desire to be perfect

he is sitting in silence, devoured and gorged, millions of stars watching over each day and night of his unholy, life-consuming and sanguine tears painted, blasphemous and sacrilegious pathetic pettiness of a vampiric existence, slowly and with carefully threading hands working upon his solitude for the past dreadfully and deadly slow, burn inducing and scorched pyre of a century; he is stern, gelid, a creature of the underworld that you would expect to read about and quiver, sweat drenching your focused forehead, in death invoking fear, eyes sharp and narrowing as the empty, yet scarlet and vermilion chateau lafite - old as he, even a little older, however,  the taste of its aftermath is just as same, focuses in a half-lidded and lustrous gaze: you are mesmerized, you are taken away, intoxicated by sin that burns as you indulge in it    ——–      and his hands, yaoi claw like and yet with fingers so lithe and delicate they could break any second (do not be alarmed nor feel heart falling at ease: he can claw your heart out, break each and every bone with a simple movement worth a thousand of nuclear bombings falling into one spot at the exact same nanosecond), fall upon the ending of his perfectly V shaped body     ——    how can something so dead and unholy carry this amount of beauty    ——  which is, essentially, the edge of his hot fudge hips; a movement so gracious and swift and grandiose that even the queen of england, with all of her ancestors’ spirits gathered in a manifestation she presents herself as, shakes in her fragile body overcame with awe and fright; his words saccharine and laced with sweetest of chocolates melting away at your tongue and sending thee into master chef’s raging, bewildering, core-shaking orgasm; each syllable akin to softest of songs sung at the resplendent scale that is an opera stage setting, fast in his speech and yet giving off such a flow as if he speaks for a millennia, pure lustrous s e x coating each letter falling betwixt what is the plump cold rim of his demonic, fear inducing to the core of one’s bone and heart destroying cleft of a maw     ——–    and as he speaks, each of his perfectly sharp and pearly white fang peers through the darkness, telling her to go, to leave, for there is naught good he can bring to her and her life, and yet, with its PERFECTION, his sole canines call her forth into finding herself cosseting (though, only by means of manipulative sight) into him, indulging into the darkness veiled and mysterious presence; there is gentleness in the way he moves his perfect, and yet so god defying and spitting in the image of he, clay formed beings HE created in the likes of himself; he is perfect, and yet he is not, but in this pool of fighting emotions he still stands triumphant over the simple two - worded thing that is human life; he, the mocked, the feared, the bloody vampire . when u gon make me nut?


nordiixa  asked:

=3c likes his new look.

“You’ve got perfect eyes, Lancer.” He’s aware that he’s being stared at, if not admired. That’s to be expected, of course! Why, no one is a stranger to his perfection. Perhaps this is enough to make her see the light that Arthur is naught but an unsightly man. “Enjoy yourself, and bask in my presence all you like. I permit it.”