#// After seven days I show signs of life on Tumblr omfg

[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.

[aftgficlibrary]

Post-Canon

Here is a list of fics set after the books so we can live on even after the series ends (Note: due to the sheer amount of Post-Canon fics, this only includes completed fics and is an extremely long list)

light fires at night (to push back the void) by inthesea (M | 61,862 | 3/3)

The first time Andrew realizes he wants to hear the words, Neil isn’t even doing anything. He’s just sitting there, staring at the horizon with that stupidly dramatic faraway expression of his, and letting the cigarette burn down between his fingers all the way to the filter — an outrageous waste of good nicotine, if you asked Andrew.

(Or: 20+ times Andrew and Neil say I love you, and one time they say it out loud.)

Trust Fall (And Welcoming Arms) by SpangleBangle (E | 84,557 | 13/13)

Life goes on after the Foxes win the championship, and for Andrew and Neil it’s uncharted territory with only each other for guides. Maybe it’s time to put away some of those hard edges, and learn how to touch more softly, and speak more honestly. And if they falter, they have their family to help them get back on their feet.

right side of rock bottom by allyasavedtheday (M | 20,019 | 1/1)

Neil thinks it might be the first time he’s taken a breath in days.

He hadn’t realised it because he’d been so caught up in packing and saying goodbye to everyone but now that it’s over he remembers his self-imposed countdown was meant to be up by now. It’s the end of the school year and five months ago, he thought he’d be dead by now.

Instead he has a team and a future and a home and Andrew.

(The last two might be interchangeable.)

*

A little look into Neil and Andrew’s relationship after The King’s Men where they learn to touch, to talk and to trust.

The Name Game by minyrrds (G | 3,042 | 1/1)

What happens when Andrew and Neil change the names on their jerseys

something like home by nightswatch (T | 5,197 | 1/1)

Andrew keeps showing up at Neil’s apartment. But that’s what he gave him the key for, isn’t it?

lessons in trust by nightswatch (T | 3,609 | 1/1)

They don’t talk about what exactly they are, but Neil is more and more convinced that they’re on a good way to becoming something.

raze it to the ground by ilgaksu for badacts (T | 4,511 | 1/1)

It stops being about Neil entirely, and it starts being about this: Andrew is really, really fucking tired.

sugar, spice, and something nice by ephemeralsky (T | 6,258 | 1/1)

Andrew appears by his side seconds later, takes one look at the charred disaster, and says, “At least you did not burn the Tower down.”

Neil sighs. Happy birthday, he thinks mockingly as he chucks the brownie into the garbage bin.

(or: Neil finds a new hobby and indulges his family with sweets, Andrew indulges Neil, and they both can’t stop staring at each other)

a love song for the cliffhanger boys by ilgaksu for clockworkmoon (T | 1,680 | 1/1)

Some days, you work with what you got. 

thorn in my skin by ephemeralsky (T | 5,861 | 1/1)

These days, both of them are able to sleep on the same bed without any weapons underneath their pillows and on their person, and Andrew is not sure what he wants to do with this knowledge. They have poured years into forging their armors, and now they are stripping them, piece by tattered piece.

(or: the five weapons Neil has at his disposal + the one weapon he wields without knowing it)

/Graphic Depictions Of Violence

next stop: nowhere by nightswatch (M | 8,117 | 1/1)

Neil and Andrew have a week to themselves and decide to hit the road.

i’ll carry you home by broship_addict (E | 4,257 | 1/1)

“I thought we agreed that you were getting rid of it. Not coming back with two.”

“We agreed that I would take the cat to the shelter. I did.”

Or, Andrew and Neil and their cats, in seven parts.

above us only stars by nightswatch (T |  2,206 | 1/1)

Neil wants to say that he is fine. He wants to say that Nathaniel Wesninski doesn’t own a single part of him.

The Days That Followed by lipsstainedbloodred (E | 7,410 | 1/1)

Andrew’s hand moved up further to Neil’s ruined cheek and he held a hand over it briefly. “These are not ugly,” Andrew said, forcing Neil to look up and face himself directly in the mirror, “You will not be ashamed of these. You will not shy away from your reflection because of them. These are not ugly.”

or, the fic where Neil is self conscious of his scars and Andrew forces him not to be.

Hold It Together (Until You Can’t) by Joana789 (M | 5,560 | 1/1)

Andrew holds his gaze just for a second longer before turning away, and Neil breathes in, because even if Andrew Minyard, with his extraordinary memory, remembers the date — which is likely, Neil knows — he gives no sign of it.

Neil thinks that perhaps it is carved into his memory only.

or

Exactly a year after Baltimore, Neil doesn’t expect to feel like this.

Kisses on Scars by rememberednoah (G | 1,941 | 1/1)

In which Andrew decides to kiss all of Neil’s scars. In which Neil isn’t quite sure how to react and feel about this.

Josten Has A Neck Fetish by keihtkogane (T | 2,301 | 1/1)

An full length ficlet extension of my tumblr headcanon which ends with Andrew revealing Neil has a neck fetish on live television.

–

Written for the anon who asked: omfg can i pleASE get an extension of the last part of your andreil and subtle touches headcanon? the part where andrew’s like “josten has a fucking neck fetish”

Every Choice Leads To You by SpangleBangle (G | 2,809 | 1/1)

Andrew knew they had to get up at some point, if only for the bathroom, but was loathe to hurry the moment along. He would take every greedy minute of Neil snug in his bed, for as long as he could. It was the choice he’d made years before, and the one he made every day when he saw Neil’s ‘good morning’ smile. He had a feeling it was a choice he’d be making for many years to come. And while that thought should be terrifying, with Neil sweet and content in his arms, fear was far away.

All Hail the Underdogs by wildfrancium (T | 25,411 | 10/10)

Ten years after Neil Josten becomes Neil Josten, life is full of Exy and Andrew. And then they decide to try fostering a kid.

Late Night, Welcome Home by ThePackWantstheD (T | 1,160 | 1/1)

“I thought Andrew shredded those pants,” Kevin answered.

Neil’s lips quirked further up. “Wymack got me another pair.”

“What did I do to deserve this kind of punishment?” Kevin asked. “You’re the problem child.”

Fighting Heavy Shoulders by OrdinaryVegan (T | 2,718 | 1/1)

He would stick a knife in the throat of anyone who tried to make him admit it, but Andrew was actually a little concerned about Neil running this race. From what he can tell, this can go one of two ways. Option one: Neil would be reasonable and just survive the race. Run at a sensible pace, make it across the finish line alive, and keep his mouth shut the next time some asshole reporter starts harassing him. Option two: Neil, because he is Neil, would try way too hard to keep up with the people who actually put in a lot of time training for these things. He would pull a muscle or pass out on the course, and Andrew would have to drag his ass to the nearest hospital, which would really throw a wrench in Andrew’s weekend plans of doing absolutely nothing. Not even to mention the absolute hissy fit Kevin would throw if Neil were injured. If Andrew were a betting man, his money would go to option two.

—

Wymack follows through on his threats, and Andrew is a protective asshole in love.

built this house on memories by modernpatroclus (T | 4,138 | 3/3)

Prompt: OMG when i was reading ur last andreil fic i started thinking “okay but what if neil woke up and didNT REMEMBER ANDREW” CAN U MAKE THIS HAPPEN I WILL PAY U

Or: Neil gets amnesia and can’t remember anything past the night he was drugged in Columbia.

Something Borrowed by Pi (Rhea) (T | 7,266 | 1/1)

After graduation, Neil and Andrew go on a road trip to return particular items to Neil’s mother’s contacts.

Or: two times Neil visited the Henrietta, Virginia.

Perfect by SpangleBangle (G | 1,547 | 1/1)

Ten years on, and things are just perfect.

But Broken Pieces Make Beautiful Mosaics by lipsstainedbloodred (T | 1,926 | 1/1)

Neil Josten is a broken, damaged thing. Pieces of a tattered personality and a traumatized mind, scared and skittish with one foot always out the door. And on Nathaniel Wesninski’s birthday, he runs.

Pillow Talk by zayndehaan for ohwhatanight (M | 3,826 | 1/1)

Neil finds a new fear, and doesn’t know how to bring it up without sounding foolish.

(a.k.a. lots of snuggling and banter and feelings)

Take Another Drag by OrdinaryVegan (T | 2,233 | 1/1)

Andrew knows exactly who Travis is. Travis William Patterson, 27 years old, 6’3” backliner from middle of nowhere, Texas, current starter for the Boston Hurricanes, #9. As a matter of fact, Andrew is looking at him right now. ESPN is showing Exy highlights from last weekend, and Neil’s team just happens to be up at this very moment.

The Neil on screen has just performed some ridiculous move that absolutely should not have ended with a goal but somehow did, and he is immediately met with high-fives from his teammates and an affectionate-looking hug from Travis. Andrew can most certainly be objective, and this exchange looks pretty platonic. But Andrew is also a man attracted to men, and he has to admit that Travis is good looking. Really good looking.

-

Neil seems to be spending a lot of time with his new friend, and Andrew is Not Jealous.

dreamed in red by Frostandcoal (M | 7,261 | 1/1)

Four times the nightmares don’t win, and one time they almost do. Post-canon.

Minyard-Josten: A Rivalry For The Ages by dustbottle (M | 4,203 | 1/1)

After four years of playing together at Palmetto State University, Neil and Andrew end up on different professional teams. Neil is the new striker for the Atlanta Hawks; Andrew is goalie for the Boston Rebels. This is the story of their so-called rivalry.

Three guesses as to who starts the rumours.

(Spoilers: It’s Neil.)

Inside the Outsider by ouroboros for finkpishnets (M | 2,215 | 1/1)

It is little things like that that make this okay. Small rules, steps to follow: Pants staying buttoned, Neil’s hands where he can see them, no words but “Yes or no.” And, now, door locked. Check.

(Andrew looks back on the first time he does more than kiss Neil)

uncurling lifelines by Frostandcoal (M | 3,202 | 1/1)

That Andrew likes Neil being vocal in bed – that’s a key, and Neil intends to use it. This is something that Neil can give Andrew, a thing Andrew likes, that doesn’t involve touching or crossing boundaries Andrew is not yet ready for Neil to cross.

Besides, if Neil is good at anything besides Exy, it’s running his mouth.

Or: Neil learns that Andrew “I’m An Instigator At Heart And So Are You” Minyard might just like hearing Neil express not only his consent, but his enthusiasm, when they’re in bed.

back and forth by broship_addict (T | 2,573 | 1/1)

Years later Andrew and Neil find themselves revisiting Palmetto. It’s a lot more fun than Andrew’s ready to admit.

Lost Boy by the_ocean_burned (M | 6,401 | 1/1)

A look through Andrew’s eyes during some of the major events in the series.

Since I did use scenes and quotes from the series, I’m going to put a disclaimer on this one: All copyright rights to the characters, dialogue, and canon events belong solely to Nora Sakavic. I don’t own any of it; please don’t sue me. I’m broke.

The Self I Am by dustbottle (E | 5,536 | 1/1)

Though Neil and Andrew have been on the same professional team for years, the Minyard-Josten rivalry is still going strong. No one has caught wind of the truth of their relationship – but maybe it’s time for that to change.

(Or: Neil and Andrew decide to come out. This is how it happens.)

late night by Frostandcoal (G | 2,355 | 1/1)

People think that Exy “saved” him, but they are wrong. Exy is not a savior – there are no saviors for people like Andrew.

In which Andrew Minyard decides to pay it forward thanks to an all-night bodega, terrible ice cream choices and a cashier who just happens to play collegiate Exy.

out of breath by Frostandcoal for tycutiovevo (G | 3,418 | 1/1)

For tycutiovevo, who wanted Andreil in cold!weather, no angst. I hope you like this, bb! <3! <3!

Neil wants to live his life like he plays Exy – he wants the freedom to take chances, he wants the thrill of last-second goals, he wants the exhilaration of pushing his body to its limits, wants the ache and burn of every single bruise and scrape. His body is marked by other people’s cruelty and other people’s choices made on his behalf – he wants to cover it with the marks of the life he chose for himself.

Neil doesn’t understand what a “blizzard” is, and thinks it’s a good idea to go running in one. Andrew is not impressed.

Delayed Reaction by run_for_me (T | 3,035 | 1/1)

It’s been so long since he’s felt anything but affection for Nicky that he’d almost forgotten there was time when he’d been viscerally and intensely afraid of him.

*

In which the events of Neil’s first visit to Eden’s Twilight are finally addressed a year later.

I Want to Hold Your Hand by conniptionns (T | 5,009 | 4/4)

If this was Allison and Renee it would be cute and fluffy and very Across the Universe for this song, but it’s Andrew and Neil so

until the end of the world by broship_addict (T | 2,731 | 1/1)

Twenty years, two cats, and a whole lot of sports-related injuries later, they’re still home.

light it up by broship_addict (T | 1,879 | 1/1)

Neil Josten is probably the only person in the world capable of getting Andrew into an ugly Christmas sweater.

missing you (is all i am) by dustbottle (T | 2,677 | 1/1)

After graduating college, Andrew starts his professional Exy career as goalie for the Boston Rebels. Meanwhile, Neil is in his fifth and final year at Palmetto State University. Being apart turns out to be harder than either of them expected, and adjusting is a struggle.

When Neil visits Andrew in Boston, things come to a head.

maybe just the touch of a hand by niallszayn (G | 1,822 | 1/1)

All the Foxes come to Nicky and Erik’s wedding. Bets are made, and no one ever understands Andrew and Neil’s relationship.

Careless by Poteto (G | 1,474 | 1/1)

Matt likes to think Neil is done saying things that will get himself killed. Andrew disagrees.

way i tend to be by Frostandcoal (G | 1,665 | 1/1)

For erinaceinae-lutrinae on tumblr, who gave me the following prompt:

“Someone on Neil’s pro-team decides his nickname should be junior, and Neil does not take it well.”

Blossom Under Kindness by dustbottle (E | 3,433 | 1/1)

After Neil’s first year as a professional Exy player, Andrew and Neil spend their summer together in Columbia. There are good days and bad days. Today is a good day.

take my breath away (you know i’m bound to choke) by essenceofheroism (Not Rated | 1,620 | 1/1)

or the one in which andrew dreams neil runs away.

We Can Be Soft by SpookyMiscreant (M | 20,229 | 13/13)

Andreil and their daily lives. Fun ensues as always. Some of my HCs and some HCs from Tumblr. This has no plot or timeline please forgive me.

of being happy by artemis_west (E | 4,774 | 1/1)

On his flight home, Neil could barely sit still. He kept going back to his phone and staring at the message on his screen, the last one he’d received from Andrew:

I’ll be there.

Sounds Like a Good Excuse for Coming Home by OrdinaryVegan

Andrew is stressed, and Neil is problematic. Long-distance can be rather inconvenient, especially when your not-boyfriend is a murder magnet.

Summer Showers by Previously8 (T | 1,852 | 1/1)

Includes, but is not limited to: lots of staring, one (1) mention of chia seeds, Neil Josten’s new phone, the colours blue, green, and orange, talk of walls, a visit to Home Depot, and "452%”.

Rated T for swearing.

billboard. by lolainslackss (T | 2,940 | 1/1)

“Even when I turn away I can’t unsee it,” Aaron continued, his back to the rest of them, “It’s disgusting.”

…

Neil follows Kevin’s advice and agrees to be part of an ad campaign for Exy shoes. This ends up with Neil’s face on an eight-hundred-foot-wide moving billboard, and he’s not at all sure what to make of it. Neither is everyone else. Especially when Andrew notices everything.

Right Here in the Light by OrdinaryVegan (T | 2,398 | 1/1)

It takes all of his willpower not to physically react from shock when he finds Piper curled up tightly on Andrew’s chest, King tucked behind the bend in her knees. His surprise is two-fold. First, he can’t believe he slept through another person being added into their bed. And second, he can’t believe that Andrew is actually asleep in his current position. His arm is wrapped tightly around Piper’s shoulders, the entirety of her small upper body resting on his chest. Neil can do nothing but stare in awe at the pair of them. He thinks of how far they’ve all come, each of them with their own unique struggles, and his sentimentality nearly gets the better of him.

“Staring,” comes Andrew’s low voice, disguised by disuse. All these years, and Neil still doesn’t know how he does that. His eyes aren’t even open. Ridiculous.

A few members of the domestic Andreil household find themselves awake in the middle of the night. In other words, Andrew Minyard is the best father in the universe, and no one will convince me otherwise.

this calls for a toast by Frostandcoal (G | 1,872 | 1/1)

Three years ago, Andrew Minyard threatened to kill her if she ever spoke to him. She hasn’t, but only because she’s had nothing to say.

Until today.

It’s Katelyn’s wedding day, and she’s got a little something to clear up with her brand-new brother-in-law.

As the Fire Spread by OrdinaryVegan (T | 2,022 | 1/1)

Neil’s weight beside him is now familiar and even a comfort, sometimes. But on the occasions when Andrew’s senses are on overdrive and the smallest movement feels like an avalanche, an earthquake, a fucking planetary realignment, Neil knows better than to take Andrew’s abandonment personally.

Neil’s hoodie is thrown over the back of his desk chair, so Andrew makes his way over to dig out the pack of cigarettes from the pocket. He thinks he could light it with just the fire on the edge of his tongue, but he grabs a lighter from the drawer just in case.

—

Neil wants to help. Andrew just wants to breathe without feeling like his lungs will go up in flames.

Weddings and Other Kinds of Vows bya_case_for_wonder (T | 12,328 | 1/1)

“Lord, Andrew, you’d think you hadn’t been dating the guy for half a decade!” Nicky said. “When is he going to ask you to marry him, of course!” Andrew had known it was coming, but it still felt like the world slowed down a little. The question hung in the air between them like an ugly spell, until Andrew shook himself enough to answer. “He’s not going to ask me.“

OR

Nicky is finally getting married, the third Fox wedding in as many years. Andrew is just trying to get through it, Neil is just trying to have a good time, but with all this love in the air, their friends keep insisting on asking questions they are Not Ready For. They try to work through it together.

Time is Standing Still by OrdinaryVegan (G | 1,441 | 1/1)

Andrew and Neil have a daughter, and she is an actual ray of sunshine.

Leave Me on the Tracks by OrdinaryVegan (T | 2,092 | 1/1)

If this had happened a few years ago, Andrew would have stood by and watched him leave. No argument, no attempted persuasion. Because that’s what people do. They leave, or they treat you badly enough that you leave first. People are never worth the trouble.

But not this time. The past decade with Neil has made Andrew come to terms with the fact that this means something. Andrew is rather shocked to find that he believes he himself should be enough to make Neil stay. That he is worthy of it. That he wants Neil to stay, and he will be damned if he lets him go without a fight. Andrew is asking. And if that won’t make Neil stay, nothing will.

In which Neil tries to protect Andrew, and Andrew tells him to get over his hero complex.

Patch Your Wounds by OrdinaryVegan (T | 2,290 | 1/1)

“Really, Neil,” Andrew drawls. He could have chosen to phrase it as a question, but Neil knows he isn’t surprised. It’s more of an acknowledgement of Neil’s apparent inability to remain injury-free. “You’ve been here for less than forty-five seconds, and you’re already bleeding on my carpet.”

—

In which Neil is a klutz, the cats are a nuisance, and Andrew is his own special brand of helpful.

I Want You To Know by kayxpc (G | 733 | 1/1)

one love, one house by freefall for cats-are-assholes (T | 2,592 | 1/1)

It’s the little things that make an apartment into a home, that make a sequence of moments into a life.

Or, five times Andrew hates that damn couch, and one time he thinks it isn’t so bad.

Missed This (Not as much as You) by kayxpc (E | 2,087 | 1/1)

Neil and Andrew finally get a weekend off of their professional teams and pickup exactly where they left off.

Hidden by kayxpc (G | 2,000 | 1/1)

His Father’s Eyes by maeusetod (Not Rated | 3,012 | 1/1)

Sometimes Neil had thought about, when and under which circumstances he would hear the name Nathaniel again, but he had not expected it to happen like this.

Shut Up, Baby by aftgandreil (arituzz) (E | 693 | 1/1)

“Can you not call me Josten when we are about to have sex?” Neil protests, tugging the hem of his shirt up and over his head.

“What do you want me to call you, then? Asshole?” Andrew says with a smirk on his face, already taking his boxers off.

“Fuck, no. Just–” The advances they’ve made so far have been amazing, Neil thinks, engraving the sight of his naked lover in his head. He can’t help biting his lower lip at the vision in front of him. They’ve come this far, which is more than Neil could have ever hoped for. He guesses it won’t hurt to try for a tinsy little bit more. Locking his eyes with Andrew’s, he says, “Call me baby.”

restless by wesninski for lorcathegreat (G | 2,121 | 1/1)

It’s an expression of restlessness, the kind of bout of spontaneous recklessness at which Neil has always excelled. A new city with new teammates and a new apartment and new stress, and Neil turns to Andrew one summer night, the smell of cigarette smoke mingling with the perfume of Andrew’s flowers on the balcony because they haven’t picked the lock to the roof yet, and says, “let’s get out of here.”

Or: Andrew and Neil go on a road trip and bring the cats along. They should have just found a cat sitter.

if things went differently by yuhee (T | 1,810 | 1/1)

The day Neil Josten disappeared on the Foxes, he had died in a fire incident along with his father and his men. Or so they said. Because Andrew now sees the man in flesh and bones at a city in England after two years.

this place is a shelter by Joana789 (T | 1,786 | 1/1)

”Well,” Andrew says, and the answer feels raw on his tongue. ”Someone has to make sure you don’t run again.”

ask me no questions (and i might not cuss you out) by WingsOfWax (T | 2,77 | 1/1)

Neil’s and Andrew’s relationship becomes public - without their permission. It’s annoying because now they have to actually deal with it. Neil gets more than a little rude when someone asks the wrong kind of question.

"Call me Marcus; he’s strong and noble.” by AroPeterWam (E | 6,899 | 1/1)

“Which one is Sir Fat Cat McCatterson? And why does he have a long name? I like the name King Fluffkins, but isn’t that too many noble titles for the cats?” Marcus, slowly coming out of his shell reached under the coffee table for one of the cats. – In which Neil and Andrew come across a boy who might not be like any of their stray cats.

wake your ghost by Frostandcoal (G | 2,741 | 1/1)

“Kevin’s been obsessed with Riko Moriyama his entire life. It’s going to take more than a bullet to stop that.”

The amount of mental energy Kevin has wasted on Riko is like a faucet, and Andrew has yet to see any definitive proof that Kevin’s ready to turn off the pipes.

In which Kevin has Complicated Feelings ™, Neil does not approve, and Andrew does not care. And Andreil!Banter, for it is like crack unto me, and I love them :|

Close & Closer by kayxpc (E | 1,290 | 1/1)

Andrew & Neil map another safe place out in their relationship

You & Me by kayxpc (E | 782 | 1/1)

A bottom Andrew fic because the fandom is in need of more and I couldn’t get it out of my head.

Here With You by kayxpc (G | 295 | 1/1)

Andrew and Neil sleep together after being apart for far too long

an acceptable surprise by kayxpc (G | 1,181 | 1/1)

permanent key//permanent home by kayxpc (T | 1,025 | 1/1)

Andrew visits Neil

She Was Found by OrdinaryVegan (T | 1,591 | 1/1)

"We’ve been over this and over this. We have looked at it from every possible angle. We agreed on this, that this is what we both want. You agreed to get over your daddy issues, and I agreed to actively ignore every parenting example I’ve ever had. Right?”

Neil nods his head once with a little too much force to be convincing. “Right.”

“Okay,” Andrew says, not really sure if it was loud enough for Neil to hear. He tightens his hand on Neil’s neck, pulling him closer until their foreheads are touching. Neil’s hand has made it up to hang off of his bicep, gripping like it’s the only thing keeping him on the ground. Andrew fights to keep his voice as even as possible. “Neil. You have to tell me that you’re in this all the way. This is permanent. Once we sign those papers, she is ours. Forever. I refuse to send her away. I will not be like them,” he says, fiercely. “Do you want this?”

AKA Piper: The Prequel

Sundays by celestia (G | 887 | 1/1)

A lazy sunday

something just like this by kayxpc (G | 566 | 1/1)

happy holidays from the foxes by artemis_westfor OneSweetMelody (G | 5,446 | 1/1)

This is my gift exchange for Jules, who wanted Fox family bonding during the holiday/post-grad! A fic set in the future after the books, when all the Foxes have their kids. They have a yearly reunion during the holidays! Soft andreil living their happy life, Andrew healing and having a better relationship with Aaron and Nicky, everyone is happy and sappy. Merry Christmas!

Always by merlypops for badtemperblue (G | 583 | 1/1)

“Am I annoying you?” “You always do,” Andrew said, cradling Neil’s cheek gently before he shoved his face away again. “Always, Josten.” Neil’s heart squeezed in his chest with something that felt dangerously like happiness. He was glad that name was still alive. He was glad he was still around to hear it. He was glad Andrew wasn’t gone.

Neil and Andrew on a plane. Fluff ensues.

smile, smile, smile by mikeymomoo (G | 744 | 1/1)

andrew is getting groceries and a fan spots him. he fucks with him.

All We Ever Knew by OrdinaryVegan (G | 1,317 | 1/1)

Robin comes to Neil for life advice, and he is surprisingly helpful. 

Phone Calls by celestia (G | 3,339 | 1/1)

It’s Andrew’s birthday. Even though he and Neil don’t celebrate birthdays, Andrew always gets three phone calls on his birthday.

tell me pretty lies by kayxpc (G | 754 | 1/1)

Andrew and Neil apartment shop after Andrew graduates.

out & proud by kayxpc (G | 1,417 | 1/1)

Same sex marriage is finally legalized in Germany and the foxes come to support Nicky and Erik! Lots of love and happiness in this fic, angst who?

Eventually by writerforlife (T | 850 | 1/1)

Eventually, Andrew Minyard found his version of happiness.

Weddings in Germany by kayxpc (G | 978 | 1/1)

all the foxes visit Germany for Nicky and Eriks wedding! :) pure andreil fluff ahead

New Places by Q_Jem_Bee (M | 937 | 1/1)

That was the greatest thing about this, about them.

They had all the time in the world.

[Podfic] right side of rock bottom byfrecklebombfic (frecklebomb) for Fleur Rochard (fleurrochard) (M | 20 | 1/1)

Author’s summary: Neil thinks it might be the first time he’s taken a breath in days.

He hadn’t realised it because he’d been so caught up in packing and saying goodbye to everyone but now that it’s over he remembers his self-imposed countdown was meant to be up by now. It’s the end of the school year and five months ago, he thought he’d be dead by now.

Instead he has a team and a future and a home and Andrew.

(The last two might be interchangeable.)

Permanence by justapipe-dream (ginita105) (T | 702 | 1/1)

Neil wasn’t the reason for Andrew’s newfound stability, but he had been the eye opener. Neil had taught him that not all humans wanted to break the glass walls he built around himself, some had the decency to find the door and knock.

For the Vagabonds by OrdinaryVegan (T | 1,301 | 1/1)

Neil and Andrew versus the Maserati and the mountains.

Out by Q_Jem_Bee, shewhoisntnamed44 (G | 4,378 | 1/1)

Chris was lucky enough to have a co-worker who Neil Josten owed a favour to – and was about to launch her journalism career through the roof.

Beg and Borrow and Steal by OrdinaryVegan (T | 3,349 | 1/1)

Andrew and Neil are dragged into a school dance by their certified Sassmaster and Ray of Sunshine daughter.

pull me back by thetinyconstellation for lethargicawe (T | 2,032 | 1/1)

Neil has a bad day and his boyfriends do what they can to help. Well, if he lets them.

Children of the Universe by aceaaronminyard (necklace) (Not Rated | 1,630 | 1/1)

in which aaron and andrew figure their shit out with only a minimal amount of bruises

-

“If Aaron is being honest, Andrew looks like a spawn of Death herself; dark and weathered and just as lethal. Aaron smiles cruelly at the glare Andrew fixes him, and for the first time in months, feels galaxies explode in his lungs and make a home under his fingernails.”

mel i mató by R_Gunns (T | 1,934 | 1/1)

Being away from Andrew was harder than Neil had anticipated. Missing him was loud, thinking about him was like a cacophony of sounds, a discordant mess of sensory memories that Neil couldn’t make sense of.

(Neil’s final year at Palmetto is over, and he’ll be moving in with Andrew soon. In the meantime, he pines.)

home (is whenever i’m with you) by nightquills for apear55 (G | 2,067 | 1/1)

It’s been weeks since he saw Andrew last, and Neil can’t wait to finally see him in person, have him near, hear his voice without the tinny echo of a phone call between them.

Neverland is home to lost boys like me byjustapipe-dream (ginita105) (G | 627 | 1/1)

‘Oh, how lucky you are,’ it said, ‘Two lost boys found their Neverland in each other.’

proper punishment for an angel by artemis_west (E | 5,912 | 1/1)

Neil’s mouth gets him in trouble. What else is new?

In which… by Nikotheamazingspoonklepto (Not Rated | 22,238 | 1/1)

…the Foxes get the love they deserve. ~ This fic is a story of growth, character development, and happiness, where Neil loves his Fox family in varying degrees, ranging from platonic to romantic or sexually. Beginning at the start of Neil’s Sophomore year at PSU, he is becoming more confident, self-assured, and a happy person, supported by his original Fox family and learning how to be a leader toward the six Freshman that arrived at PSU.

Ice Cream by kayxpc (E | 944 | 1/1)

Nora’s tweets have inspired andreil smut. It’s what they deserve.

[Podfic] The Name Game by frecklebombfic (frecklebomb) for Fleur Rochard (fleurrochard) (G | 18 | 1\1)

Author’s summary: What happens when Andrew and Neil change the names on their jerseys.

Independence Day by imagined_melody (G | 1,054 | 1/1)

Neil Josten graduates from Palmetto State University on May 12—five years to the day after he arrived.

In which a life transition falls on an important date, and Neil deals with the prospect of his life changing again.

To heal a wound, you need to stop touching it bywesninskids (Not Rated | 2,203 | 1/1)

Some nights, Kevin Day jerks awake with the weight of his past. These nights, Neil’s there to pull him back to the present.

Sunday Mornings by cleopatras (T | 1,178 | 1/1)

how Neil and Andrew spend a Sunday morning in their home in San Clemente

three keys by lovelyloss (T | 516 | 1/1)

andrew thinks about the three keys neil and him share. [my descriptions are bad whoops]

Another Lonely Christmas by SpookyMiscreant (G | 1,112 | 1/1)

This is a gift for ten-paces-fire for the aftg winter exchange! Kevin is stuck playing Exy overseas instead of in Columbia with his family for christmas.

this is it by morticianists (T | 207 | 1/1)

the future isn’t as bleak as it used to be.

Neil is forbidden to have a relationship with Andrew by his new contract by Vinjana (G | 586 | 1/1)

Neil, who joined Andrew’s team, doesn’t read his contracts…

a haze of fleeting moments by luna_lovegood (G | 2,666 | 1/1)

Renee looked at her as she sat up on the couch and undid her braid, eyes bright and lips stained red. “Alright,” Renee agreed. “That sounds like fun. Do you have any nail polish?”

“Chanel or Essie?” Allison shot back and smirked.

(Or, five moments Renee spent with people she cared about.)

“Why did you name it Burrito?’ by AroPeterWam (Not Rated | 6,828 | 1/1)

“So, is this language barrier ever going to end?” It was Dan who spoke, seemingly entertained by them as she rubbed her temples. – Marcus meets the Foxes and other issues his dads help him through.

You Found Me by howmanyshipscanashippership ( T | 1,539 | 1/1 )

Andrew wakes up a few days after the Foxes win the championships from a nightmare. He wants to look to Neil for comfort and wonders when that became a thing. He falls back asleep and remembers various scenes from when Andrew first met Neil and then things some more about that. Andrew never says to Neil "I love you" but it is heavily implied.... so cannon compliant.