#i. character study

[burningbrave]

tag drop

[pyrhiic]

i. you are 12 & there is blood in your teeth. you, rash & idealistic, scraped up knees & bandaged elbows, little achilles boy that’s all passionate recklessness & triumphant grins & victory over death. the sound of the world bleeding roars in your ears, but you square your shoulders ( broadening already; think atlas, it looks like they’ll be perfect for carrying the weight of the world one day ) & raise your shaky, quirkless fists again  ---  quirkless, but not powerless. they’re already bruised from when you fended off someone’s bully that morning. you don’t notice. you are young but you already know it too well: the blood on your first four knuckles, the broken fingers & the pain; you are young but you already know it too well  ---  the crime, the injustice & the pain. there is always pain. 

that is why you believe the world needs a symbol, & that is why your world has been reduced to that single instinct: protect. your heart bleeds with it, golden-boy, song in your step / torchlight in your mouth / grin gilded with the halogen wild / your eyes bright & blue & every story where the hero wins  ---  suddenly you’re charging forward again with a raw, bloody scream. you do not think about dying. you can only think about saving, so you reel your fist back with all your might & you know you’re going to be eviscerated, but  ---  you’re not, because suddenly SHE is there. she grabs you by the arm  ---  her grip is grounding, strong  ---  & flings you out of the way, muttering something about stupid brats while reeling her own fist back & delivering a punch so strong the force of it sends your awkward limbs sprawling again. she looks like she could fissure the earth if she wanted, she stands so tall & proud & strong & you think, i want to be like that one day !  she turns away from her crumpled adversary, loosed hair blowing in the wind, & she is smiling down at you. you smile back.

ii. you are 18 & there is blood in your teeth. you have never known fear as you do now. she hasn’t either, you know it, there is nothing as terrible as the sworn nemesis that they face, but she’s still smiling in spite of it. of course she is. you can’t bring yourself to do the same, you don’t have the chance because she grabs you by the arm  ---  & her grip is grounding, strong, please don’t let go please don’t leave me  ---  & you are a 12 year old quirkless boy all over again, powerless, reaching out to her as you’re thrown away, away, always able to reach but never able to save. your world stops, & as hands snatch you into safety, you can feel yourself burning alive in a truth that you do not want to accept. your world stops because she is your world & your heart is beating so loudly in your ears that you cannot hear your own raw broken screams  ---  MASTER !   ---  you see her in tunnel vision; she’s getting farther away & suddenly you’re thrashing in gran torino’s grip like something feral, sobbing because she is was a mother to you. a superhero. your superhero. & you were the world she was constantly saving ( you don’t know it, but you were her world, too )  ---  MASTER !  ---  but she is gone, gone & her blood is stained on your sleeve. 

you scream. it is an awful, raw thing that tears your throat apart, & you’re still screaming when your feet come back into contact with the ground. your knees buckle underneath you ( scraped raw, you should get used to that, you’re going to be kneeling at so many graves ) & you weep. you weep with your whole being & you dirty your face & you tear at golden hair & you wish for her life, your death, it doesn’t matter as long as she’s with you. you need her. you need her  ---  you need for her to be there when your hands begin to tremble & when your voice breaks, to help steady your fists & teach you how to roar. you have nowhere else to go. you’re homeless, now, because she was the only home you had. your knuckles are stinging, the ground is cracking; you don’t remember punching it, but now you are repeatedly, torn skin leaking red everywhere. your hands might be broken. you can’t tell. you keep swinging. everything feels broken. there’s a hand on your shoulder  ---  toshinori, that’s enough  ---  & suddenly all of your energy drains out of you. your hands sting & shake & when he pulls away, a weight remains bent low on your shoulders ( broader still; you were always fated to be atlas ) & you can feel the world on your back. it’s heavy, but you want it. in the end you lift with your knees, grin & endure. for her. you can do this for her. & even if you cannot, you have to.

iii. you are __ ( you don’t remember; all of the numbers in your head are a bodycount now, there’s no room for anything else ) & there is blood in your teeth. 

the taste of it burns acidly in your cheeks. your side hurts, pain with insatiable throbbing & you know there is something terribly wrong with it but it does not compare to the burn of your achilles rage. fury fuels the fire, yet ultimately, anger is not what drives you  ---  instead, your broken heart pushes you to fight, what is simultaneously both your strength & achilles heel. it is your humanity, righteous vengeance; but it is still vengeance, & it is why you fall despite being victorious in combat. heroes are not allowed to be vengeful, & deep down, you know you initiated this fight in retribution, in a desperate need to avenge her. this is why the heavens condemn you  ---  they siphon your strength but leave the world sitting heavy upon your shoulders. not for the first time, your knees bend & creak, but unlike other times, you are not able to straighten out your spine. you are doubled over, knees knocking together like doors slamming shut; your arms tremble & your shoulders shake. your intestines are spilling out everywhere, the ground looks like a slaughterhouse floor, & you think you crush one of your own organs under your foot. but was it worth it ? 

yes, a million times yes. for the world, for her, you would do it all over again. you would die. you think you still might, but then an arm on your shoulder tethers you for a few precious moments; you flinch, ready to fight, teeth bared & it’s no wonder you were victorious, ( a wounded hero is such a frightening animal ), but  ---  it’s someone familiar, the detective, &  ---  he’s crying. that’s not acceptable. so even though you are dying, even though your side has a hole in it & your teeth are running red with your own blood, you smile, reflex,  ‘ it’s… fine now… why ? ’  it’s incredible that you still have a voice, but it is like sandpaper, tongue lead, you’re choking & gasping out the words & you can’t stop throwing up ichor ( get used to it ), ‘ because you are here. ’ your eyes, usually bright & halogen, are dim with death; when they slip closed, you see her, & now you’re 18 & reaching out all over again. but she doesn’t reach back. not yet, toshi. you still have things to do. at the hospital weeks later, they still think you’re unconscious when a nurse says, ‘ honestly, i still can’t name a hero who was actually happy in the end. ’  another voice, ‘ you’re right. heroes may win the battle, but they rarely live through. ’  strangely, you don’t think of yourself. you think of nana, handing over her own child for the greater good & you want to weep. not for yourself, but for her. you can’t cry though. you cannot move. your body has become nothing but bones wrapped up in regrets. your mouth tastes like defeat, like crushed revolution. you won the fight, yes, but did you win the war ?

iv. you are __ ( recovery girl mentioned something about your forties, you think; didn’t listen, too busy thinking about those 44 victims you couldn’t save in an earthquake a few years back  ---  something completely out of your control, but you blame yourself all the same ) & there is blood in your teeth. it sludges up your throat & chokes you out in your sleep; bloodstained achilles, burdened atlas, you stand tall & proud & invincible while being fragile & anxious & shaky. you are a burning candle in which the fire is fading to embers, but everyone else is blissfully unaware, so you go through the motions: smile. monologue. fight. bleed. smile. it keeps the PEACE, but it’s temporary, you know you’re dying. & that’s okay, but  ---  

you don’t know what to do. you feel 18 again. you are holding back tears. you are telling yourself to be brave, & you are smiling, but you are holding back tears. you are always the brave one, always the strong one. you know fear like a second skin, but you are brave. you have carried the world on your shoulders for so long, secured it with callouses & scars for so long that you don’t feel the ache anymore. you have simply become it. always the hero, you think, & grimace at the pain in your side. they want you to retire  ---  they don’t understand that you can’t do that. not yet. if you are not holding up the world, who will ? but your bones shake like they’re saying, ‘ we’re tired. it’s time. go home. ‘ your home was taken from you when you were 18, though, so you tug on your costume & limp out the door. it pulls at frail shoulders so unfamiliar, so pathetic, there’s weight to it when it was weightless before but that’s okay, it’s alright, your shoulders were made for bearing burdens from the very beginning, right ?

v. you are __ ( doesn’t matter; you’re old, obsolete ) & there is blood in your teeth. you jerk awake with a fist raised, all intrinsic militaristic instinct until your side flares up with pain. your breath shudders out of you, but the tension stays, & you quietly choke on iron, a hand fisted over that wretched scar. nightmares. you’ve always had them; the remaining traces of waking panic cling heavily to your lungs, suffocating, & your eyes search the room frantically, blind to everything except for  ---  ah, there. your young protege, curled in on himself in a chair having dozed off while standing sentinel. you exhale shakily, blinking away macabre strokes of red & afterimages of entrails splattered like a slaughterhouse floor all over again, but they weren’t yours, not this time. they were – you exhale, again, steadier this time. not real. the boy has not succumb to the same fate as you; he is not limbs & gore spread out on the battlefield, he is alive & whole & here. the tension drains from your weary bones, & instead, you sigh, because he must be uncomfortable ( a pang of bitterness hits you: all might would be able to scoop him up & tuck him in a bed with ease, but toshinori yagi cannot. but what is done is done. you let go ). it was at his insistence  ---  he was so scared for you after your rematch, after your world was unearthed for good & all of your shame was put out on display for everyone to see ( atlas, your shoulders are breaking & the world is falling –– ). 

he was scared for himself, too; you knew the look, you wore the same expression when you were 18. terrified, broken, he thought he was going to lose you  ---  & you grit your teeth because no, you can’t do that to him. not to him, never to him, please. you can’t put him through that, you can’t let him suffer the same way you did. you cannot imagine this boy – this self-sacrificing boy, a lamb willing to nail itself to a cross, you see so many of the dangerous parts of yourself in him  ---  crying over your mangled carcass the way you did hers. you stand up; your old, worn body aches for oblivion, groans & protests the movement. you’re not supposed to be on your feet at all, & you’re sure your student ( you want to say son, the word sits on the tip of your tongue every day & it feels right ) would be highly distressed if he were conscious  ---  the image garners a lopsided grin, fond  ---  but he’s not, & what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. your world has been so much darker ever since you lost her smile; his reminds you of hers, there’s as much of her in him as you, & that brings you so much joy. one day, you’ll have to thank him for teaching you how to live again, but for now, you gently place the blanket over his small form & promise to raise him. you will support him when it all becomes too much, when his shoulders begin to shake & when his voice breaks & when he needs to be reminded on how to roar, you will be there. you have to be. no, not that  ---  you want to be there for him. for all them, just like you always have.

‘ don’t worry, i’m not going anywhere, kiddo, ’ a bare whisper, you should have learned by now not to make promises you can’t keep, ‘ i am here. ’

( vi. you’re on your deathbed & there is blood in your teeth. there has always been blood in your teeth. you are sorry. you are so, so sorry. )

[thinethimble-blog]

tea orange, malachite, & peacock blue.

✴ @thinekisswhat is something that your muse is fascinated with?

          Swordplay.  He  does  a  lot  of  things  and  he  does  them  well,  but  swordplay  is  one  of  the  few  things  he  takes  any  degree  of  seriousness  to.  He  practices  on  his  own,  he  enjoys  his  run  ins  with  Hook  because  he  gets  to  test  it  all  out.  His  favorite  book  before  he  left  home  was  Treasure  Island  and  it  definitely  fuels  his  interest  a  lot.

has your muse ever done anything that they winded up feeling incredibly guilty for in the end?

         Being  angry  with  Tinkerbell  and  not  listening  to  her,  I  suppose?  She  almost  died  because  he  was  so  mad  at  her  that  he  refused  to  listen,  it’s  one  of  the  few  things  he  feels  genuine  regret  for  tbh.

is your muse honest? what sorts of lies do they tell, if not?

          Peter  is  not  the  most  honest  boy  in  the  world.  He  likes  to  think  he  is,  but  he’s  been  lying  to  himself  for  so  long  it  really  does  resemble  the  truth  in  his  eyes.  It’s  difficult  to  be  100%  honest  when  everything  you  do  is  sort  of  for  show,  a  grander  idea.  He’s  a  boy  playing  pretend,  in  the  end,  and  while  everything  he  presents  himself  to  be  is  who  he  is,  there’s  always  going  to  be  that layer  of  dishonesty  with  it all.

[thinethimble-blog]

( acacia, cadmium yellow, baby blossoms! )

✴ @froreblesthow much does it take for your muse to hate someone?

           Peter  doesn’t  really  care  much  about  anything  or  anyone  (  Save  the  Lost  Boys,  Tinkerbell,  and  Wendy  ),  so  it  would  take  a  lot  for  him  to  actually,  genuinely  hate  you.  He  doesn’t  even  hate  Hook,  and  while  he  does  have  a  short  temper  and  can  occasionally  hold  a  grudge,  he  isn’t  really  a  hateful  person.  I  think  it’d  take  killing/hurting  Wendy,  a  Lost  Boy,  or  Tink  for  him  to  really  hate  you  tbh.

what subjects or topics does your muse avoid, because they bring up harmful / painful memories?

             MOTHERS.  And  family,  by  extension.  His  feeling  of  rejection  and  abandonment  from  his  own  mother  definitely  goes  on  to  lend  itself  to  the  whole  of  mothers  (  except  Wendy,  naturally,  who  plays  a  very  good  mother  to  the  boys  ).  Knowing  he  can  never  truly  have  a  mother  or  family  gets  to  him  more  than  he  realizes,  and  so  he  avoids  it  altogether.

does your muse have a favorite scent? what is it, and why?

           Peter  loves  earthy  smells.  A  clearing  a  few  days  after  it’s  rained,  the  salt  on  his  skin  after  the  water  dries  off  from  a  swim,  the  soil  and  roots  of  his  hideout.  But  even  with  all  that  he  also  loves  flowery  perfume  -  Like  on  Wendy,  her  mother’s  sort  of  lingering  on  mixed  with  her  clean  clothes  and  all  that  is  nice.

[thinethimble-blog]

Peter is not kind, he is not patient, he is not a wise, mythical guardian angel that comes to sleeping children. Peter is a callous, blunt, self absorbed, and immature little boy and yes, he can be, and is, very charming, but don’t expect him to be sweet all the time. He has a temper and is prone to tantrums.  He prefers girls to boys only in that he is so surrounded by boys ( and prefers Wendy to all ), but he sees everyone around him as playmates and toys.  He will not appear to teenagers or adults ( we’ll have to plot that out ), and that includes anybody who is ‘a child at heart’ because Peter will not know that upon meeting. This is just some preliminary stuff before I get into interactions and all.