#dazzle anew | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

huneyrain · 2 months ago

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' ' let's keep dancing (to a place beyond our dreams) ' '

.・。.・゜✭・❤・✫・゜・。.

also on ao3 // word count: 6,195 // bachisagi 1/1 fluff fic

TL;DR :: Isagi is a competitive ballroom dancer, stuck to following the rules and denying his true instincts. One competitive night, and a certain monstrous boy, tears it all down to rebuild anew.

.・。.・゜✭・❤・✫・゜・。.

Footsteps clashed against the waxed wooden floors, the music overpowering the creaks of an ancient building as fingers interlaced. Rhythmic movements followed each beat, the song’s slow melody lulling the dancers into security as they spun around each other, bright lights beating down from above. They shone like stars above the Earth, but rather, in front of the crowd, the stage their personal galaxy as they attempted with all their capabilities to dazzle the planets watching.

Onlookers sat still, nestled in cushioned theater seats as the dancers glided across the stage, black strands of hair blowing across one’s face while they focused on their assigned partner.

Any viewer would expect a climactic moment— the song’s tune peaking just as the performers pulled off a magnificent stunt, dazzling the audience with an unforgettable show. A couple to step out of the status quo; a couple to give in to their ego.

The song tapered off, with both performers panting, blue eyes shining beneath dark bangs as they bowed.

This show was not that show.

“Isagi Yoichi,” they called out, a booming voice overflowing from speakers across the auditorium. “7.9 out of 10. Please bring out the next contestants.”

That was that. Follow your routine, Isagi.

Contained egoism had left him mediocre among the sea of creativity.

════════════════

Isagi fell defeatedly onto his bed, still dressed in black-tie attire from his underwhelming competition. Ankles and feet ached, legs helplessly sore, although he was too exhausted to lift them up entirely onto the bed— rather, he threw a pillow over his face, hair frazzled from the static and sweat clinging to the strands.

“I can’t believe I lost,” he groaned, the cushiony pillow muffling his words into incoherent nonsense. “We had choreographed it so perfectly.”

Mundanely, his mind mocked him, nestling himself further into his soft, welcoming grave, his pure intentions to do nothing more than rot for the night in his disappointingly-wasted outfit; at least, he saw it as wasted, without a win.

He couldn’t avoid the fact, his heart aching, held back in chains as he tended to do.

“Dance is an art, a strategy, a plan. You can’t go off script— remember that.”

He’d supposed he’d followed instructions— he thought about it more often than he wished he would.

Puppet strings tugged at his heart, his brain, his limbs, controlling each move on the stage according to a predetermined program, his freedoms drained as he claws for the prize. The prize, the glory, the excitement lies just beyond his reach, and frankly, out of sight; an image of potential greatness muddled beneath the faces of competition and judges alike, all aiming to stand in his way.

Something inside of him ached for more than that end.

A sigh parted Isagi’s lips, hair strands clinging with static to the pillowcase as he pulled away, sitting up on the edge of his bed. Fingers with finely-painted black nails interlaced with his matching tie, undoing the knot that held the accessory’s composure before slipping the smooth fabric across his hands. He found himself entirely consumed in thought, unaware of his own actions as he lost himself within his mind while continuing his post-competition routine.

Hot water splashed his hands, a wince escaping him as he pushed up just an inch on the dial in response, perfecting the temperature. Blue eyes blankly stared as the water collected, foaming up beneath the spout with the aggression at which the water flowed into the bath. A sprinkle of epsom salts and a short pour of bath oil splashed in, now-free hands carefully folding up removed clothing before lowering the man’s aching body into the sweet spa he’d created. He hissed as the scalding water brushed against bare skin, adjusting to the heat as it soothed his aching muscles and put his mind to ease.

As he settled into his newfound comfort, leaning forward just to turn off the faucet, a gentle but firm knock interrupted his peace.

“Yoichi?”

He groaned, sinking further into a watery escape; he obviously recognized the voice, even through the door.

“What’s up, mom?”

“The mail just came; you got this, uh—” He could hear her fidgeting with paper on the other end, along with the crinkling plastic of a letter window. “—this letter, it looks like it’s from a dance association!”

Isagi’s eyes lit up, his demeanor shifting instantly as energy overflowed within him. His mom could certainly hear the abrupt splash of water , squeaking footsteps attempting to crawl their way out of a slippery situation.

“Holy sh— I mean, wow, really?” A towel quickly found itself in his hands, wrapped around himself snugly before swinging open the door. Wet footsteps trailed behind him, soaked strands of hair leaving beads of water on his face. He found himself holding the letter before his mother could even formulate a response, dots soaking through the thin paper as he ripped it open.

Scanning over the page, he blinked wordlessly.

You are invited to the World’s End Dancehall.

. . . . . . .

“One night of ballroom dance… in hopes to ignite the Japanese dancing scene.”

Words hung in the air as he reread over the letter, pacing back and forth in his room, hair still barely dry. His suit from earlier in the night was neatly folded atop his bed, the tie rolling from the pile to the floor as he sat down harshly beside it.

He grumbled as he continued muttering the instructions; ��No bringing partners, come alone… How the hell does that make any sense?”

He set the paper frustratedly at his side, crinkling the page in his grip as his free hand pushed back his bangs, thumb rubbing over his temples to ease the tension.

“They just expect us to… click with someone?”

The formula wouldn’t like that. His freedom-driven heart would love that.

He straightened out the now-creased paper, studying the letter with thoughtful intent.

When’s the date? Tomorrow— Sunday night. Attire? Dress to impress. The only rule? Don’t be fucking boring.

“Harsh,” he muttered, hurt. It’s ballroom dancing— can it be anything but boring? His spiteful attitude fed into his body, tensing his grip as he scanned the words to read through the last bit.

A dancer is only as good as their partner— find one that sets your heart ablaze.

Half-crumpled paper fluttered to the floor as the young man stormed to his wardrobe, an aggressive touch rifling through outfits in sheer determination. His eyes seemed to shine a new emotion, feverish pupils darting across fabric, no piece seemingly good enough. A hand sunk into his hair, pushing it back with a rough grip atop his head. Isagi looked back to the letter he’d let fall to the ground, a newfound surge of energy.

“Fucking ridiculous. I’ll do it.”

════════════════

The seventeen-year-old found himself wandering, car keys rattling in his hand as the other held up a map— if the mindlessly scribbled directions on the bottom corner of an invitation could even be called that. Tall blades of grass and weeds that grew amongst them brushed against his wrists, the only skin at that height not hidden beneath a smooth, blue-black suit.

Black hair strands wisped out in front of his face, and he blew them away, the wind inevitably kicking them back moments later. Isagi, admittedly, was not one for fashion; this was not necessarily due to a disdain for it, but rather, a pure incompetence of the subject— how to accessorize properly, match colors, the like. It’s a fact he’d unfortunately accepted, struggling to find anything besides a standard outfit in his closet.

Still though, with a night of Google searches and an ounce of his own creativity, he’d added his own touch. A blue vest was tight above a white undershirt, while his deep navy jacket rested at the forefront. The ultramarine bowtie he’d fished from his closet tied it together well, the shade mimicking the colors swirling in his eyes. Faint second thoughts crossed through him, nervous hands fidgeting with golden cufflinks. The dusty path beneath his feet soon turned to shimmering concrete.

The once-distracted teenager glanced up, overgrown scenery flooding his vision, a grand hall in the center of an entirely abandoned area. Mind overcast with his own internal dialogue, he hadn’t even noticed the muttering of others, individuals all drawing closer to the location centered between them. Crowds gathered, pushing through the doors as if knowledgeable of their location— although, from more than just a second of observation, it was clear the masses were just as confused as he was. The moon granted the object of his curiosity a bit of light.

At first glance, the building that stood before him seemed a bit rickety and run-down, vines strewn along the supports as greenery overtook the bricks. It’d been painfully apparent the place was out of commission, at least until an odd party planner decided this to be the optimal hosting scene. He watched a number of attendees struggle over the cracked brick entryway, jagged rocks sticking out with weeds strewn about the concrete’s edges as the leading path broke off into the doorway. When it came his turn to walk through the passage, he made conscious note of the fractured spots beneath him, tip-toeing around them, for “a dancer with ruined shoes is no longer a dancer at all”.

Perhaps that’d just been the instructions of his mom, ensuring as a young kid he’d kept his wares in good shape. He’d supposed, though, as his feet glided across the slick wood flooring that now met his stride, that a shoe with merely a crack could not allow for such smooth movement. His focus on the niceties distracted him from the intricate interior he stepped foot in.

Gentle footsteps turned to screeching attempts to save balance as he felt himself meet the back of another, nearly toppling the both of them in the process. When he looked forward to apologize, he caught the cold glance of a black-haired boy nearly half a foot taller than him, and decided uttered words would be worse than simple silence to keep the peace. Though shaken, the incident turned his attention to the room expanding before him.

Murmurs amongst the crowds bounced off the tall ceiling, a chandelier swinging with vibrations far above their heads. Odd knowledge of regalities told him it was Victorian – although it seemed to shine as if brand new, pulled out of the time from whence it was created to live out a life as an untimely, untouched masterpiece. Grand staircases curved in front of them, creating a cover around the doors standing far down the hall that well-dressed partygoers intermingled within. Royal red patterns detailed every wall, every crevice, every corner, with lengthy curtains draping over railings and empty wallspace longing to hold windows. Nearly every intricate detail of the interior felt medieval, aside from one glaring difference that, quite literally, stared them down—

Cameras. Dome cameras, pointed cameras swiveling on hinges, on a hunt; for each spot you felt secure, a camera could locate you, pinning down your exact footsteps and following closer than your shadow. The most prominent entries of the surveillance system projected their vision on a screen, hanging just behind the chandelier and just low enough to remain uncovered, although still being double Isagi’s own height above the floor. You could see each person projected above as they slowly raised their heads, the sudden shock hitting them as they struggled to decide whether they were the exhibition or the voyeurs.

Isagi hadn’t noticed how thick the air grew as the crowd doubled, tripled, quadrupled into a horde. Shoulders bumped against each other, with little room but the alluring path that led down to the ballroom’s double-doors. Arms leaned on and hung over the railing’s edge above as they struggled finding space to fit into the decadent crowd.

“Welcome, you unmolded lumps of coal.”

. . . . . . .

Sudden silence fell over the crowd, the wind carrying whispers of spiteful remarks. Sharp hissing spat out from the speakers hidden amongst the walls, screens shifting from amorphous blobs of movement into a single view – one man, directing an expressionless glare at the lot below.

His hair was a blatant mess, bangs brushing across the top of glasses hiding pupils behind their reflections. When he pushed one side of hair back, the cast of a ringlight bounced off of jewelry spotted across his fingers, rings that looked much too big for the thin frame of his hands. His lips could only seem to curl further down as he scowled.

“Not used to disrespect, I see?” His voice was smooth, yet laced with an antagonizing bite. “Let’s keep in mind, the cameras do come with mics. Perhaps keep the bitterness to a minimum tonight.”

His instructions quelled the crowd, the previous complainers shutting their mouths as their pride was quickly stripped. A few attendees cleared their throats as they struggled to bite their tongues.

The man projected above leaned back, as if he’d been seated in a rather-flexible computer chair. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? My name is Ego. You’ve all gathered here because you’ve received an invite — from Japan’s Professional Ballroom Dancers Association, no?”

Listeners below nodded along rather slow, and he continued.

“Yes, that’s right. Although, I’d say it was more from me than from them. The professional scouts were merely my pawns in deciding who’d get to play.”

Isagi let his focus wander across the countless heads surrounding him, trapping him in by height with his own suffocating thoughts. Simple frustration told him to cut his losses and leave with what unwasted time he’d still had left – but deep-hidden intrigue compelled him to stay.

“You all read the letter,” Ego carried on, rolling his wrists as his hands spoke along with him. “We’re looking for a good duo, something that has to come naturally. If I saw you walk in with anyone,” his hands waved, as if shooing the crowd. “You’re disqualified. Get out.”

The organizer groaned in the back of his throat as he saw a couple miniscule figures shifting through the crowd on the cameras, his disappointment apparent; his eyes read, however, that this was at least less work on his end.

“Good. Carrying on— I had the Association’s scouts analyze you all individually. You’ve all presented in some sort of competition across the country; whether it was really an enjoyable performance or not is up for debate.”

Ouch. Isagi’s blank expression downturned into a frown.

The negativity was quickly put out by the continuing monologue. “You roughly one-hundred individuals have all shown some level of promise, but you’re held back by the standards of being proper and prissy. The chains of formality are holding you back, and for most of you, it will continue that way.”

Murmuring ensued. “Struck a nerve?” The host taunted on, and for a moment, the first grin of the night had spread across his face.

It was rather short-lived as he analyzed the reactions of his underlings. “It should have – unless your egos have all been replaced with a sorry excuse for people-pleasing.”

As he rambled on nonsensically about egoism and our supposedly pathetic talents, a figure stood half-visible beside the screen, just walking into frame and – assumably, based on his sudden shift and silence – mumbling something that held some level of importance. Her red-pink hair contrasted her highbrow appearance, a black suit top and long pencil skirt covered by a stack of carried papers. Ego nodded compliantly as a lanky, ring-adorned finger adjusted his glasses.

“Right, time constraints; thank you, Anri.”

Although apparently complaisant, a sigh slipped beneath his words. It’d seemed like he held an odd passion for this unusual competitive torment.

“You all have one-hundred and eighty minutes — that’s roughly three hours, for those of you ill-educated. Two of you will go on to participate together with the Association— the rest of you are as good as dead. A majority of you here are coal, stuck to their destiny buried in some shitty kid’s stocking; but it takes immense pressure to turn near-coal into diamonds. If you’re not yet entirely molded, if your carbon molecules are still free enough to change, now is your time to shine. Or I suppose, if you’re all beyond saving, at least stoke a fire worth watching.”

Isagi felt the stilling of the crowd around him, following suit with his own mind. He couldn’t quite pinpoint when the words of the bastard behind the screen began to seem so appealing– but the silence only filled with harsh breathing led him to believe they all felt the same.

“Your time starts now. Burn out, or burn bright.”

The mesmerizing display fizzled away.

Seconds of confused glances were quickly met with answers, the doors down the hall swinging wide as the ballroom beckoned them in. The teen would say it seemed like magic, had his eye not caught the pass of a red hair wisp.

A ticking above them caught his ear, and for a second, his focus shifted — a timer. One-hundred and eighty minutes. He’d hardly taken in the sight of it before the crowd’s forward movements swept him in.

Time to make the most of it.

════════════════

The ballroom had been detailed just as decadent as the entryway, with the addition of marble arches patterned along the walls. The peculiar artistry had seemed to twist the room’s dimensions, the ceiling seeming to reach far into the sky with painted stars peppered across the sleek material. It’s as close as one could get to the outside, without (most) the disturbances of a modern reality.

Tall windows stretched from top to bottom corners, although whatever reflected moonlight could be let in was blocked by the thick curtains strewn about; they’d been practically tied shut as to graciously remind attendees of their purpose, locking them into the intimidating atmosphere that’d determine their livelihood.

That’s how Isagi saw it, at least. He didn’t quite consider the potential that others didn’t take it so seriously. The concept of a dancer not fully enveloping themselves within the act was entirely alien to him — he’d sooner engulf himself in the flames of devoted disaster before being remotely inattentive towards his craft.

A familiar sharp tone pierced his ears, a low hiss in the background as notes enunciated themselves through the audible shroud. Speakers clicked on one by one, following the first, a sickening harmonious whine throwing a number of attendees off their balance. The pace was slow, lagging and intense; a horrendous first dance for new partnerships, Isagi’d thought.

The dancers seemed to mix glances between each other, eyes all glazed over and empty with thoughtless confusion. Such a melodious tone required passion, but not so much to be uncomfortably forward amongst a sea of unfamiliar faces. Stand out, sure, but not out of form —that was the basis of a well-scripted ballroom masterpiece.

Scripted being the key, here. The word made Isagi drag his head back in discontent.

His heels scraped against the waxed floors, which would provide perfect traction had they not been obviously recently done. Planted too hard against the ground, his shoes lifted up with a gluey schlick. Avoiding overcompensating his steps, for fear of overapplied pressure, was not something he could easily do in a high-strung state.

His persistent-yet-failing attempts of flagging down a partner with merely his burning (realistically, dull) gaze had been met unrewarded. For the first time since he could remember, he was frozen, each puzzle piece of formulated strategy struggling to fall into place with the inconsistencies, the requirements for improvisation, the pure incoherency of everything—

The pieces crashed to his mind’s floor as the crowd pushed back suddenly.

Nearly lost beneath him, his feet shifted to hold balance as his attention shot back, watching intermingled groups spread apart as a gap widened itself between the mass. Footsteps clicked against disagreeable flooring, a combination of the crowd’s stumbling, Isagi’s curious stride, and the sounds amidst the group he was so drawn towards.

“–ahaha! Come on, guys! You’re no fun!”

Isagi refused to admit that he’d shoved his way through rather rudely, wedging himself between mingling potential-partners as the sound called him in. Each clack of movement from the undesignated source was simultaneously unrhythmic and in-step, as if following a tune entirely separate to the screeching hums surrounding them. Obscene on the ears as it was, it was intriguing, a term Isagi’d long learned to disassociate from dance entirely. To lack direction was to lose yourself, and to lose yourself was to lose focus— “one mustn't lose focus, or you’ll lose the beat!” or so they’d drilled into him.

So why was this entirely self-gratifying cacophony of steps so satisfying?

He found himself promptly at the forefront of the congestion, which had still been shifting to avoid the centerpiece’s path.

A man– no, he had to be just his age, — pivoted on the ball of his foot, landing harsh on the other end with an outstretched hand. Breathless, his chest rose prominently with each desperate inhale that propelled him another step. Feathered strands of hair blew from his face, the majority of yellow bangs tied up just above his forehead, drops of sweat shimmering on exposed skin. Had the eccentricity of his movements not set him apart, his attire could easily do the job; White ruffles of a shirt hung from his chest, the buttoned center the only attempt at holding together an image amongst the sea of suits and ties. A belt, closer defined as a corset, held the fabric tightly to his waist, cinching off the flowy top to taper off into classic black pants, freshly-shined shoes already scuffed along their yellow trim.

Something of the boy reminded him of a medieval mystery— perhaps a pirate, even, in attendance solely to pillage their prospect of normalcy.

“It’s your loss; me and my monster are more than capable!”

He pivoted once more, hand drawn close to his chest before holding them out, grasping invisible hands of a partner nonexistent. Each footstep methodically followed the typical in-tandem moveset, a simple tango seeming so different with just the difference of one participant. That, and perhaps, the flair the demented dancer added along, his own steps in-time with what Isagi’d assumed was an internal rhythm.

The display of oddity had at least spurred on some movement, other timid attendees coupling up as groups sectioned off. Floorspace grew wider as dancers ventured out of the herd— but perhaps this newfound confidence was only brought on by the collective still observing the questionably-solo performance.

“Move over! Here comes the–”

Golden eyes burned with newfound passion as sensible, timed movements built up to grand measures. His multi-step movements quickly launched into a rotation, spinning himself before scratching heels against the fresh floor in an abrupt stop. His hand held out, not as if reaching, but as if guided by a partner in spirit, a ghostly hand the only separation between him and a cold, rough tumble to bystanders’ feet. Puzzled exchanges from onlookers seemed to miss a core detail: the way his arm tugged back in preparation.

As immersed as he’d let himself become with his craft, Isagi took notice of the slight change. A particular move he dared not practice alone, not just for safety, but physical inability— you can’t exactly be caught by air, and so there’s no way–

He’d pivoted sharply on his feet, pushing all his weight into a falling-back motion.

Click.

Click, click, click.

The first footstep matched puzzle pieces convening; the rest met his heartbeat as he shot forward subconsciously.

Barely-unfinished wax kept him from slipping, locking himself in place and thanking whatever minimum-wage janitor they’d hired for saving him from overshooting. The landing weight threw off his balance, legs shuffling beneath him in ill-preparation as he kept the young man firmly in his grasp. Wisps of hair fell from tied-up bangs, blown away with pursed lips as innocently playful eyes shone up at him. The golden-eyed expression quickly turned devilish as he laid in Isagi’s arms.

“Monster,” he bit down a sharp grin.

. . . . . . .

Isagi’d not considered himself landing in this situation – sure, he was there to draw attention, that was this haphazardly-created game’s whole purpose; he’d just anticipated stares of awe over the gawks of judgement piercing his skin, a screwball dancer in delirium splayed across his arms. The tied-up tail of yellow bangs fell back atop his head, the few free strands of hair falling back to leave his sinister face in full display, giggling on an emotional high. It sort of made the blue-suited savior smile.

Dragging his feet on the floor for traction, Isagi could sense the other’s attempt at pushing up, and he lifted him the remainder of the way to his feet. A heavy sigh of relief slipped through just barely parted lips, and the eccentric young man looked down to brush the wrinkles from his shirt — an impossible task for such a flowing garment, but it was the formality of it that mattered.

“You should be more careful next time,” Isagi’s awkward ahem echoed as if there weren’t masses of dancers to muddle the sounds. His hands were trembling, twitching muscles a result of coursing adrenaline accumulating in his bloodstream without an outlet. The physiological response seemed purely reflexive, every cell in his body screaming out to dive in; he couldn’t quite explain, though, his lack of irritation. He’d expect to feel some sort of frustration from the circumstance he was in, the stupidity of another to dive backwards and risk injury in a competition so unusually selective and fickle. It was entirely reckless – risking the chance of a lifetime on some silly escapade.

It was different. He loved that.

“I’m—”

“Isagi,” the name seemed to slip from his tongue too naturally. He’d outstretched an arm, pointing directly in the face of Yoichi himself, lips upturned with a gentle laugh. Monstrous eyes held a shine not before present on his own. “You’re Yoichi Isagi.”

Air caught in his throat, his own introduction stripped from his tongue. Black bangs blew forward with each shallow breath, an empty-headed glaze over blue eyes. He nodded.

“Do I know you..?” Who the fuck is this guy?

The respondent giggled. “No, I don’t think so!”

His arm retracted fast, painted nails hiding away as hands curled into balls and pushed against naturally-flushed cheeks.

(Isagi’d assumed it was natural; or perhaps the oddball had been well-versed in makeup.)

“Meguru Bachira,” he beamed, and free yellow-and-brown strands fell past his lips. “I’ve seen you perform!”

He wasn’t some big performer — that left more questions than answers. Bachira seemed to read well the confusion written across him.

“I go to all the shows I can,” The oddity further explained himself, each word enunciated with a playful undertone, even as he eased Isagi’s confused concern. “Gotta know my competition, y’know?”

For as short as he’d known the man, the other couldn’t help but smirk. “And for me, you took conscious note?”

“Oh, well your dance was pretty average.”

Isagi’s smug smile was quickly replaced by defensiveness, posture sealing himself off. A mental brick wall constructed instantaneously as forgotten guards replaced themselves. Right– competition. We’re here to judge and be judged, aren’t we?

One could call it a rash response, but frankly, he owed no niceties to a could-be stalker. His arms crossed in pout.

He’d expected Bachira to pick up on his tonal shift, to redirect, or perhaps overcompensate and fawn him up. Rather, he seemed aloof, bouncing up on his toes as arms swung behind his neck, extending one into a cat-like stretch that rattled his body. He didn’t seem the most socially apt, but something about this observation eased the sting of his affront.

“It wasn’t bad,” his words were elongated as his muscles released their tensions, falling back to his sides after with a huff. “Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mean anything. You just seemed…”

The shorter (which Isagi grumbled about silently— he always seemed to be the shorter) softened, willing and curious to listen. Bachira’s hand revolved at the joint in circles as he struggled to find the proper words.

“...Bored. Withdrawn. And that’s just no fun, is it, huh?”

“Bored?”

“Yeah,” the barely-taller let his head weigh to the side. “Like ‘ya were following some script or something, I guess.”

Quite rude of him to clock me so easily. Or to act like that isn’t the norm.

“You don’t?” Isagi scoffed.

Bachira’s expression seemed blank, nonplussed, but shifted with intrigue as he spoke. “No. I dance with my monster. It says to dance the way I want to.”

They’d caught each other off guard, heavy stares into eyes that were slowly understanding each other. A brick loosened from that mental guard wall, crashing to the floor, only the view of each other’s gaze, the window to their souls, left in the open space. Bachira found himself extending an upturned hand without thought. The other needn’t look to know.

“You could try… dancing with a monster, too?”

There’s that familiar click again.

Perhaps it’d been the pieces snapping into place, or maybe it’d been the sound of their heels against the ground, hand in hand as he dragged Isagi along. The tappings of what’d been set in motion were the only noise audible to their ears, centering themselves amidst the sea of dancers that had finally been majority paired up.The music that played had long shifted from achingly slow, a pace more akin to each loud thump of Yoichi’s heart. Their fingers had interlaced long before they’d thought to ask, and so, they’d indirectly acknowledged, this was okay. This meetcute was unconventional— but Isagi craved unconventional. It was certainly something they shared, reveling in a need for defiance and egoism. It was simply a possibility he’d never been presented before—

Not until Meguru Bachira.

Their heels had dug into the somewhat-sticky wax of the floors, thwacking as they lifted into smoother, softer strides. Their steps danced around each other, never overtaking the other; rather, each movement seemed to fuel the other, catapulting them into new possibilities. A simple counting tango spun around on its head; the golden-eyed teen’s feet in-count with the other’s as he encapsulated him from behind, hands holding his partner’s from behind and arms folded into an “x” before releasing Isagi from the contained space, pivoting on the ball of his foot with each an outstretched arm barely holding on to one another. When Bachira pulled him back in, he’d lift his arms just too high up, forcing Isagi onto his toes so he could more easily glide him across ill-prepared floors.

“Don’t let me have all the fun,” the tone was low, laced with mischief and underlying laughter; Bachira’d leaned in just beside his ear, black locks brushing against brown-and-yellow wisps of hair as his breath warmed him, bringing sensation back to the surreal. “Take over, monster.”

“I’m no monster,” Isagi scoffed, eyes rolling in diffidence. No, that was a title reserved for Bachira, or whatever voice he had whispering in the winds around him, the one only he could hear. That was a name, based off what he’d witnessed, reserved solely for one who’d step out from the status quo, and Yoichi Isagi was not that one, no matter how much he’d like to be. He couldn’t help but analyze each precarious step he made, desperate to keep in-line with the other. How could movements so spontaneous be so skillful, as if the concepts were premeditated within an instant of a second?

“Sure you are— in there,” A rough arm tug pulled the doubtful dancer in, stumbling over his own feet and landing inches away from Bachira’s index finger, yellow nail polish filling half of his vision as the boy pointed to his eye. Isagi released a tense breath as he caught his balance and felt confident he wasn’t about to get his eye poked out.

“There’s a fire inside of you. I see it.”

God, this guy is fucking insane. He didn’t feel knowing that was any more practical for bringing out his “monster”.

“No, really,” He continued, giggles easing Isagi’s apprehension. “Your eyes sparkle a lil’ different when we dance together. I pay a lot of attention to eyes, y’know.”

Isagi snickered. “You get off on them?”

“Mhm.”

“Gross,” He laughed, but his shameless demeanor read that he wasn’t lying – maybe he shouldn’t lock eyes with the psycho so much.

But he couldn’t deny the way he burned up looking at him.

Isagi blinked away illicit ideas, ones of which towed the line between dance, and matters more personal. When their hands met back-to-back, knuckles tough against soft skin, invisible needles pricked his skin with warmth as hair stood on end. They paced circles around each other, and, although his mind was just as clouded as before, perhaps it’d helped that his dancing capabilities were no longer alone at the forefront. Maybe it’d been shameful to admit that his focus had progressively shifted since the other had landed in his arms.

Too enveloped in his own mind, his foot swept out from under him. A kick to his heels, he fell backward, a sneer just above him as the harsh thud of wooden floors never met him.

What a bastard. “You—”

“Kicked your feet out,” Bachira shone. At least he was honest, and for that fact, quite blunt. Isagi’d started to wonder if he was consciously ill-socialized— but he took a liking to that, matched with the playful attitude. Within-the-box thinking was such a bore.

Gold eyes burned holes in the other’s inhibition, each taunt returned with a touch more confidence in his moves. Bachira’d stopped leading alone some time ago, Isagi’s own fire stoked with each prod from the monster. For as much as he was a rule-follower, it was clear— there was an ego buried beneath that front, simply never allowed to breathe.

And by God, was Bachira one to fan the flames; even if they’d become explosive.

Isagi beared intense pressure into his heels, lifting himself up with precarious footfall with pants hidden beneath hardly-parted lips. The challenge presented by such an eccentric dancer only fueled egoistic behavior, determined to match— no, that wasn’t enough; devour — his partner, to chew him up and spit him back out so long as he’d resurrect better again and again.

Does that even make sense? Did it need to make sense? At least, to anyone but them?

Someone so attuned to their own ego like Bachira could read the scrawl of arrogance in just half a second.

Tight grip tugged at the monster’s hands, lacing fingers in an instant as eyes widened, stupefied. A wicked grin twisted Bachira’s lips, canines dragging against the soft skin of his bottom lip in an anticipation for Isagi’s explosive reaction. Dragged back, he launched into Isagi’s arm, dipped just to the brink of hitting the solid floor before being thrown back into movement and spun on an axis. Heavy pants preceded sincere smiles as the two met, painted nails fidgeting against the hands of their partners as their breath mingled within just an inch of each others’ face. They dared not feed the flicker that led their eyes astray to parted lips, a certain level of intimacy begging to be achieved with the intensity of their movement and the conveining of their thought processes — so focused on the moment, acting of pure reflex, that they’d not paid any attention to their partner’s identical lingering thoughts.

Their footsteps careened along with the rhythmic thumps of the beat, shifting regularly but never throwing the couple off-pace. Seamless transitions from swift movements to tender, patient steps would have normally caught either of the two off-guard, surprised in their own capability, had it not been for the distraction that was their competition.

For a moment, he’d thought, competition was an odd word to use — the goal was to create partners, was it not? Partners, a designated duo that could only flourish with the proper preparation, with staying in-line and in-rule of the other’s limitations and following a script designated by them both.

No script followed their moves, but oddly, they met at the crossroads of perfection together. Their formula made zero sense, didn’t line up; was it supposed to? Was everything about dance supposed to be so formulaic, so proper?

No, the monologue spat out Isagi’s perturbed thoughts, the ones he struggled to accept on his own accord. That’s where you failed— there’s no enjoyment this way.

Fuck the rulebook. This is my version of dance.

His gaze flickered off of the movements he made, up to the face of his partner, flushed with fervor and a passion that hung in the air. His yellow bangs were still mostly tied up, free strands feathering across a sweat-glistened face and across lashes that fluttered shut with bliss. It’s as if he could feel Isagi’s admiration, and when eyes opened up to meet his own, they burned with a fury even stronger than before— moreso, it’d felt like his previous fire held deep in his soul had reached new possibilities, a new chemical in the mix creating a catastrophic, beautiful explosion.

The version I perform with my monster.

A final spin launched Isagi into a slide, grip digging into the ground to catch himself. His arm desperately outstretched to reach his partner, the silence highlighting the way Bachira squeezed onto his hand, as if emotional at the concept of letting go. The gentle yet secure grip left Isagi with a lump in his throat, swallowing down emotions that bubbled up deep within.

Maybe the whirling footsteps weren’t the only reason his head spun, the fast-paced footfall not the reason his heart raced with freshly-ignited ferocity. His stomach turned upside-down when Bachira pulled him back up, and he stumbled, the shorter’s foot trampling the taller’s as he steadied him in his arms.

Maybe it’d been the thrum of his heart that’d prevented the realization — the fact that the music stopped, speakers silenced as the crowd surrounding them was no longer. The flood of faces previously observing them had thinned all to none, the sharp whine of a shifting screen not enough to draw them apart. Their footsteps had sounded loud on their own, tuned-in to themselves, no, to each other. Bachira giggled, awkward enjoyment hidden beneath hot air, and the vibrations of his partner’s laughter pressed against his chest only made it harder for Isagi to still his heart. They didn’t dare discuss their inability to pry their eyes off of each other as the speakers rattled with a voice painfully familiar.

“Time’s up, you unmolded lumps of coal.” His tone was hoarse, and the two wouldn’t doubt he’d been screaming at them to stop. It couldn’t have been long, or he’d have sent the red-headed girl in– what was her name? “Anri”?

The blunt-banged planner leaned back, likely still seated in an unpictured computer chair, filtered out by the camera in place of shoddy backdrop graphics. His lanky arms folded behind his head, a deep groan escaping him as if he’d exhausted himself.

“You’ll notice we’ve removed everyone else from the room,” Ego spoke matter-of-factly, although additional words followed in a low, almost-whispering grumble.

“If you’d’ve bothered to look up, outside of your damn selves.”

Bachira snickered, sharp canines teasing his tongue as his gaze scanned Isagi not-so-subtly, obviously playing it up. It was hard to tell how serious his out-of-pocket actions were, and the concept of legitimacy sent Isagi into turmoil; he especially didn’t want to admit his racing thoughts were far from anger-fueled.

“We’ve thinned our competitors down to the cream-of-the-crop; sad to say, most others just couldn’t keep up. Snivelish as they are, their ego never seemed to take precedent over egregious rules.”

Isagi blinked mindlessly. How he’d nearly forgotten the competition they took part in actively was beyond him — he’d found his mind locked onto a different driving force.

There was something more that led him further now.

“Congratulations, unmolded lumps of coal—”

His words muffled in the background. Isagi could lip-read, had he bothered to look— had his eyes not remained on his new object of burning desire.

The rules were no longer what drove him, they were no longer the perfection he strove for.

He watched as eyes crinkled up in excitement, Bachira’s joy beaming off his face as he turned to pull Isagi into a threateningly-tight hug. Something deep in the teen’s mind begged for the subject’s further praise and approval, but the squeeze of his muscles underneath intense strength would have to suffice. He’d have plenty of time to sort out emotions with his new goalpost—

His perfect partner, Bachira. His monster.

Isagi paid no attention to the competition’s close, aside from his success alongside his other, the prospect of a future they were destined to chase together. He’d expected his heart to slow when stakes were gone, but it’d kept intensity even long after. Enveloped in sheets that night, he was near-restless, a constant replay of the day looping in his thoughts. Ironically, he couldn’t seem to remember a single dance move, a single strain of steps he’d taken to achieve his goal— all that remained was reflex and invigoration flowing through veins, newfound fervor he couldn’t explain at the presence of the monster met today.

His face softened into a smile. This is the version of dance he’d craved.

════════════════

#fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #also on ao3 #bachisagi #blue lock #blue lock fanfiction #alternate universe #bllk #bllk bachira #bllk isagi #isagi yoichi #bachira meguru #isabachi #bcis #isbc #rain's fanfics

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maxwellatoms · 1 year ago

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Congratulations, one of your characters made a cameo appearance in my midlife crisis!

This takes a little time to explain, but on the art web site FurAffinity, living users are represented with a tilde, while living impaired users get an infinity symbol in front of their names. I was at a low point in my life when I drew this, and thought about what would happen when the Grim Reaper eventually closed the loop.

Anyway. This was supposed to be for questions, so I'll ask one. The career of an animator seems to be nomadic... they'll spend some time developing a series for Cartoon Network, then move to Disney, then migrate to Nickelodeon, only to return where they started (cough cough CH Greenblatt cough).

Any reason, or reasons, why this happens? Honestly, I have a difficult time understanding why anyone would go to Nickelodeon to start a show, given the way so many artists have been treated by the network in the past. Do all the networks act like this?

Just curious. Thanks for your time, and for the years of entertainment.

You guys look great together, but no loop closings please!

Gotta bilde the tilde, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, yeah... Animators all know that Other Studios have Other Problems. It's not at all uncommon to hear someone say, "I'm about ready for new problems".

I spent most of my career (until the wonders of the recent mega-merger) at WB, so I've really only known WB problems (with a light sprinkling of Disney Troubles). I've asked friends like C.H. Greenblatt and Jessica Borutski about the long-haul at Nick, so I have a basic idea what the culture is like. But if I land at Nick in five years, it could be a completely different set of circumstances and maybe even a completely different set of employers.

I know maybe three studio execs with solid careers who've spent the majority of their time at one studio. Most of the time, the low level executive track is even more of a meat grinder than the creative track. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that the middle-management meat grinder is the cause of the creative meat grinder.

The job of an executive is to make impressive decisions that dazzle their superiors and shareholders. If you've just been hired to replace someone and have inherited a stack of 32 animation bibles in various stages of development with assorted creators, are you really going to just continue going through that pile? I mean, you're replacing someone for a reason, right? So probably better just to toss that whole pile of animation bibles in the trash and start again. Because you're going to look like an idiot if even a single one of those fails. And if it succeeds, it just makes your predecessor look smart, which steals some of your shine. So you axe those creators and all of their support goes away and the cycle begins anew.

During my career, these executive turnovers (and the following creative turnovers) happen about every four or five years. With a little luck, it takes (in my experience) about two years to get a show through development to pilot, and then another year to decide if it's going to be a series. In short, there is precious little time where a creator/EP can interface with and rely on a competent executive to champion them. If you don't have that, you're not going anywhere.

I'm not sure how anything gets made. From the inside, development is always trickle-down sweaty desperation. I guess somehow, every now and then, a neurodivergent 23 year old slips through the cracks and makes a kid's show about The Grim Reaper. It could all be luck.

There are definitely execs who love animation and have made it their life's work. But there are also people who just got into the business as, say, a personal assistant and hasn't watched an animated cartoon since they were six, but suddenly find themselves in control of many millions of dollars worth of IP. There are execs who think of entertainment only as a commodity and who literally don't understand why creatives feel so passionate about "just cartoons" but will remind you "how lucky you are to work in entertainment" if you ask for a raise.

In short, the problems are usually management related. And those problems are mostly the same across studios, with the occasional Infamous Despot you want to avoid at all costs. The good news is that said Despot probably won't last five years.

There are perks at the different studios too. Proximity to decent food. Occasional amusement park passes. Friday morning bagels. The sort of stuff that hopefully nobody is taking a job specifically for.

At the end of the day, there are three or four big studios we can work for. There are also a smattering of smaller indie studios which... make content for those three or four other studios anyway.

The long and short of it is that there's just not a lot of choice where we can work or who we work for. We definitely talk to each other and the studio culture does weigh heavily when you're deciding where to go. Assuming you have the luxury of choice. It all kind of sucks, and it all kind of sucks in the same way. But sometimes you get bagels.

Stay Frisky!

#tv animation #troubles #animation industry

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elliember · 2 months ago

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November 18th - Eternal

The white stag was a symbol of rebirth and renewal. A figure that ushered in the new year and started the weeklong festival and celebration. A ceremonial hunt after a beast was nurtured by the magic of this place, cultivated carefully and infused with both life and death. He became larger, faster and more adept to survive in the harsh surroundings.

Every year, as it had been done before. The massive cervine skull was laid in a ritualistic grove. Bound by the growth and the flora that permeated the runic circle and wood and bone effigies that surrounded it, a new beast was born. The bone was cracked and his antlers broken as the circle consumed the splinters and pieces, pulling the bone and fragments deep into the earth as the druids that summoned him paid careful attention to their spells and incantations.

The earth churned. A creature of flesh pushed up through the darkened soil. A freshly born fawn with fur as white as the moon laid curled in upon itself before his long limbs would unfurl and he would make a desperate attempt to stand. Unsure and unsteady. His steps staggered as his too many eyes shifted timidly from druid to druid. Eyes that were as black as night with flecks of white starlight mottling them.

Each step forward became more emboldened. Each step forward saw unnatural growth. Imbued and chosen. By the time the beast had left the circle of summoning, he was adolescent in size and more sure-footed. A bellowing call that echoed through the trees as he bound away and vanished. He belonged to the spirits here and would be nurtured by them.

And for every day that passed. He grew. He learned. He understood his purpose. He tested the druids and their commune. He consecrated the earth with his silent footfalls, live growth tangling up to meet his hooves as he moved through the trees in elegance and regal appointment. As he passed, the fresh growth would wither and die in the wake of his departure. Flowers that had bloomed in the prints where his hooves had passed, sprouted and shone brightly in a fleeting and dazzling moment of expedited life and death. Petals curling and rotting away before disappearing into the natural leaf litter and dirt.

And when the year came to its inevitable end. When the stag was at his most impressive in body and mind, the ceremonies would begin. The ritual hunt was the start to the new year. The member of the commune that laid the beast low would receive his blessings and his good fortune all through the year.

The white stag was no easy beast to catch. A monstrous body bound in muscle carried him for miles. His stride could outpace the unprepared. His kick could break bones and antlers that could impale flesh with a grotesque ease. He tasked this commune with the challenge of putting him to death. And when they came together - they achieved the impossible task.

A bloodied skull hung on display to signal the festival and the hedonistic events where forest spirits mingled with the mortal denizens that called this place home. Feasts. Music. Dancing. Rituals and indulgence. The party spun on for days and responsibilities and cares were few. And as the final hours came to close, the inner circle would flay the flesh of the beast from the skull and clean it in observance of his sacrifice and death. Honoring his power with prayer and reverence before returning to the place where it all began. The funerary plot and the womb in the woods that saw the beast resurrected and reborn. The cycle anew.

He was eternal. He was the deification and manifestation of life and death.

The original patron spirit of this violent place that existed in a pocket between planes.

@daily-writing-challenge

@elliember

#novemberday22024 #novemberdwc2024 #my oc stuff #oc lore #world of warcraft #gilneas

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twisting-echo · 6 months ago

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"Eternal Flames"

In Soleanna's sun-kissed halls, she reigns,

Princess Elise, her heart a fragile flame.

A sovereign's burden, lineage worn with grace,

last of her line, in a once-great royal place.

Her eyes, like sapphire skies at Twilight's kiss,

hold secrets—love, loss, and destiny's twist.

Within her chest, the Flames of Disaster seethe,

a power sealed, yearning to break free.

Amidst chaos and Eggman's sinister plot,

Sonic races, a blue blur, to save what's sought.

Elise, porcelain and brave, her tears unbidden,

for love and duty clash—the world is smitten.

In the "Last Story," fate weaves its cruel thread,

Mephiles, Solaris, and a hero now dead.

Elise's grief unchains Iblis, a fiery tide,

yet hope remains—their bond won't subside.

Silver, a time-traveler, lends a helping hand,

together, they dazzle across Soleanna's land.

Triple axels and memories spun anew,

Elise glides, love's legacy forever true.

So let the echoes of her name resound,

Princess Elise, in flames and love unbound.

Through trials and tears, she stands tall and free,

a timeless tale etched in Sonic's legacy~

---

I hope you guys enjoyed my Princess Elise poem. I actually spent a month writing it. I was trying to capture her story and the plot, so I hope I succeeded in that. If you find the poem cheesey or dumb, then please don't comment or reblog. I worked really hard on this. I solely relied on my rhyming dictionary for this.

#i love her so much #Elise is my muse #my writing #my poem #my poetry #sonic 06 #princess elise #princess elise the third #sonic 06 elise #elise sonic #sonic elise #sonic 2006 #sonelise #sonic the hedgehog #sth #sth fandom #sonic x elise #elise x sonic

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objectumnonsense · 1 year ago

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a post (link) from @smutposting-ao3 unexpectedly gave me some inspiration and i banged this out (no pun intended) in like three hours (minus editing, which took. a considerable amount of time). content warnings for canon-typical gabriel shredding and some dubious consent

Sisyphus and V1's glaring contest was only broken by Gabriel physically stepping between them and clearing his throat. He turned to Sisyphus with his arms folded.

"What are you doing? I thought you said you liked it when you two met!"

"It started it!" he answered defensively, looking over Gabriel's head at it and frowning. He turned and glowered at it instead.

"Well?"

It signed several almost incomprehensible words in very quick succession, but Gabriel picked out "first loss beat bullshit" with a lot of accusatory pointing.

"...So he was the first thing you've ever lost to?"

It nodded, folding its arms.

Sisyphus laughed.

"That's all? No wonder you were such a sore loser then."

V1 unfolded its arms and looked ready to cuss him out again when Gabriel raised a hand to stop it.

"Enough, you two. We're not here for petty fighting."

V1 nodded eagerly when it heard the word "fighting" and started flipping a coin in one of its blue hands. Gabriel shot it a glare.

"Put that away. We still have to go over rules before we get started."

It rolled its eye, but obliged him, and he turned to address Sisyphus.

"You're sure you're alright with this? It's going to be really intense. I don't want to upset you."

"Angel, I've seen horrors of war and battle the likes of which would make weaker men drop dead at the thought. Nothing you and the weapon do to each other can phase me."

Gabriel still looked doubtful, but nodded and continued.

"Machine, if I or Sisyphus says the safe word, you stop immediately. You remember what it is?"

It nodded and signed "server" before he could ask.

"Good. Of course you know murder is off the table, but besides that, anything goes. Sisyphus, you should probably stand out of the way."

He heeded his words and walked to the back end of the chapel, where he righted a fallen pew and sat down in it. He nodded and gave the pair a thumbs up.

"Perfect. Now, Machine," Gabriel's voice boomed throughout the enormous room, wings and halo manifesting in a burst of brilliant blue light as he unsheathed his swords, "prepare for a resounding defeat!"

Almost as soon as he finished speaking, V1 leapt forward in blur of blue and gold. What followed was a near incomprehensible exchanging of blows, so swift and powerful Sisyphus had trouble telling what was going on. Sawblades whirled, coins gleamed, swords slashed, and blood exploded from the place where the two met. It was a complex dance to a rhythm only the two fighters could hear, and the sheer, practiced brutality was utterly stunning.

An explosion from a rocket sent the pair flying away from each other, V1 hitting the ground rolling and Gabriel hitting the wall hard. V1 looked for the most part unharmed, besides a few deep scratches in its Knuckleblaster arm. Blood stained its plating, but was quickly absorbed.

Gabriel, on the other hand, looked much the worse for wear. A magnet protruded from his thigh, surrounded by dozens of half-buried nails; his left arm and stomach were bleeding openly onto the floor; still, he laughed ecstatically.

"Is that the best you've got?" he barked. "Come on, let's put on a real show!" To Sisyphus's utter shock, his wings and halo glowed brightly anew, dazzling azure with tinges of gold chasing away the dim light of Heresy.

V1 narrowed its eye at him. With a flick of its Whiplash arm, it attached itself to him, and the fight began again.

It was somehow even more bloody than the last clash, but Sisyphus could actually track Gabriel's movements this time. He kept up at first, but soon he began to lose - badly. The machine tore at him again and again while he barely managed to get a scratch on its plating. With each hit he took, a breathless laugh bubbled from his lips.

Finally, with a well-timed ricochet shot straight through his chest, Gabriel fell to the ground, wings unable to carry his weight any longer. Sisyphus stood and made to walk across the chapel to the two, believing the two to be done. Gabriel raised a shaky hand.

"Wait a second -"

His sentence was cut off by a pained shout as V1 leapt onto him. In the blink of an eye, it had broken the clasp of his chestplate and tossed it aside, exposing his torn skin. Sisyphus managed to catch a glimpse of several weeping bullet holes before V1's hands were all over Gabriel, fingers finding as many wounds as they could and burying themselves in them.

Gabriel arched with a cry like a wounded animal, squirming under V1's ravenous touch. It shifted to spread itself across his body, one thigh between his and the other hooked around his waist.

With an obscene squelch of tearing flesh, its Knuckleblaster claws dug into one of the wounds, exposing muscle and sinew and sending even more blood showering onto its plating and the floor below.

Gabriel howled - an unsettling, desperate sound - and V1 pressed itself into him. His hands scrabbled ineffectually at its sides, its back, anything he could reach. Sisyphus shifted his gaze slightly and noticed the shaky but steady motions of his hips against its thigh.

The Knuckleblaster had torn at Gabriel again in the moments Sisyphus had looked away. This time, it pushed into his side, deeper and deeper, until the claws were buried to, well, the knuckles. The air left his lungs in a long moan as it slowly dragged them down, leaving long, ugly gashes in their wake.

Surely the machine was fueled enough by now. Gabriel was practically bleeding out underneath it and it still took more.

A barely-audible "Ma- machine, please," was the only sign Gabriel was still conscious. His arms had dropped to his sides and his head lolled.

Apparently V1 knew what he wanted, because it started shifting its thigh, grinding against him where he was apparently too weak to.

"Th-thank you, thank you, ggh-!"

He barely managed a twitch of his hips when its hand - the Feedbacker, this time - started massaging his bleeding side with the same rhythm it was grinding on him. They kept at it for a few moments more before, with a weak gasp, Gabriel convulsed for a moment, then fell totally limp.

Surely it was done - but Gabriel had warned him beforehand, after all.

The machine shifted its position over him and settled itself between his thighs, all four arms grabbing and pushing and groping. With a click of metal, its panel slid aside and it wasted no time in grinding itself against his still-clothed crotch.

A cold pit grew in Sisyphus's gut. Gabriel was unconscious, or at best barely hanging on, judging by the way he gave no resistance to its manipulation. Was this a regular occurrence for the two? How much did he know about what happened to him after he passed out?

He stood.

"That's enough, weapon. Server."

It whipped its head around at his words, and for a moment, he was frozen in place by the sheer, animalistic fury in its gaze. The center ring of its optic was pin-narrow, while the outer ring was so wide as to almost not be visible. Its wings arched, one hand instinctively reaching halfway to its back.

But only for a moment. Its eye refocused, its hand lowered, and it stood and backed away, raising its empty palms in a surrendering gesture. Sisyphus noticed how tense he had suddenly become, and that his fists were half-raised.

He attempted to shake the heavy cloud of - fear? disgust? something unpleasant and cold- out of his head and approached Gabriel.

He knelt at his side, laying a hand on his chest. His heart beat faintly - thank the stars - and some of the smaller scratches on him were already starting to knit together. Still, Sisyphus couldn't shake the strange, bone-deep feeling of apprehension from himself.

Gabriel was fine. He would heal. He just needed to get him home. (He forced himself not to think of how many times he might have been left on the floor here after the machine was through with him.)

He retrieved Gabriel's chestplate from next to him, and with the other arm, scooped his body up.

He was definitely unconscious. (And was he always this small compared to him?) Sisyphus held him closer to his chest - just so he wouldn't fall - and turned to face the machine.

It had been eyeing the trail of dripping blood left behind by Gabriel being moved, but met his gaze when he stared at it. It sat stock still, body language unreadable, panel long since closed. Besides the excess blood drying on its plating, it showed few signs the encounter had ever taken place. (Damned thing. What right did it have to look so unbothered when it had almost - almost -)

Neither moved for a few moments. Sisyphus wasn't sure what to say, if anything at all. (What could he say?)

He settled for a terse nod, turned on his heel, and rushed out of the chapel. (His steps were not hurried with panic. He was calm. Gabriel was fine.)

He felt the machine's stare on the back of his head until he was out of its sight.

#my writing #nsft #no fucking way am i maintagging this. if you find it you were lookin for it #cw gore #cw dubious consent #augh. is this even in character

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extraordinarilyextreme · 1 year ago

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Xue-gongzi: Don’t cry anymore. Remember to lay me to rest someplace closer to you, and don’t erect a headstone either; it will look a bit too desolate and lonely. Plant a cedar tree instead, alright? It can stay green for all four seasons, yet will appear a head of white hair when covered with snow. The snow of the back hills will never melt. Bury me beneath the tree. In this way, I will always be able to accompany and brew tea with you in the snow. Xue-tongzi: There won’t be a next year. Have you forgotten? The Burial Snow Heart Sutra that I cultivate with, it will reverse my aging and restore my youthful vigor once every four years. The spring of next year will be the time that I break through the last level. If I break through it, my body and memories will be restored anew. I will forget you; I will forget you entirely. Xue-gongzi: If you forget me, that’s good too. I can’t bear for you to always hold a grudge against me. Xue-tongzi: How could I hold a grudge against you? Xue-gongzi: You will. You will resent me for abandoning you, and for making you live all by yourself in loneliness. Xue-tongzi: You bastard good-for-nothing! Then you can’t die! Xue-gongzi: Didn't we always say that the weather outside is sunny and cloudless for ten thousand li on end?

Xue-gongzi: Is the outside really as good as he claimed? If there is a chance, I would really like to go out to take a look. Xue-tongzi (Adult): Is it that you feel this place is no longer fun, so you wish to leave? Xue-gongzi: This place really is boring, indeed. It’s a world of ice and snow, every day of the year exactly the same. But rest assured. As long as you don’t leave, I won’t leave either. I will always accompany you, so we can be bored together. Xue-tongzi (Adult): That’s more like it.

Xue-gongzi: Such a vast and dazzling place, I seem to see it now. It really is as I dreamed. I’m going to go first and take a look for you.

Xue-tongzi (Adult): Long time no see. Are you well?

#my journey to you #云之羽 #my translation #雪童子 #雪公子 #he said “The snow of the back hills will never melt.”#but he meant “I can still uphold my promise to accompany you forever - until both our heads of hair have turned white.”#everywhere i see pingxie #我陪你 #好久不见 #everywhere i see fanghua #“you should forget me”#“do you hate me for abandoning you?”#theres some nuances that my translation didnt capture but forgive me #i really could not be bothered #i am so emotionally wrecked by this damn show

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bnuuys-writing · 2 years ago

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CHAPTER TWO. OVERTURE. Phantom of The Opera x Twisted Wonderland

Here is chapter two for you guys! I hope you enjoy!!

Chapter One, Chapter Two(You are here!), Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Leona's Ending, Malleus' Ending

~Bnuuy Out!

The year is 1919, in France. Within a bustling city in the center of town stands a magnifique Opera House, its dazzling lights outside its carefully intricate carved walls tells a story of Regalty, Royalty, and an awe inspiring show promising to be played within, yet; the inside simply tells another story, begging to be read by the others within the towns history.

The echo of the tapping cane reverberated within the desolate walls of the opera house. Which stood so beautifully with glamour and shine that now holds cobwebs and dust as if it were trying to hide itself away from the world. Leona sat there in a chair, overall confused on how he had even arrived here. He held all of his memories intact but perhaps that was because he was a powerful mage? All he knew was that in his mind was Y/N.

I have to save Y/N.

“Alrighty then! Lot 665, a monkey playing the cymbals, dressed in persuasion robes with the heart of a barrel organ! It has been stated that this item has been found in the very catacombs of the opera house. Ladies and Gentleman, shall we start off the bidding with 15 francs?” An unknown man stated out, standing on top of a podium, looking out amongst the small crowd before him.

Leona’s hand raised up without him knowing. A grunt of disapproval ripped out from his chest as he saw a familiar faces that he would honestly rather forget. Lilia Vanrougue. Lilia raised up his hand as the bidding continued, only for Leona to raise up his hand once more, raising the bid again.

“Do I hear 35 francs…?” The auctioneer’s gaze looked over at the old bat who only seemed to smile cockily at Leona, before shaking his head no. That little bastard making the price higher than needed… The sound of a hammer echoed within the desolate theater as the music box was sold to Leona De Kingscholar. Clawed hands reached forward for the barrel organ monkey as he began to look over it slowly, a memory forcing up into his mind that most certainly did NOT belong to him.

A collectors piece, indeed… Every detail, exactly as they said… Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?

Shaking his head out of his stupor, he let out an annoyed grunt as he shifted around. The auctioneer cleared his throat as he motioned to a certain hanging over something quite large within the spacious room. Slowly, the auction would start as he read over the paper within his hands.

“Lot 666, a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of a Phantom hiding within this opera house, a mystery quite never fully explained. With the newly invented electricity, we are hoping to frighten away any ghosts, with a bit of illumination… Gentleman!” Sparks of electricity began to flood the room as a once nicely candle lit chandelier, now solely powered by the new electricity, began to float up towards the sky as everything began to shift around them. Dust flew off the walls, cobwebs floated off as if they were never there before. Old paint flashed anew as the beautiful statues were shining as if they were just proudly polished. Leona and Lilia looked at each other before they both completely faded away from each other's existence. The Mission has started.

The year was now 1881, the opera house was busier than ever with rehearsals. Chatterings of different conversations being echoed throughout the plywood walls, ballerinas running up and down the stairs trying to collect all their items. Stone masons working hard on their next project. Costume designers sewing and taking measurements. Towels, blankets, things that needed to be air dried being hung up over the railings as three important figures swam through the current of workers.

“Y/N, Silver, hurry up! Otherwise we will be late for practice!” Sebek seethed out at the two of you, not wanting to face Lilia’s wrath during their ballet practice. Silver could only groan as he was tugged along by Sebek and you just laughed as the trio of you ran down the stairs. Sebek and Silver had recalled the mission once they had entered the opera house with the help of Lilia’s wise words.

Remember, we are trying to find Y/N. We are in a book. I have already located Malleus but he must remain hidden for now.

Taking deep breaths as you ran past the trio of eyes, something was already boiling behind them as they watched your figure join your colleagues of ballerinas, ready for practice. Lilia watched as Sebek and Silver returned to your sides, posted like good loyal knights, yet there was no need for that because of course! This is ballet, and to Sebek’s dismay and like as if he would ever admit to it… Ballet was hard.

To the open stage, the orchestra was loudly playing as others marched around what seemed to be a very painted up Vil. Of course, these potatoes could all learn something from him as they all continued to parade upon his outfit and rip it here and there. What they all needed was discipline and to move with grace, not march around as they were! But what can you do when all you work with are lousy drunks who most likely do not care for the mastery of Opera? Including poor Rook who was struggling with his accent.

“It is not Ro-ma. It is ROME.” The conductor had stopped once more to shout at Rook who could only smile and shake his head. “My many apologies monsieur, it is just quite hard to grasp the foundation of what play we are exactly playing… Perhaps we can go over it once more?” Rook asked out which only caused the conductor to sigh. Though, could you blame them? Y/N had spoken about musicals and plays and whoever this Shakespear was from their world but never really got too deep into them. Hannibal was one of them, and although all of them had come to realize that they were in your world, something about it screamed as if they were in the wrong century of when Y/N was originally from.

“Excuse me, good sir! I have an important announcement to make!” The manager spoke, coming onto the stage as Vil only sighed. Of course he would have an announcement right in the middle of rehearsals, if they only knew who he really was, there would be NO interrupting rehearsals. “I have wanted to say- All the rumors are true, I am retiring!” Vil rolled his eyes, he was certain everyone knew that their manager would be retiring soon but to be replaced by who? His violet colored hues trailed behind his now ex-manager only to freeze.

Of course it would be Azul and the Tweels.

“The opera house will now be under the management of Azul Ashengrotto and his companions Jade and Floyd Leech. After their business of conducting an underground business-”

“A club.” Azul interjected with a serene smile, causing others within the room to sweatdrop slightly.

“-As I was saying; They will be your new managers, so make sure to treat them with plenty of respect!” The man finished as he welcomed the trio to the front of him, perhaps trying to get out of the spotlight like a certain Crow back in NRC? Who knows.

“We are deeply honored to with by your side and we would love to introduce to you our new Patron, Leona De Kingscholar!” Azul stated out, perhaps with some grit between his words. Afterall, he didnt forget about what Leona had done to his precious contracts within their homeworld but in order to save Y/N from the book, they had to push past their differences and move forward.

The clicking of heels echoed within the open theater as a certain lion reached up beside the mer-people, a growl within his throat as he looked out towards the crowd. Of course they were all here already. Vil, Rook, Azul and the Tweels, and if he looked a bit closer; is that Lilia?

“It is an honor to meet you Sir Kingscholar.” Vil stated out, tearing Leona’s gaze back to focus on the pompous Pomefire dormleader. A hand was held out towards Leona’s face and a smug smirk was plastered all over Vil’s face. Huffing, Leona’s hand grasped Vil’s own and gently placed upon the decorated gold hand, a soft kiss.

“The pleasure is all mine.. Now, don't let me interrupt you anymore. Carry on. I shall be here tonight to celebrate in your victorious show.” With that, Leona turned on his tail quickly and began to walk through the corridor, passing you with Silver and Sebek glued to your side. Your eyes were glazed over with memory as you stared at him, hoping he would say hello as he passed you by. Yet, no such luck as he didn't even spare you a glance.

“He wouldn't recognize me…” You stated out softly to Sebek and Silver with a frown upon your face. Through all of Silver and Sebek’s pesterings, it would appear that you had lost all memory as you became such an important character within the book- perhaps it was due to your lack of magic ability? Whatever it may be, Silver and Sebek hoped it wouldn't last back home in their world where they would bring you back.

“He didn't see you.” Silver cooed out softly, comforting you slightly before Sebek scoffed.

“You do not need that mangy lion anyways! There are bigger and better, like Lord-” Before Sebek could finish, Lilia cleared his throat and motioned for the ballerinas to start their dance as the familiar flutes began to play. Both knights sighed as they jumped off away from you to start their dance while you joined in with the other ballerinas. Jumping over chains and dancing gracefully around them; Afterall, Hannibal is very important to the culture of Rome.

Though the trio of mers stared at you deeply as they chatted away with Lilia. Jade watched your every move while holding onto Floyd’s shoulder so he couldn't break away to squeeze you too tightly now, after all they didn't want to break the code lines of the book and be casted out, or even worse. Get stuck in there permanently.

“And who is that one? No relation I trust?” Azul pointed out to you, raising up an eyebrow as Lilia let out a small ‘fufu~’

“That is Y/N L/N. Orphaned at 7, and came to live and train here within the Opera dormitories since then… I also think of her as a daughter. Now gentleman, if you would be so kind just to stand off to the side.” Lilia pushed the trio off to the side only to watch his ballet dancers. As the singing continued, the orchestra played with such oomph that a certain irritated German voice could be heard amongst it all as a rip was heard.

“Rook! Do not step on me!” Vil shouted out at Rook who looked sheepish as he had taken a step in the wrong direction as Sebek had jumped a little too close to him. After that, all hell broke loose as Rook couldn't jump into his seat where the fake elephant had come in due to his large billowing and not to mention- heavy- outfit was weighing him down. Vil had gotten so frustrated that he broke character as he stormed through the hallway, screaming how he is going to quit and he is finished. Only for Azul and the Tweels (Not Floyd though, he wasn't in the mood for it.) to grovel for Vil to stay and sing.

“Isn't there a song in uhm… Act three of Hannibal that you can sing for us?” Azul asked out hesitantly, trying to remember the play for Y/N’s sake.

“Yes! There is! But SOMEBODY did NOT finish my costume!” Vil pointed out and looked towards the costume designers who looked away sheepishly only for Jade to cut in smoothly.

“If its alright with you, Vil, we would love a performance just for us.” Jade hummed out smoothly only for Vil to stop and thing about it. Rook cleared his throat and nodded towards Vil, as if saying quietly ‘do it for the story’ in which Vil nodded.

“If my managers command… Maestro?” Vil looked over at the conductor who only stiffened up under his gaze.

“If my diva commands!”

“I do.” With that, Rook went around shushing everyone as Vil went to the front of the stage, preparing his voice for quite a song. Once the whole auditorium was quiet to Vil’s shushing and Rook’s deathglare of ‘silence’, the piano began to softly play like stars within the night sky. Slowly, Vil’s voice came out strong with plenty of vibrato that left Floyd wincing and looking ever so displeased. Vil knew that this was the doing of the book for he would never sing an aria so… Absurd. Though nothing could prepare him for what came next.

Shackles and chains clattered as a wheel began to squeak very loudly as a whole stage set background fell right on top of Vil, Rook’s eyes turning the size of dinner plates as he rushed forward to collect Vil off of the ground and out from underneath the heavy tapestry of a background. Lilia could only sigh as his ballerinas were panicking while Silver and Sebek stood close to you in hopes of protecting you from whatever might come next towards you. Another screamfest from Vil and the new managers before the auditorium went silent as Vil, Rook and their entourage stormed off into the back.

“Here is a letter, the Opera ghost welcomes you into his opera house and hopes that you can still pay him his money. Monsieur Le Fevre used to give him twenty thousand francs a month.” Lilia spoke, nonchalant as he handed over a note to Azul who seemed absolutely mortified at the idea of having to pay a GHOST. Most certainly they are real, for they all have been to the Ramshackle. “He also states that you need to leave Box Five empty for his use.”

“HIS Opera house? And TWENTY THOUSAND FRANCS? Well that's just great! Who is going to sing for us now! There is no understudy for Vil Schoenheit!” Azul shouted out, furious that he is going to have to refund a whole house which is 1. A waste of a bunch of money, and 2. This shouldn't be how the story should be going! 3. NOW HE HAS TO DEAL WITH SOME OPERA GHOST?

“Y/N can sing it for you.” Silver’s nonchalant voice spoke up through the chaos only for Sebek and you to look at him in shock. Azul slowly turned to you and quirked up an eyebrow but Floyd was first to speak.

“A simple ballet chorus girl? Nehh~...” With a shake of his head at not calling you Shrimpy, why couldn't he just call you Shrimpy? Sebek took it as denial and was next to speak up for you.

“They’re very well trained!” Sebek barked out, standing up straight as you just look between the two of them as if they were going a second head on their shoulders. Wishing that they didn't say ANYTHING. Granted, yes. You were being trained by a wonderful master but… Was it worthy of singing in front of a whole audience?!

“Who taught you.” Jade was next to speak, smiling at you with one of his very placid smiles that could put anyone on edge. You were no different than the rest of course…

“I don't know his name, monsieur…” You whispered out, suddenly bashful as now all the eyes were locked onto your form, Lilia cleared his throat in hopes of you gaining your courage to speak more. Yet for when nothing came out from your mouth, he only sighed.

“Let them sing for you monsieur, they are very well taught.” Lilia spoke up and pushed you forward with his hand on the lower of your back as Floyd began to wave you forward to the center of the stage.

“Cmon now Shrim–... Y/N” Floyd seemed to be annoyed with the fact that he was still unable to call you by your nickname, huffing silently as you were tentative on reaching the front of the stage. You feel everyone's eyes upon you and an all too familiar gaze upon the back of your head. You know he is here.

Slowly, the piano began to play once more as you began to sing a few beats in. Floyd and Jade seemed serene while Azul seemed so shocked by the sound of your voice. Who knew that their precious little Prefect had a voice of a siren! An Angel?! His face must’ve turned a shade of pink as he watched you very closely. You could only turn to face Lilia, Sebek and Silver who all looked very proud of you as Lilia motioned you forward to the center of the stage.

With a flash of the light in front of everyone's eyes, the once empty house was now filled with a full audience listening to you sing so gracefully. Leona sat in his seat as he seemed pleased at hearing you sing, his tail flicking around happily as his eyes narrowed down upon your shining form, as if you were a star itself. Who knew their clumsy Prefect had so much grace, and with a voice of the tweeting birds of the savannah. Unbeknownst to them, a form lurked within the shadows, listening to your voice as he seemed pleased with himself at how far you've come under his wing. You looked as radiant as ever, perfect for the prize of his game that is about to be played.

Leona stood up, humming to himself how it's wonderful to finally see your face, not like he would ever mention how he had missed you but for once in his life, he was rushing to see you. At the end of the song, you received a standing ovation from the crowd, roses were being tossed up onto the stage for you as a certain spy was watching you from below before rushing outside to see their master of Vil and Rook. Upon hearing the standing ovation for your spectacular performance, Vil could only smirk and chuckle.

“Who knew our potato had it in them all this time.”

All the while, a certain eel was more than happy to shout out to you about how wonderful your performance was, and Azul was more than happy with the outcome and with the fact that they now had a new rising star who wasn't Vil for once.

Sebek and Silver were the ones who first went out to go searching for you after your performance and everyone had left the auditorium. Afterall, this was a party and You were the star! You should be celebrating! Walking through corridors and slinking through hallways with couples that were more than happy to mash their lips together in what seemed to be the most secluded hallway they could find, they stumbled upon you in a room lighting up candles.

“Y/N! There you are! We have been looking for you. We thought we told you that you should always stick by us!” Sebek shouted out loudly, making you jump and Silver sighed. “Can't you see they’re lighting up a memorial, be quiet Sebek.” Silver whispered out to his friend before looking back down at you who turned to smile at the two of them.

“It's alright you two… I was just letting my father know that tonight went well. After all, father once spoke of an angel who would teach me all these musical things. Now I see him in everything I do, and he comes and visits me at night, sings me songs to keep me company as I sleep.” You whispered out to the both of them as they took their places on either side of you, again like how a knight would be for their King of Briar Valley.

“Y/N… You must have been dreaming, stories like this can't come true.” Sebek states out softly as he takes your hand and helps you up. Granted, he would NEVER touch you back in Twisted Wonderland but with the guidance of the book's written story, he guided you up to your feet as Silver helped steady your balance within your heels.

“Y/N you’re talking in riddles, and it's not like you.” Silver whispered out as they both began to lead you out from the room filled with painted angels and more towards your room, though both Silver and Sebek could feel a presence around them that was all too familiar. A drunkard man that is about to lose this game of cat and mouse if he keeps pestering their precious Prefect. Once back inside your room, with you all settled down in front of your mirror, the two had left you alone with Lilia and stood guard outside of your room.

“He is pleased with you.” Lilia would speak out softly to you, eyes lingering on your form as your eyes glance down to the rose, still filled with thorns with a green ribbon tied around it that was just placed down to your hand. “Make sure to go to bed at a reasonable time tonight. You know how he is with your sleeping schedule, and you have a big day tomorrow. Goodnight Y/N.” Lilia would softly squeeze your shoulders as he began to depart from the room only for a certain sneaky lion to squeeze past and intrude in.

“Little Y/N let their mind wander, not knowing of the hunter behind them.” Leona’s gruff voice would hum out, arms crossed with that smug smirk upon his face as he looked you up and down. Your eyes flickered up to his face within the mirror and a smile began to form upon your face at seeing your childhood best friend.

“No, they knew of the hunter stalking them, but what they couldnt comprehend is what it wanted.” You started out, swirling around to face him on your chair as you stood up.

“Am I fonder of dolls or of frocks, or possibly picnics in the attic?” Leona stated, walking closer to you to where he could smell you but couldn't just touch you yet.

“No, they said. Whatever is best, is when I'm asleep in my bed.” You finished out before giggling, pulling Leona in for a tight hug. Leona’s eyes closed shut as he squeezed you just as tight before pulling away with a roll of his eyes, dumb book making him do things he didn't want to do.

“You sang beautifully tonight. Why don't we go catch dinner together? Just you and me.” Leona stated out rashly and sighed, ears pinning down as his cheeks turned a bit red as he peeked one eye down to look at you. Your face said it all, you couldn't. Yet, he didn't care. “Get dressed, I will be back in five minutes. Don't deny that you want to go out and eat with me and I'm not asking. This is a demand, and you know I don't make many of those.” With that, Leona squeezed you slightly within his arms again before leaving.

“No wait, Leona!” You sighed as you heard the door shut with a loud click. As you turned around to face your bouquets of flowers lined against the wall, you shuffled out from your big poofy dress and into a more simple white linen one with a laced robe being tied around in hopes that you dear Angel of Music wouldn't notice your absence. Reaching towards the door handle, a loud voice boomed within the room that you knew all too well already.

“Insolent boy, this slave of Fashion! Basking in your glory! Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!” The angel hissed out, and you knew he was not happy with the outcome, and had already known your intentions of leaving for the evening.

“Angel, I hear you. Speak, I’ll listen… Stay by my side, guide me! Angel, my soul was weak… Forgive me- Enter at last, Master!’ You replied back out, tears pricking in the corner of your eyes at the thought of betraying you dear beloved Master. As for him? He had heard that term many times but he never wanted to hear it come from your mouth, though he was indeed flattered… As the candles died down with his presence, a few flickering lights of green began to spark in the room as if you had your own personal fireflies.

“Flattering child, you shall know me. See why in the shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror! I am there inside!” The voice continues as you slowly turn on your heels to look at your body length mirror. Inside showed your reflection until a very large apparition began to appear slowly within the lighting of the mirror. A man with jet black that turned into a soft blue that rested upon his shoulders, two black long horns upon his head and part of his face was covered in a mask. Was this truly an angel, more importantly… Your angel?

Slowly, your feet began to move towards the mirror, entranced with this man's form within your mirror as your hand stuck out slowly. Unbeknownst to you, Leona was in the middle of a scuffle between Silver and Sebek who were trying their best to protect you, as well as their master who was now making his move upon the impressionable you.

“Let me through! Let me see Y/N!” Leona roared out as he punched Silver, who grunted as Sebek took over and kicked Leona down. “Who is that voice in there! Y/N!!!” Leona roared out, throwing Sebek off of him at Silver, rushing up to the door as he jangled with the locked door. “Y/N!!!” He shouted out, continuing to fight the door as both Knights tore him away and continued to wrestle with him upon the ground.

“I am your angel of music… Come to me, Angel of Music…” He spoke out softly, leaving you entranced with his form as your hand reached through the mirror and with a hesitant skip of your heartbeat, your hand met with his gloved one as if a deal had just been struck right then and there.

You have met your Angel of Music.

#twisted wonderland #twst malleus #malleus x yuu #malleus x reader #malleus x mc #malleus draconia #malleus x reader x leona #twst leona #leona twisted wonderland #leona x reader #twisted wonderland leona #leona kingsholar x reader #leona kingscholar #twst lilia #silver vanrouge #diasomnia #twst silver #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader

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hatspin · 20 days ago

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“magic is only as powerful as the joy it brings to others,” she says, a mantra that defines her christmas mission.

her decorations are pure magic, quite literally. with a simple spell, she transforms her surroundings into a winter wonderland, santa's workshop; a loop of classical splendor. snow drifts lazily indoors without melting, icicles sparkle like crystals in the ceiling, and garlands shimmer with a thousand hues. her christmas tree floats midair, glowing softly, while ornaments magically shift positions to create a perfect, balanced design to anyones liking.

her illusions bring story books to life. during her performances, she casts spells to weave moving holiday tales in real time. characters step off the pages of classic christmas stories, acting out scenes that captivate children and adults alike. zatanna believes in the transformative power of generosity, charity and performance. every christmas, she orchestrates dazzling charity shows that blend her unparalleled magic with heartfelt storytelling. these performances are not just entertainment; they are spectacles of hope. the true meaning of christmas. each ticket sold contributes to causes close to her heart: rebuilding homes devastated by tragedy, funding educational programs, and providing warmth and shelter to the less fortunate.

"ladies and gentlemen, all those listening, watching. take a breath. feel the air—it’s crisp, alive, full of promise. that’s the magic of this season, isn’t it? it’s not just the decorations or the gifts, but the hope that maybe—just maybe—we can all be a little better, a little kinder, a little more than we were yesterday. i know it’s not easy to let go of past transgressions—whether they’re yours or someone else’s. pain has a way of gripping tightly, whispering that it defines you. but it doesn’t. you’re not your mistakes, nor your failures. you’re the choices you make today, the love you give freely, and the courage you find to start anew. let's all be better together." HAPPY HOLIDAYS !!

#HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

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galeythecutest · 1 month ago

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Hello Guys I made a PMD OC Named Emily So She Is an Umbreon

Lore Below!:

Emily was not your ordinary Umbreon. She was born under the luminous glow of a full moon in the quiet forests surrounding an ancient and mystical valley. From a young age, Emily exhibited an insatiable curiosity about the world beyond her home. As she listened to passing travelers sharing tales of adventure, bravery, and camaraderie around campfires, her heart yearned for something more than life amongst the trees: she longed to be part of a community that fought alongside each other for justice and friendship.

After much contemplation, Emily decided to leave her secluded forest behind to join Wigglytuff's Guild—a place renowned for its reputation as one of the best guilds in Pokémon history. Rapidly adapting to life at the guild wasn't easy; she faced hurdles such as overcoming skepticism from some members regarding her small stature compared with more formidable Pokémon like Machamp or Golem. Yet Emily persisted through every trial thrown her way with determination fueled by dreams that ignited within her very essence beneath each moonbeam night after night. Her promise remained clear: never shy away but instead champion those considered weak—showing everyone that it’s not size or type alone which determines valor.

Her relentless spirit eventually earned respect within the ranks of Wigglytuff's Guild as well as strong bonds among friends both new and old—most notably with Luvdisc who taught invaluable lessons on cooperation during rescue missions deep into treacherous caves infested by mischievous bug-types or battling against ferocious foes threatening innocent ones nearby delves along mountain trails where danger lingered close behind every turn they took together hand-in-flipper tirelessly working side by side toward noble goals yet unclaimed until now discovered brimming just ahead waiting patiently out there somewhere still untouched waiting clockwise just out ahead into unexplored territories ready soon unveiling brighter tomorrows sparking ideas illuminating horizons anew boundless exchanging laughter endless filling hearts overflowing aspirations grander underneath soft silken blankets wrapped tightly ‘round stars shimmering above confidently chasing shadows tomorrow bringing hope beloved advancements pushing progress proving all truly possible ending anything daring fly end growth soaring onwards recognizing brilliance greatest skies reachable dancing bright futures embracing limitless journeys forever forward marching ever-onward united strong emerging champions radiant bright legends scripted rich histories echoing timeless tales unfolding blossoming wild endeavors embarked upon long journey awaited crossing realms uncharted ever reaching end lifted high aloft friendships formed dazzling starry nights surging depths undiscovered shining endlessly onward horizon gleamed before them leading quest promising destiny fulfilled forever chased …as one family steadfast always supportive advancing forth together taking flight once again adventurers spirited combined loyal band no second thoughts lingering fond memories cherished joy intimately embraced creating brighter beginnings unfolding hearts nurtured warmed sojourning across cosmos starlight paths weaved eternally intertwined illuminating love depth purity gently guiding hands entwined journey goal sought fulfilling purpose widely share disperse warmth encompassing true wonders seeking uplift continue flowing spreading light timeless echo felt everywhere… in unity gone pursued clarity fearlessly becoming unveiled stories told!

#pmd #pokemon mystery dungeon #pmd eos #pokemon #oc art #pmd oc #Pkmn #my art #my artwork #beginner artist #artists on tumblr #umbreon #pokemon art #original character

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yohohonabottle · 2 months ago

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🌾Back to the directory 🌾 Start | << Previous chapter || Next chapter >> | Latest chapter

[*]This chapter has a missing NSFW piece linked in separate blog. ----------------------------------------------------

‎‎—"Here we are! Home, sweet home!"

Eyelids fluttering open, Pirin begrudgingly redirects his attention away from the quiet and soothing rhythm of the tides. Glancing at the door while being set down, he gracefully slips out of his partner's grasp like water or wind, landing on his feet lightly without so much as a sound.

Salt of a river, the scent of rain, greenery and flowers all mingle together into a nostalgic harmony. Amongst it, the smell of paper birch, light cologne and honeyed alcohol. His eyes flick aside up to Valen at hearing the soft, imperceptible rustle of fabric accompanied by the quiet jingle of metal–A ring of keys– and the dull clicking of a lock as the key is turned, the door unlocked.

—"Your house is by the river." –A simple and quiet observation, eyes turned to peer down at the clear waters that appear black as the sky.

—"Mmhm, one of the best in the northern district. It's relatively quiet around here compared to the neighborhood in the southern part of town, and the view is quite lovely." –There's a note of warm pride in the Lightbearer's counter-tenor jovial voice, a clear love for his hometown that turns playful. It catches and draws back his attention before memories could rise anew.

"With all that said, after you, Ice queen." A very purposeful misgendering term to offset the playful gentlemanly bow. That cheeky smirk is back, still as infuriating as earlier. Somehow, it causes the corners of his mouth to upturn into a light smile of amusement and matching tease instead of turning into a vexed frown. And he calmly fires back with feigned sweetly swooning remark in sing-song voice, pulling up his wedding dress a little much like a princess from children's fairy-tales would, steps kept theatrically tiny and bouncy.

—"Why thank you, my oh so gallant knight. You might have to catch me, for I fear my knees may give in to your dazzling charm..." The 'performance' draws out a genuine chuckle from the brown-haired man. Though with how the smirk turned to a merry grin, it's clear the knight is holding back a laugh at this silly little display.

Holding the door open, Valen watches his arranged spouse prance inside, thoroughly enjoying this goofy and dramatic, playful side of the vampire. The little bite of sharp-tongued sarcasm hidden beneath the caricature veneer of an enamored damsel certainly doesn't slip from his notice–And it makes it all the more entertaining.

Now this is a side I can get used to. So much better than the gloomy sulking.

Following after, he catches himself letting his gaze linger on the shorter man's back and trailing over it. The skin appears flawless and smooth, pale as frost with a very subtle bluish tint that blends with the white. However, what pulls at his attention, are the faint traces of faded scars.

Marks of canine teeth that must have been bone-deep and lashes of a whip, both new and old. Alongside those, burn marks that have almost completely healed, suggesting it has been a long time since they were first inflicted.

—"Of course." –Is the only thing the captain breathes, playing along with the humor. Who did all this...? Valen keeps quiet about the scars, not wanting to ruin the playful banter. The world, ever changing, is not the kindest of places and he's no stranger to its harsh, cold, cruelty just as he's no stranger to its awe-inspiring beauty and uplifting greatness. To think he can keep this entity safe permanently, would be childishly naïve. That much is crystal clear to him.

So long you're under my roof, in my care and I can draw breath–You can take a breather from enduring the pain of a grim world. His eyes follow as Pirin moves ahead a step, exploring his home with an air of inquisitiveness. Wary, guarded but slightly less on-edge and more relaxed. No comments are made, however his body language is more than enough.

Crossing the living room, he lights up the hearth in the corner opposite of the front door. The dancing flames illuminating and warming up the small room– A comfortable sofa near it with a small table, a carpet covering the floor and a window in the other corner with curtains drawn aside.

—"It's not much or anything too fancy, but it's decent enough." Straightening up and turning to saunter into the kitchen, the knight's smile softens to one of gentle warmth, the coy or flirtatious charm turned down a notch. A show he's serious instead of jesting. "Now it's yours, too, as much as it's mine." A moment of quiet with Pirin staying muted, expression blank, his pearlescent eyes holding a melding plethora of conflicting emotions– Guilt, shame, gratitude, caution, unease, lingering agitation, deep apology, distrust while attempting to appear at least somewhat jovial. Self-conscious.

—"..My apologies for my demeanor earlier. It was unreasonable of me." Stiff, formal, clipped and amicable. And still a ball of jittery nerves. It's like the vampire can't decide whether to lock into 'playing his character' or how to change the 'mask', or maybe withdraw again into himself as if spooked. So, Valen lightly nudges him into a different direction by keeping his tone soothingly soft and tender with that same subtle welcoming charisma. A sense of romantic intimacy without making it suffocating or pressuring.

Maybe if given an example Pirin would get bold enough to shake off his uncertainty?

Walking over to him with light, deliberate steps as though approaching a startled horse, he takes one of the phantom's gloved hands in his. A touch of affection and wordless cue to calm down, that the intent isn't harm.

—"There's nothing you have to apologize for. You were stressed out and–" The brunet's eyebrows pinch into a pout of pensiveness, lips pursing aside as he scratches his head for a second, looking down as he mumbles to himself. "What was it that Cassadee said again? "Protecting yourself"? It was some nerdy term.." Eyes lighting up and lips pulling into a grin, he snaps his fingers with a triumphant 'Aha!'

‏‏"Falling back on protective mechanisms–There it is! Phew! That's a mouthful, good luck saying it three times fast." Looking back at his...bride? Fiancé? –Well we still haven't consummated our marital bond, but technically we are husband and wife in the public eyes.. I guess 'partner' will suffice for now. –Valen chuckles and goes on easily. "Pretty much you weren't in your best headspace back there."

Still holding his gloved, smaller hand in his own–His other‎ sneaks to lightly rest on the other's waist, and smoothly pulls the doll-like gorgeous being along into a slow dance. No melody needed, only the one of their hearts is enough. The charismatic solder's footwork is light, graceful and poised as he steadily waltzes them through the threshold and into the kitchen that doubles as a dining room.

—"You can call me by my name, you know? Or a pet name if you'd prefer, I wouldn't mind." His hold loosens a little yet doesn't let go, pulling the other closer so they're chest to chest. Such a weak heartbeat, slow, barely there.. No wonder vampires are considered undead and automatically assumed part of the Graveborns. He hardly even breathes.

A slip-up here and there, an accidental stepping on his toes and very quickly correcting the mistake–Eventually Pirin falls in rhythm perfectly, mirroring his steps. Only a reluctant quiet hum answers him. Removing his hand from the vampire's trim waist, Valen lifts his other, guiding his dance partner into a languid spin, noting how the shorter man hurries and falls out of sync for a brief second, then catches him again.

"Easy, slow down. No need to rush, it's just us." No sudden movements, no accusation or judgement echo in his lowered voice. Once again, the two of them are in synchrony, circling around the room to phantasmal music. Slowly, as they continue to slow dance, the narrow shoulders ease off and the Heroic Order knight could feel the tension finally roll off.

A tune quietly bubbles up in his chest that he finds himself singing along without noticing. Or simply doesn't care to.

"–Other dancers may be on the floor, Dear, but my eyes will see only you. Only you have that magic technique, when we sway, I go weak."

—"You know this song..?"

Smile now a teasingly knowing smirk, the dazzling swordsman opens his eyes and meets the bemused pearls eying him with surprised curiosity. And he gives a short little shrug of his shoulders in dismissive nonchalance, tone of ringing light countertenor easy-going.

—"I've heard it once or twice when visiting the Magister. The mage's place is like a tavern or inn of some kind, mounted on this giant snail-like llama creature and has a jukebox in the lounge." The dubious and mildly concerned look of bewilderment Pirin gives doesn't elude from Valen's notice. As though he'd gone off the deep end or grew a second head.

Can't blame him, I thought I was seeing things back then as well, until Merlin explained it all away.

"It was a very catchy song and got stuck in my head. Although, I have to say–it's quite fitting for tonight. Just the right song to set the mood." Another spin–The night nymph's back presses against his chest and Valen casually places his hands on the other's waist, near the hips, swaying the two of them a little, gently.

—"Speaking of, perhaps you could do me the honor of revealing your name? Or telling me a little about yourself?" Suave, coy, toeing the fine line between innocent flirting and goosebumps-inducing sultry, voice lowered to a soft murmur. The way the shorter, pretty young man practically jolts and freezes up as his lips make contact with his frigid chalk-like skin when he places an innocent peck to the side of his neck–-It's oddly endearing.

It's almost as though Pirin short-circuited or isn't sure whether to melt into the touch or bolt.

Lonely, craves affection, heavily introverted and touch-starved.. Oh you poor, little thing.��

Haha, I'm in danger. Dear stars and planets above–I'm done for. ...Uh-oh. He's figured me out, hasn't he?

Swallowing thickly and looking up, Pirin feels his nervousness sky-rocket and heart leap, utterly intimidated at the look in the Lightbearer's faded amethyst irises.

If this were an anime, then there would be a spark in the knight's eyes as a cloud of ominous aura emanates from him and a smug 'Ara ara~' would flit about. The blood-drinker shivers and shrinks in on himself. Valen's 'sinister' smile widens.

I'm in trouble. I'm in deep trouble.

help–

—"You already know–" –He trails off at the look the captain gives him, coarse eyebrows subtly arched in nonverbal 'That won't fly. I'm not falling for it.' or 'Try again.' "...it." The nocturnal critter sighs, revealing his human name stiffly. Begrudgingly, avoiding his fiancé's gaze.

—"I–...Ioan, it's Ioan of the Hestopeous name. Or 'Hestios' for simplicity." Tiny pause, inwardly debating something. Hestios...Sure rings a bell, I simply can't remember where I saw it before. "My family would often call me Vanya and Vanyo, maybe Ive, sometimes. Or Vanyusha, if they wanted to annoy me." I'm not telling you my real name.

—"You're from the Pallid covenants, aren't you? If the dusty old tomes at HQ are right, then your lineage is the oldest from vampirekind's four bloodlines, right? How far up in the dynasty was your family, if I may ask? Progenitors?"

What?

—"The Eclipse line families aren't the only ones with human names. I could be from the Lorekeepers for all you know." A little defensive and snappy. A dead giveaway that he's got the right family tree.

—"Fair enough, and perhaps it's true. However with the way you just bristled indignantly–I'd wager my guess is right and has struck a chord. So, you pretty much just confirmed my thoughts."

Silence.

—"What does it concern you whether my family were of the Progenitor colonies? They're all dead, not even dust at this point. No filthy vermin to "infect" and "spread the horrid disease" your people fear." Resentful irritation and dramatic bravado. So, Valen uses his newly gained knowledge to allay the agitation and catch, reel his arranged spouse back before the other could grow cold again.

A different waltz to mirror and echo their romantic dancing, the crackling and popping of the fireplace in the living room filling the quiet.

Pressing a small tender, fond, feather-light kiss to the side of Pirin's neck and trailing his lips down the curve to the vampire's shoulder, his tone holds a placating smile. Taking no offense in the bitter words.

—"I'm simply curious and figured it would be nice for me to know my wife's history–Where you come from, who you are, your family tree, who you were. That's all. No hidden agendas here." He doesn't miss the little poorly suppressed shivers. Smiling softly with that same heart-winning charm, Valen retraces his path, voice kept soothingly low, now with a light-hearted edge of slight amusement to it. His warm breath ghosts over the other's frigid skin-- Right where neck and clavicle meet, eliciting another, more visible involuntary shiver.

"I wasn't asking out of malice, dear. Not every human wants to cause you harm, Vanyusha. Contrary to what you've experienced in the past." The nickname rolls off his tongue surprisingly well, the Slavic harshness softened. Admittedly, 'Vanya' would roll off better. Placing a kiss to his partner's jaw, his hands stay where they rest lightly even as Pirin turns to face him.

Once again, the elite-ranking knight takes a moment to simply admire the breath-takingly stunning beauty. No man or woman, both within and outside of the Lightbearer Empire, is nearly this gorgeous and alluring.

I should know, having fooled around in my younger years and current days until this marriage.

I've seen my fair share of pretty maidens and bachlors, both in town, Ryeham and the capitol– None come remotely close to this. Can't even hope to hold a candle to this elusive creature.

Wonder if the other myths about his kind are also true..

I'll find out soon, won't I?

—"Unfortunately, the past also happens to be repeating itself in the present. Part of the reason I've been doing my best to make myself scarce, particularly around these parts of Esperia." –Is what Pirin retorts back flatly almost matter-of-fact. There's a feisty spark in his eyes, flashing for a second before it fades and the man's voice drops to a quiet mutter. "..It's a shame those ruffians have 'hounds' still. Thought the job dropped from the market."

Snapping his gaze back up, the reserved and tempered fire of defiant determination returning in full. A promise and warning that he won't be going down easy. Then it's gone, replaced with cool tranquility. The captain takes none of this personally. It's evident that the vampire has been through lots of high stress piling up on his shoulders and needs time alone to cool down. Sadly, there's no chance for him to back off and give that proper space for now.

Filing the new bit of information away for later, Valen deftly dances them to the door leading to the next room then dips his dance partner low. Ever devious and charming rascal, he pokes Pirin vivaciously as if daring him to 'snap his jaws' whilst keeping his own musings hidden away.

—"And the other part? Was it to spare us your lively spirit? ..Or to hide away like in the stories–Protected by a unicorn?" All he gets back is a small sarcastic 'har har.' The bait has not been taken. Yet. He waggles his eyebrows with a smug smirk, the gesture both teasing and suggestive. With a snort, the shorter man pushes his face away, rolling his eyes and lips subtly curled upward. It's enough to encourage him.

He's being surprisingly gentle, I thought I'd get swatted there for sure.

—"And hey, it isn't so bad–Being betrothed to me. I may talk a lot and can't write letters due to tragic penmanship–But at least my swordplay is good, and my heart is in the right place. I can show you, if you'd let me, that is." A surprised yelp slips from the nocturnal being as he pulls him up then lifts him up. Huh, didn't transform either. And right as the idle thought crosses the solder's mind, his eyes catch on the bat feet dangling, peeking from under the dress. And the patches of snowy fur on the groom's boney shoulders that bristle. Oh and a bit of a tail hanging, the fluffy tip also bristled. So he did.

—"Put me down!" –He hisses, tail lashing. Valen, however, doesn't. Instead the roving swordsman merely keeps holding him up... almost as though preparing to toss his fiancé up (and catch him, of course). Holding onto the brunet's shoulders with a death-grip, Pirin narrows his eyes at the impish gleam. "No, don't. Don't you dare."

—"What? I'm simply holding you up. I don't know what you mean, my love." His grin begs to differ.

—"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Valen. Don't." The clawed feet curl and uncurl, as if unsure whether to grip onto his blue gambeson or not. Not unlike how a cat would latch on. Funny and cute. Sighing in feigned melancholy, Valen carefully lowers Ioan down onto his feet.

—"Such distrust, you wound me dear."

—"With how you were preparing to toss me, you're not making it easy to trust you, beloved."

—"I wasn't going to do that. I was only going to spin then lower you down." Left hand resting on the vampire's slim waist, the purple-eyed man opens the door and nudges it with his other, voice dropping to a mysterious tone. "Are you ready for the next part of our nuptial night, love?"

The fur has lowered and receded along with the tail and claws. Eyes downcast at the doorstep, his haunting tenor voice is.. quiet, strained and dutifully steeled. The questions are more like acknowledging statements.

—"...The one with the priest? He's been waiting for some time now, hasn't he?"

Running a hand through his messy brown hair with a pained grimace, Valen gives him an apologetic smile. Well, so much for me stalling to take his mind off of this.. along with whatever little romance we had.

—"Yes. To tell you the truth, I'm not very thrilled about it either. Not the most romantic first night I imagined, really. If I had it my way, we would be alone without a third wheel." No words greet him in return nor any attempts at struggle, letting him lead inside the dimly-lit bedroom. Stepping through the door, he tightens his grip reassuringly.

"But tradition is tradition. We can't exactly escape it–not if we want our marriage to be officially accepted." This is the last part of the rite. After that hurdle is over, the world is our oyster, we can do whatever our hearts desire.

Just a little bit longer, and this uncomfortable ride will be done.

—"It's alright. I understand." A meek, strained smile to wave off his worries and comforting words of solidarity. Looking down at his arranged spouse, he watches as the shorter man follows in-step with head held high and pearlescent eyes trained ahead. Like marching onto an arena, facing the battlefield with a brave face of stoicism. Or a mercenary walking to get the job done in cold blood. Whatever feelings and thoughts he has are locked away, steeled behind ruthless numbness.

It's admirable, really. Most people would've panicked or wallowed in self-pity and lamentations, tried to run. Anything but take the circumstances in-stride.

Forgive me. I hope you can forgive my transgression, Ioan.

Looking up from his bethroted, Valen gives a simple nod in greetings to the acolyte standing by the bed. Tradition is tradition. This rite has to be carried through, and that's final.

—"Father."

—"Sir Valen!" The ginger-haired young pastor greets back, Holy book and water at the ready. Unlike the sullen couple, he appears cheerful. "Such a merry occasion, isn't it?" Mercifully, acolyte Adam Greywood doesn't go on any long-winded tangents laden with religious yapping and simply only pats his shoulder with a sincere smile.

"Congratulations on finding a lady to settle down with! May the Goddess bless your union with boundless fulfillment and prosperity."

—"Thank you, Father." –The Solitaire offers with a polite smile, minding his tongue to not speak without filter. Lest he run the risk of offending the clergyman and have to sit through a zealous lecture, and drag Pirin into it. The situation is already unpleasant enough as is. Closing his eyes, said man takes a deep breath, holding it for a second....two.....three. Slowly, the thoughts flowing through his overwhelmed mind disperse, fade.

Breathe in.

I suppose he's right. This isn't nearly as bad as it could've been.

Hold.

At least there was a genuine attempt at romance, get to know me to a degree.

Release.

Here goes nothing. It'll be fine.

A warm hand grasps his, fingers interlocking and Pirin opens his eyes to meet the compassionate lilac of his partner. Tender sympathetic smile gracing his lips, the knight pulls him along towards the bed that has been blessed.

—"Are you alright, Pirin?" You seem off.

—"Yes, my nerves are getting to me. But I'm okay." Yeah, just us, the bed and a clergy watching like a creep. No pressure.

—"Fair enough." An easy smile that he shyly returns while inwardly wrestling with himself to stay composed and not transform.Too bad throwing hands isn't an option and there's no enemy to hack-n-dice as this isn't a commission or bounty. Oh, if only it was–It would've been so much simpler. Just go, go, go action and none of this...emotional foolery.

Letting go of Valen's hand and reaching back to undo the laces holding up the beautiful wedding dress, the 'wife' pauses to glance at the acolyte standing aside.

—"...Respectfully, Father–May you please look away?" I'm sorry but I'm not also giving strip. He does catch the soothing smile turn slightly amused at the request. The blood-drinker shoots the roving swordsman a pointed pout. Yes I'm fussy like this, fight me.

Valen merely raises his hands in front of himself in placating surrender, topless. The clergy man quickly catches onto the hint.

Thankfully no prying or scolding follows, simply an "Oh, of course. No problem." and obliges. Head turned away and eyes now elsewhere, it gives him a sense of privacy. So, without dallying further, Pirin gingerly strips out of the garment and places it on the nightstand after neatly folding it up.

Alriight, just pretend you and Valen are live drawing models. Yup, that's all. In the name of art and improvement. ×=/~--—×+—÷÷=—÷÷×—–-========×———–÷÷÷________—–- --––________‐–—÷÷÷–——×========-–—×÷÷–=+×—--~/=×

A few moments of comfortable quiet pass between the newlywed couple, both lost in their own inner thoughts. Until Valen breaks the silence, arm draped around the man he can now officially call his husband. Or wife, when in front of others. —"Did you have any lovers before, Pirin?" —"..Not really, to be perfectly honest." This gets a curious quirk of a brow from him. Oh? How come? It'd be silly to assume the two of them are the same age. Both of them are young adults, sure, but considering the difference in races.. It wouldn't be a surprise if the way Pirin ages is different than him. The fact there's a whole century gap is proof. And yet the vampire seems to be still in his prime, nowhere near old enough to be considered as an old man. Or middle-aged for the matter.

—"I find it hard to believe. You've been around for, what?" Wait, how old is he again? I mean 'living fossil' isn't a– Before the swordsman finishes his train of thought, his 'wife' supplies helpfully. "Hundred and fifty-one years. Going on fifty-two this winter solstice. That would equate to twenty-five in human age, give or take."

"–Right. This sounds like plenty of time to fool around, find a love or two even. And you're rather mysterious, witty...Surely there has to be someone, right?" Rolling onto his back and settling his hands over his chest, fingers laced, the shorter man eyes the ceiling pensively. Or more like a reminiscing faraway look.

—"As I said–Not really. I was too busy staying alive half the time, and working as a merc or stray adventurer the other half. Romance and hook-ups didn't cross my mind. And I'm not the most cheery person to be around, or the easiest to get along with either."

—"So I've noticed, yes." A pause, then the Eclipse descendant goes on to add conversationally, glancing over to him.

—"I did have a crush on a girl from the Axe family–Part of the Crimsontooth lineage. She was one of my childhood friends."

—"Did you tell her?" Pirin makes a slight grimace.

—"It..didn't work out. We were more like siblings."

—"Well, now you have me, I guess."

—"Mm."

The crickets outside sing their happy tune, filling in the silence that hangs between them again.

—"Valen...?"

He'd almost started to drift away into dreamland, eyelids drooping. Still, the hauntingly soothing soft tenor of his newlywed partner pulls at his wandering consciousness. Resting his eyes closed for a few seconds, the Solitaire languidly pulls the other closer to himself. However, he decides against keeping his lids shut as the risk of falling asleep is high, opening his left eye a crack instead with a sleepy hum instead.

"Hm?"

—"...Nothing, sorry." –The vampire mumbles after a second of hesitation as if unsure whether to speak his mind or what to say. In the end he gives up and dismisses it, opting for a humbled 'Thanks, for bearing with me.' instead.

Smiling fondly, Valen leans in to place a chaste peck to his temple, murmuring 'It's no trouble.' before getting comfortable and finally surrenders to the sweet call of sleep. Pirin closes his eyes, but is unable to fall into slumber. It's too early for him. Instead, he listens to the crickets along with the Holistone knight's steady heart and breathing, silently enjoying the warmth. Left to his own thoughts. ------------------------------------------------------------- Tiny sidenote: Good grief I still can't believe how my drawing has changed. Anyways, next chapter is being ported!

#afk journey #afk journey fanfic #fanfic #afk valen #fanfic with illustration included #oc

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