Raleki

Alastor does imagine it for a moment, of course, a forbidden flicker through the mind. He feels the resistance of cartilage against his grasp, the crack that would resound through the fine bones of his fingers. His hands twitch at the imagined heat of Vincent’s blood spilling over his skin, and just as quickly, he dismisses the thought in its entirety. What a fine, fine mess that would be, on top of everything else!

He schools his expression, tidying the corners of errant feeling as he contemplates the best way to express, ‘No, Vinny dear, we will not be breaking your nose today,’ in a manner that sounds less patently absurd.

“Ha! Hilarious,” is what he settles on, a dry drawl with a meaningful cant of his head. In the stuffy confines of the utility closet, it brings their faces almost too close, even accounting for their difference in height. From this distance, he can smell the faint citrus of the Brylcreem in Vincent’s hair, worn from a day’s runaround. “But perhaps we save the jokes for less pressing circumstances, hm?”

Alastor keeps his voice low, wary of the cops who could still be outside, but he has a voice made for radio, and it’s far from his fault if his tone gives the illusion of intimacy. Usually, it’s enough to have Vincent meekly accede to whatever he says. Usually.

“I’m not kidding, Mr. Al,” the boy this time insists, face a three-cent stamp of well-meaning earnestness—but he’s getting that glint in his eyes again, both the hazel and the blue, that Alastor’s grown all too familiar with. It’s the look of a dog with a bone between its teeth, stubbornness taking hostage of its good nature. “Look, I know it’s maybe a little much, but… It’s not like it won’t heal, right?”

“There is a chance it won’t heal right,” Alastor counters, words levied by a huff of laughter. Does Vincent even know what he’s asking for, he wonders? Alastor thinks not, or this conversation wouldn’t be necessary to begin with. He knows for a fact that the worst his boy has ever been injured was a rather deep gash across the palm, when his sweat-slicked grip slid up the blade of Alastor’s hunting knife as it caught bone. As well as Vincent had coped then, a facial fracture was a beast of a different color.

Dear, oh dear—clearly it falls upon Alastor, once again, to be the responsible adult.

He reaches out and places each of his hands gently, but broadly, over Vincent’s shoulders. Warmth fills his palms, dense and alive, even through the soft buffer of the boy’s sweater vest. Not a single pill in that wool—Ms. Shin is truly a mother worth her salt, the doting woman. “Listen to me, Vincent,” Alastor says, coaxing. “As happy as I am that you trust me, what sort of role model would I be if I didn’t look out for your safety?”

From this close, he can feel the air buzz as heat rises to Vincent’s face, obvious as ever, though Alastor pays it no heed. The boy’s expression, however, betrays his skepticism as he snorts, “Says the one who let me step into a deer snare.”

“That was different,” Alastor quips back, waving the comparison away. The theatre of it lands and earns a chuckle out of Vincent, who remains softly smiling as his mentor’s hand returns to its comfortable perch on his shoulder. Alastor’s own grin ticks up at the corners, indulging in at least this small victory, though he really doesn’t know what they’re going to do about the blood on the boy’s clothes.

Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire; where there’s blood, there’s a source. Alastor knows from experience that without sufficient excuse, red stains linger in memories as much as they do on cloth, and the next thing you know, when the pigs come skulking about, some old neighborhood biddy will be quick to recall drops of ruby on a shirtsleeve. Clearly, they’re going to have to start carrying two changes of clothes, but that’s hardly a solution for today.

He just needs a moment’s quiet to think this through. Unfortunately, that’s when his protégé decides to pipe up again.

“Still, Mr. Al, it’s not like we have any other options,” Vincent says, lifting his chin in what could only be a show of defiance, and Alastor has to mind his hands, untensing them from their sudden harsh grip. His smile grows prim as Vincent studies him intensely for one moment, two, before throwing up his gaze—and palms—in frustration. “Augh, come on, Mr. Al, you choose now of all times to get sentimental?”

Alastor’s irritation spikes. “Now, Vincent—”

“You know I’m right, you—fine! I’ll just do it then,” the boy says, then grumbles under his breath, “If you’re gonna be such a piker about it…”

“Excuse me?”

As Alastor considers raising his voice, Vincent sets about raising his hand. He gives Alastor no time to react as he abruptly slams the heel of his palm against his own nose. He jolts hard, then, clutching his face in pain. His glasses are knocked askew, fingers smudging prints all over the lenses that he lacked the wherewithal to take off first. “Ow, shoot—”

Alastor’s hands have wound their way into his own hair, but he lets go as a familiar simmer builds under his skin, outraged at Vincent’s mutiny. The only thing that tempers his rage from boiling over is that he’s almost impressed by the boldness of it. He suppresses the urge to laugh at the audacity.

The boy winds up for a second blow and Alastor scoffs in disbelief, grabbing his wrist before this lunacy can go any further. “Stop,” he snaps, voice cleared of its previous indulgence as he seizes Vincent by the chin. “Fuck, kid, let me see.”

He leads with his grip, turning Vincent’s head this way and that. Though it’s difficult to make out in the darkness, he can tell there’s no blood, and no visible mutilation. What a farce! Foolhardy enough to try and break his own nose, but scared enough to pull the punch. It would be almost cute if it weren’t breathtaking in its stupidity. This time, Alastor does laugh.

“I’ll say, darling, this doesn’t inspire confidence as to what you do out of my sight!” he murmurs, merriment mocking, and Vincent finally has the sense to look ashamed. He attempts to avert his eyes, twisting his head, but Alastor doesn’t let him. He holds fast, letting his fingers press divots into the soft skin of Vincent’s jaw, young enough still to be yet unmarred by the coarseness of a beard.

By objective measure, Vincent was a boy of amenable countenance. There were those eyes, of course, so showy even from a distance. Decent cheekbones, mouth well-formed. He had a strong, defined nose around which the rest of his face was pleasantly situated, which was to say that any slight disfigurement of the nose would upend the balance of his features to an unsightly degree. Where would his poor boy be then? Half-blooded, odd-eyed, with a snout as crooked as the rest of him.

Alastor smiles a little broader than before.

“You win, Vincent,” he says, watching the anticipation blossom over the youth’s face. “We’ll do it your way.” He releases Vincent, stepping back to make what little space he can between them in their confinement, and continues, “Clearly, if I don’t do it, you’ll hurt yourself wrong.”

He beckons Vincent closer, away from the wall. The boy complies, visibly swallowing his nerves. Alastor’s grin is all teeth.

There’s room now for his hand, and he reaches behind Vincent to cup the back of his head, where the boy’s brunet locks are shortest and humid heat gathers at the base of his skull. The natural texture of Vincent’s hair, coarse but soft, bristles against Alastor’s palm, product worn thin with sweat.

Curious, Alastor presses in with his fingertips. He slides them up against the grain of Vincent’s hair, and Vincent shivers.

“It’s going to hurt, but I think you already know that,” he says, in the voice he reserves for radio—warm and melodious, for an audience of one. Vincent watches him with nervous, trusting eyes, and Alastor gazes right back, keen. He lifts his free hand to firmly grip the bridge of Vincent’s nose, feels how the cartilage resists against his hold.

“Now, I’ll count you down from three.”

Nebrasska's fics have been living in my head rent free lately (aka bringing me an incredible amount of joy). The visuals are always described so clearly, I feel like I'm reading a comic more than just text. I've loved so much of her writing but for some reason this line got stuck in my head, and possessed by the spirit of sonic the hedgehog himself I ended up drawing it. I'm a sucker for fluff but the angst and spooks got me this time.

I'll start re-blogging to this account and probably posting more of my sonic drawings soon.

I didn't have anywhere to post sonic content, so here we go! New blog :)

<<The imitation of Sonic gave him a knowing glance, and sensing that he was about to say something meant to dig under his skin, Shadow was sharp and hasty with his next question.

Based on this excerpt:

“How did you die.”

At this, Sonic’s face split into a wide grin, the complete opposite reaction Shadow had been expecting from his blunt demand. The smile was one that was indulgent and chilling and made Shadow’s fur raise with how eerily menacing it was. “Trick question, Shadow,” Sonic practically sang, mocking him with every syllable. “I’m not dead.”