Falling behind again.. ;_;
Gnn. I'll catch up soon again, really. Drawing and writing is just more fun than updating LJ. ;_;
Starting with a drabble I wrote earlier toda-... er, tonight. Because.
For whatever reason, Demyx wiping the floor with Marluxia amuses me greatly. Marluxia may be kick-ass, but if he has any one flaw, it'd probably be his arrogance. X3
This is inspired by a few of the really nice Marluxia x Demyx-drabbles that have come through khyaoi lately, and could possibly be considered a follow-up or tribute to chibi-shiro's great ficlet Persist, which can be found here.
Title: Depths Unexpected
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Characters: Marluxia, Demyx
Rating: I still suck at the letter ratings. No slash, a bit o violence?
Of all his superiors in the Organization, the young carefree musician had seemed the weakest link.
Marluxia watched, calculated, weighed his options carefully before making his move. A friendly spar between newcomers? A good way to test their skills, an amusing way to spend a little time? Would the water-wielder be up to it?
Perhaps once he defeated the clumsy boy his talents would be properly respected, positions shuffled into a more suitable order. And should the clumsy boy inadvertently suffer a fatal blow - well, accidents happen so easily after all. A little space on the top never hurt.
As he staggered away, hand to his face, nose broken and bleeding, he cursed himself for having underestimated his enemy. He had been so certain he had the boy figured out; how could someone with eyes so open and truthful possibly have such hidden depths? His defeat was humiliating more than anything, and as he waited for his abused face to heal he swore that next time he would not be as careless.
He was better, that he knew with painful clarity. Some of the elders he would give his reluctant respect, but he would never ever accept ranking beneath the dim-witted sitar-player.
Number Nine would pay for this insult.
If anything the blonde's happy-go-lucky attitude only served to make matters worse. As though nothing had ever happened he was his usual cheerful self the next day, offering to share his latest composition, all wide grin and large blue-green eyes completely robbed of any remote spark of intelligent thought. Not even a subtle decline had seemed to enter his thick head, and once he had managed to get his point across, if rather tersely, the other had looked crestfallen like a kicked puppy. The condescending grins on the Lancer's and Sharpshooter's faces as they walked past revealed that his humiliation was already public knowledge and he wanted to howl with the frustration.
Number Nine would pay for this.
Marluxia prided himself on his ability to read people. And he never, ever made the same mistake twice. It was with the patience of a serpent he studied the young neophyte, watched him play, watched him spar, watched him and learned. There would be no undignified surprises next time. Only, quite possibly, one of those most unfortunate accidents on the other's behalf.
So it was with quite a bit of self-assurance and a smile so confident it could almost be taken for sociable he finally approached the musician again to ask for a friendly rematch. He would, after all, rather enjoy the sight of the gangly body writhing on his scythe.
That same stupid grin, the same trusting look in his eyes, the Melodious Nocturne happily accepted his challenge. Fool of a boy.
After having studied the other so carefully he knew what moves to expect, danced effortlessly and gracefully among clones, dodged the solid shape of the sitar, letting his scythe whirl and slash and sweep, reducing powerful jets of water to harmless showers of mist. Knew, knew, with glowing satisfaction that he was winning. Heard Demyx laugh breathlessly and ask they stop, admitting defeat.
He smiled serenely as he changed the angle of attack for the final blow, that most rewarding one that would finally, once and for all make it absolutely clear who was the best, all but tasting his victory, already seeing the perfect strike before his inner eye, feeling the impact, hearing the beautiful scream-..
And it was therefore a complete surprise to him as he suddenly faltered, stumbled, the graceful arc of the scythe failing, weapon falling harmless from his hands as he sagged to his knees. Eyes opened wide, hands desperately clawing at his own throat, struggling helplessly to breathe. Water trickling mercilessly from the corners of his mouth, dripping from his nose, a cold, brutal weight inside his lungs.
Demyx was a dark shape in front of him, leaning on his sitar, slightly out of breath as well, scowling, suddenly looking a lot less foolish and a lot more intimidating.
" You just don't know when to quit, do you, Marluxia?" the boy asked, definite anger and even menace in his usually so friendly voice.
And he would have answered, snarled or possibly even begged if there had been any air at all to form words. But all there was was water, and his vision was going dark, and his fingers numb and his entire body ached and screamed with lack of oxygen and he suddenly knew, with horrible certainty what it was like to drown.
As he collapsed, muscles cramping, the shape that was Demyx dismissed his weapon, took a step toward him, and the rush and roar of a thousand waterfalls was in his ears, his vision as blurred as the windswept surface of a lake, water, water all around, and then darkness.
" Let's just leave it at this, shall we?" the voice, melodious but still strangely uncompromising said somewhere nearby, and the spell broke, and he coughed and coughed, gulping for air, trembling and retching, weak like a drowned kitten.
" Let it go, Marluxia. I won't be your weak link. Understand?"
He managed a nod, focused on breathing.
Felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, almost friendly, encouraging.
" I'm glad! You really should stick with your flowers, you know. They're so very pretty."
The happy voice again, without a care in the world. He shuddered as footfalls retreated, a cheerful whistle fading into the distance.
Number Nine would certainly, certainly pay horribly for this as well, but perhaps not within the very closest foreseeable future.
Bedraggled the currently not very Graceful Assassin pulled himself to his feet.
Eight, there was a man with potential. Yes. With the right encouragement, surely Eight could be turned into an asset.
The man had a reputation of always following orders, after all.
Trustworthy, then.
Perfect.
Starting with a drabble I wrote earlier toda-... er, tonight. Because.
For whatever reason, Demyx wiping the floor with Marluxia amuses me greatly. Marluxia may be kick-ass, but if he has any one flaw, it'd probably be his arrogance. X3
This is inspired by a few of the really nice Marluxia x Demyx-drabbles that have come through khyaoi lately, and could possibly be considered a follow-up or tribute to chibi-shiro's great ficlet Persist, which can be found here.
Title: Depths Unexpected
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Characters: Marluxia, Demyx
Rating: I still suck at the letter ratings. No slash, a bit o violence?
Of all his superiors in the Organization, the young carefree musician had seemed the weakest link.
Marluxia watched, calculated, weighed his options carefully before making his move. A friendly spar between newcomers? A good way to test their skills, an amusing way to spend a little time? Would the water-wielder be up to it?
Perhaps once he defeated the clumsy boy his talents would be properly respected, positions shuffled into a more suitable order. And should the clumsy boy inadvertently suffer a fatal blow - well, accidents happen so easily after all. A little space on the top never hurt.
As he staggered away, hand to his face, nose broken and bleeding, he cursed himself for having underestimated his enemy. He had been so certain he had the boy figured out; how could someone with eyes so open and truthful possibly have such hidden depths? His defeat was humiliating more than anything, and as he waited for his abused face to heal he swore that next time he would not be as careless.
He was better, that he knew with painful clarity. Some of the elders he would give his reluctant respect, but he would never ever accept ranking beneath the dim-witted sitar-player.
Number Nine would pay for this insult.
If anything the blonde's happy-go-lucky attitude only served to make matters worse. As though nothing had ever happened he was his usual cheerful self the next day, offering to share his latest composition, all wide grin and large blue-green eyes completely robbed of any remote spark of intelligent thought. Not even a subtle decline had seemed to enter his thick head, and once he had managed to get his point across, if rather tersely, the other had looked crestfallen like a kicked puppy. The condescending grins on the Lancer's and Sharpshooter's faces as they walked past revealed that his humiliation was already public knowledge and he wanted to howl with the frustration.
Number Nine would pay for this.
Marluxia prided himself on his ability to read people. And he never, ever made the same mistake twice. It was with the patience of a serpent he studied the young neophyte, watched him play, watched him spar, watched him and learned. There would be no undignified surprises next time. Only, quite possibly, one of those most unfortunate accidents on the other's behalf.
So it was with quite a bit of self-assurance and a smile so confident it could almost be taken for sociable he finally approached the musician again to ask for a friendly rematch. He would, after all, rather enjoy the sight of the gangly body writhing on his scythe.
That same stupid grin, the same trusting look in his eyes, the Melodious Nocturne happily accepted his challenge. Fool of a boy.
After having studied the other so carefully he knew what moves to expect, danced effortlessly and gracefully among clones, dodged the solid shape of the sitar, letting his scythe whirl and slash and sweep, reducing powerful jets of water to harmless showers of mist. Knew, knew, with glowing satisfaction that he was winning. Heard Demyx laugh breathlessly and ask they stop, admitting defeat.
He smiled serenely as he changed the angle of attack for the final blow, that most rewarding one that would finally, once and for all make it absolutely clear who was the best, all but tasting his victory, already seeing the perfect strike before his inner eye, feeling the impact, hearing the beautiful scream-..
And it was therefore a complete surprise to him as he suddenly faltered, stumbled, the graceful arc of the scythe failing, weapon falling harmless from his hands as he sagged to his knees. Eyes opened wide, hands desperately clawing at his own throat, struggling helplessly to breathe. Water trickling mercilessly from the corners of his mouth, dripping from his nose, a cold, brutal weight inside his lungs.
Demyx was a dark shape in front of him, leaning on his sitar, slightly out of breath as well, scowling, suddenly looking a lot less foolish and a lot more intimidating.
" You just don't know when to quit, do you, Marluxia?" the boy asked, definite anger and even menace in his usually so friendly voice.
And he would have answered, snarled or possibly even begged if there had been any air at all to form words. But all there was was water, and his vision was going dark, and his fingers numb and his entire body ached and screamed with lack of oxygen and he suddenly knew, with horrible certainty what it was like to drown.
As he collapsed, muscles cramping, the shape that was Demyx dismissed his weapon, took a step toward him, and the rush and roar of a thousand waterfalls was in his ears, his vision as blurred as the windswept surface of a lake, water, water all around, and then darkness.
" Let's just leave it at this, shall we?" the voice, melodious but still strangely uncompromising said somewhere nearby, and the spell broke, and he coughed and coughed, gulping for air, trembling and retching, weak like a drowned kitten.
" Let it go, Marluxia. I won't be your weak link. Understand?"
He managed a nod, focused on breathing.
Felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, almost friendly, encouraging.
" I'm glad! You really should stick with your flowers, you know. They're so very pretty."
The happy voice again, without a care in the world. He shuddered as footfalls retreated, a cheerful whistle fading into the distance.
Number Nine would certainly, certainly pay horribly for this as well, but perhaps not within the very closest foreseeable future.
Bedraggled the currently not very Graceful Assassin pulled himself to his feet.
Eight, there was a man with potential. Yes. With the right encouragement, surely Eight could be turned into an asset.
The man had a reputation of always following orders, after all.
Trustworthy, then.
Perfect.