atorobo

[atorobo]

Caught him sick lonely, turned him into a grave marker, an inverted cross, a stone-walled corpse parade; forget the fucking hearses. I can feel their anger. I can see the dead. I am the trumpet. I am their revenge.

[atorobo]

Hello? Hello? Hello?

[atorobo]

Senpai!! Took me quick by surprise like that--you’ve got thick shoes and quiet footsteps. Have you considered high heels? Written off as songs I know all the words to instantly. Anyways, its not every day that your darling rehabilitation ceremony gets to deliver the sermons. Hot-switching me quick, isn’t it? Senpai?

Reporting. Sadahiko Anzu, reporting. This is a test of the Foundation emergency broadcast system. Please remain calm while we–idiot. Talking too fast like a fucking machine. Round two, round two; let me adjust my tie and talk again.

Reporting. Sadahiko Anzu, reporting.

[atorobo]

Send 💓 to know one way to make my muse’s heart flutter

[atorobo]

fun sadahiko anzu updates that are less than fun:

1. hes back and better than ever, outfitted w a metal arm like a goddamn weeb

2. the future foundation took him in as a rehabilitation project believing he was a member of Despair due to his graduation and he now works as a field agent alongside Aimi Wakameka and has murdered Many People He Shouldn’t Have

3. heavily inspired by the Dangan Ronpa Gaiden Killer Killer manga and Hijihara especially. gotta love those killin’ boys

4. he is a stepford smiler--he has seemingly ‘moved on’ from his past stilted speak and rejoined the building of society, but there’s literally nothing behind his kind exterior. : ) isn’t that nice. here are some other awful things he is

5. obv planning somethin shitty

[atorobo]

HE WHO LAUGHS LAST DIES FIRST.

                    ( let’s face it. no one likes someone without a                               sense of humor!!! might as well get rid of them,

                                           r i g h t ? )

[atorobo]

Reporting. Sadahiko Anzu, reporting. This is a test of the Foundation emergency broadcast system. Please remain calm while we--idiot. Talking too fast like a fucking machine. Round two, round two; let me adjust my tie and talk again.

Reporting. Sadahiko Anzu, reporting.

[atorobo]

Give me, like, 20 minutes while I completely reinvent myself.

[atorobo]

he breathes stagnant, pungent reeking ache clouding the streets with poison. ichor seethes loudly through the cracks in chipping teeth. it roils blood to the point where the pinpricks poking through skin are miasma; ready to infect and bite worse than the bark. legs drag. he haunts his old spots like an oil stain where a painting once laid. he moves like a fucking painting; rigid in some spots, fluid in others, and altogether far past his prime. an ancient relic.

a bloody stump oozes sick half-jokes and iron shavings poking out through the flesh. its almost comical, the way there’s just a bit missing out of him. chunks of flesh are just chunks of flesh and can easily be removed from their host, given a will and a way. morbidity rolls through a sick mind; fog on the mountain, fog in the heart. he chooses a house. he sits.

[atorobo]

fcngs asked: I got one question fer ya, buddy. fcngs asked: WHERE'D IT GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO?????

“ Dropped it. Dead weight is dead weight is dead weight. It’s knife to be rid of it. Any guesses as to why it snapped off? C’mon, take your aim! Two dollars a pop for every bit-pastel thought you’ve got. Much cheaper than pennies. “

[atorobo]

         “ Complex,             Twisted, yet so             Beautiful. “

                                 —ind dr oc ; selective & private

[atorobo]

[ a thick pause. permeating air, permeating flesh. fresh blood in the consort’s eyes--this isn’t a farce, as far as can be told. lanky clumsy arms move, hesitant; and they lock the door. cookie-cutter cocksucker. who would have fucking known? blood roils, and it’s the top of the ninth! ]

                 So it’s you. Who put you up to it? Or was it you all along?

☾◯☽➸ Anzu-san’s so cute when he stutters! Lock the door, please! And let’s talk! Sorry about the lack of chairs thing. I only have the spinny one, and that’s for me, so you can sit on the floor!

[atorobo]

Love her whole, Her pretty petals, Her thorny thorns.

hasherbadar (via wordsnquotes)

[atorobo]

               I can’t be read like a book. You think you know the passage and it changes when you blink. I see me; coated red paint, sure, but all I see is me. That’s the worst part. Gore is easy. The soft pull of intestines sliding through your hands, their eyes crown-adorned, but just you? If you ever ask yourself why my mind’s speckled with forget-me-nots, then that’s why.

              I see me. I see them in me. I want them out. Pocketknives to my ears to pull out their whimpers and moans and fingernails to eye sockets. Blisters on the bottom of my feet; blue miasma, and the void’s coming in with the signal of the moon. I’m looking for a way to kill myself or a good fuck. Either one, really.

` █ ▌█ ▌✿ I suppose so, a-all teeth and titanium a-and toil when you stare at yourself baptised in the b-blood of the lamb. You see your soul ripped f-from your stomach writhing and wailing on the soles of your soiled sneakers and you strangle it until the spasming stops. There’s nothing to do but bleed through and out these days, ennui seeping out from your entrails. 

I-I suppose that’s sensible enough–you view victims on the surface where your visage should be shimmering in the sunlit pools. That happens…to me too–you fumble over them like a thimble too large for your thumb. You see s-suicide notes scrawled in the stars, too. 

[atorobo]

[ he plays the sick, inward game and watches the tilt of white underneath her swirling skirt. what a nice mental image. his perfect japanese schoolgirl joined the suicide club and he’s following her off the building. long strides catch up. he takes a handful of hair, just for appearances, and tugs sharply. ]

                   Tell me where we’re going first. It can’t be outside the Reserve Course wing, you got that? This is where we stay. This is where we always stay.

[; She emits one long, low buzz and signals for him to follow. A terse turn, and she’s off, bobbling down the hallways.

[atorobo]

               We’ve all got our traitors burned into our skin; crosses inverted, nails in palms, and the like. Who doesn’t? Guess that’s the trait we share, but who’s the protagonist? Who’s the antagonist? Gosh, I’ve got stage fright and I’m forgetting my lines! The devil’s got nothing on the buttons these lips have pressed. Lines in pink skin, in blood red ink, in memorium and out--sometimes I relish those halcyon times, because it meant a storm was coming. What would you give to bring someone back?

                The only ones interesting are the broken or the half-heeled heading for a quick death and a late grave. Means we share blood--another similarity. Mom and Dad would be so proud of us. 

                 All chains submerged. Nothing’s holding me down; sick religion be damned. Crematoriums are my home and the home of my enemies and we drink together over Monopoly. I’m reeking rouge, hell, even trailing it! I want to see the despondent playing hari-kari mambo into red. Red, orange, yellow, gray; I want it all! I want to hear the bones snap and sizzle and I want to see if they scream.

Born to him a thirty-second time, oh, I know the rote and the endless chord of that little refrain - see the diamonds in the hollows where your teeth went gone, see the devil’s work smeared all down your jaw like sinner’s jam. Ha! We built the temple from the buildings they’d left us, from the skin we tore clean out of in our escapes. It’s the black and white, isn’t it, hang carry myself with it like this pendant should be holding a cross but that’s the secret and half again, the nails he pushed through his own hands and what was waiting underneath to catch the tips. 

What a boring triptych. You’re carrying the oil down in your threads much as I am, got the holy ghost in you before the lights flickered all on and your own static dissatisfaction gave you mouth to mouth and made you a doorway for what happened next. It’s in the blood.

You tell me where with the collar like a priest choking you out and rolling you down through my riverwalks still reeking red of the last one. What kind of parties are you interested in, brother?

[atorobo]

             Princess, you came to the right corpse party. Let me get you a drink, then! Little hard to swallow--spirits, personal pasts always are--but should still be good. Breaking even, breaking odd. Come sit down, next to me. Cigarette? Or something heavier, something more poignant and lung-eating? Take off the gasmask and take a deep breath in. Your eyes look like starfire.

“ …I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re saying. You…want us to die?      I can’t die–I’ve got to make it through this. For me. Personal goal. Besides,     we just met. Err…buy me a drink, first? Does that work in this context, or is     it too morbid? “