Sebastian Valentino

Younger

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  Don't care if he's guilty, don't care if he's not
  he's good and he's bad and he's all that i've got
  Oh lord, oh lord, I'm begging you please
  don't take that sinner from me
  oh, don't take that sinner from me

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  100% Healthy

  
  

  be

  38% Suicidal thoughts

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  BASICS

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  NAME → Sebastian Atticus Bevetta NICKNAMES → Seb, Sebby, baby boy, angel, Bambi, all courtesy of Clarence AGE → 19 years old ORIGIN → French-bred, born in Annecy

  SPECIES → Human, pure-blooded warlock from a magical bloodline in tune with the earth CURRENT RESIDENCE → Manchester, UK, studying for college there, occupying a sizeable apartment downtownand hanging out around the morgue a lot SEXUALITY → Gay, very much closeted, what dad doesn't know won't hurt him RELATIONSHIP STATUS → Made a nightmare smile

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  PHYSICAL

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  HEIGHT → 5'7 WEIGHT → 120 LBS BODYTYPE → Ectomorph, painfully skinny EYES → Dark blue, navy, light blue glow in both during spellwork

  HAIR → Painstakingly straightened, waist-long waterfalls of black COMPLEXION → Almost transculent pale SCARS → Long, hideous scar on chest from open-heart surgery TATTOOS → none yet, considering

  
  

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  CONNECTIONS

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  Clarence Rhys Leighton - Beat of his heart... "Two rings and a vow seemed so little compared to what they had just experienced." Atticus Bevetta - Father, sadly "He's everything I feared you would find in a man. I pray you remain everything I wanted in a son."

  Iridesa Bevetta - Sister "Another text added to the intervention pile, I guess." Mathilda Manson - Witchbitch "You lose."

  
  

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• Journal

  • Nine

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  • Ten

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  • VI

    He's bad news. And I knew it. Men like him, they look the type as well. The kind you can see coming from a mile away but don't think too much of until it's laid out black and white for you and you can't deny how knee deep you are. Or am I projecting? Trying to explain away my sticking around even with the knowledge I already had? Wouldn't be the first time I've justified sitting smack dab in trouble's lap out of my own volition... but I may have screwed up more than usual on this one. Styx was crazy, Jones was an asshole. But neither of them were murderers. So I can't say that I'm used to guys like Clarence Rhys Leighton and sit comfortably on that lie. No, that's not the reason why I stayed. I guess I'll have to admit my own stupid after all. My sickness. My profound boredom of the pathetic existence I lead that made a lethal enigma like him intrigue me enough for pursuit. He makes me smile. I'd wager my life on that feeling, stupid or pathetic or sick or not. That's the cut and dried of it.
    
    That's how this one starts I guess. He's a murderer. Admitted. The chasm on either side wherein our lives lay was apparently not wide enough for him. He had to throw another wrench in there. Remind me of how different we were. How in over my head I was trying to seek something out from him that he wasn't willing to give. How little he actually owed me.
    
    Yet he knew I wouldn't turn away. Something in the way he spoke so flippantly about it had me convinced he knew. Knew I'd fall back on that teenage bitterness which permeated my life so negatively way back when I was a piece of shit by choice and desire. Do I reek that much of desperation to belong to the dark underbelly still? Am I the type to end up on the news for falling for a Ted Bundy sort of bad boy charm? Maybe. Lillith knows I was made for it. Always fell for the dangerous ones, the ticking time bombs, the unsure, the older, unhappy, rejected ones. Not just because I hate my straight-edge-pretence father. There's a bit of that too, no lies told here. But mostly... I just want to live. And those ones. Oh, they're fun. Existence is but a sad word and I don't want it to describe me like it does Atticus Bevetta. It all comes back to him after all... but then he has always been my motivation to die happy , having lived an adventure, rather than survived old age and continued withering away with time. I want to end in style. And Clarence is my get out of jail card. The personification of this point in time where I throw fucks to the wind and step off that ledge without much thought about what will break my fall. If at all.
    
    For now, I'll let myself believe it when he tells me just the bad ones. I don't mind lies if they come in such pretty packages. Oblivion is happiness and wisdom is pain, that much is true. So deceive me, cheri. I'll pretend I'm not smart enough to know you went after my father and I'll believe the 'fateful meetings' shtick. Let it be god's will, for all I know.
    
    'If someone were to hurt me, you would hurt as well.' I never graced that with an answer. But you know better, even if you've only grazed the surface of how weak I've become for the way you make me feel. Your presence bleaches the world outside of us two. I hang onto your every word for days on end and I clip your praises onto my heart like badges of honor. I keep dozing off with a smile on the same roof I had once decided would be my graveyard. I say 'it's a date' and my fucked up little heart purrs, content.
    
    You mean so much to me already and you know it. You make an effort for me. And god... more than any body count could, that fucking terrifies me.

  • VII

    It's all going too fast not to give me whiplash. This thing right here is a testament to that. Where once I wrote about college, dad, Desa, a therapist-perscribed outlet, now I find myself penning in his name every second row. He has this nifty little ability to make everything else feel so washed out and pointless with his sheer multitude of little curiosities. How much more spellbound can I get discovering new depths to an already dangerous trench? But I do... I really do.

  • Eight

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