#s: rouge and ruby

[hyenahunt]

[TRANSLATION] Chocolat ◆ An Exceptional Rouge and Ruby - Masterlist

ES will be holding its own Chocolat Fes from this year onwards. Wanting to show off Eden's authority, Ibara announces that they will also be performing on stage as Adam & Eve.

✦ Season: Winter ✦ Writer: Umeda Chitose ✦ Release Date: 15th February 2023 ✦ Characters: Ibara, Jun, Hiyori & Nagisa ✦ Proofreading: royalquintet (JP) & Skyress (ENG) ✦ Translation: Mirei (Adam) & hyenahunt (Eve)

Prologue: ✦

February's Situation:

✦1   ✦2   ✦3   ✦4   ✦5 ✦6

Youth's Depression:

✦1   ✦2 

Warmth & Compassion:

✦1   ✦2   ✦3   ✦4  

Eventual Affection:

✦1   ✦2   ✦3   ✦4 

Epilogue: 

✦1   ✦2  

✦✦✦✦✦

Mirei's comment:

it's an event that means a lot for Ibara because he learned that the underlying attachment he has on Eden grows big enough to make him feel unconsciously complicated sacrificing "his work" for the higher up's need. So I wish everyone get to pay attention to the very different yet warm way of each Eden member's support for Ibara in this event to reach the goal he wish to bring for Eden itself!

Jay's comment:

Jun has anxiety and Ibara learns about love. Also there is a lot of chocolate and Nagisa is happy to eat it. And Hiyori larps shoujo manga. Eden's V-day event story from 2023 and yet another collab with Mirei, finally up on the day of its anniversary!! Thanks so much to Mirei and the team for all their patience with me... and of course to everyone reading as well It's pretty much the spiritual sequel to Solid Stage and refers back to it, so definitely check that out before reading!

[justbelievinginmagic]

like a waltz⎯ part 1: brisé.

pairing(s): ateez ot8 x fem!reader; this chapter is seonghwa x reader focused & wooyoung x reader focused! series summary: when 8 mysterious bachelors arrive to town and fall for your charms, will you be able to reach your goal to be prima ballerina or be dragged into a selfish waltz between love and obsession? glimpse: the worst night of your life makes you recall what you thought was one of the best nights of you life - meeting jung wooyoung at the cromer opera house. warnings/tags: inspired by Ateez’s Ice on my Teeth MV & Teasers, Mafia AU, Ballet AU, early 1900’s AU with some divergences in tech advancements (i.e if i think itd be cool to include, this world has it earlier than irl), 3rd person POV, use of YN, mxm, polyteez, mature topics, strong language, ballet lore, angst, fluff, flirting, suggestive topics, violence, traumatic foot injury, unequal power dynamics, allusions to exploitation in ballet, pain, fear, injuries, alcohol mention, reader discretion advised. word count: 5.7k -> next chapter series masterlist read on ao3!

brisé ; french pronunciation: [bʁize]; literally 'broken'

All she had wanted her entire life was to be the ballerina prima. It was all she worked for. Every day she woke up to dance; she lived, breathed, ate for ballet. And she almost had it. It had been so close. The shining lights, the praise, the private dressing room, all for her. An escape from the shame of the petit rats, the groping from patrons, the reliance on a man’s wealth. She was going to be a star – in her own right. She was going to be a star.

Now, she laid in the dirty alley way, beaten and broken.

Through the torn bits of her hosiery, she could see her ankles were a purple-red color, splotched, like a gruesome Impressionist painting. The bones were at odd angles, too sharp, too extended for them to be not broken. Her hands shook as she tried to move them, tried to push at the pain that crept up her legs in a deafening manner. She could barely move them, roll them, anything without crying out in pain.

And cry she did. Wails escaped her chest in a mournful song. Her coal-mascara dripped down her rouged cheeks, melting into a mess and staining her mink fur coat. Their fur coat – their gift to her - that now felt suffocating around her, strands of the fur stuck to her sweatied skin and making her skin crawl with the feeling of maggots. She struggled to take it off, fighting with it as if it the animal had come back to life and was biting at her. Shoving it off and onto the alley floor with a huff, she moved to wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands. They too were injured. Her dainty fingers were scraped and cut up from the harsh cobblestone beneath her. Phalanges dripped ruby red, and most likely had been smudged over her face with a false rouge. If someone had caught a look, they’d be afraid her face was bleeding. Luckily, that had been spared; everything had been except for her feet. Just her legs were mangled, beaten, bludgeoned with bats, and crushed into the ground ‘til the bone creaked and shattered. Her poor dancing feet.

She hadn’t thought they would do it; she thought…

Jongho had cried for her the night before, pleaded with her as she told him her decision.

She should’ve known then.

Wooyoung advised against it after dinner, hissing out in fear that Hongjoong wouldn’t be happy.

She should’ve known then.

Yunho refused to see her that evening, locked away in his study.

She should’ve known then.

Seonghwa had even grabbed her hand this morning before she left the mansion; he had said nothing but his eyes were dark and cautioning as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

She should’ve taken his warning.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. His footsteps were heavy as he approached her. The familiar scent of his cologne that was once reassuring, exciting even, now made her face scrunch up into despair. She tried to shift away from him, wriggling away like a worm. Each bend of her ankles made agony crawl up her spine. Her throat flexed in pain and a whine escaped her chest unwillingly.

She couldn’t go far and Seonghwa easily pinned her down with simply a cold look in his eyes.

His eyes were always serious, a shadowy thing that only lightened around his lovers. But they did not lighten with her tonight. In fact, she swore they were the coldest she had seen them like a cold star staring back at her.

Seonghwa stopped in front of her with his feet straddled her legs; his perfect new shoes smelled of polish, expensive and shining. With a tilt of his head, he stared down at her with his handsome face shadowed by a large brimmed hat. She stared up at him, her mouth a scowl-like grimace.

His cool gaze carefully left her tear-sodden face to graze over her ankles. Blood coated her nylon tights, her knees rubied and torn. Her ankles looked worse for wear, twisted, mangled, and beaten. He could see the bone pressing into her bruised flesh, painting it ivory white.

“My dove,” he hummed out in a coo. He knelt. “My pretty dancer. Poor thing.”

Poor thing, he tutted. Poor thing, they all tutted. The same pathetic words from the matching mouths of rich folk who wanted to play with her like she was nothing but a ballerina doll spinning on a music box. Watching her spin around and around like a chicken with no head, whirling, out of breath for their amusement. All she had been was a marionette for them to play with. That’s what she realized she was even to him, even to them.

She stared up at him with a glower. She thought they were different.

“You did this.” She growled.

Her tone was low and vicious unlike anything he had heard from her before.

Seonghwa simply smiled. His carved lips twitched up on one side of his beautiful face, forming a wicked half-smile. His diamond-inlayed teeth glinted in the gas-lamp light that dripped into the alley way from the main road. A leather-gloved hand reached out to grasp her jaw, not unkindly but certainly with a firmness familiar for him. He directed her gaze his way, taking in the dripping stage-makeup. Surely it would leave oily remnants on his fingertips. Surely his touch would leave watercolored bruises on her jaw. He tutted again at her swollen waterlogged features. A smear of blood cut across the bridge of her nose. With the utmost care, firm and slow, he brushed away the grime. Blood seeped into his leathered gloved. Her blood.

“This is why Wooyoungie likes you so much,” he chuckled lowly. “You’re both brats at heart.”

Her mouth sneered in annoyance, mimicking a sneer she had seen him flash far too often. He thought this was nothing. That she was being disobedient for fun. Like this was just a horrible, horrible game. Despair filled her eyes as she tried to shift her jaw out of his hand with that, baring her teeth like a mongrel would. He caught her chin between harsh, gloved fingers again.

“But, like Wooyoung, I love you nonetheless,” he confessed. “Would do anything for you.”

His eyes were dark, inky, like tar swallowing her whole. But they were serious. Deadly so. Just like Hongjoong was when he had promised she’d regret her decision if she followed through with it.

Still, it ached like a lie. It ached bone-deep like her injuries. (She had seen the attackers’ tattoos on their skin. The word ‘A T E E Z’ inked onto their knuckles; ‘BLACK PIRATES’ on some of their bared arms. Their suits they wore were of the men at the mansion. The ski masks covering their features from view didn’t make them ghostly attackers like they had wished. She had seen the masked men before creeping out of the mansion’s office at the order of Yunho or Mingi.)

She wasn’t dumb.

His thumb caressed her cheek fondly. Expensive, freshly cleaned leather smooth and soft against her make-up muddied features.

“Let’s go home, hm?” he hummed. “You look like you need a warm bath and plenty of rest. We’ll have a doctor come assess your injuries, dove.”

And in a mimicry of a gentleman, he shrugged off his long coat to wrap around her – rather than grab her now-dirtied fur coat from the cobblestone floor. In fact, she bet he’d find it so filthy he’d leave it for the rats. Maybe another petit rat of the ballet would open the doors of the backstage only feet away and steal it away. With words of ‘oh, a patron gave it to me’ after she scrubbed and scrubbed the blood, the makeup, the grim away. Just as he’d do with her, wash it all away until she was shiny and new again.

With ease, he lifted her up into his arms, cradling her close as he rose to full height once more. There was no discussion. No mention of her apartment on the far side of town, her home; no, they would be heading to the strange mansion the Kim clan called home. His grip was firm on her as he exited the alley way of the Cromer Opera House.

It was on this day YN wished she had never met the charming second-youngest of the Kim clan that day in the foyer de la danse. Then, her life and livelihood wouldn’t have been stolen by the ones who had once admired her.

-

The foyer de la danse was known as simply the ballet boudoir to the ballerinas. While it was a sort of dressing room, sort of practice room all-in-one, it was also dreadfully unprivate. The intricately decorated room of gold and glamour was the perfect frame for a pretty picture. Tall mirrors enclosed the room on all sides as new gas-powered chandeliers high above lit the room in a bright golden glow, highlighting each of the girls in view. There were no dark corners, no privacy screens, just mirrors, gold, light, and pretty girls.

None of the male dancers were allowed here. None of the female patrons either. But men who had high-status or who scraped up enough money to spend to stare at the young girls prepare for the show would promenade around. Freshly pressed fine linen suits, luxurious watches on their wrists or in their breast pocket, expensive cologne mingling with the aroma of their expensive liquor. Greedy eyes scanning up and down the ballerina’s half-naked forms as if they were just meat at a butchery.

They’d sip their bourbon leisurely, and approach the girls no matter what they were doing. If they were warming up at the barre, lacing up their shoes’ ribbons with patience, pressing fine powder over their face, or even mid-adjusting their costume with a costumier, they’d drop everything to smile coquettish and bite back the annoyance of disruption. In the ballet boudoir, the men were king, and the ballerinas were nothing but jesters for their amusement. The boudoir - it was a cruel nickname to taunt the young dancers who didn’t know any better. This was no private place. No, it wasn’t a dressing room like they’ve heard of.

If it was a less-than-full audience at the Cromer Opera House, there would be only familiar men in the room – who oftentimes already had their eyes on their prey. Lord Frederickson favored Julia with the red hair. Mr. Takahashi was leering after Mina. Kim Dohyun had been pursuing Imara for a year now; she had saved almost enough money to be out of the boudoir and have her own personal dressing room, maybe by next season! They were unfortunately lucky.

Now, YN had been the fortunate unlucky girl. Throughout her time at the Cromer Opera House, she had only a few male admirers. All who had little money and would spend most of their wealth getting into the boudoir and have none left to ‘woo’ with gift-giving or patronage. Even so, she had to act friendly. Smile with your cheeks, YN, an older ballerina had advised once. They can tell when there is nothing behind your eyes.

YN had been part of the corps de ballet for over a year now because of this. A petit rat at her age was mocked. She had no debut, no prospects. It wasn’t from not trying. She had practiced since she was three after all. She was an urchin with a seamstress mother and forgotten father who had passed in the war. It was typical of girls like her to try to seek fame - the easy-way - her mother claims. But there was no easy way in ballet.

Decades of training resulted in swollen purple toes, aching muscles, millions of destroyed ballet shoes, and countless inquiries to the choreographer to let her have a chance. The choreographer who had something against her. Maybe it was from when she was a child and would rather play than practice on the barre or maybe it was when she was a teen and had begun to read at breaks rather than continue to strain her muscles like some of the girls. The Madame hated her.

Regardless, she had never danced on stage alone, never was stand out. Her golden hour had yet to come. And with that, she wasn’t pursued by patronage suitors seriously. A blessing and a curse. She avoided wandering hands, wet mouths, and nasty tongues. But every costume had to be commissioned with her own coin (most often, she would sew it in the dark of night, icing her feet as she snipped at scrap fabric her mother owned.) Each ballet shoe’s cost was taken from her meager wages. The fee of practices, the fee of using the opera house’s rehearsal room, the fee of utilizing the boudoir’s accommodations like powder and rouge and candlelight if they could charge for that, all laid on her shoulders.

A true petit rat, lowly and searching for scraps. Digging her nails into opportunities where she can shine. But not from another’s assistance. No, her pride was too heavy on her back now for that.

“YN, YN, YN!”

There was a chatter – giggling and chittering between the younger girls – as they came padding into the boudoir before show-time. Tip tap, tip tap, tip. Around the corner of the opened grand doors, they came waddling in like a flock. Their swan costumes made them truly look like little ducklings; white feathered tutus leaving stray feathers onto the wooden floors as they scurried her way.

The one yelling her name was young, not even ten years old yet. She was short for her age too, a thing she despised. Only tall girls were prima ballerina her fellow ballerina friends taunted. She slid to her knees beside YN.

She smiled up from her spot on the ground, one pointe shoe on and the other resting beside her.

“Tiny, hello,” she greeted, finishing tying the ballet shoes’ laces up her legs.

“Have you heard? Have you heard?” Another of the young ballerinas chimed as she rushed forward as well, her dark hair tumbling from her half-up bun.

“Jane, your hair,” YN half-scolded, half-warned.

Her eyes glanced away from the youngers towards the grand gold-gilded doors of the boudoir, half-expecting their Madame to walk in and lash at them for looking so untidy. Despite this being a dressing room.

Pausing in tying up her laces, she gestured for the girl to join her on the cold wooden floor (they didn’t utilize the radiator heaters until mid-act 1, so it’d be warm for the patrons during intermission.)

Jane was thirteen and, with a huff, she plopped down, bony knees clanking as she did so. Her costume splayed out in a feathered mess. Her little fingers began to pick and fluff the costume. Her head lolled back, and YN began to untangle the pins from her curls.

“YN,” the one she called Tiny whined.

“Okay, okay,” she chuckled. “What’s so exciting?”

“There are new young bachelors in town!”

“What?”

Cromer wasn’t a tiny coastal town anymore. It was bustling with people and money and trade. New buildings were popping up more and more, growing taller and taller by the day. The high society they were aware of was growing larger and larger until the folk they thought were rich and powerful weren’t all that rich and powerful anymore compared to the new conglomerates. But unfortunately, these millionaires were often married, unhappily.

“You know the Ateez House?”

YN laughed at that.

Everyone in town did. It was their most favorite ghost house. It was the largest sprawling estates in Cromer with the spooky story that all knew. The story went it was once owned by a pirate captain, the only Captain of the Black Pirates. They pilfered and ravaged ports one by one until they were known across the seas as a brutal blood-thirsty crew. No coastal town was safe from them. Until one day, they stopped sailing mysteriously. The story goes that the captain settled in the town of Cromer under a false name and built Ateez Mansion – a sprawling estate built with blood-soaked gold and diamonds. Some say its haunted with the deaths of the captain’s victims; others say the entire house was cursed from the stolen treasure hidden within.

All just tall tales to try to explain why a beautiful mansion remained unhoused yet perfectly taken care of. Sometimes you could see candlelight flickering in the foyer through the grand stained-glass windows or even ghostly figures with no faces walking about.  

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m the one who told you the ghost story about Ateez House.”

One of the youngest curled closer to her side, shivering a bit as she thought of the scary story. 

“They moved into the Ateez House!” Tiny exclaimed, slamming her hands down on the wooden floor in excitement. Tiny loved to gossip and this was like Christmas. New bachelors meant new flings which meant new gossip!

“Was there a sale of the estate?” YN wondered as she finally got all the pins from Jane’s hair out and in a small pile on the floor beside her.

“No,” one of the other young teens said. She wasn’t even among the clambering youths around her; she was on the nearby barre stretching out. “No sale had been published in the papers. I heard from June who heard from Martha who heard from Wendy who heard from Lorelai who heard from her current suitor that the bachelors already owned the house but never stayed there.”

Now, that was news. YN’s brows rose in surprise.

“It’s been their house?” she repeated as she paused in gathering Jane’s hair into a bun. Another ballerina warming up nearby nodded enthusiastically.

“Do any of you tattletales know their names? How many are there?” YN asked.  

Across the sea of swan-costumed girls, sparkling in gems and beads, their faces fell.

“That’s a no then… has anyone seen these mysterious bachelors leaving the mansion?”

There was a silence.

“Any proof of these men at all?”

Nothing.

YN sighed out. “Who would own that mansion and never live there? It’s been empty for decades now. None of us have known the owners. I don’t��I think it’s just gossip, girls.”

Jane wiggled in her grasp, bratty as she whined. “But YN,” she complained. She had been so excited to imagine and pretend and think of handsome suitors.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, hm,” YN encouraged as she finished wrapping the girl’s hair tight into a perfect bun. Pin after pin was slid in with precision. “For now, no more gossiping about ghostly bachelors in an abandoned mansion. Practice calls – Tiny, have you warmed up?”

Tiny furrowed her brow, her lips falling into a pout. Embarrassment heated her face as she curtly shook her head ‘no’.

“Go on,” YN encouraged the other with a smile before patting Jane’s shoulders to indicate she was done with her now-pristine hairdo as well.

“She acts like she’s the Madame,” Tiny mumbled under her breath as she stomped to her feet. “She’s not even a featured ballerina.”

The snide remark stung but YN tried to remember that they were young. Young and unaware of the hardships that awaited them. It wasn’t just dancing here. It was far more than that. YN returned to her shoes, tying them once more.

New bachelors in town. . . that’d be something. Far too often was it old men with oily money. But there is no way anyone truly owned that estate for all these years and no one in town knew it. No way. Somebody would know who owned it. It wouldn’t have become a ghost story. It was just silly gossip. Wishful thinking for a man to come sweep you off your feet.

She sighed and stretched her limbs before hoisting herself up to prepare for tonight’s show.

-

Swan Lake: a princess turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer's curse. She’d watch the prima ballerina, Odette, dance about gracefully from the wings each night. YN’s toes flexing at every movement, as if she were dancing it herself. She yearned for it. Ached to be the one performing. Instead, she was simply one in the crowd. The corps de ballet, the ensemble. She’d spin about in the back, pirouette perfect, leap lovely. Awe and comfort the lead throughout her struggle as a swan as she, YN, remained the ugly duckling.

Her gaze would dance throughout the crowd as she did an arabesque, slow and precise. There is Nikolai in his usual spot. There’s Mrs Lee and her young sons. Ariel and her suitor Sunghoon. Takahashi in Box 2 with his sisters. Box 4 had Fredrikson and his family. Box 5 was empty – wonder where Dohyun was, Imara would be relieved she could relax tonight she bet. Her eyes skipped over Box 8 because, of course, it would be empty. It was always empty. Except…

There was a quick plie of her knees before she had to jete away off-stage

Whispers consumed the backstage. Did you see? Did you see?

Box 8 was occupied.

Never had it been occupied in all the years of the Cromer Opera House.

Cromer held many superstitions even as a modern industrializing town. They had ghost stories about houses after all. But one of the strangest superstitions was the number 8. They skipped the 8th street; the eighth floor was unspoken in the tallest of buildings. No aisle 8, no 8th editions.

Box 8 of the Opera House was left empty strategically - for luck.

But now, there sat only one man. Shadowed by the dark curtains of the box, he watched the show from opera glasses and sipped on glittering champagne that would occasionally catch the candlelight of the grand chandeliers.  

Did you see his face? Who is he? Is he handsome? Who could buy the box? Who would want to buy that box?

“Quiet!” One of the older ballerinas snapped at the youngers. “The audience will hear you!”

YN snorted behind a hand, standing ready in the wings. While she didn’t gossip, she listened. As if the audience was completely enraptured by their rendition of Swan Lake. The Opera, the Ballet, the Theatre: they weren’t to solely watch a show and be entertained. It was social. It was always social. Of course, the audience was wondering the same questions as they were.

Who was he? Was it a he? His form looked masculine.

She wanted to catch a glimpse.

-

It was a man she surmised after the next scene. YN was downstage this dance, sat among the young ballerinas and acting as a mother swan to them as they would do dramatic port de bras, arm movements. She had time to glance about once more.

In the shadows of Box Number 8 was a handsome man. Dark hair framed his face. He wore a suit that was a deep black velvet. And his eyes were glued to her, she swore it.

He was someone new. He was someone intriguing. And she waited to see if he was indeed watching her. Her group stood after sometime to chase after Odette, leaping this way and that until joining back in the right-upper corner of the stage on a lifted platform, stylized as a grassy hill.

She looked up at the box. He was staring at her. He was staring at her, opera glasses focused on her. They glinted in the candle-light. He disregarded the spotlit prima ballerina pirouetting around the lower left of the stage. For her. She smiled at him.

Tiny glanced her way with a giddy immatureness in her actions, breaking the elegance of a ballerina in her excitement. She could already hear Madame’s scolding at tonight’s debrief. But YN didn’t mind. Because he was looking at her.

And everyone knew it.  

-

Act One finished in a roar of applause. Heavied red curtains slid shut for intermission as they hurried off stage.

“He was looking at her.” Jane exclaimed bouncing on her feet as she tugged her friend’s arm in excitement.

The corps de ballet was walking all together through the backstage halls of the Opera House towards the boudoir. The prima ballerina and the principal dancers escaped to their own private dressing rooms – YN watched as a patron, Mr. Kim, an older gentleman snuck into the prima ballerina’s room.

“No, he wasn’t,” another girl claimed.

“Yes, he was,” Jane defended.

“No, he wasn’t,” another snorted.

“Yes, he was!” Tiny yelled, indignantly.

“Tabitha!” the Madame rounded the corner of the boudoir, exiting out of its doors to meet the ensemble.

The Madame was a strict looking woman, tall nosed with her hair in a meticulous updo. Her cane did little to aid in her walking but much in discipline. Too many times had she felt the thwack of the cane against the back of her legs, her arched back, or her stomach.

Legs straight! Back straight! Don’t slouch! YN!  

The group paused at her appearance; some of the girls bowed their head in respect; others hid behind taller legs.

“Miss Tabitha, must I remind you of your manners every day?” she queried, her tone loud and grating. “As a lady of this company, you must be a lady.”

“Sorry, Madame,” Tiny immediately apologized, head bending forward.

There was a heavy pause as the Madame’s fiery gaze lingered on the young girl before passing over the selection of the ensemble. She glared at YN pointedly. YN had long stopped trying to appeal to her; it never worked she had learned.

“Carry on, girls,” the Madame instructed.

They curtsied in unison before continuing towards the boudoir, hopefully with enough time to slip into their next costumes, if need be, before any patrons were lounging about. It was always uncomfortable to change with the men about – it made them feel truly like objects on display rather than dancers. Skilled ladies.

YN went to her shared vanity, glancing over her makeup. Dabbing at sweat that beaded at her hairline, she went to reach for a handkerchief but when she leant back up right was spooked by the sight of a man behind her.

Black velvet linen made up his suit; she had been right. It was perfectly tailored to his form, luxurious and hugging. His suit jacket was longer than typical but stylish with ornate, Greco-Roman inspired embroidered sleeves.

In the mirror, he was handsome. Strong jawline. Bare collarbones visible from his loose fitted button up beneath his suit jacket. With dark intriguing eyes that didn’t stray from her, a quirked brow, and delicate face-framing strands of hair, he stole her breath away.  

“Hello.” He greeted coyly.

The boudoir’s chatter died down at his greeting. All eyes zeroed in on them. She stood to her full height once more, holding the handkerchief in between her hands. Sweat slid down her temple to her jawline delicately.

“Hello,” she greeted, patting down the sides of her face quickly before turning to face him fully.

His lips were plump, curling in a hint of a smile as he watched her spin to face him. He seemed to be examining her just as she did to him.

“You’re far more beautiful than any of these girls,” the mystery man commented leaning over the vanity to peer at her.

His fingers fiddled on the white vanity, making shapes this way and that. Knocking his knuckles against the wood, almost boyishly shy. But this patron wasn’t shy. She had seen men parade about and try every trick in the book with a girl. She could see it in the sparkle of his dark eyes. The curl of his charming smile.

He wasn’t shy. He was smart.

“You are a charmer, sir,” she complimented, opening a glass container holding puff powder.

She flashed him a cheeky smile before using the puff to powder over the sweat on her forehead, her cheeks. A jar of rouge was placed down near the mirror by another dancer. When she turned away, her tutu brushed against the mysterious patron’s waist. He didn’t take his eyes from YN all the while.

“I wish I was,” he softly crooned. So he wouldn’t have to watch her in the mirror, he turned to lean back on the ledge, fingers pressed behind him as he watched her touch up her lipstick with a delicate brush. “I’m only speaking the truth.”

It was a soft admittance. His eyes hadn’t left her features, darting from her eyes to the red petals of her mouth that pressed together in a pout as she finished apply the lipstick. Her finger went to dip into the pot before, with a quick movement, he grasped her wrist.

It wasn’t painful just surprising as she jumped in his grip. His hold loosened greatly, allowing her to pull away if she wished. She didn’t.

“Let me; don’t want you to dirty your hands,” he said.

She licked her lips; the heavy taste of beeswax and rosewater stuck to the back of her tongue as she nodded minutely.

The handsome patron’s cheshire cat grin grew. A dark mole on his cheek caught her attention the more his cheeks puffed up with his smile. Beautiful. He let go of her wrist. Long, long fingers dipped into the red makeup.

“What’s your name?” she asked, a first when it came to the patrons and male-visitors of the ballet boudoir.

Far too often, everyone knew everyone. They’d scratch and crawl away or towards certain men; attention meant everything to a beginning ballet dancer. It meant success. No one seemingly knew him, judging by the looks she caught the more experienced, older ballerinas throw her way.

“Wooyoung. Jung Wooyoung,” he answered her before tapped the blush delicately on one cheek.

His touch made her heart race. He licked his own lips, looking down at her through tussled dark locks. His fingers pressed another dot to her other cheek. His free hand moved to cup her jawline, forcing her to look up at him before, with gentle motions, he began to blend the rouge into a soft gradient. One cheek, then the other.

The room felt quiet. Burning eyes on them grazed her skin but it didn’t make her stomach churn with anxiety. It felt like only the two of them existed in a perfect bubble. His touch didn’t burn or disgust her; it tingled across her skin making gooseflesh crawl up her arms, up her spine. She worried he could see them through the sheer nylon of her long-sleeved costume. If he did, he didn’t comment on it. His eyes were focused on adding to her beauty, gentle and almost reverent.

“And yours, little swan?” he tilted her chin up as he finished with his work. He loved to watch the rubied glow on her cheeks grow and grow, and not due to his careful make-up’ed handiwork.

“YN,” she said.

He grinned before he repeated her name. His fingers trailed over her cheek, over her chin, his thumb ghosting over her plush lipsticked lips. Before he pulled away and leaned back on the vanity; rouge staining the pure vanity below his hands, sloppily.

“Pretty name for a pretty swanette.”

She smiled up at him, the building, bubbling excitement writhing in her throat. She swallowed.

“Are you new in town? I’ve never seen you at the Opera.” She commented offhandedly.

His grin remained, the corners of his lips curling cat-like. “Mmhm,” he hummed out. “You can say that. I’m from Aurora originally.”

“Aurora… the island Aurora?” she queried with intrigue. “I’ve heard its booming lately. The Jewel of the Atiny Sea.”

He nodded, his smile not fading but his eyes crinkled as he raised his unstained fingers to push her hair aside. Just as an excuse to graze her shoulder she bet.

“I grew up there before it became beautiful,” he admitted. “Its much nicer now – I like to visit on holidays but I don’t miss it.”

“But now you are in Cromer. For how long?” she continued.

He hummed again leaning close. “For however long it takes to woo you?” he flirted.

It made a whirlwind of butterflies dance in her stomach. He watched as her blush extended to the tips of her ears. He laughed lowly.

“You’re teasing me,” she warned with a smirk. “We barely know one another.”

“Maybe,” he retorted. “I know skill and dedication when I see it. I like that.”

There was a ringing of a bell, delicate but a familiar sound for the ballerinas. Some turned their heads towards the stage hand ringing it to give him a smile. Others remained speaking to their patrons or changing their costumes to Act 2’s ensemble. Most remained eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Do you need to hurry along, beautiful swanette?” he fiddled with the crown of feathers pinned to her hair.

“Soon,” she replied simply.

His fingers trailed over her hair, tucking some behind her ear delicately before he grazed his hand down the sleek nylon of her sleeve to take her hand. His hand was decorated in countless rings. Gold, silver, copper. One was a series of silver circles ( …or were they sideways 8’s?) with jewels placed in between stylishly. There was another that was a polished silver with the emblem of a letter she couldn’t quite make out on its face. The metal felt cold against her hot skin. Running a thumb over her knuckles, he squeezed her hand.

“Will you indulge me in another meeting soon? I regret to inform you I can’t stay late after the performance,” he admitted. “I would like to get to know you.”

It was charming the idea he proposed. As if she had any will or way in meeting him. But she was intrigued by him. He was handsome, playful, and new. He was mysterious with how he sat alone in the forbidden, unlucky Box Number 8. She wanted to get to know him… and if he wanted to pay for her time like the other patrons eventually did with their ballerinas, maybe this would be beneficial for the both of them.

She leaned in close like she had seen other ballerinas do with their patrons. Closer than what was appropriate for a lady, but not close enough to have their forms touch. She looked up and smiled, enjoying the way his own ears were beginning to tint a playful red. This was a fun dance between the two of them. She had never enjoyed her suitors so much.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’d love to talk more, Mr. Jung.”

“Call me Wooyoung.”

[bebemoon]

"persephone returns (spring)", requested by anonymous .

jacquemus sheer mini dress in olive green, s/s 2o18

ann demeulemeester "satu" satin draped tied sleeves in burgundy

valentino garavani rosebud ankle-wrap heeled sandals

byredo "rouge chaotique" extrait de parfum

zeyzey jewelry handmade gold-plated and ruby-encrusted pomegranate earrings + wendy nichols "the triple pearl" chain drop stud earring

[sonic-fankid-showdown]

Poll 8, Round 1.

About Spirit: (by @itz-pandora) Spirit was made in a lab, being a combination of Sonic and Shadow’s DNA. Shadow and Rouge took Spirit (and his younger sister, Spitfire) from the lab they were created in, and Sonic and Shadow decided to co-parent the kids together. Spirit was made for the purpose of seeing ghosts, which only becomes apparent as he gets older. Because of his ability to see ghosts, he gets to know his aunt Maria! (She’s the soul shown in the picture). Spirit is a smart and sweet guy, and he’s physically weak compared to everyone else.

About Ruby: (by @peachvixen) Ruby is the first child of 2. She was originally going to be the one to protect the master emerald when Knuckles can no longer but, she decided to instead leave and go attend high school to build her social life. Her little sister, Wren, had then been the one to protect it. Ruby and Wren have never been on the greatest of terms, both hating each other when Ruby visits the island. Ruby has met a few people off island, two of which have grown to hate her and one fearing her. She has the same amount of strength Knuckles has and uses her strength to beat up people.

[heich0e]

begin - nicholas wolfwood/f!reader (trigun) prequel to the poly!au, bounty hunters!au, wild west-ish, tw BLOOD/INJURIES, reader is patching up a bullet wound so warning for all the expected nastiness that entails, tw mentions of attemped assault (not reader and not in detail), mentions of sex work, gratuitous mentions of nico's stubble

BOUND - poly!au masterlist

You live in a nothing town, in the dead middle of nowhere, called The Bend.

It’s called that because a long time ago—long before your days, or your daddy’s days, or even your granddaddy’s days—there used to be a wide, rushing freshwater river snaking through the valley, and right where the town centre now sits is where it used to turn east to the far-away sea. 

But the river’s dried up now, and it took the green grass with it.

The sea is farther than you could ever hope to travel. 

And the B on the sign that marks the border into your dusty little nothing-nowhere town has rusted off and decayed away with the years, which means the only warning that any misguided traveller has to tell them where they’re heading is an ominous old sign, half-rotted, that reads:

Welcome to The  end.

It’s fitting, you think. An omen to give anyone who wanders within spitting distance of the border a final caution that they have one last chance to turn around. A choice to get out while they still can.

It’s a choice you never had.

You were born and raised in The Bend. Your blood runs thick with the dust that coats the decrepit old town. It’s all you’ve ever known, and all you ever will know; your beginning, your middle, and your miserable, inexorable end.

Because that’s the thing about The Bend: few people ever show up here and those who do aren’t stupid enough to stay. And the unfortunate few that are born from the dusty earth and dried up riverbeds, like you? Well, those ones never leave.

There’s some comfort to be taken from that, you suppose; a kind of stability that comes from monotony. From certain inevitability. Every day the same, unchanging. A familiarity to the nothingness of your little town, your little house, your little life.

But then, on a night just like any other, something changes.

One night, you meet him.

Nicholas isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, but he isn’t all that surprised either. 

There’s something kind of undeniably fitting about bleeding out in the middle of fucking nowhere, supported on either side by two of the finest prostitutes The Bend has to offer—and flanked by a handful more as the group guides him through the dark, dusty night.

The Bend isn’t the first hellhole town Nicholas has ever stumbled into. His line of work has brought him to more than his fair share of seedy dumps just like this one. Towns like this are the perfect place for someone to hide from the law after all, because not many people would bother to come looking for you in places that might as well not exist. Most bounty hunters don’t even know about this particular town, and they don’t care to learn, especially since half the maps on the market don’t even bother marking its sorry half-existence down.

But Nicholas isn’t like most bounty hunters.

That’s what brought him to The Bend.

There’s a vicious flash of lightning that suddenly forks through the sky overhead, lighting up the dim, depressing town and the dusty valley beyond it as brightly as the midday sun for just a blink. It’s followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that makes the packed earth under his unsteady feet tremble, and Nicholas knows that means the lightning’s closer than he cares for it to be.

“’s it gonna rain?” he slurs, tearing his eyes away from the sky and looking over to the woman supporting him on his right (or is that his left?)

He wracks his hazy, addled brain as he tries to remember her name. Starts with a V, he’s pretty sure. Victoria? Viola?

She snorts, her ruby rouged lips lifting at one painted corner. “Honey, it’s been almost five months since we’ve seen a drop of rain around here, and even then it was nothin’ to write home about. You just focus on puttin’ one boot in front of the other, and don’t go gettin’ your hopes up.” 

All at once, Nicholas is reminded of the burning pain in his arm; the searing, radiating agony of a bullet nestled deep into flesh. 

Oh. Right.

He got shot.

It’s not the first time he’s suffered a similar wound, nor will it likely be the last if he makes it through the night—God, or whatever all-knowing bastard’s out there, willing. That doesn’t make it any less of a miserable bitch to deal with, though.

How the hell did he get shot, again?

He ponders this question for a moment, reflecting on it through alcohol sodden introspection, and the answer comes back to him in bits and pieces as he keeps aimlessly shuffling along through the night.

The sound of heels clicking overhead at the town saloon—that’s the first thing he remembers. The clacking metronome of Big Annie’s working girls crossing the wooden floorboards of the brothel that operates above the only place in this awful little town to get a half-decent drink.

A drink. 

Yes, it was something bitter and dark—completely nauseating to presently even think about. It burned on the way down, and now it sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach as he walks. The girls had made him down the better part of a bottle after he’d been shot—to help with the pain, they’d said, and he’d been anything but reluctant to heed their advice—and he’d already had fair a few glasses earlier in the evening as he’d occupied his table in the corner of the bar on top of that. Panic had palpably sizzled between the women while they watched the tattered cloth Nicholas held to his arm ink steadily darker with scarlet in the lamplight of the old bar following the shooting—the tension building amongst them like the perspiration beading at his temple. They were bickering about something then.

No, not something.

Someone.

“We gotta take him to see Mama!” 

It was Charity who said that, he recalls—the pretty little thing with full lips and a mane of thick, curly hair that Nicholas had complimented the first time he ever saw her traipsing through the saloon. She can’t be a whole lot older than 20, and her voice is still high and childlike; even more so that particular evening as she stomped her foot petulantly, looking over at him with worry-filled eyes as she made her plea to the other girls watching him bleed out in the musty wooden booth.

“Mama won't want anything to do with this one.”

That was Violetta who’d replied to Charity’s fractious appeal. She’s one of the older girls who works for Big Annie at the brothel. She’s got a sort of seasoned air to her, with a husky rasp in her voice—like the sand that blows through the empty streets in town has roughened it. She’s still undeniably pretty, but she comes across a little tougher than the rest of them. Doing the job she does in a town like this one, Nicholas doesn’t blame her for it.

Violetta’s the one currently supporting his right side, leading him through the night towards the woman who’s supposed to be his saving grace.

Towards Mama.

But who the hell is that?

He’s sure he’s heard the name in passing while he’s been kicking around the town saloon between his work, nursing half-noxious drinks and flirting harmlessly here and there with Big Annie’s working girls—who seem to have taken a liking to lingering around his table between visits from johns. 

Nicholas wasn’t even supposed to be staying in The Bend long, only for a day or two to follow up on a bounty lead he’d caught wind of three towns over—but the lead went cold, and a few days turned into almost a week. Nevertheless, while his stay may have been extended, he just he never thought to ask any more questions about this mysterious matriarch all the working girls seemed to know so well and speak so highly of. But now, as those very same girls are dragging his half-conscious ass to the other side of town in search of this Mama, he wishes that maybe he’d dug a little deeper.

“Mama’s gonna get you all fixed up, handsome,” little Charity appears on Violetta’s other side, her eyes wide enough as she stares at him that they reflect the next flash of lightning as it rips through the dark of night. She looks worried, in spite of her words—even in his present state of drunkenness and blood loss fuelled delirium, he can tell that much. 

They all do. Even the toughest, Violetta—though she seems reluctant to let on as she stands stoically at his side and shoulders his flagging, stumbling weight. 

Charity nods, but it’s a gesture that seems more to reassure herself than anyone else. “Mama always takes care of us; she’ll have you good as new by morning.” 

Ah, so this woman must be a doctor of sorts—or as close to it as a shithole little town like this can offer.

It’s Nicholas’ turn to nod, a bobble of his cotton-filled head the only recognition he can muster to her words, as he just keeps staggering on under their guidance. He’s lucky that The Bend even has some kind of doctor to look after him, even if it’s just some old lady who looks after the saloon girls.

The unlikely group soon arrives at the doorstep of a little house at the edge of town—as slummy and dilapidated as all the rest of them—and Queenie, the girl who’d moments before been supporting Nicholas’s injured left side, raps sharply on the door.

“She’s not gonna answer,” Violetta mutters dourly under her breath, still at Nicholas’ right side.

“She will,” Charity counters with her arms crossed over her chest, punctuating the assertion with an indignant little huff for good measure. “Mama always answers when we come knockin’.”

But Nicholas worries for a moment—a long moment as the door stays firmly shut—that Violetta might just have a point. It’s the middle of the night after all, and this ‘Mama’ could very well be sleeping like any other reasonable person would be at this hour. 

Queenie knocks on the wooden door for a second time, this time with an open palm. This series of raps is a little louder. A little more insistent.

“Mama? It’s us! Open up!” she calls, casting a worried glance over her shoulder at Nicholas—who’s got his entire weight slumped over onto poor Violetta, now.

Nicholas is bleeding out on the front porch, and part of him still almost feels bad for waking up some poor, unsuspecting old—

The door flies open.

“What the hell do you want?”

Oh.

Nicholas knows that his eyes travel up your frame in a way that can only be considered wholly impolite. But he’s not really in his right mind, after all—or at least that’s what he tells himself as he justifies his immodest stare. He starts at the uneven cuffs of your paper-thin trousers, before climbing up, up, up your body to the tight white undershirt your wear—appreciating the way it clings to the curve of your waist and sits snug around your chest, and he particularly admires the pretty little edge of lace that frills around the neckline at your breasts. Finally, his gaze makes it to your face, and you look irritated to say the absolute least on the matter.

He’s not all that sure what he was expecting to find on the other side of the chipped paint of this shabby front door, but he can say with a steady hand to his foolhardy heart that it certainly wasn’t you.

For a moment, Nicholas is convinced they’ve got the wrong house—as improbable as that might be in a town as small as this one. At the very least, he waits for someone else to come to the door—a mother, or grandmother even—because surely you can’t be the one that these women have been calling—

“Mama! You gotta help us,” Queenie exclaims. She’s luckily perceptive enough to stick out her foot once she sees you fully process just what’s waiting for you outside, keeping the door jammed open with her heeled boot as you rush to slam it shut.

“I haven’t gotta do anything,” you counter sharply from around the edge of the door, your face pinching in a blatantly vexed expression at the way the woman is keeping it ajar.

Your eyes flicker over to Nicholas through the gap between the door and its frame, surveying him with a look of disdain that might just have been enough to offend him if he were a little more himself.

“Mama, he got shot!” Charity suddenly bursts into what can only be described as a spectacular display of tears—blubbering noisily between each word as she elbows her way through the group towards your door. She reaches across the threshold and desperately clutches at the front of your shirt with both hands as she pleads to you. “P-please let us in, y-you’re the only one who can h-he-help him.”

“Bertie, what in God’s merciful name is wrong with you?” you sigh aggrievedly, roughly batting her hands away from their grip on your clothes. In the next breath, you wrench open the front door to your home, stepping back to allow your unexpected visitors the space to cross through the doorway. “And cut the waterworks or you’re gonna wake up half The Bend and get us all shot.”

As the girls help Nicholas inside and across the gnarled, warped floorboards of your little house, you slip wordlessly away into another room out of sight. When you return moments later, you’ve pulled on a creased button-down over that pretty little undershirt of yours. 

Nicholas can’t help but notice that you’re dressed practically like a man, especially in comparison to the painted faces and petticoats of the other women in the room. But it strangely suits you, for reasons he can’t quite place.

“He got shot fightin’ some bozo tryin’ to rough up Ada on her way home,” Violetta explains when you look to her with an expression that demands context. She’s the most level-headed of the five woman gathered in your tiny home, so no one can blame you for turning to her first. 

Nicholas feels dizzy, the modest lamp-lit room around him reeling like a child’s toy spinning top gaining speed. 

Did he do that?

He remembers hearing something out back in the alley that runs behind the saloon and the inn when he went out to take a piss late into to the evening, well after it had dropped dark. He was already sufficiently drunk by that point, but there was no mistaking the sound of a woman putting up a fight the moment that he heard it. He followed the racket and found the pair quickly—on instinct more than anything—grabbing the drunken man by the scruff of the neck and hauling him off the poor girl he was trying to force himself on. In the ensuing scuffle, the man pulled a gun that Nicholas wasn’t expecting. With his senses drink-dulled, he didn’t react quickly enough to miss the shot entirely and caught it in his arm—but he’s lucky the guy had such terrible aim to begin with, or the night could have turned out a whole lot worse.

But who’s this Ada? He thought the girl he’d helped’s name was Priscilla—having met her a few times in the saloon. She was always quieter than the rest of them, a little more reserved. She didn’t say much to anyone from what Nicholas had witnessed in his time spent in The Bend. But Ada’s not the first name he’s heard since showing up at your door that’s unfamiliar to him.

“You've got a lot of nerve dragging some no-good, half-cocked brute to my door like this in the middle of the damn night, Sarah Jane,” you hiss through your teeth, your eyes flickering from Violetta over to Nicholas once more.

Violetta snorts, but offers no argument.

“Please, Mama,” Priscilla (or is it Ada? Nicholas can’t keep track anymore) says quietly, though her tone is unmistakably earnest. It’s the first time she’s said anything since the girls came stumbling through your door with the injured man propped between them. First time he remembers her saying anything at all—at least other than when he heard her screaming and chased off the scum that was hassling her.

Your attention suddenly turns to where Priscilla stands just off near the corner of the little room, with Theodosia (another one of Big Annie’s working girls) at her side with a comforting arm looped around her waist. It’s not hard to see the way the woman trembles as she holds her shawl around her shoulders. She’s got a bad scrape across her cheek, and her lip is split—evidence of the ordeal she’d gone through earlier in the evening. Her skin still looks clammy and sallow from the shock. 

Your expression softens as you contemplate her.

“C’mere, Adaline,” you beckon to her, reaching out a hand. “Step into the light and let me take a look at you.”

She approaches you without any reservation, and you carefully inspect her wounds after taking her face gently in your hands. A long, resigned sigh slips from your lips once a moment has passed, having turned her face this way and that to fully scrutinize her condition. You look around at the women gathered in your home, and the man slumping between them, then your head hangs in defeat. Your hand lifts to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Bertie, go grab my bag from my room. Georgie, fetch some clean water from the basin in the kitchen.”

Charity and Theodosia move briskly once you’ve issued the order—like they don’t want to give you the opportunity to change your mind.

Nicholas finds it a little funny how easily these women yield to you, though most seem to be your seniors—you’re just a scrappy young thing, only a few years into your adulthood if he had to guess. As he watches you, he sees that you carry yourself with a  certain quality that’s beyond your years—every action and word steeped with a sort of weary assuredness that you haven’t even lived long enough to properly earn. 

He watches you move with the grace of a woman, and listens to you speak with the authority of a man—and It could be the blood loss talking, but Nicholas thinks you might just be the most interesting thing he’s stumbled upon in this god-forsaken little town.

“You’re a doctor?”

You freeze, your head snapping in his direction when you finally hear him speak.

Your lip curls and you bare your teeth to him, and Nicholas is suddenly reminded of those city cats that wander the back alleys in Julai, hissing with their hackles raised when you happen across their path.

“Do I look like a doctor to you?” you sneer at him derisively.

For some unplaceable reason, Nicholas almost wants to laugh—the sensation bubbling up in his stomach in the wake of your harsh words.

(Though, that might just be the liquor.)

“Her daddy was a doctor,” Queenie whispers to him quietly as she and Violetta help Nicholas up onto the wooden table at the centre of the room at your instruction, leaning him back until he’s laid flat across it with a grunt. “Only one The Bend’s seen in the last 80 years."

“Prudence, you better shut your damn mouth if you want me to do anything about this mess,” you snap without looking up, busy rifling through the ancient leather medicine bag that Charity just dragged in from the other room.

You tend to Priscilla first, fixing her up with a compress on her cheek and a salve for the cut on her lip. She’s not the most desperate case in the room, but no one tries to turn your attention to the man on the table until you’re good and ready to do so of your own accord—a unanimous, though entirely unspoken, pact of silence lest your precarious agreement to help be withdrawn. Once you’re satisfied that the woman’s been sufficiently looked after, leaving her once more in the dutiful care of Theodosia, you finally turn to Nicholas.

The lamplight is fairly dim, even though you’ve moved it closer to the table to help illuminate your work—and there’s very little oil in the grimy reservoir of the glass lamp to keep it burning.

You approach him slowly.

“You a lefty?” you ask him, plunking yourself down in the wooden chair nearest to his injured left arm.

“Luckily not,” he slurs, his head lolling over to look at you as you sit beside him at the table.

“Luckily?” You huff, and Nicholas thinks that maybe it’s as close to a laugh as someone as mirthless as you ever gets. “You must not’ve heard: luck left The Bend years ago, and it’s not coming back.”

Nicholas really does find himself laughing then in the face of your plain, bur distinctly dour expression—and he immediately winces as a sharp pain shoots through him from the strain of trying to hold it back.

Your eyes survey the sopping, blood-soaked handkerchief he’s holding to his injury, then you lean over towards the medicine bag and begin digging through it again. He watches as you pull out an inhumanely large needle and some thread.

“Clear out, ladies,” you remark flatly to the group of onlookers without glancing up from the contents of the bag before you. “None of you are gonna wanna see this.”

The girls delay momentarily even after you bark out the order, as though worried that once they leave the room your willingness to help may exit with them.

You lift your face in their direction, some gauze and a corked flask of an indistinguishable transparent liquid in hand. Your lips pull down noticeably at the corners when you see the way the women are hesitating. “Go on, then. I’m making this exception for you once, and never again. Get Ada back home safe, and then the rest of you oughta do the same.”

Still, no one seems keen to heed your words.

You and Violetta share a pointed look, and it’s clear your patience—hardly-there to begin with—has worn dangerously thin.

“Alright, whores—clear out!” the older woman says, turning on her heel and corralling Queenie, Charity, Priscilla, and Theodosia towards the door with her arms outstretched. “Unless one of y’all are keen to be the next one who needs stitchin'!”

It takes a moment to get everyone moving—Charity in particular putting up more of a fight than the rest of them—but eventually Violetta succeeds in ushering them out. She casts one final glance back from the doorway, and Nicholas catches the exchange of almost imperceptible nods of thanks between you.

It’s unbearably quiet once they’re gone.

You move swiftly but silently, and set to work without a single word exchanged between you and the man stretched across your table. Without hesitating, you drag a thin blade in two strokes up the front of Nicholas’s bloodstained shirt—one cut along the torso and then another up the sleeve—and then pull off whatever’s in your way. You don’t so much as bat an eye as the tanned skin of his chest and abdomen is suddenly bared; there’s no distinguishable emotion or thought on your face that Nicholas can make out, but he’s also fairly distracted as he bites back the groans of pain that threaten to slip out each time you jostle his injured arm too roughly. 

Next, you begin cleaning the surface of the wound—as best you can given that it’s still unstitched—in preparation to fish out and remove the bullet still stuck inside. That little flask from earlier has some sort of antiseptic in it, which Nicholas discerns by the acrid smell and unbearable burning that rips through him as you let it trickle over the open gouge in his skin. He cries out as it happens, and the sound even takes him by surprise—guttural and completely instinctive.

“Don’t be a baby,” you sniff, dabbing away at the blood and antiseptic around his wound with some clean gauze.

“Sorry,” Nicholas mumbles through his panting breaths, pressing his opposite hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep himself quiet.

Your eyes flicker up to his briefly in the wake of his apology, and your gazes meet. You’re the first to look away after the momentary hold.

Next, you tip the flask into your hands, coating your palms in the stinging, astringent antiseptic. The lamplight catches in the little droplets as you shake them from your fingertips.

“My daddy told me once that doctors have to tell lies to keep their patients calm,” you say quietly, your lips pursing forward as you wrap one cool hand underneath his bicep. “Said that it’s just part of the job.”

You suck in a little breath, meeting his gaze briefly once more.

He can’t help but think your eyes look pretty when the light reflects in them like this. 

“But I’m no doctor—and this is gonna hurt like fresh hell.”

Outside your rickety little house on the edge of this forgotten, nowhere town, another peal of thunder roars.

You don’t often patch up bullet holes.

In fact, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve tried.

But you’re not a professional, and you’ve never claimed to be; you’re just a doctor’s daughter who used to follow her father on his rounds through town, helping out whenever and wherever it was needed. Unavoidably, you learned some things along the way—like treatments, and time-honoured remedies, and how to sew a stitch so it won’t pucker when it scars—but you’re about as far as anyone could be from trained. You’ve got no education beyond your reading, writing, and basic arithmetic—what little education the school house in town could offer you until you just stopped going altogether—and your experience is limited only to the care you offer to Big Annie’s girls: whether it’s cleaning up the messes left by their particularly nasty customers or treating them as best you can when they fall ill. 

You don’t bother telling any of this to the man bleeding all over your table, though. You doubt it would do him much good.

Daddy used to deal with gunshot wounds all the time. They’re about a dime a dozen in a town like The Bend, after all, where tempers are high and spirits are low—not to mention where the men outnumber the women by about ten-to-one. 

And if there’s one thing you know about men, it’s that they all love slinging guns but less than half of them ought to be allowed to—because it always leads to injuries like this. It’s rarely ever women who walk around town getting themselves shot.

But in spite of all that, and your lack of experience, you watched your father go through the motions frequently enough that the movements come to you now like second nature: disinfect, remove, keep pressure, suture, bandage. You know the order of things, and you find your mind clear and your hands steady as you set to work—starting by cleaning him up as best you can to prepare to extract the bullet. 

You can see the very butt of it in peeking out from inside his ugly wound; a pesky little thing, slick with blood that catches in the light when his arm twitches towards the lamp. It’s not nestled too deep in there, thankfully, and he’ll probably be fine if he lets it heal properly—but it’ll still hurt like a bitch to pull out. 

But that’s his problem, not yours.

Unfortunately, you don’t have a pair of tweezers you trust to pluck the bullet out—at least not a pair that isn’t rusty—so your god-given tools will have to be what you use for the undertaking. You disinfect your hands as best you can before you begin.

“Would you stop squirming?” you mutter under your breath as the man on your table flinches the first time your fingers graze his open wound.

“Sorry,” he mumbles back, and your eyes flicker up to his face again briefly. 

This man keeps apologizing to you. 

It’s unsettling.

His dark eyes are heavy lidded, but you can still sense them tracing along the lines of your face as you work. There’s visible sweat beading at his temple as he lies flat on his back atop the wooden table in the centre of your home, and his bare chest rises and falls with heavy, laboured breaths that shake every so often on the exhale—the lamplight at your side catches in the perspiration glistening there too, near the little smattering of hair that sits at the highest point of his sternum.

This guy—this stranger who’s bleeding all over the table you eat your meals on—really pisses you off.

He’s got an awful lot of nerve to show up here in the middle of the night, looking for your help after he went and got himself shot. A small part of you knows that’s not entirely fair to think, because he got shot helping Adaline and it was the girls who’d brought him to you in the first place, but you still can’t help but be resentful. 

You feel yourself frown.

Your fingertips dip inside the wet heat of his wound for the first time, and he lets out a gasping, wretched groan from deep in the centre of his chest—so loud it almost makes you flinch.

“Don’t pass out,” you warn him flatly, pinning his injured arm more firmly to the table and prodding further in as you try to get a grip on the evasive little bullet with the very tips of your fingers. “You’re dead weight if you’re unconscious, and I’ll drag you outta this house in parts if I have to.”

“Noted,” the dark-haired man says through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezing shut as he attempts to stomach the pain.

You don’t have anything to offer him to dull the sensation—though you’re not sure you’d waste something so precious on him even if you did. After a while, and a bit more poking and prodding, he seems to acclimatize to the agony anyway. 

Or at the very least he gets better at masking it.

“I’m Nicholas, by the way,” he grits out after a while of you unsuccessfully trying to remove the bullet—frequently having to pause and wipe away the blood that’s continued to seep from the wound, slicking you down to your wrist. It stains the cuff of your shirtsleeve now, and you regret ever pulling it on to begin with, because you know it will be a nightmare to pound out in the wash.

“Didn’t ask.”

“I know,”—miraculously, he manages to laugh a bit, even as you’ve got two fingers digging around inside his arm—“just thought I’d tell ya anyway.”

You don’t bother replying, your eyes honed in solely on the task at bloody hand.

“‘M grateful for your help, y’know. Even if it’s just an exception,” the man—Nicholas—slurs next, his head tipping to the side on your kitchen table. You can tell that he’s talking, if nothing else, to distract himself. A lonely bead of sweat drips down his throat as he looks at you. “It’s awfully nice of ya to take pity on a no-good brute like me, Mama.”

You feel a crick of irritation tighten in your jaw then, as he parrots your earlier words back to you. Your fingers, still poking around to retrieve the bullet in his shoulder, twitch—and you aren’t sure the gesture is entirely involuntary. The man on the table before you yelps, flinching away from the pain, and you lean closer with your eyes still fixed on the wound piercing his skin.

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss through the dull scrape of your teeth grinding tightly together.

Nicholas lifts his right hand to his mouth, curled into a fist, and his pearly teeth bite down hard into the flesh at the base of his thumb as he pants through the pain. You finally, mercifully, manage to get a grip on that damned bullet, plucking it out and tossing it into the waiting dish atop the table with a delicate, terribly anticlimactic clink. You swiftly press a pad of clean gauze to the wound to staunch the bleeding while you reach for the stitching needle you left set off to the side.

“Hold this,” you order him, and the man lets his hand slip from the bite of his jaw to do as he’s told while you rifle through the bag at your feet. You can see the marks his teeth left in his skin as he takes the gauze from your hand into his own and begins to apply pressure.

You stand and wash your hands off as best you can in the basin of water Georgie brought in for you earlier, poised at the end of the table. The liquid tints pink as you first dip them in, and then slowly it turns an even darker, uglier colour as you properly scrub his blood from your skin. You shake as much of the water off your hands as you can, and then use the front of your shirt to sop up the rest—faintly rust-tinged handprints left in the cotton.

You take your seat once more, and Nicholas watches you through mostly-closed eyes as you set about sterilizing the needle.

“How come I can’t call you that?” 

You light a candle using the lamp at your side. Then you swish the needle around in antiseptic before running it through the flickering flame until it sparks—careful not to let it lick too close to your fingertips. Your eyes slide over to Nicholas as you pluck it from the fire.

With his face tilted towards you, another little drop of sweat has tracked down his cheek towards his prominent nose, and it glistens against his flushing skin in the warm light of your oil lamp. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, too—from what you don’t doubt is the combination of pain and whatever booze he’s been guzzling to numb it—and lips part on a shuddering exhalation as you survey his face.

“Call me what?” you mutter, averting your eyes and turning again to search through your medicine bag for a clean roll of bandage.

“Ma—” A sudden, harsh glare cuts him off before he even has the chance to say it. He smiles a little, the expression half-delirious, and you can’t help but think that if he weren’t so weakened from the pain that wracks him, he might have even managed another laugh.

You kiss your teeth quietly. “Only the girls call me that.”

The man bleeding out in the middle of your table clearly knows your tone of voice means not to push it, because he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his head until he’s staring up at your dingy ceiling once more, though you can tell from the faraway look in his eyes he’s not seeing much at all. 

“The girls,” Nicholas remarks quietly, speaking more to himself than anything. “You don’t call ‘em by their names.”

That’s right: he’d only know the girls by their working names. You’re surprised he even caught that.

“The hell I don’t,” you mutter, turning back to face him in your seat once more with your last roll of bandage clutched tightly in your hand. You set it down atop the table as you set your supplies up just how you like them. “I call them by the names their mothers gave them.”

Nicholas hums thoughtfully. “Sarah Jane, that’s Violetta?”

You grunt out an affirmative, threading the freshly cleaned needle with nimble, dextrous accuracy. 

“And Charity, her real name’s Bertie?”

“Bertha May,” you correct him, snipping away the excess thread with a little pair of mostly-dull scissors—careful not to take more than you’ll need, but still giving yourself sufficient supply to work with.

“Priscilla’s name’s Adaline,” Nicholas continues, his eyes still tracing the cracks in your ceiling. “And what about Theodosia and Queenie?” 

“Georgina and Prudence,” you supply flatly as you secure a tight knot in the end of the stitching thread.

Nicholas sighs before slurring, “’s a lot to keep track of.”

You snort. “Wait until you find out Big Annie’s real name.”

He looks over at you with wider eyes than you’ve seen on him since he came staggering through your door. He catches the expression on your face and his own softens, clearly sensing that you’d said it only in jest. 

Annie’s just short for Annabelle, after all. Madam’s rarely need to take up new personas—why would they need to be someone they’re not if they aren’t the ones doing the dirty work?

Nicholas watches as you tug on the stitching thread one last time to test its strength—eying the glinting needle warily. You set the threaded implement carefully off to the side once you’re confident it’s ready.

“So you learned all this stuff from your daddy, huh?” he asks you next.

You swallow over the unpleasant lump you suddenly feel in the back of your throat and reach up, nudging his hand away from where he’s holding the gauze to his wound. He’s become a real chatterbox now, and part of you wonders why you’re even tolerating it.

You clean the area with antiseptic again—and Nicholas is just as dramatic as he was the first time as a low moan of pain tears through him. For a moment you worry he really might be on the brink of passing out, the whites of his eyes taking over as they begin to roll back, so you know you need to keep him focused.

“He used to take me with him on his rounds,” you mumble a reply to his earlier question. 

Nicholas’s eyes open a bit wider when he hears your voice, a little more focused now than they had been.

“My daddy, I mean,” your tone is dismissive and flippant, but it seems to be an effective distraction. “I just picked things up here and there while I watched him work.”

“You’re a natural.”

You snort mirthlessly in the wake of his reply. “Don’t know about all that.”

“You just pulled a bullet outta my arm with your bare hands, that’s gotta count for something.” Nicholas hisses as you press the antiseptic-soaked gauze to his wound one last time, then he sucks in a sharp breath. “And the girls trust you a lot, so you must be good at it.”

“Somebody’s gotta take care of them.” 

Lord knows no one else around here does.

You set the scarlet saturated gauze aside in the dish with the discarded bullet, then pick up your needle.

You make neat, even sutures through his skin, and you take your time to do it right. You’ve always been good at this kind of thing, even when you were young. You were born with a keen eye for detailed work like this, and your daddy used to get you to finish up the smaller wounds he was called to treat that needed finer stitching—said your little hands were just better at it than his own big, life-roughened ones. He always used to tell you that you got your steady hands from him, but your nimble fingers from your mother.

Not that you’d know anything about that.

Nicholas has stopped flinching now, a little more relaxed than he’d previously been, and you can’t help but look up at him every so often as you work—wondering if that steady, even rise and fall of his chest means that he’s finally knocked out. Especially since he’s suddenly gone so quiet. 

But each time you check, you find his eyes are still open—though only just barely—and are peering up towards the ceiling. Sometimes you catch him glancing at you too.

Once the wound has been fully closed in a tidy little line of stitches, you wrap the roll of bandages around it with some gauze tucked underneath, just in case.

“You’re all done,” you say quietly, slumping back in your chair once you’re finally finished.

All at once, you feel exhausted—the adrenaline you didn’t even know had been rushing through you disappearing in a blink. It reminds you of how the wind dies in the valley in the wake of a bad storm, like it took the breeze with it. You’re all too conscious of the fact that it’s the middle of the night now, and that you ought to long be asleep.

“Thank you,” Nicholas says as he pushes himself up onto the elbow of his uninjured arm, though he still winces at the movement. You don’t make any attempt to help him.

His shirt is in pieces, and he discards it since it’s of so little use to him now, shaking his right arm to free it from the only sleeve that remains in tact on the garment. You watch as he pushes himself fully upright, throwing his long legs over the side of the table to stand. When he does, he dips slightly—like the sudden movement makes him woozy, and his knees are weak—and his right hand shoots out to balance himself on the edge of the tabletop on instinct. You suppose it’s not unexpected given the amount of blood he lost.

You watch his toned, tanned back as he stretches himself out as much as his injury will allow; observing how his skin pulls taught over the defined musculature that surrounds his spine. He’s littered with scars—a map of wounds that weren’t stitched as neatly as the new one on his upper arm—and part of you can’t help but wonder how he got them all. Can’t help but wonder what stories those marks tell, written in a language you don’t know how to read.

You look away, feeling an inexplicable heat flood rapidly to your cheeks.

You stand and quickly slip off your own overshirt—just some old button-up left behind from your father, though you have no memories of him ever wearing it. You clutch it in your fist and stick it out for him to take.

He eyes it in surprise for a moment before accepting it.

“Those blood stains are yours, anyway. You might as well have it,” you say, eyeing the red mark at the cuff on the right-hand sleeve as the garment passes from your hold into his, “in any case it’s in better shape than the one you came here with.” 

It saves having to clean it, too. So it’s all the same to you.

“I’ll pay you,” he slurs, still unsteady on his feet as he begins rifling awkwardly through his pockets with his only useable hand. He almost tips right over in his haste, but you quickly slip beside him and steady his frame.

“Yeah, you will,” you agree, holding tight to his right arm to keep him standing. “Worry about it tomorrow.”

Nicholas’ bare skin radiates warmth with only your thin, lace-trimmed undershirt left separating you as you stand pressed into his side. He peers down at you curiously, blinking slowly like he’s being called to sleep. From this close, with him standing properly upright for the first time, you realize just how big this man is—tall, with a broad chest and defined muscles, and stubble dusted along his sharp jawline that you hadn’t noticed before. You take a sudden step away to put much needed distance between the two of you, these realizations making something stir in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel squeamish. 

“Do you know your way back to the inn?” you ask him, your arms crossing over your front.

Nicholas bobs his head in a completely unconvincing nod. It’s not like the town is big enough to get lost in in the first place—and he very well might know his way if it were daylight, or he weren’t half delirious—but sending him out into The Bend in his current state would be as much of a death sentence as it would have been to turn him away when he first showed up at your door. 

You sigh in resignation.

“Just sleep on the floor here for tonight. I’ll check your stitches again tomorrow morning before you leave.”

The man looks taken aback, but he nods quickly—as though he doesn’t want to give you time to rescind the unexpected offer.

You fish around in the depths of your father’s old medicine bag, eventually pulling out a bottle of murky liquid as Nicholas gets settled with an old cushion and a threadbare quilt near the unlit hearth of the fireplace. You use the edge of your nail to uncork it, take a quick whiff to make sure it’s the right one, and then tread towards the man on the other side of the room.

He peers up at you from his makeshift bed on the floor, resting with his knees apart and his long legs sprawled out in front of him. You pass the little glass bottle to him, your fingers brushing as it passes from your grip into his. “Drink this, it helps to fight off infection.”

He eyes it warily. The outside of the bottle is suspiciously grimy, and the putrid colour of the liquid inside is no less reassuring. “What is it?”

“Hog Fennel.”

He grimaces, peeking into the opening of the bottle with one eye closed. “Sounds foul.”

You snort. “It is."

Nicholas doesn’t draw it out any longer, tipping the vial back an draining it all in one shot. He winces once he swallows it down, his pink tongue peeking out a little as he pants through the taste—which you’re sure is bitter and disgusting.

“How was it?” you ask him wryly.

“I’ve had worse, honestly,” he says, shooting you a little grin you can’t believe he’s able to manage not only in the wake of such a disgusting concoction but considering what he’s been through that night.

You blink, your brow furrowing, and then eventually nod dismissively before turning and shuffling off towards the other side of the room where the door to your bedroom is found.

“Thank you.” 

Nicholas speaks again as you’re just shy of crossing the threshold into your room, you consider pausing in your shock but then think better of it.

“You already said that,” you reply, your tone annoyed, and shut the door behind you.

You open it again a second later to poke your head back out towards him.

“I’ve got a gun in here, by the way, and I won’t miss. Just in case you were thinking of trying anything funny.”

Across the room, Nicholas is already laying down on his pitiful excuse of a resting place, looking strangely content.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smile, though his eyes stay closed.

Part of you is annoyed at how comfortable he seems. How easily he talks to you. How normal his presence feels in your home.

Another part of you—one that’s deeper, locked away and hidden out of sight in a place where you think you’ve lost they key—isn’t.

You slip back into your room and close the door behind you with a soft click. 

And in the silent stillness of your little bedroom with your shoulder blades pressed back into your bedroom door, you realize that the thunder outside has stopped but you can hear the softest, faintest pitter patter of raindrops through cracked glass of your window.

Rain came back to The Bend.

Maybe luck would follow.

[theultimateshadow]

Well. I wasn't expecting this to be a regular thing for me now but here we are, I suppose. Hello, my name is Shadow the Hedgehog, also known as The Ultimate Life Form, member of Team Dark and known to be the coolest. Rouge and Omega ended up convincing me to make this... Ask blog or whatever it is so people could... Get to know me better? I didn't really see a problem with it so I've decided to give it a shot. As long as the faker doesn't figure out I'm doing this... If he does he isn't going to let me live it down. And if he spreads it around I'm kicking him into the ground and blocking him on everything. Oh and some random human is helping me operate this whole thing because I didn't trust Rouge with my device. So we'll see how that goes... I think they want to add a few notes now so I'll leave it to them.

((MULTISHIP FRIENDLY, WILL SHIP SHADOW WITH ANYONE IF IM COMFORTABLE WITH IT, NEVER STICKING WITH JUST ONE SHIP))

Tags (New so be patient as I get used to them):

This is who I am - Asks answered

Stop losing focus! - RP reblogs

I've got no time for games - Ask games

Bow your heads low - Open RP starters

What am I? - Angst RP tag

I take orders from no one - OOC

((MORE UNDER THE CUT))

~●~●~●~●~●~

EDIT: I ALSO HAVE A MANIC BLOG WHICH YOU CAN FIND HERE AT @manicdrummer

EDIT 2: I HAVE A RUBY ROSE BLOG AT @silver-eyed-rose

EDIT 3: NINE RP BLOG AT @ninetailedinventor

Admin here hi hello, this is a RP/Ask blog area I have made for one Shadow The Hedgehog. Mainly game focused with a bit of Sonic X S3 lore involved so there WILL be spoilers involved, and a few personal headcanons that I have made up for him. Don't like? Don't interact. Simple. Independently run by me, any other Sonic RP/Ask blogs are free to interact and make groups, as well as generally anyone. Don't worry if I don't get back straight away, be patient and I'll get to ya! ((GMT timezone, 20+ age range))

EDIT 4: CHARMY RP BLOG AT @busybee-detective

EDIT 5: TWO OTHER SHADOW BLOGS @space-shadow and @voided-darkness

Now a few rules so this goes smoothly!

- 16+ only, sorry to all the under 16's out there I just don't feel comfortable with that considering my own age range...

- SLIGHT NSFW topics are allowed as long as they're very VERY minuscule topics. I'm not going to go into detail about any weird shit thanks.

- Shipping/romance topics are allowed, but NO DISCOURSE! I don't want to be judged or see others being judged for their personal preferences and choices.

- None of this is meant to be taken seriously so have fun with it!

[st4rvving4rtist]

꒰🎰꒱ Aventurine SNPT pack

requested by anon ♡

System Names𓈒

The Roulette Wheel⸝ Jackpot Collective⸝ Peacock Feathers⸝ Final Victors/Final Victors Collective⸝ Clovers/Clover Collective (associated with good luck)⸝ Winning Streak Collective⸝ Poker Chips⸝ Full House Collective⸝ Vegas Lights Collective⸝ Golden Chains (Collective)⸝ The Winner’s Circle 

Names𓈒

fem ;

Marigold⸝ Angelita⸝ Rouge⸝ Akira⸝ Agate⸝ Ruby⸝ Em/Emmy (Emerald)⸝ Amber⸝ Almas⸝ Jewel/Jewell⸝ Aviana⸝ Circe⸝ Mavis

neu ;

Atari⸝ Onyx⸝ Citrine⸝ Carnelian⸝ Alexandrite⸝ Sapphire⸝ Wren⸝ Absinthe⸝ Roulette⸝ Riley⸝ Robin⸝ Birdie⸝ Cypher/Cipher⸝ Vasha⸝ Card/Kard⸝ Spade⸝ Luck/Lucky

masc ;

Altair⸝ Aven⸝ Callum⸝ Arden⸝ Ace⸝ Diamond⸝ Heart/Hart⸝ Kierian⸝ Casanova/Nova⸝ Zen⸝ Seth⸝ Jack⸝ King⸝ Dex/Deck 

Pronouns𓈒

spade/spades⸝ heart/hearts⸝ card/cards⸝ die/dice⸝ chip/chips⸝ ve/ver⸝ xe/xem⸝ it/its⸝ she/her⸝ he/him⸝ they/them⸝ flaunt/flaunts⸝ rich/riches⸝ luck/lucks⸝ jest/jests⸝ dice/dices⸝ gem/gems⸝ fool/fools⸝ trick/tricks⸝ light/lights⸝ star/stars⸝ roll/rolls⸝ gold/golds⸝ coin/coins

Titles𓈒

The Final Victor⸝ (noun) Who Can’t Lose⸝ The Luckiest (noun/none) Alive⸝ The Golden Shackled Avian⸝ (noun) Who Wins Them All⸝ (noun) With a Golden Tongue⸝ (noun) with Luck on (noun)’s Side

[shinyasahalo]

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(F&F) Wednesday Addams & Enid Sinclair (Wednesday TV/Addams Family) 1,842 fics

(F/F) Mikasa Ackerman/Annie Leonhart (Attack on Titan) 1,839 fics

(F/F) Tara Maclay/Willow Rosenberg (Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV) 1,825 fics

(F/F) Laudna/Imogen Temult (Critical Role) 1,814 fics

(F/F) Anne Boonchuy/Marcy Wu (Amphibia) 1,793 fics

(F/F) Kugisaki Nobara/Zenin Maki (Jujutsu Kaisen) 1,762 fics

(F/F) Clary Fray/Isabella Lightwood (Shadowhunters TV) 1,755 fics

(F&F) Anna & Elsa (Frozen/Disney Theatrical Universe) 1,742 fics

(F/F) Sansa Stark/Margery Tyrell (Game of Thrones TV/Song of Ice and Fire) 1,723 fics

(F/F) Azula/Ty Lee (Avatar Last Airbender) 1,712

(F/F) Kathryn Janeway/Seven of Nine (Star Trek Voyager TV) 1,697 fics

(F&P) Paimon & Traveler (Genshin Impact) 1,687 fics

(F/F) Faith Lehane/Buffy Summers (Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV) 1,679 fics

(F/F) Alex Danvers/Kelly Olson (Supergirl TV/DCU) 1,669 fics

(F/F) Azusawa Kohane/Shiraishi An (Project SEKAI) 1,645 fics

(F/F) Tobin Heath/Christen Press (Sports RPF) 1,643 fics

(F/F) Delphine Cormier/Niehaus (Orphan Black TV) 1,635 fics

[astarryvamp]

A little one shot based off of @luna-in-disguise 's post

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ruby eyes followed the figure who was attempting to sneak their way towards the front door. And doing an absolutely abhorrent job, might he add. Highheels to sneak out? If the clicking of their heels hadn’t already done the job of giving her away, then the floorboards would have.

“Sylnala Miajyre Ancunin, what in the hells do you think you’re doing?” he called, with an authoritative tone. She didn’t even have a middle name, but giving her one in preface to a lecture just seemed… right.

“Oh, hells,” he heard his daughter mutter as she shut the door. “Hi Da...Did you just give me a new middle name?”

“We’ll touch on how much you love it later. Did I just catch you trying to sneak out the front door?”

“Um. No?” she said hesitantly. Sylnala gazed at him, silently pleading with him to let this go. He simply met her look with a single raised brow, waiting for her to answer him.

“Da, I only wanted to go dancing with Lyra! I wasn’t going to be gone long!”

“I don’t care a lick about what you were planning to do tonight, my sweet.” Astarion said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.

Synala’s confusion was palpable as she stared at him with wide eyes. “Is- is this a trap? Is Ma around the corner with a pair of manacles?”

Astarion gave a sharp laugh as he leaned against the wall with arms crossed over his chest. “No. No trap. I have no idea where you get such theatrical notions.” She gives him a flat look, making him laugh again.

“No, darling. I do not care that you were sneaking out of the house. Honestly, I was beginning to grow a little concerned me and your mother somehow managed to raise you to be on the straight and narrow,” he spit out with an exaggerated shudder much to his daughter’s amusement. “What I am annoyed at is you getting caught sneaking out of the house. Honestly?! You’ve a father with a history of being a rouge with impeccable skills in getting in and out of places with none being the wiser, and here I catch my own daughter failing to sneak her way to the front door? Have you any idea how embarrassing this will be if this leaves the house?”

“I’m sorry. You’re mad that I’m not better at sneaking out of the house?”

“I do believe I did mention that,” he says, reaching out an arm to give her nose a little teasing poke. “I mean, honestly darling, there’s a perfectly good trellis right out side your window. You could have easily scaled that and disappeared into the night with no one the wiser.”

“I’m in heels!” she protested loudly.

“They are not welded to your feet,” he answered with a pointed look. “And what about the stomping around like a drunk ogre? You may as well have been banging on a war drum while you were leaving. In fact, that may have been a little quieter.”

“Da!” Sylnala protested loudly.

“How are you meant to grow as a sneak if I don’t give you honest criticism? Next time you want to sneak out, remove the loud shoes and God’s above! Keep to the walls. The floor boards won’t squeak if you only step on the edges.”

“Fine! Noted! Can I go now?”

“Do you think you’ve earned a night of dancing with that performance?”

“Daaa!” She whined, giving an adorable little stomp of her foot.

“Fine,” he acquiesced, waving towards the door. “But only because I approve of who you are going to be with. Lyra will make sure you get up to some proper trouble tonight. The kind I care to gossip about.”

[hyenahunt]

Rouge & Ruby: Epilogue - 2 (END)

Writer: Umeda Chitose

Season: Winter

Characters: Hiyori, Nagisa, Jun, Ibara

Proofreading: royalquintet (JP) & Skyress (ENG)

Translation: Mirei (Adam) & hyenahunt (Eve)

Hiyori: And that would mean this is the perfect time for our Venture into V-day Project, yes? Eden's Valentine's Day isn't over just yet...♪

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Time: A few days later

Hiyori: Come and look! Our chocolates are still trending on social media!

They're simply so beautiful that despite their delicious taste, no one can bear to eat them and they're desperate for a way to preserve them instead!

Nagisa: ...Our fans sure think of the strangest things. Why preserve them?

Jun: Maybe they wanna keep 'em as souvenirs~?

I happened to see a blog report of someone's Chocolat Fes experience, too.

It seems like that person was also looking to keep a record of all the feelings they had during it while it was still fresh in their mind, so they poured 'em out into a post and published it on their blog.

Hiyori: So that's yet another way to preserve things, is it? It brings me such delight to know that all these memories of Chocolat Fes seem so engraved upon everyone's hearts. ♪

Nagisa: ... The atmosphere in the venue after Eden's performance was also quite impactful. How would one explain it...

Hiyori: It certainly felt as if we'd enchanted everyone into entrusting their bodies and hearts to us, didn't it? It felt the same as our usual performances, yet ever so slightly different...

Jun: Maybe that's just the atmosphere you can't experience anytime other than on Valentine's Day — or Chocolat Fes, even~

And I mean, we got the exact reaction we wanted ♪ Ibara, you feel the same way, yeah? —

Ibara: ......

Hiyori: Whatever is with that expression? Chocolat Fes went exactly as you envisioned and now we're all talking about it, Ibara — you ought to look a little more delighted!

In fact, shouldn't you be the one to talk about all this?

Ibara: — Unlike everyone else, I'm very busy being productive over here!

Besides, making Eden experience a normal Valentine’s Day or something was all Your Highness's idea, was it not?

Even though Valentine’s Day has passed, why are you making me make chocolate by hand!? I am terribly baffled!

Nagisa: ... Isn't that because Hiyori-kun wanted to experience a normal Valentine’s Day with Eden…?

Ibara: That doesn't answer my question. I demand a proper explanation, Jun.

Jun: Wha? Why're you asking me? I'm literally the second most productive one here, right after you!

Ibara: One would assume so. Though His Excellency has some experience in cooking out of personal interest, he is still new to making sweets. Meanwhile, His Highness —

Hiyori: My job is to cast a Spell of Scrumptiousness on everyone's chocolate once they're done... ♪

Ibara: — Won’t even lift a finger. He is loafing about because Jun won’t allow him to offer his assistance.

And here I am, having done all this work to find a recipe His Excellency can more easily follow, so I can delegate some of the work to him...

Nagisa: ...I've already become a master at mixing ingredients until smooth.

Ibara: Wonderful, Your Excellency, your quick learning is a valuable aid! Now, please combine the ingredients you have just mixed!

Afterwards, put the combined ingredients in plastic wrap and allow to chill in the refrigerator!

Nagisa: … Okay, I understand ♪

Jun: Well, I mean at least Nagi-senpai's actually interested in cooking. For us, I'm pretty sure it'd be faster for me to do everything on my own.

I did consider letting that guy chop the chocolate, but for some reason even just the thought of letting him hold a kitchen knife is kinda terrifying...

Hiyori: ?

Jun: ...but in any case, there's not all that much for me to explain.

Back when I had no idea you worked things out on your own and was stuck stressing over what I said to you, I tried talking it out with Ohii-san...

And during our talk, we realised neither of us had any clue what a normal Valentine's Day was like. We figured you and Nagi-senpai probably didn't either.

So it was kinda gonna be an issue if we were gonna perform at Chocolat Fes without even knowing how the average person spends Valentine's.

And that's how the Venture into V-day Project was born.

Ibara: …But if this was for Chocolat Fes, then do you not find it strange to be doing this after the event is over?

Hiyori: Well, we were just so endlessly busy all the way up until Chocolat Fes that there simply wasn't any time for it.

And now since Chocolat Fes is over, just think of this delicious chocolate-making experience as our after-party for a job well done.

Ibara: …*sigh*…

Hiyori: By the way, once all the chocolate is done, we'll also reenact amongst ourselves the experience of giving and receiving chocolates.

So with that in mind, everyone, do take care to make your chocolate with love...♪

Ibara: With love?

Jun: Ah... Sorry, this part's my fault.

My only impression of Valentine's Day is from a shoujo manga I read, and well, Ohii-san took a look, too.

Seems like that made him wanna experience the whole giving and receiving chocolate thing, as well as all the heart-fluttery excitement that comes along with it.

Ibara: What "heart-fluttering excitement" are you expecting from doing this with unit members?

Jun: Well, we might at least get some kinda warm and fuzzy feeling, right? Not that I'd know ♪

Ibara: — Good grief. I've gotten myself wrapped up in something very troublesome. My hands are still quite full with Chocolat Fes-related work, you know.

Job requests have come rolling in by the dozen after our resounding success.

Nagisa: .. Then, that means Ibara's Chocolat Fes is still ongoing, right?

Hiyori: And that would mean this is the perfect time for our Venture into V-day Project, yes? Eden's Valentine's Day isn't over just yet...♪

Ibara: These are two separate matters.

Jun: … says you, but it looks to me like you're the one who's making the fanciest chocolate here, Ibara~

Nagisa: …I’m curious, what are you making? It looks like the most delicious one here. I'm interested.

Ibara: It's not just “it looks like”; I'll have you know that it actually is the most delicious one. I'm going to make the best chocolates here, appearance included.

Even though we are just making sweets, I don’t intend to lose, after all!

So everyone, please look forward to the end result…☆

Hiyori: Well, after hearing a boast like that, I simply can't wait to see how it turns out♪

Nagisa: … I agree, I'm looking forward to trying it.

Jun: Um, this project isn't supposed to be a competition...

... But well, it's just like Ibara to always crave first place in anything and everything, huh?

Jun: — Alrighty. I'm gonna give my chocolate my best shot, too, so we can all enjoy this Valentine's thing together as Eden~♪

[ ☆ ]

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← prev ✦ all ✦

[hankbot0-9]

I may have only made, two posts about Doctor WHO and like, no one knows who I am really, but here's another. I am slightly, disappointed with the new Tardis Interior. Now, don't get me wrong, I love the size, it's so spacious and the ramps and walkways are great to see (If I were in that Tardis I would just be running up and down the entire thing like David). Plus the new lighting system, peak, love it. Almost. See the main problem I have with the new interior is not the size or hell even the emptiness of it, it's the way it's lit. Take the interior in Space Babies for instant.

Looks good right. Nice color choice, feels cozy. Yet I can't help but feel it's not there yet, like there's some form of off screen light that's making everything just that tiny bit brighter and thus dilutes the effect.

And it's why I think this Tardis interior just does not fully work for me. It has all the elements of a great Tardis, but the way it's lit doesn't do it any favors. Even with a darker theme like this one, the empty space and unhomely aspects still persists. It's annoying because I don't think there needs to be more homely aspects, maybe a few chairs and a coat hanger (I mean how cool would it be to see some of 15's other coats hanging up in a random episode). But even then the lightning would still need to work. Like here:

This feels more homely, more cozy. Even with only the jukebox this feels like a place the doctor would read a book, or tinker or something. It feels less spacious and souless, and all I did was take a screen shot and use my basic photo editing given to me by my laptop. And it's annoying because they are always so close to having a really great Tardis interior but they just, don't.

And sometimes it hurts a scene in my opinion, like here with Ruby's departure.

Like yes, there are many problems with this scene and when the only emotion I had during it was "OMG the Church outfit" something is definitely wrong, but I can't help but feel like one problem was the way the Tardis was lit, like why is so bright, so impersonal with the larger, empty space only adding to the problems.

(Again using basic editing software and knowledge, with a few small changes and it feels more right)

Another example is Rouge, where once again the Tardis is shot with warm colors but does not take advantage of the lighting and still keeps it very lit up with little shadows.

Still making this very close and emotional scene where The Doctor and Rogue almost share a kiss feel, cold. Wrong, like the atmosphere and mood is just, not there in the lighting.

But here it the lighting fits the mood. It's dark and feels more personal, close, romantic. The lighting is helping instead of hindering. And that's the real problem, the lighting is constantly hindering the mood of the scene or just not quite getting there, leaving it to feel impersonal, empty and just, cold.

[thatliminal-wanderer]

Pink Cat Girl ID Pack

Requested by Anon

Names

Abby, Afra, Almog, Altansarnai, Amaranth, Annagul, Aphrodite, Bellarose, Bengal, Blush, Briallen, Carnation, Cerise, Cherry, Coral, Coralie, Coraline, Doja, Donda, Faviola, Feleena, Feline, Fleur, Fuchsia, Gulabi, Gulrukh, Gülizar, Havana, Ichigo, Kalika, Kalyca, Kamala, Kat, Kitty, Kolab, Kopal, Koralia, Kulap, Lilac, Lokelani, Lotus, Marjani, Marzhan, Mau, Mauve, Mist, Ogin, Peninna, Primrose, Quahah, Raisa, Rosa, Rosalie, Rosalind, Rose, Rouge, Ruby, Savannah, Shoshana, Tiffany, Vardah, Vidhruma, Warda, Wurud

Pronouns

baby/babys, blush/blushs, bubble/bubblegum/bubblegums, candy/candys, cat/cats, cherry/cherries, coral/corals, cotton/cottons, feline/felines, fla/flamingo/flamingos, fuchsia/fuchsias, fur/furs, girl/girls, gum/gums, kitten/kittens, mag/magenta/magentas, meow/meows, mew/mews, nya/nyans, pastel/pastels, paw/paws, pig/pigs, pink/pinks, prr/prrs, punch/punchs, rose/rose, rouge/rouges, salmon/salmons, taffy/taffys, tulip/tulips, whisker/whiskers, 🌷/🌷s, 🌸/🌸s, 🎀/🎀s, 🐱/🐱s, 🐽/🐽s, 🚺/🚺s, 🦩/🦩s, 🩰/🩰s, 🩷/🩷s, 🪷/🪷s

Titles

A Cat Girl Adorned in Pink, A Coral Colored Cat,A Kitty of Pink, A Pink Kitty, The Cat Girl of Pink Hues, The Cat with a Girlish Pink, The Cute Pink Kitty, The Girl Who’s Cat Ears and Tails are Pink, The One With A Pink Kitty Nose, The Pink Cat-like Girl, The Pink Meow, [prn] Who Purrs Pink Hues, [prn] With The Pink Ears and Tail

Genders

Aestheticatgirlic, Catearpersproutial/Catearsproutial, Catgirlcutie, Catgirldarling, Catgirlgender, Catgirlthing, Cutecatesque, Glitterkittyic, Luckycatgirl, Pinkcatgender, Pinkgender, Pinkheartsmeowic, Pinkinjection, Pinkribbon, Refecatgirlcomfic, Sillycatgirlic

Other mogai

Aldercatgirl, Alderretraclawic, Assigned Cat at Birth/ACatAB / Assigned Kitty at Birth/AKitAB, Cat Omninoun, Catalius, Catperspesque, Catstelic, Catvesi, Felivior, Kemidernic, Pink Diffiden, Pink Omninoun

[shadows-coffeebeans]

1, 2, 4, 5, 11, 13, 14, 15 (if they were to wear any besides shoes and gloves-), 16, 17, 19, 20, 21~!

Gonna be answering these with all my current fankids cause I barely ever talk about them. Be prepared to read a whole lot O_O

What are their child's/children's name/s?

The fankids I have currently for my Starlight AU are; Starlight (sonadow), Dimout (knuxouge), Phantom & Jazz (part of a future AU for the fankid AU) (infidget), Opal (metamy) and Peri (name's a work in progress) (REDACTED)

I also have a Boom!Shadarry fankid AU (it's actually older than the Starlight AU); Ecliplse (shadarry) and Dani (sticks/amy)

2. Why did you pick those names/that name?

Starlight and Phantom - asked a discord server cause I was stuck on names

Dimout - reminds me of diamond, also just fun to play around with the light/dark theme

Jazz - I was thinking of Princess Jasmine, stuck with the name when i realized i made the siblings Phantom and Jazz >:]

Opal - I thought the name "Opal Rose" was cute

Peri - was thinking "pirouette" cause she looks like a dancer to me, like i said though, I might change the name eventually

Eclipse - Thought it was fun

Dani - Dani Phantom, also a name i might change

4. Having this/these character/s as their parents, how did it affect them?

Starlight - I feel like Sonic and Shadow would be pretty hands off which left Starlight to have to learn things on his own via trial and error, he has fun though - He's homeschooled by Amy as he doesn't exist in the eyes of the law and they've been putting off getting him an official birth certificate

Dimout - Knuckles is training Dimout to be able to guard the Master Emerald. Dimout doesn't care much for training but feels the pressure to do so and live up to what he thinks are Knuckles' standards. Rouge is often doing GUN missions but when she's with Dimout she tries spoiling him to make up for it. She's his hype man, hypes him up no matter what he's doing (much to Dimout's embarrassment).

Jazz & Phantom - Gadget tries his best, not great but not bad either. Infinite likes to go on long tangents about his old power and his hatred for Shadow (cause i think it's funny). Jazz and Phantom just tend to roll their eyes whenever he does. Both Jazz and Phantom have a better relationship with Gadget, Jazz is closest with him compared to Phantom as they've been work-out buddies since she was small. Infinite tries living through Phantom as he has a bit of the Phantom Ruby in him (hence the red eye), he wants him to harness that power to help Infinite. Phantom does not like Infinite for that reason.

Opal - Thanks to Amy she has a big heart. Metal helps her out with maintenance and how to fix whatever issues occur with her (she's also a robot, not sure if I mentioned that before).

Peri - (REDACTED)

Eclipse - Lived in the woods for a while, Sticks taught them to use their instincts and how to survive in the woods. Eclipse left soon after learning what they needed. Once Barry found them in the trash, they took them in and tried teaching them how to "behave". Shadow didn't care much for them before but now they like causing chaos together.

Dani - Sticks and Amy taught her to be tough and independent, to never let other people's opinions of you stop you from doing what you think is right. She could be a little paranoid thanks to Sticks' conspiracy theories. Dani also cannot control her temper at times.

5. Any planned stories/events with the kids in your head?

I scrapped so much of the original story for both so bear with me if there isn't a whole lot

Starlight AU - Starlight and Dimout meeting, Peri as a whole, might do the whole Eggman turning Starlight against Sonic and Shadow thing I had planned before, the future au

Boom!Shadarry AU - mostly just Eclipse and Opal interactions and shadarry getting together

11. How are their relationships with other relatives (grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, etc)?

Starlight and E-123 Omega love to blow things up together. I mentioned this already but Amy takes on a more mentor role (?) with Starlight. And while Tails thought he was fine at first, he does not want him near his lab or equipment ever again.

13. How does their relationships look with their parents?

Already spent like over 2 hours answering the questions (at the time of typing this) and I already sorta answered in 4 so

skipping this one

14. How old have you imagined them as?

Starlight, Young Phantom & Peri - 10 years

Dimout - 11 years

Opal, Young Jazz and Dani - 16 years

Eclipse & Phantom - 17 years

Jazz - 23

15. How is their clothing style?

Starlight - Anything with bright colors, especially if it lights up

Dimout - Doesn't care much for the look as long as it's practical, would wear jewelry if it doesn't get in the way

Phantom - Comfort>>>>, lives in his baggy shirts and crocs

Jazz - Business casual

Opal - robot

Peri - think those fancy ballet dresses with gold accents

Eclipse - just wears gloves and inhibitor rings, nothing else.

Dani - Idk a mix of Boom!Amy and Sticks' fits

16. Do they have any struggles in any way?

getting tired so I'm skipping this one D:

17. Do they have any fears?

Starlight - The dark

Dimout - Disappointment

Phantom - Not being able to tell reality from the illusions the Phantom Ruby creates in his mind

Jazz & Peri - Failure

Opal - Being wrong

Eclipse - Eggman

Dani - bugs

19. What are their main interests?

Starlight - Rollerskating

Dimout - Painting

Phantom - Video games

Jazz - Fashion

Opal - Animals

Peri - nothing found_

Eclipse - Bugs

Dani - Collecting things

20. Is there anything significant about them that you wanna share?

nope but I would like to ask what y'all think the Starlight AU should be called (not vibing with "void of stars")

21. What are their middle names if they have any?

No middle names :]

[headmatesreborn]

➜ Name(s)

Aphrodite / Echo / Estrella / Starlight / Mira / Shardelle / Stardust / Stelle / Stella / Andromeda / Nebula / Luz / Nova / Orbit / Celestia / Sol / Aurora / Luna / Atlas / Nyx / Horizon / Blush / Abigale/Abby / Bellarose/Bella / Carnation / Cerise / Cherry / Coral / Kathrine/Kat / Kitty / Lotus / Primrose/Rose / Rosalie/Rosey / Rouge / Ruby / Gemini/Gem / Promise

➜ Pronouns

She/Her/Herself / They/Them/Themself / Gal/Galaxy/Galaxyself / Neb/Nebula/Nebulaself / Astra/Astral/Astralself / Cos/Cosmo/Cosmoself / Star/Starself / Com/Comet/Cometself / Aster/Asteroid/Asteroidself / Plan/Planet/Planetself / Voi/Void/Voidself / Mer/Mercury/Mercuryself / Ven/Venus/Venusself / Ma/Mars/Marsself / Ju/Jupiter/Jupiterself / Sat/Saturn/Saturnself Ura/Uranus/Uranusself / Nep/Neptune/Neptuneself / Plu/Pluto/Plutoself Dus/Dust/Dustself / ☄️/☄️self / 💫/💫self / 🌙/🌙self / 🪐/🪐self

➜ Orientation(s)

Abroromantic / Panromantic / Omniromantic / Biromantic / Demiromantic / Lithosexual / Asexual

➜ Age

17-19

➜ Source(s)

Ochako Uraraka from My Hero Academia/Boko No Hero Academia

➜ Role(s)

Soother / Destressor / Comforter / Entrancer / Dissonaut/Dissociation Experiencer / Caregiver/Caretaker

➜ Sign Off Emoji(s)

🚀 / 🪐 / 🌕 / 🌑 / ☄️ / 🛸 / 🔮 / 🌗 / 👾 / 💫 / 🌠 / 🛸/ 🌌 / 👽 / 🌙 / 🌠 / 🔭 / ✨ / 🌕 / 🌀 / 🌓 / 🌎 / 🌟 / 🌕

➜ Faceclaim(s)

🚀🪐🌕 / 💫🌠🛸 / 🌑☄️🛸

➜ Aesthetic

[landofzero-archive]

Rouge&Ruby - The Circumstances of the Second Month 2

(Location: TV station lounge)

(After an Eden music program recording session)

Hiyori: Ah, that was fun! Talking and singing together is the best after all!

There’s a unique sense of fulfillment that only comes from working together as Eden……♪

Jun: I think the recording turned out good too. You're super energized aren't you, Ohiisan?

Hiyori: Of course, after all the four of us working together is just delightful, right?

That’s why there’s so many things I want to do. Since the New Year, Adam and Eve have been taking way too many separate jobs.

Jun: I also agree with you on that. Tomorrow and the day after that, I’ll be on location with you.

Hiyori: What? Are you saying you’re unsatisfied with being on location with me?

Jun: No no, I’m talking about the workflow of the units. 

I’m just feeling a bit stressed so can you not hit me please~?

Hiyori: Hmph. I don’t like how Ibara is scheduling our work without any kind of explanation either!

I’m sure you have an idea behind it but couldn’t you at least explain it? What foul weather!

Nagisa: …… Fufu. Hiyori-kun, you’re talking like me.

Hiyori: Eh?

Nagisa: …… I asked Ibara what he was thinking in the car on the way to the TV station.

Hiyori: Oh, is that so? Fufu, Nagisa-kun and I are inseparable even when we’re apart……♪

Nagisa: …… Yes, we have a telepathic connection.

Hiyori and Nagisa: ………☆ (High five)

Jun: (Whispering) Wait a sec. The seniors are getting all buddy buddy. But you, why are you being so quiet?

Ibara: (Whispering) It’s not like that. I’m simply watching them get along with a smile……♪

Jun: Liar~…… If you started talking at the wrong time, you’d get caught up in their talk so I guess you’re just watching and waiting.

Ibara: If I were to insert myself into a conversation between His Highness and Jun, or His Highness and His Excellency- I feel like such an action would be tasteless.

I was not directly asked to explain, so I don’t think I need to interrupt them.

Hiyori: Don’t you forget that!

The reason I didn’t ask was because I assumed there was something going on so I did my absolute best to put up with it. I wanted so badly to say “Explain this right now!”

Ibara: …… I don’t think I want to hear that while you’re high fiving and holding hands. But thank you for your consideration.

For the time being, until a request for it comes in…… or something like that, I thought I’d explain after I’d laid a certain amount of groundwork.

If it’s something only I know about then I can move it along at my own pace. Additionally, it was also more convenient to just stay silent.

Nagisa: …… In the car, you said you’d explain when Eden is gathered. Is now not a good time?

Hiyori: Is that what he said? Then why don’t we hurry along and get to it, all four of us are here so it’s perfect timing.

Ibara: The time isn’t bad, but this isn’t the right place to talk about it.

I can’t show any materials here, and most importantly we can’t occupy this changing room forever. We haven’t even changed out of our costumes yet.

Nagisa: …… Right. We should have changed out of our costumes first, Hiyori-kun.

Hiyori: Yes, that’s true. I just got excited, but changing clothes is the priority.

Jun: (While starting to change) …… Actually, I have an idea of what Ibara wants to talk about.

Ibara: You do?

Jun: Yeah. Something to do with Chocolat Fes. You said you’d give more details later back at New Year’s.

Hiyori: ?

Ibara: …… Ah, when we spoke on New Year’s? Now that I’m thinking about it, I do remember something like that.

Nagisa: ?

Hiyori: What are you two talking about?! Before I knew it, you two were keeping secrets from us?

I can’t believe Jun and Ibara left us out of it. This is a big deal, Nagisa-kun. It’s depressing to have secrets kept from me……!

Nagisa: …… I don’t think they were trying to leave us out, but if Hiyori-kun is sad then I am too.

…… Ibara, could you clarify?

Ibara: (Whispering) …… It’s Jun’s fault. I was procrastinating on telling you all so I could continue moving at my own pace a little while longer.

Jun: (Whispering) You threw the subject back to me, didn’t you? Can you not blame just me for once?

Ibara: …… Even if you ask me to explain, as I said before, this is not the best place to do so.

I’ll arrange a time for us to properly meet at the office at a later date.

Nagisa: …… I’ll be fine as long as Ibara tells me the time and date. What I want to know is what happened on New Year’s.

Jun: It’s not like it was a special event or anything.

I was going for a run on New Year’s and noticed the ES building lights were lit on the 18th floor.

I was curious and went to check it out and it turns out Ibara was working. So we just chatted for a bit.

Hiyori: You were training the day after SS, weren’t you Jun-kun? And Ibara, even though it was New Year’s you were working as usual!

Nagisa: …… I know you two were training, but I’d like it if you both took a break.

Ibara: Don’t concern yourself with it, Your Excellency. I was advised to rest at an appropriate time.

Jun: And after telling him that, this guy started hitting his keyboard with shocking speed.

…… Ah, could it be… 

Had you been preparing for that COMP shoot a while ago since the beginning of the year?

Hiyori: Ah… It was a sudden shoot, it had me wondering when it was even prepared. While the world was busy celebrating New Year’s, Ibara was busy laying groundwork wasn’t he?

Jun: He was saying it was a rough plan or something like that. If it’s to refine that, I guess he’s willing to give up his day off and work.

Nagisa: …… Ibara’s been moving around a lot. But, this has something to do with Chocolat Fes, right?

…… Does this mean the preparations Ibara’s been progressing through has something to do with our activities?

Ibara: Aah well, you have too many questions! I don’t particularly care at the moment so interpret it as you like.

Or rather, I said I would explain it another day, didn’t I? So no more questions! Denied!

Come on, let’s hurry up and get dressed! I’m arranging for a car to pick us up so no slacking!

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[somefanficsaretoosmall]

Chapters: 23/47 Fandom: Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Relationships: Shadow the Hedgehog/Sapphire the Butterhog, Sally Acorn/Sonic the Hedgehog, Amy Rose/Rouge the Bat, Blaze the Cat/Silver the Hedgehog, Vanilla the Rabbit/Vector the Crocodile, Espio the Chameleon/Mighty the Armadillo, Charmy Bee/Saffron Bee, Julie-Su/Knuckles the Echidna, Tangle the Lemur/Whisper the Wolf, Honey the Cat/Tiara, Antoine D'Coolette/Bunnie Rabbot, Avatar | Custom Hero (Sonic Forces)/Infinite (Sonic the Hedgehog), Shadow the Hedgehog & Silver the Hedgehog & Sonic the Hedgehog, Silver the Hedgehog & Sonic the Hedgehog & Gold the Tenrec, Knuckles the Echidna & Rouge the Bat, Charmy Bee & Espio the Chameleon & Vector the Crocodile, Mighty the Armadillo & Ray the Flying Squirrel Characters: Sapphire the Butterhog, Emerald the Butterhog, Ruby the Phoenixhog, Amethyst the Snowy Owlhog, Topaz the Falconhog, Eclipse the Darkling, Mephiles the Dark, Iblis (Sonic the Hedgehog), Peridot the Holo-Wolf, Infinite (Sonic the Hedgehog), Gadget the Wolf, Minty the Cat - Character, Orion the Lion, Fleur De Lis the Lion, Celestial the Hedgecat, Tea the Dhole, Rylo the Coyote, Doctor Starline (Sonic the Hedgehog), Shadow the Hedgehog, Sonic the Hedgehog, Silver the Hedgehog, Gold the Tenrec, Rouge the Bat, Knuckles the Echidna, Sally Acorn, Amy Rose (Sonic the Hedgehog), Cream the Rabbit, Miles "Tails" Prower, Nicole the Holo-Lynx, Blaze the Cat, Julie-Su (Sonic the Hedgehog), Shireikan | G.U.N. Commander Additional Tags: Vampires, alphas - Freeform, Betas, Omegas, Songs, Pregnancy, G.U.N, Family Issues, Family Bonding, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Sibling Bonding, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Vampire Royalty, Characters Turned Into Vampires, there will be no sex Summary:

Sapphire catches the attention of the Vampire King. While family stays strong for her, friends turn their backs on her. And what will become of the world when Sapphire's true identity is brought to light?

This was inspired by Shades365’s 'Sonic's Alpha' on Wattpad. You can find this story on Wattpad and all their other stories. I love this story and I thought of a version I really want to do. That story was the structure of this story and yes I have their permission.

In this story, you will meet many of my OCs but many of these characters are not mine, the creators of Sonic the Hedgehog own them. The person who will be taking Sonic’s role is a Butterfly/Hedgehog hybrid named Sapphire. Sapphire is the former princess of the Mini Worlds. She is the oldest daughter of Vanessa the Butterfly, the creator of zones. Because of this Sapphire can use any zone’s special power source, examples: chaos emeralds, sol emeralds, etc. When she was 5 her home was blown up and she, her sisters, and the other royal children were sent to the main zone; the zone where this story takes place.

I do have a second book which is called Gem Alphas Character Book.

Each page of this book has a list of the characters in each chapter, plus a description of their look, species, and tiles or relative to another. There are also pictures of outfits from each chapter too.

The first page is of who's replacing who from Shades365’s 'Sonic's Alpha' while the second page is pictures of some of the characters.

All of these pictures I found on Pinterest but I will be giving credit to the creator and if the creator does not like that I have used their pictures or OCs please say something in the comments and I will take the link down.

I will update it as a go and I will make sure to leave a note to let you know when I have updated it.

Is still on going but have taken a break so far, don't know when I will be back