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miss-oranje-disco-dancer · 1 month ago

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the alice tapes: outtakes

pairing: alan wake/alice wake

cws/tags: established relationship, one mention of sex, many mentions of drugs/drinking/smoking, angst? with a happy ending, not at all how things go in canon, fluff?

summary: there is one more memory card in the apartment. alice's outtakes where she talks a lot about alan. alan watches the tape and things go in a completely different direction than they did in canon... in a happy way

a/n: i crosspost in general so here it is even if no one cares lol

wc: 4.1k

taglist: @darkfaethedestroyer @poselysscripts

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“Alan and I, we had a good thing.”

Alan’s sense of urgency dissipates at the soothing sound of Alice’s voice. To his surprise, she tells of their meeting. She talks about the good times. He notices her smile lines and remembers how Alice used to spend hundreds on wrinkle cream, thinking she’d look ugly if she so much as aged a year. He wishes he could tell her how beautiful she looks, how grateful he is to see her even if it’s only through a screen.

“I was a grad student and he was a what’s it called — a night watchman? That sounds right. Anyway, I had this stupid assignment that I had totally forgotten about and it was due the next day, so for whatever reason, I thought that I could get into the MOMA at the last minute because there was this exhibit, oh, it was… the funny thing is I was so excited to see it, and I did— I did see it, but I couldn’t tell you the name of the artist or really anything because that night was all about Alan for me.”

Simultaneously, that day was yesterday and a thousand lifetimes ago. Alan doesn’t remember what it feels like to be young but he can see it all like a montage playing before him. Alice’s turquoise coat, her hair slightly blonder, her nose—red from the walk through the windy streets.

Alan certainly did not have the authority to let someone in past closing time, but he found himself unable to refuse her when she asked — no, begged — to see the exhibit. And Alan found over time that Alice rarely begged for anything. It was winter in New York, snow quickly turning to ice on the pavement outside. It’d be cruel to leave her out there in the freezing cold.

But that’s not what persuaded him to do something completely against the rules laid out in the employee handbook that he didn’t bother to read. The reason he risked his job was simple: Alice was beautiful. Alice is beautiful. That’s the understatement of the century, but Alan could recite the thesaurus and would never get to a word that would describe her. They’re right when they say a picture holds a thousand words. But the photographer a thousand more. None of them are within his reach.

“I could say something cheesy about Alan being the most remarkable piece of art in the gallery, but that’s not really the point of this, is it? Alan could say it better anyway. When we started dating he would edit my papers for me. Even my emails were ghostwritten by Alan at some point. I think my vows were the only words I ever wrote.”

It started out as a helpful little task, something that was a chore for Alice but never for Alan. Until, as he did with every writing project, he became progressively more possessive over it. Despite the fact that Alan knew no one would know the words were his, they mattered just as much as any others he’d written. A misplaced comma wouldn’t tarnish his reputation but even the thought of it would eat away at his ego. He stopped asking and started doing. His perfectionism spread from beyond his own desk and buried itself in every corner of their home.

It was worse than the cockroach infestation they encountered in their first apartment. When they could barely scavenge up enough money to pay the rent. Alan’s ego was never as icky but equally invasive. The bugs left (after Alan “had a civil conversation” with their landlord, or so he told Alice) but Alan stayed.

“I used to love the fact that he was a writer. We were both storytellers in different ways. He did the words and I did the pictures. I felt like I understood him and he understood me. We were both passionate and so hopeful you’d probably call it delusional. We were convinced, like every other New York City creatives, that we could make it. The difference was that Alan did. It wasn’t just a dream for him, it was real.”

By the long pause and deep breath she takes, Alan knows what’s coming. The bad parts of this ‘good thing’ they had together.

“When he got picked up by a publisher and started getting interviews on late night television I was so proud of him. And, I was happy to no longer be starving artists. I was never jealous of the fame, that’s for sure. The money, a little bit, but only because I didn’t want people thinking that I was a trophy wife or a gold digger. But the fame — no way — I watched that tear Alan apart.”

Her expression grows grim, the sparkle fades from her eyes.

Fame brought out the worst in him. In ways he admitted and others he denied. He used to be able to hide his temper from Alice but his fights with paparazzi and obnoxious fans made headlines. Even if Alan could somehow cover up bloody knuckles with gloves or lies, Alice could see his name in the paper on street corners when she took her morning walks.

“People would say ‘Wow, what is it like to be married to Alan Wake?’ and I never knew how to tell them that I don’t really think I married the Alan Wake they all see. I married Alan, that caring, passionate, awkward man. Alan wasn’t always violent or an addict… beyond cigarettes but that’s just part of the art scene, you know? I can’t say, in good faith, that I never smoked.”

Alan was born and raised with a hot temper that sizzled just below the surface. His mother swore he got it from his father, a man he’d never met, but there were other men who came around (and left) that always left bruises or bruised.

He escaped through fictional horror, watched characters get terrorized, knowing he had the clicker on his bedside table. With his mother’s divine protection, he’d never have the same fate as the people in the Steven King novels he devoured.

He also had two fists, gifts from God that could protect him and anyone around him. He was a hero when Alice was approached by men on the street or at a bar. He loved violently but he loved.

He wouldn’t just die for her, he’d kill for her too.

“Not that Alan was ever violent with me. Never. And honestly, some of it was blown out of proportion. I mean, if I had cameras in my face I wouldn’t know what to do. A camera is a weapon, you know. It exists to collect beauty and horror. That’s what this is all about. Not Alan, not me, but the darkness surrounding all of us. The stuff we don’t acknowledge, the things we don’t even see.”

She pauses, clasps and unclasps her hands, readying herself to say something.

“There was this giant void in this house before Alan disappeared. He was rarely around. I remember eating alone on my birthday years ago, and feeling so uneasy in the restaurant. This sickening, terrifying feeling, and I realized it was one of the greatest horrors: the horror of caring.”

The phrase makes Alan’s stomach churn. The horror of caring. Alice’s birthday was, ironically, a night he’d never forget.

On Alice’s birthday (which had entirely slipped his mind), Alan had a work event and an after work event, which just meant networking and then finally getting to drink which made it easier to talk to people he didn’t really like.

In his mind, there wasn’t anything particularly special about that day. Until he came home to Alice, sitting on the over-priced white living room couch eating chocolate cake.

Her face was burned into his memory. Stone-cold but he knew Alice well enough to know that the emotion hidden behind that wall would break him if he ever saw it.

Fiery Alice was fun. She had a firecracker wit that you could only see in the dark of night. Before drinking became a real vice for him, they used to go out and Alice would have everyone enamored by a tipsy performance of karaoke, and a crowd gathered as she won every game of pool she ever played. She was the studious straight-A student but she was the life of the party too.

Alan had this surface-level rage that led him to petty arguments and black eyes but Alice had a different type of anger buried deep inside that you had to dig out of her. She’d never lay a finger on anyone but she could stab you straight in the chest with words more powerful than anything Alan could conjure up.

Because she always paid attention.

A flash of fury behind her eyes and a camera could snap a micro-expression that held things the tabloids couldn’t get their hands on, some deep-seated issues Alan didn’t know he had wrapped up in her disappointment.

“I thought chocolate was banned from the furniture.”

“It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Someone’s birthday.”

“Shit. Alice, I forgot. I’m so sorry. I thought it was next week. Please, let me—”

“It’s fine. I went ahead and made dinner reservations — for two — but I figured I’d probably end up showing up alone anyway, and the food was really good. I got free cake too.”

“You could’ve told me. I would’ve canceled the meeting and I wouldn’t have gone out at all. You’re more important to me.”

“Alan, I decided that, at my age, I ought to stop begging for attention.”

“It’s not begging—”

“It would be. We barely even see each other and we live together. God, it’s almost incredible.” She took a bite of her cake. “We’re like strangers.”

Her attempt at laughter held zero humor.

“I have a question for you. How old I am turning today?”

“25,” Alan said coyly.

“You’re avoiding the question. Nice try.”

“29,” he guessed.

“30,” she said. “Close. But, you know what they say. Or maybe you don’t… you don’t seem to know much outside of yourself these days.”

In retrospect, Alan didn’t know himself that well either. Alice did. He thought he knew them both — himself, intrinsically, and Alice over the years. In the early days, he learned her favorite songs and her parents’ names, and then, when they moved in together, the way she separated her laundry and how soft she preferred her mattress.

Though he should have just apologized, he turned to the TV which Alice had paused when he came through the door.

“Can I sit and watch with you?”

“If you want to. I didn’t think you liked Night Springs, though.”

“I don’t. But, I want to be with you.”

She shrugged and pressed play. He sat next to her, inching closer bit by bit. But when his head reached her shoulder, she pushed him away.

“I’m eating. And you smell like booze.”

He pulled back with the softest “sorry”.

She stood to clean up her plate but he stopped her. “Let me get that for you.”

“I’m fine. But thank you for the offer.” She turned swiftly away from him.

“Let me help you with something.”

“Fine. Get me a blanket from the bedroom.”

He knew her favorite. The blue one that she’d had longer than she’d known him. There was a hint of a smile on her face when she saw it. Loving is knowing someone, she once said. Alice grabbed it and curled her body up so she could fit under it. She took a throw pillow and put it under her head.

“Going to sleep here?”

“Yeah. Leave the lights on, please.”

“Do you want me to—”

“Alan, if you want to do something for me, then leave me alone. Go to bed, write, I don’t care, but this is just awkward and honestly, it’s making the whole thing worse.”

She didn’t shove him away when he kissed her forehead and said ‘I love you’.

But she didn’t say it back.

He tried again the next day. Made her coffee and breakfast, which she ate at the kitchen counter in silence.

She was usually quiet in the morning — Alice was the only woman in the city who liked to watch the pigeons. Mornings were precious to her. Not in the same way that nights were important to Alan. They were inspiration for his craft, not a peaceful thing he could soak up.

But that day, she wouldn’t even look at him.

“So, what are your plans today?”

“Not sure yet. Have to get some work done.”

“Wanna go to bed with me?”

“I just woke up.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He tried to give her the semi-seductive look that used to work, stupid as it was.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“C’mon. I wanna make you feel good. We don’t even have to have sex. I can just go down on you.”

“You’re offering because you feel guilty. Not because you want me.”

“Of course I feel guilty. I am guilty. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you. I always want you.”

Alice walked away from him without a word.

“Alice. Come talk to me. We’re supposed to be a team, remember?”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

“I just mean that—”

“That I have to forgive you?”

“No. But I took today off.”

“Congrats.”

“I’ll take tomorrow off. I’ll take the next day off and make you breakfast and kiss you goodnight even if you won’t talk to me.”

The words sounded stupid when they left his mouth. Every effort made him look like one of those teenage boys in an 80s movie that he would’ve gone to see in the theater with his mother when he was a child. For quite some time, they were his only reference for the fantasy of romance.

“Really?” she said with the cruelest smile she could muster. “How will you ever catch up on all the drinking you’ll miss out on?”

His hangover made him sick, her words made him sicker.

“And don’t think I don’t know about the other stuff.”

“What other stuff?” he said, fully aware of what she was referencing.

“For one, I know you’ve picked up smoking again. But, compared to the coke — and don’t you dare deny it —”

“I swear it was just—”

The staring contest was enough to get an admission.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

And with that, she went into her office and didn’t come out for the rest of the day.

They never quite smoothed things over after that. One night Alice got tired of sleeping on the couch and crawled into bed with Alan, and they never brought it up again.

It got worse when they stopped fighting. The next time was months later when Alice had to bail Alan out of jail.

Getting into her car, he was eternally grateful (and very handsy about it). "Thank you so much, babe, you have no idea—”

“Shut the fuck up. Or I swear to God you’re taking the subway home.”

“Whoa. I know I fucked up but—”

“I was pissed enough hearing you got into a fight again, but seeing you strung-out like this. You’re fucking wired, Alan. I should’ve left you there.”

“I am not wired. I haven’t done anything in months.”

There was no way she couldn’t tell. With his pupils blown out and his hands tapping anxiously at the leather seat, itching for something to do.

“Swear it on your life.” She turned to him when they reached a red light. “No, you know what, swear it on mine.”

“Okay, fine, you caught me. I couldn’t say no. You know how it is.”

“If that’s how it is, then I really think you should reconsider rehab.”

“Rehab is for people who have a problem. Do I look like I have a problem?”

Yes.

She was quiet for the rest of the ride. She didn’t say a word until she sat down in bed.

“What if it kills you?” she said softly. “That’s what I think every time.”

“I worried about him dying a lot. I saw him in my nightmares overdosing, drunk driving, saying something stupid to the wrong guy and getting knifed to death in an alley, anything you can think of, I saw it. Except for drowning… I didn’t see that one coming. And it’s my fault. That’s the worst part of it. Every time someone says ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ I wanna tell them I’m sorry I took him to Washington. I’m sorry I couldn’t fix him on my own. I feel even shittier when people say they miss him. Because I miss him. I miss even the horrible parts of him. I would take even the worst version of Alan.”

She starts to cry. Alice doesn’t cry. She tears up and sniffles, but never cries. Only twice has Alan seen it happen. At the end of Field of Dreams the first and only time they watched it, and once, when they drove past her childhood home and she noticed that the tree in the front yard was now reduced to a stump.

She is quick to snap herself out of it.

“No. Alan is not dead. He was declared missing, not dead. And, trust me, plenty of people have told me that maybe I just need closure and it might be better to have a funeral but I can’t. I can’t pick out a photo to put in an obituary. Only photos of dead people go in obituaries. And, these photos — from my collection — they aren’t proof. I don’t think he’s the one haunting me. I just want to show people that I’m not completely crazy. Or, maybe, I am. I’m the craziest woman in the world who makes great art from her delusions.”

She groans and puts her head in her hands. When her face is back in view, and she’s leaning in closer to the camera now, like she’s sharing a secret.

“Note to future Alice: you’re gonna have to cut some of this stuff. Maybe Barry will help edit. He thinks I’ve lost it because statistically, people who have been missing for longer than a few days don’t usually turn up — at least, not alive. But God, the most frustrating part is that it’s not even a fleeting thing I miss with my camera. It’s just a feeling. It’s the same way I feel about darkness. I just know something is wrong about it. No matter how many times therapists tell me it’s irrational, I can’t get rid of the thought. They all said the same thing when I told them to stop saying that Alan is dead.”

Her voice shakes with conviction at her final words before she shuts the camera off.

When the video ends, Alan takes what he has of Return, finds a lighter in a kitchen drawer and burns the manuscript. He enters his office, and sits down at his old typewriter, expecting nothing. His mind runs at a speed his hands can barely compete with — he’s become used to sitting with head in his hands more often than his hands on the keys. They move so quickly, he almost looks in the mirror to check the size of his pupils, almost wipes a finger across his nose to check for leftover powder but that would mean pulling his hands from the keys and he can’t. He looks around to see if he’s alone, maybe God is standing behind him. He’s not. But, when he looks back to the desk, he realizes he’s not alone. Alice is there, as she always was. Alan always kept two things — aside from the typewriter — on his desk: a cup of coffee and a picture of Alice.

There are pictures all over their apartment, taken by the woman who still lives there. Alice, Alan, the apartment, all of the pieces are already here. He can plot them out. No plot board needed, just memories. Alice sniffling in the movie theater, the hug he gave her while his heart pounded with worry, their first Thanksgiving together, the way her hand fit perfectly into his. He doesn’t try to change anything. They still have their wedding, every fight with the paparazzi, Alice’s shitty 30th birthday, even the trip to Bright Falls.

He starts where they left off. Alan jumps into Cauldron Lake to rescue Alice. He helps her onto the dock before climbing out of the water himself despite the fact that he feels like there’s something waiting in the deep to grab him by the ankle and pull him under.

Alan carries Alice inside, leaving half of his clothes by the door as to not drag too much water in the house. Heaven forbid either of them slip. Despite the fact that he’s freezing cold, he wraps Alice in a blanket and gives her a flashlight while he goes outside and fixes the power.

Inside, there is no gun on the wall, nothing to fire. The startling sound comes from Alice clapping for him. Her praise is exaggerated — it’s a simple feat, nothing compared to what Alan went through in the dark place. Those are stories he will never tell Alice. He will buy as many flashlights, candles, and matches as it takes to keep her from the dark.

He brings the typewriter into the bedroom so she doesn’t have to be alone. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. Alice is afraid of the dark. But it’s not dark anymore. Alan is afraid of losing Alice. For him, it is always dark without her.

He types an itinerary.

“Why do we have to write this down, Alan?”

“I thought you wanted me to write.”

“Yeah, your writing, your books, your… whatever you want.”

“This is my writing. You’re my co-author.”

It goes like this: 1. get the fuck out of this cabin 2. get some good coffee 3. find out what Deerfest is 4. hopefully find out it’s super cool 5. enjoy our last day in Bright Falls

“Your turn,” Alan says.

“I don’t write,” Alice says.

“Sure you do. Write whatever you want. It’s your day too.”

“Okay.”

She types: 5. Alice tells Alan she loves him.

He types: 6. Alan says it back.

She types: 7. They kiss.

He says, “Can we kiss before that?"

She adds: and the kiss is just as good as the one they shared the night before.

Alan leans over and kisses her.

“I’m excited for tomorrow,” she whispers.

“I heard they have some pretty cool floats at Deerfest.”

She laughs. “I was talking about the kiss.”

“Stop talking. I’m still enjoying this one.”

Tomorrow they kiss as it was written. The next day they kiss because they can. In the morning, when Alan is relieved to wake up next to Alice, and at night, to distract her from the dark. As a good morning and goodnight, as a thank you, an I love you, and simply because they have lips that have grown tired of talking.

Alan leaves the typewriter in his office for months, Alice lets strangers take photos of them in Central Park, and they change the channel every time they see the opening credits to Night Springs.

Alice enjoys the Hallmark Channel, Alan learns, particularly around Christmas.

“You should start writing romance novels,” she suggests, with her eyes still pointed towards the television.

“Think about it… it’s snowing outside, the bickering duo is stuck together after their flights are canceled…”

“No offense, but I hate these movies. They’re cheesy, unoriginal—”

“You’re already the perfect love interest! You’re the one who hates Christmas and my family owns a Christmas tree farm…”

“A Christmas tree farm? That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s fiction, Alan.”

“That’s what I thought for a long time.”

“Well, at least, if it comes true this time, we’ll be sitting by the fireplace, eating gingerbread cookies…”

The broadcast is suddenly interrupted by a severe weather report explaining that a blizzard is heading towards NYC.

“Fuck me,” Alan says. “I’m supposed to fly to Chicago tom— oh my God.”

“Maybe I should be a writer,” Alice muses, glancing in the direction of the office.

“If you write, then who’s gonna make all these gingerbread cookies?”

“The recipe’s in the kitchen. Put on an apron.”

By the end of the night they’re dancing around the living room to Christmas music on an old CD Alice burned about a thousand years ago. The quality is subpar but the static in the background is drowned out by Alice’s enthusiastic voice and their duet — once Alan’s reluctance is broken by her pleas — of Baby It’s Cold Outside.

They dance until their feet get tired and they collapse on the couch. The next morning they wake up entangled and do the whole song and dance — literally — over again.

Covered in tinsel and twinkling lights. Bright even in December.

It is a loop but one Alan would happily live in forever.

#alan wake fanfic #alan wake 2 #alan wake posting

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froizetta · 1 year ago

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1 and 8 for the ask game?

1. Meaning of your url

It's a long and not particularly interesting story lol. My old url was a nickname given to me by a school friend when I was 11, during a conversation in which we were both bemoaning not having names that were easy to nickname. Given this context, it probably won't shock you that said nickname was terrible, specifically in that it was a) longer than my actual name and b) bore almost no resemblance to my name aside from the initial letters (a not unprecedented trend, to be fair: in Britain, a Jeremy can easily become a Jezzer if he's also the kind of person who still unironically calls himself a 'bantersaurus rex'). It probably also won't surprise you that this terrible nickname didn't catch on, but it happened to coincide with me making my first email account, so I used it for that. And after that, it slowly became my online handle for basically everything.

Fast forward to early last autumn, when I decided to start crossposting my fics on tumblr - but oh, whoops, maybe I don't want everyone who's friends with me on steam or discord (which included several people I worked with) to be able to find my tumblr account, soon to be full of links to my bespoke superhero porn. But, being lazy and uncreative, I decided I could just tweak it slightly. At least have plausible deniability. While racking my brains for something I could live with, I happened to remember enjoying the song 'Loretta' by Ginger Root, and bam, done, froizetta was born!

8. Favourite movie

I'm actually not a huge movie buff at all, despite my rabid consumption of most forms of media. Something about watching movies always feels like too much effort to me? But I love animation and I'm also a weeb, so if I HAD to pick one...probably Koe no Katachi/A Silent Voice? It's an anime movie about a deaf girl and her former bully reconnecting as teenagers, and it's just a beautifully crafted and fascinating exploration of its themes (bullying, guilt, and recovery). That said, what I'm really a fan of is the manga it's based on, which sadly couldn't really be adapted in its entirety and fit into a film's runtime. But the movie is still gorgeously animated and poignant and drives me a little insane, so the title of 'favourite movie' still feels deserved!

#ask game #thanks for the ask!#sorry about my incredibly long-winded answer to the first one lol #it really is just that kind of story

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eclipsecrowned · 8 months ago

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ECLIPSECROWNED PRESENTS... discord headcanons, batch 1.

recently, a bestie made a server just for the bestie squad to scream about muses. from this has come the 'Kadi's Playhouse' channel where friends can pose character development questions to me. In the interest of generating content for this account while too fucked off irl to get much done ic, I would like to crosspost the first 4 headcanons from this server, including musings on L0RGAR AURELIAN, HEL LOKADOTTER, SEBASTIENNE WAITE, & BANE.

Q: I know he's living in your brain real hard rn so what's L0rgar's favourite starbucks order [/jk, UNLESS-]

A little bit of hot chocolate. There are several problems inherent in this order, however. One, he is a grown man with a reputation to maintain, and the lil decadent treats do not match with that image, unless he can just doordash it over to the ministry without it being tied back to him. Two, his daddy dearest is lactose intolerant, and if he inherited that the same way he apparently got everything else from the Emperor, he's going to Yamcha death pose hard before the hour is up. Three, it's so decadent and sweet, it feels wrong, too indulgent. But he likes it precisely because it's so different on the palate than the C0lchisian (or modern AU equivalent) cuisine he grew up on and the slop the Empire uses to keep soldiers going. He thinks a little treat as reward for a well-waged conversion or aiding one of his brothers in that endeavor is not something to be ashamed about. Will he still be ashamed of it? Maybe. Possibly. Religion just has so many talons in his brain it's like Angr0n with nails. It's all he's got bro. Even little chocolate treats are a moral quandary. What would dad say? Probably man up and get a black coffee like an adult --

Q: L0RGAR VS HEL, ROUND ONE, FIGHT how would they think of each other :)

INHALES. depends on where in the journey it is let's start with hel's take on l0rgar. like crack them down to basics we have two children horribly misused by men/foster fathers who had power over them and wanted to make them pawns. both idealized an absent father -- l0rgar to religious extremism, hel using loki as her own hope -- to get through their nightmarish youths. if it comes down to it, there is an element of game recognizes game. both became leaders in a role they both pretty implicitly hate but are too honorable to abandon. he wants to be a preacher, a writer, a leader, not a conqueror. she wants to tend the earth, to be a part of a community, to be a part of something greater, not to merely rule over it. like it's occurring to me l0rgar might have spoken to me because what i see of his backstory is so violently my type in fiction. but then like. what do you do with the role you are forced to play? sure, l0rgar is honorable in trying to keep the word bearers together despite his methodology being anathema to the imperium, but he's still a colonizing youth preacher. that's not a bit. i think if the shoe was on the other foot hel as a primarch c0rvus would say there is no moral way to carry this out, contrary to l0rgar trying to convince himself his father's crusade could have greater meaning. l0rgar buys into the illusion, makes it comfortable to him, it isn't a trap, it is the path forward. hel is the caged bird wise enough to know she's trapped but a shade too wise to bash herself against the bars trying to get free. there's also hel would gladly go against her own nature and forgive odin everything if it saves all those slated to die at ragnarok. l0rgar… well, his own personal hell comes around, and he has to take that out not just on his father as the architect, but on everything his father ever touched. billions of innocent lives. the future of humanity itself. i think hel would not call heresy and later l0rgar wrong. she's had similar, though smaller scale, bloody-minded thoughts against odin. l0rgar just let those thoughts win. it doesn't make him right, but it does put him in a position where she lives in a shining glass house adjacent to him. to denounce him is to burn through some of her own sublimation, her own steadfast refusal to acknowledge her own negative emotions. as for l0rgar with hel, the free space on bingo is 'heretic god, kill with prejudice.' let's be real with ourselves. she's something that goes against his prime directive and he would not hesitate to show her the business end of the mace the same way many false idols have caught it. if he catches a whiff of 'ancient terran god not under father's thumb or part of the mythos i build for him' the immediate response is 'goodbye you little shit.' there's overlap between them, and she has such empathy for him at her age, but he's young, and proud, and making his bones. looking at her makes him acknowledge something is wrong in him. and nothing can be wrong with him. he's the righteous son of god, the devotee. he'd have to distance himself from any mutual experience. l0rgar is ultimately never getting help. it's kind of a cornerstone of his narrative. he's manipulated at every angle and sat high enough on his horse to go 'i am in control of me, i am the one who is right.' even if he could have someone pre-heresy who gets him and who could help guide him when no one else will, he will not take it.

Q: Tell me where......... spins the wheel Sebastienne wants to travel to. Where she wishes she'd never been. Her worst travel experience regardless of location.

So for the most part her life has been spent in the tristate area. Mostly centered on New Orleans, but she's seen the coast, once wasted a day driving to pick up Remy, Henri, and Belladonna in Mississippi before anyone's parents realized they were in trouble as teens, once ended up in Dallas on a job. Mississippi was its own interesting tale of on tiny teen in a big old beatup truck just doing the speed limit and picking up hitchhiking dogs and somehow being ignored by cops, something about the adrenaline surge working in her favor just that once in terms of luck. But that doesn't mean it was bad. Dallas is a nightmare city with nightmare traffic and the heat index is an affront to God Almighty on his Throne. Turn that shit to ash like Gomorrah. If she ever goes to Texas again in her life it will have been to soon-- probably because of the warants out for her in the Texas underworld. She's too much a Nawlins girl to really appreciate anywhere else. But she wants to go to Europe bad. It's a sore spot for her since she was a kid that for Remy's tithe he and Henri went to Paris. Bet Remy takes all his bon temps girls to Paris. The whole place just sounds magical and glamorous, worth seeing once in her life. Like she could be brand new in Prague or Dusseldorf or London, or any old place where she isn't just a white trash thief. She actually got to one of her places to visit in New York! Went up to see how Remy was faring and now it's her usual vacation spot. She likes it out there.

Q: FLIPKICKS OVER YOUR COUCH Bane has been a rebel for so long, what's he going to do when he has nothing left to revolt against? Does he even think he'll see it in his lifetime?

No. Revolution is a journey, not a destination. Rich men and fools who seek their lifestyle will always flourish in the suffering of others, and their methods to inflict suffering are myriad. There will never be a utopia so long as mankind has free will. There's a cost for everything like that. But he can do enough for him and his. To see Santa Prisca free and in control of its own destiny. To break the chains of those he has called friends and comrades over the years. To one day reach a point he has done enough, or better serves from the back than the frontline, and can retire to that house on a hill he rebuilt so long ago. Maybe it does not live out the dream he had for it once -- a pretty wife, fat children, a country at peace -- but what luck he has at all that he could go home to it when the day is done. He will go as far as he can go, and rebel in whatever way he can. And by that, perhaps more will be done by those who follow, and perhaps he will reach a point in his own tale where those who follow revolutionaries are artists and librarians and professors athletes and all method of beautiful, unburdened thing.

#heltbt #banetbt #sebastiennetbt

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crf300l · 1 year ago

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theyve instigated some of THE dumbest drama possible. i will try to break down what i know. this is going to be long as hell

context points

while ABTF is sort of the main subreddit for bra recommendations and fitting advice, there are some more niche bra related subreddits, a prime example being r/polishbras which has info on brands made by brands in poland

this all started around a year ago. at least from my perspective. it mostly involves people harrassing the person who runs r/polishbras(i will refer to her as BO on account of her username) and then for some reason dragging me into it.

up until that point, i had been pretty active for a few months on ABTF and related subs, and had been invited as a mod to a new niche sub, r/runningoutofletters, since a lot of advice on ABTF was focused on the 32-42 DD-GG size range, and there is a pretty steep continual drop off in availability in HH+ cup sizes, which is even worse at smaller and larger band sizes. which users frequently ignored when commenting on posts.

(i dont think the RooL sub is relevant to this exactly, but it was mildly controversial because people on ABTF for some reason really didn't like when you pointed out that HH+ sizes have different needs than someonr in a G cup and that it kind of sucks to be recommended stuff that doesn't come in your size etc. i think the DD-G cup girlies didn't like being told that there are much bigger sizes and they aren't the center of the universe? idk)

for the most part, everything mentioned has been publicly accessible to some degree(subs can at least be read without logging in or being invited, the link to the ABTF discord was publicly available at the time and their verification process was minimal)

BO was also super active in basically all of these subs. she created several subs like r/polishbras and r/affordablebras(where she regularly posts good bra sales). she has even been active on RooL even though she doesn't really have the same issues. she's very kind and just really likes bras and helping people - before inexplicably being banned from ABTF she would often do a lot of research for her advice responses

so with all that out of the way,

whatever prompted this is nebulous to me, but i guess some ABTF users found BO annoying? i was never able to figure this out. in any case, the first info i got on any of this was from a series of posts that BO made to r/polishbras

apparently some users in the ABTF discord were shit talking BO. i do not know who, but according to her posts, BO was not actually in the server, but someone who was had forwarded screenshots of the conversation to her, which she then posted a response to(since she had already been banned for mysterious reasons, iirc)

unfortunately, she did NOT block anyone's names from the screenshots she posted. according to the ABTF discord mods, at least one user was uncomfortable that someone had reposted messages from a "private server" without permission. suddenly, they also had an issue with BO using the crosspost function to share posts from ABTF with info on polish bras to her own sub

rather than addressing the fact that they had banned like, an ideal community member, and that people were shit talking her for random bs, they accused BO of doxxing someone

the "doxxing" in question is... the fact that BO reposted screenshots from discord without blocking out the usernames. one user "felt extremely violated" that her "personally identifiable information" was posted. the info in question? apparently she was using her irl first name as her discord display name. it was a very common name, there were no identifying photos or mention of location or anything else, and no further info was dug up about her

sometime either shortly before or shortly after this, i had joined the discord server. i want present for that conversation and never saw it, though i didn't go looking for it either. at this point, i saw the posts and thought "wow that's weird and shitty" and moved on

except. then one day i get a ping in the ABTF server. the mods had put me in a private channel and were asking me about it. i didn't know anything so i was like "idk"

They were like "ok" and sent me on my way. except over the next week or so they repeatedly pulled me into private channels to question me, getting more and more accusatory each time

their story is that i must be the one who leaked the "doxxing screenshots" to BO. they came to this conclusion because they went through her profile and mine and saw that we had exchanged comments back and forth(ignoring the fact that we were both active contributing members of the same communities)

i told the mods simply that i wasn't present for the conversation, and either way not only did i not have any way to contact BO outside of exchanging public reddit comments, but i had at this point tried to contact her more privately and been denied!

ABTF mods said "nuh uh, you guys are besties, we have proof" and the proof was a comment chain where we were brainstorming a spreadsheet to show info for importing bras from poland to various countries. i had made a mockup in google sheets. i also had asked BO at least once during this conversation if she could DM or open her DMs(they were closed) since trying to collaborate via reddit comment is super clunky, but she never responded to that request and the comment chain continues on for a bit

so their proof that i sent her the screenshots is that i obviously had direct contact with her(? not sure what that proves) and their proof that i had direct contact with her is a publicly available conversation where i specifically say i dont have contact and she clearly does not contact me privately.

the mods went from asking if i knew anything, to saying they looked at my profile and think i was involved, to saying they KNOW i was involved. obviously this whole thing is bizarre from the get go and i don't agree that posting that someone named something along the lines of "sarah" exists out there and wears bras is like, identifiable information or doxxing at all. which naturally i knew better than to say that outright.

so i just gave them what info i had when they asked, and i got a little more terse as they became aggressive and accusatory. i think that's a pretty natural reaction to this kind of insane accusation, and i wasn't outright rude.

except then they started insisting to me that i was lying, and they know this because i showed a lack of compassion to "the victim" because i want actively saying things like "wow that's so scary that she was doxxed, that's awful that this happened, i hope you find who leaked the screenshots"

at that point i was fed up, i deleted as many of my messages from the server as possible, told the mods off and left. i was vaguely aware that the discord mods were a different team from the subreddit mods, so i sent them a message and talked to a reddit mod who was not involved with the discord to be like "hey, i really like this community and find it helpful, but your discord mods are harassing me, what's going on??" but nothing really happened

this was all about a year ago. it sort of just fizzled out. i made a new reddit account. whatever. i eventually did get into contact with BO and relayed what happened like wtf?

the whole thing seems like they had it out for me and decided to include me in their campaign against BO, but i haven't been able to figure out why. my best guesses are either that they didnt like the RooL thing, but i wasn't the one who started that.

the other option is that it was related to me being open about gender stuff. ABTF is obviously woman-centric, they seem to have resources for fit issues that specifically tend to affect trans women, they're generally accepting of the occasional cis man with gynecomastia that wants to try a bra, and apparently some of the moderators are nb of the "woman aligned she/they afab nb" variety, but the vibe re: anyone who is not either a woman, can be treated as "woman-lite", or a cis man, has been pretty weird and off-putting.

in any case, there wasn't a good resolution but it all had died down. i got into contact with BO. she had told me that she suspected ABTF had a problem with shill accounts, and she let me join a private subreddit she made where she was keeping track of accounts that looked like marketing, and places where perfectly good info about brands that are good, but not part of the group being marketed, were removed for no obvious reason

well. apparently a little under a month ago she decided to post about this publicly on her r/polishbras sub

in her initial post she lists some users that she suspects of being shill accounts. she explains that there is a lingerie marketing firm that is known to promote 3 specific brand groups and 3 particular online stores. these accounts follow a pattern of almost exclusively recommending these brands and stores

mind you, there are several other brands and stores that are worth recommending. a lot of people have also noticed a dramatic and continuing decline in quality for some of these brands. these accounts are really defensive about the quality of these brands

she goes back to add a list of easily available brands with a decent size range and quality, which are hardly recommended. i don't think she includes it in this post, but its been observed that discussion about other brands and stores is often responded to with weak arguments, downvotes, and sometimes posts and comments around this are hidden or removed. there is also a general attitude across these accounts of pushing people away from sizes that those brands mostly have stopped making(particularly 28 band bras), and if you don't fit the shape profile for one of a handful of "diagnostic bras" they act like you're either doing something wrong, or you're some kind of freak of nature

when they say "diagnostic bra," theyre referring to specific models of bra that a lot of people on the forum are familiar with, which makes it easier for commenters to suggest a different model or size based on fit issues. new people or people who have changed sizes drastically are encouraged to buy one of a handful of models for try on. incidentally these seem to all be made by the brands being promoted

ABTF mods make a response post, it starts with the normal "if you harass people on here you will be banned, no we're not shills guys we promise!, and this user(BO) was previously banned anyway"

but for some godforsaken reason, they decide to go further and return to the doxxing accusations. they say that she doxxed someone, and is the SOLE REASON that their discord no longer accepts new members. they also basically imply that she is some kind of insane conspiracy theorist for even considering that there might be reddit users who are actually paid to pretend to organically talk about and recommend certain products, and that accounts like that could never be on the mod team for a subreddit. even though thats totally allower and definitely a common occurance on reddit

im so pissee about this that against my better judgement i comment on the post like "do you have any proof that she doxxed anyone? because last time she was accused only because she posted someones very common first name. by the way, i never received an apology for your discord mods harrassing me about this when i wasnt involved"

one of the mods gives a long as reply and bans me before i can read it. my ban message says "Doxxing is not permissible, ever"

so i reply like "okay thats great, what does that have to do with me or my comment though? i haven't doxxed anyone or condoned doxxing anyone"

i then go private mode to see the comment response and it was basically several paragraphs like "well her post is still up and it still shows that persons first name and pronouns, which is by definition doxxing. its appalling that you would condone that, and our community members deserve to feel safe. and we wont be issuing you an apology because we know it was you based on (same comment thread that literally verifies that i did not have direct contact with BO)"

interestingly, their comment says that BO took the screenshots. so im not really even sure what they're trying to accuse me of at this point? also interesting that theyre more concerned about someones first name getting out than they are about the fact that someone was being bullied for... i still dont know what. also the doxxing incident is still unrelated to the shill accusations, so its obviously deflecting lol

so far i havent received any further response. but wow.

ok we are now officially anti r/abrathatfits. fuck em!!!!

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hvnly-rstrctn · 2 years ago

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i'd normally really not like to do this with the amount of stress and exhaustion i am going thru rn but i don't know what else to do and i just want this to be over now.

this is an artists beware for user INDIG0TEA on most platforms /deviantart, toyhouse, tumblr/

parts of the conversation are omitted due to NSFW discussions for the sake of the commission or irrelevant conversations inbetween about dainty trades.

user INDIG0TEA owes me 108$ for a commission i paid for over 2 years ago. i have gotten nothing to show for in this entire 2 year timeframe, other than a base sketch of body gestures and nothing more.

back in march of 2021 i posted an ad in the dainty server NSFW channel looking specifically for trans friendly nsfw artists to draw my 2 trans ocs. newt approached me and i was thrilled to get to commission them.

i paid for this commission on march 18 2021, and i got a vague example of what the commission would look like on the 26th, and was super happy about it! and then 2 months pass with nothing. i pop in for an update and get told not to ask about updates. i come to them several months later asking if i can change characters in the art /i offered to pay extra for this because i know it is not always appreciated AND I ALSO STATED THE CHARACTER DID NOT HAVE TO BE CHANGED IF IT WAS TOO MUCH WORK/ and they were okay with it. they approach me some months later telling me they have a concept to run by me later that day they wanna show me. i am never shown a concept. june of 2022 they approach me telling me they no longer plan to do the commission and just plan to refund me. it is now may of 2023. i messaged newt on may 18th on toyhouse because after dm'ing them on discord and deviantart with radio silence i was told to reach out on here. i still have no response.

no excuses or justification will satisfy running me around in circles over a fucking commission. if you are going to take on the financial responsibility of hosting commissions, you must be willing to fucking deliver them OR AT LEAST KEEP IN CONTACT WITH THE PEOPLE THAT YOU HAVE EFFECTIVELY STOLEN MONEY FROM. i see non commission artwork posted the entire time during this 2 year waiting game, personal artwork, prompt artwork, and that's the most crushing part. no amount of excuses or explanations could justify pulling the rug under my feet for 2 fucking years.

this was crossposted to toyhou.se, where another user commented receiving the same sort of bullshit for nearly 2 years as well so i KNOW this is no longer an isolated incident with this artist.

screenshots are compiled below in this sta.sh folder because idk how to do embeds

#artistbeware #artistsbeware #art #commissioninfo #commission

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girls-are-weird · 3 years ago

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i posted this a little while ago on the discord server in regards to the conversation that's happening about simon's hispanic identity and how people who are not hispanic, including those from other marginalized communities, should write about it. since half the discourse is here on tumblr, i figured i might as well crosspost:

as i just woke up to all of this on like every social media platform and haven't caught up, i just want to say: no one has ever said you can't write simon as trans if you're not latino. as i said yesterday, everyone wants the representation for their own identity, and latino trans people deserve to be represented as well, so i encourage anyone who wants to write simon as trans to have a go.

the point that was made is that IF you do write him as trans, you can't just ignore the fact that he's latino, and how that would affect him differently. you don't have to write every story ABOUT him being latino, but an acknowledgment of that reality is the least that you can do. you can't pick and choose which parts of someone's identity you deal with just because it's easier. that is literally what erasure is. you have to do the work. sorry if that's hard to hear, and i know this is just fanfic and it's something we just do for fun and it's not that big of a deal, but if you truly want to be respectful of other people's life experiences, i think this is something you have to keep in mind.

i mentioned on tumblr yesterday that a good guide is to ask yourself: this thing i'm doing with the character, would their circumstances be different because he's latino (or whatever the character's background is, i'm not necessarily speaking specifically about simon but more as a general rule of thumb)? more often than not, the answer is yes, and ignoring that feels (to those of us who share that life experience) like erasure. and people don't really realize that, but that's why conversations like this are so important: to bring awareness.

so, hopefully we can see that this conversation isn't meant to bring anyone down or invalidate anyone's experience, but rather to make people think about what they're doing and how they can keep doing it without unwittingly hurting others.

as an additional note, i want to say: if you have any questions or any doubts, the best thing to do is ask. some of my fellow hispanic members of the fandom feel we shouldn't have to constantly explain things to non-latino people, and i don't disagree with that. for some of them, it is very emotionally taxing to talk about these things, or they may even find it annoying that they're expected to just educate people rather than people doing their own research. that's valid. please don't go to them expecting them to always explain things to you or absolve you of any wrongdoing. they will do so if they want to, but they are not obligated to it.

however, for myself, i LIKE explaining things to people. i would rather people come to me and ask, than have a go at it themselves and risk getting something wrong. so please, if you have any doubts or would like to try and make your writing more inclusive of the latino/hispanic PoV, feel free to ask me. my ask box and DMs are always open, i'm on twitter, i'm on discord. i do not speak for every hispanic/latino person out there-- we are not a monolith; some of them feel a lot stronger about certain issues than i do. and i can't promise you i will just tell you what you want to hear-- i will give you my honest opinion even if it's potentially upsetting. but i will try my hardest not to judge you, and i will give you the best input i can in the hopes that it will make you understand our perspective at least a little bit better. it says something to me when people at least try.

#young royals #young royals fandom #simon eriksson #representation #intersectionality #hispanic representation #latino representation #trans representation

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meliorist-midoriya · 4 years ago

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chasing the sun

synopsis: there’s something screaming in familiarity—in mourning—deep in his soul at the sight of you, a complete stranger. this is the price you pay for resurrection, the sun whispers as it rises.

pairing: takami keigo x fem!reader

genre: angst with a happy ending, reincarnation au

warnings: mentions and depictions of death, major character deaths, mentions of war (+ description of a battlefield scene), injuries, blood.

word count: 11.7k

a/n: happy (extremely belated) birthday, bird boy. and aaaa my baby’s here, she’s finally here! i’ve been working on this fic for a little over two months now, and i’m so happy to see it fully fleshed out! thank you to @dimplesum for beta reading, and the tumblr chaos server for listening to me yell all the time abt this fic :’) disclaimer, i did as much research as i could, but any historical depictions are not 100% historically accurate and i have taken some creative liberty, so please take the historical scenes with a grain of salt!

important: there will be songs linked throughout the fic to be played in accordance with the scene, i do hope you listen to them for the full experience! it is okay if the ost ends before the scene as that is also on purpose. the beginning of the song will start with 【 ☀︎ 】 with a link to the song. with that said, i hope you enjoy, and happy reading!

crossposted on Ao3

【 ☀︎ 】

Dawn finds Keigo, the youngest government official in the empire, stumbling upon a lone concubine in the eastern lotus garden.

He’d been searching for solitude, away from the viper’s nest of samurai-turned-aristocrats, strutting around the castle with their now-useless weapons strapped to their hips, discussing poetry and politics instead of battle and war tactics.

It’d been disgustingly easy for them to make the switch from warrior to bureaucrat, taking the status boost in stride. Those who couldn’t, they stayed with their lords if they were lucky. The warriors who weren’t… Keigo would need an abacus to count the ones who weren’t so lucky, the countless rumors and reports of wandering rōnin with familiar names never failing to reach over the palace walls to get to him.

(Oh, what he would give to join them.)

Of course, he’d been intending to brood ponder over this in the seclusion of the garden he’d discovered a few days ago, staring at the green buds of the young lotuses in the water until his head spun. The sight of the concubine sitting in his spot (that he was certain was too secluded to be found) told him fate had other plans, however.

He cleared his throat and forced down the grimace once he saw the concubine jump, startled, before trying her best to smoothly turn and bow without looking too flustered.

“Good morning, madam.”

“Good morning—”

He smiled through the static in his brain at the mention of his surname, messily tacked to the honorific that he would never get used to.

That name… it’s not mine. Don’t call me that.

A discordant mess of jumbled kanji that sounded nothing like the powerfully elegant names in the court. The ill-fitting characters standing out like an eyesore on his documents, the syllables falling awkwardly off the tongue in conversation.

Wholly fitting for an outsider like him, really.

The mention of that name grated something terrible in him, and he settled for keeping his teeth grit into a smile. A sheltered concubine wouldn’t know, of course she wouldn’t know. Practically no one did, so he had no one to fault but his own cursed sensitivity to a name he wanted to burn.

“Do you mind if I join you?” The slight twitch in her demure smile was answer enough, but he’d set aside time for this escape, and damn if he was going to let it go to waste.

“Of course not. Please, don’t mind me, my lord.”

He dipped his head in thanks and you bowed in return, the silence hanging in the air settling into something stiff and awkward.

A minute passed…

Then another…

Then five…

Keigo was going to go mad at this rate. Neither of you had any intention of leaving the rare pocket of seclusion, and the competitive whisper in the corner of his mind told him that leaving first meant conceding, meant losing.

(In his world, losing meant death.)

Keigo’s had enough of losing in life despite his dumb luck, thank you very much.

So, he did what he knew he did best. He talked. Shattering the awkward silence in an effort to coax the tranquil silence he was searching for back into the little gazebo by the pond. Maybe if he ran his mouth long enough, you’d get tired and leave.

“You’re a new face in the palace.”

With an expectant gaze, he watched the telltale shift from awkward to apprehensive, the rigidness of your stature sharply contrasting the flowing brocade of your kimono as you looked back at him with a too-sharp gaze before casting your eyes away to the green buds in the water. Had he been any slower, Keigo would’ve thought that the conflicted expression you quickly smoothed over was solemn (it was anything but).

“I would say the same to you, my lord, but every face in this castle is a new face to me.” You tilted your head with a thin-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Although… I’m sure an official who just arrived at the castle for his yearly residence would be an especially new face. Please excuse my rudeness.”

Keigo blinked. Once, twice, his jaw relaxing into a disbelieving smile at the sight of your steely gaze bright with a challenge and a smile sharper than the blades at his waist, the unsaid words ringing clearly.

Two could play at this game.

Well, now, this was new.

Perhaps it was your defiance that remained steadfast in this castle, or the blissful ignorance that made you one of the few to look at him straight on instead of down your nose. A little voice whispered that this would change in due time, the politics and power struggles confined within the castle never failing to break down even the most resilient. Those that didn’t know how to play the game correctly simply… vanished.

“Someone’s well-informed, I see.” He folded his hands behind his back, his wish for tranquility long forgotten. “I heard a new concubine has just entered the castle as well. A consolation prize, of sorts, from the farthest reaches of the country. Of course, as I’ve been gone for a year and have only been here for four, I’m not too sure.” He flicks his gaze to you, accepting your challenge with a knife-sharp smile of his own.

“I am curious as to what this concubine’s name is, however.”

You arched a brow, the thin-lipped smile widening into something sweet (that looked better on a fox rather than a beautiful concubine), and you bowed. Any trace of that stiff apprehensiveness dissolved into a graceful fluidity that seemed to disappear within the rippling silk of your kimono.

“Lady Y/N. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

To this day, he’ll never admit how surprised he was at your reverence, nor how his heart did a funny little flip in his chest when you giggled at his flustered response. What kind of fool gave respect to a commoner picked up from the slums?

You. Except you were no fool, and maybe that’s why he kept coming back like a moth to flame.

Time passed, and he found himself in that little garden day after day, morning after morning. Listening to the concubine who told vivid stories of lands he could only dream of, foods he found himself craving, and tales of warriors past.

The conversations at dawn soon turned into stories of the past, the laments of the present, and dreams of a bleak future. With delicate hands and gently prying words, you two unlocked every bar and lock you’d put over your souls and allowed yourselves to lay them bare for each other, the intimacy of a bond forged in secrets and solidarity far stronger than any alliance or contract.

You two confided in each other in that garden, staring at the dew on the lilypads as you two whispered how you didn’t belong in the palace. How the confines of grand walls with ears and eyes were no place for the adopted commoner and a concubine far from home. Two people in this big world who were just lucky enough, fortunate enough to end up within this lavish palace, your lives guaranteed splendor and comfort.

Then again—you two would share a conspiratorial laugh—maybe you two were unfortunate instead. What was splendor and comfort when you had to constantly watch for a knife in your back or poison in your cup? When a single misstep could cost you your life?

Conversations shared with you, the concubine with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit, were the most fulfilling he’s had in ages. Maybe it was the sense of formality that the intimacy of the waterside gazebo stripped away, or the unraveling realization that he hasn’t breathed this freely in ages, that he was looking forward to these moments in the morning. The intimacy shared in the garden he selfishly liked to call his own little world.

Keigo catches the smile you hide behind your sleeve when he steps into the gazebo, and he realizes you’re being selfish, too.

He didn’t know how the conversation got here, he didn’t know why he had a hairpin meant for you tucked into his sleeve. All he knew was that when it came to you, he was helpless to the whims of rambling and buying a pretty hairpin made of red jade because it reminded him of a sharp wit with a pretty smile.

“I live for this country and I die for this country. Well, not that there’s anything much to die for anyway.” Keigo’s laugh is empty, and your melancholic gaze even emptier. A fog had blown in that morning, covering the pond in a soft cover of white, and your soft voice and softer touch on his arm (careful, almost) silenced his dry laughter and left his throat even drier.

“What you would die for is also an excellent reason to live, is it not?”

Your words, whispered into the stillness of the moment, resonated so loudly within his soul and forced a shaky breath out of his lungs as he gazed in awe at you. At the soft, ethereal glow in the fog cast by the rising sun breaking through the clouds, the scent of bloomed lotuses wafting in on the breeze that rustles the dangling pieces of your hair ornaments. He is weak to whims when it comes to you, so he pulls out the hairpin burning a hole in his sleeve to slip into your hair with shaking hands unbefitting a swordsman. Keigo watches your eyes sparkle like the gem in your hair, and his heart lifts with hope as he whispers his devotion into the warm morning, carried by the wind into a sea of blooms.

“I’ll live for you, then.”

And with a smile, you fall in love.

(Keigo falls even harder.)

【 ☀︎ 】

He should have known.

“I don’t know what I was expecting from the son of a criminal.”

He really should have known.

“What was that fool thinking, taking a street rat like you in all those years ago?”

Honestly, he’d like an answer to that, too. Too bad the old man was dead and left him to inherit a position he didn’t even want. To think he’d agree with the emperor for once in his short life.

“Tsk, a son will follow in his father’s footsteps, after all. A grave in Kozukappara should suit him well.”

Keigo should be concerned that he couldn’t feel how the coarse dirt dug into his knees anymore, his cheek still aching from where the guard had punched him.

(Okay, yes, he deserved it, but he could’ve done without tasting iron.)

The sadistic glee in the guard’s face after he landed that “disciplinary strike” told him otherwise. With a bitter grimace, he spat red into the dirt.

How long has he been kneeling here? Minutes? Hours? The words echoing over and over in his head pulled him away from his present reality, bringing him back to the blur that was the past two days.

(Three? He couldn’t be sure, time passes oddly in a prison cell.)

The servants whispering about a concubine being expelled from the harem, the handmaid being promoted to concubine suspiciously quickly, and sudden memories of too-loud rustling coming from the treeline that he’d foolishly brushed off. All of it culminated in the form of palace guards dragging him from his study all the way to the harem to throw him at the emperor’s feet.

“Could the street rat not keep his hands off the women of the court? Plenty to pick back where you came from.”

Keigo wanted to vomit at the cloying stench of sake, unpleasant memories rushing to the forefront of his mind and forcing his limbs to lock from age-old fear. Not like he could use them anyway, with heavy hands on each shoulder pinning his knees to the tatami and his blades having long been tossed away in the struggle to drag him here.

“Oh, my lord, haven’t you heard?” A sickeningly saccharine voice pulled the man’s attention away to coo at the woman curled into his side, cradling a bottle of warmed sake. “Apparently the small-time nobleman who adopted him, did it knowing he was the son of that criminal you were having trouble with all that time ago.”

The grip forcing his head down loosened from the resounding laughter that rippled around the room, just enough to allow Keigo to glare at the loose-lipped concubine. Your opportunistic maidservant who’d been all too willing to take your place in the harem, having taken her chance and fleeing with it. Her tittering giggles and power-drunk grin grated his ears, and he kept glaring. Daring her to look back, to look him in the eye without feeling an ounce of guilt for what she had done.

Almost as if she heard his furious challenge, she took a glance at the man pinned to the floor (trying to look down her nose like she had been looked down on. Pathetic fool.) only to jump at the righteous fury burning in his gaze, fear clouding her conscience for a precious moment.

More, Keigo urged, rage bitter on his tongue, Guilt, shame, despair, all of it.

I hope you regret this for the rest of your life. Lament, as punishment for ruining hers—

“Don’t assume what I have and haven’t heard, woman,” The drunkard grunted, holding his cup out for her to pour with shaking hands and a meek surrender, “But, the man was losing his mind from age. What was that fool thinking, taking a dirty brat like this in all those years ago? Too useless to bear a son nor keep a wife, so he had to stoop low enough to take in a criminal’s son from the slums.”

Righteous fury welled up in his chest, and his body moved before his brain could catch up, spit landing at the emperor’s feet. Almost immediately thereafter, his head whipped to the side, cheek smarting from the sharp strike the guard’s knuckles had indented into his swelling cheek. He grit his teeth as that same cheek came down on the tatami, someone pressing his head into the ground.

“Years upon years of trying to force yourself into nobility, and you’d think you’d learn some respect along the way.”

Had he not been the one with his face pressed into the ground, Keigo would’ve laughed at the shade of fury-red the man’s face was turning. Sake did not treat him well. The concubines at his side, fearing for their lives, immediately rushed to whisper soothing words and calming pleas. Somehow, it worked, and he reclined back into his seat with a heavy sigh, draining the sake in one gulp.

“The son of a criminal shall inevitably become a criminal. Now that I think about it, this is a wonderful opportunity to get rid of an eyesore. A grave in Kozukappara should suit him well.” A sadistic grin split his lips around the cup, chortling with laughter at his own (terrible) wit. “Being buried next to his criminal father! What a filial son!”

The table shook from the force of a fine porcelain cup slamming down on it, as if the emperor were stamping his death certificate right then and there.

(He was.)

“Get him out of my sight. The next time I want to see his head is on the gates of Kozukappara.”

Keigo the official had died in that room, and the man that was dragged out by his shoulders left the castle as a criminal.

“Done saying your prayers?”

Slowly, he looked up from the white paper fan set in front of him in place of the tantō that should’ve been there for his use (obligatory seppuku, his muddled brain supplied with annoyingly familiar haughtiness, so the ex-warrior could die a warrior. What a joke—) to the man he’d chosen to be his executioner. Normally, he would’ve snapped back with something witty, something sharp, but going days without water wasn’t treating him well. A heavy sigh, and the man ran a frustrated thumb down the bright blue wrap of his katana hilt.

“The concubine, of all women? An imperial concubine, at that. I’d expect you to know better than that, my friend.”

Ah, the static in his head was a little stronger today. Wonderful.

“I thought I knew better, too. At least I get to die to someone with a steady hand.”

He scoffed, thumb running over the blue hilt again. Keigo idly remembered seeing the man rub his burn-leathered skin the same way countless times, the anxious habit having stubbornly ingrained itself into his being since childhood.

“Must you be so dark?”

“When am I not?” He managed to muster up a slow grin. “I’m hurt, I thought my closest companion would’ve known this after years of keeping swords out of each other’s backs.”

The heavy gong announcing his execution sounded, and he watched his best friend’s melancholic gaze glaze over into soulless steel that mirrored the blade drawn from its hilt. Keigo dipped his head with a solemn smile and shut his eyes in resignation.

I really… should’ve known…

“Keigo!”

Everything paused for a breath, in shock at your shout breaking the stillness of the moment. He didn’t have to lift his head to know who was crying out, trying to delay the inevitable certainty. A sharp smile and an even sharper tongue reduced to nothing but cries and desperation.

“...I’ll continue.” The executioner ignored your desperate “No!” as he shifted his stance, scarred hands steady as he placed the blade against the back of his neck despite the pain Keigo knew he was in.

It would’ve been nice to hold you in his arms, at least once—

No, for eternity.

The blade came down and, like a lotus facing the sun in supplication, you screamed your despair into the heavens.

That day, the blood red sunset matched the crimson pooling on the execution ground’s floor.

【 ☀︎ 】

Dawn finds Private First Class Takami Keigo marching into a small city on the way to the front lines, rifle slung over his shoulder and feet aching.

They’ve been marching through the night, and for the first time in his life, he found himself grateful for Japan’s humid summer nights. He’d take sweat over losing toes from frostbite any day.

But, he decides, sighing in relief along with the rest of the company at the sight of a town once they crested the hill, there was nothing like the relief of a warm bed and any food other than the tasteless military rations.

“Tired already?” The low voice beside him would’ve made him jump had it not been so familiar.

“Aw, what’s this? Is Touya-kun worried for little old me?” Keigo shot a grin at the man marching next to him and dodged the elbow that he aimed at his side with a short laugh.

“A tired soldier is a dead soldier.” A pause, and the next response came backed with a dry laugh. “Not like it’d affect you and your monstrous instincts, anyway.”

“Yes, as we’ve been told a thousand times, General.” The teasing tilt to his voice came easy, and he let his best friend elbow him this time, too busy laughing at his annoyance.

Should he have been a little more worried of the captain catching him messing around? Yes, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. Judging by the restless shifting rippling through the soldiers, no one was too worried about getting a scolding when they were so close to a warm meal and rest.

“Think the inn will be big enough to house all of us? Another night sleeping on the floor doesn’t sound all that nice to me.”

Touya scoffed as if his question was the stupidest thing he’d heard all day, keeping his gaze straight as he adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, the company shifting around them into formation as they approached the gates.

“You’re complaining like it’s anything new to us.”

“Harsh.”

The conversation faded after that, the rough dirt under his boots soon transitioning into the packed earth of the town’s main street as residents gathered to whisper and gawk at the soldiers passing through, the sight of their uniforms a jarring eyesore in this sleepy town.

A sleepy, familiar town.

Keigo’s mind was spinning. His restless gaze kept flicking around the too-familiar buildings and shops and people that remained after all these years. The restaurant with the broken kitchen window that was too easy to sneak into, the grocer who still kept his trash bin too close to the alley, the old woman sitting in front of her izakaya who always had ginger candy and a meal to give.

They slowed to a stop in front of the large inn, and he stared up at the building that looked much smaller than he remembered, the interior much less grand than he’d imagined it to be as they filed their way in, and he found himself in the room he once dreamed of sleeping in. There, Keigo sat in near disbelief, on the futon that wasn’t as soft as he thought it would’ve been.

“How time flies, huh?” He looked up to see Touya dropping his pack next to his futon and sitting down across from him with a melancholy grin.

There was too much Keigo wanted to say, nostalgia bitter in the back of his throat, so he settled for a matching smile.

“Old Man Yasutaro never got around to fixing that boarded up window.”

Touya barked out a surprised laugh, Keigo’s smile widening into a self-satisfied grin.

“You ever think he did that on purpose? He always did stock too much food.”

“Are you kidding?” Keigo shuddered at the phantom pain of the beatings he earned. “He was scary whenever he caught us, there’s no way mean ol’ Yasutaro would do all that just for a pair of orphans on the street.”

“Mm, I don’t know, he was always pretty sweet to Granny Tamayo, so anything that made him look good in her book.” Touya leaned back on his arms, the melancholy melting into the ease of bittersweet nostalgia. It was easier to smile through the painful memories rather than dwell on the past, so Keigo let himself toss his head back with a laugh.

“God, her ginger candy was the best.”

“You sure it was the candy? Or the granddaughter who always snuck an extra piece to you?” That earned Touya a frustrated noise of protest and a half-hearted kick he dodged.

“That was ages ago!”

“And you still react like a little boy!”

Keigo groaned, burying his face into his hands as if that would tune out Touya’s cackling laughter. It was short moments like this that took the weight off his shoulders, the murmurs of public dissent, the leaked plans of a planned riot, the magnitude of his actions tomorrow morning.

(Civilians. Of all things, why did it have to be civilians?)

He suddenly pushed himself to his feet, the heavy weight having pushed itself back onto his shoulders and slotting the familiar hum of alertness back into place. Touya gave him a knowing look that he, decidedly, ignored in favor of getting out before his mind swallowed him whole.

“Dinner is supposed to be in a bit, we should get going.”

“Wonderful job of changing the subject, really.”

“Wonderful job of being annoying.”

Touya dodged another swipe of the leg, laughing at his displeasure as he stood to follow.

“Why thank you, I try.” His grin widened with a certain glint in his eye that Keigo found himself dreading. “Now let’s get going, I heard some of the guys are at Granny Tamayo’s izakaya.”

“What?”

“My, isn’t that little Keigo? And little Touya?”

Keigo faltered halfway through the entrance, smoothing his grimace into a smile as he watched the old lady totter over from her seat with all the coddling of a grandmother. The soldiers within earshot (who were already drinking and eating away. It was barely sunset—) paused to gawk and grin at the endearing interaction.

“Not so little anymore, Granny.”

“I’ll say. Are you eating alright? Is the military treating you well?”

“Granny!”

“What’s this? Speedy and Torchface have some history here?” Keigo kept his smile smooth, only shifting it just the slightest bit into what he knew would look like a sheepish grin instead of the pained grimace underneath the surface. Boisterous laughter that only alcohol could bring rippled around the spacious izakaya, the men cracking jokes over drinks and food.

“Careful calling him Torchface, he has the temper to match.”

Ah, there it is. Touya shouldered past him to stalk towards the offending table with a scarily wide grin, pulling the loose-lipped rookie into a chokehold, his wide grin unmoving.

“‘Has a temper’ my ass, you’re just jealous that a guy with a bunch of burn scars has an easier time with women than you idiots.”

The laughter only grew louder, Granny Tamayo’s expression softening at the interaction before turning back to Keigo with a nostalgic smile.

“Not so little… I see.” She motioned to the table Touya had made a space for himself at, shoving the rookie (who was still in a chokehold, poor kid) aside to make room for him. “Take a seat, dear, and the drinks will be right out.”

The too-loud laughter and incessantly clinking glasses filled the space up with ear-grating noise, and Keigo wanted to leave. Search for peace and solitude in the quiet streets in a way that was strangely familiar.

(For a fleeting moment, he thought a quiet garden would be nice.)

However, he’d rather eat with the company of drunks rather than the void of his own mind and the horrors silence tended to bring, so the migraine starting to brew in the back of his head was a small price to pay. As was the heavy arm slung over his shoulder from some random soldier, alcohol-loosened and heavy, and the awkward conversation he found himself following along with perfectly tailored humor.

“Alright, I have two beers as well as a few rounds of edamame and—”

The familiar voice stopped short, and Keigo felt his heart stop in tandem. Slowly, he looked up and saw the girl who used to sneak out an extra candy when her grandmother wasn’t looking, now a woman in the izakaya uniform balancing trays in one hand and two mugs in the other.

“...Keigo?”

Almost as if the locked gates had been thrown open, a new rush of memories past had overcome him. Jaunts through the town disguised as adventures, clumsily dancing around an old gramophone and calling it a waltz, and the start of blossoming love. Keigo simply smiled, easygoing and familiar, like it hadn’t been years since you saw him run to the military with Touya the first chance they had, drawn by the promise of food and shelter. Like he hadn’t left a malnourished boy and come back a man with more scars than skin.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“‘Been a while.’” You rolled your eyes, setting down the mug in front of him with a huff. “The two most important people in my life run off to join the army without so much as a word, and that’s what you say?”

His words stopped halfway up his throat the moment he saw Granny Tamayo come up behind you to pinch you on the arm, the half-formed response morphing into a laugh as he watched you flinch back with a surprised (and betrayed) yelp.

“Y/N, darling, don’t be rude to the customers.” You pouted, rubbing at the sore spot on your upper arm.

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“It’s fine, Granny. Nothing new, right?” At the sight of his cheeky smile, the old woman scoffs, something endearing, before nudging him out of his seat despite your noise of protest.

“Well, since you two seem to be talking of nothing but the past, why don’t you go take a walk down memory lane?”

“Wha— Grandmother! There’s still customers—”

“Kaede can handle it just fine! Shoo, shoo, get out of my hair.”

Without missing a beat, Granny Tamayo smoothly plucked the trays from your hands and nudged you two towards the door as the soldiers watching roared with laughter and cooed jokes at the two “childhood lovers”. Keigo turned towards Touya, almost desperately, in a futile search for— what? Escape? Wasn’t he looking for escape in the first place?

“Wait, Granny, come on. Touya’s part of this too, isn’t he?”

“Don’t drag me into this, a trip down memory lane isn’t for me!” With an arm still slung over the now-wheezing rookie’s shoulder, Touya raised the cup of sake he’d ordered as if in toast. Whether it was to Keigo’s mortification, or to the potential opportunities this meant, Keigo didn’t want to know.

Probably both.

(...Probably the former, if he were to be honest with himself.)

A flurry of drunken laughter and lighthearted jokes, half-hearted protests that fell on deaf ears, and insistent pushing at his back later, he found himself standing outside the izakaya, blinking up at the full moon before looking over at you.

“...Did we just get kicked out?”

“I think we did.” You snorted, scuffing a mark into the dirt path with your heel, and Keigo wanted the earth to crack open and swallow him whole. What was he supposed to do? Stuck with the remnants of a rekindling love, the awkwardness that tended to come with years of estrangement and words that failed him when it came to you.

Well, there’s really only one thing he could do.

Talk.

“So, what’s new with you?” He immediately cringed at his choice of words, forcing himself to school his expression over into an easygoing smile instead of recoiling like he so desperately wanted to do.

Nice going there, Keigo, really.

“...Same old.” Your quiet answer snapped him out of his thoughts, and he tilted his head, almost like he was beckoning you to continue. “Same old town, same old job, same old life. I pretty much walked the path everyone knew I was going to go on as the granddaughter of the izakaya’s owner.”

You looked up with a sheepish grin, the bright moonlight casting the world (and you) in a silver glow, and Keigo felt his heart leap into his throat.

“Not the most exciting to a man from the military, huh?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’ve seen a lot—” Keigo rubbed at the identification tag hidden under his clothes by force of habit, the leather cord heavy around his neck. He has seen a lot. Too much, to be exact, but how would he even begin to explain the horrors of man to someone… “normal”? How could he?

For someone whose wit and silver tongue helped him survive all these years, he was awfully tongue-tied tonight. Or maybe it was just you, and the surreal lightness settling into his soul that had him stumbling over his words.

“But you’ve seen enough?” You finished his sentence with a wry grin, and the surprised laugh found itself past his lips before he could catch it. How could he forget? You were always, always a step ahead of him. Back then and even now.

“Enough of my barracks and Touya’s face? Yeah, definitely.” You swatted his arm with a huff, and the familiar action made the next laugh come a little easier, his chest a little lighter as the awkwardness slowly dissipated into something… comfortable. Normal.

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Well, that’s your answer, Y/N. Don’t know what else to tell you,” He shrugged in mock ignorance, and you groaned, going back to worrying at the deepening scuff in the dirt.

“What, so, we both had boring lives?”

Far from boring.

“...Yeah, I guess so.”

You pursed your lips and stared out at the quiet street, the beat of silence almost bordering on awkward by the time you broke it with a resolute sigh, starting to walk forward into the moonlight.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to make up for it somehow.”

“And how would you do that?”

“By going back to when life wasn’t so boring,” You hummed, spinning to face him and grandly spreading your arms, as if you were presenting the lantern-lit street to him, “C’mon! Tonight, this main street is memory lane!”

“Aren’t you taking me out of town at one point, though?”

“Oh, hush. Are you coming or not?”

“I’m coming, coming.”

Oh, your smile was radiant, and Keigo had to force himself to keep moving instead of gaping like a fool.

(Was it possible for him to make you smile like that all the time?)

For the next hour, time seemed to stop. The moon stood frozen in the sparkling sky, watching two star-crossed lovers go around town, laughing and reminiscing on what could’ve been. What could be, if Keigo were to be bold. You took him down Main Street as promised, and he found it hard to relate to the memories you spoke of, associating each store with scornful stares and pitiful ignorance. Eventually, you two looped around to the outskirts of town. To the river that looked more like a creek now, and the quaint houses and maze of alleyways. To familiarity.

He smiles as he watches you skip rocks in the creek, laughs when you wrinkle your nose at the dog that always seems to only bark when you two pass by Old Man Yasutaro’s gate, and revels in the memories.

“You still suck!”

“Hey! It’s not like we skip rocks all the time in the military.”

You merely rolled your eyes and continued to skip ahead, the slow and awkward trudge from before revived into the enthusiastic step he remembered, fueled by the joys of nostalgia and escape.

This, Keigo realizes, is nostalgia.

Not the pain of remembering a past he wanted to forget, not looking at alleyways to remember what used to be his childhood, not thinking of the shops as someplace otherworldly. Rather, it was this. The joy of reminiscing on good times. The joy of breathing new life into old memories.

The joy he now knew was to be found in you.

“Hey.” Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see you grinning, the moonlight illuminating something akin to mischief in your eyes. “Remember that old gramophone we could never figure out when we were little?”

“You mean you could never figure out. I didn’t want to touch it because Granny Tamayo is a scary, scary woman.”

And a dirty street orphan’s hands had no place on such an expensive thing.

You rolled your eyes and he chuckled, following along anyway as you set off down the path with a new purpose. The route was familiar, and Keigo already had an idea of where this was going, but who was he to speak when you were nearly buzzing with excitement?

“What I mean to say is: I figured it out, so—” You spun in place again, taking his hand, and his heart damn near stopped, “—would you like this dance? To some actual music, this time.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you? A proper lady needs the proper etiquette, after all.” His cheeky grin betrayed the politeness of his words, and you scoffed, tugging him along.

“Like you would ask me first.” Keigo’s tongue stalled around a response, scrambling for a proper comeback because you were right. Deep down, he knew that he still never would’ve asked you first for anything. It wasn’t his place. First, as a kid on the street compared to the granddaughter of the izakaya owner. Now, as a man with blood on his hands compared to an innocent civilian, untainted by the shadows of war.

Who was he to ask anything from a normal person?

“Lead the way, then.”

There was that radiant grin again, brimming with excitement and sending him reeling. Keigo couldn’t help but let your enthusiasm rub off on him as he followed you to the little communal courtyard behind Granny Tamayo’s home, where he knew that she liked to keep that Western gramophone to play for guests. You broke away to go and try and work the old machine, mumbling to yourself as you fiddled with the knobs and rifled through the records filed away in the ornate cabinet it was sitting on.

He took the chance to look around the empty courtyard, struck with the realization that it hadn’t changed at all in the years he was gone. He left all those years ago, only to return to a town that seemed almost frozen in time. It was too far from the cities for all the modern inventions to catch up with it, so the only things that changed were, well, the people. Keigo most of all. What if he hadn’t—

The sudden burst of music and your shout of victory cut off his wandering train of thought, and you walked back into his line of vision with a triumphant grin.

“I still don’t know how to fix the tempo, so the song’s a little slow. You’ll have to forgive me for that.” You offered up your hand and tilted your head, still smiling. “May I have this dance?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Like you’d ask me first.”

【 ☀︎ 】

Keigo grinned in well-earned defeat, and his hand slipped into yours with the other on your waist. The music swelled, and he took the first step.

One, two, three, one, two, three…

With too-slow, clumsy steps, the two of you slowly began waltzing your way around the small courtyard. You still kind of didn’t know how to work the gramophone—the song almost eerily slow, despite the years of fiddling—but that didn’t matter in the face of the giddy smiles shared, your soft laughs when he spun you in a flash of spontaneity, and the nostalgia of old times.

Before, he was a scrawny kid on the street who clumsily tried to follow the steps of the pretty girl playing a song on her father’s gramophone. Tomorrow, he would be Private First Class Takami Keigo, fighting for his life on the battlefield. Tonight, he would be normal again, slow dancing to Clair de Lune playing off an old, off-beat gramophone with you in his arms, mourning a start he didn’t get to have.

(As normal as a kid scrounging for scraps on the street could’ve been.)

Your voice, soft and wavering, broke the stillness of the moment, as if it were something taboo that shouldn’t have been uttered into existence at all.

“Keigo?”

“Yes, beautiful?”

You flushed at the endearment, the next words shattering his illusion of happiness within nostalgia with the renewed vigor of confidence in the face of the impossible.

“Will you come home?”

Home.

A simple word, really. And yet it dropped like a stone in his chest. Home meant a roof over his head. Home meant warm food on the table. Home meant a simple life in a sleepy rural town. Home meant the promise of a new beginning.

To you, “home” probably meant nothing more than the place you had known all your life.

To him, “home” meant you.

So, like a dreamer in love, he answered with all the confidence of a fool.

“Yeah... I will. I don’t care how long it’ll take me, but I’ll come home.”

He thought the shaky lilt to his voice would’ve given him away, or the way his step faltered in the already clumsy waltz as if trying to step around what he knew should’ve been the answer.

Instead, you laughed. Something soft, and let him spin you once more.

“Well, I’ve already waited a couple years, what’s a little more waiting?”

Keigo had to keep himself from double checking if this was real. Dancing with you in the moonlight as he tried to step around the reality of that answer with all the awkward grace of a scared child.

One, two, three, one, two, three…

Truth be told, the both of you knew the answer long before you had pushed the question into desperate existence, searching for a shred of hope. That his simple answer should have been an realistic “I don’t know” or a pessimistic “no promises”, instead of a foolish “yes.”

Instead, he slowed the waltz to a sway, pulling you close to both ingrain the feeling of you into his soul and to hopefully hide the resigned melancholy of a soldier being carted off to uncertainty.

And, for a traitorous moment, Keigo wondered.

Dreamed, even.

What would it have been like to have a “normal” life? Instead of grasping the hand of desperation, would he have grown out of the side alleys and homes made of boxes into a “respectable” man? Maybe he could’ve gotten a job at the grocer’s, at Old Yasutaro’s restaurant, or maybe even Granny Tamayo’s izakaya. Could he have—he pulled you closer, pressing a ghost of a kiss to your temple—could he have courted you the “right” way? Brought you flowers and honey-sweet words of praise and promises of a happy future, instead of a single night dancing in the moonlight with a brittle promise hanging in the tense air that the both of you clung onto like a lifeline. A promise that Keigo wasn’t even sure he could fulfill.

He would later come to regret this single moment. Of this, he was sure.

(But, as you lifted your head from his chest with glassy eyes and a shaky smile, he knew he wasn’t alone in this regret.)

Keigo knew the words that you wished to let fall into the night air, in hopes of making that brittle promise tangible. Of giving life to a bright future with three little words. The reality crawled up his throat like poison, bitter and cloying, something that he knew shouldn’t be said. Keigo settled for gently wrapping his hand around your head to pull you closer, filtering the harsh truth into something a little softer, the bittersweet tone marking the unspoken truth as a reality instead of the dreams of a future.

One… two… three…

“Don’t,” He muttered, heart tightening as he felt you go rigid in his arms, “I know. Please, God, I know—”

You slowly relaxed in his arms with all the bitter acceptance of a night before battle, and he murmured the next words into another ghost of a kiss. A whisper against your lips, seen only by the fading notes of a song in the moonlight.

“—but don’t.”

【 ☀︎ 】

Keigo’s breath was rattling, ears ringing with war cries, death wails, and everything in between. The once-blue noon sky was now a startling haze of ash gray, thick with the choking scent of the world burning.

He couldn’t even tell where the carnage started or ended anymore.

(Would it ever end?)

How long has it been since the first shot?

(Too long.)

Would he live to see the sunset?

(Of all times to worry about this, why now?)

The incessant drill of artillery fire was nothing new to him, as was the stench of the battlefield that could only be described as death. What was new, was something that pushed his aching body to keep moving, the autopilot state he usually entered backed with something raw. Something like fear.

Something like the will to survive.

The pain that set his nerves on fire has long since faded, all the pain of countless wounds blending together into something numbed by the adrenaline of survival. Were the wet patches on his uniform sweat? Blood? Both? He couldn’t tell anymore, all he knew was survival and the persistent voice whispering deadly distraction in the back of his mind.

Civilians. You’re fighting civilians, you mur—

The skin of his back prickled, the telltale whistling of something flying screeched in his ears, and his reflexes yanked him to dive out of the way before his mind could catch up. Not even a second later, another explosive detonated behind him and heat blazed across his back. His nerves screamed fresh pain into his senses and he grit his teeth, ignoring the concerning sound of sizzling over the ringing in his ears in favor of ducking into cover, collapsing against the wall of a destroyed building.

Since when did regular people know how to make bombs?!

In the next breath, someone else had ducked into the small shelter he’d found in this hellscape of a city.

Well, the remains of one. All hell broke loose once the other side brought homemade explosives into the fray and now, as he stared at the burning and destruction, Keigo wondered if those Westerners who muttered meaningless blessings whenever they passed were right.

If this “Hell” they spoke of really was on Earth.

He turned his head, suddenly sluggish, to the man that had joined him in the makeshift cover, and grinned at the familiar face.

“Hey, man.”

(Maybe giving his body a chance to slow down was a mistake.)

Touya ignored his exhausted greeting, instead opting to yank a rag from his pouch as he pulled Keigo to sit up so he could press the rag into the deep gashes the shrapnel had gouged into his back. Keigo immediately groaned in protest at the stinging pain, despite how necessary he knew it was.

“Fucking— how did you even survive that?”

“Dunno,” He let out a weak laugh, “Don’t think I will—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll kill you myself.” Despite his harsh threat, Touya pressed the slowly darkening rag deeper into his wound. A desperate (futile) attempt to stop the life pooling onto the floor underneath them, steadily flowing from the deep gashes in his back and all the other wounds peppering his body.

“Isn’t that the exact opposite—” He hissed in pain at the pressure on his wounds, “—of what you want?”

“Shut up.”

“You know you don’t want me doing that.”

(He was right. Keigo running his mouth meant that he was breathing. Meant that he was alive.)

Touya pressed his lips into a thin line, Keigo blearily tracking the way his burn scars pulled with the movement.

Grounding himself, that’s what he’s supposed to do during times like this, right? Hell, he didn’t know. Not every day he came so close to death. Touya really needed to look into something for those sc—

“For the love of the gods, I am begging you to shut up.”

Ah, he said all that out loud? He managed to muster up a sheepish grin, despite Touya’s grim expression.

“Ooh, Touya? Begging? That’s a first, I should stay awake to hear it.” Keigo didn’t have to look to know that the rag was soaked through and Touya was fighting against the inevitable at this point. Keigo? He… he was too tired to fight to keep his eyes open. Too cold.

“Maybe you should stay awake to go home, loverboy.”

“I should.” He fumbled to find purchase, pressing his palm into the ground and scooting his feet closer for leverage. “Can’t leave Y/N waiting after all.”

Maybe it was the delirium from the blood-loss, or the desperation of this cursed situation, but Keigo tried to pull himself up. To move, to get somewhere safer, somewhere where he could survive. His palm slipped on the blood-slick floor underneath him and he came crashing down once more, his strength disappearing along with it as he slumped against Touya.

“Ah—”

“Shit, I’ll get you to the medic.”

Keigo groaned at the pain of his wounds being jostled as Touya tried to haul the deadweight of his sluggish body up. The reality of the situation weighed heavy on his shoulders (or was it his strength leaving him?) and he licked his chapped lips, whispering the grim truth into the ash-hazy air.

“I’m not gonna make it to the medic.”

“How many times do I have to keep telling you to shut up?” Another attempt to pull him to his feet, and Keigo managed to push out a weak laugh.

“Just a couple more times.”

“Hey… hey, c’mon now, I still have to make fun of you and Y/N for being the most disgusting couple I’ve ever met.” He carefully shook Keigo, trying desperately to get him to keep his drooping eyes open.

“Aw, don’t tease Y/N too badly.”

Something changed in Touya’s voice, a block in his throat that he had to force his words through, and he clutched the dripping rag closer to his wounds as he muttered out his response.

“I won’t.”

“Good, good,” Keigo’s hands clumsily fumbled for the cord wrapped over his chest, tugging at it until it came loose. “Hey, can you tell Y/N that I’ll do my best to come home? In any way I can.”

“...Just do it yourself.”

“Mm, that would… that would be nice. Coming home, I mean. I promised… Y/N… I would…”

His words faded, and Touya froze, arms suspended in midair around the slumped form of his best friend, his stunned gaze locked on the identification tag hanging from a limp, bloody hand.

“Kei...go?”

【 ☀︎ 】

Waiting was agony.

You used to think you were a patient person, years of dealing with drunks, horrible customers, and everything in between training the patience of a saint into you.

Today, however, revealed that you were anything but. The moment the company had crested the hill and out of sight, your anxieties slowly overcame you the farther they went. Working in the izakaya helped, the constant flow of customers and orders kept you on your feet and your thoughts off the battle that was no doubt waging mere miles away. Every so often, a wandering patron would come in murmuring that they heard bits and pieces of the battle, and you forced yourself to forget again.

All that effort was lost once the company’s runner came barreling through the town, shouting that the soldiers were on their way back. That they needed spaces cleared for the wounded and their lodgings secured. They called for the doctor, they called for food, they called for supplies.

If you didn’t know any better, it would’ve sounded like a cry for help.

Word spread like wildfire, and the rush of serving customers turned into the rush of trying to help prepare for the soldiers’ return. None of it helped get your mind off the one thing you didn’t want to worry about. If anything, it just shoved all your worries to the forefront of your mind, accompanied by the dull headaches of something you hoped were just random fantasies.

(Fantasies of a lotus garden, a guarded grin, a red hairpin, a betrayal—)

Would he have to be wrapped in the bandages you were carrying? Would he have to rest in the bedding in your hands? Would he be able to eat the food your grandmother was preparing?

Then, they came.

A slow straggle of wounded and weary men, leaning and limping on each other as they slowly trickled in through the main street.

There were many things that wouldn’t happen, you would later realize, watching the company trudge back into the town. Their formation was shaky from the hobbling wounded, and you felt your heart drop as you desperately searched the noticeably thinner crowd, trying to peek through the uniforms and bandages and dented helmets for any sign that he had come home. That he had survived.

How many men did they lose?

(Too many.)

You watched the flow of soldiers slowly follow their commander to their lodgings and the doctor, the once boisterous crowd now silent and battle-worn. The rookie that had just been under a chokehold the other night was now cradling bandaged wounds and a gaunt expression that only told of his first brushes with death.

One soldier broke from the crowd to make his way towards you, and—for a fleeting moment—you hoped.

And just as quickly as it came, that hope you had soon sunk into despair once you saw who it was, and what he held in his scarred hands.

Across the street, a man broke rank, with a heavier burden than most would’ve thought and few would ever experience. He hoped that no one would have to experience this, a death and the task of delivering such news weighing heavy on his shoulders.

Life, Touya thinks, is cruel.

It left such a brilliant mind like Keigo to starve with him on the streets.

It forced him to run to the military in desperation, searching for steady food and shelter.

It snatched away the one man who had salvation waiting for him.

Death, Touya grieves, is even crueler.

Keigo would never get to go home.

He wouldn’t get to see the joy on your face once you welcomed him home with open arms.

(How could he? When your expression twists into something akin to dawning horror instead of joy, watching Touya make his way up to you with downcast eyes and a heavy bundle of fabric carefully cradled in his palm.)

He wouldn’t get to start the new life he deserved, in a sleepy rural town with the one he adored.

He wouldn’t get to fulfill his promise to you.

A promise that everyone knew was too risky a promise to make. Yet, he believed enough to make it to you.

A promise that Touya holds back on his tongue because he knew this—a little metal disc on a bloodstained cord—wouldn’t fulfill it, not when he hands you the neat square of scrap fabric and watches your tears flow before you even open it. Not when you slip out a worn identification tag, holding it up to the sunset to try and make out the letters you already knew were there.

A lantern illuminates what the fading sunlight could not, casting the stamped characters of Keigo’s bloodied name in an amber glow, and you crumble.

【 ☀︎ 】

Dawn finds Professor Takami, Head of the Sociology Department, first through the doors of the campus café with essays to be finished grading in one hand and his laptop bag in the other.

The cashier greets him with a familiar warmth as he steps up to the counter, his staple order already halfway punched into the register with a knowing smile that he forces himself to return. There’s a nervous energy simmering under his skin that he can’t seem to shake, and it shows. The barista (Touya. His name is Touya. He literally has one of the guy’s essays in his hand, fucking hell. Get it together, Keigo) shoots the normally easygoing professor a worried look as he slides the warmed pastry across the counter to him, the full sleeves of swirling blue and black ink a stark contrast against the smooth wood of the counter.

“Everything good with you, Professor?”

“Perfect, now that I got my pastry. Think I’ll be even better once I drink some coffee.”

Nothing was perfect, and he couldn’t even put a finger on what it was.

He plastered a convincing smile on his face as he picked up the too-heavy plate, careful to hold it steady before making a beeline for his usual table. The faster he got to sit down at his usual corner booth and sort himself out, the better.

He knew that he would just drown himself in grading papers instead of figuring out what was making him feel off, but it was the thought that counted.

The hum of energy under his skin was nothing new to him. Something deep inside that made him almost jumpy, wary of the peaceful days that had consumed his entire life, lying in wait for… something. For what? Keigo wished he knew.

(For battles yet started, for warcries yet sung, for survival yet fought for.)

All he knew was that the strange hum that threatened to vibrate him out of his own skin was different this time. Wrong. It didn’t help that his sleep had been suffering for the past week, plagued by dreams and nightmares both of eras past, the blurry picture of the same person a constant sight in the swirling mix of history. Images flickering between a secluded lotus garden and an elaborate kimono to an old izakaya and Clair de Lune at moonrise. Images of yearning and blood and tragedy and endings before the beginnings.

At least his conversations with the once-intimidating Japanese Literature professor got a smidge more interesting.

With the resolute click of a red pen, he swept away the thoughts clouding his mind as he resigned himself to his fate of just dealing with the strange mood for now, fully intent on getting to work. Years of repetition and muscle memory had him opening up his email with practiced ease, quietly sighing to himself as he waited for the doubtlessly endless emails from students and colleagues alike to load.

Would procrastinating just the tiniest bit by fiddling with the rolled cuffs of his sleeves or pushing up his glasses for the nth time help at all?

No, but it let Keigo expel the weirdly restless energy in what ways he could, the creeping sense of foreboding setting his nerves into overdrive. The page loaded and he frowned at the onslaught of emails he knew were going to flood his inbox.

Hell, he expected them to.

What he didn’t expect were the contents, the subject lines all variations of “Did you know?” and “There’s no way” and “I can’t believe it” from colleagues he didn’t even talk to regularly. Sure, the email from the cultural anthropology professor made sense, but the graphic design professor? The head of the business department?

Before he could open the first email of many, his laptop chirped out the familiar ‘ding!’ of a new email, the sound rippling through the café as everyone’s phones and laptops lit up with the same message.

A schoolwide email? Okay, th—

The world slowed to a crawl, everyone in the packed coffee shop silencing almost at once and the shocked whispers rippling throughout the space only serving to make the silence all the more deafening (“Hey, check your email.” and “Look at this.” and “No way.” and it was too loud someone please make it stop—), his ears near ringing as he struggled to tear his gaze away from the picture embedded at the top of the page.

“Looking a little rough there.” The cotton suddenly stuffing his ears muffled the barista’s voice and would’ve made him jump out of his skin had he been focused on anything but burning the email into his eyes. God, he’d barely even registered the guy coming up to serve his coffee, what was wrong with him? “Professor? Was it that email?”

“Y-Yeah, I just read it.” He cleared his throat and slid the mug closer to himself, taking a sip of the scalding hot coffee to ground himself as he stared at the picture of you.

The barista merely arched a pierced brow and muttered a soft “ah.” before going back to his spot behind the espresso machine, vibrant blue eyes tracking the rattled professor suspiciously. Keigo was too preoccupied to thank him as he usually would’ve. Too preoccupied with what was staring back at him from his laptop screen.

A picture placed right under the subject line plastering “Unfortunate news about Prof. L/N Y/N” across his screen, the few words in the body text (that he could pick out through the sudden tidal wave of memories past clicking into place) painted an image that he couldn’t help but mourn.

After being reported missing… remains found… will be missed.

Will be missed…

Well, now that he thought about it, Keigo had been missing you all his life, hadn’t he?

Both figuratively and literally, always arriving after you left and vice versa, never really seeming to connect in person. Any emails were shrouded with a veil of professionalism that he couldn’t pierce through. Yet, there were things so irrevocably you that he knew to pick out now. The jovial note at the end of your emails, the unapologetically confident sharpness to your words, the extra mug you left for the next person that passed through the faculty lounge (that somehow always ended up being him on the days he was rushing to his next lecture).

All these things, all these moments, and the fool had passed all of them by.

The restless energy humming under his skin through his entire being disappeared much quicker than it had come, its job done, leaving a gaping void in its wake that was shockingly familiar. Almost as if this wasn’t the first time this had happened, where the curtains never raised on the beginning you two could’ve had. He took a shuddering, stabilizing breath (that didn’t work), too numb to feel the freshly brewed coffee scalding his tongue that he had hoped would pull him back to reality, hoped the sweet taste would wash away the bitterness at the back of his throat and the splitting headache of years upon years of memories crashing into him like a tidal wave.

Professor Takami had work to get done.

Keigo could mourn later.

Even as he convinced himself of that, he couldn’t even bring himself to brush the dead lotus petals off his work, the sight of the wilted centerpiece only bringing more pain. The cruel coincidence of the once bloomed flowers now dead in his hands didn’t go unnoticed, and Keigo desperately tried to bore the printed words laid in front of him into his mind.

As if doing that would sear away the sudden onslaught of memories, dead lotus petals igniting a yearning for a long-demolished lotus garden and a pretty concubine who didn’t belong in the palace (or was it a small town and the life he could’ve had?) and the love that slipped through his fingers once more.

Did you go through this too? When he—

The half-graded essays lay untouched for the rest of the day, red ink disappearing in the crimson light cast by the setting sun.

【 ☀︎ 】

When did I…?

He blinked down at the concrete under his feet, stunned, before looking up to see an endless sea of trains passing in front of him. The incessant rushing of the trains around him had replaced the silence of the hotel room he was supposed to be sound asleep in, the too-rhythmic noise of the train tracks surrounding him in an almost ethereal white noise.

I had just gone to bed… How did I end up at a train station?

He winced at the glare of the midday sun reflecting off of the last car of the train passing in front of him, before stopping short at the sight of someone standing on the other side of the tracks—alone—revealed by the passing train. His heart leapt into his throat and pushed a name he didn’t know and wouldn’t remember out of his lips. There was no way he knew her, the multi-layered kimono and elegant hairpins looked like something out of a millenia-old ukiyo-e print and wholly out of place in a modern train station. But... something deep in his soul knew that it was right, and it sang as he watched the woman turn around.

“You’re dreaming right now, Keigo. Go back to sleep,”

“What…?”

“It’s true,” The woman tilted her head with the soft smile that he’d missed so much (missed? Wasn’t this his first time seeing it?) and the ancient hairpieces jingled and swayed with the movement, his gaze locking on a familiar crimson gemstone catching the sunlight, “Don’t believe me? Try to count some numbers, then. One… two…”

Another train hurtled past, blocking his view once more as her painted lips moved soundlessly around the final number.

“Three.”

Keigo sat up with a gasp, staring at the soft shafts of light the sunrise painted on the walls.

It was the start of a new day, and he found himself mourning something lost that he couldn’t even remember.

Dawn finds Hawks, the number two hero, leaping out of his Tokyo hotel window, wind catching on vermilion wings to buffer his descent to the sidewalk.

He was far from home, his current mission dragging him all the way to Tokyo from his agency in Fukuoka. Sneakers touched concrete, and he started down the path where he was supposed to meet with the last person he wanted to see right now. Especially after that mess with the High-End Nomu. He shuddered, spreading his wings as if to remind himself that they were all there, recovered after that hellish fight.

Come to the location on foot, he’d been told, and don’t be conspicuous.

Weird request, and it was kind of hard to remain inconspicuous when he was the number two hero and had a pair of bright red wings announcing his identity to the world. Alas, he needed to cooperate or else he’d end up jeopardizing the entire mission, so Keigo settled for ditching his hero costume in favor of casual clothes and a cap to hide his identity. He pulled a mask over his nose and tucked his wings closer to further help conceal himself as he walked down the street, dipping into the first alley he saw.

His path through the grid of alleyways and side streets had already been mapped out the days before, so it was just a matter of making the short trek there. Unfortunately, the area wasn’t the best, and Keigo found himself slowed by sidestepping trash and the occasional bottle of liquor. The scent of stale alcohol only brought unpleasant fragments of memories, and he pushed them aside in favor of quickening his pace.

“My, not every day I see such a bigshot hero pass by.”

He almost tripped over another bottle, wings ruffling in surprise as he cursed himself for being caught off guard.

There was an old woman sitting there, a steaming cup of tea in her hands as she sat outside her quaint little storefront.

A flower shop, in this secluded side street?

“Ah, sorry, ma’am, you have the wrong person. I mean, me? The number 2 pro hero?” He was quick to deny her, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. She merely hummed and took another sip of her tea.

“Do I? Well, this old woman’s eyes aren’t what they used to be after all.” She set down the cup and stepped out of her chair, shuffling over to the water feature on the other side of the doorway that served as an attraction. He could see why, the soft rush of the small waterfall and fragrant lotuses drawing his attention the more he stared.

Suddenly, the woman plucked one of the younger lotuses, patting the stem dry before handing it to him with a smile.

“Uh—”

“You saved my son that day, from the Nomu attack in Fukuoka. This is the least I could do.”

Against his better judgement—he really needed to get going to catch the train in time—he took the half-bloomed lotus in his hands and pulled down his mask to smile at her.

“Your eyes are… actually pretty sharp, ma’am. Thank you.”

She laughed, sitting back in her seat and sent him on his way. The rest of the walk went smoothly after that, and he soon found himself jogging up the stairs to the station, muttering under his breath as he checked his watch.

Right on time.

【 ☀︎ 】

A strange sense of deja vu creeped into his chest as he stepped onto the platform in Minami-senju station. He’d been feeling off all day, and the weird sense of familiarity that had been tugging at the back of his mind didn’t help. Luckily, he’d managed to arrive in time to catch the noon train so the rest of his schedule should hopefully go smoothly from here. A departing train screeched into motion, and he winced at the rippling glare of sunlight that reflected into his eyes, the strange deja vu rearing its head again.

Keigo stared at the train passing in front of him as he idly twirled the lotus stem in between his fingers. The words left his lips before he could catch himself.

“One… two…” He cut himself off with a sigh, dropping his head and dragging a hand over his face.

It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

Keigo.

His head shot up at the sound of his name, the world darkening under the shade of a passing cloud. Did he just imagine that? He had to. The train station was practically stranded, and there was no one even close enough to call his name without shouting across the station (if they even knew his name in the first place). Despite his better judgement, he wet his lips and shut his eyes, the strangely familiar words passing his lips once more as he desperately tried to recall the familiarity he longed for.

“One…”

I want to see you.

“Two…”

I don’t even know who you are, but I miss you anyway.

“Three—”

Suddenly, the steady rhythm of the train tracks silenced and left him with the raging drum of his heartbeat, the blood rushing in his ears as he stared at the person standing on the other side of the tracks. The emerging sun smiled upon him, casting the world in light once more as his voice locked around a familiar name he’d never spoken.

It started as a hushed whisper, and he swallowed the lump in his throat to call the name thrice ingrained into his soul.

“Y/N!”

The familiar smile that bloomed across your lips was answer enough as he pushed through the newly arrived train to the other side, to you. He reached out, clawing through the rush hour crowd (why were there so many people? Why were you so far? Closer, closer, closer—) and he nearly sobbed in relief as you fell into his arms, clinging to each other as your souls finally, finally, melded together as one. Now and forevermore.

The questions could come later, but now... he had a promise to fulfill.

He was home.

notes: minami-senju train station is located in very close proximity (a two-minute walk) from what is left of the kozukappara execution grounds, where a temple now stands in its place. he’s made quite the journey to come full circle, hasn’t he?

#takami keigo x reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo x reader #hawks x reader #bnha oneshot #hawks x reader angst #mha oneshot #bnha reader insert #mha reader insert #reincarnation au #from the typewriter #pocuties #cw death #tw death #cw blood #tw blood #cw war #tw war #if you'd like me to add a warning please let me know!

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quinntamsin · 3 years ago

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Hello folx:

She watched cool from her throat, eyes watching with indifference. A small lazing salamander pup sits in her lap while a barghest sits by her foot.

I am Quínn Ní Callaghan, Sovereign of the Stormtide and the Erseleigh Court. Or in less nerdy terms, I’m Quinn (Sinliciously Fae & ShadowedSin work as well) a Trans Sapphic write with all things LGBT* / GNC / being awesomely non-binary! IRL keep it simple for the nonspecific, for my aware friends, I’m bigender Femme / Azurgirl. My pronouns are She / Her when I’m okay and Fae / Faer when too dysphoric.

Basically i’m long time amateur folklorist with an ineterest in making up languages and worlds. If you see an obscure femslash pairing, I’m likely happy about it! Oh, I might have a slight obsession writing Scifi / Fantasy, Horror / Trhillers as well as Slice of Life!

Of of my works are crossposted on My Ao3 Page or my page on Big Closet Topshelf

If you love my content & stories want to give some support please consider checking out my Patreon! I’m posting new content weekly including sneak peeks on upcoming stories, essays and more!

If you aren’t already come join the conversation for my communtiy we’re Trans / Queer / Non-Binary centric with the rest being LGBT*! Join us on Félélann / Das Discord!

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starsbegantofall · 3 years ago

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I know this isn’t the most active tumblr account, but is anyone here nosy enough for me to repost more personal things from my twitter account here? for example, all the stuff I bought supporting artists and small businesses? my cooking and plant-tending adventures (homey stuff since i don’t go out or go to cons anymore because we’re still in a pandemic)?

I tend to use my social media as an archive or diary: post my art with a timestamp, list my alibis, keep track of my reviews and purchases so other people can reference them later. I don’t really chat with friends on most sites except if I don’t have their phones to text them and we needed to meet up or someone got lost (not as relevant these days because we’re still in a pandemic). Now I do have a discord but gone were the days my brain can focus on multiple conversations at the same time, I prefer to talk face to face if I must chit-chat (but again, can’t do that because we’re still in a pandemic).

I dunno. I don’t plan on boycotting twitter since that’s where all the Japanese and Korean and SE Asian artists are (only a few are on tumblr, the ones who speak English fluently) and obviously I’m Asian and want to stay on top of Asian news and media as well as Western news. But I don’t think anyone on Tumblr cares enough for me to crosspost either?

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regenderate-fic · 4 years ago

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Staring Down Forever

Fandom: Doctor Who Characters: Clara Oswald, Ashildr | Lady Me, Thirteenth Doctor Rating: General Warnings: Discussions of death and mortality Word Count: 3,094 Crossposted from AO3. Originally posted on 9 February 2020. Link to original.

Summary: After millions of years, Clara is ready to return to Gallifrey.

But Gallifrey is no more.

NOTES: my original notes thank my doctor who wlw discord for inspiring this and while i only vaguely remember that conversation i'm sure it was absolutely foundational to this fic. i don't write with clara very often but i do think she and ashildr both have a lot of potential.

Clara wasn’t sure how she knew it was time. All she could tell was that she had adventured all over the universe in her stolen TARDIS, she had seen friend after friend grow old and die, and now— well, now she was tired. Not physically, she didn’t get tired physically, but emotionally, she was tired. She was ready to exhale for the last time, let out the breath she had gathered into her lungs in that trap street in London so long ago.

The first thing she did was find Ashildr. They had traveled together, off and on, over the years— Ashildr didn’t always recognize Clara, but she always remembered the name from her journals. Clara could always count on her for companionship, even if thousands of years had passed between visits, and she was always grateful for it.

She decided to go somewhere near the end, this time. Not the very end— she’d seen Ashildr at the end of the universe, dejected and scared, and she didn’t want to be rubbing her fate in Ashildr’s face just when Ashildr was feeling her lack of fate the most. But she wanted an older Ashildr, one who had recorded millions of years of adventures, one who knew Clara both as a friend and as a literary hero from times gone by.

She landed her TARDIS right outside Ashildr’s door. In her later years, Ashildr had chosen to live alone, sequestered away on a forested planet, only occasionally making the journey to the nearest town. Clara had visited her there a few times before, at various points in her travels. She left the TARDIS and knocked on the door in the special rhythm she and Ashildr had developed ages ago, after one day in the 23rd century when Ashildr hadn’t opened her door because she was worried about unwanted guests. Ever since then, Clara had used her own personal knock, and Ashildr always responded to it, no matter how long it had been.

Today was no exception. Ashildr was as composed as ever when she emerged, her face nearly expressionless in a way that would have been disconcerting if it didn’t mirror Clara’s own expression.

“Clara,” Ashildr said. “Come in. Would you like tea?”

Clara stepped across the threshold, into Ashildr’s home.

“No, thank you,” she said. She didn’t eat or drink— all of her body’s processes had stopped, and she didn’t like to think what might happen if she tried to act like her body was dynamic, something that could take new things into it and use them. Ashildr always offered, but Clara always refused.

“All right, then,” Ashildr said, and she led Clara into her home. It was only one room, living room, bedroom, and kitchen all rolled into one, with a table and two chairs in one corner, a bed in another, and walls lined with bookshelves, each holding row after row of identical notebooks in various states of disrepair. Ashildr sat down at the table, and Clara sat across from her. Even after all these years, their visits retained a certain formality: their backs were perfectly straight, their voices controlled, and they spoke in language that one might use for an interview of some kind.

“What brings you here today?” Ashildr asked. “Another adventure?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Clara said. “I want you to come with me to Gallifrey.”

Ashildr started. “Gallifrey? But—”

“Yes,” Clara said. Ashildr didn’t react, and Clara rushed on. “You can take my TARDIS right back here. Or anywhere. I’ll give it instructions. I just don’t want to do this alone.”

Ashildr’s face smoothed into a smile. “Of course I’ll come with you. I have always been fond of you, you know.”

“And I you,” Clara replied.

“Shall we go now?” Ashildr asked.

“I thought we might.”

They walked into the TARDIS together as if they were just going on another adventure. Clara led the way, and Ashildr trailed behind.

“Remember this?” Clara asked as they stepped into the console room.

“’Course I do,” Ashildr said. “You were only here last month.”

“Was I?” Clara grinned. “Suppose I don’t really keep track.”

“Didn’t.”

Clara turned. “Sorry?”

“If you’re about to die,” Ashildr said, as stoic as ever, “you should use the past tense.”

“I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it.” Clara shrugged. “Do you want to help pilot?”

“Of course.”

Ashildr took her place at the console— she and Clara had taught themselves how to fly together, after all, and it seemed to be some kind of muscle memory, because no matter how long it had been, Ashildr always approached the controls with the same degree of confidence. This time, though, she looked up before she touched anything.

“You’re sure about this?”

Clara nodded.

“It’s been a long time,” she said. “I’ve seen everything I wanted to see. Done everything I wanted to do. Which must mean it’s time for the next adventure, right?”

Ashildr didn’t say anything.

“Sorry,” Clara said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come. I know it’s a difficult subject for you. I just—”

“It’s fine,” Ashildr said. “I understand. But it’s a very permanent decision.”

“It’s time,” Clara said. “I’ve had millions of years more than I was meant to.”

“I suppose so.” Ashildr was staring blankly at the controls. She took a deep breath, and then her head snapped up. “Right. Let’s get you to Gallifrey.”

The jump was easy, easier perhaps than any other trip Clara had taken. One moment, they were in the woods by Ashildr’s home, and the next, they had moved across a great expanse of time and space to Gallifrey. The TARDIS’s engines ground to a halt, and all of a sudden Clara was acutely aware of her lack of heartbeat, the breath caught in the back of her throat, the complete stillness around her. She blinked, and then Ashildr was in front of her, staring right into her eyes.

“Are you ready?”

And then the most complete relief flooded Clara. This was it. After what had to be millions of years of running through time and space, taking care of things, exploring, having adventures, she was finally going to release the tension in her muscles, let out the sigh she’d been holding in for so long.

“I’m ready,” she said.

Ashildr grabbed Clara’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze before letting it fall.

“I’ll miss you,” she said.

“It’s been an honor traveling with you,” Clara replied.

And then they both turned to the TARDIS doors. Clara took Ashildr’s hand, letting the warmth seep into her palm, and together they pushed the doors open and stepped out—

And immediately ground to a halt.

Something was wrong.

Gallifrey was barren.

Totally and completely barren.

There was no one there. The orange sky, usually breathtaking, made the Citadel look as if it were on fire. The towers that Clara remembered as soaring pinnacles of Gallifreyan civilization were crumbling, and the hum of the city had been replaced by complete silence.

“We’re alone,” Clara said. Her voice echoed in the emptiness.

Ashildr took a couple of steps forward, pulling Clara with her. The rubble shifted under their feet, and they both scrambled back.

“There has to be someone ,” Ashildr said.

Clara shook her head. “Even the Time War didn’t destroy it like this.”

Ashildr said nothing.

“This was supposed to be here.”

“I know.”

“I was supposed to be able to come back .” Clara’s voice cracked. It felt like a huge weight was crashing down on her, the same as she’d felt years ago when Ashildr had looked at her with such sorrow in her eyes and Clara had realized the raven was going to come for her. She had wanted so much more, then, but now she had had so much more. She had lived longer than she had thought possible. She had fixed things, saved worlds, made mistakes, traveled far and wide. She was tired . She was done . “I didn’t ask for this, you know,” she yelled in Ashildr’s direction. “I didn’t want to be immortal.”

“I know,” Ashildr said, and Clara realized she was still holding Ashildr’s hand. She held tighter, clinging to the solid, consistent, tangible warmth.

“I haven’t even been properly alive in millenia!”Her voice filled the ruin, echoing back, the only sound in the whole city.

Ashildr stepped closer to Clara. “I know.”

“What even happened ?” Clara demanded, crying out at the ruins. “Who could have done this? Gallifrey is stuck at the end of the universe! No one can even get in here!”

“We got in here,” Ashildr pointed out.

“We have a TARDIS. And the only other person with a TARDIS is the Doctor, and the Doctor never—” Clara gasped. “He better not have! Oh, I’m going to kill him! I can’t believe I can’t even die ! The one thing every human is supposed to be able to do.” She stared up at the burnt orange sky. “I guess I waited too long, didn’t I? I wanted too much, and this is what I get for it.”

“It’s going to be all right.” Ashildr put her arm around Clara and guided her around. “Come on, let’s get back into the TARDIS.”

Clara stumbled back through the TARDIS doors. She made it to the console with one of Ashildr’s arms around her, the husk of the Citadel burned into her field of vision. Somehow she managed to twist the dials to launch the TARDIS into the time vortex. It continued its ambient whirring and beeping as if nothing had happened.

Clara sank to the floor. She was vaguely aware of Ashildr crouched next to her and the pressure of Ashildr’s hand on her back,, but all she could think about was the years stretching ahead of her, out and out and out…

“How do you do it?” she asked. “How do you live for so long?”

“It helps that I don’t remember most of it,” Ashildr said, “but really, I do it because I have no other option. I’ve come to terms with it in much the same way most humans come to terms with dying.”

“I don’t understand,” Clara said. “I’ve been doing this whole near-immortality thing for a long time, but I never had to think about forever.”

“Best if you don’t,” Ashildr said. “See, just like dying.” She paused. “Does it help if you think of this as an afterlife?”

“I don’t know,” Clara said. She straightened up. “All right, then. Let’s find the Doctor.”

It always took some time to track down the Doctor. This time was trickier, too, because they wanted to find a Doctor who knew about the destruction on Gallifrey, which ruled out pretty much every version of the Doctor Clara knew of.

Fortunately, the Doctor had a habit of hanging around Earth, and Clara had been avoiding him for long enough that she knew where to look. England, first of all, for some reason he always hung around England, and there was always some sort of chaos that got reported in news networks. She scrolled through articles, tweets, Facebook posts, and so on until she found something about a UFO in Sheffield. Another search revealed a large number of alien disturbances in Sheffield between 2018 and 2020, often accompanied by blurry pictures of the same four people. It had Doctor written all over it.

Clara and Ashildr chose a moment near the end of that time frame, figuring they’d be more likely to find a Doctor who knew about Gallifrey, and set the TARDIS in motion. They landed just outside a Sheffield estate (according to their research, the home of a giant spider infestation, at least three alien-centric plots, and, more than occasionally, a strange blue box) and stepped out. Nothing was amiss— they had timed their landing to coincide with the end of a conflict between the Sheffield government and a group of very lost Adipose— but there was the telltale blue box, sitting on a curb, looking entirely innocuous. Clara hadn’t seen the Doctor’s TARDIS in years, and it shocked her a little. She stopped in her tracks.

“You all right?” Ashildr asked.

Clara nodded, resolute. She had butterflies in her stomach— she hadn’t known she could have butterflies in her stomach. She hadn’t seen the Doctor in so long. He hadn’t remembered her, the last time. Would he remember her this time?

She didn’t have much time to wonder. She and Ashildr had just begun to approach the TARDIS when a tall man stepped out, holding a phone to his ear. When he saw Clara, there was no flicker of recognition, but she took two steps forward, and he held up a finger and said into the phone, “Hang on a second.”

Clara hesitated.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Doctor?” Clara asked. She looked him up and down. “You’ve really calmed down a bit, fashion-wise, haven’t you?”

“Sorry,” the man said. “I’m not the Doctor.”

Clara opened her mouth to answer, but then she heard a voice yelling her name: “Clara? Clara ?” She turned to see a woman running towards her, ridiculous coat flapping behind.

Well, that was more like it.

“Doctor?”

“Clara!” the Doctor cried. She stopped in her tracks.“And Ashildr, too? What are you doing here?”

“How do you all know each other?” the man asked.

“Clara, Ashildr, this is Ryan,” the Doctor said. “Ryan, Clara and Ashildr. Or, what are you going by these days?”

“Nothing, really,” Ashildr said. “I don’t get out much.”

“Clara used to travel with me,” the Doctor said to Ryan, “and Ashildr— well, that’s a big long story. Maybe later?”

“Good meeting you,” Ryan said.

“You as well,” Clara said.

“Clara’s brilliant,” the Doctor told Ryan. “Ryan’s brilliant too,” she told Clara. “And Yaz, and Graham, my other friends, also brilliant, they’ll be here soon. Anyway! What brings you here?”

“I was looking for you,” Clara said. She looked the Doctor right in the eyes. “Listen, Doctor, Gallifrey’s gone.”

Maybe there had been a better way to say that. Maybe she could have asked what the Doctor knew first. Maybe she could have eased into the news. But she just needed to get the words out, and fortunately, the Doctor didn’t look surprised. Her mouth settled into a grim line, and she nodded.

“Gallifrey’s gone ,” Clara repeated. “Doctor—”

“I don’t know what happened,” the Doctor said. “Except it involves the Master— Missy— you remember her?”

Clara made a face.

“I remember.”

“He did it. But he left a message about why, and I’ve got to get to the bottom of it.”

“So— if Gallifrey’s gone— what does that mean?” Clara asked. “For me?”

Recognition dawned on the Doctor’s face. “Oh, Clara,” she said, her voice so soft it was practically a whisper. “You were trying to die.”

Clara turned her face away.

“You were, weren’t you?” the Doctor asked. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I wish I knew how to help.”

“That’s all right,” Clara said around the lump in her throat. “Really. It’s not your fault. We just wanted to find out what happened.”

The Doctor pulled Clara into a hug, and Clara hugged her back, gripping her jacket in tight fists. To her mortification, she realized that tears were falling. She hadn’t cried in so long, she had almost forgotten she could, but now she was sobbing right into the Doctor’s shoulder, the periwinkle of her jacket turning dark blue with the wetness. The Doctor rubbed her back, keeping a stream of comfort running into Clara’s ear, with things like, “I’m so sorry,” and, “It’s going to be okay,” and, “You’ll be all right, I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” Clara said, but she was already feeling a little better.

“Oh, try me,” the Doctor said, and Clara got a flash of the Doctor she’d first met, the one who was full of flair and who thought he could do just about anything .

“All right, then,” Clara said.

Footsteps approached, and Clara looked behind her to see two more people approaching. Before she could say anything, Ryan was ushering the newcomers into the TARDIS, explaining the situation as best he could.

“That’s Graham and Yaz,” the Doctor explained. “We just had a whole— thing—”

“The Adipose,” Clara said.

“Exactly,” the Doctor said. “Ryan was tracking them with the TARDIS, and Graham and Yaz were helping me.”

“Suppose they’re living my sort of life, then,” Clara said. “Traveling with you. Getting into trouble.”

“I told them it was dangerous,” the Doctor said, her expression dead serious. “Promise.” Clara didn’t see any of the Doctor she had known in that. It left her with an uneasy feeling in her stomach.

“Well, you’re hard to resist,” she said, equally serious.

The Doctor scrunched up her face in a way that Clara could only interpret as discomfort.

“Sorry,” Clara said.

“That’s all right,” the Doctor said. “So, Clara, where are you off to next?”

“I’ve no idea,” Clara admitted. “I didn’t think there would be a next.”

“You know,” the Doctor said, “sometimes when I regenerate, the TARDIS just spits me out somewhere completely random, and I feel so much better about the whole thing.”

“Thanks,” Clara said. She glanced at the Doctor’s TARDIS. “Do you— get tired of this whole thing, then? Being alive?”

“Course I do,” the Doctor said. “But, you know, I can die. Almost didn’t regenerate this last time, you know. Was so afraid of becoming someone new.” She shrugged. “Turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?”

“But you can change,” Clara said. “I’m stuck, aren’t I? In this body, in this heartbeat ?”

“Oh, that’s just your body,” the Doctor said. “Your mind is brilliant, isn’t it? You can change all you want.” The Doctor grinned. “Besides, if you really need a change, you can always come with me again.”

Clara smiled.

“What,” she asked, “and leave Ashildr all alone?”

“She could come too!” the Doctor exclaimed.

“I would never,” Ashildr said from behind Clara.

“Maybe later,” Clara said.

“Come find me anytime,” the Doctor said. “I’m glad you’re around, Clara.”

“You, too, Doctor.” Clara hugged the Doctor one more time, and then the Doctor went off into her TARDIS and Clara and Ashildr went back into theirs. Clara stood at the console, staring at the controls.

“So,” she said to Ashildr. “You want to come on an adventure?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Clara grinned.

“Right, then,” she said. “Next stop, anywhere.”

And she launched the TARDIS into the time vortex.

#doctor who #fanfiction #my fic #clara oswald #ashildr #short

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