#yurel

[persegan]

Commission: Dark Mage Yurel

My first commission ever! Commissioned by the amazing yurel , who wanted his furred dragon character as a mage wielding dark magic. I was very happy to be able to work in this, as I find his character extremely cute ^^ and Yurel was a pleasure to work with. Thanks for commissioning me! I'm happy with the final result, although I think there's much room for improvement.   Posted using PostyBirb

[sasorikigai]

@yurel​ continued from here (💥)

💥 || The word ‘love’ itself paints his mind with infinite words, ideas, thoughts, and sufferings that needs to be either purged or filtered from the labyrinth of his cranium. For Hanzo Hasashi had witnessed numerous destruction, destruction that he had also been a party to as well. He breaths such an inclination; for there is such a deep, strangling need within him to emulate its beauty of orchestrated blossoms, as Asahi’s alabaster flesh would retain melodies of his endless devouring as he will forever blossom beneath the profound elysian carnality. How it could paint the landscape of his withered mind with immaculate hues, with all the beautiful horizon of Asahi Saito’s skin drenched in time and seamless colors as Hanzo Hasashi would have been meticulous to claim and mark what is his and his alone. “Do not ever fucking dare feed my ravenous need to obsessively and incessantly color you in decorated livid bruises,” how maddening hunger surfaces in the dilated stygian dark amber of his gaze to the point of suffocation. “You’re just insecure of the meeting you’re about to have. Do you really think that the critic would disapprove of your book? Don’t project your feelings onto me, or I’ll take into consideration that you like to be reduced into a wanton puddle beneath my teeth and lips.”

Life for both of them may have mostly been pain and struggle, surmounting trials and tribulations perpetuated; as they both had been depressed loners, with melancholia deeply painted over their mind and soul. His own trauma have torn him to shreds, and messed with his head. His efforts were in vain, and so many deaths of his people, not only limited to his family, left him picking up the remains. With further spurring sufferings and torments, did Hanzo Hasashi find a safe haven in Asahi Saito’s being. “If you’re that concerned about the bruises, then wear a scarf, borrow mine. It’s chilly enough to don one.” Long, calloused fingers brush gossamer strokes upon his beloved’s collar, ascending to graze all the decorated marks. Somewhere between riotous abandon and controlled extravagant sensuality, Hanzo Hasashi peppers a trails of kisses, as he drapes a wool-blend charcoal scarf. “Let me know when the meeting is over, I’ll come pick you up.” 💥 || 

[endexe]

                                                ❝   I want to die for something .   ❞

HIS WORDS REMIND GHOST OF THE PRAISE : “ I WILL DIE FOR YOU ” ,  and they never understand how a line from a place of love can somehow sound so raw and cutting .   [   Maybe love has always been known to be violent after all .   ]   In the similar way , while cold determination leaves the phantom boy in this unholy night   [   @yurel   ] , it still brings his blood to their own sorrow tongue and they hate that they are consuming it whole .   ❝   Why - why not - why not live for that something too ?  ❞   they ask despite knowing the reasons , their tone quiet but full of strange tenderness   [   it bites , it tears , it just burns   ] .   Soft gaze tries to meet Asahi’s , though seeing only the darkness staring back at them  [   a cruel reminder to them that one day ,  their friend will truly become a ghost boy   ] , they rest their leg against his ; a silent giving of deep comfort .   ❝   Well , if you’re going to die - if you’re going to die achieving something , at least don’t be an asshole and give me a visit so we can - so we can celebrate together .   ❞   They offer him a feeble smile even though he may not see it .   Already , are they coping with the inevitable fact that Asahi will die in the end , either for something or nothing at all .

[sasorikigai]

it's a foggy morning when he awakes with a pleasant ache in him that he knows exactly where it's come from , a smile lingers upon lips as he lays on hasashi's bed and keeps his eyes closed . imagines , remembers . the scent of freshly brewed coffee had attracted the younger one into the kitchen , donned in a loose paid of sweatpants and hanzo's loving marks on his pale flesh . on his neck , chest , shoulders . his grin spread over his well rested features as he brings his bare arms around hanzo's torso from behind , and mbles against his firm shoulder blade .  ❛ morning , pretty boy . ❜ / @yurel . just wanna annoy hanzo early in the morning . 🥺

CALL HANZO PRETTY || @yurel || accepting

💥 || Do they ever recover from the trauma of their respective broken dreams? Do they ever really forget the massacre of their ambitions, and the pieces wrecked beyond repair? Do they ever forget the humiliation, the black hole of sadness that grows in the pit of their stomachs at the mere mention of it? Hanzo Hasashi and Asahi Saito try to evolve, grow, and maybe move forward and move on. But sometimes, that shattering was too big, that dream was too profound, and that life was too unfair to ever forget and heal. Some scars may just fester forever into a perpetual state of sadness, but their carnal, lecherous explorations always mitigate their broken hearts, for their sessions remind them that there always will be parts of them that tingles on the reminder, that there is a wound which itches to pull their attention to all the lost dreams and the broken hearts. Eventually, the old scars will fully heal, and as time passes and the winds change, they will leave the places they used to know and start something fresh. This was part of their rebirth, a new profound chapter in both their lives. 

No longer, Hanzo Hasashi helpless remains shrouded in darkness, for Asahi already pulled him towards the light; this man whom he loves so dearly saving him another time, another space, another construct of his shattering and breaking. The dawning light wasn’t the only one that aroused the Commander to face the true ideal longings in the proverbial nature of him, but abundance of their chemistry and devotion towards one another. Sleep had been a harbinger of equal parts solace and fear; slipping away halts the torment of its leading up to the worst moment in his life, all the while, instigating the arrival of the newly-painted war zone of a new day, as his human vices and distorted sentiments will struggle to chase away the demons through survival without ever antagonizing them. 

The halcyon stretch of the morning on his off-day lingers on as usual. Clad in nothing, but his boxer briefs, his inaudible footsteps ebb and flow, coming and leaving; a man who knows how to compose and erect himself with an intense spark of soul-piercing amber eyes would have bloomed flowers with the saturated, unflinching declaration of love - as Asahi’s skin reflects the rose-colored hickeys deepening in colors as Hanzo’s attention careens and downpours from the steady drip of the French press to his beloved, drenching into the cracks of familiar nooks and crannies of Asahi’s every inch. Electric, perhaps destructive, his knowing gaze proves that the love he has towards Asahi Saito is unpremeditated nor manipulated, despite his slight irritation, saturating rubicund flush around his neck and cheeks. 

“G’morning, my macho man,” Hanzo’s being downright and unapologetically sarcastic, as his dry, sleep-laden guttural timbre echoes against Asahi’s temple as he utters a disapproving grunt. However, he is quick to recognize the familiar emanating warmth of his beloved’s lips; any extent of loving sweetness warms him insides, seeping through his lungs to burst as radiance through his skin. “I am absolutely terrorized and flattened by your remarkable compliment.” Oh, the power Asahi Saito could be holding; his undying love would beat Hanzo to it, as soon, ephemeral spell of his irritation would melt as the smoky dark roast of the coffee bean would cling onto Asahi’s lips. 💥 || 

[sasorikigai]

@yurel​ stabbed the heart for Hanzo’s Tiddy-Palming

💥 || Hanzo Hasashi refuses to live a life of regret, despite having lived decades full of guilt and regret. He refuses to hope things will get better in the future when he has complete control over making them the best possible right here and now. Despite feeling as if he has had multitudes of divisions as he would go through chapters of life and death and rebirth, he has one life - and none knows how long one’s life will be or what will become of it. The fact that the possibilities of human life are truly infinite makes Hanzo’s own life worth living. For his heavily blemished skin and heart and soul tell so many stories, and if one looks hard enough, one shall see the scars from playground mishaps from his youth, and see the scars he had retained when he was a mere fledgling in the Special Forces, and the visible scar under his hairline where his skull was fractured in the fated accident where he would lose everything, nearly his own life as well as his soul floated on an ocean of firestorm tears, as his heart drowned in sanguine squelch. 

The evening masquerade colors the town in the tapestry of cyanic curtain, and Hanzo finds himself sitting in a sullen silence; sullied by suddenness of grief, sodden in lachrymose. Despite instilled hope swelling in the ravaged kintsugi of his heart, the winds of the stifling summer refuse to carry away his thoughts, as they sit stagnant and decay and rot takes over his soul as the morbid mix between life and death perpetuate to become a graveyard overgrown by wildflowers and moss. Perhaps the dead will appreciate the frail life he has given Harumi and Satoshi, and through his newfound love, would he let once folded thousand futures let unfurled with abandon and wanton openness. 

Once, flowers used to be the joys of life; a sign of something good growing there. Sometimes new, joyous, and wonderful. Is it any wonder the dead wish to recall all the joyous and wonderful and wistful moments of their lives? That the language of flowers is still used today? The dead appreciate what little communication they get, as the flowers that bloom in your path are the dead waving to say hello. Reminders that they are loved, and if he takes the flowers to them, it would manifest as a sign that he wishes them all the same. Reincarnation has never been proven and past lives still influence both of them. A spark of happiness permeates as ground-up bone fragments and mangled flesh and bloom are seen together. 

A bundle of Himawari and Rabenda decorate the shared living room, and Hanzo’s cheeks remain pressed against the junction of Asahi’s chest, as the stars that Hanzo Hasashi once admired in the sky makes their way into his fathomless eyes; a warmth of a fire permeating as his kisses fall like petals upon his beloved’s flesh. There are times like this when he feels so unreal and surreal; for the triad of happiness, love, and affection bestowed become near-perfection, despite moments of strife and struggles. “I will take you in the most delicate way, in the most purest form; in a way so unforgiving and undying that it would concurrently take our breaths away and leave us sighing in gentle exhaustion.” Perhaps he will yearn for Asahi in life, and he longs for his beloved in la petite mort as choreographed frenzy of symphony will leave him filled with climaxes of music. 💥 || 

[sasorikigai]

"from the depths of your heart" / @yurel 👁️👁️

send in " from the depths of your heart " for the receiver to tell the sender's muse something that they've always wanted to tell them, but has never had the opportunity to do so. || @yurel || accepting

💥 || Often, Hanzo Hasashi finds himself free falling; he can’t think straight, he can’t reach out to anything because they are too weak to grasp onto. The scalding cascade of tears fall involuntarily, and his broad chest is growing heavy with turmoil that he has spent years trying to work through, and then his body thinks it is gradually dying. He may no longer dig himself deeper, and deeper into a pit of despair until his mind puts him six feet under. And his bones are lonely, hallow, splintered, aching; with his heart has run dry and there in spiders and roaches and maggots make home in the hollowed husk where his swollen red heart used to sit. Hanzo Hasashi did not need to be damned with Sadako’s unbound rage towards absence of humanity she faced with utter cruelty and abomination, and Hanzo’s magnanimous, warm heart came like awareness, as the parasite of such crude curse ravaged through his jeopardized sanity, as his manic obsession clutched onto the very videotape, while his proverbial hope and despair played eternal tug-of-war amidst his subconscious. 

Nobody looked good in one’s darkest hours; but it’s those hours that makes Hanzo Hasashi what he is; an intense, stubborn, indomitable man wrapped in his guilt, wrath, and remorse. His palms are still crimson-coated and his steps crimson-streaked, with the tightened strings of his heart threatening to stretch and snap. The distorted white static, then the tenebrous hollow of abysmal gaze that was Sadako’s vengeful glare, bearing deep into the depths of his traumatized heart and soul, all amounted him to drop dead in septic shock, as his petrified nerves will forever still, as his limbs would be bent over in all the wrong angles. 

Hanzo Hasashi still takes care to invest all of his strength and energy on keeping up appearances as a respectable Commander of the law and disguising his insecurities with steeled exterior, projecting a secure, assertive, and confident presence with a kind and courageous heart. But he was a hollowed husk, perhaps already bludgeoned and shoved into the very well full of tainted rot and tenebrous darkness. He bears tornado heartbeats and constellations in his eyes, but his soul is lost at fathomless sea, meant to suffocate and drown. 

“When you made yourself an audience in my whirling life, I was at my worst. I thought love was an inconceivable and undeserving facet of my life that will never come. Despite the wanton desire for seeking one overflowed as I would often dream of the halcyon days of my happiest days of my life...,” Hanzo Hasashi still does to an extent, as he recalls the taste of Harumi’s soft, plump lips and dream of the touch of her fingertips. The way that her hands fit into his larger one, as he would secure his hold against her breasts. The passing film reel of his past would feel like a dream within a dream, a quenching oasis in the desolate, debilitating onslaught of enervating heat draining every ounce of his willpower, strength, and resolve. “While we were both humbled in our own respective brokenness and crumbling... You have greatly aided me in fighting some of my fiercest battles, even in our deafening, seemingly eternal silences and quarrels.” 

Even in their physical and psychological distance, Hanzo Hasashi would never feel of being left alone. “I used to feel that I no longer had a reason to stay awake, for the moment I open my eyes, my mind would begin to ache. No reason left to live and with nothing worth dying for, as I was in limbo surrounded by the loss of the one I adore. Trying to find a new reason to live, I begin looking inside, walking into the dark where my inner demons reside. Even they lack any glee now that I thought they had already won, It seems all my demons and I finally agree that I wasn’t completely done and my life wasn’t over with. Living alone without you is not what I would call a life, for you were the only one I ever wanted to call my beloved after I lost my wife.” 💥 || 

[a-g-landers]

[utane]

A bunch of stuff I’ve done this month. Most unfinished bc I’m a lazy bastard :y