#bloodsymphony

STAIRS LEADS HIM ON A PATH HE ONCE KNEW WELL, a familly portrait sit in the middle of the room ( faces like ghost hardly appearing under the candle light ). But what shakes him is a presence, a silhouette underlined by this fire that slowly burns. EYES FIXED UPON THIS FORM, he knows something is not right. It's a certitude, crawling under his skin. “ — What on earth is going on here... ” He catches a glimpse of a face, his gaze tracing a scar just like his.

lmfaooooo (^:

       Too long he’d been without him, a few day’s hunt leaving him desperate for his touch. How he craved the feeling of his body, the rugged scratch of his face, his chest against his own, the way calloused hands did guide his hips into a soft roll, creating friction as he came into contact with his heat. 

ALABASTRINE  FACADE,  STILL,  MOTIONLESS    as a basilica’s florentine saint,  laid crowned in a wreath of palladium.   sacrosanct,  and deific,  the morningstar  post-fall,  and graceless profanity,  become idolatry with aether-gilded rapture and ozone clinging yet to desecrated flesh.  to the  twin scars  flayed in gaping parallel.  and only the blood,  artfully emblazoned,  rendered in  aleatory  languor across marble in relief,  could mark this as a soul yet  alive.  one that hung  suspended in a purgatory  between  somewhat alive  and the absolution of  death.                                 not for long;  not long now.  if this was the solitary taste of  paradise  pilfered with sericon fingertips he could dare covet  before damnation,  he welcomed it.

           his  heart  is  an unstable one; a vessel of blurred emotions that changes from one colour to the next. belldandy is a good listener however, hands folded neatly across the silk fabrics that clothe her. she listens both to him and to the story the crackling embers of their nighttime fire lets loose into the air. each time she steals a glance at him, he seems that much more different. conflict is deep inside of him, that much she can tell.    

❝ oh, mister trevor . . . ❞    her voice trails off, one hand reaching out tenderly to rest upon his knuckles. and how much bigger his palm is than her’s, how much wider and rougher and more experienced they are than her own.  she can tell a lot about those hands. about the things they must’ve done.     ❝  If its never been right, then maybe it isn’t too late to change it. people make many mistakes in life, some of which they go their whole lives regretting or running away from. but it takes true courage to face those mistakes head-on. ❞