And there upon was his name spoken of once more, verbally so that the world may undergo the vibrancy of that tune which was uttered under the most perfect precision when by the lips of his beloved. It resounded as diligently as the frenzied pace of heartbeats, and though words faded into silence, still could he hear his name being called upon through unspoken words. “Call you upon me?” The fallen one asked, though lips never separated from the flesh where he dusted love upon. He did, however, slip down by a few inches, so as to claim a new spot in fevered flesh and taste the sweetness only he would know of. In doing so, yes, his royal behind would scoot further into those fingers which cradled it. It was all in love, and Kamijo loved this man far beyond all else.

“’Tis not mine voice you hear..,” such breathless lungs herald the conference he here ostends in whispers and amends, and ‘twas hereafter but the heart which spoke in distraught drums to its receiver lionized and stout above; ‘as nevermore need I another breath to take, when here thine lips convey ‘pon me of routes and roads the thoroughfare of all mine words…’ How beautifully shaken, weak — and tender was the irate expression of his cordial grace imbrued ‘pon his flaunting cheeks, and ‘twas an amber fire light’ning in his eyes this time around when strapping so these proud and boastful roundings of his angel’s rear pushed hither of his cardinal hold, and cordially, courageously, each hand found wayward trails within of leather’s clasp, to mold and bend such fair-skinned flesh within his grasp.

Muns, reblog this with YOUR face claim

Jardin d’Éden — Mon amour.


Where was one adamant formula of a thought and where would another begin to rise through temples of unconscious aptitude? The angel would stir ever so at ease within the coddling barracks of his inner mind, unaware of how physically he was stretched out upon the same dark sheets that he so naturally shared with another on what was now a regular basis. This bliss of being left to unaware slumber, it was the blessing of knowing he was well loved and with a warmth here that no where else could he gain. Each shallow inhale and exhale of life that emitted from his healthy organs meant life was vibrant within his gallant figure.

There was a light, however, and it beamed so innocently with charm and gentle hue. It rimmed upon the foundations of where the eyes were drawn to a close, as if this comforting glow was of his kin, rousing him to the new day with eyes wide open so as to take in what splendors the world had gained in the course of the night past. Still, though gentle was the light, the fallen beauty winced in efforts against. Subconsciously, of course, for his mind still lingered in the realms of slumber’s wake. Unwilling was he to greet the light with his gently tousled head of bedridden curls or shimmering aqua eyes. Aqua being the color that often presided when he first rose each morning. Not yet, no, he was not willing to greet the day just yet. But even so, it was not the sun smiling down upon him that further jostled the forever magnificent creature from his imaginary purple fields and golden plains, but the gentle breeze that passed over ringlets of healthy hair. Moments passed, long ones or short ones could not be discerned by his measure, in which Kamijo passed through one hazy fog to the next, until he was clear of imagery and completely at full awareness behind closed eyes. ‘The time to greet a new day…’ was first upon his mind, and when he blindly lifted an arm to scoop ‘round his beloved at his side, it fell upon satin smoothness; denoting an empty space.

Empty. That was an oddity that brought the lion’s eyes to open wide, an image that would have stunned any onlooker had they seen the sudden flash of vivid blue. Glancing to his side, indeed he confirmed to see that touch was not a failing sense. He had been left alone upon the sleeping space. Agile as he was, he spotted a trail… and a candle-lit governess?

O, darling lamb! — how he must fear, how he must fret such sepulchral stretch of emptiness lain ‘pon the stark and jilted, somber sheath here ‘neath his frame, this acreage here now bidding void of redden beatitude and fame to encompass in his near. ‘Slumb’ring sweet — how is it so thine wakeful mind comes naught of where mine figure lays enshrined..,’ – unending, here his restless legs did sway ‘pon mid-currents of air; and ‘way of their suave surface did nonesuch darlings of courteous and complaisant clarions of aqueous pearls here slide — ‘pon heartfelt, impassioned skin, ‘pon sodden, sincere flesh he watched of rainfall’s morning dew to rise and shine, where here ‘mong flick’ring light they’d dwell to reign, enkindle him of fiery flame. A sigh. Soused, capacious fingers finding fitful menace ‘mid his roseate head of disarray; ‘twas still his breast a’light, his lungs hereafter pumping essence t’ward his heart a’fright — O, endearing, fevered force, what organ pushed its zest like such, what wounded, sanguine coercion of this stimulus did so wildly beat like such? ‘Mine luminous light, mine morning star — ‘tis mine heart frivolent here and on the rise, how is it still thee dwelleth so dismally far… ‘

‘Twas him; ‘twas him he left ‘pon dreams, ‘mid cosmos’ constellations and ‘mid its ceaseless space construed in time. Kamijo — as was distance still a draft ‘tween both their bodies — had ‘wakened, ‘twas but a perk beyond his heart’s median rhyme making him believe so; and ‘twas he tingled, and ‘twas of how this all-consuming light now dawned ‘pon him and pulled him nigh of closer callings to his love. His love was light, his love was love. And his being exhausted him of all, depleted him of love for life — life being but a pocket-sized, and miniscule attainment ticking ‘way in the seraph’s shadow.

Drenched, thickened, monumental thighs exerted their effort from ‘mid of petal-topped bath-water. His glistening, fustian figure stately mounted ‘pon aerial range within its famed ascend from Eden’s flowered tube, and ‘twas his endless whisper breaking silence; “Kamijou..,” a murmuring concealed ‘mid the glitt’ring of candles’ tinsel gleam, and he was a vision — he was an awaiting crimson enigma, an exposure of presaging, porcelain flesh aflame for but one light to singe him.

Jardin d’Éden — Mon amour.

What luminous light came to life ‘pon dawn’s ascending mount ‘pon congruous horizons — what light was consistent of this life, given of his genesis a commencement of splendor and of sheen – ‘twas he who passed ‘cross the lucent sun, ‘roused ‘pon its circumscriptions the lambent glow here glittering as a semblance given to this chosen one; he was born from his golden basins, he had bathed within the sacrosanct, spiritual of holy waters and had washed each of all the graphic roses tinctured of a colour red in eternities of his home-garden.

What light — his light — now here laid ‘pon the lenient, starless masses conforming of their solacing sheets;  a beauty ‘pon black, and gossamer was the projection of his astral brilliance so translucent to his unharmed skin, so luster ‘mid an all-consuming nightfall, so coeval ‘mid a co-existence ‘tween his copious shine and his clandestine ache t’ward twilight. Kisaki raised ‘pon one of two fair thighs austere his fingers weak — what recognition, what heartening performance the muscles did wonder him with when ‘twas these yearned such kindling touch, when ‘twas these ‘roused here ‘neath his hand so much. ‘O, angel dear, how is ‘t thine physique so sinful sweet must conquer me in means of heat?’ No, let him sleep, this precious child; few more minutes and then ‘twas soon he smiled. And here the jovial sigh he’d drafted ‘pon his flushed lips did pass ‘cross of glimm’ring curls — these shook, transiently, waving him t’ward the candle-lit passage built ‘pon a path of scattered, rosette petals. Today, Kamijo’d bathe and baptize in his sacred spa — today, he’d follow him ‘pon his careening trail; where measurements in curvaceous so his birthing waist here’d sway and pendulate, here’d weave and fluctuate ‘pon sounds of serum’s spray.

He’d follow him — convey ‘pon routes where now his shambled robe may lay, conduct on this aisle, this scintilla of fulgent flambeaus and flower-fields reigning way t’ward their steam-room where guilelessly he’d wait, submerged ‘mid of Eden’s bath-waters and its rose-tinted crystal clears.


Oh, but how well the ear could perceive! The softest sound which mankind knew very well of ways to place inside soundproof dimensions, to this golden glory, was the most notable of audible noises which surrounded them in their quarters. And oh how it tumbled down a trail to rise in pace. How full of his egoist musk might the deity be, how full of love. Hands, he noted, had fled down to where his hips were constructed and the angel had only to pressed in closer. Gently conducting the spot of where his lips were engaged a pinpoint of his intimacy; all the vessels would swell upward with the color red. He maneuvered slowly, with all the love brought upon by his tender care, doing nothing for the golden tresses which curtained his features and draped beautifully across his beloved.

Kamijou..,” such a beseeming, heartfelt manipulation these lips impress ‘pon the sweet-scented skin — such delightful and decorous red did rise ‘pon swelling vessels, such mannerly and refined crimson blood did ‘rouse ‘pon the very surface of his flesh! O, how close was he, and how much closer wished he, he were; how stout these fibrous hips did manoeuvre ‘neath his mellowing, assuaging hands, how firm the curvation of this flexing arse pressed ‘tween the sweltering confines of darkened leather did feel within this cradling assemblage of his flound’ring fingers — and how worrying the heat arise ‘round the center of his bosom here embraced in golden sheen. What creature this was, what beautiful evil, and what unruly spirit did rise these flames within!  

☠ Covered in black


At the breath of words to be released from his plump tiers; the rivers of depth they run as she flinches from his slightly maneuver to turn, to face her. So unsure she is of his mannerisms and how she should accept them. His kindness was wholesome, wholeheartedly, and she meant no disrespect to him— the one whom tried to make her feel more worthy and less alone. The halting gesture of her hand raises so swiftly; a palm to rest upon his covered chest and the sensation of vertigo fulfills her with the small forward fall it takes to rest one full cheek upon the center of his breast. “True words, Tadashi…”

Gospel words befall ‘pon mine capricious lips — and ‘pon them I taste now thine dire devoir for truth; yet is what I speak guileless in this world? Is it — authentic to this earth mine soporose feet may here embed?”, what slumberous, conjectural uncertainness raised ‘pon the zephyrs secreted from ‘tween oriel of his impaired, floral mouth; so that it smoothed ‘pon her glossy, webbing hair, so that it brushed ‘pon her sinuous and upturned cheek a wave concealed in misgiving inconclusiveness, his concern, so that each heartbeat cached ‘tween his rural cave did throb ‘pon her listening ear in time of finger-strokes ‘pon her back. “An unlikeliness may never speak of truths…”


How subtle such twitches to his father’s frail fingers were that he noticed and engaged with them by occupying his glance to stare upon their movements. He was so graceful and his steps were silent and angelic as if he were now walking upon the stillness of water smoothed over like glass on the calm of a sunny day. Regardless to his father’s mood everything was still peaceful and in his father’s presence the world was quieter and dull, bright with tranquility whilst without him— his world was this barbaric chaos instilling fright and death. It was a good vacation in other words.╚ You move sheepishly— quietly, father. You wish to proceed with something? ╗ He was indeed the reckless one, but there were others just as reckless.

                         ╚ Consider this a vacation from my intolerance…╗

What comeliness of arborescence did he bring — Belial; ‘twas of where his classic uniform of ramous finish, of arbor vitae shrouded ‘mid the imbalance ‘tween his divers wings, took sheen within an ochroid lapse of reconnaissance in his eye. He, the second son, ‘twas he bestirring semblances of fraud-and-guiled deception of perfection ‘mid the primrose center of perception. ‘Belial! These wan and leucous pennons I still see, ‘twas never of thine comedown which decayed thee!’ — “Mine wish to proceed..,” how dared he so converge to hither ares, come nearer so to one of his impending stars! Teetering, his panic-stricken fingers outstretched ‘pon foreign fields, — foreign, yet ‘twas so were terraces of this square chest still stamped ‘pon his memory, were so familiar to his feeble touch — their poor impression weightless to this one.

                           “You remain a charlatan, still.”

Kisaki ξ […] — Passacaglia & Fugue.

    — J.S. Bach - Passacaglia and Fugue, in C minor BWV 582 —

her brass in yellow gold; saffron-sense saturation but sumptuous, sensational this splendid statuesque stateliness now stood — her keenness contiguous sunken beneath smoothness were each quintet’s squad-segment aware; her heat » O, but lest she smouldered to his fingers, her heat arise of copper-gilding gingerbreads of fandangle-sizing embellishments, of fleurs-de-lis on every key — yet here she laid in her dormancy still, as such did he, when spurs in limbs graceful in proportion saw her surface; Kisaki found her in his eroticism indiscernible, surreptitiously and screened when sequestered hidden beneath the shallow bloodlessness – that of spread a tale of snow-white, unsubstantial winter’s flakes unto him. Minacious fingers had clutched on to her there; of her mellow aurulent and caramel carcass, her curve cut out of timbers told.

He’d breathe upon her easy… follicles, his hair dithering, these were the shivering isles ‘pon which he staggered; palter would he furnished of his flesh abraded – bare, dishabille of habiliments but sparse his caparisons were; in form his velveteen gown seldom seen in sufficient days. Loose of the shoulders, threadbare and barren the rendezvous between a man and his machine proceeded but in guileful quiescence. He’d draw her in, digest her, fathom in to dearth the lungs of desiccation her concupiscent, erogenous salaciousness and swallow here her sudden nectar. Exile, but one threatened insinuate and chime through the cathedral’s halls, in their contemptible thoughts inharmonious to her concern; she exists of correspondence of his granting antithesis; symmetry she followed in arborescent sighs and ultimates of many of his forms. He was versed in her cogitating meditation, he knew of her obstinate and perennial love for him. It was of this, ‘I remember the little things you’ve done for me,’ when she sang for him in inflexible affairs the symphonies she was made love to with – the Renaissance she saw, Romanticism had she sighed… and here the Baroque in classic catastrophes was in woe and wretchedness etched on to her carcass, and effulgent of her reflection in her colossal pipes sat he; the scarlet show of sumptuousness, an incarnation of the one, he whom garnished now her sweet tempting tantalization in aphrodisiac, impassioned amour. 


Such a heartfelt downpour of words; and not just mere words but true emotions filling the depth of each letter. They tugged further upon heartstrings that already played a lovely tune for his beloved other half, and forced out as much of the angel’s innermost adoring vibrations as would ever he could. This was his salvation and his breath of fresh air, and to love was a joy thought lost. “I know, my Tadashi, I know…” The radiant creature who basked in the color gold, he forced his lips gently upon the pair that spoke, softly imbedding his understanding upon each petal for a good while before giving his kiss unseen wings on a flight of devotion. Down, they soared, to graze upon the chin, and then the prominent angle where neck met the bone just below the ear.

What discernment and percipience in their fraternal brothership conveyed en route ‘pon the impressment of their swell, and decent lips — merrily emulous were these twinklings of time ticking ‘way ‘mid of their concurring kiss, and covetous was his craving to endure in perseverance of their woven units of flushed, florid flesh ‘rousing his vagrant palms ‘pon a straying byway t’ward his lover’s hips. How compelling, how captivating this momentous morsel caught in an instance of lastingness, in space! — ah, what blessing… what grace of consecration did these rosette leaflets leave ‘pon his vanilla-imbued skin, what impassioned course of conduit did these steaming, inscribing kisses follow and ‘wake what furious charges of fiery heart-throbs ‘neath his breast, upheaving t’ward Kamijo’s chest.

Sorpresa « Il Mio Amore


There had been little doubt of what the rise of love would ascertain, as for certain the golden beauty born in lands far evanescent of the one they stood on together in present day could give accession to the red of love. It gleamed as though awakening the very distant horizon of blue skies and green foliage. All was a backdrop to what was central to his very own gaze in this moment as had always it been in times long past. This was natural, all of it. The caress of the northern wind against the cheeks, the trickle of restless waters as they flowed onward toward their heart within forested paradise. The very way in which two hands would interlink fingers and connect two souls in the most simple of physical ways. The grasp was gentle, neither clutching too tightly nor needing the support of the other so as to not fall away. They were on equal terms in this state called love.

“Shall we?” The words were but a vague intonation of what resonated deeper within the soul, it’s ability to communicate with the other half making itself useful to deliver the more well-formed meaning, ‘May I indulge you in this dance beneath the skies we live?’ A second hand, both having been astonishingly free of silken confines on this day, found its way without guidance onto the curve of the deity’s waist.

Their dance ought be to see of reins in solemn muteness — none the remonstrances or clamours given rise to through the medium of bestridden lands and depths did serve an overt orchestra or symphony to the fashion of movement in their spring, enfranchised feet; ‘twas of preeminent, and paramount a private-played performance conjoined of frantic heart-beats and endless and short-winded whispers fled of lips predestined as each other’s nemesis — a concentus of the compendium of abstractness exhausted in the language of their love. And he’d fit within the confines of that temperate, clement hand — he’d shape his formless figure to these fit and robust fingers as were he ichorous a sorbile form; of water and weather laid he ‘pon his life-long, lasting lover. Of extracts and elements did he curl his balled fist ‘pon the balancing shoulder serving him stability in life; and would he sigh of complacency and his fine feats and finishes of fulfilment, when a’press his seraph’s golden cheek his canny and insightful nose would lay. So soft, was he. So soft by heart and soul, so soft by skin and joy.

The earth; ‘twas now their dance-floor marrying the bracing, green grass to each a space ‘tween their tweaked toes — each burgeoning, verdigris petiole a parable of words coming in poundages from their faint hearts, its gravitation but yet another cause of mass and denseness revolving ‘round the pressure of their sunken cavities of breast-works, to yield to one another.

          ‘As for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch
         for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and
            land on barbarous coasts. But even so, amid the
           tornadoed Atlantic of my being, do I myself still
           forever centrally disport in mute calm; and while
          ponderous planets of unwaning woe revolve ‘round me,
           deep down and deep inland there I still bathe me
                      in eternal mildness of joy.’


   ”An ocean resides within his being — restless, transient where his wandering vagabond-soul finds not a whisk of interludes, composed of the quintessence of the sea. There lie the billow-deep and crevasse-carved nihilities of void within his heart that even I — oft dare not so pass within; for evermore his depths inhere his longing for an endless frame of freedom, whereof his resolve was killed by the arrow winged with his own feather, so were mine undoing palms wounded by mine own skill.

    An ocean resides within his being — wherein I swim ‘midway until ‘tis lost that I become; the storms that wane ‘pon surfaces so glitter in splendid the reflection of that which binds me oft to him (that of where shall his golden hair so tie mine ankles to this vastness’ bottom-grounds, that of where I shall nevermore of leave, or think of mine departure) — wherein do I enmesh mine solvent, fluidic fingers; and he enters ‘pon mine being, he consumes mine frailty and foil and kisses mine savourous skin through waves that durably ingest mine heart here christened precious to his dearest soul. His maelstroms – undercurrents ‘roused through vivid beatings of his surmount, endeared clock of ceaseless time – pull me ‘way and nether of the shallow life ‘pon earth mine eyes no longer wish to see. His liquid love pours within mine breathless lungs, yet do I gasp strenuously to ‘come engrossed of his blue brilliance, yet do I yearn the stifling sentiment that pulls ‘pon mine emotion, and devotion.

          An ocean resides within his being — and I am his estranged, and barren sailor;
             I sail ‘pon the zephyrs brazen through his salt-like breaths,
               lick each fallen crystal off his skin.

   I am the unshared, the unblended non-being of phantasmal and nonpareil of pictures; I am the siren guarding his embankments and his waterfronts. I am the God, creating thunder ‘bove his wildest dreams — and empathy; the loneliness he cradles, when I exchange mine merriment of the horizon’s sun, above the solace of the moon, a mirror coasted ‘pon his soundless waves, an ambient encompassment of wakeful whiteness, to his gloom.”

« « « Eternità


“The real lover is the man who can thrill you by kissing your forehead or smiling into your eyes or just staring into space.”

This is but a quote from some off-skelter author of mortal ideals, and yet, this one statement struck home with the very image of you. You in folds of rich crimson robes, pale skin graciously thrust from the materials into visible sight. You who dons the crown of scarlet locks, bathing everything you gaze upon in your molten sight. You, who at times can seem so distant in a world of flighty visuals, yet return to me within the span of mere seconds once I call out with the syllables of your name.


Truly, how accurate is this statement that I stumbled upon? For my lover is the one with whom my chest may swell into sizes unheard of through natural perception, all because a glance was sent upon my other-worldly figure. When you catch me in your embrace, as thin as each of your structural bones may seem, I harken to bleat that little lamb tune as result. I appropriate my imploding poor heart with a gentleness the world may never know of me otherwise. A kiss to the forehead by lips so consumingly plush as only yours can be, and I feel that thrill spoken of. I feel the rise of inward tides crashing through the soul you breathed life into, and like this, I know you often see such manic tides of love within the deep blue of my own eyes.

Perhaps it is that I feel such thrill because you hold me higher than any other, loved beyond all else. Father, brother, friend, lover… You are all titles to me, and I love each one. How beyond the realm of fortune have I climbed, to have such perfection by my side always in mutual love? Perfection of the red ruler, astride for an eternity by the side of an aristocratic golden prince. We make an incomparable pair, I believe.

Always, always, will my love for you last. Eternità

Well, I do not quite know whom you think it was who wrote that, but those are words I've always wished to say to you from the very beginning. Sincerely, nasarxiel. I still refer to you as "The Love of My Writing Life". You are valuable.

You were my first thought after I were the one to search for you, too. To this day, I still wish I could have learnt more from you. I still wish I experienced more with you. And I still wish, I could have discovered more of our coexisting worlds together, with you. I still await your grand return, my gaze lost on the heralding horizon which shall bring you within one of my days again. Sincerely, the Love of your Writing Life. ♡

While we're on this topic of the loosely defined purple prose, I'd just like to say: I absolutely love the way you write signumdeivivi. When I made my account originally, my sole desire was to write with you, and I got the chance to do so—thank you. You will always be the greatest writer I have ever came across. I barely spoke with you before I left and I did drop our thread because I was so busy, but even now I speak of you fondly as though you know me. For me, you are truly the finest. ♡
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