Emery Konstantinov || Anime Con-nundrum

Emery Konstantinov is ninety-nine-point-five percent sure this was a huge mistake.

The convention center is too bright, too loud, too alive. It’s a screaming rainbow of wigs and sequined capes and overpriced vendor stalls, and he feels like an awkward bat who crash-landed in a solar flare. Every few seconds someone brushes too close and he has to fight the innate urge to hiss.

He tugs at the hem of his skirt for the fifth—no, sixth?—time. The lace catches on his rings. The velvet bodice itches. His knee socks keep sliding down no matter how many times he adjusts the garters.

*I could’ve just stayed home. Could’ve stayed in the dorm. Played Overwatch. Drank a blood bag in private. Why did I think “going outside dressed like a porcelain doll” was a good idea? Oh, right, because I’m fucking delusional.’

Still, he keeps moving. One cautious step at a time through the crowd, pretending not to notice the few stares he catches from strangers. He’s not used to attention—he both does and doesn’t like it—and the longer he’s surrounded by it, the tighter his chest feels... and not because of the constricting shapewear underneath his dress.

His glasses fog slightly from the warmth. He adjusts them, grumbling under his breath. “Mnogo hora... prekaleno mnogo hora,” he mutters. Too many people.

He’s halfway to the artist alley when his brain finally decides to throw a reaaaal suckerpunch: He spots someone in the crowd, a face he recognizes from somewhere—from SUCC, maybe? Or someone from one of his Esports events? A rando from the coffee shop he frequents way too often? His memory flares uselessly like static.

They haven’t even looked Emery’s way yet, but the vampire’s entire body is already screaming abort mission. His pulse spikes, fangs pressing lightly against his lip.

He freezes in the middle of the aisle like a deer in the headlights—except the deer is in a ruffled EGL dress and thigh-high socks, and the headlights are aptly named Judgment and Social Anxiety.

They’re gonna see me. They’re definitely gonna see me. They’re gonna think I’m some weirdo. Oh god, what if they recognizes me? What if they think I’m—

He tries to pivot—casual, subtle, stealthy. Which is, of course, impossible when one is wearing a skirt with enough petticoats to double as a flotation device. The lace catches on a display rack, sending a cascade of fanart prints fluttering to the floor.

“Mamka mu!” he hisses under his breath, immediately crouching down to gather the fallen art with trembling hands. His face burns. Cool. Awesome. Amazing. Great first impression. You are killing it, Em. Truly thriving.

Emery can feel eyes on him before a shadow falls across his crouched form. His hands freeze on the last print as he looks up, and there they are.... And every thought leaves Emery’s skull.

“H-hiii,” he croaks before his brain can veto it, voice cracking in the middle like a teenager’s. His accent bleeds through thick and unfiltered. “I, uh—um—I knocked these over. Heh.”

Wow, brilliant. Absolute wordsmith. Maybe next you can tell them water is wet.

He stares for a second too long, then abruptly stands—too fast. The same damn bit of lace catches on his garter strap, nearly tripping him again. He mumbles something that could be either English or Bulgarian and unhooks the lace from it before stepping back, mortified.

“It’s—uh—cosplay,” he blurts out, tugging at his sleeve like it’s personally responsible for his suffering, “Totally cosplay. Yep. I’m, uh. A character. From. Something. Soooo... uhh... Wha’cha doing here?”

Nailed it.

Emery Konstantinov is ninety-nine-point-five percent sure this was a huge mistake.

The convention center is too bright, too loud, too alive. It’s a screaming rainbow of wigs and sequined capes and overpriced vendor stalls, and he feels like an awkward bat who crash-landed in a solar flare. Every few seconds someone brushes too close and he has to fight the innate urge to hiss.

He tugs at the hem of his skirt for the fifth—no, sixth?—time. The lace catches on his rings. The velvet bodice itches. His knee socks keep sliding down no matter how many times he adjusts the garters.

*I could’ve just stayed home. Could’ve stayed in the dorm. Played Overwatch. Drank a blood bag in private. Why did I think “going outside dressed like a porcelain doll” was a good idea? Oh, right, because I’m fucking delusional.’

Still, he keeps moving. One cautious step at a time through the crowd, pretending not to notice the few stares he catches from strangers. He’s not used to attention—he both does and doesn’t like it—and the longer he’s surrounded by it, the tighter his chest feels... and not because of the constricting shapewear underneath his dress.

His glasses fog slightly from the warmth. He adjusts them, grumbling under his breath. “Mnogo hora... prekaleno mnogo hora,” he mutters. Too many people.

He’s halfway to the artist alley when his brain finally decides to throw a reaaaal suckerpunch: He spots someone in the crowd, a face he recognizes from somewhere—from SUCC, maybe? Or someone from one of his Esports events? A rando from the coffee shop he frequents way too often? His memory flares uselessly like static.

He hasn’t even looked Emery’s way yet, but the vampire’s entire body is already screaming abort mission. His pulse spikes, fangs pressing lightly against his lip.

He freezes in the middle of the aisle like a deer in the headlights—except the deer is in a ruffled EGL dress and thigh-high socks, and the headlights are aptly named Judgment and Social Anxiety.

He’s gonna see me. He’s definitely gonna see me. He’s gonna think I’m some weirdo. Oh god, what if he recognizes me? What if he thinks I’m—

He tries to pivot—casual, subtle, stealthy. Which is, of course, impossible when one is wearing a skirt with enough petticoats to double as a flotation device. The lace catches on a display rack, sending a cascade of fanart prints fluttering to the floor.

“Mamka mu!” he hisses under his breath, immediately crouching down to gather the fallen art with trembling hands. His face burns. Cool. Awesome. Amazing. Great first impression. You are killing it, Em. Truly thriving.

Emery can feel eyes on him before a shadow falls across his crouched form. His hands freeze on the last print as he looks up, and there he is.... Aaand every thought leaves Emery’s skull.

“H-hiii,” he croaks before his brain can veto it, voice cracking in the middle like a teenager’s. His accent bleeds through thick and unfiltered. “I, uh—um—I knocked these over. Heh.”

Wow, brilliant. Absolute wordsmith. Maybe next you can tell him water is wet.

He stares for a second too long, then abruptly stands—too fast. The same damn bit of lace catches on his garter strap, nearly tripping him again. He mumbles something that could be either English or Bulgarian and unhooks the lace from it before stepping back, mortified.

“It’s—uh—cosplay,” he blurts out, tugging at his sleeve like it’s personally responsible for his suffering, “Totally cosplay. Yep. I’m, uh. A character. From. Something. Soooo... uhh... Wha’cha doing here?”

Nailed it.

Emery Konstantinov is ninety-nine-point-five percent sure this was a huge mistake.

The convention center is too bright, too loud, too alive. It’s a screaming rainbow of wigs and sequined capes and overpriced vendor stalls, and he feels like an awkward bat who crash-landed in a solar flare. Every few seconds someone brushes too close and he has to fight the innate urge to hiss.

He tugs at the hem of his skirt for the fifth—no, sixth?—time. The lace catches on his rings. The velvet bodice itches. His knee socks keep sliding down no matter how many times he adjusts the garters.

*I could’ve just stayed home. Could’ve stayed in the dorm. Played Overwatch. Drank a blood bag in private. Why did I think “going outside dressed like a porcelain doll” was a good idea? Oh, right, because I’m fucking delusional.’

Still, he keeps moving. One cautious step at a time through the crowd, pretending not to notice the few stares he catches from strangers. He’s not used to attention—he both does and doesn’t like it—and the longer he’s surrounded by it, the tighter his chest feels... and not because of the constricting shapewear underneath his dress.

His glasses fog slightly from the warmth. He adjusts them, grumbling under his breath. “Mnogo hora... prekaleno mnogo hora,” he mutters. Too many people.

He’s halfway to the artist alley when his brain finally decides to throw a reaaaal suckerpunch: He spots someone in the crowd, a face he recognizes from somewhere—from SUCC, maybe? Or someone from one of his Esports events? A rando from the coffee shop he frequents way too often? His memory flares uselessly like static.

She hasn’t even looked Emery’s way yet, but the vampire’s entire body is already screaming abort mission. His pulse spikes, fangs pressing lightly against his lip.

He freezes in the middle of the aisle like a deer in the headlights—except the deer is in a ruffled EGL dress and thigh-high socks, and the headlights are aptly named Judgment and Social Anxiety.

She’s gonna see me. She’s definitely gonna see me. She’s gonna think I’m some weirdo. Oh god, what if she recognizes me? What if she thinks I’m—

He tries to pivot—casual, subtle, stealthy. Which is, of course, impossible when one is wearing a skirt with enough petticoats to double as a flotation device. The lace catches on a display rack, sending a cascade of fanart prints fluttering to the floor.

“Mamka mu!” he hisses under his breath, immediately crouching down to gather the fallen art with trembling hands. His face burns. Cool. Awesome. Amazing. Great first impression. You are killing it, Em. Truly thriving.

Emery can feel eyes on him before a shadow falls across his crouched form. His hands freeze on the last print as he looks up, and there she is.... Aaand every thought leaves Emery’s skull.

“H-hiii,” he croaks before his brain can veto it, voice cracking in the middle like a teenager’s. His accent bleeds through thick and unfiltered. “I, uh—um—I knocked these over. Heh.”

Wow, brilliant. Absolute wordsmith. Maybe next you can tell her water is wet.

He stares for a second too long, then abruptly stands—too fast. The same damn bit of lace catches on his garter strap, nearly tripping him again. He mumbles something that could be either English or Bulgarian and unhooks the lace from it before stepping back, mortified.

“It’s—uh—cosplay,” he blurts out, tugging at his sleeve like it’s personally responsible for his suffering, “Totally cosplay. Yep. I’m, uh. A character. From. Something. Soooo... uhh... Wha’cha doing here?”

Nailed it.