my life to the fullest

People should be afraid of the lions--not just because they were a pack of male lions in their prime, but because they were Shishigumi. They were the apex predators of the Black Market. They were on top of this dark little world right now, held there by their own ferocity, Louis's planning, his ice-cold will, and their claws. Anyone with sense should be afraid of them--so either Alfie didn't have sense, or there was more to him than met the eyes. So, so much more.

"He smells like a hybrid," Agata said, once the man had gone. He wrinkled his nose and rubbed the back of a paw against it. "Gross."

"Hey." Free smacked his shoulder. "Don't be a bigot, what the fuck?"

"Yeah, well, you're not the one Melon stabbed with a fork."

"Never getting over the fork thing, huh, kid?"

Ignoring their banter, Louis walked up closer to the edge of the stage, although he was careful to stay out of sight and out of distraction's range, but barely aware of it. It was only Louis's long respect for the stage that kept his feet rooted to the spot, as that strange little kangaroo started to sing.

The music was--

Louis had never heard anything like it before. His breath caught and held, his eyes widened, and although he was aware of the rain starting to fall more heavily now, it didn't matter. Alfie wasn't singing to him, he knew that, but the power of his music, the words of the song--it felt like he was. That was the gift of a true performer, the red deer knew that, and knew he wasn't immune to the effects, but still. The words cut him to the quick, the building strength of the song, the understanding the man sang it with...

Louis was spellbound.

He ignored the rain, ignored the way all of the lions moved away other than Free; he stayed, opening up an umbrella to hold over his boss while the other cats sought shelter under various overhangs and pavilions. Louis gave the smallest twitch of an ear in acknowledgement of the rain no longer falling on him, but that was it. His eyes were on Alfie, his heart was held in stasis, and even his soul felt like it was in danger.

It wasn't until the song ended that he felt like he was breathing again. The crowd was cheering and applauding, far more for this act than for most, but Louis couldn't move. He wanted to clap, but he couldn't. He shook himself, trying to recapture his self-possession, but still, he couldn't look away.

Who...

Alfred’s fingers slowed their pace, not quite enough to break rhythm, but enough to make him feel as though something inside him had slipped, and when he resumed, the sound of the guitar seemed heavier. Not louder. Just weighted.

His eyes closed again.

Not gently. Tightly. Like he was bracing himself against something.

My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies…

The line came out rougher than anything he’d sung before. Not off-key. Not uncontrolled. Just strained. Like he’d been forced to pull it up from deep, deep down, against his will.

Rain ran down his face now, collecting in the fur on his cheeks, sticking in his eyelashes. It was impossible to tell what was rain and what wasn’t.

Fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die…

His voice wavered.

Just once.

Just enough of a fracture in the sound that, if you were close enough, if you were paying enough attention, you’d know it for what it was.

That line. That line was when it started. Sixteen years old. Smoke filling the stairwell. Heat climbing up the walls faster than he could think. A guitar clutched against his chest because it was the only thing he’d been able to grab. And nothing else.

I can flyyy-ee-ie, my frieeends—!

It came out desperate. Like he was trying to convince himself it was true. His hand slipped on the strings, wet and shaking, and the sound of the next chord was harsher than he’d intended.

Then the chorus—

no, not a chorus anymore.

A release.

The show must go on, yeah— Show must go on—!

His voice cracked.

Fully this time.

It didn’t break the note—it warped it, stretched it thin with everything underneath it.

His shoulders tensed, breath hitching hard before he forced himself forward.

I’ll face it with a grin— I’m never givin’ in—

His jaw clenched.

There it was.

That sixteen-year-old again, sitting alone with a guitar in a room that felt too big and too empty, writing these exact words with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

On with the show—

The words came quieter.

Not weaker.

Just… raw.

Then the final build.

His fingers hit the strings harder now—almost too hard—notes buzzing slightly under the pressure, rhythm pushing forward like he was trying to outrun something closing in behind him, hitting the last verse with a most unearthly, ephemeral, musical howl of grief and pain and fury and helplessness and a million more emotions besides.

OOOH, I’ll top the bill, I’ll overkill— I have to find the will to carry—

His voice faltered.

Stopped.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Breath caught, stuck, like his throat had sealed around it.

The rain hammered down harder. The crowd vanished. The stage vanished. All that was left was that night.

Heat.

Noise.

Loss.

His hand trembled visibly on the fretboard.

On… with the—

He tried again.

It came out broken.

On… with the—

Another breath—sharp, uneven—

And then he forced it out.

Not clean.

Not perfect.

But fierce.

“SHOOOOW... MUST GO OOON!!”

The final chord slammed out beneath it—loud, ringing, just slightly off from the force he’d put into it.

Then—

silence.

Alfred stood there, motionless, his shoulders tensed, his chest heaving in and out too quickly, his fingers locked around the strings like if he let go, the whole thing would fall apart.

Rain poured down over him.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t look up.

He didn’t acknowledge the crowd.

For a moment, it didn’t even look like he could.

Then, slowly--

very, very slowly--

his fingers began to relax.

The music died away.

His head dropped, his ears tilting back, his breathing ragged as he swallowed hard, trying to get himself back under control. When he finally looked up again, his eyes sparkled a little brighter than they had before.

Not with tears.

Just… wet.

He blinked once, sharply, and let out a breathy laugh, almost, but not quite.

“…Heh.” His voice, when it finally came, was rough.

Stripped.

“Thanks.”

The applause, when it came, caught him a second later.

Alfred barely registered it.

Because without thinking, without meaning to, his gaze had already moved back to the edge of the stage.

To Louis.

And this time, there was no playful smile. No confident air. Just a look.

A look like he’d just given something precious…

• Legoshi — the awkward wolf with far too many feelings • Louis — proud red deer, walking ego and complicated heart • Alfred — OC kangaroo/dingo hybrid with a flair for music, drama, and emotional chaos

I’m looking for 20+ RP partners interested in long-term, character-driven Beastars threads.

What I enjoy writing: • Relationship development and character study • Post-canon timelines, academy years, or AU settings • Slice-of-life moments, quiet conversations, and emotional scenes • Occasional drama, tension, and messy feelings (because… Beastars)

Writing style: • Multi-paragraph / novella friendly • Collaborative plotting mixed with spontaneous threads • Side characters and additional muses welcome where the story calls for them

If you’re interested in writing together, feel free to like this post, reblog, or send a message so we can start plotting something.

The Black Market Music Festival probably sounded fake to quite a few people, but it had certainly made the news and drawn in the crowds. Businesses in the Market were prospering, and although the last few days had been crowded, there hadn't been much in the way of violence. Visitors were being more or less left alone, without any harassment from residents or regulars from the Market--which might have more to do with the fact that the Shishigumi were handling security, rather than the goodwill and graciousness of beasts at large.

It was the second to last night, and still early in the evening. The summer air felt heavy and alive with a thunderstorm threatening, but for now, the evening skies were clear. The festival was just warming up for the night, with larger acts to make their way onto the mainstage later on, but right now, time was set aside for an open-mic period, and a young lion named Agata was having the time of his life. The handful of performers whose names had been drawn, who had already been given timeslots, were milling around out there in the square, and it was his job to find each one when it was their turn.

When he spotted the skinny little kangaroo, his eyes lit up.

"Come with me," Agata said, trying to sound tough and stern and like he thought an official music festival employee should sound. Taking Alfie by the shoulder, he marched him around to the back of stage area, where a few other lions were gathered, smoking and talking to a handsome deer in a well-tailored suit.

Seeing him approach, a lion with crystalline-bright eyes laughed and tossed his cigarette down. "Caught another one, huh?"

Agata nodded. "Uh huh."

Without looking, the deer ground out the cigarette with his hoof. He gave the blue-eyed lion a look, something halfway cold and halfway amused, then looked at Agata and his quarry. "Did you say anything to this one?"

"Yep! I was polite and everything!"

"Hm." The deer twitched an ear, but when he looked at the thin little kangaroo, his expression softened somewhat. Whether or not that softening was artifice was impossible to tell, but his voice gentled as well. "Sorry about Agata. He's excited. You're Alfie, right? You're up next. Good luck up there. I'd say break a leg, but," the wry hint of a smile touched his lips as he met the musician's eyes, "I wouldn't wish the pain on anyone." Even as he spoke, the music from the last act wound down, to more enthusiastic applause than Louis would've expected. He turned his head to look out towards the crowd, then glanced up at the sky above them. A few clouds drifting over, and a few heavy raindrops began to fall, but it wasn't so bad.

Turning his attention back to the kangaroo, he nodded to him. "Go on."

It was the air.

That heavy, electric feeling that precedes a summer storm, the kind that makes your fur cling to your skin and every breath feel charged. Nashville summer storms had nothing on this kind of air, the kind that got caught in the narrow streets of the Black Market, held low over the central square by the drum skin of the atmosphere, waiting for the first strike of thunder.

And beneath it, the thrum of a crowd.

When Agata grabbed him by the shoulder, Alfred blinked in surprise, his long kangaroo ears automatically perking up.

"Whoa, hey, whoa, hey..." he began, taking a step back before he could keep pace with the excited lion as he was dragged along. His tail flicked quickly behind him as he was herded toward the group of lions gathered at the back, as if he were a suspect being brought in for questioning.

But instead of fear, the thin kangaroo looked... pleased.

A half-smile played at the corners of his muzzle as he was placed in front of the fashionably dressed stag.

The moment that Louis looked up, Alfred froze.

Not in any big, showy way.

Just for a moment, for a beat, as if he were a musician hitting a rest in the middle of a measure.

For the stag was striking.

He was sharp-boned, sharp-featured, as if he were a knife wrapped in velvet, his eyes sparkling with light even in the dim light of the stage lamps. Alfred’s ears leaned slightly forward, his curiosity as plain as day, though he quickly recovered.

Then Louis spoke, his voice smooth and calm, and Alfred’s smile grew a little wider.

“Oh, no worries,” he said, his voice easy and warm, with a soft roughness to the words, the kind of roughness that came from a singer’s throat well used and well loved. There was a little mix to his accent, a little bit of everything and nothing, so it didn’t quite fit into a category of its own, the way a person might sound if they grew up between two worlds, or three, or four.

Agata’s paw was still resting on his shoulder, and Alfred looked down at it for a moment, then back to Louis.

“Honestly, this is the most polite kidnapping I’ve had all week.” His tail swished lazily behind him. When Louis said something about breaking a leg, Alfred laughed, a sharp, short sound, and scratched the back of his neck.

“Yeah, think I’ll give that one a miss, though.”

Another raindrop landed on the stage behind them, a big fat one. He saw Louis look up at the sky, and turned to look up there for a moment himself.

Thunderstorm.

Perfect timing.

The Show Must Go On.

He thought of the phrase, and the way it sounded, and grinned.

When Louis gestured to him, Alfred stood up a little straighter, his long ears pricking up again, as if antennae were tuning into the call of the stage.

Free spoke up then, the fangy grin spreading over his face, and Alfred turned his head a little, looking at the lion. He didn’t look nervous. If anything, the attention seemed to wake something up inside him.

“Oh, good,” Alfred said, rolling his shoulders. “No pressure at all, then.”

He turned back around to face the stage entrance, and hopped up the little steps to the stage level itself, balancing on his tail as he took the microphone stand and adjusted it down a little. The crowd murmured, and a few people looked over at the thin marsupial and the guitar draped over his back.

A few raindrops landed on the stage lights.

Alfred leaned into the microphone.

Tapped it once.

The squeal of feedback echoed briefly, then stopped.

He took a breath.

And then began to talk. “Alright… so, apparently, my name got drawn out of a hat somewhere tonight.”

The crowd laughed.

Alfred grinned.

“This one’s for anyone out there having a bad year.” He glanced over at the group of people behind the stage again, a fleeting glance at the group of suited lions and the even more sharply-suited deer.

And then adjusted the guitar strap over his shoulder.

The music began, strong and clear and unmistakable, the notes and chords flowing from the guitar as his fingers danced over the neck-board of the instrument, the amateur musician that he was.

And then began to sing, soft and open and deceptively large for a little creature of his size.

Sleep my child                              and hide your tears

                Embrace the wild… 

and face your fears