of dreams, understanding since the beginning that he will be inflicting more than mere mortal fears into the man’s marrows.

the distillation of this subliminal act doesn’t have to be intricate; he doesn’t mind when the man keeps following him as he assesses chanyeol’s possible mind construct. tracing him in the dreamscape is a child’s play for uriel, and when he stands there as he waits for the rapid eye movement to set in, he’s standing with the blur of portraits moving in quick succession around him, like a whirlwind. it consists of chanyeol’s latest memories, thoughts. accessible almost immediately for him, especially the ones on the surface, he watches as those images fleet across him. he is calm, incredibly so, amidst the hurricane of thoughts that pour. distant, muted voices that accompany. 

chanyeol is asleep in his bed, some kilometers away from where uriel is, but in the dreamscape, physical distance is way too relative. there’s no measure that poses as prevention from his entrance into the dreamscape as long as he understands his destinations, save from if it’s another stronghold made by another dreamwalker. yet, for the time being, it seems that everyone in the accord has felt the warnings of being stalked by some, and for the time being, uriel is certain that there are intents barely subdued shown by these intruders, chanyeol included.

of course, the creed can trust him with this task, thrusting it fully in his capable hands. as an expert in weaving the filaments of the dreams, he’s also considered as a virtuoso in the art of crafting night terrors. psychology is one area he’s been long-interested, long-invested in. and he knows the tricks to trap people into madness via the hollowed terrors carved at the bottom of their trauma centers. it’s impossible to unearth the horror anymore when it’s drilled and pinned there, and that’s what he is scheming tonight. the incepted concepts brandished, he is coming into chanyeol’s dreams in the corporeal form of his — a faceless man, wearing the stature of a plain man in a starched formal suit. 

he smiles even when chanyeol cannot see him; instead, chanyeol’s attention is held captive by the picture laid barren before them, of a childhood long gone. buried, supposedly, but it’s going to be the first in the sequence determined by uriel. there’s a cruel grin etched on him when he watches as chanyeol walks into the room, farther from where uriel is standing as a silent spectator. it’s chanyeol’s father, in the deathbed, and as chanyeol walks closer, the body rots. it’s the process of decomposition, as if his father had been dead for long enough for that. training his eyes on chanyeol’s response, he doesn’t flinch as maggots start crawling out of chanyeol’s father’s eye sockets.

In thirds, Mother etched ghastly omens of a sooner death on the first sprouts of boyhood.

As the last breath of summer, a conflagration gnawing at its void’s peripheries to remind humanity burns all it may be afraid of. What we do not know, what we know, yesterday, tomorrow, father, mother, somewhere rejoicing in heaven while her carcass molds with Earth to form one. He is a man made at fifteen, his lungs corroded with tar and arsenic, his arm flayed only numbed by stars interspersed above them, murmuring “Good people go to heaven”. Summer breathes in his mother as sulfur and exhales his father´s clamor beside him. “Thus we rot with the rest”.

As Han´s lips parting at 19, stabbed once for every winter. I am scared. I am scared Han. He tears through his jugular and he he sings for the first time in months. His wings flailing wildly in a futile attempt to escape only to fall limp once the blade pricks somewhere underneath his sternum. In a matter of seconds, Chanyeol undoes the seams of what took both years to thread, reduces yesterday to nothing but washed out watercolor, today rubble, tomorrow dead before birth. And he holds him in arms. Perhaps, if he closes his eyes tight enough, he may pretend his pulse is the latter's, his breathing one borrowed. By three he he buries the body in his backyard. He sleeps beside its grave and murmurs a lullaby for both. By six he kneels over the nearest cathedral and mourns his own loss, praying:

Father, do we ever cease to suffer?

Tonight, Uriel constructs the third.

When devoid of white noise, every rose tinted omen crawls out to gnaw on the last putrid remnants of his sanity. Grief often taunts him with the premise of rebirth, vivid sleep induced hallucinations of hope for salvation he often douses in codeine the next morning until they’re consumed by a dull stillness. Within this one, he is fifteen again, the evening still veiled in summer’s afterglow. As if the fire had not swallowed it whole, as if the horrors of the past decade had been nothing but another nightmare. The warmth of a bed now too small for him after this year’s growth spurt, the fading croon of cicadas drawing him off slumber, the patter of footsteps pacing through the second story. He is home. Havoc unravels between his ribs once the statement finally solidifies. He is home. Bound by the pretense of a newfound hope, men draw themselves through every wasteland in hopes of finding a sanctum. Thus he slips off the safety of the enclosure and ventures through halls shrouded in oblivion. Thus he quivers, murmuring a litany of gratitude to God upon the first gleam of gold filtering under his parents´ doorway.

Thus we rot with the rest.

Reality is never kind.

Father, whose eidolon crawled off a four walled cemetery only to crucify itself in a hospital bed before him. With twelve years between them, he is no longer menacing. He is only pitiful. He is almost sorry. Before he may speak, maggots crawl off his maw and contort across putrefying flesh, crackling every rib as his chest swells in a post mortem groan. “How could you?” Chanted by the pests plaguing the bedside “how could you?” as a gruesome breath forced off father once maggots manage to dislocate his jaw. “How could you?” as every wing he tore off its scapular, as every brother he flayed for a false prophet, as every carnage dyed sidewalk justified by a holier purpose. It is not human. It is not him. It looms over the room´s far end corner, and the more he stares the more he sinks in a turmoil of jaundice only keening: run, run, run.

At that moment, the corpses etched on his spine clamor in obeisance. There was nothing to the hunt. He may lie to the world and wear his noose as halo, drench trauma in gold for their heaven to deem them miracles. He may lie to the world but not to himself. He was prey. He had always been prey.

When Chanyeol turns to run the beast lurches towards him.

#denouae #(r:p) #( no reading twice we die like men ) #( reappears 50 years later hello my dear )

[deusautem]

                    byun baekhyun. the raven. private piano instructor & vampire hunter.

                                            —  i.       ii.       iii.   —

#(r:a) #((i mean hell yeah

[deusautem]

@querenciant

Even in different worlds, he believes both coexist in a realm of smoke and mirrors. Both protagonists bound to a spectacle for gluttons. Act I: Eunha, carved off gold and porcelain, tears her heart on stage as a modern Persephone to pour life into vultures. Act II: Park, carved off ash and sulfur, splinters his vertebra to serve as Atlas for the beasts. Act III: They find one another amid self constructed peace and dreams of Monet’s sunrise, when she speaks all clamor turns to silence and for once, he believes, they are not so alone. 

Reality has never been kind.

His departure may be dissected in fourths.

I. Pain begins on a Sunday. It propagates from your lungs to every nerve as the symptom of an early death. It dawns upon you: you are rotting from the inside out, at last, each deed has caught up on you. When God casts you off heaven, you grasp the last strands of Spring on a Saturday afternoon and  hope her tales burgeon throughout the winter.

II. You seek for home in the unknown. Delve through the train rails in search for bliss in Lake Geneva, for her youth in Rolle, for all she dyed in watercolor over Seoul’s bulwarks only to find blank spaces. Miles of white from coast to coast and its cold gnawing as a silent ‘you are not welcome here.’

III. You find quietude in turpentine, in blurred days doused in codeine which grow to  weeks, months, a void held in a spec of time only to dissipate in the new year. As if it never existed. As if he never left.

IV. When you return, the city embraces you so tightly you almost believe this is home. Almost. 

When he can no longer breathe, he runs back to Eunha.

Eunha who bears a sanctum amid wasteland. A haven for those who coped with grief through currents for the world to witness on the next millennia in hopes someone, perhaps, would comprehend. Caravaggio and his bonne bouche for the baleful, brawling through the streets of Naples; Mánet and his yearning for the mundane, peeling warheads off his vertebra; Eunha and her grace perched over Seouls´s skyline, waltzing through an Eden in Gomorrah. To love, to loathe. To live to die. 

All grieving in quietude, all glimmering over the night mantle. 

Too humane for this Earth. 

The nth time they meet is a remembrance of the first. Once he enters heaven, anxiety peels off his system by the sole presence of white over every wall, each serving as a newfound home for different artists. In exhaustion, he perches himself on a bench and fixes his gaze to a particular painting, allowing his thoughts to wander off to the doldrums. It is a clear outlined by golden hour, and imagery he engraves in his conscious with closed eyes only to find her beside him once these pry open. She stands among them, dyeing their days of rose as his lips curve in a smile for the first time in months. 

Solace, at last.

“Hi...It’s been quite a while.” Relief stretches to the crinkling of his eyes corners before rousing to his feet. A pause follows, as if unconsciously expecting for all to dissipate if he. His gaze drifts from her semblance to the paintings before them. “This one’s yours I could tell. Where is it?” Another pause. “...I missed talking to you, how have you been?”

#querenciant #(r:p) #((thank you for plotting!! beam

[deusautem]

 ❝ He lays in bed, a first-time DRUNKARD at night, pondering      the PUNISHMENT he knew would arrive on callused palms.     The storm outside howls nocturnal laments, the magnificent lunar      lullabies that inspired him to compose the most passionate MELODIES. ❞

                    wolves, moons and stars, snow, the piercing falsetto of thunder:                                                       those things made so much sense to him.

                        + follow for a friend                        ✗ like for a (one-liner) starter                        ↺ reblog to help                        !! verses

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#(r:a)

[deusautem]

Of gold and honey, silk and roses, tell me, have you ever seen something so beautiful?                  Seo Eunha / Evelyn Seo: A renown actress and heiress.

          Independent, highly selective, highly literate, and rated mature.

[deusautem]

Hello! I am back from a rather prolonged hiatus due to university workload.

I am finally soon to graduate university meaning I now have more time to write, I would like to apologize in case we had a thread and I just went missing or if we have been plotting and I disappeared.

If you do wish to continue a thread or start plotting please do DM me! I am more than happy to get back to writing

#(end of hiatus

[deusautem]

@eterneli

They were born with carnage instilled in their bones, raised to carve their ribs into necropolis and bury all they ever held dear between the ridges. Left motherless before learning all rotting may burgeon, may flourish to puncture their lungs and tear these open in search of a home. Thus they spend a decade unearthing their roots,  flaying their stems, retching their petals in godless blood mouths to call lovers the next morning. Hope only arrives seconds prior to tragedy, as a lambent vulture pecking at their ribs when these protrude under thinning flesh. Despite how unpleasant the experience sounds, this is the closest both may share as affection. The siege of existence itself. 

The world’s end is less gruesome than intended.

 They lose themselves in duality, see each other as another version of themselves and decide to love this one instead of reality. Two polar opposites in the spectrum of the virtuous yet moieties in sin. They carry the same filth, the sole difference being Baekhyun wears his under chipped nails, Chanyeol buries his in a graveyard named Memoir, prays for cleansing to the same God he once claimed indifference towards, awaits in silence for a salvation his subconscious rejects.

Two years later he drags him to oblivion. The promise of an Eden followed by a sole question: “Who is your god?” His lips  part without a sound and Baekhyun buries himself past these to claim himself so.  

I believe. 

I believe.

The first omen manifests as a congregation of sparrows awaiting communion outside their driveway. Cold, silent, a penurious multitude cradled by Seoul´s concrete after dyeing this one of rose, after bearing their days for a godless city bound to splinter their vertebra under the pretense of a heaven.  He sweeps them before dawn and buries them beside Haneul (He hates sleeping alone), prays for their lives to be eternal while his mother murmurs ´there is no heaven. There is no heaven´. When the sun peeks through their window, he finds god kneeled before their bed.

"I want to be human."

Haven´t we always been?

Their second omen awakes on a Thursday, piercing his sternum to crawl up his spine upon the absence of another.Thus ache grows to violence, thus violence poisons every sentiment. On Saturday he finds himself in Lausanne, his carcass now wandering amid grey men as rusts builds underneath their soles, his soul´s penance now being a life in sheer solitude. Inearthed within his cranium, a myriad of voices who once called his name across the Atlantic, the same he once deemed euphonious even when crawling out of a rotting carcass, the same which now corrode his mind in the same manner nicotine does to his lungs ( he ponders which death will cradle him in arms first). Etched on his flesh every dalliance with arson, havoc, all he loved, all that kills in fragments. From markings he must now carry for the rest of his days to last night’s remorse in shades of blue. The filth crawling up his vertebrae, the humane, the façade which may shield in daylight what his thoughts flay at dusk. He may leave the city yet this one lives within him, dies within him. Day and night. Day and night. Repeat. Repeat.

On a third omen, Baekhyun´s voice succumbs to the void, their constellations collapsing within the beast's maw, its guts now interspersed over time while his body now lies in a pseudo-cemetery. It arrives as the Nyx´s mourning oblivion, shrouding them over her mantle in hopes of sparing solace within it. The one you love no longer exists in this realm. Save his memoirs behind your sternum, tear his altar to shreds and find a god within the perils of solitude. He calls, yet no one listens. He aches, yet no one listens. He prays, yet no one listens. I love you. I'm sorry. Come back.The following days are blurred and indistinct, a routinary clockwork murder of his thoughts from 8-5 until the masses call for another year.

When the gates of Arcadia open once more, he is met with the remnants of what could have been. Debris and the horrid echo of silence. The city hangs over them questioning. Menacing. Unforgiving. He arrives deprived of slumber, barren as he paces through the streets almost erratically in search for a sole place. Home. Home hanging lifeless over the highest building, home deep in a slumber it may awake from, home devoid of anything familiar, anything he may refer to as his once he stands before its corpse in hopes of it somehow awakening. Home which perhaps never existed. This is the void. His steps are quiet, lost in the mausoleum they spent their last summer within.  Cautiously, calloused fingertips ghost along the expanse of rosier skin, the commisure of lips which seem almost familiar, the crease edging an occipital rim only to flinch upon the sight of his eyes prying open.

Hazel. 

The world´s end is less gruesome than intended.

Silence reigns between them for a second or two. Staring, awaiting nothing. When Baekhyun´s lips part to speak his words are paused by a pair of hands coiling around his throat, the marred tissue of his arm forming rivulets of azure as their home is swallowed in flames.

“What the fuck did you do to him?”

#eterneli #(p:eterneli) #((idk WHAT THIS IS JUST ACCEPT MY LOVE

[deusautem]

#(r:a) #(( in this household we STAN BUN WRITING

[deusautem]

invelidate

loneliness is frightening. even if you have someone to look for, you still feel alone. there are a couple who know you, other’s do a little more however no one can be sure of what it is like to be truly you. stuck under your own skin, full of no hope. most of the people who come here are prone to believe exactly this. they stop in his shop tired of chasing dreams and their dreams tired of running away, shocked to see a man whose mind learns to run free again. while they still catch their breath images are already planted flashily into their head.

the knocks explode seongil thoughts. at first it’s easy to ignore the sound ─ he finishes the call with an important client. the next set of smashing has him curse under his breath. he opens the door, leaning his body against the frame.

» no, it’s okay. «

brows furrow at chanyeol’s request. last time the drugs have worked pretty well or so he remembers. perhaps his memories are playing tricks on gil too. » i’m afraid i cannot offer you astronger dose. it wouldn’t be healthy for you. or aren’t you satisfied with your dreams? «

the tiny crack of the shop’s entrance is now completely open for the other to follow seongil inside. it seems a house where people only come and go rather for their own desires than to actually care for his. he doesn’t mind much though, since it’s work. all he’s expected to is serve.

» do you have some left? did you bring them here? we could check on it together. or i’ll give you a new package. « if chanyeol had used all of them already, seongil would have to think twice about giving him more. moreover he shouldn’t have allowed the older to take the drug home in the first place. but chan has understood the concept of gil’s drug with no trouble, it has built up trust within the student.

many of the clients have compared their dreams to music. it has surprised him how meaningful their ideas turn out to be after every session. as if he’s speaking to an entirely new person.

a shape which doesn’t need space. silent words finally shared, being held by hands that do not sense yet carry you through each following day.

these things make it harder for seongil to quit his business.

He is birthed into this Earth weeping, destined to leave the same under similar circumstances. At age twelve he learns on a Sunday how to live is to suffer. How God instilled constellations within our lungs yet never tells how these are bound to collapse. At age fifteen he burns mother on a Wednesday morning under the same construct. At age twenty six he purgatories his ribcage from Monday to Sunday, learns solitude is a self-made limbo, an opening for death to slowly creep up his bones.

This slaughterhouse is a refuge.

The comfort of four concrete walls encroaching home for the restless amid a decaying metropolis. Seoul dies outside their window every evening for Gil to breathe a soul into its remnants before dawn, watch it roar back to life and hallucinate of what heaven is when poison gnaws at their vessels. Watch them breathe for the first time and believe “what a wonderful life”. Amid agony, they latch onto these codeine induced dreams and drift to slumber. Rest at last. Peace at last.

With this promise, he peels Epiales off his skin and finds a new sanctum. Chanyeol faded ´thank you´ and slips past the shop´s entrance, pondering when desolate was a synonym for soothing.

“No, no, don´t get me wrong, I´m more than happy, I´ve never had better dreams.” I´ve never had any dreams. Even through the muted thud of their steps pattering across the hallway in unison, the outer world´s wailing still buzzes in his ears, the blistering solitude still crawls up his spine in lapses of ‘silence’ as if this is not enough. “Just wish they didn´t end so quickly.”

As in every blissful moment, we dread for its end.

As in every night of slumber, we dread to awake.

Strings of questions leave him at a loss for a second or too, his thoughts occupied for a fleeting moment on how comforting, he only processes the words a new package before rummaging through his coat´s pockets. Eventually, a small packet slips between his fingers. Almost empty.

“Here, will this do?” He offers the last specks of stardust to the latter, pray he may care a brighter world off these. Disembogue into his lungs what he lost in the fire, what he seeks hopelessly in another´s heartbeat. And in a second of proximity, he watches the cosmos unravel between them. Brighter than before.

“…You´ve ever tried making it stronger?”

#invelidate #(r:p) #( after hiatus 539493 #((HAPPY TO WRITE THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE #(( narcos

[deusautem]

                            WHAT’S IT GONNA TAKE TO                             REVIVE THAT  WICKED  MIND ?

#(r:a) #( !!!!

[deusautem]

                                                  one of these days

                                                 you’re gonna run out

#(r:a)

[deusautem]

In solitude, the constraints of time hold no relevance.

Whether he arrived in broad day light or amid the AM´s penumbra. Whether he responded with a proper explanation or with an unsettling quietude.

In the end, it is all the same. Often regarded as a portent of tragedy, this is the closest to a welcoming he may request. Still consumed by oblivion, his eyes narrow to make enough out of a feeble moonlight. He spares a glance at the muzzle, as if he could guess how many bullets lie past it, and averts his gaze to the woman before him, as if seeking for any sense of familiarity between them. Once he pinpoints this one, his hands are raised in surrender.

“Ian right?” Absent minded, as if the question itself was a response. “You´ve seen Baek by any chance?" I´m afraid something might´ve happened to him.”

「 ♡ 」 ━ *┊ muse : ianthina (  new chapter  )  @deusautem

               fear was not in her tonight as she cocked the nuzzle of the gun towards  him .  eyes that    n o r m a l l y     shined with delight and warmth , now were hard and filled with caution .  trespassing  into an enchantress’ workshop was a    fools    wish .  he didn’t smell nor feel like a creature of the night  — human was he ?  either way ,  the woman wasn’t showing any signs of backing down since she found him in the darkness of her haven .    ❛  what’s your business here ?  can’t you see that the shop is closed .  ❜   she calls out  ,  the loaded gun with warning bullets waiting to set off just in case .   hopefully   , he wouldn’t make her hit him with a bean bag bullets . 

#(r:s) #zephyrvm #((HAPPY TO WRITE!!!! #((DONT apologize shh you actually postedthis when i came back itsawesome #((settled back when baekhyun wanted to Drown #((overlapping storylines #(( finding chanyeol icons where he isnt doing something dumb or suffering is harder than I thought

[deusautem]

                                  byun baekhyun. pianist & vampire hunter.

“they called it the war of the roses, but no rose was ever so bloody. delicate grace was shunned by garnet and filthy mud, the souls of men with it, and in corporeal form they ravaged the land and all its beauty, fashioning metal from thorns and ploughing the fields with crimson, for a crown of bitter hollowness” —  i.       ii.       iii.

#(R:a) #(follow bunner)

[deusautem]

– caetera desunt »

– luxinexitium​ »

midnight paints the sky in sombre shades of solitude, with strokes of heartache interspersed between columns of stars. the layers, laid so thick across the canvas, encroach upon the city steadily, menacingly. after a decade too long spent staring, searching, he feels the loneliness reverberate in his bones in much the same way that his scattered freckles mirror the cluttered stars. it’s all a part of him now. even the splotches of black-and-blue meets yellow-and-green that have bloomed after an icy tumble reflect the newborn nebulae hundreds of lightyears away. he has always been close to the cosmos, sensitive to every strain against the seams, which is why he knows immediately that something is amiss.

above them the stars are stagnant, poor mimicries of the empyreal phenomena he’s come to know as intimately as the whorls on his fingertips. even the breeze feels like an after-thought, a last-minute detail tacked on not from desperation, but from something much more deliberate. if he mulled over the possibility long enough, he might wonder if perhaps he was meant to notice all the anomalies practically screaming in his face, but he hasn’t that luxury right now. instead, kyungsoo’s gaze volleys between either end of the alley as he eases one strap of his backpack off a shoulder. the city has fallen uncharacteristically quiet, tinny like a scrambled signal, but he doesn’t have to sift through static to catch the distress call thrumming in his own lungs. as soon as he draws a blade from his bag, ignoring how the hilt scorches against his palm, the muffled familiarity of the city dissolves into white noise.

“okay–” he begins, casting a wary glance to his companion, but struggles to come up with much else to say. his tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth, and the wind that weakly grazes his knuckles offers little comfort. unknowingly, they’ve traded one fight for another, barely escaping with a handful of scratches in exchange for promised bruises and bloodied pavement. at each end of the alley, street lamps flicker and sputter in tandem. shadows slither through the shroud of moonlight, and an overwhelming sense of emptiness floods the air. grip tightening around the blade, kyungsoo takes a step towards his acquaintance and soon-to-be comrade–just close enough for their fingertips to make mere contact.

“i don’t have time to explain anything,” comes his voice eventually, terribly loud even as a whisper in the suffocating silence. “but when i tell you to run, just run, okay?”

For him, mother was the universe mantling his youth in star clustered heavens, the cosmos bearing light in the void to salvage the rogue children she once penanced to wander through oblivion. She lulls him to slumber every evening and verses him in the similarities between his scars and those carved out of moonstone, his iris and the ghost of Jupiter´s havoc. Even decades after roaming this Earth in solitude, he would always reminisce how home awaits past the boundaries of a foreign atmosphere.

Yet tonight is not mother.

Tonight is not kind.

They are dyed in bone-rot carved nebulae, both orphaned corpses bleeding onto Seoul´s midnight blues and praying life may grow on their wake. Once marred by their fathers, now forsaken by their mother. It takes him a few blocks to realize no wonder may burgeon off stillness, gruesome, ghastly stillness serving as omen for the lost. It appears as if Seoul had long died before they trailed up its spine, as if these were not the streets he learned to amble out of heartache, as if eons of pandemonium had come to a halt by their sole presence. He spares a gaze across the night sky to realize their heaven is immersed in silence, devoid of the warm grieving she usually offers as berceuse.

And In penumbra, Kyungsoo´s skin grazing his is the closest to a home.

In penumbra, his eyes rake over the alley, the light flickering ahead only to perish upon the void slowly encroaching Seoul´s last breath for its vermin to finally gnaw at the remnants, for the vulture to dig their talons onto its children and tear through their jugular. Chanyeol´s eyes drift from the pseudo-carnage to the menacing glimmer lying between bruised knuckles, quivering as it vows a further end to their nightly nuances. When I tell you to run, just run, okay?” Had they ever been taught to run? Had cowardice been instilled within their bones as with the rest of men? He frowns at the statement as a silent inquiry, yet before he may respond, an ominous presence looms itself where the light may not reach. It weighs his lungs until breathing is more of a hassle, it grows to the extent he may fathom its outline towering over them, stating how any word, any step will be mistaken as an act of violence. Yet even then, he grasps the wrist of his companion and leans towards him with a mutter.

“…If you got anything to say, now´s a good time.”

– caetera desunt »

#((I AM SORRY I AM LATE #(r:caetera desunt) #(r:p) #luxinexitium #(( IM EXCITED!!! FOR ILLUSIONS!!! AND NIGHTMARES!!!

[deusautem]

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                                                                   ( character psd  template credit by gifsandthaangs  )

#(r:a) #(q:ueue)

[deusautem]

DEFINITION: a paraphilia in which a person is aroused by the risk of being killed. an autassassinophiliac is more interested in their climax than in their death, resulting in a compulsion to stage-manage the possibility rather than the actuality of their end.  [  — start here.  ]

#(r:a)