#magentario

[paraphiile-blog]

@magentario

            ❝ – hmm. Ah! Right. I remember now.                        You’re a classmate of Anri’s, aren’t you?                        You’re here to pick up that prescription, right?                        Izaya told me you’d be stopping by. ❞

[sapiosexualinformant]

magentario liked your post: “Like for a starter!”

“Enjoying your normal, High School life? Is it suitably uneventful for you?” 

[deliciousjealousdreamer-blog]

Quiz me

@magentario

“Nice of me? Hardly. That was nothing compared to the gift you give everyone by just stepping out of the house. Ooo, I feel dizzy just taking it all in.”

Sliding into the seat beside her, and locking eyes with her, he smiled sweetly. “The eyes, the hair, the blush, your face. I’d say heaven lost an angel, but not even God makes them this cute. Tell me you’ve got a little fire in you, and I might melt.”

Without looking at her, Delic waved at Non. “Quick, distract me from her overwhelming beauty, ask me the next question.”

[sylverfern]

(starter closed for @magentario)

It was that time of the year again; the end of the school year was about there, and with that came the end of the year festival. Mikado was particularly excited this year; him and the other class representatives had been working hard to come up with ideas for each class to have a different theme and multiple activities for students to enjoy, but now it was time to start putting things together.

The festival would begin that weekend, and it was already Friday. 

However, Anri and Masaomi had already gone out with some other classmates to do some shopping, so Mikado was left back at the school with the supplies they already had to start putting things together. Of course, plenty of other students were running around to decorate, but Mikado thought things would go more smoothly for him if he had someone to work with.

He looked down the hall, spotting a familiar face. It was Rio, carrying a box of what looked like.. Halloween decorations? "Hey, Rio! Do you want some help with that?" The box did look pretty heavy..

[undeific]

.//   @magentario. 

There was that tone. His voice alone made her want to reach out and slap him; had she still been the child she was last time she would have. Though, she would have missed anyway. He was faster than her. She ‘remembered’ that much.

“I HAVE changed. I’m not fifteen anymore. I assume the reason you like to play with teenage girls is because they’re easily manipulated and you aren’t as smart as you think you are?”

Okay, she knew he was smart. She wouldn’t deny that. She just wanted to get under his skin. Although she assumed it would be a little harder than that.

“I’m sorry, that’s assuming YOU haven’t changed? Though, I would bet you haven’t. Sociopathy doesn’t usually just…go away.”

         ❛  A sociopath? Is that what you think I am?   ❜

Izaya betrayed nothing, ignoring the rest of her taunts, and maintained a pleasant, albeit terribly cocky smile. He looked into the girl’s eyes, his own gaze clear and calm and measured, as if subtly daring her to expand on that rhetoric. Subtly daring her to offend him.

Silence reigned for a short time. Then, finally, he spoke:

          ❛   You may think you’re all grown up, Rio, but you still think like a teenager. Don’t tell me my little game stunted you that badly?   ❜

[scriptent]

magentario replied to your post: i think about middle school rio a lot…

Oh my god I love this ❤❤❤ I never see Rio anything. You are a godsend. ��

Then it’s my job to draw more of her because she’s amazing...

[undeific]

@hopeless-healer​​ SAID:   i thought good guys get to be happy. -Rio   ✚   MEME: ethel cain’s “preacher’s daughter” sentence starters   ✚   send a MESSAGE?

         ❛  That’s called ‘naïveté,’ Rio. With luck, you’ll grow out of it. There is no good and there is no bad; there are only people and their choices, and the way those choices impact the unfeeling, uncaring world around them. We are spinning through total chaos. We created good, we created bad; we created happiness, unhappiness, all of it. It’s all one big game of pretend led by fools. One day, hopefully, you’ll realize that. And you will become free. And then, perhaps, you will be happy. Or something like it, anyway.  ❜

Perhaps he’s sharing an opinion. Perhaps he’s just talking to make her head spin. One can never tell with him, and he has no intention of clarifying his intentions. He never does.

[undeific]

@hopeless-healer​ SAID:   🧠 - rio or Imo, whoever speaks to u! (If you’re still doing these I’ll join the trend because I live for the mind of ur izaya but I’m also a selfish ho)    ✚   MEME: symbol prompts   ✚   send a MESSAGE?

I. 

He’s lost count of the people he’s guided to that rooftop, forgotten half their names, but he never forgets their faces. Every time he walks by that building, black boot stepping directly in the center of that rust-colored stain on the pavement, he can see them clearly in his head. It is not because they were all particularly noteworthy — in fact, most of them proved themselves to be disappointments, dull and predictable — but rather because he simply can’t bring himself to forget them. He loves them, after all. Who else will? Once they give themselves up, pathetic and weak, and make their decision, they forfeit all the love everyone else has given them; they reject it, selfish, thoughtless, caught up in their own pointless misery. He will generously continue to love them as the human beings they were — or are; not all of them die, of course. He will remember their faces. He will hold them in his heart.

The face that comes to mind first is always hers. Rio. Unlike many of the others, he remembers everything about her — the name, the face, the voice, even the cute little flowers that held her pigtails in place. She is a vivid image in his mind. Her case had been a special one, an interesting one, because she should have died; he’d seen a glimpse of her before he’d gone, standing on the edge — and then not. She had been lucky. Nobody gets to change their mind on the way down. She is alive purely because of a freak accident — or miracle, depending on how one looks at it — and has been given a chance none other in her position have ever been given. 

He wonders where she is now. He wonders what she’s doing. He wonders how she feels. Does she go through her day as normal, or is there always the ghostly memory of that night lingering in the back of her head, reminding her that she shouldn’t be alive? Is she grateful? Does she realize how blessed she is? Does she thank Celty every day? Does she thank him? Are there times when she regrets being saved, wishing that she’d just been left to crack her head against the rotten, death-scented pavement? 

When the questions boil over, become too much, he will occasionally slither by her house. He will look through the windows and see that family she once so resented, smiling and happy, or perhaps he will see her alone, pouring over her homework with her brow furrowed, too caught up in math equations to ponder existential dread. It is all so normal, so mundane, so utterly beautiful in its simplicity, especially when he knows the truth, having picked apart all the rawness, all the ugliness beneath the pleasantly dull surface appearances. 

He knows she sees him from time to time — knows she glances out the window herself and catches a glimpse of fur, lingering by the gate, by the mailbox. He will not let her forget, even if she wanted to. 

When all is said and done, he adores her case — adores her, even. He really does. And he hopes, with his whole heart, that seeing his face makes her sick.

II.

There is a neat pile of books on the counter, closed and placed face down. He’s read through every single one of them several times, cover-to-cover, looking for something, anything, to make sense of his healer. Unfortunately, he’s found nothing useful, and to make matters worse, he’s running out of books. He’s always loved a challenge, but this is simply grating, an irritant — nothing simply exists without reason, yet that’s certainly how it appears. 

He refuses to accept the ever-encroaching possibility that maybe the girl is just strange, a freak of nature with a mutation that came to be with no rhyme or reason. It has to make sense. Somehow, some way, it has to make sense. It feels almost like a personal attack, the universe waging war with his sensibilities, his beliefs, his philosophies. 

There has been a few times already that resentment has started to pool in his chest when he looks at her. The word ‘monster’ keeps rearing its ugly head in his mind, as it always does when he comes face-to-face with something that doesn’t make sense. 

He doesn’t hate her, though — at least not yet. She’s a useful tool. Writing her off would not be in his best interests, even if she isn’t human. What she has at the very least can benefit humans — can benefit him — and it could completely change the game. Besides, she isn’t all that terrible to have around. He’s had worse company, certainly. She’s even managed to make him laugh a few times — and because she meant to, not because he was taking pleasure in her misfortune or poking fun at her stupidity. 

Imogen. How interesting she’s already proved herself to be. 

He can only hope that she doesn’t let him down. Already, he’s put too much stake in her, and he can already feel the pressure of that overeager mistake. If she becomes boring, what then? If that power of hers fails him, what will he do? Or, worst of all, if, once they find out the source of her abilities, it turns out to be something mundane, something anticlimactic, what will he be left with? 

He cannot think about the possibilities too much or too long. Sometimes he gets so far ahead of himself that he sabotages himself, and he certainly doesn’t want to deal with that on top of all this stress. 

She’d better be worth it, he keeps thinking. She’d better be worth it.