breathe

Sam is breathing.

He is weightless, but his limbs are heavy. His shoes are anchors, while his shirt rises up, up, as if an invisible maid were helping him undress.

Sam is looking up. The sun burns his eyes. It's a broken, irregular thing, shattered into fragments because of the ripples. He reaches for it, but his hand doesn't move.

Sam is breathing. Sam is breathing water.

Sam is drowning.

Labels: _fiction, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity

because drawing naked people is far preferable to reading dumb plays.

Labels: _art, verse: misc.

Labels: _art, c: methis, verse: etherworld

Happy new year. Here's Sena in drag. For a particular crack community lolol

Labels: _fanart, c: kobayakawa sena, fandom: eyeshield 21

Miran Estrella, the cold princess of the underworld. She will sacrifice anything and everything, even her own brother, for her ambitions.

Labels: _art, c: miran estrella, verse: errerrin

I've been trying to flesh out Elle, Liam's sister. She's the saner of the two, but it's easy to look sane when you have a brother like Liam.

She has a very que sera, sera attitude, and is fond expensive food. She doesn't like her name, so she has a habit of making a new one up every time she introduces herself to someone.

Labels: _art, c: elle, c: liam, verse: boneyards

Labels: _art, verse: misc.

Drabble, 348 words. The idea just bit me and wouldn't let go.

aftermath

The worst thing, the shittiest thing, is waking up the next day to find that nothing's really changed. He has a few bruises—five on his right arm, where the little fucker had dug his fingers in deep, and one on his left, from where he was slammed against the wall. His legs hurt from all the running he did, but it's a familiar pain, like he's back in school again and running laps, the coach yelling go go go.

He doesn't remember running, although his aching muscles do. He does remember the terror, but not properly, like it happened to some other Samuel Gray, some other poor fucker who got jumped.

In a few days the bruises will fade.

In the bathroom, his toothbrushes are still worn, and the tile in the corner's still cracked. Sam studies his reflection in the mirror, and sees the same gray eyes and straight nose.

"You killed someone, you bastard," Sam says, experimentally, but his expression doesn't change. The sentence doesn't even sound real; the words get swallowed, easy as you please, in the cramped space of the bathroom.

He doesn't remember running. He remembers this, though: The weight of the knife in his hand, and wide, mad eyes staring up at him, the vampire spitting in his face and screaming, no and don't and please, as if there were anyone in the city who would care enough to rush to the rescue.

He'd said something incredibly tacky, something like, You messed with the wrong bastard, maybe, some line from some annual he read when he was a kid, where the heroes are rugged and probably not wimpy-thin like he is.

After his shower, Sam looks at his reflection again. He tries a smile, like he's about to go out with a girl. It's as weird and forced as always, and the girl would probably be unimpressed.

He has work. Sam dresses: pants and shirt and jacket. He finds his knife, clean and unblemished, like he never used it to slit someone's throat. He takes it with him when he leaves.

Labels: _fiction, c: samuel gray, verse: darkcity