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#this is the first full piece ?? (well it's not fully shaded) that I've done for myself in a while !!
skittlewaffle · 2 years
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Lanky noodley unhinged jesters
aka one of my favorite genders 💖
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b0ne-m3al · 4 months
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howdy!! Welcome to tumblr!!
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WOAH! The last thing I was expecting was a personal greeting! What a delight! ^^
Being as I am here, I will take this opportunity to introduce myself!
HELLO! :D
My name Is Jarvous (Jarv for short)! I use He/They pronouns and I am 18 years old!
I'm currently a college student in my first year, and I'm studying 3D animation for an associates degree! (Im doing my best! 😭)
Why here?
As you might suspect, I am fairly new to tumblr. You might be asking: "Well, What brings you here to tumblr?"
And the answer is. .
I just need a new change of scenery! Tumblr (from what i've seen) has a nice atmosphere compared to other platforms. . COUGH,INSTAGRAM,COUGH.
Things I like:
• Clowns and Silly Things
• Undertale/ Deltarune
• Splatoon
• Sonic The Hedgehog
• FNaF (?)
(+ MORE! There are those one at the top of my head. )
I will be posting when I can, and you may feel free to ask me anything!
Speaking of Ask. .
I plan on opening an Ask! Swap sans box! I figured it would be fun to interact with you guys. ( STAY TOONED! A post on that is soon to come. >:])
That being said, It's great to be here, and I look forward to interacting with you guys!
COMMISSIONS!
Icon commission! All Icons are 500x500!
Sketch/Doodle Icon: $5
Flat Colored Icon: $10
Fully Colored + Shading: $15
Extra Details: + $5 of the Original Price
(specific touches to the piece, and/or anything that adds onto it.)
Detailed/Fancy backgrounds: + $7 of the Original Price
Flat backgrounds are free. :]
Extra Character/Matching Pfps: + $20 of the Original Price
How it works:
•DM me for a slot (preferably on instagram)
• Tell me what you want!
- When telling me what you want, be very specific and provide clear and concise references! (Oc ref sheets, poses, etc etc)
• After your order has been taken, payment will be due upfront. After payment is received, then I will get to work on your commission!
• The sketch will be done and shown to you within 48 hours of your payment, and the full commission will be done within 1-2 weeks. (Most likely done earlier)
•If anything happens that stops me from working on your commission, you will be updated!
•When the commission is FULLY COMPLETED, it will be send to you via Discord or through email.
✨Terms Of Service !✨
• *𝘿𝙊 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙁𝙄𝙏 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈 𝙈𝙔 𝙒𝙊𝙍𝙆.*
If you ordered it from me, it’s for personal uses only.
• Payment is upfront! I won't start your commission unless you pay in full first.
• You may ask for updates on the progress of your commission, be free to be critical.
• You may not claim my art as yours, do not resell it.
• I have the right to refuse/cancel a commission for any reason .
- (A refund will be given if it has been started)
• I have the right to post completed commission to my socials. (You will be tagged, of course. :) )
CURRENT PAYMENT METHODS:
CashApp and PayPal
(Keep in mind, payment must be in USD.)
• Unless I can't physically finish your commission, or cancel it, there will be no refunds.
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bogkeep · 1 year
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Do you have any advice or resources on pricing commissions/commissions in general? I've been thinking of starting comms
I hope this is an okay thing to ask lol
PS: luv ur art!
for resources, there's this video (subtitled but not transcribed sorry) which lays it out really well! there used to be a really good twitter thread by yoshi yoshitani, but it seems to be deleted.
here's some general experience/advice:
- IN A PERFECT WORLD we would all price our commissions well and fairly and comparable to industry standard, buuuuuut i get why most of us don't. compared to industry standard my $130 character portraits are also underpriced, and while i AM steadily upping my prices (my first comms were $40 for a fully colored and shaded fullbody. oof) 1) i need to consider what audience i have and who will be able to commission me, and 2) i mostly do commissions for some extra pocket money, not to make a living. i think my prices are comparable to many fellow internet artists in the same sphere.
- the way i price my commissions are that the MINIMUM amount needs to be the amount i have to be paid to feel like a commission is worth doing (taking into account my limited amount of time and energy to work on art, if i take paid $50 but then spend several days to complete it i will grow resentful and stretch myself too thin for too little), and the MAXIMUM is "at what point will the price paralyze me because i feel like I don't feel like i can make something worth that amount."
- working on a commission WILL take longer than just working on a Fun Piece For Yourself, both because you're putting in extra effort trying to make it worth the money you're given, and because you will spend time communicating with your client. you will get a better grip on your timeframe after you have more experience doing commissions.
- you're not just taking paid for the art itself, but client communications, your experience and expertise which has taken years to build, revisions, tools, etc.
- something they JUST told us in clock school: sometimes you get clock repairs that cost less than your quote and you might feel bad about this, but you will definitely do clock repairs that cost a lot more than your quote. THIS IS HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE, THIS IS HOW YOU BREAK EVEN. when you give a quote at the beginning you don't know how much the work is going to take and estimates are always rough, but you're using your time and expertise to offer a service and you need money to live.
- your prices/quote can have wriggle room like "will cost X amount but Y for Extra Detailed Stuff Like Wings/Fancy Outfit/Background Detail"
- don't offer commissions you don't wanna do! i used to offer a wide range of styles and price categories, including some really cheap sketch options, and i don't Regret doing those per se but nowadays i only offer a narrowed down selection. I don't have time to do fullbodies with full backgrounds, so even if it's something i CAN do and people WOULD pay me for, I don't HAVE to do that.
- its okay, encouraged even, to adjust your prices as you go along and get more experienced at doing commissions. it's pretty normal to start out with low prices to get the hang of it (tattoo apprentices do tattoos for lower prices unil they're done with their training, and doing commissions is its own skill)
- if someone thinks your prices are too high, you don't want them as your clients to begin with. dealing with shitty commissioners is rarely worth the pay, and higher prices tend to result in better and more respectful clients.
i hope im not forgetting something hope this helps
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Hi! Not sure how requests work since this is the first time I've done one, though I absolutely adore the fact you make content for my soft trainwreck Swanson. So really just any content for him, headcanons, a gender-neutral fic about him getting the love he deserves, some female reader smut. I just need more content for this underrated boi so just choose whichever.
So…this inspired me more than I anticipated. Initially I was going to do some headcanons for Swanson finding someone who would treat him right, but got thinking about his life before the gang, and here we are. I tried hard to keep within the canon knowledge of his life (for example his dud marriage) but imagined other scenes such as how he saved Dutch - I know canon leaves this open for the player to imagine but I really enjoy the idea of him unknowingly saving someone and then suddenly finding himself part of an outlaw gang. Basically his life has been one giant ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’ meme.
As it goes, I’m proud of this. I’d like to do similar pieces for the other “forgotten” characters like Strauss and Pearson one day, but we’ll see how it goes.
This is for you, Anon, and anyone else who, like me, often finds themselves thinking about dear Reverend Swanson. 
Summary: Orville reflects on the choices and loves that lead him down this path as he seeks his own redemption and returns to the city he once called home.
Warnings: mentions of alcohol and drug abuse
Word count: 1,995 
The Emerald Tiles
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Orville thought of her often. Thewoman he would have married.
Would have. Would. The word pierced him like an icicle and meltedaway with the hazy hours of another wasted day.
As the gentle hum of the campfaded into the background with a large swig of whiskey, Orville closed hiseyes. The air was cleaner out here, he thought. It was nothing like the city,his city, the city that made him. New York seemed a lifetime away, and in asense it was, he concluded with a sigh. Those days where he’d stuff one of hisfather’s theology books under his coat and sneak out of the house, finding aquiet corner of Chelsea where he’d sit by the river, legs dangling over thegrey water, brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the words he read. Thebooks spoke of disciples and martyrs and faith that stood unshaken againstquestions and debates and fear.
It was always assumed thatOrville would seek out a career in the church, just like his father. He was athoughtful, earnest young man with a wild tangle of red hair and ink stains onhis fingers. But try as he might with his studies, he could never get to gripswith the academia of it all. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy learning – headored the process of understanding something – but the idea of taking thewords of other, often dead learned men at face value didn’t sit well with him atall. And so that’s where those stolen hours by the river, books in hand, cameinto practise. Without someone berating him for his insolence, he could readand query and wonder in perfect solitude. And on his way home, perhaps he wouldsee her. The woman he would have married.
Her parents kept a greengrocerson 17th Street, a modest but overflowing store piled high withproduce and walled with unforgettable emerald green tiles. Orville decided thatthe tiles were chosen to match her eyes, ignoring the fact that the buildingwas twice her age. She always pretended not to see him until he was right infront of her, her shining eyes widening in mock-surprise. She would allow himone piece of fruit to take on the house, though woe betide the pair of them iftheir scheme was ever found out. He’d scan the shelves of glossy green applesand sumptuous looking pears, punnets of berries that toppled over one another,their juices staining the wooden floors. Once he’d chosen his treat she’d cupit in her little hands, subtly wrapping it in brown paper and tucking it intohis coat pocket. Sometimes her hand would linger there, just for a moment.Other times he’d gently brush her palm, and she’d blush.  
He would finish his education, hedecided. He would marry her. And then they would leave.
The darkened shroud of war stilllingered over the city. Orville could still smell it in the night air, see itin the gloomy interiors of ruined house-fronts, hear it in the whispers ofthose who drank too early and for too long. And although this was his city, heloathed its miserable claws.  As themonths went by, Orville felt more and more stifled, more frustrated. His fatherwas rarely at home due to his work, his mother kept busy with running thehouse. With few friends – and even fewer of them with similar interests – hewould bring his conversations to the greengrocers. He saw injustice everywhere,he’d exclaim to her, the woman he would have married. The poor only seemed toget poorer. The world only seemed to get angrier. He’d clench his jaw, eyesblazing, raving about how faith seemed worthless nowadays. She’d listen, sighand simper.
It’s alright, he’d say. Theywould be married soon. And then they would leave.
Perhaps it would have beenalright, had Orville not had his first taste of liquor and broken the nose ofanother man who told him to be quiet, to sit down, to stop his uselessramblings about faith. Perhaps if he had come up with a witty line, or ascathing glance, or a simple polite smile, the river of his life would havecontinued without nearly as many meanders.
But here he was, holding herhands as she wept, in the alley behind the greengrocers. She told him that noneof it could happen, none of it. Everyone heard about the broken nose, includingher parents. He cupped her face and told her it didn’t matter. They could stillget married. They could still leave. She wasn’t a prisoner.
She said yes, she knew that. Butshe didn’t know him, not anymore. She couldn’t marry someone who frightenedher. For the first time in his life, Orville couldn’t respond.
He left that night, for Ohio.
Although he did ascend to theposition of reverend as the years went by, it was as if he never fully saw thesun. He spent hours writing, reading, preaching. All the while, the clouds thathung over him only felt heavier. He had sworn to never touch liquor again afterthe wretched broken nose, but there were some nights when the Earth felt socold he could stand it no longer. And as with any taste of honey, one willalways find a reason to have more.
When he lay with a beautifulwoman on a hot July’s evening and decided to spend the rest of his life withher, he thought the world had come around again. Finally, he had found acompanion to call his own. The drank together freely, danced, laughed, shouted.He’d lift her up and bury his head in her chest. She smelled of smoke and wineand rain.
She wanted to go to west aftertheir wedding, as far west as he could take her. Mistaking her insistence forromantic spontaneity, Orville complied. It was in San Francisco that she gavehim her ultimatum – follow her to Shanghai or lose her. She was married toanother, you see. A bastard of a man who never danced with her, you see. ButOrville, her Orville, he was the one for her. He could dance. He took her west.What was an ocean if it meant they could be together forever?
His hesitance cost him more thanhe realised. When he woke the next morning in an empty bed, he knew she’dalready gone.
More years passed. More liquorwas consumed. When Orville threw himself from the balcony of a saloon, claimingto be in good favour with the Angel Gabriel who would definitely save him, hefound himself bed-bound with a generous prescription of morphine. Fortunatelyfor him, his little stunt had caught the attention of two lawman who until thatmoment had been in hot pursuit of a dashing, dark-haired fellow with a sack ofmoney. Fast forward a few months, and Dutch van der Linde was offering Orvillethe chance to find a new family, a new life, in gratitude for saving his. Allhe had to do now was have some faith.
Faith? The irony! Orville foundhimself laughing out loud now, sitting in a puddle of his own urine on the edgeof camp.
But the Earth kept spinning, lifekept happening, as did death. Sean, Kieran, Hosea, even young Lenny, allsnatched away. Tales of an island, of a war ship. Dutch’s increasingly strangemind. Arthur being somehow…different.
In what seemed like a hurricane,Orville found himself sober. He still wasn’t sure if he liked it yet, only timewould tell. But this gang was his family, he realised all too late. If he hadany chance of salvaging it, he’d have to be on his feet. And he did try to helpthose he could, truly. He didn’t expect to be explaining all of this to Arthuras he waited for a train that would take him far away, but here he was. The airfelt thick with uncertainty, and yet rife with clarity for the first time sinceNew York.
And so, there seemed to be onlyone place to go. And for all of the majestic, ever-growing buildings of thecity, all he could picture was emerald green tiles.
Unable to afford the full journeyto New York, Orville spent some time in Ohio again, preaching on street cornersfor dollars and his own peace of mind. He was welcomed by a small congregationjust outside of Cincinnati, where he remained for several years. It would havebeen his forever home, had the idea of returning to New York not planted itselfso painfully in his head.
The day he left he rose early,dressing in his freshly laundered attire, straightening his hat. He feltfoolish, as if he was trying to impress someone. Perhaps he was.
As he sat on the train, thechanging shades of green in the landscape soothing the growing nerves, hethought back to the gang. Redemption was a strange concept, could it ever berealised? With a pang of guilt, he wondered if he could have invited Arthur tocome with him, to let him die in a warm bed with a belly full of good food, anda friend by his side. He shook his head, feeling a lump in his throat, knowing hewould never have accepted such an offer.
New York swelled and bellowed anddanced like never before. There was an electricity in the air, something thatrefined the senses and exhausted you all at the same time. Suitcase in hand,Orville wandered the heaving streets like a lost child, his head tilted upwardsto take in the sky that was rapidly succumbing to architecture. The noise wasoverwhelming.
37…36…35…each street unlockedmemories that had been begrudgingly stored away in the furthest corners of Orville’smind.
27…26…25…turn back, go uptown, hetold himself as firmly as he could, but his feet wouldn’t stop. His back hurt,his breath was laboured.
20…19…18…stop, that’s quiteenough now.
17.
17.
17.
There it was, 17thStreet, stretched like a grey scar, smothered with people, with lives, who hadno idea about his, about any of it. Orville turned right and walked down thechorus line of shops, public houses, eateries with exotic smells wafting fromthe cosy interiors. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry, as he scanned thehorizon for the greengrocers. At last, he saw it.
His eyes took in the boarded-upshopfront, broken windows, a sign announcing FOR LEASE. Emerald tiles, chipped,battered, missing. He was unsure how long he stood there, or if he cried. Itwas as if his entire life was being paraded before him like a cruel circus.Every drink he swallowed, every punch administered, every night of debaucherypushed back, scattered before him in pieces like the emerald tiles.  He was dimly aware of the looks he was gettingfrom other pedestrians, which brought him back down to reality in one fellswoop.
And Orville Swanson realised thathe had returned to New York not for the woman he would have married, but forthe man he would have been. The man with the tangle of red hair and ink on hisfingers, studying theology by the river, who loved the pretty girl in thegreengrocers and wished only to help the world, who ignored the taunts of adrunkard and worked pensively, who would heal people with his words and docharitable acts and hold the hand of a green-eyed, red-headed child. Now, as hecontinued his walk down 17th Street, towards the river, Orvilleprayed for the man he would have been, for surely he existed in another life, anotheruniverse, and would wish him no ill will. And he smiled, knowing thatcontentment was not stored away in memories, covered in dust, but was somethingto be discovered anew.  
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ryntaia · 7 years
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Shuake where they have an argument and Akechi goes full on asshole mode and instantly regrets it, thinks Akira will hate him forever and leave like everyone else so Akira gotta smooth those ruffled feathers lmao at the end he's just like "dude plz I've seen you throw your worst tantrum already & you're a jerk but I still love you
Okay anon sorry this one took too long, I got really into it hahaha! It got a little bleak and depressing at the beginning but it gets super sweet and stuff near the end! Hope you enjoy! 
And pssh you be quiet it doesn’t sound dumb at all. 
           Akechi couldn’t decide how long he had been living up in this solitary attic, staring out the window morosely and wishing it would all go away. Watching his past replay before his eyes, hearing the sound of the gunshots that had rung out and the many anguishing hours that had passed as he sat there across from his own dead body with a bullet lodged firmly in his side. Feeling as his life faded away, as his Personas clamored for a solution inside of him, as his visor faded away to thick and messy brown hair flecked with blood. As his body seemed to move on its own into a small cell with walls that held a faint glow that he couldn’t stand to look at. Feeling as he was uncomfortably lifted, taken away from that unknown dark blue prison, waking up in an attic with a group of people surrounding him.
           He closed his eyes and bit his lip. He hated all their eyes on him, each and every member of the group he had betrayed. The conflict was clear in their eyes and the betrayal was apparent in their tone. They spoke with a familiar cadence, comparing him to them, never forgetting what he had done but somehow acting like they understood him and how he was feeling. He had just zoned out mercilessly and stared with dead eyes at the wall, nodded every now and then to placate them.
           They had pulled him out of something called a ‘Velvet Room’, not that Akechi could figure what that was. He hadn’t much of any idea what had happened in the last few months and no one was keen to fully fill him in yet. He knew they didn’t trust him—he didn’t trust them either. He was just sitting here staring blanking out the window waiting for the day when one of them brought their gun in and took him out. Or went into his mind and did what he had done to them…
           …No, he admitted painfully, they wouldn’t do that. The Phantom Thieves were not the murderers that he had so precisely and painstakingly worked to profile them as. They made to change hearts, not destroy them. Not like he had. It made him wonder, had he known about the Treasures and their effect two years prior, if he would’ve followed the same path as them. Probably not. He hadn’t had a light to guide him like they did. They had Akira Kurusu to exert that comforting authority to assure them that their petty vengeance would give them nothing.
           And Akechi had nothing. Just an empty cup of coffee and a window to stare out of while they waited for him to recuperate. As if he would ever do that. He knew he was just waiting out the clock to see his own sins paid in kind.
           He jumped slightly when he felt a hand over his own; looking down, he saw the slate gray eyes of Kurusu. No, he remembered, the boy had demanded to be called Akira. Like they were friends or something. Like you could really be friends with someone who took a gun to your forehead without a second thought. But he could play Akira’s game, he could do it as long as the other boy wanted to, because he knew it was all going to backfire on him in the end—
           “Goro. The team got you something.”
           Akechi looked up slightly, uninterested, at the box that Akira held in his hands. He tried to squash the small feeling of hope in his stomach, the flare of warmth that spread through his chest when Akira referred to him by his first name. No one had ever done that since his mother had died. He had always been Akechi—there had been no Goro. That was a person who was hidden under shade after shade of Akechi’s immaculate grooming and lies, impossible to reach with even the most desperate of measures. Yet somehow here he was, being called Goro by another person, that person having finally reached Goro.
           He studied the other boy as his thin, practiced fingers unwrapped the small box. Akira had attracted his attention from the beginning. Akechi wasn’t sure why. It was not like he had walked up to the boy knowing that Akira was the leader of the Phantom Thieves. No, it was more like there was something in Akira’s eyes. There was a statement there, underneath the messy hair and slightly askew glasses. There was a person that he was refusing to let other people see and it reflected in those slate gray eyes. Perhaps, the detective mused, that was why he let himself become so fragile in front of Akira. Perhaps that was why he felt to pieces because of Akira. Perhaps that was why Akira, of all people, got to meet and be around ‘Goro’.
           He restrained a snort. As if it was some kind of prize to be around Goro.
           “You want me to cut you a slice?”
           “Huh?” Akechi looked up from his musings; the black haired boy had finished unwrapping the box. He let his eyes wander across the presentation—he supposed it was supposed to make him feel happy but it just brought bile to his throat. A cake. An immaculate, perfect little vanilla cake with a mocha frosting and the words ‘Get Well Soon’ scrawled across it in red frosting. It made him sick, made him disgusted, made him angry, made him…
           ….it made him feel bad.
           As if he couldn’t control his own body, Akechi’s arm swiftly sweeped out and smacked the cake to the ground. It smashed against the ground, the frosting splattering all over the ground. The red text and the brown icing seemed to smush together, mixing and becoming a vomit inducing mess. The vanilla cake itself crumbled across the floor. Akira stared at the gift on the ground with wide, almost shocked eyes, and for a moment a rush of fear and horror ran through Akechi.
           He didn’t know why he felt it. He had expressed exactly how he felt about the stupid cake and the stupid sentiments of those stupid people. And yet sitting here with Akira in front of him, looking almost crestfallen at the clearly homemade cake smashed against the floorboards, a rush of self-loathing and fear induced nausea rose in Akechi’s stomach. He suddenly felt almost as if he could vomit all over the other boy—as if Akira needed another reason to hate him.
           As if he ever liked you to begin with, you self indulgent waste.
           It wasn’t until Akira’s slate gray eyes locked onto the detective that Akechi realized he had said that out loud. Body trembling slightly, his mouth immediately curled into a defensive sneer. This self defeating habit he was frequently returning to thanks to these kids, the urge to drive them away by sneer and yelling and spitting and screaming and throwing a tantrum. To make them go AWAY, to make them hate him, to make them give up so he could die already.
           “Do you get it now?” He said, his own voice ringing in his ears. “Are you ready to give up already and accept that you hate me?”
           Akira was silent for a moment—because when wasn’t the boy silent, really—then his arm darted forward to hook around the back of Akechi’s neck and draw the brunette closer to him. Immediately Akechi felt his body freeze up, as if his blood as turned to pure ice and his skin to solid stone. He didn’t know what to DO. Akira had yet to pull a stunt like this. So he was just left with his nose buried awkwardly against the bespectacled teen’s broad shoulder, red eyes wide with confusion.
           “Do you really think….” Akira whispered into the brunette’s ear as one of his thumbs comfortingly massaged the detective’s chestnut brown hair. “…that you throwing a cake on the ground is going to make me hate you? I’ve seen you at your worst. I’ve seen you at the end of your gun and I’ve seen you at the end of your sanity. And I don’t care. There’s nothing you can do to make me stop caring about you whether you like it or not, Goro.”
           Shivers ran across Akechi’s entire body.
           Only, he realized, it wasn’t shivers.
           It was sobs.
           He stayed there for what felt like hours, clinging to the other boy in a way he had never clung to anyone else. His fingers dug into the fabric of the Shujin Academy uniform as he held himself closer to Akira, head burying against the black jacket as he emptied his sorrows onto the other boy. Throughout the entire tantrum, as long as it may have lasted, Akira sat with him with one hand petting comfortingly across the detective’s hair. He didn’t need to ask when had been the last time Goro Akechi had let himself feel his true emotions and release his true sorrows. It was clear in that moment that it hadn’t been in years.
           “I-I…I…you…” He managed through hiccups. He wasn’t even sure if it was his state that was ruining his speech right now and preventing him from saying it, or if it was his own nerves. But it didn’t matter.
           “I know. I do too.” Akira held Akechi tighter, almost possessively. “But next time, don’t mess up the cake. Ann and Morgana spent a long time working on it with me.”
           And to his surprise, Akechi found he could still let out a shaky laugh at the idea of the cat, the model, and Akira making a silly cake for him. Somehow, it made everything feel a little less bleak. His fingers had loosened their grip on Akira’s jacket as his eyes lidded, anger washed away with his tears and hatred purged with his sobs. Somehow, SOMEHOW, after such a long time…
           Goro Akechi felt like maybe everything wasn’t so bad after all.  
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