by Gloxinia » Sun Mar 10, 2013 7:16 am
by Gloxinia » Sun Mar 10, 2013 7:16 am
Ａｎｚｏ && Ｗｏｌｆｇａｎｇ
ᵈᵉᵗᵃᶤˡˢ: Pokemon OC.
X . x . X . x . X
ɢeɴder: Male.
ѕpecιeѕ: Zweilous.
нeld ιтeм: Everstone.
мoveѕeт: Dark pulse, Hyper Voice, Dragon Pulse, Crunch.
αppeαrαɴce: They look like an average Zweilous, but they have a shaggier mane. Anzo has two pieces of fur that hang down the sides of his face, while Wolfgang's fur on his head is much longer and kept untidily. Anzo has a scar on his lips while Wolfgang's face usually has at least two bruises. They're missing the claws on their left back foot.
perѕoɴαlιтιeѕ: Anzo: The right head, Anzo is rather temperamental and extremely quick to judge others based on their voices, tone someone uses, personality, and interests. He's kind of a guy based on first impressions, so if he's failed to recognize you as a friendly character or someone he can find use in, you will quickly be treated with hostile behavior and a rather bitter attitude. He's frustrating to talk to because of how hot-headed and stubborn he is. He's always quick to take offense or become defensive, especially over his other head. He's rather cynical towards other pokemon, especially when it comes down to the kind ones. He's fully convinced that actions and the words that come from another pokemon's mouth must always have some sort of motivation, seeing as he is that way when it comes to his own behavior and dialogue. Anzo is extremely selfish, has little interest in friends or social gatherings, and has very little (if any) empathy in those he hurts emotionally and or physically. He is an extremely cold and determined dragon, who, once he has set his sights on something or someone, will not stop until that goal is achieved. This makes him and his other half rather deadly opponents when it comes to battle, or just interaction.
Wolfgang: Wolfgang is the left head. The head that speaks more often than not, he has a tendency to mix up his words and make the Zweilous look like an idiot. Because of this head's clumsy wording skills and inability to actually fend for itself well enough, most other pokemon look down upon them and underestimate their power. This is a no-no. Wolfgang is an incredibly strong head, who, through much battling with Anzo, has his own moments of ruthlessness and the inability to show mercy in battle. Wolfgang is clumsy and clutzy and asks a lot of questions. He's really curious about the world and enjoys speaking with others, despite Anzo's bitter comments after the conversation is over with. Like Anzo, he is extremely determined and can be more stubborn than a Tauros. When arguing, he's usually the first of the heads to back down in fear of being lashed at.
The two together share an equal amount of control over the body, Wolfgang controlling the right while Anzo controls the left. (Like how the left half of a brain controls the right side of the body and the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body). They're at level 60.
orιeɴтαтιoɴ: They lean more towards males.
мαтe: The two have no love interest at the moment.
oтнer: Anzo, when speaking and if there are thoughts, will be written in this colour. Wolfgang, when thinking and if he is speaking, will be written in this colour. The two are blind.
Ｂｅｌｐｈｅｇｏｒ . Ｓａｔｉｎ . Ｖａｒｉａ
ᵈᵉᵗᵃᶤˡˢ: Original Character.
ɢeɴder: Male.
αgє: Eight years as a demon. || 21 human years.
мαтe: Undertaker (Aka Jacob Smythe).
ᴇх. мᴀтᴇ(s): An ex-husband, Beelzebub.
orιeɴтαтιoɴ: Emotional and physical attraction to males, only physical attraction to females.
ғᴀмıʟʏ: A full-blooded brother named Ibis. Mother is Lilith, the self-proclaimed mother of all demons. Father is Belphegor, one of the Seven Princes of Hell. His step-father is Asmodeus.
нısтσʀʏ: Was born in the depths of Hell by the lovely Lilith. He was an illegitimate and was rejected by his mother, so his father took him under his wing. For eight years, while his body matured, he was kept isolated from the world around him. He was released only to be a burden to a fallen angel, whom left him after a year or so. The fallen angel was dragged down to Hell for breaking the contract, leaving Belphegor alone and to fend for himself on Earth.
To entertain himself, he would wreak havoc on mortals. He'd engage with women and men alike, but found that he liked the chemistry of males better. He's committed murders, destroyed animal life and protected habitats, etc. He's not a very good cookie.
He met his boyfriend through friends. Belphegor had been invited to stay at their house as a fugitive. His boyfriend was living there at the time, and when the two met they became instant friends. They bonded quickly and, eventually, Belphegor slipped into his beau's room in the middle of the night and they sealed the deal.
αppeαrαɴce: A handsome young man who stands 5'10 with a slender build. He has platinum blond hair that borders his face, bangs flipping up and over to the side. It's kept rather long, around to the back of his neck and in a layered look. He sports a wide, mischievous grin, one that holds malicious intent. His eyes hold a piercing gaze, one that looks right through any mortal. He has a cocky atmosphere about him, one that suggests he thinks highly of himself. He's aware he's handsome. He's also aware that he's probably better than you in nearly everything he does. This only fuels his confident aura, cocky attitude, and the glint in those blue eyes.
He dresses in black skinny-jeans, a hooded leather vest and a black and red, long-sleeved striped shirt underneath. He usually wears scuffed up, black army boots that remain unlaced to this day. He sports some black bracelets on his right wrist, along with a necklace that hands down to the bottom of his rib cage (just above his navel). The pendent at the end is a large quill that was given to him by his boyfriend.
perѕoɴαlιту: W.I.P.
oтнer: W. I. P.
Beckam wrote:
ＮＡＭＥ:•Beckam; "I was given the title by a pretty lil' country bee that lived out on a farm down yonder." He tosses his massive head into a general direction. "She was teeny, but she had a big ole voice that was shoutin' out m'name every time she saw me clunkin' 'round the outskirts of her land. I liked it - and her - so I decided to pick it up and slap it on."
ＮＩＣＫＮＡＭＥＳ:"Well, I mean, ya' can call me Beck, I suppose. Or Becky."
ＧＥＮＤＥＲ:"Now, I do believe I was born of the male gender."
ＡＧＥ:"Could be off a year - it's been so long since I kept track of my birthday. But, if I had to say or slap an estimate... Prob'ly around 3 1/2 years."
ＢＲＥＥＤ:"Ma was a big ole Saint Bernard with a heavy fur coat that was always warm and cozy to snuggle up on into on cold barn nights. Never knew m'dad, he up and left 'fore I was born. She'd tell me and my sister stories about him though. 'Parently he was a chivalrous sort, a pretty ole Golden Retriever mix. Ma loved him when he was gone, always hoped he'd come home. Though, 'parently I look much more like Ma than Pa."
ＰＥＲＳＯＮＡＬＩＴＹ:Big, warm, loving, sweet Beckam. Similar to a naive puppy, this Saint Bernard easily trusts and sees the good in others, despite how they treat him. He's a bit social, choosing to romp up to those he sees and greet them with a loving nuzzle as if they had been friends for ages. He's generous beyond belief and has an intense dislike for violence or any sort of malevolent behavior towards other dogs, people, or other animals of prey.
Beckam's a laid back sort, choosing to simply go with the flow. He never seems to be in a bad mood, always upbeat and optimistic towards the world. He's a complete and total love-bug, one that loves to playfully pounce on his friends or snuggle up into them when it's time to sleep. Beckam becomes attached to others very easily, and on most instances is seen caring more for others than they care for him. He's incredibly sensitive, taking things to heart very easily and often becomes sulky if he feels he has done wrong by someone or if someone is upset with him in any way, shape, or form. If this happens, he'll apologize profusely, trying to desperately mend what he feels has broken.
His intense fear of being alone has caused him to come off as clingy or smothering to some, maybe even a little desperate. Others sometimes grow annoyed at the fact he is a complete coward when it comes to conflict or confrontations. Unfortunately, Beckam's a spineless creature and he knows it. He tries to make up for it by being sweet, or at the very least apologizing profusely.
Overall, Beckam's a sweetheart through and through, but he has the tendency to smother those he deems to trust the most.
ＨＩＳＴＯＲＹ:Beckam was born in an abandoned barn with his sister to a Saint Bernard mother and an absent father. He spent the first two years of his life there, never straying too far from his given 'home' and instead cared for his aging mother and younger, fraternal twin sister. He would do his best to hunt, but he was never good at it due to his sweet, country-boy nature and dislike of violence. Somehow, though, he managed to bring home a decent amount of food and provided as the scout when it came to looking for water sources.
Just around his second birthday, his mother fell ill with pneumonia. Beckam did his best to care for her, bringing her the best food he could find and giving her the larger portions of said food, however his efforts went to a lost cause. She passed on weeks later, leaving the twins to fend for themselves. At first, they opted to stay together, seeing as they held a close relationship at the time and Beckam was intimidated by the thought of taking on life all alone. However, a few months in, Beckam's sister met a charming golden retriever, to which she chose to go with him to start a new life. Beckam respected the choice (albeit upset by it) and has been roaming alone ever since.
ＬＩＫＥＳ:"I'm a big fan of sleepin', really. Sleepin' and eatin'. When I'm not doing that, I do like to do some exploring, sniff them flowers, roll about in the grass or simply spend some time in my head alone."
ＤＩＳＬＩＫＥＳ:"I'm really not a big fan of fightin', or huntin'. It makes me queasy and nervous. I don't like failing, and fighting and failing go hand-in-hand when it comes to me."
ＴＨＥＭＥ ＳＯＮＧ:Follow Me - Uncle Kraker
ＯＴＨＥＲ:{{ This is one of my first times writing for a canine character, and I hope it'll turn out alright. Any pointers would be appreciated and I hope to have a nice experience. ;u; }}
ＣＲＵＳＨ:Nope.
ＭＡＴＥ:Single and ready to mingle.
ＰＵＰＳ:None.
ＳＩＢＬＩＮＧＳ:A twin sister named Ella. They went separate ways when she found a mate.
ＯＴＨＥＲ ＦＡＭＩＬＹ:A mother named Beatrice, a father who (according to Beatrice) was named Chuck. There was a grandfather Gazpacho in there somewhere, too.
Ryan McBride wrote:__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Ｉ'ｌｌ ｎｅｖｅｒ ｆｏｒｇｅｔ ｔｈｏｓｅ ｅｙｅｓ，
_____________________________________________________________________________【[Insert something here]】_____________________________________________________________________________Ｔｈａｔ ｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ ｓｍｉｌｅ．
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ʷʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶰᵃᵐᵉ ᵇᵒʸ˒ ʷʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ʸᵒᵘʳ ˢᵗʸˡᵉ ?
➽ "I'm Ryan McBride. Feel free to call me Rye, or even my middle name, James."
ᵐᵃᶰ˒ ᶤ'ᵐ ᵍᵉᵗᵗᶤᶰᵍ ᵒˡᵈᵉʳ
➽ "I'm eighteen. Fresh out of high school, baby."
ᶤᵗ'ˢ ᵃˑˑˑ
➽ "Ha! I'm a male, if you couldn't tell!"
ᵃʸᵉ ˢʰᵃʷᵗʸ˒ ᶤᵗ'ˢ ʸᵒ' ᵇᶤʳᵗʰᵈᵃʸᵎ
➽ "My birthday's December 20th. I'm a full on Capricorn."
ˡᵉᵃᶰ ʷᶤᵗʰ ᶤᵗ˒ ʳᵒᶜᵏ ʷᶤᵗʰ ᶤᵗˑ
➽ "Ehh, I've never really thought about my sexuality much. Overall, I'd say I'm pretty straight, haha. I've had a couple of girlfriends. Though, I gotta admit; Johnny Depp is pretty darn attractive for fifty."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ᵃ ᵖʳᵉᵗᵗʸ ʷᵃʸ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵃᵗᶜʰ ᵃ ᵖʳᵉᵗᵗʸ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ➽ "Mm, I'd say I'm a pretty good guy. I've generally had a lot of friends growing up. They say I'm pretty funny and a really down-to-earth kind of guy; really laid-back, just kind of peaceful to be around, ya' know? I generally like everyone, but people on the more serious side get more or my attention than the class-clowns, or at least ones that are more composed. I'm not really good with dealing with anger. I tend to bottle it up and I'll grow really annoyed or angry at pretty much everyone - even the people I'm not even mad at. It's a bad habit, and I'm really trying to open up more, but it's hard when I'm not so close to someone.
"I really like to read, especially classics like Sherlock Holmes, Huckleberry Finn, and Moby Dick. I'm also a really big music buff. If you can name a song, I've probably already heard it and love it. I can talk for hours about music, especially since I compose it as avidly as I listen to it. I can play numerous instruments, such as the flute, clarinet, violin, viola, saxophone, and bass. I can't, however, sing for the life of me.
"My mom says I'm a pretty creative and talented guy. I can't really say I'd agree; I'm really modest about my talents. But, to be fair, I've always been a humble sort of guy. I don't really like to be in the limelight. Being on stage or on a pedestal isn't my place to be. I like to be the bystander, or my favourite place which is the observer. I'm a big fan of people-watching. I find human behavior to be a fascinating thing. Reading people and finding out more about them by their body language is easier for me, since I'm not really good at talking. You see, I'm really kind of awkward and shy. When it comes to speaking to people I don't know so well, I clam up and get all flustered because I don't know what to even say! But, that aside, and if you get past my awkwardness, I guess you could say I'm a pretty swell guy."ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵇᵒᵈʸ'ˢ ᵍᵒᵗ ᵃ ˢᵗᵒʳʸ ᵗᵒ ᵗᵉˡˡ➽"I grew up in Montana, actually. My mom had me on December 20th and I was raised there with my two older sisters and my Golden Retriever, Sadie. I lived on a big and open plain, so I exercised my imagination a lot out in the fields with friends. There was a lot of manhunt, cowboys, bonfires, and off-road driving ensured. I lived a pretty good life, the only thing proving to be a real struggle for me was schoolwork and losing my grandmas and grandpas."ᵗᵃˡˡ˒ ᵇˡᵒᶰᵈᵉ˒ ᵃᶰᵈ ᵇᵉᵃᵘᵗᶤᶠᵘˡ➽"I'm 5'11 with a pretty... Uh... Average, build? I'm not ripped, but I'm not exactly flabby, either. I've got my fair share of 'flub.' My eyes are a plain-jane brown, matching my hair. I've got some freckles dotting my cheeks and nose that I'm not exactly fond of. In the Summer, I get an awesome tan. I've never burned once in my life, ha. It's great!
"I guess I've got some nice things for a wardrobe. Girls say I'm pretty 'well-dressed', whatever it is that means. My mom always liked to deck me out in expensive clothes and I never really protested."
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ᶤ ᶜᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉ ˡʸᶤᶰᵍ ᶰᵉˣᵗ ᵗᵒ ᵃᶰʸᵒᶰᵉ˒ ᵇᵘᵗ ᶤ'ᵈ ˢᵗᶤˡˡ ᵇᵉ ᵗʰᶤᶰᵏᶤᶰᵍ ᵒᶠ ʸᵒᵘ
➽ "I don't quite have my eyes on anyone just yet."
ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᵐᵉ ˡᶤᵏᵉ ᶤᵗ'ˢ ᵖʳᵒᵐ ᶰᶤᵍʰᵗ
➽ "I'm a single man."
ᵒᵗʰᵉʳ﹖
➽ N/A
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Baysil Ectomy wrote:
♦
Name ;; Baysil Ectomy.
Nickname ;; Bay, Baybay.
Age ;; 17.
Gender ;; Male.
________________________________________________________________________________________________♦ Personality ;; "Hi. I'm Baysil, and I'm socially awkward."Baysil's a very... Eccentric boy, who has a very creative outlook on life. He's a natural born artist, one who can paint and draw the most photo-realistic of portraits. Due to his crafty nature and artistic flare, Baysil has a natural sense of curiosity and spontaneity in him. He's rather impulsive when it comes to his decisions and plan making, thus creating either really bad or good scenarios.
Baysil has a mild form of autism that makes communicating for him a little difficult. He becomes rather awkward and shut in, almost reluctant to open up unless he really gets to know the person. He's not very good at processing others' emotions and may come off as rude in some instances. However, Baysil usually only has good intentions, despite how painful his blunt remarks may seem.
He's rather intelligent, though he knows little next to nothing about being an outdoors type of man. He can't tell poison oak from a regular oak leaf and he figures that if it looks like a berry, it must be eatable. He has a bad habit of coming off cocky in these senses, for he's got a great ability to exert himself with false confidence.
Overall, Baysil's an artistic, confident, and eclectic sort of guy. Also, never let him near fire. He may want to build a sculpture out of the ashes.
History ;;Baysil had a rather easy life. He has a mother, a step-father, a younger sister named Belle, and a cat back at home named Willow whom he absolutely adores. He lives in Massachusetts, USA, in a rather modest neighborhood.
He was born on August 22nd, 1996 in North Carolina. His original father died of a heart attack, his mother remarrying when he was around ten. By age 11, Baysil's mother birthed a young daughter named Isabelle. They upped and moved from their original home to up north. The cold was a bit of a shocker for him, but he quickly adjusted. His school provided a fabulous art department, to which he has taken full advantage of. He aspires to become sort of a famous artist.
Eye color ;;A mixture of green, blue, and hazel. His mom always described them as "kaleidoscope eyes."
Hair color ;;A dark chocolate brown that borderlines black.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
♦Crush ;; None.
Girl friend / Boy friend ;; None.
Body Modifications ;; Angel bites, a nose piercing, tongue piercing, his left eyebrow, three cartilage piercings and three lobe piercings on his left ear, four cartilage piercings and three lobe piercings on his right ear, and his collarbones are pierced.
Other ;; None!
by Gloxinia » Sun Mar 10, 2013 7:17 am
Natalie Goldberg wrote:"Writers end up writing about their obsessions.
Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released."
Morning light filtered into the bedroom, reflecting the dust in the air. It frittered about lightly, shimmering like glitter. The demon’s eyes cracked open, his body curled up on its side. Belphegor squinted in the light, a hand groggily lifting itself from the warmth of the sheets to rub the sleep from one of his eyes. His guess was that it was seven in the morning.
It had been a rough couple of weeks. His body was sore and ached from the beatings he suffered through, while his mind was polluted with heinous memories of painful words being thrown about as if they were confetti at a birthday party. Beelzebub was calling him off the hook. Sometimes, Belphegor would be able to ignore it. But then there were those rare times when he would heave a heavy sigh and lift the buzzing device to his ear. He would answer with a soft; “Hello?” Then, Beelzebub would apologize profusely, saying how much he loved Belphegor, needed him and craved him. He would speak in such a sickeningly sweet tone, use such loving words and present kind promises… But when Belphegor would go and visit him to have that ‘face to face conversation’ that they so desperately needed, Beelzebub would show his true motives and lash out at his ‘precious husband’ with all of his strength. It was a tiring, vicious, painful roller coaster. Belphegor was getting sicker and sicker as the days dragged on.
Belphegor was about to sit up when he felt an arm around his bruised torso tighten. He blinked, blue eyes wide with momentary fear, before he realized who it was. Immediately, his muscles relaxed and he exhaled a lungful of air.
“Jacob,” he breathed, his voice so quiet he wasn’t sure he even heard himself. The name rolled so easily off his tongue, leaving a sweet taste in his mouth and a fluttering feeling in his chest. Jacob. Ah, yes, that was right. He was in Jacob’s arms, in Jacob’s bed, in Jacob’s room. When the realization hit, everything hit. The man’s scent intoxicated Belphegor to the core, a dull fuzzy feeling washing over his body. Jacob’s breaths could be felt on Belphegor’s skin. His clock was ticking soundly, reassuring the demon that Jacob was, in fact, alive and right beside him.
Belphegor looked over his shoulder. The man’s face was buried into the small crook between Belphegor’s neck and shoulder, just above the collar bone. His breathing was soft, slow, and even. Undertaker was still sound asleep, his squeezing of Belphegor’s torso having been completely subconscious. In a way, that left a slight rock in Belphegor’s stomach. He wasn’t conscious yet, so Belphegor couldn’t kiss him without waking him. Undertaker didn’t sleep much. So whatever sleep he got, Belphegor preferred he could have the maximum amount.
The demon turned back forward. He laid completely still, left with just his thoughts. He stayed paralyzed for about 15 or 20 minutes, simply letting his thoughts and feelings writhe about one another until they were both beaten so badly that there was no new perspective that he could approach the two with. That included both positive and negative. It was such a complex string of thoughts. He’d think to Beelzebub and the loving times they spent. All the kisses, the killings, the laughs, the promises… All of it was crumbling before his eyes. Beelzebub was crumbling. He could see the man of his previous obsession beginning to crack - to slip into someone he said he would never be. Violent, malevolent, disgruntled, selfish, dangerous… In a way, Belphegor felt like he was watching Beelzebub turn into his father. The ‘Lord of the Flies’, known to be one of the most vicious demons known to man. (Second only to Satan himself, of course.) And Belphegor wondered… Where would that leave him? Belphegor wasn’t turning out like his own father. His father was a fat, hairy-looking creature that sat on a toilet and was probably one of the laziest men he’d ever met. Tempting poor mortals with promises of riches and then dragging them to Hell was a hobby. Belphegor was nothing like that. Seemed as though the only thing they did have in common was the fact they found mortals attractive.
Speaking of mortals, that lead Belphegor to his more positive string of thoughts. He thought of Jacob. Belphegor… Really, really liked Jacob. Jacob made him feel like a king. He would buy Belphegor whatever he wanted. He gave him the utmost attention he craved and was focused solely on him for the past couple of days. Jacob belonged to him and him only - something he never had with Beelzebub. Belphegor always had to share Beelzebub. Sharing was not something Belphegor enjoyed doing. So, to have Jacob invest so much time and so much attention solely on the two of them, it made Belphegor giddy. Finally, something was his and his entirely. Call him a fool, but he felt like a lovesick puppy. Jacob would allow Belphegor to dominate him entirely; ravage him, destroy him, tear him up, claim him… Oh, it sent chills down Belphegor’s spine just thinking about it. Undertaker was his. Belphegor was Undertaker’s. Just thinking about the two thoughts were enough to make Belphegor let out a soft whine of delight.
Eventually, Belphegor tired of thinking. So, he slid out from underneath the sheets and Undertaker’s loving embrace. The demon grabbed the sheets and draped them over Undertaker’s sleeping frame before he grabbed the white button-down shirt Jacob had worn yesterday before it had been so eagerly torn off. Belphegor slipped into the large fabric. It hung down a few inches above his knees, to his delight. He buttoned up the shirt and pulled the sleeves down enough to cover his hands. He left the room after giving Undertaker's pet mutant, Delilah, a good morning kiss.
He went about his morning routine. It took about an hour. He padded silently around the house, simply listening. He had found Sher-sha and Akhenaton curled up in their places on the couch. Sher-sha had stirred awake and stared for a moment at Belphegor who had taken the initiative to clean up the living room (Todo had ruined it with his Yahtzee obsession; Sher-sha chewing up one of Penelope’s toys didn’t exactly help either). The hyena watched the demon move with silent grace, collecting the mediocre remains of the stuffed rabbit before he realized he had an audience.
“Go back to sleep, Sherri,” Belphegor said quietly, his voice soft and gentle. Definitely not a tone the canine was used to hearing. At least, not coming from the prince.
Sher-sha smirked. “How can I, with a cute blond like you wandering around?”
“Speak again - I’ll have Undertaker on you faster than your silly African cheetahs.”
The hyena’s smirk turned into a smile before he plopped his head back down onto his brother’s back. He fell back into his slumber almost immediately. The demon grumbled something to himself before finishing up the living room and walking out. He dumped the rabbit’s remains into the trash before he walked into the kitchen and decided he deserved some coffee.
He brewed a pot silently and poured himself a cup. Already he was tired and he hadn’t even been awake two hours. Guess that’s what happens when you go through unhealthy relationships.
Belphegor was about to take a sip of the blackened liquid before he felt arms wrapping themselves around his smaller frame. His eyes widened and he slammed the cup down. “Sher-sha I swear to-”
“Calm down, boy.”
The familiar accent filled his ears and he immediately relaxed. Shaking hands gripped onto the cup and lifted it again, head tilting up. Undertaker flashed him a loving smile before he kissed his forehead.
“Jakey…” the demon breathed, eyes softening. “Why’re you up?”
“You left my side.”
“So?”
The man simply smiled, taking Belphegor’s mug and sipping some of his coffee. The demon watched him, taking the cup back and taking his own sip. He waited patiently for an answer, but it didn’t seem Undertaker was going to give him one.
Belphegor compressed his lips and he leaned back into Undertaker’s chest. It was amazing, really… The demon always thought those sayings and lyrics in songs about how another person’s arms becoming your home were outrageously ridiculous. But now, it all made sense. Being in Undertaker’s arms and against his chest could easily be the place Belphegor felt the safest.
“You should go back to bed,” the blond whispered quietly, leaning up to kiss the man’s jaw line.
“Only if you come with me,” was the immediate response, Undertaker opening up a drawer and pulling out a small bag of gummy worms.
Belphegor frowned. “You know I can’t sleep after I wake up. Especially after drinking this stuff.” He held up the coffee cup, to which Undertaker dropped a gummy worm in it. Belphegor blinked and brought it back down to stare at the black surface.
“I do,” Undertaker murmured, kissing the blond’s temple.
“So then I can’t sleep.”
“And neither can I.”
Belphegor sighed, leaning forward and setting his cup down. Undertaker smiled triumphantly, his hands sliding delicately up the fabric hardly covering up the demon. Belphegor’s stomach tensed when his mate leaned forward against him, hands ghosting over his chest and stomach while his lower torso pressed into his own.
“Come with me anyways~?” the older man purred into his ear.
The demon heaved a heavy sigh, finding himself relaxing when Undertaker rubbed his stomach. He hummed, low and soft, his eyes closing and he leaned forward onto his arms. “I’ll think about it.”
A kiss was laid to the back of his neck. “How ‘bout now?”
Belphegor couldn’t help but smile. “Let me meet you up there, okay? I’m going to clean the kitchen up a bit for Pop. I’m feeling in a really… Nice mood.”
Undertaker hummed and pulled him close for a minute, giving him a hug. He kissed the blond’s temple and pulled away, grabbing his bag of gummy worms and leaving. Belphegor waited a minute to open his eyes. When he did, he was staring at the granite counter tops, his head a mess of emotions. His chest was threatening to burst. His mind swam. His toes curled themselves and he drew in a shaky breath.
Belphegor pushed his coffee cup away. Undertaker drove him mad. Complete and utterly mad. He needed the man, but not… Not in one specific way. No. He wanted Undertaker - Jacob. He wanted Jacob for all that he was and all that he was soon going to become. He wanted every flaw of Jacob’s, every unique quality. Every laugh he wanted to be because of him. Every tear he wanted to be the cause of. He wanted to make Undertaker his and his only.
The demon stepped away from the counter and quickly headed off the way to Undertaker’s bedroom. The door was left open a crack, Undertaker having left it open just for him. Belphegor slid inside and closed the door softly behind him before he bolted for the bed and the occupant in it.
Undertaker’s arms slid around him and brought him down into a loving embrace. He hummed in delight, pulling Belphegor’s smaller frame close and kissing his head. “There you are.”
The demon smiled weakly, clinging to the man’s neck and burying his face into the crook that lay there. His scent filled his senses, numbing him almost instantly. He gently dragged his nails down his chest, legs wrapping around his lower torso. He took a deep breath.
“Jakey?” he asked shakily.
“Mmm?”
I love you.
“I-I… Never mind.”
by Gloxinia » Sun Mar 10, 2013 7:17 am
Untitled Work wrote:There’s that feeling again. That thick, chunky, frothy feeling in the pit of your stomach, sending it whirling and twisting over itself in anguish. It sends your body lurching, wracking, trembling, shaking. Your mind is screaming viciously at you, telling you to run, to flee, to scream. Your face feels as though it’s burning, the brisk air from the Winter’s day only making the sensation all the more pronounced to you. Your throat is dry, your eyes are wide, your hands are shaking. There is this thing around you, encasing you in a hideous and foul-smelling casket that’s holding your body and mind hostage. Its arms aren’t loving, its smile isn’t angelic. This thing that’s holding you - destroying you - is nothing short of a disease. Its fingers crawl up and down your insides, implanting its spores that will slowly drive you to insanity’s embrace. It’ll rot you; just like it has rotted its other lovers. It’ll smother you with a decaying hand, the foul stench of sulfur will fill your lungs and burn your senses. The other hand - the skin black as ash and peeling off the bone - will cover your eyes. You will struggle in its embrace, thrashing, kicking, gasping, clawing… You will try with all of your strength to force it out. To destroy it. To make it just go away.
When its around, you cannot breathe. You cannot see. You cannot hear. You cannot feel. At least… You cannot feel what you want to feel. You only feel what this thing wants you to feel. A deep, festering, prolonged sadness that feels as though it will not once be lifted. Your outlook on the world is hazy, your eyelids are heavy with the lack of sleep. Your face is melancholy, your cheeks paled and stained with tears. To look at the world through your eyes, one would see nothing but monsters. Everyone around you, walking around with their large jaws, eyeless faces, maniac grins… All of which tell lies to you. Nothing but lies. You cannot believe the supposed ‘nice things’ they say. They are not ‘praising’ someone like you. They are mocking you. There’s a weight resting heavily on your shoulders that makes it harder and harder for you to get up each day. It makes it harder to break free of the parasite’s bone-chilling grasp. Your head hangs or lolls to the side as if you were a limp doll. It holds you close to its face, tentacles strapped tightly around your torso while the suction cups hold you ever-so-tightly in place. You are a captured animal. There is no escape, no hope for you. It draws you closer, closer… Towards those four jaws all lined with hideous and rotten teeth while rancid saliva dripped from its orange lips; it’s waiting so eagerly to devour you.
But then, as suddenly as you felt the hopelessness, there is a sudden shift in demeanor. Screaming. Bloodcurdling, vehement screams that would chill any listener to the very core. You thrash, kick, bite; you do everything in your power to fight back. You can’t die - not like this! You cannot be miserable. You will not be miserable. Momentarily, the disease is frightened and it seems to disappear due to your violent and enraged screams of protest. For a split moment, you are numbed by the sound of your own screaming. The rancid odor fleets from your senses. You can see. You can hear. You can feel! It’s so overwhelming that all you can do is damage your vocal chords with your banshee-like screeching. Complete and utter bliss it is when a mind is no longer plagued with the constant torture of thinking it’s selfish, wrong, disgusting, bitter, worthless. It’s a sudden adrenaline rush, giving you the power to slowly ease yourself out of that putrid casket. To realize that yes, there is hope. With the frothy sputum in your throat gone, you can cry out for someone. You can turn your screams into pleas. And, whether you believe it or not, there will be someone who will help you. Someone is going to hear you. Someone is going to have their eyes widen and they are going to run to your aid. They’re going to reach their hand out, grasp in what you see to be absolute desperation for you, and they are going to call out to you.
“You’re going to be okay.”
But things are never easy. It’s only a matter of time before the disease’s hands begin to wrap themselves back around your frame. Only this time, it’ll be twice as hard to break free from. The vice will be stronger, the smell of rot so powerful your stomach will quiver and your body will lurch violently forward. Foreign fingers expelling ooze and pus from their tips will caress your cheek. The putrid stench will make you gag, intoxicate your senses and pollute the air you breathe, all in a vain attempt to distract you. To bring you back down, to show you the world it wants you to see. Life, in its eyes, is nothing but a worthless piece of scat. It’s not worth it. Nothing you ever do in life will be worth it, according to this disease. You’ll just be laughed at, mocked, be considered a fool - your hopes and dreams are worthless pieces of trash in its distorted vision. This is not true. This will never be true. With every fiber in my being, I can guarantee that everything is worthwhile. You are worthwhile. The people you love are worthwhile. The people willing to help you are worthwhile.
Life.
Is.
Worthwhile.
And deep down inside of you, there is a part of you that knows this. It’s the part of you that had isolated itself, hiding from the pollutants that the parasite released into your system when it so rudely infiltrated your life and corrupted it. It was what gave you the strength to make cracks on the mask you wore everyday, courtesy of the disease. That part that knew one day you would be strong enough to break free from the toxic hold that this thief had around your precious, brilliant, beautiful body and mind. It was the voice that screamed at you all of those days to just hold on. It was the side of you that wouldn’t let this foul thing have the twisted satisfaction it wanted from you.
That day of revolution is today. Your hand around your savior’s wrist will tighten, your legs will begin to move. The sludge - try as it might - will not be able to hold you down. The rot will, with time, begin to melt away. No longer will the sick relief of vomit be burning the back of your throat, no longer will your nails be blackened and your face stained in tears. You will shuffle along like a toddler at first, lifting yourself out of the clay-like slime, the bogged-down emotions and the putrid and decaying garbage that cling so desperately to your remarkable frame. You will hear it, because it will be screaming. But you will ignore it. You will shut that world away. It will no longer exist to you; it is a friend that will not be missed. The thick, chunky, frothy and toxic slime will lay as a thin film around you, but soon enough that will fade too. In your savior’s arms, you will have never felt so safe before. Their strong, comforting embrace will make your chest tighten and your eyes sting. The tears will fall so easily, mingling with the putrid ooze that tarnishes your face on their way down your cheeks. Your savior - your angel - will smile so fondly at you. Never have you ever felt so loved before, and it will be the first time in such a long period that you will actually believe the love that is being shown on their face… It is all such a foreign feeling that will leave you elated and in a complete state of bliss and self-satisfaction.
You will survive this, albeit a little paranoid. Scars will litter your mind and some parts of you will be too far damaged to repair again. But in due time, you will learn to love your new self. And just like you, your savior will love you, too. More than you may ever imagine, even. Things, through your eyes, will now be brighter. The lies will slowly disappear and the monsters will run and hide under the beds. The only remnant of their actually being there will be faces - loving and smiling faces - who will open up to you with warm arms. Your lips, after so long, will slowly crack upwards. Your eyes, once so dull and so lifeless, will have their mischievous sparkle return to them. You will learn to laugh. You will learn again to love. You will be welcomed by the caring arms of happiness.“Once upon a time is now.”
-Emilie Autumn
Author's Note wrote:Author’s Note:
Upon first listening and analyzing the chorus of this song, you can hear that the song is rather hopeful and is mainly about not giving up. Which is what the main protagonist (you) doesn't do. That’s the generic, basic level. I wanted to imply more than just one basic layer to this piece though. After analyzing the song for two days and delving slightly deeper, picking out the lyrics word for word and listening to it obsessively whilst at school and at home, I came to the conclusion that the song’s background noise is rather dark and conflicting with the main point of the song, which is not giving up. The lyrics further generate these counteracting emotions of negativity and positively. Some lyrics suggest giving up and that everything is hopeless (which is what the disease in this writing is supposed to represent), that it wants to destroy, there’s a deep sadness and an overall gloomy feel. The positive lyrics found mainly in the chorus and scattered throughout the bridges and verses (which would be the screaming for help and managing to finally pull yourself out of this disgusting and vile gunk) give you the other half, which is a strong determination to break free of this sadness and hopelessness. To free yourself, which is what the protagonist (you!) does.
The second quality I put into this work is the personal factor. The disease that is described in this writing piece is depression. Anyone who has ever suffered or is suffering from depression knows just what I’m talking about. I, myself, have bipolar disorder, which depression is a given. My mood swings get very bad constantly seeing as I’m not on medication, so this is a rather accurate depiction of what it feels like for me.
I could have gone on and on with this, but I chose against it in fear of rambling or repeating myself.
All in all, I hope you liked my writing, and I would like to wish the other members luck during this contest I am submitting this entry to. Thank you!~Alyss
by Gloxinia » Sun Mar 10, 2013 7:18 am
Ｓｉｇｎａｔｕｒｅｓ 
Take my hand, lets go
Somewhere we can rest our souls.
We'll sit where it's warm,
You say, "Look, we're here alone."
I was running in circles, I hurt myself,
Just to find my purpose.
Everything was so worthless,
I didn't deserve this!
But to me...
You were perfect.
. . . ♥ . . .
ι ѕee α red door αɴd ι wαɴт ιт pαιɴтed вlαcĸ.
ɴo colorѕ αɴyмore, ι wαɴт тнeм тo тυrɴ вlαcĸ.
ι ѕee тнe ɢιrlѕ wαlĸ вy dreѕѕed ιɴ тнeιr ѕυммer cloтнeѕ.
ι нαve тo тυrɴ мy нeαd υɴтιl мy dαrĸɴeѕѕ ɢoeѕ.
ᶜᴸᴵᶜᴷ ᵀᴴᴱ ᴿᴼˁᴱ ᵀᴼ ᴳᴼ ᵀᴼ ᴹʸ ᵂᴿᴵᵀᴵᴺᴳ ᵀᴴᴿᴱᴬᴰˑ
"Hey, hurry and come pick me up.
I have many different dolls ready for you, I do! Let's play with them shall we?
We'll talk until we get sleepy and.. And... Okay?
So please...my beloved."
♥
by Gloxinia » Sun Mar 10, 2013 7:18 am
Suddenly a shot rang out, shattering the silence. Maybel leaped in surprise, her honey eyes growing wide with fright. She bolted from her bed and landed on her clawed feet, scuttling chaotically to the door. Her padded palms were sweaty around the brass of the knob, muscles turning it and she threw the door back, nearly tearing it off its hinges.
Her furred chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm, eyes darting around the inky darkness. She blinked a few times, green tongue snaking out to nervously moisten her suddenly dry lips. Oh, what was a monster to do? It wasn't so often she heard a violent noise such as that in the middle of the night. It didn't help that as she sprang out of bed, her other head had noticed and was now transmitting the memory to her own brain that her brother, Sonny, had his bedroom door wide open. He hadn't been occupying the large bed that was known as his, apparently.
The two-headed monster groaned. She slunk herself back into the house and to the kitchen, where she desperately through one of the cabinets open and stuck her paw inside. She rifled around, feeling for the familiar cold of the copper lantern that she kept in the back. Just as she suspected, it was missing.
"For the love of Drimacry!" she cried out furiously, slamming the cabinets shut with a huff. Her other head, whom she had given the nickname "Dorthy" to, slowly turned itself to give Maybel an inquisitive stare. Her hollow eyes blinked slowly, furry and pink eyebrow lifting itself to turn that inquisitive stare into a judgmental one. Maybel ignored the burning gaze as she stomped out of the house, slamming the wooden door behind her.
Her darned brother was probably out making a ruckus again, she just knew it.
by Gloxinia » Sat Mar 23, 2013 10:30 am
Ode to Her wrote:An Ode to Her
I remember a lazy morning
When I awoke to the spilling of light.
An arm around my waist,
And fingers running over auburn locks.
Your touch was gentle,
Light, delicate, loving.
Your lips were pressed to my hair,
They turned up when I had roused awake.
You lifted your head and you spoke softly:
“Good morning.”
It was then, I realized,
That there was no other place,
That I would rather be,
In that single
precious, beautiful, perfect moment.
-C. J.
by Gloxinia » Sat Mar 23, 2013 10:32 am
by nutella ♥ » Sat Mar 23, 2013 11:12 am
by Gloxinia » Sun Mar 24, 2013 10:43 am
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