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[otherseraph-blog]

The more you love, the more you suffer.

Vincent van Gogh (via wnq-art)

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[otherseraph-blog]

You’re wrong about one thing. I’m not your “friend.” I’m your superior. The guy you owe your life to. Your surrogate father. Put all those together and I’m practically a god to you. You can even call me “Papa” if you want.

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Mikaela Hyakuya from Owari No Seraph Chapter 46

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tfw ur incapable of doing short starters

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@kuretsuri​ / starter call

Of all the ends Mika has imagined for himself, this is not one of them. When he was ten, he thought he and the other orphans might run out of food; when he was twelve, he thought one of the vampires might kill them; when he was fourteen, he thought he might die fighting a Horseman of the Apocalypse; when he was sixteen, he thought that Krul’s blood would lose its potency entirely, that he might starve into a demon.

He is sixteen and he is starving, but it’s not because Krul’s blood has become totally useless just yet.

He’s been measuring time by an hourglass filled with the sands of his own slipping sanity, but even so, it’s hard to tell how long he’s been out here. There’s a man in a JIDA uniform who comes out to check on them every so often, Mika and his fellow prisoners, but he’s in no rush; he isn’t the one suffering beneath the uncomfortably hot glare of the sunlight, bound by chains and deprived of food.

Mika hasn’t hated anyone this much since Ferid.

He’s slumped over, staring unthinkingly down at the ground and waiting for demonhood’s sweet embrace, when he senses a new arrival. His comrades in misfortune begin to pull at their chains, driven wild by the proximity of a living human, a living pulse. They’ve been losing it quicker than Mika has, either because they’re common vampires or because they don’t have four years of practice abstaining from blood; now, they’re no better than a rabid pack of dogs. Useless conversationalists, if Mika was in the practice of fraternizing with vampires.

He doesn’t glance up until a pair of black shoes enters his field of vision, and when he does, it’s with dismay that he recognizes the man he impaled back in Shinjuku. The Lieutenant Colonel— here for revenge, probably, or mockery at the very least. Mika’s mouth twists into a grimace, the sensation of fangs against lips only amplified by his starved condition.

“Shouldn’t you be dead?” he asks, cold. Humans, he’s finding, can be remarkably persistent in their survival; a remarkably vampirish thought to have for someone who’s avoided human blood for so long, but Mika’s feeling a little too resentful to care. “I didn’t think I’d missed your heart.”

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@vinculxm​ / starter call

It happens during the night: Mikaela, too proud to feed and just stubborn enough to refuse help, finally meets his fate. In his case, as in the cases of all vampires, fate does not mean death; it means demon. He can’t describe the change he feels when he opens his eyes to the darkness of the room, just knows-without-knowing that it’s there, in the lack of his hunger and the slant to his thoughts.

He sits up. Everyone else is still asleep— trusting, stupid, stupid. Yuu, the closest, snores only a meter away, but Mikaela has eyes only for the sword resting on the ground between them.

Something compels him to pick it up, a memory of the all-consuming desire to protect— and the instant his fingers make contact with the hilt, Mikaela finds himself not with the others, in a shared bedroom, but alone, in a white expanse of never-ending headspace.

Or not alone, actually, because someone’s perched on a sword a little ways off, an impossible balancing act that screams otherworldly. Instinct tells Mikaela that this is a demon, memory tells him that he has just touched Yuu’s sword, and logic suggests that this is the demon contracted to Yuu. He decides to go with it.

“Hey,” he says, and his tone sounds off to his own ears, glib and slippery with a threat lying barely-veiled beneath, “it really isn’t cool of you to be taking over a human, you know.” His hand finds his own sword out of instinct, but he doesn’t draw it, not yet; though Mikaela has an idea of what his subconscious is prompting him to do, he’s still adjusting to this new mindset. “How about you stop doing that?”

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@lestkarrkingofeurope / starter call

What Mika knows about Lest Karr is limited to what Krul has told him, and what Krul has told him about Lest Karr is that he’s a power-hungry little bastard who needs to be watched for his next move. Mika, who’s attended progenitor councils — not so much a participating member as Krul’s favorite pet — can’t say his impression exactly disagrees with hers, which is why his current situation is less than ideal.

Because right now, Lest is in Japan — in front of Mika, actually — and Krul is god knows where. That doesn’t change what she said, though. 

“What are you doing here?” says Mika, looking down at the king of Europe. Lest is even shorter in person than he is on screen, not that Mika’s foolhardy enough to point it out. “Don’t you have a continent to rule?”

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- Mikaela Hyakuya, who are you? - Who I am? Who I am… Can you tell me just looking at me?… I am just a filthy vampire.

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@yuhichiro​ / starter call

Hunger comes in like the sea, lapping up against Mika’s consciousness like the tidal cycle of the ocean: in crests and troughs. So too does Mika, like a swimmer, try to stay afloat, treading the waters of his own starvation with the failing desperation of a man drowning. It hardly matters that he’s already made the full transformation; old habits tend to die hard, and even if they didn’t, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop hating what he must now subsist on. 

That doesn’t mean he can’t try to resist, though— hence his current position and location, crouched behind one of the empty houses on the outskirts of this village. He’s lost track of exactly how long it’s been since he last fed, just knows that it’s been too long. Hypersensitivity is usually a good measure of time; vampirism comes prepackaged with the connotation of enhanced strength senses everything, and hunger is an amplifier. Right now, Mika’s fairly certain that he can sense the pulse of just about every living thing in the village. He’s also fairly certain that there’s a set of footsteps coming his way, and he’s right, but he doesn’t look up— not even when they come to a stop beside him.

“You shouldn’t be here, Yuu-chan,” he says. He feels precarious, like one misstep will take him over the edge of a cliff. “It isn’t safe for you to be around me right now.”

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like this for a starter !

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and like a phoenix, i will rise.

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tag drop

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ok finals are over and i’m bored so i’m thinking of redoing my tags, reading the new chapter, and posting a starter call maybe idk

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The worst thing is that                                       they aren’t even nightmares                                                                                           they’re memories.

[otherseraph-blog]

We are made of flesh, but we must live as if we were of iron.

Sigmund Freud (via violxtta)