Angeal lay down on his couch, tired and sore after his training. He grumbled as he realised how hungry he was, and how much he couldn’t be bothered to get off the couch. What he wouldn’t give for some Banoran Stew and Dumbapple Pie.

That moment when you read over your old writing and you’re like…

bemyowncanary:

rhea-nyx-michaels:

Send me some of the following:

• Magic Anons
• Creepy Anons
• Cute Anons
• Curious Anons
• Sexual Anons
• Inbox Smut
• Inbox RP
• General Weirdness
• General Asks
• Role-play Starters
• Money
• Food

thievesandswords:

Name a fandom you know I know and I’ll tell you

meowgon:

revolutionator:

1. The first character I first fell in love with
2. The character I never expected to love as much as I do now
3. The character everyone else loves that I don’t
4. The character I love that everyone else hates
5. The character I used to love but don’t any longer
6. The character I would totally smooch
7. The character I’d want to be like
8. The character I’d slap
9. A pairing that I love
10. A pairing that I despise

I WANT TO DO THE THING

mymindinaclusterfuck:

OH MY GOD IT ACTUALLY PREPARED ITSELF AND TRIED AND EVERYTHING OH MY GODS.

[wdfghjkl]

dayna-quartz:

hallucinatingsessions:

I saw this and my immediate reaction was, “Angeal in real life?!?”

Sadly, I have no clue who this is. x.X

…I’d so tap that…

He certainly is heavenly. 

[ A much younger Angeal maybe! ]

(Source: syntheticcatharsis)

“She embarrasses herself enough for the both of us.”

Ask the Character about their Roleplayer

do it. he hates me.

(Source: theblinddovahkiin)

Genesis.

(Source: workaholicsjunkie)

“Please leave me alone. Did Genesis put you up to this?”

“Who are you, and no. I’ve had my fill of overbearing students to last two lifetimes.”

Reblog if you’re bored and want random anons.

(Source: coffeelaced-intoxicating)

Angeal & Sephiroth || Forbidden. Closed RP.

ablackwing:

keeperofhonor:

Small, warm gusts of wind moved the dark man’s hair as his piercing, blue eyes ghosted over the scenery of the catastrophe-struck city beyond. He focused on nothing in particular, yet couldn’t help taking in everything around him with a resound sense of sadness. Midgar, the city that once held so much promise, so much opportunity for himself, and young, country-born lads like himself. Now reduced to nothing more than a desolate, barren waste.

His memory was blurred and the things he remembered solidly suddenly seemed like they could have been a dream. As though he’d been out on a wild night of drinking alcohol, and just woken up, still half-drunk from it. He knew he was dead, he knew Zack was dead, and ShinRa had fallen. But as for Genesis and Sephiroth…

He knew he didn’t belong here; his time had passed on this plain, and so, felt he had no right to judge what he himself had played a part in causing here. Regardless he felt anger and sorrow twist in his gut like a pair of broken springs, impossible to untangle, impossible to distinguish one from the other. As he allowed his solemn gaze to finally rest on the rusted, old sword in front of him, punctured into the earth as though even now he still caused this planet pain, he sighed, like a weary, old lion after an unsuccessful day of hunting in the sun. How fitting, he thought, his lip curling, that the very symbol of his honour and dreams would be left to rust, dirty, and remain forgotten in a cliff far away from any living soul.

Just what did The Goddess want from him? He knew he owed this Planet plenty, but what could a sorry, broken creature like himself do now, he asked himself.

Slowly, he wrapped a gloved hand around the massive sword’s hilt. His strength would have allowed him to tear it from the ground in one smooth motion, but his heart was so heavy in his chest, it made his will, and so his hand, weak and useless. The sword was everything that his life had been, everything that he had lost. Everyone that he had lost. Given up. The thought snapped his final thread of hope, and he sunk like a creaking, great oak, to his knees. His hands still wrapped around the red hilt.

He heard footsteps behind him, and he was almost interested for a moment, but as quickly as it had come, the care died.

Late were the times when Sephiroth traversed the streets of the once-teeming metropolis, the hours of the night when those awake wouldn’t notice the tall silver-haired man as the night life moved around them. But tonight, he had come to them later than usual — the times when those who rarely ever contributed to society in an altruistic fashion were awake. That didn’t matter to Sephiroth for, given the dank gloom of the nearly dead city, the glow of his eyes flensed the air and made it clear that he was a SOLDIER; only those suicidal or high off of whatever street drugs were being run today messed with a SOLDIER, especially one with such bright eyes.

Most SOLDIERs were lacking in as much Mako concentration as Sephiroth had, leaving the glow of their eyes visible only if one got close to them. For Sephiroth, the exotic flare of energy remained wholly bright and untainted by any outside interference, the luminous lighting only muting itself whenever he blinked — and that was rare enough to be worthy of comment. But it was through the old roads he traveled, unmolested and unassaulted. Those  few whom saw him considered, weighed the weapons in their hands and then slunk off elsewhere. Something about the silver-haired man was unsettling to say the least — and for those whom remained in the necropolis that was Midgar, those whom relied on instincts and survival skills to live to see another day, they knew that fighting this man would be a quick death sentence.

Of course, his time in Midga only was brief. Tonight, he needed to visit a friend - two of them to be precise and from his back unfolded a massive appendage sheathed in black pinions, the overlay of feathers distinctly avian in styilng. Though the three of them had no wings that quite looked like those of birds, his was the closest of the three that did look in such a fashion. It flexed twice, the sallow glow of those few streetlamps that were guttering out with a dank coloration causing iridescent sheens of dark rainbows to chase one another over the surface of the feaathers before Sephiroth was rising into the air.

Chill wind nipped at the exposed flesh on the man’s face and chest, pinching it with the cold but the heat that came with the burning of his metabolism ensured that it would cause the one-time General no great discomfort. True, the folds of that thick jacket could have been buttoned up, but there was little point to it as far as the man was concerned, given his trip would not take him long to conduct. His legs shifted absently as they extended outwards, serving for the brute’s rudder as the madman winged his way towards cliffs that rested to the south of Midgar. It was these cliffs he visited weekly, speaking not at all but simply.. sitting there where the sword rested, a stark stale reminder of his loss. Perhaps it was masochistic to perform such a ritualistic visit, but Sephiroth had long ago lost the capability to care if it was detrimental to his health.

Of course, fate had been a fickle bitch for years — and today, it seemed as if she would laugh at him once again. The closer he came, the more Sephiroth saw someone there at the grave and anger flared in his chest. He dove downwards as soon as he was able, wing tucking in close against his flesh and the man landed a distance away from the stranger, taking a moment to observe. A man, it looked, dark-haired and- .. No. It couldn’t be. The posture, though— And so it was with that in mind, Sephiroth lurched forward, booted feet grating across the loose dust on the stone that retained residual heat from the sun, scant though it was now. But he reached out to grip and yank the man around, fingers securing a shoulder to rip the other away from the sword. And as he turned about with a snarl, Sephiroth found himself coming up short.

It felt as though he’d been kicked in the chest by an angry chocobo to be honest, the air from his lungs blasting out and he inhaled slowly, eyes widened as he flexed his fingers to stare at the form sprawled on his ass. It couldn’t be. It was a dream. A hallucination. It coudn’t— But that face. But he kept himself between the sword and the apparition, the shock quickly fading to a cold anger that was fixated upon the other man without hesitation, menace curling Sephiroth’s lips away from his teeth. If this was a trick, then it was a spiteful one, be it of his own mind or of the Planet’s design. And if this was Angeal— then there were words that needed to be exchanged. Wrath building, the air quickly developed a static charge around the silver-haired man as he glared balefully at the brunette, awaiting whatever the other had to say.

Angeal awarded himself a long moment of misery, clutching his sword on bended knee. He was aware that there was someone behind him, a woman, he first considered, given how light they were on their feet, and how easily they had sneaked up on him. He knew there was someone watching him, and yet, the weariness of him held him still. He was on Zack’s grave, and the boy was owed Angeal’s reverence for however long he could give it.

He craved to wallow in his grief for a time longer, he wasn’t prepared to deal with the people of Gaia yet, or to answer their questions. He didn’t know anything himself; no why, when, what or how. He was wrought with confusion and memories that seemed half like dreams, and more than a little like nightmares. What kind of creature, what kind of monster was he now, and what had he been sent to wreck and judge upon by The Goddess? Slowly developing in his soul, there was a wrenching, almost pregnant feeling of a task, a mission greater than himself, for him to fulfill.

No. Angeal had no answers for anyone, least of all for himself.

It wasn’t until he felt the palpable change in the air that he opened his heavy eyes. It was an anger, and a blackness that he breathed in; it settled, sickly and thick inside him. With one movement, too quick for the naked eye to see, he had wrenched his rusted, old sword from Zack’s grave and had it pointed in one long line between him and -

The one winged devil. The madman of SOLDIER. He still held the shape of his – of Sephiroth, as Angeal had known him as a young man. Not one line, or wrinkle, still aesthetically perfect in every eerie, ethereal way. But Angeal knew that this was a demented, agonised creature now, a monster as much as Angeal was and he felt nothing but sadness and pity to look upon it.  

irinikiss:

Angeal 2012 by ~InSant

[Mmm peeling my sunburn off like wallpaper]