darkness i became

adrien ivanov | 21 | child of чёрт

[hellsired-blog]

maiiis:

     an eyebrow is ARCHED PERFECTLY behind circular frames , as she fiddles with the split ends of her hair that is pulled into two , low pigtails. she just wants to go HOME , so when the other approaches , she does everything she can not to freeze up. ( she’s never been good with talking to STRANGERS , let alone those who approach at the early hours of the morning — really , do they have a DEATH WISH? she could’ve — well , she could’ve accidentally hurt them ; it’s not all too big of a stretch. )

       an audible sigh escapes her lips. at least he wasn’t asking for something CRUDE like most men she has encountered on her way home. eyes flicker up towards the BAR FRONT of pike’s poison , and for a moment , she considers turning away. but she doesn’t. she wills her scampering heart to still , and smiles up towards the OTHER ( since she only reaches an ASTOUNDING four feet & eleven inches ; i know , she’s not all too proud of it either ) , brushing fly away hairs out of her face.

         “ —i can definitely help you , but don’t you think it’s a bit LATE to be going to the park? “ eyebrows knit together in something like WORRY as she examines his features , gauging for some kind of reaction. 

        IT’S DEFINITELY LATE,  but there’s something nice about the outdoors at night,  especially after all the time he’s spent without a home.   while arber’s place is comfortable, and,  in truth,  a blessing,  he’s still used to being outside.

        the warlock gives a quick nod,  understanding where she’s coming from.   it is late,  now that he thinks of it,  though he hasn’t been paying attention to the time whatsoever up until this point  ---  and he’ll likely forget all about it momentarily.    “ um,  uh---  p-probably?   but the moon looks...  looks nice tonight.   very bright. ”

        he’s definitely nervous just asking a stranger off the street,  but he’s rather turned around.   that’s what he gets for travelling at street level rather than up above.    “ you don’t---  don’t have to.   i can find it.   probably. ”    the better word would be doubtfully.

[hellsired-blog]

angelicxsilver:

I just want to be an orphan right now….or drunk. I’ll take drunk first, wishing murder is kind of….dark, right?

        THERE’S A MOMENT OF HESITATION as he tries to figure out whether or not the other is joking,  and he realises he can’t tell.   people have never been his strong suit;  telling truth from lies is always difficult.    “ i,  um---  did something happen?   i,  uh...  being an---  an orphan isn’t fun.   people dying and leaving you alone---  it’s not good.   even when they’re bad. ”

[pshadoof]

D A R K N E S S

[hellsired-blog]

* THIS WORLD INVERTED

        EVERY WEEK IS A CONSTANT.   for you,  nothing ever changes;  if it did,  you’re not sure you’d know what to do.   today is sunday,  and so your grandparents take you to church.    ( you haven’t been out of the house since last week.   you’re only allowed to leave on sundays,  and never alone. )    you know what’s coming,  and you’ve resigned yourself to your fate  ——  not because you think you can’t get free,  but because you don’t know freedom is a concept.

        when the van stops,  you stay in your seat until someone comes around to get you,  and only then do you move.   you step from the car,  head bowed,  and take care not to look at a single person.    ( you’ve made the mistake before.   the time below is longer if you do. )    it’s not as though you’d see a face if you did look up,  though;  they’ve all worn masks since you became old enough to describe them.

                    THE BURNING IS FIRST.

        they take you into the basement where the fire is.   the men have their cigars;  the women have the pokers.   with each hot from flame,  they take turns pressing it into the skin of your back.    ( you don’t bother to wear a shirt to these anymore.   you know what’s coming. )    you hold your tongue and swallow your shouts;  what comes later is always worse.   they’ve burnt you so many times that there are layers of scar tissue between their heat and your body.   you barely feel this part anymore.   you barely feel anything anymore.

                    NEXT IS THE DROWNING.

        they have you strip before you’re put into a bath of ice water.   hands find your shoulders,  your chest,  your legs;  they push you beneath the surface without warning and hold you there.   you’ve gotten good at holding your breath  ——  you can reach almost two minutes now.   it’s too bad they hold you for longer.   when you finally break free of their touch and gasp for air,  they leave you for a minute before they force you beneath once more.   it happens ten times.   you were good this week.   some weeks you aren’t good;  you go up to the roof and look over the city.   those weeks,  they go for twenty.   thirty.   they’ve had to bring you back from the brink of death before;  you’ve died at least twice this year.   sometimes you wonder when death will take.

                    CONFESSION IS SAVED FOR LAST.

        they place you before the cross and lock the door.   you’re left with a whip and a knife.   if you don't do this on your own,  they do it later.   you know how to make it hurt the least.   the whip is cast over your shoulder time and time again,  the cord biting into your flesh,  leaving marks alongside scars and what's still healing from the week before.   here you scream;  here you cry.   you miss your mother,  who you never knew.   you miss your father,  who you barely remember.   you do this so you'll see them again.   that's what your grandparents say to you.   you repent so you might have a chance to see them before your soul is thrown to hell  ——  and yet,  is fifteen years of this not enough?

        when you're finally taken from the room,  no one notices the knife is gone as well.

                I AM SORRY,  MOTHER.                                         FORGIVE ME,  FATHER.

        today,  you suffer.   tonight,  you give them the escape they've denied you.

[hellsired-blog]

AND WHAT DO YOU GIVE WHEN YOU HAVE NOTHING LEFT?

[arbermors]

it was odd to see arber out this late, but they woke up in the middle of the night and they were starving and instead of using their magic to whip up a meal for themselves, they decided it would be nice to go on a leisurely stroll to the nearest 7/11 for a bite to eat.

as expected, the night children were walking about as if it were daytime and nightclubs were at their peak while the occasional shadowhunter was walking around patrolling the area. after the frenchman bought themselves some sandwiches, they started making their way to their apartment.

they nearly jumped when a young boy- a warlock from the looks of it approached them(the horns were a dead giveaway and they couldn’t sense any unseelie blood in the child). “merryweather park?” the warlock repeated, accent thick, “isn’t it a little to late for a stroll in the park, garcon? do you live around there?”

[hellsired-blog]

        HE’S BARELY NOTICED THE TIME.   there are things that slip far too easily from his attention,  and time is definitely one of them.   is it really that late?   a quick glance is directed towards the sky to check the time before his gaze returns to somewhere just a few inches away from the other’s.    ( he’s never been good at meeting people’s eyes. )    it’s dark out,  but he could have sworn he started wandering when it was still daytime.   has it really been that long?   now that he stops to think,  he’s tired.

        “ not…  around there.   in there.   n-not for long,  but—  yes.   in there,  not around there. ”    his few belongings are stored in his camera bag,  which doubles as a backpack for the sake of ease  ——  two changes of clothes,  his camera,  a couple toiletries,  and the money he’d stolen when he fled russia.    ( he’s been showering in the bathrooms of public locations. )    he doesn’t have much to his name.

        after a moment of contemplation,  adrien starts taking a few steps back,  shaking his head.    “ i—  sorry i,  um,  bothered you.   i can…  i can find it.   it’s,  uh,  it’s okay.”    he’ll probably get lost again,  but he can do it on his own.

[meiselr]

Poetry Inspiration Moodboards | losing my mind

My mind is purgatory; half heaven, half hell.

[hellsired-blog]

* HEADCANON

        having grown up in the suburbs of moscow,  adrien’s accent is distinctly russian.   english is not his first language.   part of his hesitance when speaking comes from him not always being able to find the words he needs as fast as he tries to say them.   filler words  ---  like um and uh  ---  are an integral part of his vocabulary at this point.

[hellsired-blog]

* OPEN

        THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT is not the best time to be wandering this city.   though he knows it well,  that familiarity is from the perspective of rooftops and catwalks,  not at ground level.   it should come as no surprise that he finds himself lost just after two in the morning,  when partygoers are still hopping from bar to bar and danger lurks in the shadows.   it’s with extreme reluctance that he approaches a stranger,  tentative and hanging back so he can run at a moment’s notice.

        ( it’s to his benefit that it’s dark and his hair’s a mess.                 the other might not see the small horns protruding from the top of his head. )

        “ hi,  um---  hi.   sorry to,  uh,  bother you,  but uh---  sorry,  uh---  do you know how to,  um,  get to the...  the park?   merryweather park? ”

        the question probably comes across as suspicious  ---  between his hesitation and the time,  it’s definitely strange,  and it doesn’t help his case that he’s lurking    ( with notable awkwardness )    in front of a place called pike’s poison.

[hellsired-blog]

* HEADCANON

        adrien has an intense fear of physical contact.   some people he’s close with can manage a hug or a hand-hold without issue,  but that takes a long time and what he,  at least,  feels to be a bond.   otherwise,  physical contact can induce nausea,  panic attacks,  and,  if it gets bad enough,  he may vomit.   for this reason,  if he does feel a bond with someone,  he may go out of his way to create contact by way of standing close to them,  accidentally brushing against them,  or more obvious things like hand-holding.

[hellsired-blog]

* TAG DUMP

* AESTHETIC * ASK MEME * CHARACTER STUDY * HEADCANON * INSPIRATION * INTERACTION * MUSIC * OPEN * PHOTOGRAPHY * SAVE * VISAGE

[hellsired-blog]

ANEMONE  —  “FORSAKEN”;  DYLAN O'BRIEN is ADRIEN IVANOV,  a TWENTY-ONE year old WARLOCK.   He is/They are said to be LOYAL but CYNICAL as well.   Let us welcome THE DRIFTER into the Institute with open arms.

you can find my kid’s biography/information HERE.   if you’d like a scrubbed version,  without all the potentially icky parts,  just ask!

[actualherostilesstilinski-blog]

And then, something happened. I let go. Lost in oblivion. Dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.