#and i think this is the first time ive drawn/colored my hair since i died it this past summer so it was fun to experiment with

[peachcitt]

normally i never make resolutions because im of the opinion that you can change your life whenever you want and technically speaking any day of the year can be the start of a new year. that being said. my past year was kind of garbage.

so! i have decided to be more keen on new years resolutions, especially making ones that will hopefully make me feel better if something i can't control affects me negatively. i actually made a huge list of resolutions, more than i put here, that all kind of boil down to trying out ways to make my life more comfortable and fulfilling for myself and the people around me.

happy new year everybody i hope this year treats us all kindly :)

[collisiondiscourse]

on the wonder duo (part 1)

(BNHA Analysis Post Ahead! This isn’t explicitly romantic, but it is an analysis of the relationship between the two most popular characters in BNHA--Katsuki Bakugou and Izuku Midoriya. Split into two posts because I realized that this was gonna be long as HELL)

yall ever think about the fact that the wonder duo is perfectly set up in so that bakugou and deku together are the better version of all might?

bc like. ive been thinking.

everyone knows the win to save and save to win parallel. How they are supposedly two halves of a whole perfect hero (which, previously, was defined as all might)

but ever since bakugou and deku started working as one—growing together to win AND save and continuously reminding each other that they shouldnt try to do things alone, ive realized that its BECAUSE theres two of them that they surpass all might. its not a case of deku and bakugou both being 50% of an ideal hero, but rather i think that they are 100% of what all might SHOULD HAVE BEEN from the very beginning.

as early as the AM v AFO battle in kamino, we see the effects of all mights flawed existence. the fact that he, the greatest and supposedly infallible symbol of peace, was destroyed—society had begun to collapse. there was suddenly no pillar to hold people together and the impacts were so severe that even in the latest chapters of mha it keeps on getting worse. the truth is, all mights biggest mistake was the burden he placed on his own shoulders

with bakugou and deku... its different.

its different for them because down to their attributions, they seem like two halves of a whole person.

i think that the wonder duo are going to surpass all might because of the fact that they work together.

@bakugoukatsuki-rising @svpercraigus @tybee​ @isaustraliaathing​

(batshit crazy and conspiratorial essay under the cut !)

1. Complementary Colors

I’d like to first preface literally everything I say by the fact that I am not an expert analyzer or literary major in any way. I am literally just some random fan on the internet who has wayyy too much time and looks wayyy too deep into things, but here we go!

A common thing we see when we talk about bakugou and deku is the way they are... sort of an inverse of one another.

Down to the design of their features and the way they move, Deku is the obviously softer of the two. There’s an intentional contrast between the two of them, in the way that Deku’s drawn with round shapes and curvy hair and the way Bakugou is literally all spikes and half-mast eyes and rough muscles. Bakugou’s movements too are languid and showy, with the way he leans when he walks and splays his legs and kicks open doors. Katsuki, in a casual sense, is loud and dramatic. 

Deku on the other hand s finicky. He jitters when he walks and he’s often fidgeting and mumbling. Comparatively, the aura he radiates is energetic and frenzied, even self-conscious to a point unlike Bakugou’s calm and confident movements.

the point is, there’s a clear difference in how either of them are designed and what exactly they are supposed to represent. They utterly complement each other down to the way they behave and even their main colors (red-orange and blue-green) being literal complementary colors.

Now, moving to my more ungrounded points, this is quite a bit of a stretch so I’ll try as much as possible to make sense of these with hyperlinked sources because. yeah.

Down to their names, I think Deku and Bakugou both symbolize something deeper. I think that the way Hori expresses characters and what they’re meant to do is something that we have to pay close attention to when we talk about the Wonder Duo’s rise to success.

Izuku Midoriya (緑谷 出久), as some of us may know, does have an interesting meaning when broken up. According to a lovely fan translation of his name, ‘Izuku’--while not an actual name used commonly in real life--means to ‘Come out’ or ‘Long time’. ‘Midoriya’ on the other hand means (Midori) ‘Green’ and (ya) ‘valley’. The translator further pointed out that his first name ‘Izuku’ could be a reference to him being the first legendary hero to come out of the long-running All Might Era. (or, if you’ve been reading @/bakugoukatsuki-rising’s posts, the first significant anime protag in a long while to come out as queer, ppfft)

but that isn’t my focus right now.

We know that Hori LOVES telling stories with names, and more often than not in the BNHA universe, names alone tell us a lot of things about the characters. When referring to Izuku’s last name, Midoriya, it’s important I think to step back and realize that hey, maybe there’s something more to Green Valley than just the fact that his motif is all green.

After searching for a lil on the specifics of green valley, I’ve found out that across many cultures, the colour green and valleys in general tend to represent life. From dream analysts, to Christianity, and even old Taoist teachings, valleys are seen as areas of fertility and escape. They are seen as safe havens and often escapes for people to come to after running away from bad circumstances.

(Sound familiar?)

Deku, in essence represents life and peace. He represents being the “salvation” that the world in BNHA needed. To me, it sounds like Horikoshi is trying to say that he is the long-awaited hero in the sense. The one that people can feel will create a society that feels safe for everyone after years of All Might just saving people from themselves as a band-aid solution.

On the other hand, we have Katsuki Bakugou (爆豪 勝己), who’s name we commonly know means (Katsuki) Winner and (Bakugou) Explosion Master. He is essentially, the champion. The power. His name means success and power and all the things that make up winning.

When putting them side by side, it then becomes increasingly... interesting to me how their names almost perfectly slot into All Might’s save to win and win to save mantra, and how they are both quintessential parts to what made All Might as a hero.

2. Hero Too!

Now, I’m not even gonna really TOUCH much of what happens in canon. If you want me to do a step by step breakdown of their arcs in regards to the plot of manga and anime, feel free to send me a gratuitous ko-fi tip so I can pay for the headache I get after trying to organize my thoughts into word vomit.

What I WILL talk about on the other hand, is the subtle shift both of them slowly have in regards to how they look. Bakugou and Deku, while growing up, seem to have MANY many parallels--but before I elaborate on all of that, I wanna talk about something else.

Detour: Deku’s Red Shoes 

We all know the iconic symbol being Deku’s red shoes. For all his life, save for some outfits like his hero one, we see Deku more often than not wearing his signature red sneakers which have become a running joke in fandom.

But the funny thing is, in Japan, red shoes seem to have an interesting connotation.

In 1922, a popular Japanese nursery rhyme was written, called “Red Shoes”. The interesting part to me about this song was the symbolism that, in my tiny pea-sized brain, I could connect to the story of BNHA.

The story goes that there was a little girl with red shoes named ‘Kimi’. She was from Shizuoka prefecture (which, if you didn’t know, is most likely where Musutafu supposedly is) and was raised by a single mother. When she was young, her mother had to entrust her with a foreigner under the impression that they would give her a better life in America. The stranger is a man named Charles Hewitt (who was described to have blue eyes) and supposedly took her away. 

The singer of the song (supposedly the mother, but some argue it was written from the perspective of a childhood friend) believes that Kimi is happy and living a better life away from them, when the reality of the situation was much worse. The young girl with red shoes in actuality had Tuberculosis, and thus the foreigner whom she was entrusted to had left her to fend for herself and eventually left her to go to America while she died alone and orphaned.

“When I see red shoes, I think of her.”

A very interesting story with very interesting implications indeed.

-

Anyway, moving on to the more... “nuanced” and connected parts of this section, I have every reason to believe that Bakugou and Deku were simply MEANT to be working together down to how they dress. Now, I’d like to discuss their hero costumes.

At the start of their series, using these godawful pics for reference, it’s clear to see that neither of them seem alike in any way--reflecting the dissonance in their relationship at that point in canon.

ough. deku why. (yes we know why its because you love your mom you stupid little bunny <3)

Anyway, we see an immediate gap in how the two of them are. Deku’s first costume is one that reflects how he treated his dream of being a hero. He was still in that childlike idolization phase, the one where his dreams and aspirations were hinged on pure feelings and inspiration from All Might. Katsuki on the other hand was a lot more tactical--professional to an extent. The gap between their respective development with their quirks is something that is clearly felt in every fashion decision they’d made.

(Notice how Deku’s green is a lot brighter and less like the green accents Katsuki has all over his costume.)

As time progressed however... their costumes changed. The colors, the silhouettes, the practical functions, most things.

(Deku’s Gamma Costume and Bakugou’s Winter Costume used respectively)

we begin to notice a few similarities.

As the show goes on and we see more evolutions of their costumes, it almost seems like they begin to look like a matching pair. Deku’s green grows darker and almost teal in nature, while Bakugou’s orange is veering towards red territory. This is important to note because red-orange and blue-green as I said earlier were complementary colors as compared to simply orange and green. The minute shift is something I really wasn’t quite sure was intentional, but something I find interesting to pick up nonetheless as the colors they used to accent their costumes begin to match up.

Secondly, I think and important thing to note is silhouettes. The way that both Bakugou and Deku’s costumes are designed follow a lot of parallels that typically we don’t see with the rest of 1-A. For one, they both have a combination of tight long-sleeved tops with a bulkier set of bottoms. They also share the use of utility belts and metal pieces typically worn around their necks. Deku has his bunny-eared hood that mimics All Might’s hair, while Bakugou has his orange and black explosion ear-pieces that mimic his own quirk.

i don’t think any other people in class 1-A match each other as subtly yet strongly as these two. Uraraka and Deku and Bakugou and Kirishima do come close however.

“But Codi, you fucking knob!” I hear you plea. “This is such a reach and tells us practically NOTHING!” And yes, I’m inclined to agree with you! You’d be sort of right in the idea that this is a reach. Maybe I am looking too much into this, and maybe it really isn’t that deep--but I do think that them subconsciously matching outfits means something quite brilliant.

In the way that their costumes are designed, each aspect of either outfits have a very logical explanation. The changes were strategic and made with their fighting styles vividly in mind, so what that tells me is that BECAUSE these costumes are so complementary or similar in nature (Bakugou’s reinforcing his arms while Deku reinforces his legs), these two are implicitly showing the audience that their combat styles are complementary as well. 

The evolution of their design choices and similarities tell us that even unknowingly, their minds line up in strategy on the battlefield--a clear exhibit for why they would be INCREDIBLY POWERFUL as a Hero Duo to begin with.

When I look at their hero costumes side by side, I see a mirror. I see the way that these two are reflections of each other and are strong where the other isn’t. The point I see in BNHA repeatedly is that EVERYONE HAS A WEAKNESS. Nothing is infallible, regardless of how hard you train or how powerful your quirk is. Everyone will always have a weakness, but the significant difference I see when fandom discusses the future of Pro-Hero Society is that the new generation is finally raising itself to be RELIANT on each other. 

Observing their fighting styles and the simple use of their quirks, its obvious that they are indeed two parts of a whole hero. Bakugou, who’s quirk emphasized his arms and hands and the power that comes from it, while Deku who’s quirk now emphasizes his legs and lower body and the way he’s always running to save people.

IN CONCLUSION:

As they become heroes, it is easy to assume that if nothing else, Bakugou and Deku will cover each other’s weak spots (especially when you consider the way Deku probably won’t be able to keep using his arms with the way both the anime and manga are going...) (also chapter 285, anyone?)

-

Part Two: Interactions, OfA

kofi || commission details

[badatjokezz]

Haikyuu!! Rare Pair Fic Recs

i’ve been so hype about some Hq rarepairs lately now imma list some of my fav fanfics, mostly OiSuga mwehehe.... 

(probably gonna add some more in the future)

Oisuga (Oikawa x Sugawara)

1. Stuck in the Middle With You by overlymetaromantic

It's not the kind of blossoming relationship either of them would expect, but maybe, just maybe, it could lead to something good.

1. In which Suga and Oikawa run into each other on a late night convenience store run.

2. In which Suga and Oikawa inadvertently switch bags and end up with the other’s uniform.

3. In which Suga gives Oikawa the lecture he doesn't want but probably needs, and Oikawa might accidentally be a little in love.

4. In which Oikawa won't shut up about Suga, and Iwaizumi plays matchmaker just to make him stop.

5. In which there is not a date, and Suga likes spicy things much more than sweet.

6. In which Karasuno and Aobajousai hold training camps in the same neck of the woods, and the trip back proves to be more revealing than it probably should.

7. In which there might just be a future to this after all.

(Dis is so fluffy i might die)

2. moving on (growing up) by _helios (neocitz)

‘I’ll do it,’ Suga says, walking into their prep school and dropping his bag on the floor next to Oikawa. He shoves the melon bun and drink forward into Oikawa’s hands, and stands there looking down at him because he knows that he needs to not chicken out.

‘You’ll do what?’ Oikawa looks up through his glasses, eyes wide and confused as the other students stream in around them.

‘The fake dating thing, I’ll do it.’

‘Fuck. Yes.’ Oikawa says with a fist pump.

(It’s been AGES since i read Fake/Pretend Relationship fic, this one is goood)

3. how strange, to be remembered by venusintwelfthFandoms

"He is not formed of the type of dust that makes up stars. Suga is not the type of person that stays in the mind of one like Oikawa Tooru, ten years later. He is formed of the type of dust you shake off, the type that settles into the ground."

Ten years after Suga last steps off a high-school court, Oikawa recollects a "Mr. Refreshing" in a post-game interview, and Suga is left scrambling.

(Cute one-shot, Oikawa still remember Mr. Refreshing from Karasuno)

4. all the small things by Authoress for lemedy

Sugawara Koushi.

Oikawa’s brain supplies the name of the person standing at the other end of the aisle before Oikawa can even register him, attuned to spitting out facts about other volleyball players on a second’s notice, even after all these years. Karasuno High vice-captain. 174 cm…no, more like 176 now. Skilled at raising morale and bringing an element of surprise to their strategy. Troublesome. Refreshing. Setter.

The enemy.

(Single Dad! Oikawa, cuuutee ugh)

5. Win Some by kingdra (aroceu) for Icie

Tooru does not have a problem, its name is certainly not Sugawara Koushi, and he is not going to the Karasuno practices just to watch him. Regardless of whatever Iwa-chan says.

(High school romane~)

6. Even as bright as you are? by BKAKCANON

That night when he goes to sleep, he includes "the safety of fairies" on his prayers, making a promise to whoever was listening him, that he'd protect all the fairies and keep their secret safe forever.

[Where Oikawa meets Suga when they are kids and Oikawa believes Suga is secretly a fairy and decides he has to protect his secret all costs.]

(This is basically matches my headcanon)

7. getting to know you by oisugasuga

Suga feels like he’s back on the court then, his heart thudding hard in his ears… so hard he almost misses what Oikawa says. Unfortunately, though, he doesn’t.

"My, my. What a surprise," Oikawa Tooru says. And then… "Hello, Mr. Refreshing."

(Haven’t finished yet but DAMN I LOVE OIKAWA AND SUGA IN HERE, single dad! oikawa, and Suga babysitting oikawa’s kid, def slow burn. Imma follow this fic till death)

8. Dear Reader by hyirule

No one seems to read the paper anymore. But Oikawa likes to for the sports section. One day he finds himself reading a section called "Dear Reader" and finds a submission he can relate to.

Basically messages sent through a page on a newspaper brings to unlikely souls together, who maybe have more in common than they first thought.

(Cannon compliant, simple and... refreshing(?))

9. rest by shicchaan

Tooru looks at the sleeping person beside him as he waits for the lights change into green. The growing fringe of his husband started to cover his eyes but he can still see the beautiful birthmark under the silver haired's left eye.

(Established relationship, fluff fluff!!!)

10. long is the road (that leads me home) by ichweissnichtauch

He thinks about himself, deleting contacts from his phone and throwing coffee cups away without even looking at the string of numbers scrawled in Sharpie ink underneath, and he’s tired of hiding, tired of carefully treading the lines he’d drawn for himself all those years ago.

Just this once, Tooru wants— he thinks he wants to be brave.

Oikawa Tooru is not a stranger to wanting.

(like... 20% Oisuga but i like the way this story follows the Cannon till he get to Argentina)

11. It's Always Been About You by mintycarrots

Every time Tooru had envisioned meeting his soulmate, it was a confession of love, filled with tears of happiness and a lot of making out. It would be a faceless petite girl that would support Tooru in whatever he chose to pursue and would understand when Tooru prioritized volleyball over all else.

It was never a boy on the rival team.

(Soulmate AU)

12. a play in three acts by venusintwelfth

"The first time Sugawara Koushi sees Oikawa Tooru play, he thinks that if he wasn’t so set on volleyball, he’d do well in theater."

the first seijoh x karasuno match through the eyes of suga.

(Kinda poetic i guess, well written af)

13. colors by dazeful

Sugawara Koushi's colorful life as an archer.

(this is like the perfect oisuga one shot ive ever read)

___

IwaSuga (Iwaizumi x Sugawara)

1. And so the moon cried by iwriteinpenFandoms:

The hillocks are the domain of unearthly creatures. Creatures of rot and fog, of music and dance. Like ghosts in the night they travel without leaving footprints, they disappear in a flurry of long dresses and pale hair. Those who are fated to see them risk curses far worse than death. You may hear them, a giggle in the wind. You may smell them, the smell of the fog rolling in through the trees. You should pray you never see them. Iwaizumi Hajime is a simple man. He works a simple farm job and enjoys simple things. After one morning where he woke next to a perfect circle of death and only the memory of brown eyes and cold hands, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to the forest. Will the tales of his childhood play out with him at the center or will he have to disregard all reason?

(Danish Folklore AU)

2. Cry Just A Little by DreadfulMind

Suga was whistling a tune to himself as he opened the door to the bathroom, so he didn't hear the muffled crying through the door. But he could hear it clearly once he was inside. He heard the sharp sob of someone trying to stop.

"Iwaizumi?" He asked, "are you sure you're alright?"

(Simple but c u t e)

3. Generations by Karasuno Volleygays (ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor), mozaikmage

Professional sports blogger Sugawara Koushi writes an article about a volleyball match that bears special meaning to him and his former kouhai: a showdown between Kitagawa Daiichi and Yukigaoka Middle School, ten years after the teams faced off for the first time. He doesn't plan on capturing the attention of the world of sports journalism, and he certainly doesn't expect himself to end up having a thing for one of the coaches involved, one Iwaizumi Hajime.

(Time-Skip, I loved it)

___

KuroTsuki (Kuroo x Tsukishima)

1. Invictus by Chiru

Kuroo T. » So let me get this straight (gay?) Kuroo T. » You want me to pretend to be your perfect and fabulous boyfriend, so that your little freckled friend will stop trying to set you up with cute little highschool girls? Tsukishima Kei » yes Kuroo T. » Aha. Tsukishima Kei » you'll do it? Kuroo T. » I don't know. I missed the part where I get something out of it. Tsukishima Kei » you get to annoy me. Unfortunately Kuroo T. » Tempting, Tsukki, very tempting indeed.

(Fake/Pretend Relationship, some fluff, some angst, i read this in the middle of the night and cried, fortunately happy ending)

2. hold onto hope if you got it by nekolyssi

"Now, in the beginning of their third year of high school, the obnoxious hollering and incessant spirit of his teammates became normalcy to Kei. And now, normalcy is this. Weekly psych meetings. Pharmacy waiting rooms. Prescriptions. Refusal of prescriptions. More prescriptions."

(Not finished yet but yep prolly gonna put this one to one of those best haikyuu fics ive ever read. I wasnt so interested at first but i really like the idea of mental ilness etc, this is g o o d!!)

3. [KuroTsuki Fest Week 2017] Traces by Heartythrills 

Kuroo’s disappeared for a little over a week now, and suddenly a 4 year old who looks like him appears before Tsukishima’s apartment.

(Age regression, fluff)

4. I swear by xArtemisx

Like the shadow that's by your side I'll be there

"What are you doing here, Tetsu? It's cold." Kei asked softly. Tetsurou smiled. Hearing his name came out of Kei's lips is always music to his ears.

"Nothing. I just came to think that whatever memory we make, may it be happy or sad memories, the bright moon and the starry night sky is always there to be the witness. Did you notice?" The alpha answered and Kei nodded. He also noticed it.

"Yes, I did noticed it."

(I love agony and sad ending....)

5. Honeybee by ClosetGoblin

Tsukishima has trouble sleeping one night during a Third Gym Camping Trip. So, he takes his acoustic guitar and passes the time with some music, and gets a visitor. Maybe he doesn't mind Kuroo's voice as he does the screeching that Lev and Hinata call singing.

(Simple but sweet)

6. Say You Like Me by the_madame21

It's been three months. And Tsukishima Kei is going to see Kuroo Tetsurou.

(light angst and.. s m u t. Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamic)

7. trying to get to you by mytsukkishine

Everything came crashing down on Kuroo when Kei had left him alone with nothing but the moon shining down on him.

Wherein, Kuroo was struggling to move on and decided that he wouldn't mind being with Kei again.

(sad beginning? yes. sad ending? y e s. you’re a masochist? come get your juice)

8. Please Hold by ThemooncatFandoms

Kei was expecting Kuroo to do one of two things; Send a text to the office saying that they will have to call back another time and continue what they started, or excuse himself from Kei to answer the call, which was most likely. He shouldn’t have been surprised when Kuroo does neither of those things.

(short but hot. what’s hotter than quiet sex?)

___

Ushijima x Oikawa

1. This Insignificant Pride and Prejudice by Mysecretfanmoments, Pouler (poulerslashes)

Oikawa Tooru graduated high school with the burning desire to succeed in his college career. He'd hoped that might include taking down his arch-nemesis along the way, but when he finds that his college team hosts an offensively familiar face, he can't help but think that the universe might be conspiring against him. After all, what could be worse than playing on the same team as Ushijima?

(It was funny for me reading oikawa/ushijima fic with that “you should’ve come to Shiratorizawa” joke at first but somehow i found this one... endearing :3, cute poor ushiwaka)

___

Atsumu x Nishinoya

1. All the things I love about Yuu by KilluCoulomb

Atsumu Miya is fixated in Nishinoya. The way the boy acts, talks, plays. He Carefully observes from afar, but he slowly warms up to the Libero. Friendship becomes more and more intimate. Atsumu realizes Nishinoya is not that simple guy he met three years ago. And he loves it.

(pro volleyball players AU)

2. i'll see you then by noyabeans (snowdrops)

Nishinoya Yuu and Miya Atsumu build a rivalry and something more.

“Oh, it's Karasuno’s libero,” he says, mildly surprised to see Nishinoya’s face staring back at him from the brochure, grinning wide with his arms folded over his chest.

Contains spoilers for the current manga arc, up to chapter 380.

[theheartsmistakes]

The Last Night Part XVI

(A/N at the end)

Parts I-XV:

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Here is Part IV

Here is Part V

Here is Part VI

Here is Part VII

Here is Part VIII

Here is Part IX

Here is Part X

Here is Part XI

Here is Part XII

Part XIII

Part XIV

Part XV

Part XVI

When Cordelia was just a small girl, her father would play a game with her. Cordelia would run as fast as she could in the yellow shoes her mother just bought her, her arms stretched out from her sides flapping like a featherless bird, towards her father squatting on the ground a few feet away from her. When she’d be nearly to him, she’d leap from the ground with a faith only a child could muster into his waiting hands where he would toss her over his head in the air. There was this moment, when she would be suspended in the air just before momentum died and gravity’s pull dragged her back down, that everything went quiet around her. Everything went still. When all she could see was the horizon in front of her and her father’s embrace below. And she’d come falling back down to earth. A laughing star with a red tail and bright yellow shoes. 

The moment Cordelia’s eyes felled upon James, she felt the weightless suspense of being hugged by the wind just before it released her back to the ground, except no awaiting arms were there to catch her and she came hurtling to the ground.

He looked so handsome— when he ever didn’t, she wasn’t sure— with his dark curls pushed back away from his face and the lingering smile on his lips. He wore gear up to his neck, black except for the silver buckles of his vest strapped across his lower abdomen and the red scarf around his neck. The hilts of his throwing knives glistened in the warm light coming through the window and from the ball-shaped orbs that hung from chains above him, flickering with burning witchlights. The words she’d be rehearsing to herself since the moment she woke up seemed to evaporate like steam from tea out of her mind.

Thankfully, words were no longer necessary as Matthew crossed the threshold of the foray into the sitting room, past James whose his eyes never managed to leave hers, as he said, “You’re awake. Splendid. Things have been awfully dull without your joyful presence.” Matthew grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed a light kiss to both of her cheeks before reaching around her and patting Lucie on the head earning himself a shove into the couch. “Where have you been all morning?” Matthew directed at Lucie.

“That is my business,” said Lucie, smoothing her hair, “and mine alone. Where have you lot been?”

Matthew waved a hand down his body clad in black gear except his was stitched with gold thread that matched the color of his hair. He rested his knee high boots on the coffee table rattling the tray of tea and biscuits, bits of mud flecked off onto the glass. “We were out at the theater enjoying a matinee…”

While their banter continued on, James stumbled towards Cordelia. His foot catching the footstool; his eyes surprisingly never leaving hers. 

Cordelia stifled a laugh and stepped forwards away from the window to meet him in the center of the room. 

“You look,” he swallowed and his hand raised, paused, before he ran it through his own hair, “you look better.”

“Better?” Cordelia ran her hands over the fabric of her skirt. “Well, I should hope so. A few days in a magically induced coma does wonders for ones complexion.”

“I shall no longer be calling you Daisy then,” he said.

Her eyebrows jumped. “No?”

“No,” smiled James. “Perhaps I shall call you Sleeping Beauty.”

“Perhaps you should not,” said Cordelia appalled, having read the French classic in her youth and despising the damsel for being insolent enough to touch the spinning wheel and then not being able to manage herself out of the sleep she put herself in. “I am not a damsel to be woken with a kiss.” 

No, no, she was the prince riding on the mount and climbing the scaffold and fighting the evil that existed in the world. 

The corner of James’s mouth lifted in a sad smile. “No,” he said, leaning forward so only she could hear him. “You never did require anyone’s rescuing.”

The memory of ice cream dripping down her hand, the warmth of the sun on her cheeks, and the excitement of their joined rebellion only moments ago; along with the way that James was looking at her now, like she wasn’t quite real, sent a warmth through Cordelia. 

“Will you be staying in London?” he asked, folding his hands behind his back. “Or will you be leaving for Alicante soon?”

“Staying,” said Lucie from behind her, abandoning her raillery with Matthew to join in their conversation, much to James’s chagrin which he failed to hide from his face. “For sometime, at least until we can recover her memories from the shadow realm.”

“Recover her memories?” asked Matthew, a biscuit crumbling over the front of his gear. “Has she lost them?”

Cordelia slid a glare in Lucie’s direction. Lucie raised her shoulders innocently. “Was I not supposed to say anything? They would have found out eventually.”

“Charles is requesting that we remain in London until my memories of the events return in the case that it provides them with information about Belial,” she said to both boys. “Also, he wants us to remain close in case he attempts an attack on us again.”

“Interesting,” mused Matthew.

“Yes,” said James, his eyes wandered over Cordelia. “How did you lose your memories?”

“No, not that,” said Matthew as he stood and came to stand beside James. “My brother actually did the right thing for once. I find that interesting. Where is Christopher? It seems we may have jumped into another dimension without the help of the book.”

 Ignoring Matthew, James waited for Cordelia’s reply. “I’m not sure,” she said. “The last thing I remember is getting into the carriage with Alastair after I left… after talking with you.”

A muscle moved in James’s jaw and for the first time, he looked away from Cordelia and down at his boots. A fine, ebony curl fell in his face. 

“What book?” demanded Lucie. 

Matthew’s pale eyebrows jumped as he glanced at James. “It would appear as if my impeccable sense of humor has found me in trouble yet again.”

“I’d suggest keeping your mouth shut,” sighed James. “But I fear the words would be wasted and the attempt futile.”

“What book?” Both girls asked.

“Keep your voice down,” said Matthew, glancing over his shoulder, across the room where the door to the dining room led, and then suspiciously at Church curled up on the chair beside the fire. “There are ears everywhere.”

Lucie placed her hands on her hips. “What are you four up to? Tell me. Tell me now or I’ll tell Mam and Pa that you’re keeping secrets behind their back.”

James glared at his sister as he used to do when they were children and Lucie desperately wanted him to be the villain in her live production of her latest playwright or novella. He seemed to be contemplating if Lucie’s threat was legitimate or a bluff. Cordelia knew the truth, Lucie would never purposefully sabotage her brother, but rather learn of his secrets on her own if he wouldn’t reveal them freely. However, scaring the information out of him was a much easier and faster tactic. 

James exhaled and whipped his scarf off his shoulders, casually tossing it on the couch. “If you must know, we are in search of a book that will help us locate portals into other realms.” He glanced at Cordelia. “As well as something that may help us learn how to kill Belial.”

“Portals?” Lucie glanced between Matthew and James. “Like the one at the cemetery?”

“Yes,” said James while Matthew nodded enthusiastically.

“Why not just use the portal at the cemetery then?” asked Lucie.

“Because that would be far to easy and nothing in our lives are ever that simple,” said Matthew. 

“Portals can move or vanish,” explained James. “They don’t stay in one place for long and they’re incredibly difficult to track.”

“The closest one could be in the dreaded Americas,” said Matthew with a look of distaste. 

“We also don’t fully understand how they work just yet,” said James. “We don’t know what realm we would be stepping into, we don’t know what exists in those realms, and we don’t know how to return to this one.”

Cordelia, who remained quiet through their confession, asked, “Where is this book?”

James turned to her and she felt her bleeding heart quicken in response. “We’ve called upon Magnus Bane. We’re awaiting his response.”

“Called upon?” asked Lucie. “He’s one of Mam and Pa’s dearest friends. He spent the holidays with us when we were children. Why not just knock on his door if you needed help.”

“Matthew didn’t want to seem rude,” said James.

“The warlock has blue smoke coming out of his fingertips,” said Matthew in distress. “He is a legend. You simply do not waltz up to a legend’s front door and demand a look in his library. I’ve heard of him turning people into toads for much less.”

“Also,” said James, shaking his head at Matthew. “We need to come up with a version of the truth that won’t have him running to our parents about our plans.”

“You need a lie?” asked Cordelia.

“‘A version of the truth’ he said,” cried Matthew. “We cannot lie to a high warlock. He’ll see right through us like cheap cotton.”

“Use me,” said Cordelia. The three of them looked to her with drawn eyebrows and still looks. “I heard Charles talking to Jem about possible ways of retrieving my memories and Magnus’s name came up, briefly, before Charles denied the help of a warlock even on such pressing matters. We could go to his flat and ask for assistance searching through my mind. James can ask to go into the library while he waits and search for the book. Magnus won’t think anything of it since James loves books.”

The perturbed looks did not evaporate once she was finished. Lucie turned her back to Cordelia, her eyes locked on her feet.

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Matthew, the first to speak. “That’s not a bad idea at all. A much better idea than Christopher’s, who suggested one of us poison ourselves and seek an antidote from him.”

“That was your idea,” said James and stepped towards Cordelia. With the distance between them shortened, Cordelia could see the faint dusting of freckles across his cheekbones. The air carried the smell of him towards her: sandalwood, the leather of his gear, and old books. It was enough to make her sway. “Are you sure, Cordelia? You’ve not been awake for twenty four hours yet. Shouldn’t your mind have time to heal?”

 Jem had mentioned something to Charles about it being dangerous to reach into Cordelia’s mind while she healed and that she should have a few weeks to recover to see if the memories returned on their own without intervention. When Charles didn’t accept his warning, Jem offered the name Magnus Bane knowing that Charles would bristle. It worked. Charles agreed to wait until Cordelia’s mind had time to heal before the Silent Brothers would go prodding through her memories in search of something she, herself, could not see.

But she wanted to be of assistance to her friends now. And if she was being absolutely honest, she wanted vengeance. He’d nearly killed Alastair and herself. He did kill their carriage driver and a dear friend of the Herondale’s. Belial kidnapped her in order to gain access to James and she would not allow it to happen again.

“James is right,” said Lucie. “It’s not safe. You should rest and gain your strength. We’ll find another way to retrieve the book.”

“There’s no time,” she said. “Besides, who knows if waiting will draw the memories out or shut them in tighter. I think the earliest we gain access to them the better.”

Lucie offered her a tight smile and inhaled. “Excellent,” she said, but her tone suggested otherwise. “We’ll wait for Magnus to return with an invitation and then we’ll go.”

“Go?” The four of them turned to find Tessa standing in the foray with Will, Alastair, and Sona behind her. Her eyes danced between them. “Go where exactly?”

(A/N: Here it is guys! Thank you for waiting an extra couple of days. I had a birthday party for my nephew this weekend and it was just kind of a rough week in general, but Sunday I was able to mostly write. It’s a lot of dialogue, but it’s fun dialogue. I hope you guys enjoy it.)

[ottelis]

"I gave you my life, Eliott," Lucas's voice shatters, splinters.

Eliott replies softly, broken, hollow, "And I gave you mine."

"No," Lucas says, low and dark. "No, you didn't."

.

.

aka: eliott and lucas grow up together, but are separated when eliott is institutionalized in paris after a severe depressive episode. they reunite two years later when eliott is released, but everything has already changed before their eyes.

epigraph. i. ii. iii. iv. v.

05—eliott, alone

tw:  references to suicide attempts and suicidal ideation

july 22nd, 1968

05:34

caen, france

~

Eliott hasn't slept a wink; his whole body is heavy but his eyelids aren't. He hasn't felt well since his panic attack the other day, and it's only gotten worse as the anniversary of his attempt has drawn nearer. He swears his mood crashed as soon as the clock struck midnight. He swears that the night grew darker, that the shadows in his room grew larger, that the moon began to hide her face, that the whisperings in his mind grew colder, more menacing. His blood has run cold ever since. His body has curled in on itself, his sight has been ever so slightly out of focus, his teeth have dug into his lip, his skin has been riddled with goosebumps. He's silently cried out to the wind whispering outside, the crickets singing, the waves sighing, but they haven't responded to him. He screams, wails, but they're drowned out by the music of the night that has rarely been sweet to his ear.

So he's left to suffer in silence as that night plays over and over again. He watches himself reorganize his bookshelf over and over, every possible arrangement never making him feel better, whole. He watches himself write so furiously in his notebook he's puncturing and tearing the pages, hoping that writing down his thoughts will make them go away. He watches himself pace around his room, tearing out his hair, biting off his nails, chewing on the collar of his shirt to keep himself from crying out and disturbing his mother. He watches himself melt into a puddle, crying so hard he can barely breathe. He watches realization fill his eyes as he thinks about how could easily he could end all his pain. He watches himself dry his eyes, take a deep breath, then write two letters: one for his mother, one for Lucas. He watches himself leave the letters on his mother's nightstand, on Lucas's windowsill. He watches himself walk forward on the shore, the waves lapping at his ankles, then his knees, then his chest, then his mouth. He hears, so distantly and yet so clearly, Lucas call his name. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, covers his ears, but it does nothing. He can't escape it. 

Tears slip out of the corners of his eyes, but no sobs rip out of his sore throat. It's a quiet, defeated crying; tired, resigned. It doesn't shake his shoulders, or make his heart and lungs quiver. He's frozen, and the only thing he can really feel is the tears on his face. He can feel the salt carve out little trails on his face, chip away at his cheekbones, hollow out his cheeks, burn in the cuts in his lips from his teeth, fill his nostrils until he almost can't remember what fresh air smells like. Perhaps he's become the sea—salty, eroding, despondent, crashing. Perhaps he's flooding his room, rising until he destroys the house and finds its way to the water outside. Perhaps he's returning to that fatal idea he had two years ago—becoming one with the water, becoming at least one drop in the ocean. 

He takes the deepest breath he can. He's not going to do something like that again. Not when it only caused more pain than he could've ever anticipated. He can stay in his room, stay in his bed, and try and calm his tears before they flood. Then he'll be okay. He'll be okay.

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, hoping it will somehow force the tears back behind his eyes, back into the lump in his throat. He keeps breathing, keeps forcing. Keeps breathing, keeps forcing. He'll be okay. 

He pulls his hands away, and his already fuzzy vision is covered in bruises. Purple and green sunspots, wide and growing and smarting. They begin to fade after a few minutes of waiting and trying to blink it away. Their edges start melting into the real world, and they're tinged with yellow. Then they disappear. He'll be okay.

He sighs, trying to focus on the feeling of his lungs filling and emptying, watching his own chest rise and fall. He holds his breath to feel that burn, that panic deep in his lungs and the dizzy alarm in his mind. He experiments with lengths of inhales and exhales, listening to the sound of the air escaping. He tries to tell himself that he's not a waste of air, and that he's grateful for every gulp he gets, no matter how big or small. He's not sure if it works. But breathing is a good distraction. It's slow. And he can control it. And it helps his mind and heart slow down. It makes his eyelids a little heavy, then heavier and heavier. He'll be okay. He has to be.

He finally, finally drifts into a deep, but dreamless sleep. 

july 22nd, 1968

10:30

caen, france

~

Eliott wakes to the gentlest shaking from his mother. His eyes open slowly, and his vision is clear again. He sees his mother kneeling by his bed, her tired yet kind face smiling at him feebly.

"I'm sorry to wake you up, honey," she says, her voice quiet and sweet. "But I wanted to check up on you. Are you okay?"

"No," he answers quietly. "But I think I'll be okay if I just stay in here. I'm safe here."

She sighs, brushing the hair out of his eyes. Her hand is shaking. "Okay. Just let me know if you need anything. Call me from up here or come downstairs if you find me. I'll be there."

He manages a weak smile. "Thank you, Maman."

"I love you," she tells him, her thumb wiping away a tear he didn't know escaped his eye. "I love you more than I can comprehend."

Eliott wants to tell her that he loves her, too, but the words can't get around the lump in his throat.

"I wish I could take all this away from you," she adds, her voice suddenly thick with tears. "If I could drag the sun and moon across the sky so today could be over in the blink of an eye, I would. You know that, right?"

"I know," he chokes out, his tears beginning to pour faster.

"Do you want me to stay in here with you?" she asks. "So you don't have to be alone today?"

The brain is alone. I'll be alone regardless. Even when your fingertips brush my forehead, I can't quite feel it. It's like some other body is feeling it for me.

He sighs, shaking his head. "I'll be okay. I have my books. I have all my art supplies. I just need to wear through the day. I just need to wait it out."

"And you can start healing again," she says with a wobbly smile.

"I still haven't felt any of that healing yet, Maman," Eliott admits, his voice even quieter and weaker. "Maybe I've felt it for a second, but I swear every time I get close to it, something else happens and I don't feel it anymore." He chokes on the last few words, drowned out by a sob. "And... I don't think I healed at the institution. Not like I needed to."

He sees tears rolling down his mother's cheeks, and it only makes him cry harder. He's broken her heart again. His poor, sweet, lonely maman...

"I'm sorry, Maman," he sobs, throwing his arms around her and pulling her close. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't apologize, honey," she whispers in his ear. "You don't need to."

He bites back his argument, trying to hold onto his mother more tightly, trying to let out every single tear stinging his eyes and stopping his throat. He tries to push back the same thoughts he had two years ago. He tries to be better, to be well. He tries.

He doesn't know how long he cried in his mother's arms, and he doesn't remember falling asleep again.

july 22nd, 1968

17:17

caen, france

~

Eliott wakes to the light of the setting sun filtering into his room. He doesn't feel that intense, debilitating sadness he did before, but he feels fatigued. He hopes he can just fall back asleep until morning, and then the day will finally be over. He'll be okay.

I'll be okay.

He sits up slowly, taking in the golden light that's surrounding him. It's beautiful, comforting. A step closer to night, and a step closer to day. He holds out his hand, watching the light color and warm his skin. But then he can't help but think of the color of Lucas's skin that day, the day before his father died. He thinks of Lucas's skin the day he drowned, soaking wet and deathly pale and quickly losing its heat. He thinks of Lucas's skin the first time he touched it in almost two years, soft but almost unfamiliar, a little cooler than usual. He thinks of what would happen if he touched Lucas again, even if it was an innocent, accidental brush of fingertips. He wonders if the day he came home will be the last memory his skin has of Lucas, memories of shaking hands and trembling lips.

He moves his hand away, returning it to the shadows; to the cold and the dark. He sighs and rests his head against the wall, letting his eyes close. Of course his thoughts come back to Lucas. Of course once his intense, frightening emotions subside, his heart calls out to Lucas for comfort. Of course. When his tears dried after he left the hospital when his father died, he tapped on Lucas's window and fell into his arms. When he turned around as the waves were about to take him, his whole body told him to go to Lucas and hold onto him and never let go. When the daze from the shocks would finally fade away, he would spend hours in his room staring at Lucas's picture and writing him more letters. When those two long years of being at the institution passed, he dreamt of meeting Lucas again and scooping him up in his arms and kissing him until the world ended. And when he's almost weathered another anniversary, another year, he remembers Lucas and worries himself to death if memories will be all he has left of him.

He startles when he hears the doorbell ring, his eyes flying open. He sighs, closing his eyes again and lying back down. He's sure it's one of his mother's friends, or some sort of salesperson. He hears their front door open, and he hears windchimes and the waves—

Lucas.

Eliott's breath catches in his throat, his heart suddenly racing.

Lucas!

He quickly climbs out of his bed, throwing his door open and rushing down the stairs. He can see the light spilling onto the floor from the open window, and he sees a familiar shadow stand out against it.

Lucas!

He reaches the bottom of the stairs, and he finally looks up and sees him.

Lucas visibly tenses when he locks eyes with Eliott, quickly averting his gaze to the floor. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and his lower lip trembles the slightest bit. He looks so much younger, like he was a scared, little 16-year-old boy again. It reminds Eliott of the way Lucas used to act around him right before they kissed for the first time. Lucas was a nervous wreck, had been betrayed by his own heart. Eliott remembers Lucas telling him all the horrible things he felt back then, and he feels a deep twinge in his chest that he might have made Lucas feel that way again, that's he's hurt him again. 

Lucas looks up at him then, his face neutral but with a world, a nightmare behind his eyes. "Eliott," he says, his name quiet and sweet slipping off Lucas's tongue. He takes a breath, nods once, then barely smiles as he says, "I'm ready."

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Afterward (6/13)

Chicago, Illinois: The Sexton Baby, Connor Rhodes.

15 January 2019 | 15:00 Local Time

The worst part of all of this is that no one really believes me. They consider me to be overreacting, if not crazy, and I can’t afford to be put on a psych hold. However, I’m beginning to understand Connor, and he’s the key to this whole thing. There are no other deaths like his. He’s the epicenter of the infestation, the host, and if I can just get him to move on, everything will be alright.

I worry, however, that I may not be able to. He told me today that he doesn’t want to move on, and I saw him physically interact with someone for the first time. I’m concerned that I may have to resort to drastic actions, but I refuse to go that far without doing everything I can first. I don’t want to hurt anyone, least of all those in this much pain.

My biggest concern is for April. She’s in a lot of danger but she insists it’s just an annoyance. At any given moment, the spirits could snap and seriously hurt her, and she could wind up like Connor is now.

-

After Connor decides he’s done talking to her, Sarah makes a run back to her car and then waits for the opportunity to talk to Will. She needs to if she has any hope of saving this hospital. All day, he’s busy- he’s a doctor, after all, but as evening approaches, he goes on his break, and she rushes to grab onto his arm even though Connor is clearly unhappy and a strange pulling sensation begins in Sarah’s chest. She needs to separate him quickly, before blood begins to drip from her mouth and her lungs collapse in her rib cage. Even if Connor doesn’t mean to, he could kill her.

“I’m a friend of April’s,” she says quickly, “and we need to go into a room where we can shut the door. Quickly.”

He seems startled, and he’s tensed like a bird preparing for flight, but he nods and leads her to a door labeled “consult room,” one hand braced next to his hip awkwardly. Sarah recognizes the gesture from the times she’s spent in places like Texas, Kentucky, and Florida- reaching for a gun. Logically, she should put her hands up, but there isn’t time when she has to lay a sigil in front of the door frame to keep Connor out. Sage, salt and citrine, arranged carefully, and hopefully strong enough to keep Connor out long enough for Sarah to have a conversation with Will uninterrupted.

Once that’s done and she turns back to him, his hand is fully on his hip, at a bulge that seems more obvious now. He’s afraid of her, and that makes Sarah actually feel sorry for him, because she’s by no means an intimidating person. 

“I just wanna talk to you,” she says, adjusting her coat self-consciously. “It’s about Connor Rhodes.”

The color drains from his face, but at least his hands fall limp to his sides, no longer a moment away from a deadly weapon. She sees in the immediate difference that he’s close to a breaking point. If she wasn’t here, she wonders if Connor would kill him at some point, on purpose or otherwise. Will needs a break. 

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

He snorts. “Uh, not exactly, Miss…”

“Call me Sarah.” She glances to the door and she can sense that Connor is waiting. She can feel it in the pressure around her chest as a result of the angry beast that’s destroyed him. “But since Connor died, tell me, Dr. Halstead, do you experience anything weird? Maybe time moves differently, or things are getting misplaced, or you keep hearing his voice…?” Sarah trails off because his eyes go hard and she knows she’s hit something.

“I think I hear him every now and then, and sometimes it feels like things go really fast. I mean, grief is like that, it was with my mom. But sometimes, I wake up, and-” Will raises his hands and makes a harsh gesture. “There’s hot coffee on the counter, or the blinds will be open, or my scrubs will be laid out for me.”

The door rattles and they both look at it. The sigil won’t hold very much longer before Connor can reach them, and he’ll be angry.

“Okay, that’s Connor,” she says. She’s talking too fast. “He was killed by something very evil in this hospital, and his spirit is still here. He’s been following you. And he’s extremely dangerous. I need you to tell me everything you can about the day he died, and anything that might give him a reason to stay here. Once I fix that, he might be able to move on, and I know you want that for him, right? You were his emergency contact. You had to have loved-”

Before she finishes the sentence, the door slams open and it’s Connor, visible to Will as well judging by his gasp. Connor’s right in front of her just like that, and she can’t breathe all over again, but it’s different from her earlier panic attack. This time, her lungs are physically being crushed, and when she glances down, she sees Connor wrist deep in her chest. 

Her vision is going dark around the edges and she can’t even gasp for breath now. Will needs to help her. She wishes she could say something, try and convince him, but again- she can’t breathe. On the verge of passing out, however, she hears him sigh out Connor’s name.

“You can see me?”

Connor lets go of her and she stumbles to the side, coughing desperately and winding up with her face inches from the rough carpet. She can hear, though, Will’s stuttering and sobs, and Connor just saying over and over that he loves him. It only lasts for a moment, though, because then Will kneels beside her and rubs her back.

“Sarah, hey, are you okay? What happened?”

She can’t voice it, ask Will how he didn’t notice what Connor did, so she just keeps trying to breathe even though it feels like she’s drowning. Although she wants to think she’s capable of dealing with these sorts of things, she just can’t catch her breath, and the next thing she knows, she’s in a hospital bed with a mask on her face and a crowd of doctors around her. There are so many machines around her, and it’s loud, but through it all, she can see Connor standing just beyond all the faces, watching her. Something warm and wet rolls down her cheek, but then a hand brushes it away, and when she follows it, her eyes land on April. The light shines down, scattering through the stray hair that’s fallen in front of her face. Sarah reaches for her, or at least she thinks he does.

“Just relax,” April says, and she’s putting something into the IV that Sarah doesn’t remember getting. Suddenly a woman with kind brown eyes is pulling up her shirt, and there’s a sharp, not-quite painful sensation in her ribs. She struggles to look down, and suddenly there’s a tube being pushed through her skin, and it’s weird. But she starts to be able to breathe better, and she lets her eyes drift back to April, who lingers at her bedside with her lips drawn down at the corners. “You’re gonna be okay, Sarah. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Connor,” she chokes out.

Everyone pauses for a moment, but then they get back to work. Connor is laughing at her, and the baby is crying, and the mother is screaming, and it feels like all the ghosts are closing in around her because she can’t protect herself right now. Sarah has to squeeze her eyes shut and think about a bubble around her, safety to keep the spirits out, but it doesn’t work when she can still barely breathe and her chest hurts so much.

“We’re gonna take care of you, don’t worry,” April soothes, and that’s the last thing Sarah registers before she’s completely gone.

[rosey-writes]

Shocking Revelations

((Hello everyone! This is my first story I’m posting on this Tumblr, and I am so excited! Avery is brought to us via the amazing writer @slashesotron for the @badthingshappenbingo space, electrocution. Warning ahead of time for electrocution, bone breaking, and general uncomfortable sexually charged torture, though no penetration happens.))

Synopsis: Eliot, a Brooklyn street rat with more moxie than muscle mass, finds himself far from his usual healthcare facility after his last streetfight. With a EMT he’s rather sure is more of a danger than the stab wound

He heard the thrum of electricity before he felt it.

“Fuck!”

It hurt. Fuck, it hurt, the sparks traveled around every pore as he arched off the metal table. What the fuck, what the- what?! What was happen-

Then, like bubble pricking a needle, it stopped.

His vision was basically a cotton candy mush of colors and vague shapes. His glasses were AWOL apparently, not that it mattered much when he could feel his heart stuttering in his ears. Where was he? What, what, happened?

He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath as he heard footsteps putter around him. It was far from a unique situation for him. Being five zero in Brooklyn, with a high propensity for sarcasm and a low bar of self control, meant getting into a lot of fights. And, once again, being five o’, in Brooklyn, meant losing a lot of fights.

He couldn’t remember much about it, but, he hoped at least the other guy got it as bad.

“Ugh…” He went to reach his arms up, hissing in pain from the ache in his bones, but found his wrist was bound down to the table. Huh? What? That...that was new. Maybe they were just pissed cause last time he woke up he may have accidentally punched the nurse...personally, he’d find that stupid. He did more damage to his own fist than his face, but whatever.

The smell of antiseptic was stained into the room, which helped to ground him where he was. Just another day at Long Island Central, he guessed.

“Ellen, is Axel here yet?” he groaned, trying to roll over on his side, but the wrist locks kept that from happening. Same old routine: Eliot gets into the fight, they ship him to Long Island central, they give poor overworked Ellen to him because she’s the only one who could deal with his temper tantrums, Axel runs out from work at the skateshop and coos over him and plays him my little pony because he’s still convinced he’s five, Bravon comes over next and slaps him so hard on the back it breaks his IVs, and Achilles comes in last to pick them all up a couple hours later. Wash, rinse, repeat.

“It’s okay, A Stór.” He felt the soft ridges of fingerprints glide on his cheek, before he felt a prick in his neck. “You won’t need him to make you feel better now.”

What?

Alright, now, now he was confused. He wished he had his contacts so damn badly, why didn’t he just stick with them instead of wearing his stupid glasses. Something about all this was starting to feel...off. Really, really off. There was the sound of dripping water somewhere in the distance, the room didn’t have the same chill to it all those white-walled hospital rooms did. The walls weren’t even white here he realized, they were soft pinks. The sweet smell of antiseptic wasn’t from cleaning product, well, it was, but it wasn’t cleaning the room, it was mixed with the mint of toothpaste, softer scent of detergent. The antiseptic was on the fringes like an afterthought, something clinging.

So then, what was the blue he was seeing? And why did he feel so...heavy. So, so heavy...

He woke up again an hour later. He could see. Not too well, but there were contacts in his eyes. Probably not his exact prescription, which made the headache worse, but, whatever, it was better than nothing.

The room was pink, little hearts and flowers woven on in a lighter shade. There was a matching pink ceiling fan whirring overhead, his eyes naturally tracing the blades round and round. He tried to lift his arm again, but...nothing happened. His eyes flicked over to the wrist, still above his head, but, there was no restraint holding him down. Why couldn’t he move it?

Alright, stay calm. Maybe he just broke that one. Woudn’t be the first time. He was so hopped up on painkillers he couldn’t feel it, maybe. So he tried the other one. And his leg, his other leg, his torso, anything, but nothing would budge.

Fuck.

His heart was beating, at least. He could hear the steady thump in his ears, the only sound in the room until he heard a door slide open, but, since he couldn’t move his head to check where it came from, he had zero clue where.

“Eliot Santana Swift,” he heard a heavy irish accent  read off behind him, in a calm, terrifyingly calm voice. In the hospital all the nurses, doctors, EMTs, everyone, had the same drawling tone, the mix of bordedom and forced hospitality, even with the ones who truly cared, it was a soft, mothering tone. This wasn’t that. This was...excited. This was the kid on his way to Disney world, playing their music with their earbuds in, tapping his foot as he watched the Mickey Mouse Ear electric pole pass. “Age: 22. Race: Mixed. Height: Five Foot. Weight: Ninety Three. Allergic to shellfish. This sound about right?”

“Who the fuck are you?! Where am I?! Where’s Axel?”

“Oh, right, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Sebastian, but please, call me Avery. I promise, I’m just here to take care of you.”

That was when he knew where the blue came from.

The guy was tall. Really really tall, and that was coming from a family of giants. Limbs long and gangly, neck thin, and eyes icy cotton candy baby blue, in a shade that made his stomach turn, as the hearts on the walls reflected into the black of his pupil, burning down onto him. His breath was sweet, colorform sweet, and he was pretty sure if his stomach wasn’t dead as the rest of him at the moment he would have hurled. He stood at the edge of the hospital bed, head tilted just so the glare of his glasses shone across his freckled face.

As he felt his throat dry up, It wasn’t hard to figure out what was happening now.

“Sorry about the restraints earlier.” The man took a seat, baby blue as well, sliding next to it and brushing back a lock of Eliot’s hair. “I didn’t know you were allergic to the muscle relaxant I had, so I had to run out to get more. Since you didn’t react so good with the last one, we had to give your heart a little start.”

He booped his nose. This six-something psychopath just booped his nose.

“You reacted so well though, you’re such a good boy. Just a little bit more and you’ll be ready.”

He shouldn’t get angry. When he got angry, he did really stupid things. Stupid things like insult the guy with a knife. “Just let me go you fucking freak, my family will come after me, Bravon’s a streetfighter, he’ll kick your-”

“And if they do, they’ll see I’m just helping you.” The man, monster, whatever, kissed his forehead. “I saw you on the floor, Eliot, I saw you bleeding there. They stabbed you, and you were yelling at them to come back and fight you like a real man. You wouldn’t let me hold you, you were coughing up blood but you didn’t want anyone touching you.” Eliot wanted to say something, to scream, but he felt his muscles freeze and voice go dry. “I talked with your brothers, they were the ones to call. They told me all about you, just how strong you were when your mommy died and daddy left. You wouldn’t let anyone else help you, even though you were the baby of the family you insisted on taking over everything.”

“What are you, a stalk-”

“Now you don’t have to.” He stood, now, and it hit him just again just how screwed he was in this situation. “I’ll take good care of you, I promise. No more twisted ankles from twenty hour shifts, no more broken noses from fights, no more burns, I’ll keep you safe.”

“...how...how did you know all this-”

“They’re in your medical file, silly.” He laughed a little, as he reached behind him, out of view. “And Ellen talks about you a lot around the breakroom. She showed me the picture of you in that Izaya cosplay once, it was cute.”

Please don’t please don’t please don’t-

“On a more serious note though,” he said, as he started to stick little band aids attached to wires onto his legs and arms. “I also saw the suicide attempt report. I’m letting you know right now, you’re not doing that while you’re here, okay? We’ll talk through whatever you’re going through. I wish I was there when you did it, I would have helped you then, but good thing fate brought us together now, hm?”

This was it. He was going to die. He finally started giving a shit about his own life and he was going to die.

“Before we do anything though, there is something we need to take care of.”

That. Was a hammer. And he was going to be sick. A bit, thick, heavy hammer that he lifted like it was a soda can, which Eliot couldn’t even open himself oh god, what was he going to do with a-

“Wait please no-” Black. He couldn't hear anything. If sound had a color, it would be blinding, bottomless black as he screamed and screamed louder than he ever had. He’d been hurt before, badly, but not like this, not- he couldn’t hear anything but his own screaming and sobbing, as the hammer slammed down again on the other ankle, then the knees. He tried to squirm away, tried to move, get away, fight back, something, but all he got back with the crack of bones.

“...oh dear…” he heard, with the shuffling of fabric, barely, under the sound of his own sobbing, the gravely irish from his side. “I didn’t think it’d happen this soon...you have a pretty voice you know. Really, really pretty.”

“Y-You f-fucking l-lunati- oh fuck.” The pain kept throbbing, both his legs.

“We’re going to need to work on that language of yours.” That was when he saw it from the corner of his eyes, the large wet spot at the crotch of the other man’s pants.

“You get off on this you sick fucking freak, oh fuck, let me the fu-”

With a long, drawn out sigh, Eliot saw a large, big knuckled hand descend on his face, covering his mouth. “Since you’re going to be living here now, I want you to call me my name, okay? Avery. I want you to say it.” He pulled off his hand.

Eliot spit. “You psycho-”

Sighing again, the monster pressed a button on the table. Like that, Eliot’s world went white. Searing pain rocketed through him as he whimpered, screaming out again, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“Please say it,” Avery cooed softly.

“A-A-” the electricity turned up higher. “Avery! Avery okay Avery please stop please-”

The relief he felt when the shocks cut may be the best high he’d ever had. He was breathing hard, wheezing really, closing his eyes to try and block away the goofy smile, the dick leaking precome all over the tiled floor. The pants were off now, he saw it bobbing from the corner of his vision. It wasn’t small.

“You’re being so good, now. See. Doesn’t that feel good?” A hand was massaging his shoulder now, slick from sweat and tears, before he felt his hand be lifted, wrist pressed to Avery’s lips. “You feel that, Mo Cuishle? It’s your heart, it’s my heart too, ours. I’ll do anything to keep it beating.”

Let me go let me go let me-

“Alright, you’re so strong, I think we can go again, okay? Just a little bit longer, I promise, then I’ll make you feel so so good. You’re making me feel so good, can you see it?”

He kept his eyes shut.

“Eli, please, I need you to look at me.”

“I don’t want to.” His voice was soft, it sounded pathetic, he knew it sounded pathetic as hell but for once he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Please, for me?”

With a stuttering breath, little hiccups coming out against his will, he managed to pry them open, blurry eyes focusing on the icy ones above him. “See, I knew you could do it. Just one last thing for now, I promise.” There was come now. He could see it, dripping down his thighs. Avery was coming off this. Off his tears.

The knife dug into his thigh. Not too hard. Somewhere deep in the repressed recesses of his mind, he felt a little warm giggle bubble up, knowing he had to be going this soft because Eliot was still healing from the stab wound. He forced eye contact the entire time, a hand gripping his chin and keeping it locked. Avery’s eyes didn’t even move from his own, trained instead on the dip of his lips from the whimper, crease of his eyes from the cringe at the sound of squelching blood, warm and thick, dripping between his legs and pooling on the metal floor below him, before the eye contact finally broke, and Avery’s head moved, laying a soft kiss where the wound lie, looking back up at him with painted red lips.

“I know you’d be the one.” He traced the wound mark, which now he realized was three letters carved. S.A.W. “I promise, I won’t let anyone else ever hurt you again.”

Somehow, despite being a cynic his entire freaking life, he believed him. And nothing ever scared him more.

[vitavitale]

drabble IV  —  Nightmare (At His Core)

It took me over a year to write about V’s encounter with Nightmare and I will genuinely not understand why. In any case, I’ve finally gotten around to it. Remember that this is all headcanon-based since my V isn’t, you know, canon. Except in my heart. Beware of 13,038 words, whew. I tagged it as “coming of age” because that’s how I interpret this event even if it may not play out that way. For easier reading, find this on AO3.

Trial after trial, failure after failure were not sufficient deterrents to a man driven by a greed that was unbecoming of him. He had never been so fixated, so stubbornly determined, so mad while he dedicated almost all of his time to the study and practice of necromancy. To resurrect life from death was a risk, and a business few had the guts or the aptitude for. This was a craft better left untouched, but he trifled with tests and from each failure he learned, improved, and tried again. The cycle continued for many nights; between jobs he would make the time for study, and of time he had plenty to dedicate to his obsession. A desire for strength was born in him from his apparent lack thereof. To have tasted power, however, in the aid of his familiars was almost like poison to the mind, for he had seen within his new means a potential for invulnerability. The illusion of becoming untouchable, undaunted, and subsequently intimidating and dangerous was too powerful for him to dismiss. Rather, he indulged in fantasy. Griffon and Shadow protected him as they attacked for him, and while he loathed his reliance on others he saw the opportunities such help would yield for him, and he saw value in becoming as threatening to others as others had been to him. There was something like revenge in his fixation on power.

It was not only his familiars he'd gained from, but he had conjured demons in the space of a couple of years from whom he would make further gains, draining their diabolical energies to amplify his own. Rite after rite he performed, drawing a demon to the mortal plane only to take from it before returning it to its Hell—or to slay it entirely. This really did appear to work, and every success tainted his expectations for himself. He saw his potential grow, day by day, until an idea was born—and this, he thought, would be the thing to make him more frightening than any demon alive in Red Grave City. This he sought not out of malice, but for self-esteem. Pride, worth, a need to be useful and effective when he believed himself useless and weak.

Perhaps Griffon had been at fault for the decision his master made. Indeed, it was from Griffon's mouth that V had learned of the demons dwelling in the underworld, those that lived and even those that had died. Among the deceased was one so destructive, so terrifying that even its name told of the menace it posed: Nightmare. Once in service to a devil of an emperor, the beast was slain by a man with only half the blood of demons in him. But it was this creature that haunted the warlock's mind for many a night, so it might have been only inevitable that the idea was spawned to return to it life, to conjure it for his own, and to his body bind it as he did Shadow and Griffon. V was only a child when he first heard of Nightmare, and then took only superficial interest in it. Years down the road brought it back to memory, for better or worse, and it was at the age of one-and-twenty that he'd decided to resurrect the demon. Necromancy was necessary for this, a skill not known yet enthusiastically learned while upon the idea the young man brewed.

So it was many nights, many tries and many failures later when it seemed a breakthrough was at hand.

Neither Griffon nor Shadow held very much esteem for their master's plan. His descent into obsession concerned them, but it was his decision to conjure so formidable a demon that worried them above all. While V may not have noticed, his familiars certainly had: the forces with which he surrounded himself had been detrimental to his body. He was far more human than anything, and his human body could only take so much that was well beyond its capabilities. Forces of a supernatural nature were hard on any human's body and mind, but V had gone a step further with his exposure to them. He would have more than enough on him, only now he sought to add too much to the load all too quickly. He was already frail of health, but he saw fit to weaken his bones and muscles as well. He had begun tiring as of late, and he tended to chalk it up to overwork, sleeplessness, and an almost nonexistent diet. But his demons knew better, and ultimately so did he. Or, at the very least, he had a hunch—one he didn't heed. That was his first mistake, but V insisted on making another. Griffon let him know as much, arguing that V had no need to take pointless risks, but men like him were not easily swayed. There was some kind of art to stubbornness like his.

Oh, but to be so young and foolhardy! The boy knew so little of the world, yet he'd known that it was rife with all manner of peril. Two familiars were not enough. He would head out into the desolate country under the cover of night to practice his black craft. A sigil was drawn up for the purpose of conjuring, a symbol of the demon he hoped to bring forth. Night after night, he tried. Tried and failed. But a step he'd been missing for weeks became clear to him. Infernal or otherwise, the soul was intangible. Its body had been destroyed completely, and V would not have been content to conjure a ghost. With magics old and new would he craft a body, and it would be with or without his demons' help that he would conceive of a form he hoped the soul, if in existence at all, would inhabit. Born in the mind's eye, but taken form in the flesh. V would resurrect the demon he sought, believing firmly in strength of will and the blending of techniques.

“I think I have it,” he said when he had his next epiphany. He was all enthusiasm, eager in the eyes, jotting instructions down in a notepad in an effort to preserve what he'd learned before memory would lose it. These would be looked over and memorized. It was late into the night, and he had the audacity to wake his slumbering familiars for the news. “I've finally figured out how to reconstruct the body!”

Griffon awoke with a start, though held on to his perch on the sofa's backrest. “Huh? What?” Barely gotten his eyes open and already V strode to his side, pad in hands, noticeably excited given the tone of his voice. “The what now...?”

“Nightmare's body, for its soul.” It'd been all V would talk about the past several days. It surprised him that Griffon had forgotten so readily, but that was like him. V had left the lights on through the night for his work, and the yellow glow to the sitting room was bothersome enough for his drowsy familiar. Nevertheless, the warlock would pester him to open his eyes. “I've been going about it the wrong way, but I think I now know what I must do.” His eyes fell upon the page he'd scribbled on. “I have to create it, shape it, with my hands. You know how Jewish folklore tells of mystics imbuing golems with life? Think of it that way, only I'd be...borrowing that part of the process. Then...I should channel the soul to the new vessel during a rite of resurrection. If I'm right, the demon should accept it.”

“Never heard of that part before,” the demon mumbled.

“I'll be improvising.”

“Oh, so that's your big discovery? That you've gotta make it up as you go?” Griffon was being sarcastic with him, likely because he was chafed that he'd been woken up for no good reason.

“I'm at least one step closer.” V was resolute when he countered, frowning his disapproval at the demon who'd appeared to think so little of V's ambition. “You could be a little optimistic.”

“I don't see why I've gotta go along with this utter fuckery. You're only hurting yourself.”

V didn't want to hear that. It was fortunate that he'd stepped beside Shadow, who was not dead to them but ignored their discussion while she rested on the floor, with his back to Griffon by the time the criticism was delivered. He would not acknowledge it, not even Griffon, and it was to his detriment that he kept silent. Though he did not agree, he also did not argue, and that must have been the plainest evidence of his conscience weighing more heavily than he'd let on. But he did think of something to say, and with it stepped into his own bedroom after turning off the lights. “Good night.”

V would sleep as peacefully as his subconscious allowed, for the few hours that were left of the night. But the sun was set to rise before long, and soon he would resume his practice until night again would fall.

He'd fallen asleep fast, curled on his side as was his habit. His study had exhausted him, both physically and mentally, but that didn't stop memories from reshaping themselves, painting themselves in fresh colors, and stitching together pictures that the sleeper had no desire to see. Still, they would appear to his mind's eye and wrench his heart from its boney confinement and wring it dry. There suddenly was the face of a demon with rows of pointed teeth, a short, stout abomination snapping mad like a rabid piranha. He fled from it, the white of his hair blurring his vision as he scrambled from its wrath. He saw a broom closet, hid in it and held on to the door knob for dear life. In his panic he could not grip it firmly, and his soul quaked from the snarling and the thrashing and the clawing against the door. His whimpering barred any screams for help, but all the same he heard his mother's voice outside. A great dread sickened him but fear left him petrified. He could not understand her. The door was left alone, he heard part of his name called and the sounds of flesh tearing and a thud on the floor—and he awoke with so violent a start that his heart raced, he cried out when he shot right up, and he caught the first light of the morn peeking through his window. His chest heaved with every labored breath, and he felt his eyes wet with sorrow. Just like it'd been the first time, like it was new, like he didn't see it coming.

But with the memory he was intimately acquainted, frequently re-introduced to it, and was fast to realize that it was yet again a dream. One of several nightmares.

A nightmare.

It almost seemed a calling at this point, to obsess over a demon so appropriately named. V hated to cry, but here his psyche took advantage of his helplessness to draw the tears forth. He wiped them away, sniffled through a stuffed nose, and sat silently as sleep was as good as forgotten. No use in trying again; he preferred to set to work, do whatever he could to forget that which haunted him for seven years going. But loneliness was not his safe harbor now, for a shadow had crept into his room to observe. To find that he had suffered no physical harm, the demon took form and joined his side on the bed. Like a cat she purred her concern, her inquiry and her comfort. V was not surprised to see her, he knew this was her way. Like a pitiful child he pouted and shed his tears, looking at her with some reassurance behind a curtain of grief. Guilt was too strong for so wretched a youth, and here he was sick with it. Seven years was virtually the same as seven months. With Shadow offering her comfort like a parent, V could not help but appreciate her—and feed his misery with memories of feelings he'd had once before, before even the seven years. It was a double-edged blade but, all the same, he ran his fingers through her crown to comfort her in turn. He whimpered, “I'm fine,” sniffling still. And she knew he would be: she'd seen this too often to assume different.

V would get up after all and give himself a good wash. He didn't care for breakfast but forced himself to eat a single slice of toasted bread. Over his routine, thought of his nightmare and his mistakes diminished, and while they remained present, they'd at least lost enough intensity to allow him to get on with his work. He could think about his goal, his rite, his approach to it all and how he'd shape the demon's vessel. By noon, he was all but absorbed in his crafting of the thing. A very simple shape was drawn among his notes, which would serve as the foundation for the model he sought to shape from earth. So, he would go outside, look for mud or deliberately make it, and wear down his haunches as he crouched from his secret labor. No devil-hunting or charm-making today. As desperately as he needed income, he seemed to need a new familiar even more. But he was wise to hide himself from his neighbors and had gone a distance to where no man should eye him and peg him as an unstable eccentric. V did very well wear the look of a youth who was touched, his hands deep in wet soil and incidentally rubbing some on his face whenever he had an itch to scratch.

Now, it didn't take long to make mud. To craft from it, however, was the tricky bit. V had never played in the stuff before, he'd never known what it was like. He thought he hated it the moment his hands mixed water with soil; the sensation was cause for repulsion. He should have brought a pair of gloves with him... Alas, he wasn't the sort to think things through, though that didn't stop him from pushing on. He was quick to learn how much water to use for the softness of soil he required. Once he'd gotten the hang of it, he knelt on the grass to alleviate the aches in his joints, more or less settling to mold the form that would be his golem.

Griffon had peeled from his master's body to observe him, sat almost right beside him beneath the canopy of a thin tree. If he had any criticisms or advice, V would largely ignore them. The frown on his brow was hard and it drew clear shadows beneath the deeper wrinkles on a face too youthful for any grimace. V didn't need his notes to begin forming the soil; he'd had the image clear and ever present in his mind's eye, and guided by little else but that and his drive he pressed and pinched and rolled chunks of dampened soil, and dunked his hands into the pond he'd knelt beside to wet the earth even more. He needed it all to stick, and if it wouldn't then he'd spend the entire day, possibly even night, out on the desolate field. Fortunate that the week had been so rainy, but if showers should fall in the middle of his work he would be foiled. But, weather notwithstanding, he'd gotten his pieces to stick. Very nearly mud, the consistency, while solid enough to hold form. V's fingers would easily become difficult, caking in dirt as long as he'd work over the forming vessel. Bits would come off and others would stick where they shouldn't, and V had constantly to dip his hands in the water.

“V, why the hell are you going to all this trouble?” Griffon watched him toil away, unimpressed by the boy's wasted effort. He couldn't approve of the way that warlock was tiring himself out, testing the limits of his own patience, and running headlong toward ruin. Because that was all the good Griffon saw coming out of this wild goose chase: a pained, miserable, defeated V.

The young man on his knees saw different. He spared Griffon a sharp glance to communicate his feelings. However, when his eyes settled upon the amorphous lump in his hands, he felt his confidence shaken. He stood to relax his legs, staring at the unfinished vessel that was crumbling in places, losing form beneath the pressure of his fingers in others; and though his snowy-white hair fell to conceal one half of his face, he felt Griffon's several eyes on him anyway. He knew what that bird was thinking. Still, he stepped back and took a seat very near the trunk of the tree to shade himself beneath its leaves. Against it would his back rest as over the muddy object his eyes would rake. It was half formed, the top molded more completely than the bottom; legs were harder to build than he thought, and the arms...were not quite separate from the body yet. Frustration suddenly dawned on him as he realized this may well go nowhere. But he'd lost hope so fast, after only a few minutes at work.

He had one deep frown come upon his countenance before getting up from the grass. “This is stupid,” he relented at last, exhaling irritably as he stepped toward the pond to set aside his craft and rinse off his hands. Griffon must have believed he'd finally gotten through, because he'd begun assuaging V's concerns with useless, likely hollow words of solace. V was perhaps cruel to ignore him, but something like the devil was in him and he knew that, one way or another, he had to have the one called Nightmare.

With his hands soaked and as clean as he could get them, he shook the excess water away to grab the shapeless figure of dirt—but not before he stilled where he stood, examining the thing and thinking a little more about it. While his hands dripped, Griffon watched him, blinking his golden irises at the perplexity of man.

“Uh, V? You're awfully quiet.”

He was thinking.

“Don't tell me you're mad.”

Mad? Funny. He'd certainly felt mad, at times, and he supposed he was. A madman. But even a mind gone beyond earthly bounds had its plans to complete and successes to achieve. V was not finished here, not by any stretch. When gray began to creep beneath the sun to steal away the blue of the sky, he knew his dirt doll would turn to pure mud. He'd have no use for it if it could not keep its shape. Time was, however, still his to act upon, the heavens clear and peaceful, affording him the chance to make refinements. His own impatience would not best him. To be so young and pressed for time—an oxymoron in the flesh.

“V, come on, you're gonna get soaked out here. That lump of dirt ain't worth it. You don't even really know what you're doing.”

The warlock had picked it up after all. “I think,” he answered while rounding out the form, “it's worse if I don't try. If I fail, it should be because...this simply isn't the way. I...don't want to have put in so little and that be the reason for failure.”

“Why don't you not look for this demon? There are about a zillion others—”

“That,” he snapped to cut off his friend, “is not an option.” At least, not for now. V frowned at Griffon, but any inkling of anger was a hollow one. The boy was determined, not angry, and he'd made that plain with a wistful sort of tone and some distant, far-off pain in his eyes. Griffon had no further argument. The pair descended into silence; but nature would not leave well alone. More gray crawled overhead, eventually ushering in the first droplets of another summer shower. When they tapped on V's nape and sent a chill through his paper-thin body, he shivered instantly. The decision to retreat had come and Griffon was returned to the warlock's skin. With his prize, however misshapen and incomplete, in his hands he abandoned the little pond to hasten home. Maybe to build there.

It was only a drizzle that speckled his clothes and hair on his walk back. But upon returning to the sanctuary of his flat, a proper shower broke that kept him homebound. He had mud on his face, on the ends of his hair, stuck to the soles of his shoes, and entirely in his hands. With his familiars retiring to the small living space, V set about a thorough cleansing of his person. Before he'd known it, he spent his day at home when he should have been out in the field; but the day was gray, even with the rain having cleared, and it matched his mood. Somber, morose. He'd gotten a dish on which to place his vessel and stored it in the refrigerator to keep fresh. Meanwhile, his bedroom was where he isolated himself, well cut off from the raptor and the jaguar lazing the afternoon away. He supposed they could afford it: what else had they to do? They could be so much like pets, obligated to nothing and owing no one.

The grimoire had been opened to the last page, where the original content of the book ended and his own notes began. Several sheets and scraps of paper, that's all they were; but on each were written spells, instructions, all manner of information he would have needed on call. Among these were his latest notes, the ones on Nightmare, on necromancy, and on golems. It should have made sense, yet here was his brain revolving around things anyway. With the book laid out before him, his legs folded on the bed and his knuckles to his cheek, he thought about failure. He thought about what it would mean, since his vessel was shit, and he'd never conjured life from death, if he couldn't claim the demon he sought. It wasn't only a matter of principle—he could get over botching a rite. It had more to do with what it would entail, the fact that he'd have dashed his hopes for acquiring the power he believed he needed: the power to protect himself, to turn the tables and prove that he was not all prey but predator, too. He was easily intimidated, easy pickings, and he loathed that with a bitter passion. It was why he needed another demon. He needed the strength, he needed the confidence, even if it came from beyond himself, but he needed it. And he loathed also to be as needy as this. He loathed his weakness, his appearance to others and how he was regularly perceived by them. If he wasn't a freak for his white hair, he was effeminate for his body, childlike for his behavior, stupid—

Weak to demons. But...if he had a familiar like Nightmare, he didn't have to be any of those things anymore. Didn't he? Quarry and foe alike could no more undervalue him or judge him a creature too meek to take them on, or to take from them: because one of their own made of seemingly unstoppable force, a weapon of mass destruction itself, would be doubtlessly perceived by them; and, if necessary, would annihilate them. According to what V had heard, Nightmare was beyond any lesser demon he'd known of. Incomparable to even Griffon and Shadow, combined.

How he would ever subdue and tame such a beast was rightly beyond his imagining. The boy had gall to think that he could dare at all. Or maybe it was that he didn't think.

He still didn't, even poring over his notes and mentally constructing the outcomes on his bed, he didn't think far enough ahead. But if he did, he would only shake himself up at the size of the task, and he didn't need that. He had to enter the rite undaunted, possessed by conviction, and wrench the demon from its lifelessness with that same vigor he'd conjured Griffon and Shadow. So he mulled over other things, and briefly considered going out tonight if the weather permitted. Frankly, he wanted to. To delay was pointless. Ready or not, his vessel was finished—and so was he. To live this kind of life, in the kind of shape he was in, was not something he'd been looking forward to for however many years remained for him. Even if he would die by the conjured colossus' retaliation upon resurrection, he would at least go out in a way that would not leave him feeling unfulfilled. If lightning was to strike him squarely, in a month, it wouldn't happen until he'd had Nightmare spread across his body. It may have been more a matter of life and death than even the warlock realized. Regardless of the circumstances or the consequences, V was a man of a settled mind. Sitting as idly as he did, boring himself over the information that'd become monotonous to read so repeatedly—well, he supposed he'd made up his mind at some point.

Grays and yellows colored the sky when V bothered to peek out the window of his sitting room. He'd had a whole two of them, one by the front door and another in his bedroom; but the blinds to the latter were always kept shut. Privacy concerns, as he lived on the bottom level of his building where his neighbors and his absent landlord would walk about. Birds drawn by the rainfall called out on the rooftops, among the trees beyond the property, and on the street. While the bulk of the shower had passed, still heard was the pitter-patter of rain drops just beyond the glass. The weather was clearing, the sun shining like a hunk of polished citrine behind the scattered cloud cover, bidding its radiant goodbye to the day that closed. The moon chased it not far behind, nightfall near.

Griffon and Shadow were at as much peace as afforded by the event-free afternoon, and they appeared dead to their master's arrival. When he turned from the window to get a look at them, he could only think that they were sweet to snooze on the sofa—one taking up all the seat, the other perched atop the backrest cushions. Such a shame that they were so against his endeavor.

V had his supper early and offered to his familiars scraps of old cold cuts he didn't want. It was clear to them that he'd intended to do something, because he was all astir in his bedroom as he'd dressed himself for the night. Only, he was donning not sleeping clothes but something else entirely. On his legs were a pair of utility pants, slim, and a belt around the waistband; a wallet chain consisting of skulls of a silver tone; on his feet were gladiator sandals with straps that were thin along the length of his feet, and bore buckles at the ankles; leather cuffs adorned his left wrist, an unconventionally long, silver-plated signet ring the middle finger; a fingerless leather glove covered his right hand; and, in a daring move, he chose to garb the upper half of his body with a sleeveless, knee-length coat held together only by laces affixed to the garment's inner lining across the abdomen. No shirt, no nothing underneath all that leather: only his skin and the tattoos that adorned it. It was brave of him, to cover so little of himself—he partly regretted it already, looking himself over in the bathroom mirror—but people would change, and tastes would evolve, and V was just another one of the many young adults on the Earth who would experiment with fashion. Still, he'd never before worn anything so revealing, and his chosen outfit was quite modest in that as it stood, but it felt comfortable and that had to be the most important thing when it came to clothing. His qualms notwithstanding, he thought he liked the way he looked. His signature choker remained where he'd always worn it. His hair was the only contrast to all the black he'd dressed himself in. Every single article was black, as was the string of his choker, but his hair seemed to...set things askew, a little. So white like freshly fallen snow while all the rest of him could easily blend into shadow. Well, that wouldn't be a great issue tonight: he sought to walk out the door under the cover of darkness. He wasn't sure he'd wear such a get-up during the day.

When he emerged from the bathroom and walked into the sitting room, Griffon was the first (and, in fact, only) to voice his impression of the night-clad youth.

“Whoa-ho! What the hell is all that?” For the sake of a better look, the hellion descended from the sofa to hop right up to V, and eyed him up and down in a very rare moment of silence. “You gonna go out slumming or what? You look like hell in those rags.”

“Don't we already live in one?” V reminded, bored with his critique. He was messing with his collar, undecided whether to flatten it down or wear it upturned.

“Not only that, but don't you think you're gonna catch a cold walking around with your, uh, chest out?”

“It–it is not,” V argued bashfully, suddenly tugging on his lapels. “You can hardly see it.”

“No, I see it. Think I see your nipples too—”

“No you don't!”

“Oh! So I guess all six of my eyes are wrong. Am I wrong about that thing being too big on you, too? I think you gotta tighten those laces, kid.”

“Are you finished?” V was completely flustered when he had no need to be. Suddenly, the styling of his collar was unimportant. He had a blush he fought hard to suppress tinting his face, and he thought he would resent Griffon for the rest of his life for spoiling what little confidence he'd managed to scrounge. If Griffon could see such unflattering things, others were likely to see the same. But V wasn't about to change his clothes. Night had fallen, he had no time to waste now before the sun was up again.

Out of sheer defiance, the warlock marched to the kitchenette. His treasure of dirt had been taken from the fridge and given some water to keep from crumbling some little while ago. He hadn't needed the thing too fresh; he would water it like a plant, only with drizzles and drops intermittently. To little effect, however, as it would, as if out of spite, continually chip away regardless of his efforts. Looking at it again made his subconscious frown. He still hated it. Maybe he hated it more than he did at the start. He hated himself for being impatient enough to hasten his work on it. It could have turned out better if he'd learned, gone through trial and error, in due time; but he felt he didn't have that same time to lose. The impetuousness of youth, the desire for instant gratification—it ruined him thus far. But he needed supplies, and he at least had the wisdom to gather them beforehand. Even if Griffon had utter shit to say, V would walk all around him and dodge his bullets.

Thankfully, the raptor did not moan for long. He was left to loiter in the center of the room, watching V dart in and out. Shadow couldn't have cared one way or another; or, perhaps, she was wiser to simply let the boy be. Lounging on the sofa suited her. Ruby-red eyes blinked every so often. V had made a little pile of materials by the front door: a lantern, a canister of salt, five wax candles, a matchbox, a vial of ritual oil, an athame, and of course the grimoire.

Oh, and the vessel in its dish. It was the final item V had retrieved, and with it collected he was prepared to head out. Ultimately, he didn't give a damn about the state he was in, his appearance to demons either allies or foes. It was not his dress that would determine his success but himself: spirit, drive, skill, smarts. All materials minus the dish were placed in a rucksack. V slung it over his shoulder and carried the dish in both hands the minute he'd locked the door to his flat, familiars dissolving into soot-like particles and attaching to the warlock's body as if ink. He wore his coat's collar upturned after all.

A terribly long walk would see him to his destination. It was the same spot he'd been going to for the past fortnight, every night he wanted to try to conjure Nightmare. He'd memorized the path by now, and he would always go in shadow, at night. The poor, unfit thing would have to trek from beyond property grounds to a hilly area backed by a meager woodland out onto the fringes of town. The border, as it were, between named places. Red Grave City was one, to which V lived closest, but the means to move cities were not his. It was always a long walk anywhere for him. Tonight, he would benefit from clear skies and quiet townsfolk. While midnight had not yet struck, the residents around here were generally of mild manner and disinterested in goings on. They would be in their homes, doing as country families do. If they should spy a lanky young man traversing beyond their overgrown yards and vacant lots, they wouldn't give it a second thought. V realized he went through a lot of trouble for a whim, but what was one more night to try?

It might not have been midnight when he set off, but once he'd arrived at the designated spot he was certain that it could not have been earlier than eleven. The exertion tired him out, so all he took was a short breather with his eyes full on the patch of dirt and grass on which he'd made his previous attempts at summoning. He could certainly recognize it under the cover of night; but of course he'd been here countless times already. He remembered where, upon the hill, he would stand, and where the forested wall opened to the east. He remembered the trampled grass underfoot made by his coming and going, and the placement of lit windows in the town in the far distance.

Surrounded by such perfect seclusion, Griffon and Shadow could emerge from their hideaway. Of Griffon this was expected, but not so of Shadow: she was not in the habit of being present during her master's rites, and for her to suddenly sit beside her infernal comrade was a genuine surprise to the young warlock. Her reason was understood, however, and it filled him with some palpable regret. Shadow may not have been as vehement in opposition as Griffon was toward his goal, but her feelings were the same, and still she would let him know with scarcity and subtlety. As evidenced by his being here, he was not swayed by their shared concerns. For her, more so than for Griffon, V had a look of nigh-unreadable apology. In the darkness, her eyes were almost luminous rubies. A contrast to his dimmed peridots.

The dish was placed on the ground by his own trodden path. He fetched the lantern from the sack and switched it on—nothing quite so archaic as an oil lamp, but battery-powered for ease. The rest of his materials were laid out before him; and taking the dagger and lantern, he stepped carefully about the area to find the precise spot where he'd cast his prior circles. They were not hard to find, the etching in the soil still visible even after days of rainfall. V cleared away any debris that'd fallen during the day before setting the lantern between both the circle of summons and the circle of protection. He didn't want to think about the potential pitfalls he'd encounter once the rite would begin, but he would call himself a liar if he'd ever claim he wasn't nervous. He had never before practiced necromancy and there were about a dozen ways his inexperience—along with his deliberate improvisations—would foil him. This was not merely a game of chance he was playing, but one that involved real risk to his flesh and soul. He may not have anticipated failure, but he did fear from it nevertheless.

All those other instances when he'd failed to conjure the demon were failures only because the demon was deceased, and had no physical form with which to manifest. But now V would provide one for the spirit to inhabit, and that was entirely new to him. What's more, he hadn't bothered to practice at any point prior to tonight. His first shot at necromancy would also come as the real thing.

He didn't think about much, as a matter of fact, apart from the steps he was to take and the outcome he so desired. It was his intent that he should, and would, focus on, with nothing more to distract him. So, he cast his circle with salt before casting that of the demon, using his athame to carve the circle in the soil, its blade lightly coated with the necessary oil. It also carved an inverse pentagram within the circle, and the five candles were then arranged to sit on each point of the pentagram. The wax was dabbed with oil as well, and the candles were thus lit. Before the young sorcerer would enter his circle, he set what he'd need within it, and his familiars were wise to sit by the rest that was unnecessary so as not to interfere with the rite and its air. A strange stillness came upon the three, the wind dead and not one of them uttering a sound. Perhaps they knew it: what was about to take place would either ruin him or free him from his obsession.

It was also possible that such freedom could ruin him. Maybe he didn't consider that, but the raptor and the shapeshifter did. They watched their master outfit his circle, blade and oil left of center, grimoire and dish right. The vessel he'd prepared was taken into his hands, its dish abandoned beyond the circles as he had every intention of needing the molded dirt no longer after tonight. If the rite didn't work, he'd try another way. He was already decided on that.

Before V would step into his circle, he gave the lump of soil his final attentions. It wasn't like mud anymore, and it hadn't ever been since he'd brought it home; he knew that was the first mistake, remembering that golems took life from mud or clay—but both came of the Earth, were earth, and V would believe that plain soil would serve its intended purpose. So, he was satisfied before long with what little he'd managed to do with it and gently placed it in the middle of the inverted pentagram. Hands were wiped off, he took in a long breath, and entered his own circle at last.

“V.” Griffon.

“What?”

“Just... Watch yourself with all that, all right? We're right here if shit goes to shit.”

Gratitude needn't come across verbally. V felt it, his familiars knew it without knowing it, and nothing else was said between them. Eyes closed and incantation in mind, palms turned upward at his sides, he steeled himself and spoke words which were new. The candle flames did not waver, and neither did V. “To the lords of Hell and its kings and masters, I ask that a soul stripped of form and life hear my voice, and I implore unto thee, most fair and wise and powerful, with all of my humility, to send unto me thy lost and lifeless kin: that which is singularly named and so bears the name of Nightmare, once brought into being and commanded also by thine banished emperor-kin Mundus; and to this soul I offer life from death, death to rebirth, all powers and wisdom restored, and a vessel for its material form, and every liberty to refuse my supplication.”

His voice was loud and clear, firm and mature; he thought he felt electricity round his fingers. The young man did not yet open his eyes as he honed on the name, the image of the demon in his mind's eye, and the essence of the very thing he wished to will into being. His body was numb to the world around him, his mind ignorant of all things in existence apart from himself and the vessel, and the demon to inhabit it. Not a draft caused the grass to stir or the trees to wave their limbs, not a part of his body seemed alive but the easy rise and fall of his chest. But something had changed, something between the circles, and V felt it like a great oppressive eye, watchful from above. He did not lose his nerve to it but remained focused, knowing and feeling the adjudicators who had come to assess the sorcerer. From the very outset he sought permission to restore one of their fallen. He'd come to learn that it was sound practice to offer every respect to the forces he'd bargained with, and to resurrect an infernal spirit was no different. If V should open his eyes, he would find the flames twitching in the deadened night. But with his body so faintly tingling now, shoulders to waist, he knew it right, only then, to put into sweet, soothing words more of his modest, magic, flattering intent; and for this, he spoke gently as a poet recites to one who is beloved.

“How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.

“For he hears the lamb's innocent call, And he hears the ewe's tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.”

He meant himself the shepherd, the demon he sought his flock—or a member of it, and while he was aware of the religious symbolism loaded into Blake's poem, he hadn't a fear of dashing his hopes as he had used these very words to summon in his presence a score of other, lesser demons. He needn't his grimoire to check his memory: he remembered every line, every foot, syllable for syllable. In this, V was experienced. He had come to learn that infernal creatures quite enjoyed poetry, often as much as he.

If the demons were decided in his favor, the spirit of the deceased should find its way to the proposed vessel. But V need only open his eyes if he wished to spy weird, dark miasma twist and dance about the earthen offering; and if he had, he'd have disrupted the flow of things and his concentration would break. That which went unseen was surely felt, however. In the subconscious were sensations translated into images before the mind's eye, sufficient communication that informed the sorcerer of what went on around him. He could feel the darkness, the infernal curiosity and diabolical greed filling the space within the summoning circle. While it was all aware of him, he'd protected himself expertly to allow no evil thing any passage through his barrier. The anticipation was beginning to find room in his mind, and that was a flaw to be entirely avoided. But while he tamed his own spirit, focusing on his intent and his breathing, the energies swirling above the dirt vessel were joined by another. A faintly thing to V's tuned senses, and when left alone it was far weaker than anything he'd sensed before. Lifelessness!

“The demon, Nightmare,” he acknowledged politely, “I bid thee come.” Truthfully, he couldn't have known what it was. The boy clearly was not beyond taking such liberties; but if he should be welcoming, peaceable, and respectful, the spirit should take to his voice—his vessel most importantly. His will remained strong, his intent clear, and with both combined he visualized with all of his psychic prowess the soul pouring into the desired golem. This, too, was new to him, but he sensed it came without challenge. Through mental murmurs he invited the soul to find its comfort and refuge within the earthen form. His hands had begun to move toward one another, palm to face palm but never joining when they hovered before the warlock's center. Calm as he could manage to be, now was when he opened his eyes. To his surprise, a diluted mist hovered above the crafted soil, black like smog but flecked as if with glitter of a violet hue. That was his own magic at work. A heartening sign.

His power, small as it was, had a color to it.

There was more to V's work than will. The closing of his hands was not plain pantomime. Envisioned between them was the soul and its designated vessel, and by drawing his palms closer together he suggested he'd been helping merge the two. The power of suggestion, backed by the power of will, could have been an unstoppable force if executed correctly. If V were any master sorcerer, he'd have doubtlessly infused the vessel with all of the demon's soul in less time than this. He could be patient when it mattered, however, and in this instance he was collected and determined not to fail. The oppressive air that'd permeated the environment amplified the nearer V's hands drew to one another, and there came a point when wind began to stir and blow against the warlock, pushing his hair from his face and disturbing his garments. This tipped him off against pushing any further: he remembered he had to be respectful, to allow the soul a chance to refuse him. He'd never forced his will upon the demons he wished for familiars, never felt it right, and he would not make that mistake now. Griffon and Shadow were his by choice, by mutual agreement, and they'd become friends, even like family for it. V remembered this, knew said friends' eyes were on him all through the rite, and he was prompt to correct himself—and thus the pressure was eased off the miserable spirit, as yet undecided about the offering of renewed life. Perhaps it wasn't impressed with its gifts, with him. That...had to be all right, to the conjurer. He'd have to accept that and let the spirit return to its plane, free.

With the slow separation of his hands, a curious shift in air tickled at his consciousness. He hadn't realized he'd been frowning, but the moment he did he softened immediately. The phantasmal wisps before his eyes, along with their violet glow, had begun to bleed into the misshapen vessel.

So...it had accepted! But of course, the allure of life was irresistible. V did not think for a moment, instead focused entirely on his work. He was absorbed by the sight of the soul feeding into the lump of earth, to fatten it up with life and grant it the gift of sentience. V's hands would come together only when the last of the entity entered the vessel, and this he did to signify the finalization of the first phase. He'd eased off on his psychic influence only for this step so that it would be Nightmare's decision to enter the vessel, not his. Once that was done, however, V would wait. To observe the outcome, to see what would go wrong. His hands rejoined his sides as he watched with, now, apprehension, the vessel illuminated only by the dancing candle light. As he understood it, he was not to engage yet, not until the demon was fully formed and in control of itself. Only then could he attempt to tame the beast, and then bind it to him through the awaited rite of bondage. His heart was as strong as he could have made it, but it still alarmed him to watch movement within the inverted pentagram. The soil once lifeless stirred and shifted, and before his very eyes began to deform itself. It was abrupt, violent, and it had stricken V with genuine nervousness with every motion across the ground, fidgeting left and jerking right, and sometimes nearly flipping itself over—and all the while changing shape, gaining mass, growing. The flames snapped wickedly in the air, and even V could feel it, a sudden explosion of demonic energy that flooded the circles and the area surrounding. It was smothering, but V held fast. He fought it like an ocean, as if wave after wave crashed down. If he'd lose his footing, he'd be pulled into the sea of darkness and potential malevolence, and forced to suffer the torment of a likely vengeful spirit. How was he to know that it was not already at peace, and that he'd come only to disturb its eternal slumber?

Uselessly, he put his arms up like a shield in front of his face as if that would have any effect over the whipping winds. Griffon and Shadow could only watch while on pins and needles, but they were in agreement that the second things turned south, they would charge in to his aid. That young man could get himself into such messes, but he hadn't quite learned to learn from that. One could call him stupid for it, but he preferred to think of it as drive. The grit to stand firm and unflinching was necessary in the face of adversity, and it was proven to him now that such a necessity came twice as strongly when dealing with a demon of so much size and power. Based on what he knew, Nightmare was built like a tank and commanded like one, an annihilating force V should have been wiser not to play with. And when he saw just how large it'd grown, taking on an amorphous form that exceeded even that of the vessel it claimed and turned inside-out to make it unlike any useless heap of anything he'd seen before—and when he realized it hadn't stopped expanding—he understood, finally, that he'd bitten off more than he could chew. And he paled a little at the sight of it now, beyond the obfuscation of his arms, stretching to a height far beyond his own and eclipsing the circle it should have fit into.

Large and bulbous, glossy and flowing as if wet, black as tar, no more resembling the dirt in which it was reborn. It claimed a human shape, as much of one as V could have crafted out of earth, but appeared to re-imagine itself of its own accord. Parts of it were not as V had built, but he didn't have a care for the shape. He supposed he never really did. He simply needed the thing alive, and here he'd achieved it. His golem, his golem, alive! And in the center, toward the top of its...whatever V would think was a head, glowed an orb like a great violet eye, and like an eye it darted in all directions as if it saw for the very first time. Like a human it stood upright on two legs, two disproportionately large arms hanging at its sides. No digits, but broad, round ends like clubs for “hands.” By the candle light, he could note several hooked claws protruding from the thing's arms. Parts of its body looked craggy, almost unnatural, as if shrapnel or rocks had wedged into its hide. This was the demon he'd brought to life from eternal death. This titan called Nightmare, a thing of destruction. It towered above the sorcerer, a dark and hulking thing that could easily snuff him out with its weight alone. His heart was fast in his chest.

It jumped at the sight of the demon's sudden movement and V felt he'd almost folded to the instinct to step back. Ungainly on its smaller legs, slow and heavy, the beast lumbered with every dragging step forward it took. Forward, unto the protective circle!

With its restless eye it perceived him, his body language and the demons not far from him. All things were new to it, like it had the whole of life to relearn. When V's arms came down and his eyes pierced the dark, it was perceived that there was no defense, no offense, and full attention. Ah, but here it seemed to remember—some memories had not gone, and with them had also come the memory of mercy. If Nightmare had remembered any more, it would have likely tried to kill him for his intent. But the demon was almost like a newborn: it knew too little of others, and itself, and regarded the black-clad warlock beneath it just as an infant would fix its indeterminable gaze on a thing of interest.

If V had had the opportunity to savor the success of his first resurrection, he might have. He might have patted himself on the back for once, admired the golem as a thing of beauty, but as he was uncertain and on high alert, he could not think of anything but the very real chance that the demon might retaliate after all—or go berserk. But he remained in the circle, watched the demon hesitate before the uppermost grains of salt on the ground, and felt his heart skip a beat. The demon stalled, right outside the protective circle, and stood motionless as its eye looked in all directions. Perhaps it wondered what stood in its way. V needed to find his nerve or he'd lose the demon to its untamed instincts: he could not afford complacency now that he'd gotten so close, with work still needing to be done in order to claim the demon for his own. So, he would appeal to it, with a voice that came across more meekly than he'd intended. “Nightmare...?”

His voice surely caught its attention. If only he knew it was perceived as only noise.

“Do you understand me?” he probed. “You are alive. You've come back from death.” That stirred nothing. “It was my voice you heard that guided you here. To me.” He was gentle with his words, cautious as he assessed how they'd affected the golem—but no indication of its awareness, of its comprehension, gave him next to no encouragement. He wondered if Nightmare had ever understood spoken language. But, if that hadn't gotten through to the demon, then he supposed something physical might. Much to the horror of his watchful familiars, V pushed himself forward to extend an arm, to reach out his bare hand, to...touch.

“V, what're you doin'?!” The raptor could not have left well enough alone.

Violet pulsated.

The small warlock had stepped beyond the perimeter of salt. He broke his protection and exposed his vulnerable soul to infernal powers for the sake of connection. And he sensed it. At the back of his mind, a tingle; at his fingertips, something sentient and...perceiving, at least, cool to the feather-light touch but so very warm with devil's blood at its core. The silence might have unnerved him, but to know that he was not dismissed gave him heart. “You can feel me?” he wondered with his eyes cast up, searching that deep and indecipherable purple for his answer. Whether or not it was a product of psychic communication, a sense of calm ran through his fingers, and comfort grazed at the very door to his mind. That dark and obsessive demon within him smothered itself the instant man touched demon, demon touched man, and in its place was born a tender affection. His hand was soft over Nightmare's arm and free from its claws.

Now...he admired it, just a little.

But if he could get inside that titan's mind, he'd know what he looked like to it. And to be acknowledged by the thing that gave it new life was new, also, in this way: because it was novel to feel warmth, respect, and to sense that no subjugation would come from the pale little hand that seemed also to lay claim. And it was a strange contradiction. Nightmare seemed to remember something familiar, something like dominion and disregard that came with a claim of its own over the newborn. But these impressions were faint and centuries distant, and Nightmare was not roused to belligerence by a perceived wrong but remained placid and curious before the human boy it almost, almost could have known as a father. It felt, it understood, in its own innocent way, and therefore it sought. But why, why did the black-and-white figure that so kindly welcomed it suddenly peel away in retreat? The demon only wanted to know him, experience him, and mimic his gesture with an arm of its own. It tried to graze him with the claws on its arm, but the human stepped back with a change in his demeanor. Was this rejection? Was this human false?

V's circle was breached by inhuman hands and feet, its protectiveness nullified when V had broken it. He found that his salt did not burn when the demon walked through it. He was swift in collecting his grimoire and scrambled out of the circle entirely, ignoring one familiar's calls to cease and desist as he still so stubbornly held his ground to win favor he didn't know he already had. “Nightmare!” he called with firmness, attempting to command its attention. He was so sure he'd angered it. The grimoire was opened to the page he needed and he, in utter darkness, recited more from memory than from print. “How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! / From the morn to the evening he strays; / He shall follow his sheep all the day, / And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise.” He glanced to find Nightmare had stilled before him, within his broken circle. That's good. He inhaled a breath to steady himself, to soften, to finish. “For he hears the lamb's innocent call, / And he hears the ewe's tender reply; / He is watchful while they are in peace, / For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.” In a maddening mix of apprehension and anticipation, V watched the violet orb spin: the demon was thinking. Even if such a creature could not understand the human, artful tongue, he knew that a creature could still sense emotion, and from within words so delicately crafted and sweetly delivered, emotion was the only intent he'd meant to convey. Like music soothed savage beasts, poetry soothed soured demons.

Nightmare appeared to like the sound of those words. Its confusion was dashed for a moment, and now only watched V with its same curiosity. When a fleeting moment of broad silence passed, Nightmare wanted to inch closer to him—and was again stilled when another string of pretty words touched its consciousness. Was it meant to stand still when the human talked so affectionately? It decided not to move again.

And this, V determined, was a sign of domestication. He thought he'd tamed the beast, at least halfway, so quickly!

“V,” the raptor persisted, “I don't like this! That thing's an accident waiting to happen!”

“Quiet! I know...it knows.”

“It knows you're a chump—!”

“Shhh!” V pressed a finger to his lips when he'd turned to Griffon but donned a friendly, inviting air when again he faced the colossal golem. He smiled, his eyes glimmered, and he approached it with calm. “Nightmare,” he said quietly, intimately, “will you...be my demon? Will you bind to me?” Predictably, no response, so V reached his hand out again to connect—and tried again, focusing on intent rather than speech with a harder, genuine look over his countenance. “I need you, and I...hope...you need me, too. Will you be my familiar?” His palm was firmer on the demon's flesh this time, but not at all merciless or pressuring.

V never believed he was telepathic, but with Nightmare on the other end of the communication, he could have sworn his feelings had been answered. The demon stood still, as did he, and here he would perform the rite of bondage. His technique evolved, every time, and he'd come upon the simplest form of claiming a familiar to date. If magic was all about intent, then for ceremony there was little need. Through incantation and intent, and mutual agreement, the warlock would bind the demon to himself as effectively as he'd ever done. Griffon swallowed every last complaint to let his master be; Shadow had been wise from the start to observe.

Nightmare was still as it watched the little creature who'd given it life. His words it understood vaguely, but his touch was the easiest language it'd ever known. The golem it came to be was nothing at all like the machine of chaos in its previous life. Whether or not that had something to do with the man who'd willed it into being would ever be a mystery. But it, like him, was calm and patient, and listened to a language it largely heard as noise. He uttered words on and on, and some were pretty while others were fair, and some were soft while others were hard; and when he would speak the same word, “Nightmare,” he was warm with his intonation. And the demon, within, felt a warmth as well that had come upon it quite suddenly. A whole change in the air confused it. But so long as the giver of life held his touch and gave it comfort, the golem would be peaceful in its trust.

Magic leaked into the air from his lips, every syllable of incantation imbuing the forces of life and nature, Earth and Hell, those that were human and diabolical—all, combined, alive with the distinctive violet hue of his art, would grant the warlock that which he sought in all fairness of practice. There was power in the atmosphere, a presence of miasma that was inherent in all demonic dealings, but V was no stranger to the forces whirling about his body or the sensations bouncing and dancing all across his skin. This was a power only he could wield, which only he understood in the way that was so personal and individual, his and his alone. His eyes had been closed for concentration; and as he felt the demon's spirit closer to his own, he bridged the gap by granting the demon knowledge of his sacred name. “My name is Vitale.”

Vitale, not V, who he really was, whom he would always be. All his familiars knew it, and now, too, did Nightmare. He'd forbidden anyone else the privilege—to such an extent that he would forget a moniker was only a moniker.

And maybe, with the bond formed and the final pledges made, he could be less of V, more of Vitale.

“Come, on wings of joy we’ll fly To where my bower hangs on high; Come, and make thy calm retreat, Among green leaves and blossoms sweet.”

It shot through him—power, life, trust, a connection. All of Nightmare, all at once, vanishing from sight as the finest black particles to join with its master on his body, new markings alongside those previous, fitting snugly between each one to fill more of his skin, claiming him for itself in so doing. But this demon took more than the warlock had counted on. It cloaked hair so white in its embrace and painted it black, a deep, true ebony that could have contested even the darkest of shadows. It startled him when his eyes opened, and he grabbed at the strands and his scalp as if to make sense of what had just happened. With the demon finally bound to him, the air fell flat. Magic, left; power, absorbed; spirits, gone. Only V now, and his familiars.

The changes in him were not only skin-deep. Somehow, in some way, he felt Nightmare's weight on him. He felt its strength, too, albeit faintly in his psyche; and he felt his strength, greater than it had been minutes ago, spiritually, but still quite subtle materially, in presence. It was like Griffon's or Shadow's, but Nightmare was a demon on an entirely elevated level. And it must have been for that sole reason that V could feel his body suddenly so tired—and this to such a degree that he slouched a little as a result. His two familiars neared him, relieved to see that he'd survived his experiment.

That's right... He'd succeeded. He hadn't even remembered what hell he'd put himself through for the past several weeks. It all paid off. But he didn't think of it. He used his foot to clear away the casting on the ground, the salt spread in all directions as it was rendered ineffective anyway. When he took one solitary step forward to pet his doting shapeshifter, he felt a weakness in the knees that nearly downed him. It was a stumble, that was all...! No one pointed it out to him, and he was thankful for that.

He'd never felt that before, not even when he'd run himself ragged.

“I gotta hand it to you, kid,” Griffon praised, “you stuck to your idiot guns and got what you wanted. You've gotta be feeling so good about yourself.”

V couldn't help answering distractedly. “Yeah.” He ran his hands through Shadow's fur all the while she circled him, offering fond nudges as though to comfort him. “It's...kind of strange.” He did not eye Griffon.

“What? Too much power for you?”

Was that it?

The answer had to wait as V spent a moment collecting the candles, pouring salt over the area, and defacing the inverted pentagram. This circle, too, was cleared away. But his silence often spoken volumes, so he did not doubt that his demons were already forming conclusions in their dark minds. Their eyes were certainly fixed on him as he had his back turned. When he should have been feeling joyous and fulfilled, he found that, instead, he was...undecided with his feelings, ultimately.

“What about your hair, anyway? I've never seen that happen before.”

“It's strange. I don't know if I'll get used to it,” the warlock admitted, knitting his brows as he caught sight of a strand of black hair falling in front of his eye. What a change—and now he was as if a perfect shadow, black on the bottom and black on top. God, that must have screamed something about him.

“It's not that bad on you, actually,” the chatty demon observed, his tone impressed. But he wanted to know about Nightmare, and he wanted to know that V was satisfied and had finally gotten over his obsession with it. “But we're avoiding the subject, aren't we? Tell us how you feel. I mean, after everything you went through, was it worth it after all? Sure, the big lummox agreed to entering the rite and all—and I'm still shocked it didn't go berserk on us—but it didn't exactly strike me as the intelligent kind. I'm not saying you gotta talk to be smart, but—”

“Sometimes talking less masks stupidity.” V flashed a fleeting smirk. “I guess...I feel all right. Exhausted, but...all right. I think the pressure's just finally catching up to me.” A soft breeze rustled the canopies some feet away. What time had it been? He packed up his materials as Griffon continued to talk his ear off. V blocked him out for the most part, concerned by the strange sensation in his legs. It wasn't tiredness, it wasn't pain. He knew the difference. Lacking a better idea, all he could compare it to was weakness; and all he could figure was that it was his fault in the end, because he'd been so desperate and power-starved that he threw all caution to the four winds for the sake of summoning a demon that was potentially out of his league. Maybe what Griffon had said, about “too much power,” was right. Maybe it had been too much for V, but he'd never given that the kind of thought it deserved. All he wanted was some semblance of self-reliance, the knowledge that he could really hold his own and fold in fear to no one, not man nor demon. It was all he wanted and he'd found it. He had it. Nightmare was his. A demon once under the command of an emperor was now in V's bony hands, and it should have gratified him more.

If anything, he came to realize that he was in error for believing that he could just take from demons as much as he'd wanted, without repercussions. The essence that was Nightmare's which he'd felt through his touch was felt in the back of his mind, only now it was perpetual, and he thought that demon might read what he was thinking, might even influence him if he was not careful.

Because he did, he did feel different. Physically and psychologically. He felt the weight on and the weakness in his body. He felt an intangible strength, and with it an unusual sway to his psyche. While his thoughts remained his own, and he felt himself his own man, he too sensed that there was suddenly more to him. In heart and mind where his inner demon dwelt, he felt it with more clarity than ever. All that was demonic in him, purely of him and from which he was born, seemed more alive now, so suddenly, after Nightmare joined with him to serve him as intended. But it was not Nightmare's doing: V knew, with every familiar claimed, that the demonic blood in him which was so diluted had gained some amplification; and after every demon bound to his skin, more and more of the devil liked to play. It was no wonder that he'd gotten so much more impertinent and stubborn and dark-humored, and that he more and more enjoyed slaying the infernal interlopers who had no place upon the Earth so long as they posed as threats to it. It was no wonder that V was more and more a devil in his own right. Puberty had brought that on, but surrounding himself with demons helped it along. And even that was no such concern for him, because he still believed he could stand a change in character. He hated his meekness.

Maybe there was something more to it all. A change in character would suit the change in his fashion—he'd forgotten he'd been wearing something new, and only when he slung his filled rucksack over his shoulder had he remembered that he'd not worn sleeves. He felt good in what he wore, and comfortable, and he liked that the loneliness of the field afforded him a peace of mind with which to walk freely. No one around to judge him, watch him, or try to break the ice with him. And even if there had been, he liked to believe that the devil inside shouldn't have to care anymore. When he used to be a boy who'd been too frightened to make decisions and take first steps, tonight he'd proven that he was dauntless and relentless, and impossible to sway when he'd had his mind set; and though he showed recklessness, he often paired that with a quick resourcefulness and the ability to rebound. In his teenage years he was too shy to function, but the coming of age brought about a kind of daring that was, more than anything, born from his own distaste toward himself and a desire to mature, evolve, improve. And he had. Every year that passed, he grew up a little more, learned better of the adult world, and adapted more nimbly to things that were outside of his control. And though he had still a ways to go, he was getting there. He was only twenty-one, still too naive and fresh-faced, inept and awkward with people, and continually healed where his trauma was concerned. Emotional scars ran deeply, and they hadn't quite closed. They didn't. That's why the young man, though still a boy for all intents and purposes, bled from his hidden wounds to the present day.

Perhaps there was something more to be gained from Nightmare than simply its alliance. V had finally realized that he'd met his goal—probably his hardest one to reach yet. He'd resurrected a demon from death! He formed a vessel for the spirit to inhabit, to use as its own body and reshape it as it pleased. He tamed the demon with the art of the spoken word, nothing more, and successfully bound it to him, himself to it. Things that he had not even practiced before had all worked on his very first attempt, and if that in itself was not a sign of growth and experience, then nothing else could be. Before his own eyes he improved upon his craft, gained a new skill while mastering older ones, and granted a second chance to a soul which, in its previous life, had been used as a tool only to be slain by its master's foe. That couldn't have been any kind of life to live and it certainly wasn't any kind of afterlife. Here, V showed he was merciful, too; and it may have been by sheer coincidence that things had turned out that way, his intent originally to bind the most powerful demon he could host on his body, but ever since he'd laid eyes on the thing—touched it with heart and soul—he felt differently. He wanted more than what he bargained for, and in several ways he'd gotten it. Nightmare was to be as much a friend to him as Griffon and Shadow, as much a part of their small family unit as anyone else in it. More than power and bravado, he wanted connection, and comfort, and someone more to trust, and someone to trust in him, to need him, to value him as he'd value them. And he found it in Nightmare. He found a lot in Nightmare. When the demon joined with his body and the cloud of maddened obsession lifted from his psyche, the warlock could finally see it all: his mistake, mistakes, his flaws and talents, his honest needs, what he was and who he thought he wanted to be, should be, and how he ought to be it. There was a truth revealed to him in bonding with Nightmare and in everything he'd done to get there in the first place. Everything from his devotion to his dress, from his guts to his tenderness.

V thought he'd found himself, through this. He'd found at least a part of Vitale—and he'd chip away at himself to find even more until he was all out in the open. Still so young, he had so much time for it.

As he walked back the path he'd taken, Shadow had melted to darken his form along with Griffon shortly after. There was no conversation to be had between man and devil; and V got away with leaving many of Griffons' questions unanswered. Fatigue, he'd explained. Partly true. Already was he tiring himself out, pushing more than he was used to just to keep on the path. If he expected to stand on his own two feet with his head held high, confidence on his brow and the steadfast backing of his infernal friends, he wouldn't do it looking and feeling so tuckered out. But he'd done wrong to reflect on it now. V had inevitably seen himself home.

Griffon and Shadow were freed to sleep where they pleased the moment V locked the door. Sleep was not often something that he looked forward to. Given the frequency of his nightmares, he would start in the middle of the night with his traumas and insecurities brought to the forefront of his mind as if he'd lived through every painful experience all over again. But he was too tired to care when he flung himself on his bed, and he likewise did not fight the fading of his consciousness when he slipped right off to sleep. He always would, and horror would reliably wake him. Only, tonight, it didn't. He didn't wake. He'd slept in unintentionally when dawn broke. It was strange to him that he'd felt mildly rested in the morning, when he would oft feel sleepy. He didn't remember any disturbance in his sleep. But the black of his hair made him wonder; and, still, the tiredness in his body hadn't left him. He would go to the same field that night in an attempt to call Nightmare from its hideaway for the first time, but the demon did not come. Try as he did, driven to worry and exasperation, thinking even that he'd betrayed his new friend in some irreversible manner, the familiar would not emerge. Griffon suggested a thousand things to try, and those that were sensible resulted in failure.

But...V did think of one thing before quitting for the night. He thought to be playful, as if coaxing a child from its hiding place, when he poured his will and his warmth into a snap of his fingers. From the sky came crashing down a meteorite, V's hair suddenly white.

Ah, so that's how it is.

[franeridart]

i miss your haikyuu art so much it was the best - dont get me wrong i fucking adore your bnha art but like,,,,, haikyuu,,,,,,,

Well pal, aren’t you lucky, you might have been missing from my blog in the past two weeks but if you scroll down just three posts you might notice I’ve been drawing haikyuu again (x x x)

Anon said:People don’t remember baccano anymore? :o

I assumed so since it’s been ten years since it aired and the fandom has always been small and quiet anyway, but it looks like I assumed wrong!!!! That made me so happy, honestly? Baccano’s my fav anime ever, it’s always super nice to see it appreciated!

Anon said:I’M HAPPY YOU LIKE BACCANO! NOBODY KNOWS IT

Anon said:Omg thanks for the baccano au I love it.

Anon said: BACCANO!! I love you so much right now!!!

Anon said: YOU DID A BACCANO CROSSOVER!! IVE NEVER SEEN ONE DUDE MAJOR PROPS TO YOU!!!! I literally love that series, it was one of my first ones so seeing it mixed with one of my current favourites is surreal!!

Anon said: DID YOU JUT DO A BACCANO AU OMG ITA BEEN SO LONG SINCE IVE WATCHED THAT IT WAS MY FAVE 😭😭😭😭😭 i cried so much during it all the time it was so badass

This is exactly what I was talking about!!! So HAPPY all of you love that anime as much as I do! And thank you SO MUCH for liking the crossover!!!!!!! ;O;

Anon said:Fran, just out of curiosity, what colors do you associate with Bakugou/Kirishima/the rest of the squad?

The ones I use to write their dialogues! Orange for Bakugou, red for Kirishima, gold for Sero, yellow for Kaminari and pink for Ashido! :D

Anon said: tumblr has been a butt and not notified me of your post but i saw your nishinoya and i died i love the way you draw him and boiiiiii bokuto and kuroo be looking smokin and your kiribaku (is that right??? im a failure i cant remember!!!:( ) is amazing SO MUCH FLUFF i die of happiness. keep up the lovely work 💕👌👌👌

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE KIND WORDS HOLY SMOKES!!!!!!!

Anon said:I love your art its so amazing.

Thank youuu ;u;

Anon said:I was just wondering if I could use one of your drawings of Kuroo as a phone background (just for personal use! It’s fine if you don’t want me too! I’m a huge fan and I hope you’re having a nice day~)

Sure! As long as it’s just for personal use I don’t mind at all!!

Anon said:Oh wow, thanks for the tutorial! I think it will be really helpful!

I’m glad to hear that!!!! :D

Anon said: what is the jock / nerd thing?

At this point it’s mostly a meme, I’d say haha

Anon said:ASDFGHJKL *-* Your art is to beautiful for the world

That’s!!!! Too kind of you oh man (〃´ﾉω`〃)

Anon said:Your kiri is so pretty.

THANK YOU!! Every Kiri is super pretty tho, it’s the intrinsic Kirishima-ness of the Kiris that makes them beautiful whatever style they’re drawn in! :O

Anon said:YOUR ZORA ITS SO GOOD I LOVE HIM AS MUCH AS YOU DO AND WHEN I SAW YOU DRAW HIM I WAS LIKE: a m a z i n g 💕💕💕

OH MAN THANK YOU I love that disaster of a trickster so much I’m glad I could make him come out okay ;O;

Anon said:so i left tumblr a while ago?? but i check back every so often bc ur pretty much my favorite tumblr artist ever

Aw man thank you so so so much this means the world to me! ;u; sometimes it’s hard for me to see any improvement in my own art so knowing that you can see it helps a lot!

Anon said:your art is literally my favourite thing in the entire world i love it all! i hope you’re having a good day and taking care of yourself! x

GOSH THANK U I hope you’re having the best day too, anon!!!!

Anon said:Asahi is so pretty when you draw him, I love it; my gentle son, in your amazing art style.

I’M!!!!!! Glad you liked him!!!!!!! That boy is 100% out of my comfort zone so knowing he came out okay is super nice!!!!! :D 

Anon said:The way I drew the bakusquad in that one set of images … They’re like … On the cover of Vogue or something. It’s aesthetically good to my eyes man. Also you kinda got me into tetsukami?? I don’t understand it at all but now im into it BC of ur fanart and bc of other fanart but Imma blame u and im grateful to have another ship to hyperfixate over. Anyway I love youu and your art man, i wish u many good days

Oh man I love you too anon this ask made me so happy???? And I’m especially happy I could get you into tetsukami! It doesn’t make much sense as a ship, does it? But they’d be fun interacting and their quirks work well together, so I have fun thinking about them! I hope they’ll interact in the classes 1a and 1b will have to share in the future! :D

Anon said:Oh I love your Noya’s, so glad you drew my boy again!:)

Thank you for liking him!!!!!! He’s hard to draw but I love him and he makes me happy!!! What a boy!!!

Anon said:Have you seen little noya in the newest chapter

I HAVE little boyo already had his blond hair how cute is that! The newest chapter made me really warm inside I really loved the whole speech Noya made ;u; my inspiring little lightning bolt !!

Anon said:I really really love your bnha art! But put some highlights on the kirabakus one, you probably have the quirk to melt my heart with them ;w;

That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever read!!!!! Thank you SO MUCH!!!!!! ;O;

Anon said:Who do you think would propose? Bakugo or Kirishima???

I actually answered a similar question a while ago! But I can’t find it so I guess to sum it up I mostly think at some point it’d just become something both of them have talked about throught the years enough times that by then it’ll just be something they are gonna do, sooner or later, and when it’ll happen it’ll be more like “we have a stable income and a house and a dog and a cat and are p much already married we should really do this already” - in a scenario like that either of the two works, for me haha

Anon said:the best thing was that I just a moment before u posted I felt bad and pissed ad sad, but then all that disappeared ;V;

I’m!!!!! So happy to know I could help you like that!!!! ;O;

Anon said:Can I just say, I’ve been following your art a long time (I’ve always loved it!) and I’ve really noticed a lot of growth and improvement in your style? The thing that always impresses me most is how you are able to take simplified facial features and make them SO expressive. You convey emotions so well and I love it so much. Thanks for always giving us art to smile about! Hope you are having a lovely day!

THANK YOU SO MUCH OH MY G OD!!!! I’m!!!!! crying!!!! probably!!!!!!! FrICK!!!! ;A;

Anon said:KINONOYA!!!!!!

INDEED!!!!! What a good relationship they have!!!!!

Anon said:You draw Sero so good oml he’s too pretty

Anon said:THAT SERO YOU DREW!!! *clutches heart* n i c e !!!!

;O; I’m glad you like him?????? gods!!!!

Anon said:I love the way you draw Kaminari, he looks beautiful in your art style! ^^

SOB you guys are all so nice to me I’m gonna cry for real here ;U; thank you!!!

Anon said:Whenever I’m sad I look at your art and everything feels better.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! happy I can help you with your mood!!!!!!!

Anon said:When you Kiri with his hair down, I’m always like “that’s it, that’s the cutest Kiri ever” and then you draw him with it spiked and I’m like “no wait, there it is, the cutest Kiri.” And now you go and give me both Kiri’s in that adorable pair of sketches and how is that even fair because how am I supposed to handle that? I can’t even decide anymore. All your kiris are the cutest Kiri.

THANK YOU !!!!!!!!! All Kiris are the cutest Kiris tho, aren’t they? What an inherently cute boy he is!!!

Anon said:i showed my friend your art and since we both find it super good, we both decided to try to draw more regularly because we want get better and get a smooth(? idk how to say it in english lmao) style like yours so thank you for the motivation/inspiration!!

:O !!!!!! I hope you and your friend will have fun while at it, anon!!!!! :D

Anon said:I love your bakushima

AND I LOVE YOU

Anon said:drawing ppl from above is so cool though!! i really like these kinda pics ✨ (esp bo and tetsu, so /cool/!!) dont give up, fran❤

Please don’t enable me anon, if you give me the green light I’m gonna keep on drawing that sorta angle forever hahahaha (thank u so much for the compliment, tho!!!!)

Anon said: ahhh i love your recent kiribaku drawings! they are so cool!!

That was about the red and teal ones, right? Thank you so much!!!! Working with colors like that isn’t something I do often, so I’m really really happy that you guys ended up liking them!!!

Anon said: Row! Row! Fight the power!!

I don’t know what brought this on but HECK YES

Anon said:Man I love all your art, fanart and OCs alike! And your BNHA is such an inspiration and one of the reasons I started writing fic. Have a great day!

OH BOY that’s such a nice thing to know!! I hope you’re having lotsa fun writing fics, anon!! And I also hope you’re having a great day, too!!!

Anon said:OK, i’m sorry for sounding this emotional, but OMG your art makes me cry. it’s just… so beautiful… *there i go again* *crying*

*hands u tissue* thank you so much but please don’t cry!!!!

Anon said:I’M CRYING LUCA’S BIRTHDAY IS THE DAY BEFORE MINE, I’M A PHYSICS MAJOR, A MAJOR DOG (and cat) PERSON, AS WELL AS A MORNING PERSON LIKE WH A T

You’re the second person that tells me they’re really similar to one of my ocs!!!! I wonder what that means? :O but it’s a fun thing to know, anyway!!! :D I hope you don’t mind Luca being so similar to you, anon haha

Anon said: What do you think would happen if eraserhead erased fatgum’s quirk?

He’d probably just lose his ability to absorb hits and then re-use their power? :? but if he’s fat he’s gonna stay fat and if he’s slim he’s gonna stay slim, I think :O

Anon said:Oh my god you know kekkai sensen I’m actually crying I love kekkai sensen but no one I know likes it/knows about it and aaaaaaa I love your art and you drew something from kekkai sensen and thats amazing!!!!

I’M GLAD YOU LIKED IT and I know right? Kkss has such a small fandom! Which to me is super weird considering how much following Trigun used to have? :O it’s definitely one of the best anime I’ve seen in recent times, tho!!!

Anon said:FRAAAANNNNNNNN!!!! I’m soo excited!! I might be getting a tote from your shop for Christmas! My friend asked what I wanted, so I looked at your store, and chose a tote with Mina, and Hagakure (?) And he told me to send him the link!

HOLY SMOKES THANK YOU FOR BUYING MY STUFF ANON THIS SERIOUSLY MEANS THE WORLD TO ME!!!!!!!

Anon said: Your art is so good! I especially love your black and white stuff! Its really punchy! Also all your Kiribaku content makes my heart melt!!!!!!

*gross sobbing* thank you so much!!!!!!!!!

Anon said:would it be okay…if i drew luca (giving credit to you tho obv) i just love him so much GOD

YES!!!!!! Please do link me to it if you do draw him, I wanna see!!!!! :D

Anon said:Hey! I really liked your OCs and i was especially intrigued by Max and Leo!! Do you mind telling us more about their relationship? They look so sweet!!! Love ya and keep being awesome!

Thank you so much for liking my kids!!!! ;O; and sadly I can’t tell you too much about them cause their story is a bit still up in the air as far as details go, but in general they used to be best friends back when they were kids, then the accident that gave Leo his scars happened and for reason they lost track of each other for a long while - they met again recently, tho! Leo’s been in love with Max since they were babies and being able to talk to him and interact with him again makes him incredibly happy/mushy/soft but also absurdly and unreasonably overprotective since he’s really, really scared of losing him again - Max… because of plot-related reasons hasn’t realized that Leo is the kid he used to know back when he was super young, so his falling in love with him happens as the story progresses. He finds the overprotectiveness silly and unecessary, but he doesn’t exactly mind it? He has a feeling it helps Leo more than it helps him, so he lets him do his thing. All in all, maybe Max takes more care of Leo than Leo of Max. Welp, their story is kind of a mess haha

Anon said:Have you ever thought about doing nsfw? Or at least something kinda hot?

This is actually answered in my faq! But yeah, no, I don’t do nsfw, sorry! Something kinda hot… maybe in the future? But I gotta be in a very specific mood that doesn’t come around too often, so I dunno if and when that’s gonna be!

[dantediscoversfic]

Chapter 31: Oscar Ramirez

I got over the flu but it left behind a restless drawn-tight feeling inside me that I couldn’t shake. I went to visit Ari every day but other than that I didn’t leave my room much. My mom finally insisted on scheduling an appointment for me to see one of her counselor colleagues, Oscar Ramirez. I didn’t fight her too hard on it. I knew it was probably a good idea to talk someone. Oscar worked for the same shelter/halfway house my mom did in addition to having an off-site office. I’d met a few of her colleagues before but never Oscar, which made the idea of talking to him easier somehow.

Ari had been released from the hospital for about a week and a half by the time I went to talk to Oscar for the first time. I’d been going over to Ari’s house every day to visit him. Sometimes we’d go for “walk and rolls” around the neighborhood but mostly we hung out in his room. I decided to read The Sun Also Rises aloud to him (mostly because Hemingway’s sparse, terse writing style reminded me of Ari, but I didn’t tell him that). I read a chapter or two each visit and we’d talk about it after. One time we talked about where we’d go if we decided to become dissolute ex-patriots like the characters in the novel and travel the world together. I wanted to go to Paris; Ari wanted to go to Iceland or Norway. When I asked him why, he said he was sick of the Texas heat and wanted to see the Northern Lights.

“I bet there’s no light pollution up there,” he said.

“Sure, no light pollution, but the winter’s colder than a witch’s tit.”

He snorted. “I wouldn’t mind the cold.”

“How do you know? You’ve lived in Texas your whole life.”

“It snows here sometimes, you know. Like two Christmases ago.”

“I know, but El Paso winter is nothing like up there. We’d need to bring special snowsuits and camping gear or risk dying of hypothermia.”

“It’d be worth it though. To go somewhere so remote and cold and quiet.”

“Sounds like you really want to go on vacation to The Fortress of Solitude.”

“Hey, don’t knock The Fortress. A man needs a place where he can be alone and think.”

“And freeze his face and nuts off in the process.”

“That’s just the price you pay to stop everyone being all up in your business all the time. And anyway, Superman is impervious to frost bite. And don’t talk about Superman’s nuts. That’s sacrilegious.”

“I wasn’t talking about Superman’s nuts specifically. Just frozen nuts in general.”

“Okay okay enough with the nuts talk. Jesus.”

“What? They’re just a body part. No weirder than pinky toes or noses.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Hey I’m pretty wiped…so…I might take a nap or something.”

Ari’s face was flushed he looked sort of agitated so I cut my visit short after that. I could tell something was off between us but I didn’t try to press him. Sometimes when I went to visit I wasn’t even sure if he wanted me there. I figured he had every reason to be resentful of me. It was my fault he was stuck at home for the rest of the summer, at the mercy of his painfully itchy and useless legs. I was afraid more than anything that he’d want to stop being friends with me if I needled him too much or asked him what was wrong. So it was easier to talk about books or imaginary plans to travel the world together than what I actually wanted to talk about, which was how badly I was going to miss him when we moved and how sorry I still was about the accident.

When the time came for my appointment with the counselor, I was nervous even though I knew seeking counseling was a totally normal thing to do. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“Do I have to lay down on a couch?” I asked my mom on the car ride over.

She smiled. “Of course not. That’s the sort of thing you really only see in movies nowadays.”

“Good, because that part always seemed a little weird. Do I have to analyze my dreams?”

“Only if you want to.”

“What if I run out of things to say and we just stare at each other in awkward silence the whole time?”

“You’ve never had a particular problem with maintaining conversation, Dante. You can talk to him about whatever you want. Or not talk. No pressure.”

What I really wanted to ask her was if she thought the accident had messed me up somehow, or worse, messed Ari up, and that’s the real reason she wanted me to talk to a counselor. Not physically messed us up. But if I’d caused something to get broken inside us. I had no issue with the field of psychiatry in general, seeing as it was my mother’s profession, but I didn’t like the idea of a stranger realizing there was something wrong with me that needed fixing.

Oscar had an office in the El Paso Child and Teen Guidance Center, which was located in a shopping center. That sort of surprised me. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t the totally mundane looking storefront hiding in plain sight next to a hair salon, pet store and a travel agency. Oscar greeted us at the reception desk, where he kissed my mom on the cheek and shook my hand.

Oscar was around my parents’ age. He was on the stocky side, but not fat or anything. He was the type of solid build that you could describe as equally fitting for a linebacker and a big teddy bear. He had a round, friendly face and close cut salt-and-pepper black hair that didn’t do much to make his appearance less boyish and wholesome. He had a firm handshake and big hands.

“Dante, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Your mom has told me a lot about you.”

“Thanks, you too. I mean, nice to meet you, too.”

After my mom checked me in and filled out some paperwork, she left me with Oscar and told me she’d be waiting for me in the reception area.

Oscar’s office was bright and decorated with colorful furniture, throw rugs and artwork, which also surprised me. In my mind I’d pictured something much more stuffy and clinical. To one side of the room was a small couch and an armchair, both plush and comfy looking; between them was a coffee table with a box of Kleenex on it, which I was determined I would not have to use come hell or high water. On the other side of the room was a kid-sized table and chairs plus art supplies and toy boxes, set up like a mini preschool. Seeing the kid stuff made me feel strange. A little sad for the kids who needed to come in here. The office also had a desk, several bookshelves, and a beverage station. Overall it felt more like a living room than an office.

Oscar gestured toward the couch. “Please, take a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want some water? Tea?”

“I’m okay.”

Oscar sat down in the armchair across from me. “So, Dante. Before we get started, I just wanted to let you know that even though your mother and I are colleagues and she let me know a little bit about why she wanted you to come see me today, I want you to feel like this is a safe space to share anything that’s on your mind with the understanding that I take your trust and confidentiality seriously.”

“Even though I’m a minor and you’re legally allowed to tell my parents what we discuss?” I asked. I’d done my research about confidentiality ahead of time. More than the accident I wanted to talk about what it meant that I loved my best friend who was a boy, but I’d decided already to keep that part of me sealed in the vault no matter what. I couldn’t be 100% sure he wouldn’t tell my parents about that.

Oscar smiled. “You are definitely Soledad’s son. Yes, you’re absolutely correct. Even though you’re a minor I would breach confidentiality only if I was worried for your personal safety or the safety of others or in the rare instance that my notes were subpoenaed by a court order.”

“Wow, that would be pretty badass.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow but was still grinning. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Sure, yeah. I was just joking. Discussion of client confidentiality protocol: check.”

It was a relief to hear him say he wasn’t going to tell my parents everything we talked about, but I still wasn’t quite ready to dive right into the accident.

“I like your office,” I said, stalling. I pointed to the kids’ area. “Do you work with a lot of children?”

“A fair number.”

“Do you do art therapy with them?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the child.”

“I’ve read all about the field of art therapy. I think it’s fascinating. If I don’t become a professional artist I might become an art therapist.”

“Would you like to do any drawing right now? We could start with some art exercises if you’re not in the mood to talk at the moment.”

“No, that’s okay. It’s hard for me to draw because of my broken arm. I’m a right-y. But thanks for offering.”

“So you’re okay to talk?”

I nodded.

“I’m glad. So, I understand from your mother that you and a friend of yours were involved in a car accident about three weeks ago and she’s concerned you haven’t been quite yourself since. That you’ve been having nightmares and seem much more withdrawn than usual. Do you want to talk about the accident? Or about what’s been on your mind?”

“So she already told you what happened?”

“Briefly. But I’d like to hear it from you, if you feel comfortable talking about it.”

“Well, it’d been raining and I went out into the street and didn’t see a car coming.” For some reason I didn’t want to tell him about the injured bird I’d seen. “Ari pushed me out of the way of the car and broke both his legs and his arm. He could have died but he didn’t.”

“Ari is your friend?”

“Yeah, my best friend.”

“How is he handling everything?”

“Um. Ok. I dunno. He can be kind of hard to read sometimes. They recently let him out of the hospital. He’s stuck in casts for the rest of the summer because of me.”

“And how have you felt since the accident?”

“I think my mom is worried that I’m showing signs of anxiety, depression and PTSD and that’s why they want me to talk to you. But I don’t have PTSD.”

“No?”

“No. I looked it up in the DSM-IV.” I ticked each symptom off with my fingers. “I’m not having recurring flashbacks or panic attacks. I’m not avoiding cars or the street. I’m not having angry outbursts. Well, I’m still kind of pissed at my parents about deciding to move to Chicago but that’s a different thing. Yeah, my dreams have been a little weird and I’m not sleeping great but that’s because my arm cast is so annoying. So I think we can safely say I don’t have PTSD. Possibly a little low-level anxiety. But I do deep breaths if I start feeling weird.”

“I don’t want to rule anything out just yet, but I’m happy to hear you’re listening to your body and your emotions. What do you mean when you say you start feeling weird?”

“I guess…sad. Stomach crampy. Frustrated. I think I’m worried about Ari. About how he’s recovering. About not being able to help him when we move.”

“It sounds to me like you might blame yourself for what happened to Ari.”

“Well, yeah, because it was my fault.”

“Who said it was your fault?”

“No one said it was my fault. But it obviously was.”

“Why do you feel that way?”

“It’s not feelings, it’s the facts. I went out to the street, I wasn’t paying attention and Ari got hurt because I was stupid and off in my own little world instead of paying attention to the road. And the thing about Ari is, he doesn’t like it when I’m upset, so he only let me apologize once and then he said we’re not allowed to talk about the accident anymore. He has some kind of stoic boy code about it. He wants to pretend it never happened.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Well, I don’t think we should, you know, dwell on it or anything. But I want him to know how sorry I am that I almost got him killed and ruined the rest of his summer.”

“Did Ari say anything like that to you? That you ruined his summer?”

“No. But he’s not big on talking anyway. But, like I said before, it’s a fact. Now he’s stuck in a wheelchair until his legs heal and he can’t do anything except hang around his house and read books and I know he’s pissed about it even if he won’t say anything.”

“Has he ever expressed anger or regret about what he did? That he saved your life?”

“No. Nothing like that. He’s just been moody and sullen. I mean, he’s been in a lot of pain so I don’t blame him for being crabby. I just don’t want him to hate me.”

“Why do you think he would hate you? It seems to me to be quite the opposite, that he cares about you very much. Do you want to tell me about him? How did you two become friends?”

“We met at the pool. I offered to give him swimming lessons. Because he didn’t know how to swim properly.”

“You like to swim?”

“Almost more than anything. Well, I like swimming, reading, drawing, stargazing and hanging out with Ari pretty much equally.” I lifted my cast arm and pulled a face. “Now my life is pretty much limited to reading and hanging out with Ari and teaching myself to become ambidextrous. Not that I’m complaining. I mean, I’m lucky to be alive. I know it’s babyish but I miss swimming with him. I wish I could retcon the whole day of the accident.”

“Retcon?”

“Oh that’s a comic book thing. Basically when the writers change things retroactively in a story to make up for continuity errors. Sort of like a big do-over. Usually that sort of thing bugs the heck out of me because it seems so lazy. But I get the appeal now. Like you have God’s big eraser.”

“It’s natural to wish you could change the past so easily. But it’s equally important to learn how to move forward. And to not beat yourself up over something you can’t change.”

I shrugged and picked at my cast. “I just keep thinking that if it had been Ari in the middle of the road, I wouldn’t have been able to save him. I wouldn’t have been fast or strong enough. He was like Superman, the way he dove at me and pushed me out of the way.”

“Why do you think you wouldn’t have been able to help him if your roles were reversed?”

“Because when I saw the car coming, I just froze.”

“That could have been your body experiencing a fight or flight reaction. And also Ari saw the car coming whereas you did not, yes? So he had more time to think and react.”

“But still, I don’t think I could ever be as brave as he was.”

“You may be underestimating yourself and your strength. It sounds to me like you’re beating yourself up about a theoretical past as well as construing what actually happened to place all the blame on yourself. Just imagine what the people driving the car must have felt like. They most likely felt guilt as well. But motor accidents happen so quickly, in a blink of an eye, that it’s not helpful to play the blame game after the fact, particularly if it’s determined that the driver wasn’t under the influence of drugs or alcohol and the accident was just that: an accident. I would advise you to try not to blame yourself for the actions of others. And if that’s difficult, you may want to ask yourself, what am I getting out of continuing to blame myself for something that was out of my control?”

I didn’t quite know what to say to that.

He must have seen my confusion so he rephrased his question. “In other words, are you holding onto feelings of guilt and shame because you don’t think you’re worthy of having a friend who cares about you enough to put his own life in danger to save yours?”

I didn’t think I was worthy of it. But thinking about that made me start to feel like I might cry, which I had been determined not to do, so I clamped down and said nothing for awhile.

After a bit of silence Oscar said, “You know, I never read comics but my daughter loves them.”

“Really? Which ones? Betty and Veronica?”

“Actually The X-Men is her favorite. She loves all the Saturday morning cartoons based on comics, too.”

“How old is she?”

“Twelve.”

“And she doesn’t think X-Men is too scary?”

“Well, she’s always been a tough little cookie. Never was into any of the princess stuff. Except She-Ra Princess of Power. She adores She-Ra.”

“She-Ra is pretty rad.”

“Do you have a favorite comic?”

“Ari teases me about it, but I really like Archie. He thinks they’re lame. Which, sure, yeah, they can be pretty cheesy. But I don’t like the really dark comics.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. There’s no rule that says you have to like all the same things your friends do.”

“Believe me I know that. I know I’m a little weird.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s not a secret or anything. Ari’s the first guy I’ve met my age who really gets me. I’ve never really had a best friend like him before. Not since we moved to El Paso anyway. I had a best friend in California but that was already years ago. We hardly see each other or write letters anymore.”

“And you’re worried that the accident and the move to Chicago will have a negative impact on your friendship with Ari? That you’ll lose touch and stop being friends? And you blame yourself for this future you see happening?”

I nodded, hoping to dislodge the traitorous lump that was forming in my throat.

“You’ve told me Ari hasn’t expressed anger or regret to you about the accident. It sounds to me like he values you and your friendship very much. He values you enough to have put himself at risk when he saw you were in danger. This doesn’t sound to me like a fair weather friend. And there are many ways to stay in touch. You can write letters and talk on the phone.”

“Sure, yeah.”

“I’d like to circle back to what you said at the start, about you being insistent about not having PTSD.”

“Okay…”

“It’s important to remember that everyone reacts to stress and trauma differently. You have in fact experienced a traumatic event. Your life and the life of your best friend was put in danger. For many people, acute stages of trauma may occur two to four weeks after the event itself. So it’s totally normal for your life and mental health to take some time settle back into place. You’re allowed to feel frustrated, angry, worried, scared and whatever other emotions might arise. It’s important to not rush to judge or ignore your feelings. You’ve mentioned that Ari isn’t talkative when it comes to expressing emotions, which is valid and what he needs right now to process the accident. But for you, I get the sense that you have a lot you’d like to express, either verbally or visually. Would journaling or drawing about the accident help you move forward?”

“Maybe…I usually keep a journal but I haven’t been able to write or draw much with my broken arm. When I draw with my left hand it’s like I’m in preschool again.”

“As I’m sure you know, artists express emotions in non-figurative ways all the time. If I asked you to express your feelings about the accident in abstract visual form and not worry how it looks compared to your other drawings, would that be a helpful thing to do?”

“Maybe. It still might look like chicken scratch.”

“Nothing wrong with that. If you feel more comfortable creating a collage we can try that instead.”

"I'd like to try to draw I think."

Oscar got out some paper and colored pencils and markers and charcoals for me. Instead of sitting at the kiddie table he let me sit at his desk to work. The first thing he had me do was draw how thinking about the accident made me feel.

Without really thinking about it, I picked up a black charcoal and started drawing the injured bird in the middle of the road. I used heavy black strokes. It was frustrating at first to not have complete control of the charcoal like I usually did but just putting marks and lines on the paper felt okay. But the drawing still left me with a hollow feeling.

“This is what I saw,” I told Oscar. “I saw an injured bird in the road and I went to pick it up and that’s why I didn’t see the car coming. I think I killed it. The bird.”

“And this makes you sad?”

“Yeah. I wanted to save it. But it still got killed. And Ari got hurt. It was stupid of me. I should have seen the car coming.”

“Is there anything you can do to this drawing now to make you feel less sad about it?”

“When I first saw the bird, it was on the road. But then I picked it up and held it close to my chest.”

I drew a hand around the bird, but it still didn’t feel right. Too stark and bleak. Not how I remembered the bird at all.

“The bird had colors on it. But I can’t really remember what they were exactly.”

“It’s your bird now, Dante. You can add whatever colors to it you want.”

I remembered the made-up birds I used to draw when I was little: the rainbow rocketbird, the tawny tailblaster. Pages and pages of sketchbooks filled with imaginary creatures. I hadn’t judged myself then about how anatomically accurate they were or how technically proficient I was. I drew and created because it felt good. Right now my drawing didn’t make me feel good so I added colors to my bird’s wings and I turned the hand into a nest. That felt better.

I felt calmer after my drawing was finished. But something still bothered me.

“Do you think me changing the drawing of the bird is like retconning the accident?” I asked. “I mean, when I started, I thought I would draw the bird like I remembered it. But that made me feel terrible to picture it all stiff and dark and lifeless. I wanted to protect it. Now it looks more like it’s asleep than it’s dead. But that’s not what actually happened.”

“If drawing the bird like this helped you reframe your sadness and anger into something beautiful, then I think it’s a good thing.”

“It’s not cheating?”

“No, I don’t think it’s cheating at all. In fact, I think it’s more like forgiving.”

“Forgiving who?”

“Yourself.”

[justaboywithaonemanshow]

92 Truths

Thanks @edsmysterygirl for the tag! <3

Tagging @ownerandwriterofedsnnnnggghhhh​ @drinking-sangrias​ @karesera @edsavedmylife

THE LAST…

1) Drink: Water 2) Phone call: My mom 3) Text message: We don’t use text messages here, but yesterday my mom sent my one. 4) Song you listened to: Hearts don’t break around here 5) Time you cried: Can’t remember the exact day but it was last week, I saw a ring my ex boyfriend gave me and well...tsunami tides in my eyes as Ed says

HAVE YOU EVER…

6) Dated someone twice: No, I’ve only been with one person trough out my whole life 7) Been cheated on: He said he didn’t cheat but I’m almost positive he did. 8) Kissed someone and regretted it: Yeah, a guy at a party. 9) Lost someone special: My grandpa, who died in 2012. And my ex who voluntary walked out of my life. 10) Been depressed: Yes. Last year and the beginning of 2017 11) Gotten drunk and thrown up: No, I don’t usually drink but when I do I do it moderately.

LIST THREE FAVORITE COLORS…

12) Pink 13) Mint 14) Red

IN THE LAST YEAR HAVE YOU…

15) Made new friends: Yep yep IRL and here 16) Fallen out of love: Not yet but I hope so. 17) Laughed until you cried: No 18) Found out someone was talking about you: hmm not that I recall 19) Met someone who changed you: Not technically, but as MG said Ed changed me even though I haven’t met him. 20) Found out who your true friends are: Hell yeah, I don’t have one true friend I think, but I don’t open up easily so it might be my fault. 21) Kissed someone on your Facebook list: Nope, my ex deleted me from FB so...

OTHER…

22) How many of your Facebook friends do you know in real life?: 80%  23) Do you have any pets?: Two beautiful wrinkly doggies, even though I’m convinced the little on is indeed a tasmanian devil, as in attitude not looks hahaha 24) Do you want to change your name?: I would like to get rid of one of them, not because I don’t like it but because my last name is already goddamn long to have two names. I’d also like my last name to be shorter 25) What did you do for your last birthday?: A waffle party with my friends! YUM! 26) What time do you wake up?: Around 7:30am, I changed my work schedule because I was fed up with waking up a 6:30am hahahaha I’ve been doing that since I was 12 27) What were you doing at midnight last night?: Trying to fall sleep 28) Name something you cannot wait for: See Ed live again 29) When was the last time you saw your mother?: This morning, we had breakfast together 30) What is one thing you wish you could change about your life?: I’d love to live somewhere else, preferably a different country. But I’d love to not live in this city any longer, everything reminds me of my ex but I’m too scare to go away :( 31) What are you listening to right now?: Sorry - Justin Bieber (I’m listening to a party playlist at work - Girls’ Night hahahaha) 32) Have you ever talked to a person named Tom?: Nope, no Toms here 33) Something that is getting on your nerves: Feeling like I’ve achieved nothing yet and that I’m not good at my job 34) Most visited website?: Facebook and tumblr. 35) Elementary: Changed schools so a bit unpleasant but made friends easily. 36) High School: Nice, I met all my friends there and we’re still tight. 37) University: Hell. Met my ex there which was nice, he was the only good thing about it, but my professors were really really mean, suffered a lot there. I think that’s why I finished it in 4 years hahaha then I did a post graduate course at a different uni with different professors and it was great! and my masters was in an online uni so it was good too. 38) Hair color: Almost black, a really intense dark brown. Though I now have ombre hair with some goldenish highlights. I looooove it. When I was younger I used to say I’d never dyed my hair (I was super proud of my black hair) but once I tried ombre there was no turning back hahaha 39) Long or short hair?: Short, right below my shoulders. 40) Do you have a crush on someone?: A ginger dude, Edward Christopher Sheeran, you may know him, he’s a singer or something like that. I used to have a major crush on a coworker for the past two years but we drifted away since we are not working together anymore unfortunately 41) What do you like about yourself?: hmmm looks wise? my eyes. Personality wise? that if I set a goal I will most likely achieve it, though I’d love to be more focus and hardworking, I’m waaaaaay too lazy. 42) Piercings?: My ears. 43) Blood type?: 0+ 44) Nickname?: Short versions of my name. My mom has hundreds of nicknames for me, all way too embarrassing to list here 45) Relationship status?: Single as a pringle, after 8 years of being in a relationship so I’m still getting used to it 46) Zodiac sign?: Libra 47) Pronouns: She/her. 48) Favorite TV show: hmmm I really like New Girl. I’m currently watching OITNB. Loved Stranger Things too. 49) Tattoos: None. But I’d love to get my first ones soon, a lighting bolt for Harry Potter and my comparsa (I really don’t know the word in english for it, but where I live we have carnival just like Rio de Janeiro, and we have “teams” that compite each year, well my team symbol is a lighting bolt) and Bibia be ye ye because that line came at the right time in my life so SHOUT OUT TO ANY SHEERIOS MEETING ED could you please please please ask him to write it down on a piece of paper so I can get it done in his handwritting? 50) Right or left hand?: Right hand.

FIRST…

51) Surgery: I’ve never had a surgery thank god. I’m super scared of needles (that’s why I don’t have tattoos) I think it’s a phobia, if I ever had to have a surgery it will be a disaster. Getting my blood drawn is the worse for me, I try to avoid it at all costs. Imagine if I had to get a IV? I’d die of fear. 52) Piercing: Again, needles involved so NOPE. Oh! I have my years pierced but it wasn’t my decision but my mum’s, I was a newborn, like weeks old. I don’t mind it though, I love to wear earrings, and if she didn’t do it I wouldn’t have the courage to do it. 53) Sport: Swimming, my grandma always insisted it was a must learn thing so she took us to take lessons from a pretty young age, I live in a river side city so it’s a life saving thing too. I have always loved it and was pretty good but I’m way too lazy. 54) Vacation: I went to Brazil with my family, I think we went to Torres. Brazil is amazing, beautiful place, great food and lovely people, they have this energy that is so contagious, I’m not a big fan of the beach but I’d love to go back there some time. 55) Pair of trainers: I was way too young to remember. WHY IS 56 MISSING <--- I didn’t notice this but MG did, great observation skills girl! 57) Eating: Today? Medialunas calentitas! Yum!  (a fresh out of the oven croissant but in an argentinean way, actually uruguayan? because the cafe where I ate them is from uruguay, and they are well known for their specials croissants)  58) Drinking: Orange Juice. 59) I’m about to: Get some worked done, because I should be working hahaha 60) Listening to: Be my Husband  61) Waiting for: something exciting to happen in my boring as hell life 62) Want: Quit my job and go travelling 63) Get married: I didn’t get married. I’m still not sure if I ever want to 64) Career: Graphic Design / I’m a web designer wannabe with a long way to go and so much to learn, but hey! I can build websites! hahaha

YOUR TYPE…

65) Hugs or kisses?: hmmm kisses maybe? 66) Lips or eyes?: Eyes. And if they are blue, oh god. 67) Shorter or taller?: Taller! I’m 5′1 so it’s not that hard hahaha but in argentina guys are not very tall. My ex was 6′ and people always mentioned he was huge. 68) Older or younger?: My age. A year younger or between 2 to 3 years older. My ex was 6 months younger than me and  I’d love to date a certain guy who is 4 months younger than me. 69) Nice arms or nice stomach?: Arms all the way. And a nice back too, I love backs (?) 70) Sensitive or loud?: Loud. 71) Hook up or relationship?: Relationship. I never had a hook up but I guess I prefer relationships. 72) Troublemaker or hesitant?: hmmm troublemaker? Can’t stand hesitant guys who just take too long to do something, I like driven people! 

HAVE YOU EVER…

74) Kissed a stranger?: Yeah.  75) Drank hard liquor?: Vodka is a hard liquor? If it is, yes. I love vodka with orange or lemon juice, don’t judge me. 76) Lost glasses, contact/lenses?: Miraculously, nope 77) Turned someone down?: Yep. 78) Sex on first date?: Nope.  79) Broken someone’s heart?: Hmm not sure, maybe but not intentionally. 80) Had your heart broken?: Hell yeah. I’m still dealing with it. 81) Been arrested?: Nope. 82) Cried when someone died?: Yes. 83) Fallen for a friend?: My coworker was some sort of friend, so yeah.

DO YOU BELIEVE IN…

84) Yourself?: Nope. 85) Miracles?: No. 86) Love at first sight?: No. 87) Santa Claus?: Not anymore. When we were little my parents told me it was baby jesus who brought the presents (I was raised catholic even though my father was agnostic) and Santa Claus (or Papá Noel as we called him) was just helping him because well, Jesus was a newborn hahaha but we were told we should thank baby jesus. 88) Kiss on the first date?: Didn’t have much dates, but on my first date with my ex we kissed so...wait is this thing asking if I believe in kissing on the first date? Well it depends on who the date is. 89) Angels?: No.

EVEN MORE…

90) Current best friend’s name: I don’t have one, I’m don’t open up easily. 91) Eye color: Brown. 92) Favorite movie: I don’t have a favorite one, but from the last ones I’ve seen Wonder Woman kicked all the other movies asses 

[southernconstellatiions]

Get to know me!

Tagged by @pyroinquisitor !!

Rules: Answer these 92 statements and tag people

THE LAST:

1. Drink: i had an orange soda with lunch xD 2. Phone call: i called my mom to have her pick me up so i could do laundry o: 3. Text message: sent a snap to my boyfriend telling him i love him and to he safe while hes delivering food in the rain 💕 4. Song you listened to: motion sickness by neck deep (im so excited for the new album) 5. Time you cried: tbh i just cry in my sleep sometimes because im a mess and constantly over stress and worry about everything xD

HAVE YOU:

6. Dated someone twice: only this one time a year ago because my boyfriend was going through a rough time and we took a ‘break’ kinda ;-; 7. Kissed someone and regretted it: yeah, all my exes and more than once ive played drunk spin the bottle 8. Been cheated on: every relationship except this one :s 9. Lost someone special: lost, as in died? only family members when i was a lot younger. im absolutely terrified of anything ever happening to my boyfriend or my mom 10. Been depressed: once i didnt leave the house for three months straight so take a wild guess lol 11. Gotten drunk and thrown up: i spent most of my freshman year drunk but i hold my liquor real well so thats always been good xD

LIST 3 FAVOURITE COLOURS:

12-14. dark blue, purple, and red

IN THE LAST YEAR HAVE YOU:

15. Made new friends: kinda, in a way? 16. Fallen out of love: no, thankfully i fall more in love each day 17. Laughed until you cried: at least five times that i can think of 18. Found out someone was talking about you: not that im aware of which is hopefully good 19. Met someone who changed you: met him years ago xD 20. Found out who your friends are: ive only got like three and im okay with that 21. Kissed someone on your Facebook list: i dont technically use facebook but my boyfriend was on my facebook list

GENERAL:

22. How many of your Facebook friends do you know in real life: maybe less than a hundred, the other 4500 friends and 2000 subscribers are all from when i did sitemodeling years ago because i was an emo fuck 23. Do you have any pets: eight dogs xD 24. Do you want to change your name: maybe my last name xp 25. What did you do for your last Birthday: went out to this bar where they make you custom cheeseburgers with my boyfriend, mom and her boyfriend 26. What time did you wake up: around 5pm like usual :p 27. What were you doing at midnight last night: watching the last episode of K o: 28. Name something you can’t wait for: my boyfriend to get home from work and to get a car since i finally got my license xD 29. When was the last time you saw your mom: two nights ago o: 30. What is one thing you wish you could change in your life: if i could be a little skinnier and rich thatd be great xD 31. What are you listening to right now: the new episode of teen mom 2 xD 32. Have you ever talked to a person named Tom: when i was in high school i knew this guy i called handshake guy because he never gave me hugs and i didnt know his name, but he finally rold me what it was the day he left school 33. Something that is getting on your nerves: how hot it is, 110°+ daily is absolutely ridiculous. thankfully monsoon season makes it slightly more bearable at night 34. Most visited website: probably twitter or tumblr 35. Mole/s: none 36. Mark/s: i have a scar on my knee from when i fell down a hill on elementary school during olympics day xD 37. Childhood dream: to eat more party pizzas than anyone in the worls 38. Hair colour: my original hair color is an ugly brown :/ but at the moment its half blue and half purple 39. Long or short hair: definitely long, my hairs never been shorter than my shoulders, right now its mid-back 40. Do you have a crush on someone: my love cx 41. What do you like about yourself?: i have good relationships and good taste in anime 42. Piercings: nose and snakebites but ive had so many more 43. Blood type: never gotten my blood drawn and havent been to a doctor since i was in elementary school so who the hell knows xD 44. Nickname: kaylaa, lightpole #1, white grape 45. Relationship status: taken 💗 46. Zodiac: scorpio 47. Pronouns: she/her 48. Favourite TV Show(s): game of thrones, naruto, one punch man, greys anatomy and like a billion more xD 50. Right or left hand: im ambidextrous which is pretty convenient sometimes lol 51. Surgery: none, that shits scary 52. Hair dyed in different colour: red, blue, pink, blonde, black, purple, brown, white, yellow 53. Sport: i hate sports and ive never played anything. i even took online pe to graduate lol 55. Vacation: id love to go to Japan or Europe. my favorite places ive been are washington and pennsylvania                                         56. Pair of trainers: idk what that’s referring to xD

MORE GENERAL:

57. Eating: wish i could be eating taco bell 58. Drinking: nothing o: 59. I’m about to: finish this episode of reen mom and then go to walmart xD 61. Waiting for: my love to get off work 62. Want: unlimited money xD 63. Get married: i neved wanted to but now i do 64. Career: id love to make a career out of my mosaics and stained glass

WHICH IS BETTER:

65. Hugs or kisses: my boyfriend gives me these super big hugs and kisses my face all over and its one of my favorite things cx 66. Lips or eyes: eyes 67. Shorter or taller: taller 68. Older or younger: older 70. Nice arms or nice stomach: stomach xD 71. Sensitive or loud: sensitive i suppose o: but my boyfriend gets loud and excited when he’s playing games with his friends and its cute seeing him all happy cx 72. Hook up or relationship: def. relationship 73. Troublemaker or hesitant: hesitant, ive had enough trouble throughout my life xD

HAVE YOU EVER:

74. Kissed a Stranger: during drunk spin ths bottle years ago lol 75. Drank hard liquor: so damn much 76. Lost glasses/contact lenses: forever thankful i have perfect eyesight xD 77. Turned someone down: so many people tbh 78. Sex on the first date: nah 79. Broken someone’s heart: tbh probably 80. Had your heart broken: not yet thankfully 81. Been arrested: when i stole stuff from walmart in high school :/ 82. Cried when someone died: mmhmm 83. Fallen for a friend: my best friend and its been the best thing thats ever happened to me c:

DO YOU BELIEVE IN:

84. Yourself: not really 85. Miracles: ehh 86. Love at first sight: kinda cx 87. Santa Claus: no xD 88. Kiss on the first date: thats fine i guess as long as it goes well??

OTHER:

90. Current best friend name: lorenzo 💕 91. Eye colour: this greyish color :o 92. Favourite movie: balto, harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban, just like heaven o:

[amongushq]

Welcome (back) to Among Us, MONA! DREW TANAKA ( with the faceclaim of  ANNA SAWAI ) has found shelter in NEW ATHENS, where we hope SHE will fit in nicely. Please make sure to check the “after applying” section of our navigation here!

The thing with Aphrodite is that she’s as much self-love and confidence than a person’s relationships with and to others: this is something we are shown here as Drew’s application isn’t as much about Drew as it is about all the people who have shaped her, from Silena to the boyfriend whose heart she was required to break, including her own mother because being a child of the oldest Olympian is no small feat. The permanent feature here is that Drew is putting on a mask, all the time. She’s working to turn herself into the person she wishes she were, to the point where we wonder if she even knows who she truly is. It will be interesting to see how the Hunt has changed her so far, and how it will continue to do so over time.

TW: violence, death (part iii); violence, blood, gore (part iv)

AND YOU ARE…?

i.

Silena pushed her trunk of belongings below her bed, almost fizzing with excitement. Her nails were still painted a raspberry color from a week ago when she was claimed, like a present left from their new mom, and they were long and almond-shaped.

“What are you going to do about those?” Drew asked. Her own nails were back to being square and plain. Silena gave her a quizzical look. “You said that you had to keep your nails short for violin,” Drew explained, her tone curious with no accusation.

“Oh, that.” Silena answered knowingly in her soft, lilting voice. “My dad let me quit before summer. Divorce guilt.” They shared a wicked, cosmismerating grin.

If anything was fate, it was their friendship. Silena and Drew were born exactly three years and one month apart (June and July 18th, respectively), had arrived at camp in the same year, and then were claimed within a week of each other. They had spent months in Hermes’ cabin together, spent many nights fantasizing who they might be, and now that they finally knew who they were, and that they were lucky enough to actually be sisters, they wore their parentage with pride.

Even though Silena was only twelve, boys were already starting to crush on her, with her summer-y dresses, her blue eyes, and her blonde hair. Her hair wasn’t actually that yellow, like she had poured half a bottle of Sun-In into it. It was black like Drew’s, but unlike Drew, Silena could now change her appearance at will. Drew was green with envy.

“Ladies!”

A single loud clap echoed across the cabin, and they turned to see their counselor, Ava, standing in the center of the room, smiling like a cat declawed.

“Now that you’ve finally got acquainted with our cabin, there’s only one thing left for you to know.”

ii.

For a son of Athena, Roman was good-looking. Everything from his diction to his wardrobe was polished; his father was not particularly wealthy, but Roman put painstaking effort into dressing as if they were. To Roman, appearance had always been a powerful weapon he had wielded, second only to his smarts, and he maintained it immaculately. From the crest sewn on his blazer that designated his private academy that he wore even at camp, to the secondhand sweater that he ironed by hand, to the frame of his eyeglasses, Roman was—elegant. It was not the right word for him, but it was close. At sixteen, he was two years older than Drew, but he was still fine boned and a little fragile looking, with blue eyes pretty enough to be a girl’s.

The first time she saw him, despite her better instincts, Drew had felt a flutter of interest. And when he had taken an interest in her, with her badly drawn pink eyeliner (she could never understand why she was still so terrible at makeup), instead of Silena, she felt like she was glowing again with her mother’s blessing.

If she knew how it would end before it had begun, was it wrong for her to have let it run its course?

“You want so badly to be like one of your siblings? So pretty and cool and cutthroat? It’s transparent, Drew. I guess it was too much to hope that one of you would be different, huh? That one of you would be different and have a heart.”

If she knew how it would end before it had begun, why had it affected her so much?

“You’re pathetic,” is what she had said, and she knew it was cliche, but her heart had all but stopped and any other witty reply was caught in her throat.

He sighed, took the frame of his glasses, and wiped the lenses on the fabric of his shirt. It was a nervous tic, something that Drew had grown accustomed to and something that she knew she would not see again.

“We could have been something good, really good, Drew.” Roman finished scratching his lenses and absentmindedly set the glasses on the table next to her notebook. He wiped his eyes on the back of his left sleeve. They looked at each other for a few moments. They both did not say anything because there was nothing left to say. Were those tears in Roman’s eyes? Maybe Drew should have said something.

The door opened and closed as Roman left, and half an hour later Silena sat down next to her on her bed and let Drew let a few teardrops drop into her shoulder and soak into her brown locks.

It wasn’t until later that night when she noticed that he left his glasses lying on the bedside table. The next week, when Drew had finally gathered the courage to find him again to return them, she found him sharing kisses with a girl from Demeter, sitting on the fallen log they used to sit on together when they were avoiding Capture the Flag .

“So pretty and cool and cutthroat,” the tape repeated, blasting from the speakers as soon as Drew opened the door to their cabin. Ava rolled on her bed nearly in tears with her laughter. Her green eyes met Drew’s conspiratorially. “I mean, I could see why you liked him, what a flatterer. Did you see him with Katie Gardner? What do you think she’d say if we played this for her and everyone else in camp after the bonfire?” She arched one perfectly drawn eyebrow at Silena’s disapproving look. “It’s just a thought, Suhlene. I do know that you’re the head now.”

Later that night, in the dark of their cabin, still warm from the feeling of love and family, Drew had whispered, “You’re seventeen, and you still haven’t passed yet.”

Silena, however, must have had already fallen asleep.

iii.

“Silena Beauregard knew better than that. Aphrodite is about love and beauty. Being loving. Spreading beauty. Good friends. Good times. Good deeds. Not just looking good. Silena made mistakes, but in the end she stood by her friends. That’s why she was a hero. I’m going to set things right, and I’ve got a feeling Mom will be on my side. Want to find out?”

For a brief flash, Drew considered taking the dagger from Piper’s hand and stabbing her in the chest. Not that she had paid any attention in combat classes on how to disarm an armed demigod, but she thought that she might have been able to accomplish it with the sheer force of surprise on her side. Or maybe Drew could have just commanded Piper to do it. But that could have gotten messy quickly since Piper could also charmspeak.

Piper had never even known Silena.

She hadn’t had to watch as one of her closest friends became someone altogether different. She hadn’t had to watch Silena find better friends, upend the entire cabin’s dynamics and break decades-old traditions when it suited her fancy. By the time Silena changed her hair back to black, and admitted to being in love with Charles Beckendorf, Drew almost couldn’t recognize her. Little did she know that Silena was keeping even worse secrets than just a boyfriend.

All Drew had ever wanted was a sister, someone to stick by her. Silena was the one who threw that away, and for what, for a boy. In the end, she might have stood by her friends, but she hadn’t stood by her sister. And in the end, wasn’t that the greater crime? She had betrayed a love between the strongest of friendships for a love that was fleeting and idiotic. Then, she had died because of it, and others had celebrated it. Maybe that, above all, is what Drew would never forgive her for.

Maybe that also made Drew melodramatic, but in the past, heroes had literally killed for less. All’s fair, after all.

No, she thought, Mom would be on my side.

“I… step down.”

The thing was, in another universe, at another time, Piper and Drew could have even been friends. She and Silena really were that similar.

iv.

They never feared Aphrodite until it was too late.

They spoke of her in poet’s words: seafoam, silk, pearls, roses; they paired her with doves and porcelain, and blamed her only for innocent infatuations of youth or the puckered red mouth of a vain girl in the mirror. So easily did man forget that the same love that pushed a fourteen-year-old girl to fall for a sixteen-year-old boy at a summer camp also drove lovers to carve out the heart of their other and eat it raw, tendons caught between teeth, messy and feral and mad – that it was for beauty that a thousand ships launched, and for love that that Achilles charged into battle and slayed Hector. How easily they forget that the great goddess had no mother, but was spawned from the severed appendage of a great god and the foam of the sea.

This is what Aphrodite is about.

Aphrodite arose from the waves fully-formed, borne of violence and the thrashing of the ocean (they should have known she would carry a wrath in her bones before they carried her up to Olympus, for what is more vicious than the blood of a god and the raging sea?). The greatest of all the gods feared the madness her beauty would instill in them all, so he tried to dull her power by marrying her off to the ugliest, the lamest, of the pantheon. Even with the forged weight of Hephaestus around her heel, Aphrodite flourished – how could she not – how could they not love her when she was love itself?

It was always man that believed he had to choose between fear and love – for certain women, there is no distinction. There was a reason Aphrodite preferred the god of war to her actual husband.

All forces of nature are deadly from the start: sharks are born swimming; wolves arrive with teeth; the most fatal of snakes come into the world ready with fangs full of venom. Girls, too, can be born with their weapons already intact: lacquered stones in their ribs like gallstones that do not hurt, but manifested solely to weigh their hearts down so that they cannot be stolen or carried away; knives kept under tongues; bodies curved like the serpentine arch of the devil’s horns, a blatant warning sign misunderstood as an invitation: Beware all ye who enter here. There is no return.

Like mother like daughter.

“You, a Hunter of Artemis?” asked the interviewer, chewing the end of a pen, and Drew belatedly recognized him as one of the scrawny Apollo campers that Drew used to relentlessly taunt.

She glanced at her nails. “How else would I stay forever twenty-one?” Drew said, before she bared her teeth in a sharp smile. “Yes, me.”