#throws my hands in the air

[vcod1n]

"self proclaimed problematic" um yeah and so what like what do you have against my villainous dreams whats got you so worked up over my malicious desires

[hinamie]

10 years later

[leatherforhell]

what do you mean people picked the marry options I don’t have any ships

[necrosin]

❝ well, we can't have that, can we? ❞ it's far more a compulsion of selfishness than anything else / this rejection of satoru's rejection of his own crimes, his own culpability, half truth or no, but ( ... ) satoru isn't an idiot ; never has been. always too sharp, too intent, too intelligent, sometimes far more than anyone could ever presume or expect from him. self denial can only take someone so far, protection of the self can only carry one so far —— satoru knows because he must know, he must accept that which suguru has wrought / because HE WILL ACCEPT NOTHING LESS THAN THE WHOLE OF SATORU, refuses pieces or parts or scraps, he will not sate himself on pieces of satoru / he'd rather have none of him than fractional portions.

he's always been strangely selfish when it comes to satoru / covetous of him, his attention, his whole being, dwelling in that strange liminal space at the heart of him and the fringes of him and everywhere in between. consumed in him / consumed by him / CONSUMING HIM IN RETURN / the relentless cycle of infinity and the void and the impossibility that stretches between them inexorably, unendingly, absolutely. ❝ since when have you ever chosen the easy way out? don't disappoint me now, satoru. ❞

yet, the crux of it all is something as simple yet profound as the years that stretched and the chasm that yawns between them, purely vertical, perhaps able to be crossed in a single leap, yet who would want to risk it when you could fall into the infinite void beneath? NEITHER OF THEM ARE SCHOOLBOYS ANYMORE / the childish compulsion to be selfish with satoru's time and attention and whole being, as if suguru had been created to fill in the gaps of him, as though he had been born months later as a matched set, other juvenile, ridiculous, absurdist things / they're years and hundreds of dead bodies separated from that, the blood stained path that suguru follows not one that satoru will follow him down. not precisely. not exactly / not the way he once did, when suguru was his MORAL COMPASS and they begged at and played at living in each other's pockets / perhaps satoru feels guilty, for all of it.

ridiculous, if so.

unbearable in concept, even. nearly.

the path that suguru has chosen was his, wrought by his own hands, chosen with open eyes and an open heart : declared as he looked into the eyes of two emaciated, fearful, abused girls who had wept with relief when he had delivered to them their retribution, placing it at their feet before taking both of them into his arms and carrying them away, simply telling them don't look as he stepped over bodies and bodies and bodies and a veritable river of blood. SUGURU REGRETS NOTHING / thinks at times of haibara's cold, dead body / yet it is not regret but rage that fills him at the memory, at the knowledge that sorcerers are DEMANDED to place their lives on the line, to sacrifice themselves, all for the safety and wellbeing of vermin who would never understand, never know, would sooner cage them and lock them away and destroy them than ever attempt to understand, let alone THANK THEM.

this path was inevitable. from the moment that he had determined his initial true reason for living ( to protect the weak ) it was only a matter of time before he would learn. before he would realize. before he would see this world as it truly was. satoru had no role in it / he had every role in it / satoru, the strongest, tasked with only the most dangerous, the most perilous / shoko, caged and commodified and ——

unbearable. unbearable.

❝ they certainly did, ❞ once he had wanted satoru to meet his parents / he'd been certain they would have found him amusing, at the very least / he thought that his mother would have ADORED HIM and his father wouldn't have quite known what to do with him, but alas. vague affection fills him, lightens his tone, for all that it's morbid / for all that they shouldn't speak of the dead, ❝ my unerring devotion to my morality is thanks to them, you know. always speaking of the importance of ethics and morality ( ... ) my mother was quite taken with confucianism. ❞ cruel, perhaps. but the truth. perhaps it was this action that had truly and decisively warped satoru's perception of him. changed him from the boy he had loved so much to some unknown creature, formless and terrifying in that loss. it doesn't matter much anymore though, does it? his parents are long dead, buried in a location only suguru knows, honored and loved still, in spite of it all.

he huffs out a bemused laugh / satoru's absurdities amusing as always / the smile on his face threatening to be blinding. perhaps it would be, to anyone who was not as well studied in satoru's smiles as him, to anyone who hadn't picked apart every last curve and shadow and millimeter of it available to him with the devotion of a saint, determined to commit ever last line of it to memory, always studious : even in this. maybe especially in this. ❝ only on sundays, ❞ an offering / followed by another, vague and lacking in most details, just enough to sate curiosity, a piece of candy pressed into a warm palm in the middle of a springtime day because suguru had so conveniently found it when satoru was flagging, draping himself over his desk with loud sighs and listless fidgeting, utterly unable to remain still. ❝ if you must know, i have a raised platform, though of course when i meet with my family we're often around a table, ❞ equals in every way his family, naturally. how else would they be? how else could he stomach them?

❝ am i? oh, silly me, ❞ smirk curves wider / he entertains the mental images longer because of course he does, because he's wont to, because satoru knocking his head on things because he's SO ABSURDLY TALL is the sort of humor that a child would laugh it, certainly, but the idea of someone as thoroughly powerful as satoru being laid low by a small doorframe ( ... ) the jokes, almost literally, write themselves. ❝ your lack of an answer is an answer, you know. ❞

❝ clarification leads to understanding, sa—toru. ❞ senseless lecturing, alll of this waffling —— the glee on satoru's face the utmost of his fixations, like a singular star in the sky / satoru's hands on him, roaming, pressing, perfunctory and playing at possessiveness. he curves his palm against satoru's low back, a heatless branding, hand gripping at his elbow, like and unlike the past / but the past only has bearing in that it was where they had started, where this fixation had taken root, where they had started revolving around each other as though they had a GRAVTIATIONAL PULL tuned only for each other —— the past is in the past, they are here and now, pressed against each other / latching onto each other / apparently intent on following this disastrous road / like birds flitting around each other, pecking each other, intent and absorbed and hurtling towards the earth. ❝ you've always been terrible at subtlety, ❞ nails dig against satoru's back, muffled by fabric, a subtle thing, a harmless thing, an avaricious thing : desire is hungry creature / not unlike the void / not unlike infinity —— ??? ❝ can you blame me? it was so amusing, watching you toe around the subject, trying to be coy, ❞ as if they hadn't known, as if they hadn't presumed / though he supposes satoru hadn't, hadn't wholly known, fully known, bravado buoying him as it often does.

because he had left him behind / because suguru had left satoru behind, an act that would have seem IMPOSSIBLE mere weeks before he had carried it out —— and he does not regret. he does not anguish over it. he did not offer satoru a place beside him / it would have been insufferable, the never ending clash of morality / lack thereof / SATORU WOULDN'T HAVE UNDERSTOOD / suguru refuses to entertain the idea that perhaps, perhaps he could have. perhaps if he had taken nanako and mimiko to him, perhaps if he hadn't done all that he had done ——

pointless theoretical, not to be entertained ( and he doesn't, really, when he states he does not regret HE MEANS IT / even at the cost of satoru, himself. )

❝ i suppose it can't be helped, ❞ as if there would have been any way for satoru to know, as if there could have been a way for him to solve a puzzle missing over half of the pieces —— this is wholly on SUGURU'S TERMS / or was / now it's on both of theirs / equals in all ways that matter, mirrors of each other, twin souls, soul mates, other insufferably saccharine things : tooth aching things, this connection, this obsession, this absurd IMMOLATION OF THE SELF, reaching for each other all the same —— a tender show of violence, as if they were shearing layers of the other's heart away, sheet by sheet, blood sticky on their fingers.

( perhaps they simply would have been tender, once upon a time. he thinks they would have / the affection that he held for satoru once upon a time pure, shadowed only by possessiveness / lacking in this intrinsic violence he feels now / this desire to CARVE OUT A PLACE FOR HIMSELF IN SATORU'S BONES, bone chips flying, marrow bared not to the world but to suguru alone —— perhaps. another useless, pointless theoretical. )

satoru pulls at his hair / he lets his lashes flutter in response, action to reaction demanding a reaction / smile turning sly, as though speaking of their respective deaths is as demure a subject as possible / he supposes that for THEM it is. he tips his head up, placing traction against satoru's pull, scalp stinging ever so slightly / when he speaks it's with teeth, a hint of them / suguru has always liked satoru mean, just the way satoru had always like him mean. maybe this, too, was inevitable. ❝ is there any other order for us to go? ❞ a plain statement : suguru will die first, surely, a simplistic sort of deduction given, oh, the entirety of their lives —— a star burning brighter and BRIGHTER until it collapses, destroying all around it in return / maybe even satoru.

oh, a hint of skin, a sliver of satoru's back / he presses his fingers against it, nails tracing gently over fine, pale, delicate skin. so few scars, the barest of one on his forehead to suguru's recollection / he wonders if satoru has collected any more / aches to sink his teeth into them. ❝ you might keep my body? forever? i suppose you could circumvent decay well enough, ❞ he takes satoru's jaw in hand / an almost gentle gesture / tracing his thumb along the line of it. ❝ how romantic, ❞ the most honeyed of coos.

❛ go figure, you're particular about a lot of things. ❜ but so is he, and it feels wrong to point it out like an injustice, especially when it falls in his favor. before, there'd never been a moment he'd doubted; he spoke too loud, too often, let silly things spill out of him for suguru to listen ( it would've been enough, after so long ) and sing back something just as off-kilter. the pronunciation of a name, the whittling of words until they hardly meant anything at all, until he was speaking for the sake of being heard. always reaching, grasping at space that'd been filled once and now —— something again, something cruel and whole and listening. there was never a moment he resented being seen / known / understood in a depth that he did his best to reflect back now, despite the difference.

suguru wasn't ever as bad, only mirroring what was thrown his way; could sit in silence if he was ever able to find any, before the sudden burst of noise demanded his attention and always he would relent, sighing softly, smiling softer; the thought made satoru's heart ache. how careless he'd been, how careless still, biting and clawing for the right thing to say, stumbling against the lack-of. as with most things, it was only suguru who could slip him up, catch him out / corner and trap him never into silence but into the next best thing.

❛ thanks for the permission, but i was going to carry on blindly denying your culpability anyway. ❜ barely scraping half-truths now; there's no denying the slaughter, no hiding the hundreds of bodies rotting in the earth by suguru's hands —— but that much is obvious and suguru knows that. instead he speaks of defense in the face of those they both resent, volleying back and forth the same pointless arguments as if satoru's going to crumble, as if they'd going to let it go. impulsivity isn't insanity though and there's only so far denial ever took him, regardless of how he shapes suguru: two weeks and the truth had seeped so far into him that anything else just made him feel foolish. maybe he's vying for praise he knows he won't get, maybe he's not, there's still a heart somewhere in him hoping anyway. ❛ it tends to make things easier. ❜

he understands, in a roundabout way he'll never voice, because surely it would kill him / would kill whoever suguru pointed at. a fine type of empathy at some point after wading through years of questions —— it never made anything any easier, never assured anything, but there was pain and there was an answer, there was taking the world in the palm of your hand: what would be possible for you, an echo, over and over.

still —— the idea is haunting, in that schoolyard ghost story kind-of way. lingering always, a vivid memory plunged too deep into him that it only takes a moment ( a flicker of his own face, recognition of it's constant, unrelenting change ) for it to grip him. overtaking that voice in him normally so clear, disavowing of the unknown with scolding skepticism. the feeling that something is off, that something is careening over his shoulder waiting him to to let go of that last breath caught in the tightness of his throat, always quickly brushed off but never completely forgotten. at strange times he finds himself plunged into ruthless despair, gasping at anything but the memory of summer, and it leaves him as suddenly but always just there, in the corner of his eye.

what came after / the year that followed; specifics escaped him, so little did he actually tend to focus on those days. and yet there were crisp memories of suguru smoking, sprawled in his neat way in dark corners, shrouded by tiny rain clouds. how quaint it'd seemed at the time, how novel that suguru would fall victim to such a petty thing, hot shame boiling over at the crass way he'd tried to broach the moping, the desperation to say the right thing. maybe he never could've, maybe it had all been as pointless as everything that followed, but still he would chant them to himself when they came to him. little prayers trying to reach through time while he waited for the next wave of melancholy to silence him back into his evocation, a reprieve from believing; if i'd just tried.

he's spent too long mourning the man holding his hand, pressing them together. it was never so different from the blind ache of teenage pining for something he could have, but wouldn't, not yet. satoru struggled to separate them, the idea of love and the sick way he shivered with devotion against the thought of suguru now: desire was a twisted thing, ruined what humanity he could salvage against the wreckage of his youth. he'd needed suguru desperately and considered it only penance —— he'd not been there when suguru needed him, despite everything.

( killing lights, the sound of soft whispers: he couldn't ever hold the image of them together without violence, without gore seeping through and staining white sheets. tormenting himself, he would push onward, trained instinct to crush instead of poke, teasing out love from long sobs because anything else would be too tender, too forgiving. his heart had been broken, his ego wounded: he wasn't kind enough to let that go )

—— in the end, it would come down to the pitiful fact that he just thought about suguru too often ( despite his efforts ) to be normal about it. how he'd wanted to carry his memory would never last against the narrative he sifted through too often to keep consistent.

❛ and yet they raised you. how peculiar. ❜ the pretend faces satoru gave them always smudged with blood, always terror stricken / their jaws broken, bodies limp and odd against the wet floor they'd been left to rot upon. it was hardly that morbid, but the reality of the evidence was hardly something he could stomach, concocting instead something more palatable: savagery that implied something snapped, gave deniability to the change that'd taken suguru so thoroughly, slowly seeping into him until there no room to pretend that it wasn't real and present and he killed his parents to prove his point.

the knife ever twisting deeper, were it not for their proximity ( now a novel thing ) he would let it wash over him, become taken by the pain until he wears himself too thin once again and has to stop.

suguru's eyes roll ( how exciting !! ) and he smiles in that mean way and satoru dares not think about how he looks. he can feel his smile aching, his cheeks sore and screaming, teeth coming to bite at his lip to remind him it's real, he's awake, he's here. ❛ aah, how embarrassing. i don't keep up with cult-fashion. so ... what? you sit in a circle and talk about your feelings instead? very modern. ❜ again, the thought alone makes him laugh manically into suguru's shoulder. the idea of him existing, a murderer, a threat, so cool and calm in the world he'd created for himself —— untouchable because satoru had found him and latched on and still dreams of lost versions of their life where pain didn't drive them. ❛ ... now you're just being silly. ❜ he doesn't dignify him with an answer ( there's certain rooms he ducks to enter, caught himself before it was too late and narrowly avoided the shame of change again bearing down on him, but the less suguru knows about that the better ).

❛ is that what we're doing now? clarifying? ❜ ignoring who started what; deliberately trying to outdo, to outsmart, there's no question in their equality ( a distorted mirror, a poor reflection / soulmates, twin flames, any number of embarrassing things ) and yet they try anyway. at one point, that's what it's been to satoru: a game after the world promised something him something glorious —— he toyed with it, poked at it's sore spots and hoped to behold it squirming, shocked when it poked back. it'd been fun, thrilling, chasing and almost catching but never quite, because there's time enough for whatever silly thing his heart desires. it'd never mattered to him, so obviously he slipped up, lingering too long and holding too tightly only ever with suguru; it was a game and he was doomed to lose and loved openly because where was the fun in not? ❛ you mean you knew? that whole time? ❜ he giggles, pulling suguru closer, hands roaming for more he's not yet touched. ❛ you should've said something. i can't believe you let me make a fool out of myself like that. ❜

suguru demands, satoru relents; it resets and they start again, swapped with new urgency. a kiss like chewing up a heart and spitting it back out, a kiss like sacrament; burning, boiling, simmering over, dying summers and freezing nights, moonlight frenzied and endless. gusts of winter winds so cold they shock, withering whatever they pour across with unforgiving nature. he claws closer, impossibly, every breath lingering before heavily sighed against suguru's lips. desire so all consuming it festers, growing violent in absence until there's nothing more for it to do but wait ever patently: there's happiness somewhere buried but satoru hardly notices it.

❛ he didn't know. ❜ breathless, sighed out. didn't know you still wanted him, had felt so utterly left behind that it took too long for him to realize that suguru was still suguru and would want him always; too much time passed, too much of what happened told to him in sharp tones, like he was the one being scolded. it wasn't a peaceful thing, the smell of fried food and the sound of heavy footsteps around them muffling the shrill sound of his own voice ( it bounced around his head anyway ). there was nothing kind about suguru that day, nothing playful or teasing about the sudden maturity he possessed and bestowed upon satoru like it was something to be proud of, like their teasing and childishness had been nothing but.

he'd been out too, wondering around half blind and dazed, one foot in front of the other until he could only carry himself home and yet —— yet suguru had never come to him. had waited until shoko was alone and smoking and gone to her … like speaking to satoru was beneath him. maybe now it made more sense, why things unfurled as uncomfortably as they did, why there was a crowd and distance and not the two of them as they'd been, but the wound then was fresh, and he'd pealed it open every chance he got to remind himself he wasn't wanted, had been discarded, alone again.

but now —— ❛ you plan to die first? how reassuring. ❜ he shudders, dipping to breath against suguru's hair: impossibly long now, he tugs at it again, pulling his head back, making it hurt. ❛ but yes. i might even keep it. forever is forever. ❜ more of that cruel smirk, more of suguru he can't bear to look away from. he's real and human and it seems impossible, it seems like it was always going to be like this.

[lemongogo]

sry i dont know what 2 draw anymore T_T . elendira portrait #999

[neo-metal]

mutual sacrifice

[sketchalicious]

i cant focus on homework did u guys know nya kai jay and cole were all in death note

[hanzajesthanza]

(Adam Dudaczyk) The fact that vampires drink blood to get that *meaningful hand-neck gesture* - you made that up? (Andrzej Sapkowski) Yes, I didn't model myself on anyone here, I don't know anyone who wrote before me about the fact that vampires drink blood not to satisfy their hunger, but to satisfy their thirst for… entertainment. Texts: the guys sent me to get blood, I was flying drunk… The fun was great.

as i reread this i couldn't stop thinking of this meme

[deathcabforbooty]

I was looking up pictures of what my favorite teddy bear from my childhood would’ve looked like brand new for reference for a tattoo I’m getting tomorrow and at first I got kind of sad looking at rainbies busted up eyes and the lil hole by his sun on his chest. And then I thought about how like no. Rainbie has been on so many adventures and has been played with so hard. This bear has had more hair cuts than I have and I’m bald by choice. This bear has been with me my whole life and yeah it’s very clear just by looking at him but ya know what that just means he’s been well loved.

[fear-no-mort]

shy socially awkward em representation

[crows-of-buckets]

Do you guys think they're gonna retcon solas's weird racism thing he's got going on. Are they just gonna ignore it or is Solas going to be even more of a bitch to rooks who aren't elven

[necroticyuzu]

Whelp, I'm now done for real this time. I swear every time I'm about to post I keep seeing more stuff to either add or change but now I have to tie my fingers and just let this be done as it is.

Again Rolan I love you but why did you just have to be so darn extra for with that shoulder piece??? Yes you look stunning in it but it also makes you a pain in the arse to draw too you know!!

[ladymariayuri]

game devs while designing a woman who isn't 100% human: ok so our choices are "completely monstrous, exclusive only to women we deem masculine enough to be depicted as a joke or undesirable" or "cunty enough to convey she's sexy but it looks kind of weird and out of place because how can people tell if she's a woman if she doesnt have the face of a model"

[smokbeast]

bloodlust

[valiant-portabella-pirkko]

Alright know what here's a little Guild Wars 2 reblog game for everybody; what mounts (if any) do your characters have in their canon, do they have names? Personalities? How'd they meet??

Spill it all below, tell me about all your creatures!!

[solivagantingrebel]

I hate writing through my phone :/