A multi-muse, multi-fandom, OC friendly (I have a few of my own I'm working on), role-play blog. I write at a length I feel is needed. Low to moderate activity as I live a busy life. Plotting is always welcome. Links to side blogs are in my carrd. As written by Alex
The Secret World of Arriety (2010)
Howl's Moving Castle (2004)
Kiki's Delivery Service (1989)
Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea (2008)
The Wind Rises (2013)
When Marnie Was There (2014)
My Neighbor Totoro (1988)
❛ your one mistake was not finishing me off when you had the chance. ❜ , suguru + toji
"While true, I couldn't risk all those curses releasing at once. I had bigger fish to fry." He sits back in his seat, gripping the ticket in his palm. Eyes focus on the television. A football team strikes a home run, and Toji breathes a subdued sigh of relief. "What do you want?"
❛ . . . and who are you supposed to be? ❜ , megumi + toji
Toji's scrutinizing emerald eyes glare at him. His massive size intimidates most people, but not this lean teenager. A teen with dark hair dark spikey hair, green eyes, and with familiar narrowness to them...something extremely familiar.
He crosses his arms across his chest. "....Imma Fushiguro. And you?" Toji answers as he tilts his head. An eyebrow raises, while waiting for the other to return the favor.
@inun4ki
inun4ki asked:
' ara, let me help you. you're covered in blood-- it's even in your hair. ' / yura !
pt1/3
pt2/3
----
Yura's father claps slowly, looking down at his son. One corner of his mouth curls upwards into a sinister grin. One of self-assurance and devious pleasure. It wasn't comforting at all. Not for children seeking support from their guardian. "You killed your enemies, son
Look at you. Your cherry popped. Aren't you proud?" His words were taunting Yura's plight.
Yura finds himself on his knees. The sight of the tangled mess covers Sergei's eyes and etches into his soul. The grisly scenery is eclipsed by Sergei's mortality.
"Солнце..." He whimpers. The wave of clarity morphs into unrelenting grief. A lump on his throat swells, making his voice low. It shakes all his words. The coil in his chest breaks, then turns into a weight trying to pull him to the ground. The heart's frantic attempt to alert him that Sergei is gone. Yura's fingertips move a portion of Sergei's raven mane to confirm his fears. Citrine, bright, energetic eyes lie dull, lifeless and empty. Yura swiftly checks for a pulse by placing his index and middle finger on Sergei's neck. He adds pressure in search for a pulse, but his efforts are in vain. The fire within Sergei had been prematurely snuffed out. "...Солнце..." His breath becomes shallow. A heavy cloud hastily creeps above Yura, making his loss palpable. "No..." With Yura's voice on the verge of breaking, his bottom lip quivers. He sees Sergei's hand reach for his direction and he grasps. He squeezes Sergei's palm, but there is no squeeze in return. He pulls Sergei close and shakes him, but the dead weight and limp movement should have been enough of a sign.
"СОЛНЦЕ!!!" Belts Yura, gripping Sergei close to his chest. He crumbles, curling inward and leaning down to meet at the forehead. Snot clogs Yura's nose. Rivers of sorrow flood down Yura's cheeks. His cry is muffled, only made loud by the intermittent sniffles and broken hearted gasps for air. His hands splay upon Sergei's back to hold him close, making digits accidentally enter Sergei's slippery wounds. His heart sinks further and the anguish rattles him to the core. His body quakes from the emotional strain. If Sergei's no home is in a coffin beneath the ground, Yura's heart years to dive beneath the earth and join him.
Hapless tears stream down Sergei's face, and Anatoly can't help but to cackle harder.
"Hahaha!!! Отец!! Look at him!!" The curse mocks. "*Weak*!!"
The patriarch stops clapping. "Pitiful. The best friend needed to go. You're sobbing over him. There are plenty of those twinks to go around."
Yura tightens his grip around Sergei. "Stop." He growls.
He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Why did you think I invited him to the function? Sergei has always been repulsive."
Yura teeth grind together. A snarl menacingly leaks out of his lips. "Enough"
"Uh oh. Mr. Loverboy is getting angry. It's best you leave. We know how *that* will go, eh?" Anatoly playfully elbows the father. A warning cloaked by a jovial gesture. "Time to get back to work."
Yura's father scoffs. He scampers back to the humble looking bar at the end of the parking lot. Of the survivors, those who kept to their business and top drunk to get involved remained safe.
Yura nestles Sergei weight one arm. The other caressing cheek. A thumb brushes against the brunette's eyebrow, then slowly swipes downward to the apple of his cheek. Knuckles tenderly brush downward towards his chin before closing his dim eyes "Солнце." Yura repeats mournfully, glassy ocean blue eyes lovingly gaze upon his childhood friend. "...Солнце..."
Anatoly years strange footsteps approaching nearby. It hastily disappears from view.
It grows closer, then stops a foot away from him.
A new voice says, "ara, let me help you. you're covered in blood-- it's even in your hair."
Yura looks up, eyes still stricken with shock and grief. Narrow pupils and bloodshot meet the purple haired other. Lips part but Yura found himself unable to speak. A sniffle escapes his nose before finally answering, "Hmm? W-Who are you? What are you doing h-here?"
Sergei didn't get a chance to order from the bartender. Mixologists were busy fulfilling a long list of previous orders. The queue kept adding up, making the orders a long wait. His phone buzzes in his front pocket. A swift swipe and his hand held the black screen in front of him. It lights up.
'[Yura:] Sergei, I ran out of cigarettes. Can you get me a fresh pack from the car.'
'[Text:] Of course. Be right there.'
He jumps off the barstool and delightfully marches to the parking lot. The new moon blankets the outside world in darkness, leaving the streetlights to provide little islands of clarity. He strolls towards Yura's luxury SUV, unlocks it thanks to Yura's spare key, and opens the passenger side door. Hands shuffle around the center console, but only a spare pair of sunglasses, 2-3 empty lighters, and a large gaudy ring was found. No cigarette pack. He reaches over and opens the glove compartment. A few papers and letters, a small pack of napkins and hand sanitizer. Still, no cigarettes.
He didn't see any other places Yura would keep them, so he gave Yura a call. The smartphone is held against his ear while it rings as scans the rest of the SUV.
"..."
The phone picks up. "Привет. Sergei Да?"
"Yura. I can't find any spare cigarette boxes. Are you sure you packed any?" Sergei peers under the passenger's seat. "I checked everywhere...well, everywhere but the trunk."
"Try the trunk. I left my knapsack there. Check in the front pocket."
"Ok." He closes the passenger side door. A loud thud and click echoes through the lot. He marches over to the trunk and opens it. The zipper from his backpack rips open, loud enough for the phone to capture it. "Oh I see it. It's ri- AHH!! Fuck! Yu-!" The phone drops to the ground. Loud plastic hard thuds bombard the mic. Once the noise settles, a struggle fills the phone. Abrupt blood curdling screams emanate from Sergei's end. Repeated high pitch hysterical yells blow through the phone's speaker.
By now Yura was sitting in the VIP room enjoying one of the leather seats. He was nestled into the couch when he heard the tussel. He jumps up, both leather shoes on the ground.
"Sergei?...Sergei!! What's going on!..." Yura hastily runs out of the bar, keeping the phone to his ear until he reaches the exit. Panic begins to settle into his veins, and his heart pounds against his chest.
His eyes widen, pupils shrink as he processes the scene. Sergei's chilling wails assault his ears.
"Sergei!!" He cries, distressed and trembling. His phone falls to the ground and he runs to his car. Yura's stomach coils tightly, a cranked toy unable to turn anymore.
He witnesses a 6ft man stabbing Sergei with his knife. The blade is wet, dripping in his best friend's blood. The moment a fresh coat of paint slides off the blade, it returns to sink its sharp edge into Sergei's flesh. The unsettling squelching injects into Yura's ears.
Yura lunges at Sergei's attacker, however, arms stop Yura from pursuing him. Another stranger pulls him away from Sergei, keeping him in a choke hold.
"Sergei!!" He calls out in helpless terror. "Get-...Get off me!! Солнце!!"
A third, then a fourth accomplice enters the scene. One of them rushes the assailant gripping Yura. "Hurry up. Kill the blondie too."
Sergei drops to the floor by the one of the rear wheels. The onslaught of stabs continue. This time on Sergei's legs. His primal visceral screams quiet down. A muddled bubbly whisper between his shallow breaths escapes his mouth. "Yu....ra...."
Yura claws over the arm that is choking him. A fire surges through him. An overwhelming power becomes unrestrained. Rational thinking is pushed to the wayside. The urge to destroy all that was nearby becomes all consuming. He screams deep from within his lungs, the outburst catching the attention from everyone at the bar. Even over the music. This prompts more people to rush into the alteration, turning them all into accidental targets. 4 more men join in the brawl, this time in an attempt to defend Sergei.
Yura's vision goes black. "Anatoly!!" He demands at the top of his lungs.
Zubov's curse appears. It looks over the struggling pair. "Yes Yura? Wassup? Looks like you got in a bit of a fickle heheh"
A slow, chilling, deliberate cadence flavors his command. "Kill them. Kill them all."
"Say no more." Anatoly grins from ear to ear. Despite the gratifying joyous moment it was to finally kill again, Anatoly complains. "Ahh it only took you so long. No more watching. Better late than ever I guess! Oo you there? Whatcha up to?"
Anatoly increases in size, giving it the opportunity to cover more ground. It takes its hand and wraps it around Yura's assailant, then crushes him. Blood and brain splatter onto Yura's hair, and the arm constricting his airways abruptly loosens and falls. The first bodily thud of the night.
Anatoly grabs another person, snaps them by the neck and tosses him beside Sergei. Next crushes Sergei's assailant with its palm, mixing Sergei's blood with the attacker's.
As Anatoly raises the death count, Yura's palm lifts out in front of him. It reacts on its own accord, and tethers its strings to the morbid remains surrounding him. Corpses animate at Yura's command and begin fighting in his place. The knife used to stab Sergei is now a weapon for the unintended recipients by the undead. For every new corpse, there was a new enemy for the other party. The barbaric night continued until there was no one but Yura left standing; with Sergei by his feet.
The fight ended unexpectedly quickly. Yura's abilities along with Anatoly by his side proved that numbers are not enough for regular people to win. Yura was blessed with powers along with the family curse. A power that his father thought Yura should use mercilessly.
In a questionable coincidence, Yura's father strolls by Yura after the brawl. His footsteps are recognizable, avoiding all alarms for Yura's heightened sense of danger, although his skepticism was raising a meek but noticeable flag....
The evening cloaks the surroundings in darkness. The only visual aid was the streetlights that harshly lit the parking lot's asphalt. However, adrenaline coursing through Yura paints his vision; turning the white streetlights into broad and blurry brush strokes. Splotches of red are textured like sponges pressed against a canvas- harsh and vivid but borders unclear. His hearing is muffled. Loud primal ocean waves overshadow his senses, making his environment fade into the background. Smells are ignored despite humidity gluing the scent of iron into the air.
All five senses begin to sharpen. The primal waves fade slowly, and demonic cackling takes its place. Two eerie voices layer on top of one another, one of a woman and the other of a man, twist with occasional pops and hisses.
"Ah HaHAHA!! Genius Отец! THIS is what I was WAITING FOR!!"
The painting in Yura's vision becomes more detailed over time. The cracks and creases of the asphalt come into frame. Moths dancing around the streetlights greet him with a mocking hello, mere bystanders to the scene.
A familiar male voice menacingly chuckles. "See, Yura. I knew you had it in you. You just needed a little push."
Yura’s hand is held out in front of him. Faint lines tether his fingertips to animated fresh corpses -organic marionettes- standing on top of additional limp bodies. Blood pools beneath each fight simulating a battle between factions surround Yura in his return to consciousness. The trunk of his SUV is open behind him.
"hmm!? Отец... What happened!?....l-last I remember..."
The tethers snap. His hand drops to his thigh and he falls to his knees. His pants and shirt are soaked in deep burgundy. Golden locks are stained in red. His clothes cling to his skin. "...Отец...." he whispers, in hopes for some clarification via his father.
An androgynous person lies on their stomach in front of Yura. Long ebony hair tangles above their open empty eyes. Their hand reaches out to Yura, their body crying out for him in their last moments. The body's pink silk button up and brown slacks are torn. Holes in their clothes reveal multiple stab wounds on their ribs and hamstrings.
----
The last of Yura's memories was joining his father at a party. It took place in a lavish bar on the outskirts of town. The place was usually lively, loaded with alcohol and talented bartenders. VIPs were welcomed to a hidden, luxurious portion of the bar, filled with comfortable leather seats, high quality drugs, and carefully crafted cigars. Yura's friends were invited. His father uncharacteristically *encouraged* it. The voice of his father echoed, "Да! Bring Sergei. I know how much he means to you."
One of his closest friends, Sergei, was invited as Yura's honored guest. Sergei's long obsidian hair and messy man bun earned judgmental stares from the locals. Whispers never failed to erupt when he walked by. His straight, silky mane was attributed to his Asian ancestry. His Russian half gifted Sergei with bright hazel eyes and thin smooth lips. His complexion was a perfect shade of a soft eggshell white with a charming button nose to finish the look. His thin frame easily fooled anyone into thinking he was a woman, however given their sexist environment, Sergei kept the feminine attire between Yura and he.
"Oi. Come on!!" Serge teasingly mewls. "It's the VIP bathroom. We locked it. No one s’gonna come in. We used ta kiss like this all the time at school. Remember...?" Sergei pulls Yura closer by the collar. Noses are no more than 5 cm apart. Both of their breaths carried the scent of whiskey and bourbon.
The brunette plunks on the porcelain throne. He continues to hold Yura by the collar, forcing him to tower over Sergei. Hazel gems flash Yura a doe-eyed look. The infamous pleading eyes and charming pout makes Yura weak, despite trying to hold firm. Sergei’s breath tickles along his neck, making goosebumps rise to the surface.
"..In the stall..." Sergei continues, his voice more alluring. "..at the same time...during those 'bathroom breaks'. No?"
A hard swallow glides down Yura's Adam's apple. Warmth rise at the apple of his cheeks.
Sergei flashes a smug grin before biting his own bottom lip.
"Sergei!!" Yura frustratingly whispers. A thick layer of reservation and a hint of desire cloaks his next words. "Noooo. I'm not like that. Not anymore. I've always liked women. You *look like one*." Yura's brows harden to stone. Eyes are unyielding, ready to collide and dominate anyone who opposes him. Sergei, however, isn't fooled.
Sergei's grip on his collar loosens. His palm opens and fingertips brush along Yura's chest. Pointer and middle finger trails along his collar bone, down to the valleys of his pecks. Pressure glides through his shirt. Yura stiffens, locked between pulling away, or indulging in Sergei's warmth a little longer. To bite the fruit he promised his father not to touch.
Memories of sensual kisses and racy bites flood Yura's mind. Deep and passionate affection was always rewarded with sweet nectar in return. The taste of Sergei's tongue reminded him of honey and milk. The way it left behind its sweet taste. Yura hasn’t met anyone who could replicate the same. It had been years since his father sent him away, as Yura viewed it, a family friend's labor camp. A turbulent attempt shakes him out of his affluenza. Lonely, cold, and uncomfortable were the overarching experience of his years away, and the warm, welcoming touch of Sergei's longing became harder to dismiss.
A beat or two passes while he observes Sergei's citrine almond eyes. Vibrancy and joy defines its yellow color, similar to the sunflower fields they would hide within as children. Sergei would ask for Yura to accompany him for hours and play cossacks and robbers. As they got older they would create a makeshift hideout, drink and do homework after-school.
Yura's friend was attached to his very identity. To his growth. They've matured together and contributed to one another's personality and support. They faced the world head on. The two of them vs life itself.
The black titillating lashes waving at the Yura breaks him. His hard, unyielding stare fades into a conceding look. The foundation of Yura's fortitude crumbles in front of Sergei, and Sergei celebrates with a giddy triumphant chuckle.
"Woman or not; you like *me*." Sergei's half-lidded gaze meets Yura's clear turquoise stones. He leans up and brushes his lips against him. "One more time won't hurt."
"Just this once...." Yura murmurs, pressing his lips against his. They caress one another. The taste of whiskey, honey, and milk welcome Yura's tongue.
Sergei thanks him by nipping the top of Yura's lip and pulling him closer. His tongue lustfully trails behind the bottom row of teeth. Each pearly white cherished and polished by Sergei. He bites onto the plump of the other’s flesh.
Yura's pants gradually become tighter. His hands have a mind of their own. One holds his body weight on the wall behind Sergei, and the other loosens the buttons of Sergei's pink silk button up.
The brunette runs his sturdy hands through Yura's prickly undercut and leaves electrifying tingles in their wake. The sensation travels down Yura's neck, and a small spark of excitement ignites in chest. His waistband grows noticeably tighter. "Sergei.." he utters warmly. His tone lowers, and his lips are coated in passion.
"I'm not Sergei..." he answers thick with desire. "I'm your Солнце...remember?" Fingers fumble around Yura's belt buckle, desperately yanking and pulling to unfold it.
An assertive tug brings Yura back to reality. The illusion breaks, and Yura returns to logic and reasoning. Emotions and carnal desire are handled properly; filed, placed into a box, locked away and dismissed to collect dust.
Yura pulls away resentfully. "Нет...солнце. You know this is wrong."
Hands snap away from his belt, and Yura takes a few steps back.
Sergei scoffs, "Achhh Yura! My long hair is wrong, the clothes I wear in private is wrong, my race is wrong. And I do what I want anyway. You think I care?"
Yura presses the tips of his fingers against Sergei's mouth. "Quiet. We can talk about this later. **In private.**"
Sergei taps Yura's fingers off of him and gets up from the seat. "Oi. You're really annoying. I'm going to get more whiskey.” He weaves by Yura and stops by the ornate, mosaic stall door. "Is it a crime to miss your 'best friend'?" A frustrated frown is thrown at him, followed by a passive aggressive dusting of his chocolate brown slacks.
Yura hangs his head. A sigh escapes his lungs before looking over his shoulder. It bothered him to see Sergei so disappointed. He was too, but the denial was necessary. A price to pay for a smoother, chaos free life. There were too many problems for him to balance as is, and a relationship with Sergei would add another on his plate. He wanted his солнце in his life, even if he was just a friend.
Sergei leaves the bathroom and returns to the public section of the bar. His rear slams into the stool before leaning over the table. He rests his forehead on his palm, allowing his fingers to bury themselves into his tresses. Dim lighting and loud music fill his surroundings, adding to the social carefree ambiance. Sergei looks out of place amongst the tipsy sing-alongs and hazy camaraderie. Another 3 shots of whiskey should get him back to his warm delightful self. If only the bartenders weren’t so busy.
-----
Yura leaves the stall a few minutes after Sergei. He runs the sink, washes his hands, and splashes the cold water onto his face. Youthful turquoise eyes stare back at him. Golden hair is combed away from his face and managed to stay well kept throughout the night despite the lack of hairspray. It always left his hair crunchy, and the color was enough to confuse his strands for hay.
A ghastly figure appears from behind him. A patchwork of body parts to create a decomposing disfigured woman. A hissing male and female voice spoke to him. Each voice intertwined to make a twisted, metal screeching sound.
"You're fucking gay. I can't believe I'm attached to a homosexual." Teases the creature. A curse that plagued his family for generations.
Yura speaks to him through the mirror. Blue eyes roll at his curse. "You act like you haven't experimented with your friends."
"**Nope.**" It wiggles his fingers at Yura. "Women were too busy throwing themselves at me to even consider it."
Yura ignores its gestures. He reaches for the paper towels and pats his face dry as he replies, "Anatoly, stop being stupid. You were too busy making dolls out **women's dead bodies**. Not sleeping with them."
Before stepping out of the bathroom, Yura pats his person for a pack of personally rolled cigarettes. He feels it in his right pocket, opens it, and finds the box empty.
An exasperated sigh leaves him. "I'm going to text Sergei. I need you out of sight once I exit."
Anatoly nods and disappears from everyone’s sight. Not a word of protest from the creature.
Yura reaches for his phone in his pack pocket. He presses the lock key and the screen lights up.
'[text] Sergei, I ran out of cigarettes. Can you get me a fresh pack out the car.'
With the final month of the year here, it’s your chance to send the mun or muse something you’ve wanted to tell them! Whether you haven’t had the chance to or you’ve been too shy, now’s the time to say what you feel, and don’t hold back!
Fun fact, in the book, it's explicitly stated that Sophie is a wizard like Howl and has a magical gift for speaking things into existence. Wish they added that into the film bc it explains SO MUCH and adds to the theme that her thoughts were shaping her reality.
There's one scene where she's fixing Howl's jacket and says it looks like it's built to attract ladies. And then SUDDENLY women are swooning over him.
