#I spent so long on this and part of me still prefers how the wip looked rip

[wispscribbles]

Rest for the wicked

#ghostsoap #soapghost #soap x ghost #ghoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #cod fanart #my art #retired ghostsoap #NRFTW tag #unmasked ghost #they eepy #happy w the colours on this one weeee #they are holding hands :> #I spent so long on this and part of me still prefers how the wip looked rip #ain’t that just the way #art for the epilogue of nrftw #you get to see it first bc ily <3 #my fav Ghost i've ever drawn he is so cuddly

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 2 Part 7

We're a day late for WIP Wednesday, but I was wiped after the work shifts from hell the last two days. But today and tomorrow I'm off so I'm back on track! No work next Wednesday, either, so I should be good to go next week. Because I'm a day late, you get a long one today!

Story Summary: Tim and Danny are both neglected by parents who care more about their work than their families. They deal with this by spending too much time online and find each other playing MMORPGs. They keep up their friendship as Tim becomes Robin and Danny becomes Phantom and don't bother keeping secrets from each other.

First, Previous

Word Count: 1.9k

-----

Still not entirely comfortable, Tim finally stepped into the lab. On the far wall, behind yellow and black doors was the portal he’d heard so much about.

Danny followed his gaze and put a hand on his arm. “Come on, Tim. The weapons vault is over here.”

Tim nodded once. “What do you have?”

“Everything.” Danny placed his hand over a scanner next to the door and it beeped and opened. “You like staffs, right? Try this out.”

Danny passed him a silver metal staff just a bit longer than his favored weapon. Tim took it and ran through two of his warm up exercises. The balance was excellent and he picked up the pace. If it wasn’t for the color scheme, he’d consider using one as his own backup.

“This is great. It’s effective against ghosts?”

“Yep. The Fenton Rod.” Danny reached out for it and Tim gave it back. “And if you do this—” he twisted and the staff separated into two “—you’ve got two weapons.”

He passed the two halves back to Tim who ran through a few more attacks and blocks with them. He had enough practice with Dick’s escrima sticks to hold his own. “This is perfect, thanks.”

“Now, the rest of you, would you prefer distance weapons or close up?”

Tim backed away from the vault to allow the others to explore their options. He spent the time practicing on connecting and separating the staff—he would not call it the Fenton Rod, even in his own head—and running through a few more complicated patterns with it to make sure he was familiar with it’s weight.

“You’re really good with that,” commented Sam who was watching him.

Tim shrugged fixed a self-conscious smile to his face. “It’s always good to know self defense when you live in Gotham. And Bruce is more particular about it than most.”

“Really? I thought he was a vapid idiot.”

“Oh, he is,” agreed Tim. “But he loves his kids and knows us being linked to him puts us in danger. So he goes to extremes to make sure we can hold our own when trouble arises.”

Before Sam could reply, Danny called out to them, “Hey, Tim! Do you want a long range weapon as well?”

“Sure. What do you have?”

So he joined as Danny showed them several blasters and lasers that they could use. Tim pulled out a small one that could be used single-handed.

“This is good for me.”

Cassie and Conner chose heavier weapons with more range and attack power, though Bart followed Tim’s lead.

“Okay, now that that’s done. Ready to practice ways to get a ghost out of a human?”

The emphatic agreement from every member of Tim’s team seemed to surprise Sam and Tucker but Danny just laughed.

“Sam, Tucker, which of you wants to volunteer?”

The two exchanged a look and Tucker sighed and stood up. “I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Tuck. So, I’m gonna overshadow Tucker and go over the signs of overshadowing. They’re mostly pretty subtle if you don’t know the person. A ghost has no access to the memories or thoughts of the person they’re overshadowing, so behavior will be off. Then, if Tim is okay with it, I’ll overshadow him so he can explain how it feels to the rest of you. And I’d appreciate it if at least one of you metas will let me overshadow you so we can make sure the methods that work on baseline humans also work with you.”

Conner looked at Tim. “You trust him?”

Tim nodded. “Have since I was eleven.”

“I’ll do it, then.”

Danny grinned. “Great! Tucker, you first.” And with that, Danny transformed and flew right into Tucker’s body.

Tim watched closely as Tucker went rigid for a moment before resuming his casual slouch. “Tucker isn’t present at all right now,” said Tucker. Then his eyes flared green. “Any time a ghost uses their powers while overshadowing someone, the eyes’ll change. So look for that. Changes in behavior if you know the person are also a dead giveaway. Most ghosts haven’t been on earth in a long time, so another sign is being unused to Earth customs. Especially modern ones. But really, the eyes are your best bet. Get a ghost emotional and they can’t hold it back. Now, Sam, force me out!”

Sam grinned. “With pleasure.” She held up a thermos. “Best way is to use a thermos. It contains the ghost and prevents them from further attacks. To use, you simply remove the cap, point the opening at the ghost or overshadowed person in question, and press the button.” She did and a beam of blue light hit Tucker. Danny was pulled out and sucked into the thermos. Sam recapped the device and spun it in her hands.

Tucker held his head and groaned. “How long was he in me for?”

“Like thirty seconds, Tuck. Don’t be dramatic,” replied Sam.

“Does it hurt?” asked Cassie.

Tucker shook his head. “Minor headache immediately post overshadowing that fades in less than a minute. You don’t have any memory of the time you were overshadowed, so some disorientation if your location changed or a lot of time has passed is also normal. Maybe some vague impressions, like from a dream you can’t quite remember.”

“Ready for take two?” asked Sam.

Tucker rolled his eyes, but waved a hand around in agreement.

“So, to release a ghost from a thermos, you press the button that says ‘release.’ Super easy.” She did so, letting out another beam of light and when it cleared, Danny was floating before them.

“Does being in the thermos hurt?” asked Conner.

Danny shook his head and grinned. “Nah. Feels like you’re wrapped up in a heavy blanket. So sometimes it’s nice and sometimes it’s claustrophobic and I’m desperate to get out.”

Tim hummed. “How many ghosts can you fit in one thermos?”

Danny shrugged. “Not sure. Quite a few, but I’ve never pushed the limits. I think six or seven is the most we’ve done. Maybe more if it’s just ectopusses and blob ghosts I’m trying to clear out of my parents’ way.”

“Ectopusses?” asked Cassie.

At the same time, Bart asked, “Blob ghosts?”

Danny laughed. “I think there’s something to the hypothesis that octopusses have as much intelligence as a person. So many of them become ghosts. And they’re super curious. I think they like to explore places on land because it’s so different from the oceans they lived in. And blob ghosts are just what they sound like. Shapeless ghosts that are usually less than a foot large and don’t appear to have any cognitive power.”

Tim had a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but the news report going in the background was a constant reminder that they didn’t have time. “How else can you end an overshadowing?”

Danny nodded and flew back into Tucker.

Sam went over the different weapons they had that could be safely used on an overshadowed human. The small blasters were the easiest and caused no injury to the host. Tim’s staff was also effective, though it could leave bruises.

Finally, they’d each managed to get Danny out of Tucker three different ways each. He couldn’t even say a thermos was the weirdest thing he’d ever used as a weapon, though the fact that it had been designed as a weapon was certainly novel.

“So now it’s my turn.” Tim couldn’t help the way his stomach twisted at the thought of what was coming up. He trusted Danny, he really did. And he wanted to know what it felt like to be overshadowed. But he hated losing control of himself. Absolutely despised it. He took a deep breath and met Danny’s eyes. “Do it.”

Danny bit his lip. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Do it, Danny.”

A brief moment of hesitation longer, then Danny was flying towards him. The next thing Tim was aware of was a sharp pain in his head that he could only describe as being located behind his brain. Conner was facing him with the thermos pointed at him. The pain was already fading as he blinked and took in the lab again.

Nothing had changed.

“What was it like?” asked Cassie.

The question put Tim right back into Bat Report Mode. “As Tucker said, I have no memory of anything since I saw Danny fly at me to overshadow me. When he left, I had a strange pain in my head that faded by the time I had checked our surroundings for any changes that may have occurred while I was unaware.” As he spoke, he did a quick body check to look for any unusual pains or feelings elsewhere in his body. “I appear to be in the exact same physical condition as I was before the experiment. How long was I overshadowed for?”

“Less than two minutes,” said Conner. “I promise no longer than that. Danny had you sing a weird song about exploding weasels and then I sucked him into this.” He shook the thermos.

Cassie laughed. “It was ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’ We have to teach you about nursery rhymes.”

Bart raised his hand. “Uh, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one, either.”

And finally, Tim was able to relax. “Next weekend we all have off, Cassie and I will teach you all the nursery rhymes. Dick probably knows a ton. I’d imagine growing up in a circus with performers from all sorts of countries exposed him to so many.”

Bart grinned. “It’ll be interesting to see how the list of ones I know compares to the ones you know!”

Conner smiled back. “I’d like that. I should ask Clark for any he knows, too.” As he spoke, he pressed the button to release Danny.

When the light cleared, Danny was floating upside down looking Tim over. “So what’d you think of your first experience being overshadowed?”

“Four out of ten. Would not like to repeat, but I’ve definitely been through worse.”

Danny laughed and, still upside down, turned until he was facing Conner. “Think you’re ready for you turn?”

Conner took a deep breath and handed the thermos to Bart. “As I’ll ever be.”

Danny nodded and flew into him, just as he had Tucker and Tim. And then there was no more Conner. No more Superboy. Just someone who looked like him, but held his head cocked the wrong way. Who slouched a bit too much. Who was so clearly not Conner.

Tim pulled his new staff out and reminded himself it was just Danny. This was friendly right now. And it was reassuring to know he’d be able to tell when any of his friends were overshadowed.

Danny started to sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star in Conner’s voice.

Bart held up the thermos, ready to pull Danny in.

“Let me,” said Tim. “I want to do it.”

“You’ve got it,” replied Bart as he recapped the thermos.

Tim rushed forward and hit Conner on the side with his staff; Danny went flying out of him.

Conner shook his head and looked around. “That was weird. I remember it all, though.”

Danny was rubbing at his side where Tim hit. “Yeah. I’ve never overshadowed a meta before. At least no one I could tell was a meta. I could hear you, too. It was a struggle to keep control of your body.”

Tim sagged in relief. “Do you think that makes them less of a target?”

“Possibly?” The uncertainty in Danny’s voice made Tim uneasy. “From some ghosts, sure. But others like a challenge and may target him—them—specifically.”

Bart grinned. “Sounds like it’ll be an interesting game! So, now that we’ve got the basics down, we’re going out there to help, right?”

-----

Next

Okay, so part of the reason for the length is that I just didn't want to cut it anywhere. Though the fact that it happened when I'm a day late posting certainly helped me not feel like I should find a spot to break it up!

Now, I've decided to move away from the tag system because breaking it up over two posts is getting to be quite difficult. So I've set up a subscription post for this story. Subscribe to that post and you'll get a Tumblr notification when I post. Instructions on how to subscribe can be found there. Anyone who has requested a tag before this post will be tagged today and on the next update, but I won't add anyone new. It's just getting to be a bit too much! (And I'm afraid of getting hit with a shadowban.)

In other news, I've started transferring my works to AO3. Haven't gotten there with this one yet, but the Wrong Number AU (now titled Answer My Call) has been posted. As has the bad reveal fic. Both can be found in my masterpost if you're interested.

Last bit of housekeeping, two posts below this one, I have a poll asking if you'd be interested in me sharing anything I've written for Good Omens. Feel free to check that out. Most of my time will still be spent with DPxDC, but with the new season coming out, I may try to revisit some things I haven't touched in a year (longer?).

Tag List Part 1

@gremlin-bot @bonebrokebuddy @britcision @lady-time-lord- @welcometosasakiworld @akikkobara @phoenixdemonqueen @dolfay @skulld3mort-1fan @we-ezer @markus209 @sjrose1216 @onyxlightdragon @dragonsrequiem @jesus-camp-the-sequel @spidey29phangirl @kyrianclawraith @evilminji @introvert-even-on-the-internet @emergentpanda-blog @lexdamo @v-inari @idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit @longlivethefallen @undead-essence @xye-chan @liandrin @seraphinedemort @kisatamao @schalensitzbucket @caelestisdreamer @runfromthemedic @nutcase8691 @channajen @tonicmii @ambiguouslyominous @vythika96 @addie-lover-of-stories @ironicvixen @violetfox2 @pickleking8 @mysticalcomputerdetective @ark12 @mygood-bitch99 @squirrel-wolf @satisfactionbroughtmeback @sometimesthingsfallapart @automaticsoulharmony @d4ydr34min9 @revnantdpxdclover @midigeria @raginblastocyst @feral-bunny31, @lunaria618, @ghostreblogging, @ace-aro-as-shit

#dpxdc #bring me home #dead tired #speed run training #make sure everyone can use the weapons safely before rushing out to battle! #good thing they already come pretrained #more than danny sam and tucker had going for them

[ouroboros-hideout]

WIP WHENEVER

@chevvy-yates tagged me for this. Thank you a lot 💚

This will be a huge wall of text aswell, since I am not really of the „visual“ side of creating atm.

Writing // Worldbuilding

I'm still writing the next two chapters for my fanfiction, but would rather briefly introduce my other OCs here (yes, Aon isn´t the only one by now). Maybe I can create all of them ingame at some point, depending on how stupid I´ll act with modding etc. when I start. Since things can change quickly in the story while I'm writing, I wouldn't say that everything is 100% set in stone, a lot of it isn't finished yet. But it's a good base. Most of them appear in my „Like Napalm“ fic. Some of them will be in my main GARMR fic aswell. So prepare for half backed character data entries and some rambling.

Gan

Gan Tomobataar, or Iron as he is usually called, is a mysterious man. Many stories surround the Mongolian giant and it always depends on who asks him whether he affirms or denies these tales. It is therefore uncertain which of them are true or fictional and he really enjoys keeping his past in the dark. He is said to have served in an elite military unit. The metal teeth that earned him his iconic nickname are said to have been lost in numerous boxing matches as he tried to turn pro to make a better life for himself and his family, and he is allegedly a descendant of Ginghis Khan (which is probably one of his favorite rumors). One can assume that his closest confidants have more clarity, but none of them would dare say a word about it. Undeniably true is that he has two brothers, of whom he is the second-born. Together with them, he leads one of the largest nomadic clans in eastern Europe and Asia. The Tomobataar nomads are divided into three large families, each led by one of the three brothers. Iron's family stays mainly in Mongolia and Russia, but he would also travel to more distant parts of the Soviet Union for profitable contracts. He doesn't have many vices, but one of them is definitely greed.

By sheer luck, at least that's what he claimed, he picked up Aon on the street when she was trying to flee Moscow on her own. He promised to protect her from the Secret Police and other bounty hunters if she proved to be a useful member of his clan. However, his methods for testing her worth would put the young woman to the test.

Yakov

Yakov always had problems finding his place in the world. He grew up in St. Petersburg, studying or an education other than working in his father's car repair shop were never an option financially, but the young man always yearned for something greater than being stuck in the alleys and streets of his childhood. He decided to join the military when he was old enough, but was discharged immediately after basic training for insubordination and general unsuitability. What remained for him was to work in his father's garage until he died after a long illness. Yakov tried to keep the store running on his own for a while, but he found it difficult to do good business without proper management and eventually had to sell the store. This was followed by a relatively dark period. He saw himself as a failure, was unable to find a new job and drank away the money he had received for the workshop in the bars in his neighborhood. One evening, a man came into his local pub. His car had broken down outside, he wouldn't get any further that night and kept him company for a few hours. The next day, Yakov repaired his car for the man called Gan and left the town with him to live with the Tomobataar nomads.

Gregori

Gregori's mother, a singer from New York, came to the Russian capital for a gig and met a military officer there. The two got together and the result was little Greg. Shortly afterwards, however, the couple fell apart and she took her son back to America, where he spent most of his childhood and youth being raised by babysitters and nannies, while the singer preferred to spend her time on tour or in the recording studio. Gregori at least inherited much of her creativity, starting to make music himself at an early age and drawing a lot. Just what small children do when they need to keep themselves busy.

When he was 16 years old, his mother died of an overdose. As she never bothered to write down a testament or anything similar, her entire fortune goes to her greedy manager, who leaves Gregori penniless.

The boy, who has spent his whole life sheltered without much contact with the outside world, is left with nothing and doesn't know exactly what to do. So he scrapes together the last of his money and buys a ticket to Moscow, where he tries to find his father, but in vain. He quickly goes off the rails, barely speaks a word of Russian, is recruited by a gang and gets exploited. An arms deal with a group of nomads goes wrong, a shootout ensues and Gegori is the only one left of the gang because he hides instead of fighting. Yakov, who was on the other side of the deal, takes pity on him and eventually takes him to his new family where he tries to find his place within the group.

Anna

Anna grew up with the Tomobataar nomads from an early age. Her parents were killed in a botched mission when she was just four years old. Iron, who in a way blamed himself for this, took on a guardianship for her and looked after the little girl like the apple of his eye. As the years passed and Anna grew older, the relationship between her and her foster father changed. He became increasingly demanding, punished misbehavior and put the still young girl under pressure. Aon, who had already earned her place in the clan by this time, could not tolerate this behavior as she herself had grown up under similar circumstances. No one else in the clan interfered with Iron's "parenting methods", which is why she ended up doing it. Anna and Aon then became inseparable and she naturally followed her later when they left the clan along with many others.

Anatoly

Anatoly, or Tolik as Aon calls him, belongs to the Russian working class in Moscow and cannot claim to own much. As a boy, he dreamed of studying mechanical engineering in order to open his own workshop or business. A dream that his father would never have been able to afford in this life. So after school, Tolik started working at his father's scrap yard on the outskirts of Moscow, not an easy job. He regularly drives into the city to pick up old components and scrap metal from SovOil and other big corporations, where he meets Alyona one day. The two strike up a conversation, exchange banter and hit it off straight away, which over time develops into a teenage love story. Aon spends a lot of time with him at the scrapyard, where she can test and improve her skills on old machines and has a place to hide from her hated stepfather. He, in return, benefits from the knowledge she brings with her from university, and his dream of building his own big thing soon becomes her dream too. Together they consider leaving the city at some point and make plans for the future

unnamed_chromed_up_terrifying_SovOil_Secret_Police_agent

Yea well, I don't know yet how to call him. After Aon has fled Moscow, the officers of the normal police force give up the search for her, as it theoretically no longer falls within their area of responsibility. However, since Kristof claims that Aon stole the data he wanted to sell to Petrochem, SovOil is naturally very interested in finding her and the data chip. So they send a Secret Police agent after her, who, together with a small unit, tries to track her down. He actually already had a kind of "Easter Egg" appearance in my other AU. He would have been the agent sitting next to Kurt if he hadn't switched the cards on the table. Funny how differently things can go. Anyway, he doesn't really have much of a backstory other than he used to work for the KGB and is a bloodthirsty hound dog who chases Aon halfway across the country (spoiler: and finds her). If I were to compare him to another character from movies etc, he would probably have the closest vibe to Hans Landa from Inglourious Basterds. The character was very well written, even though I would probably make my namesless_pig a bit younger than him. But since he'll be pumped full of cyberware anyway, it probably doesn't matter much in the end. It's just supposed to be a fucking horrible character and Aon's nightmare.

Robert Walker

Robert is one of the key-characters in my main fanfiction. I haven't thought about him in depth yet, but the general concept is there. He's a British journalist and photographer who wanted to go high by exposing wrongdoings in society. For him, there is nothing more exciting than achieving "fame and notoriety" as a whistleblower. He's not necessarily stupid or doesn't know what he's doing, he's just unlucky. He gets into trouble with the wrong people and upsets the even worse ones, which is why he has to flee the UK and ends up in NC. There he tries to start over and stay out of trouble. However, he soon develops an "unhealthy" obsession with Kurt Hansen. He is incredibly fascinated by him and spends every free minute in Dogtown so that he can perhaps take a photo (or two, or ten) of his idol. At some point, he goes so far as to seek direct contact and wants to interview him. Kurt is flattered at first, but has little desire to reveal information about himself in some strange blog or gossip magazine. But that didn't stop Robert from continuing to stalk him and even trying to become a member of Barghest. At some point, Hansen got too pissed off and gave him the choice of leaving Dogtown or catching a bullet. Robbie chose the second option. After all, he hadn't forbid him to camp outside the gates of Dogtown, had he?

Technically I could tell something about Aon´s mom and her stepfather too, but I don´t have that much yet. So will keep em for the next WIP together with the other OCs for my main fic. There will be three more. A general, a corpo guy and the last is still up for discussion with my brain. Considering somekind of warlord or a netrunner.

Art

I tried to do something different than a full rendered piece of artwork. I am not yet confinced that I like it. I like, that it was finished really fast lmao but...I dunno.

Aon and Tolik - 2055

But happy that Aon is actually recognizable in the end. During the process she looked so much like So Mi at a point that my brain went: WHO ARE YOU GIRL. But I like the long hair. Will give it back to her in her 2078+ appearance. Not exactly like this, but longer than her normal style.

Not quite sure about Anatoly tho. I mean, he looks like this in my head, but I will reconsidere if he will get some cyberarms. He is poor like a mouse, so probably can´t afford expensive tech like this, but he feels kind of „empty“ without anything.

Congrats and huge thanks if you read this far. Brainrot stronk!

Tagging some ppl aswell. Everyone else is invited too to show off some awesome stuff ofc, no pressure as always!

@blackrevell @olath124 @cyberholic77 @cybervesna @pinkyjulien @theviridianbunny @therealnightcity @wanderingaldecaldo @miss--river @barghestapologist @kdval @streetkid-named-desire @aggravateddurian @androgymess

#wip whenever #worldbuilding #writing stuff #art stuff #oc stuff

[mistresslrigtar]

🤗 What advice would you give to new fanfic writers that are just getting started?

💖 What made you start writing?

🧐 Do you spend much time researching for your stories?

Ty for the ask! I'm procrastinating from doing any actual writing so my answers below are long-winded....

🤗I'm not sure I'm the best one to give advice to new fanfic writers, since I feel like I'm just getting started myself! However, the biggest thing I've learned over the past year and have to keep reminding myself is to NOT compare my writing to anyone else. Instead, I try to focus on what I know I'm good at, use those strengths as the building blocks for my stories and write around them. What does that mean? For me, I start with the dialogue and characterization (sometimes the page only has a conversation written out, then I go back and fill in the setting, internal thoughts, actions, etc.) I also focus on just one or sometimes two things (world-building, internal conflict, showing vs telling, etc) I would like to improve upon. I find one-shots are a great way to experiment and focus on an area I would like to work on.

💖I've always loved to read, especially sci-fi/fantasy novels, and imagine what it would be like to live in those worlds. As a former stage performer, I started writing as a creative outlet (it seemed like the next best thing to performing a musical or play) and as a way to immerse myself into those worlds and characters. I'm sure I'm not the only author who puts themselves in their characters shoes.

🧐Do I research my stories? That depends on the stories. So far, I've had to do some research for two of my stories. The first is my completed work that I've talked about ad nauseum (😅🤣) I Belong to You. I had to do a bit of research on drug addiction and some other stuff... I'm talking about alt rock bands and songs, guitars, and motorcycles, I swear. Seriously, I spent HOURS listening to music until I found the right band for that story. (Good thing I like alt rock. I mean, I'm a huge Radiohead fan, so Muse was like listening to classic rock in comparison😂)

The most in-depth to date is for my current WIP Captain Link Araki.

For starters, I can't tell you the number of hours I spent researching Japanese surnames to find the right one for him. Following that, I read a lot about pirates, their habits, the crewman, jargon, what they do when their ships need repairs, what types of ships they preferred, etc. Then, after I picked a ship, I had to look up the parts of the ship, if it would have a main cabin, how many sails, etc, etc. As it was, I still got some of it wrong, but thankfully my wonderful beta (Zelmo 😉) knew enough to tell me what I needed to fix. I like to incorporate some reality into my stories, so I spent the better part of an afternoon looking up rowing terms and mechanics, and that was only for a two page scene! So, yes, I guess I do research when needed, and tend to get so sucked into studying and taking notes that little to no actual novel writing gets done that day.

So, all that being said - if you happen to read that story and notice something I got wrong or have a suggestion, feel free to tell me. 😅

And thanks if you read this rambling answer!

#asks answered #long post #legend of zelda #zelink #the legend of zelda #writing advice sort of...

[romanceandshenanigans]

Happy STS!

It's common for the male MCs in Regency romances to be wealthy and powerful dukes or other members of the nobility. But Finn, the male MC in yours, is a writer from a fairly humble background, which is one of the reasons why I find it interesting! How/why did you decide to do this and how is it working in your WIP so far?

First of all, thank you! I really appreciate getting this ask.

As for why Finn is a humble writer instead of a duke there are honestly a lot of ways I can answer that question.

If we're talking structural development, it comes back to both Finn and Juliana's origins as OCs for a D&D campaign I was in which was canceled. Juliana was a bit of a stereotypical run away princess and Finn was a traveling bard. I liked playing with both characters and wanted to find a home for them some place else, while keeping the class disparity as part of the conflict for why they couldn't be together. Fantasy was a bit too daunting to tackle and I've always enjoyed regency romance, so it seemed the perfect fit. Juliana was downgraded from princess to gentlewoman and Finn became an up and coming playwright. I've obviously changed a lot about both characters since then, but the basic starting point required Juliana to remain above Finn on the social ladder.

If you want to dive deeper as to why I even started with the basic premise to begin with, the best answer I can give is personal preference. It's the same reason why Persuasion is my favorite Jane Austen novel. Yes, Wentworth comes back into the story as a successful navy man, but that's not the reason why Anne wants to be with him. She fell in love with him when he was a poor officer, because he was lively and interesting and he loved her too. If it weren't for societal expectations, she would have married him there and then. That to me is more compelling start to a romance, if not to read than certainly to write. It's about the pining.

And now, stunning transitions aside, how is it writing this WIP?

I'm certainly learning a lot like how outlines are you best god damn friends, save every version of a scene you write, and as much as it's nice to have a cafe you can write in until ten at night, drinking coffee at that hour is a bad idea. I've still got a long way to go, but I'm enjoying it. Any spare moment has been spent typing. I honestly feel icky all day if I don't jot something down. My only wish at this point is a month long paid vacation to a cabin in the woods so I can just focus on this manuscript. Overall it's been going well.

P.S. Not to sound like a complete idiot, but what does STS stand for? 😅

#regency romance #author asks #michael finnegan smith #writeblr #writers on tumblr #persuasion #jane austen #original character #original writing #original romance #faceclaim #i really need a faceclaim for juliana

[myreia]

wip whenever except it's not a line

I got a little too invested in writing Thancred and Urianger banter and now I have +3000 words of it. 😔 I don't know when I will be able to finish this chapter (it's the second in a 5-parter that isn't posted yet), but I want to share what I have been working on so, I'm dropping half of it here and running.

Unedited and spoilers for Shadowbringers base game.

untitled chapter two

Thancred exhales a long sigh and folds his arms, shifting idly from foot to foot. Despite the thick layers of his overcoat, he can feel the brick wall pressing uncomfortably into his back. The price to pay for his position. He didn’t arrive at the Wandering Stairs with the intention to lurk in the shadows—if anything, he wanted to ask Glynard for a pint of his finest—but old habits die hard. Even in the midst of what could easily be described as a world-wide celebration, an event the likes of which the Crystarium has never seen, he still found himself seeking out an advantageous spot. From here, he has a full view of the tavern and the markets beyond and can easily pick his friends out in the crowd.

Not that he thinks the others can’t look after themselves. But he has seen festivities go awry before and even here, even now, with the enemy defeated and the night sky returned, he cannot shake the need to stay on guard.

Ryne has already gently chastised him for it. Gods know what Aureia will say when she finds him. Or Urianger—

“I see thou hast returned to thy usual proclivities. Not unlike a moth drawn unto flame.”

Thancred closes his eyes. Well, that didn’t last long.

He opens his eyes and spots Urianger cutting a clear path across the tavern, a head and shoulders above most of the patrons. His pace is even and relaxed, as though a great weight has been lifted from him, and he carries a glass of wine and a tankard in his hands.

“And here I thought tonight’s events would be reason enough to lay off on the undeserved commentary,” Thancred shoots back, eyeing him as he draws up beside him. “I don’t see why it’s necessary to insult my character like this.”

“Insult? Nay, my friend. Tis simple observation. But if thou dost crave stringent lectures from an e’er sharp tongue, Y’shtola’s company will suffice.”

“Oh, daring to bring Y’shtola into this now, are we? Very brave of you. Tell me, have you had much to drink this fine evening? I seem to recall you being something of a lightweight. Perhaps that explains it.”

Urianger chortles. They exchange grins, far too entertained by this simple back-and-forth that has become a permanent part of their camaraderie. Without a word, he thrusts the tankard into Thancred’s hands and tips him his own in a silent salute.

Thancred murmurs his thanks, absently wrapping his fingers around the handle as he searches the tavern for Y’shtola. From the prickle on the back of his neck, he would prefer if she didn’t overhear that last bit of their conversation lest they never hear the end of it. Thankfully, last he saw her, she was deep in a spirited argument with Moren—and he wasn’t entirely sure who was winning.

Urianger sips at his drink, a blissfully content expression on his face. “Ryne hast outdone herself,” he says, nodding to the garlands decorating the windows and wrapped around the wrought-iron railings. “Truthfully, her enthusiasm hath struck me with some surprise. Ne’er did I anticipate such an ardent desire to participate in such things, but mayhap I underestimated the breadth of her interests.”

Thancred smiles. “I daresay she has a talent for it. And for worming her way into others’ hearts.”

The truth of the matter is that neither of them expected Ryne to throw herself so whole-heartedly into the planning stages of the festivities. They had scarcely returned from the Tempest triumphant and she was already tracking down Lyna, demanding to know how she could help. Considering how little time they have spent in the Crystarium on the whole, it took him by surprise at how quickly she found her footing here.

And it’s hard not to wonder whether it would have happened sooner if not for him. The Exarch had given them accommodations, yes, but just as Urianger flocked to Il Mheg and Y’shtola ingratiated herself in Slitherbough, he did not see much reason to remain. His hunt for sin eaters took him clear across Norvrandt, a duty that did not cease even after he spirited Ryne away from Eulmore. He dragged her everywhere. Training her. Protecting her.

And all but suffocating her spirit.

He grimaces at the memory. That Ryne saw fit to forgive him when he can scarcely forgive himself… It speaks volumes about the kind of person she is. The one she will grow to be.  

“We really should have known better,” he adds after a moment. “Once she sets her sights on a matter, there’s no stopping her.”

Urianger raises an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he says soberly, lowering his wine. “And thy pride in her is more than palpable.”

“Am I proud…?” He chuckles, shaking his head at himself. “Yes. I suppose I am.”

“Then why dost though linger, Thancred? If I may—and no, I must insist thou resist the temptation to interrupt and heed mine words for the duration of this moment—when I didst speak with Ryne earlier this eve, I sensed some disappointment that thou hast withdrawn unto the outskirts. I am uncertain what she envisioned for tonight, but to remain uninvolved and standing on the fringes mayhap communicates to her that thou dost not share in her excitement.”

“It is not that, let me assure you! And you’re one to talk. I haven’t seen you partaking in the festivities either. Have you considered that Ryne may be just as disappointed in you as she is in me—”

“I have been contending with Feo Ul’s most gracious of ambassadors—”

“Of course you have—”

“—who are—it is paramount to note—little scoundrels.”

“Urianger, you do realize that the day will come when you will not have pixies to use as an excuse?”

“Aye. But the day when our massy souls depart the First to return to their vessels upon the Source is not yet upon us. There is much to be done beforehand to ensure safe passage from one world to the next.”

Ugh. Thancred’s shoulders slump. “Please, I am begging you, never use the word massy like that again. Or refer to our bodies as vessels, for that matter.”

Urianger smiles serenely and tips his wine glass to him.

He sighs and scratches the back of his neck, shaking his head. “Perhaps I should clarify. It is not that I have no desire to partake, but rather that my head still spins from all we’ve accomplished. What we bore witness to. As detestable Emet-Selch and his whole rotten ilk are… I cannot so easily forget what we saw in Amaurot. And—gods damn it, I cannot believe I am saying this about an Ascian—perhaps I do understand something of him after all. That desperation to cling to what you loved… to what was lost…”

“The horrors of that bygone era hath given us much to ponder, ‘tis true,” Urianger says gently. “Thou art not alone in thine preoccupation. There are many questions whose answers may be forever beyond our knowing. Mayhap they will haunt us for the remainder of our days—or perchance we will expose their anagogic secrets. For now, that fate remains unknown. But it does not behoove us to indulge in such preoccupations on an eve such as this one, and so it is my turn to beg something of thee. Set aside the temptation to linger on it for the duration of tonight. There will be sufficient time for that anon.”

“I know.”

“Look to thy loved ones. This time is for them and them alone.”

“I am. I do. And you do know you’re included in that, Urianger—”

“I do not speak of myself and thou knowest that plainly.”

Thancred pauses, a lump forming in his throat. Much like Y’shtola, Urianger has a way of striking through to the heart of the matter—even when it takes him twelve sentences to get there when one would suffice.

Beyond the Wandering Stairs, Ryne dashes across the Quadrivium’s lawns, immersing herself in the festivities. Whether it’s youth or enthusiasm or a combination of both, her boundless energy cannot be contained. A remarkable change from the quiet, shy girl she had been when called Minfilia. Thinking back now, perhaps the seeds had always been there—she had merely needed the opportunity to let them grow. There was a time when she would never have dared to go anywhere without him, though it occurs to him now that it may have been out of fear of his reaction rather than any hesitation on her part.

The guilt strikes without warning, a restless, twisting knot at the core of his heart. Some days it’s difficult not to wonder whether he really is all that better than Ran’jit. Aureia had once raked him over the coals for his behaviour, which, thinking back, was wholly deserved. She has never been afraid to speak her mind where he is concerned, something which he is grateful for. Somehow, she is always the one who can knock sense into him when he needs it the most.

He turns, instinctively searching for her. She winds her way through the tavern with her usual quiet intensity. Her unnaturally pale hair shines in the soft lights, making it easy to pick her out of the crowd. She stops here and there, greeting friends and acquaintances, wishing them well. Even from a distance he can see the way her eyes light up, the content smile on her face, the sheer exuberant joy she embodies. She has been through so much these past few months—more than he can even begin to understand—but every trial she has faced has only served to make her stronger.

They still haven’t spoken of what happened that day on the blistering hot sands of Amh Araeng. He remembers all too well the look she gave him when he ordered her to take Ryne and leave him behind. She isn’t a fool; she must have felt the parallels, that sense of déjà vu, as clearly as he did—back to a day long ago in the waterways beneath Ul’dah.

He had stubbornly insisted on remaining behind, standing his ground, placing his trust in her to protect Minfilia while they made their escape. It was a situation that left them with too little time and far too much was left unspoken. He should have said something then—gods know he should have—but he did not, and that regret has been a constant companion. She changed in those intervening years, moving on and discovering love in places far from him. What could have been, if he had only swallowed his pride and his hesitation?

The irony isn’t lost on him that, years later, they would find themselves in similar circumstances. On another world, in a reflection of Thanalan, protecting another Minfilia. But Ran’jit gave them no time—no time for confessions, no time for final words. He was prepared to die for them. He very nearly did. Had Urianger and Alphinaud not arrived sooner, he would have passed from this world, happy knowing that they made it in the end, that Minfilia—that Ryne—was safe in Aureia’s hands, that he did all he could to protect them both.

And she would never know.  

She would never…

You must tell her. No more doubt. No more hesitation.

Aureia laughs, the warmth of her voice carrying over the buzz of a hundred voices. Her head turns, and, for the briefest of moments, her ruby eyes connect with his. She smiles—a tiny, private smile—and his heart melts. He can’t take his eyes off her.  

If you don’t tell her tonight, I will throttle you.  

“Thou hast been swept away on the tides of idle contemplation for nary a minute.”

Thancred blinks, dragging himself out of his thoughts, and finds Urianger watching him with an amused expression on his face. “Am I not allowed a moment to think?” he says sarcastically.

Urianger gives him an uncharacteristic shrug and nurses his wine. “Nay. ‘Tis an observation of mine that thou dost think too much.”

He sighs and passes his tankard to his other hand. By some miracle he hasn’t indulged in it yet. “I must be getting old. I certainly feel the years these days.”

“Aye. Perchance I have spotted a grey hair or two. Or more.”

“Is that so? And here I was hoping you would tell me otherwise. I suppose it was too much to count on you for emotional support.”

Urianger regards him, a serious look in his eye. “Thou knowest the truth of that, my friend.”

He smiles. “Indeed. I do.”

The conversation stills. He pauses, shifting as he adjusts his position against the wall, and allows his gaze to wander. He lingers on Aureia, captivated by the way she lights up the room, and finally raises the tankard to his lips.

The fresh—and noticeably non-alcoholic—taste of water takes him by surprise. He coughs, startled, and nearly spits it out. Urianger watches him, an amused smile on his face, and raises an eyebrow, daring him to say something.

“You really have no faith in me, do you?” Thancred grumbles.

“Just as our souls have transcended time and space, so too has thine reputation for drink and revelry.”

“But I—”

“Does thou require a list to refresh the annals of thine memory? I am happy to oblige. Shalt I commence with an illustrious history from the halcyon days of our youth in Sharlayan? Or mayhap I shouldst direct our collective remembrance to thine era of self-proclaimed bardship. I recall thine attempts to woo many a fair maiden through poetry and song, and remain impressed that thine talents ensnared a number greater than one.”

He splutters. “See, now—”

“Quiet though I may have been in both the Waking Sands and the Rising Stones, reclusive I was not. I remember an assortment of drunken conquests with the likes of Ibrella and Ysera, Joyse and Sigberta, Q’thena, R’zhocri—”

“All right, all right! I see your point. You don’t need to badger on. Gods, Ibrella was years ago. I barely remember her, so how do you?”

“Thou shouldst know better than to underestimate that my mind is of a most eidetic nature.”

“Fine. I don’t deny that I may have indulged in certain… habits in the past. I won’t excuse myself for ignoring my troubles by distracting myself with… Well. Let’s not linger on it. But you are wrong on one account. It wasn’t only fair maidens.”  

Urianger catches his eye and chuckles, a knowing smile on his lips. He raises his glass, leaving Thancred to stew in his mortification while he savours his drink.

Thancred sets his water aside and folds his arms. Aureia has worked her way across the tavern, edging ever closer to his position. But for every step she takes, two or more celebrators catch her attention and draw her aside, eager to personally congratulate her. She has never enjoyed attention like this, thinking little of the fame her deeds as the Warrior of Light accrued. But Norvrandt is not the Source. There are no adoring devotees begging for an interaction, no hordes of aggressive reporters seeking the latest gossip, no military officers or government leaders making unwanted demands of her.

It is simpler here. More personal. Perhaps because she recognizes the faces in the crowd, she speaks to them as herself—as Aureia—rather than as a legendary Warrior of Darkness.

“I see you have taken it upon yourself as a personal challenge to embarrass me,” he says finally, his gaze still lingering on her. Her smile brightens as she takes the young adventurer boy—Taynor, was his name?—aside, offering quiet words of guidance. She has always had a connection to young mages. Perhaps it’s because she sees something of herself in them; or perhaps it is out of a need to offer them the guidance and support she so sorely lacked in her own childhood. “Is this what wine does to you now?”  

“Nay.”

“Nay? That’s it? Nay?”

“Nay.”

Thancred’s eyes narrow. “Who are you and what have you done with Urianger?”

Urianger chuckles. Tilting his head back, he finishes off his glass and sets it on a nearby table. “I simply intended to remind thee that thy priorities lie in a place far different than they once did,” he says gently. “Thou hast grappled with many a dark turn in the past, soothing numbing despair with empty pleasures. I do not envy the journey thou hast partaken since Louisoix’s passing—”

He exhales a faint breath and closes his eyes. It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?

“—and I am proud of thee. For all thou hast accomplished. And for what thou wilt in the future.”

There’s a raw lump in his throat and it’s getting harder to ignore. “If you’re concerned about me backsliding, there is little risk of that now,” he says. “Or… I hope there isn’t. As you said yourself, my priorities have changed. For the better. And if you wouldn’t mind, I would prefer if we dropped this train of thought. I would rather not have Aureia—or Ryne, for that matter—overhear this conversation. They certainly don’t need to be exposed to a list of my… er… conquests, as you so delicately put it.”

Urianger raises an eyebrow.

He flushes. “Oh, don’t look at me that way. Aureia knows my history all too well.”

Gods know she does. Though it has been some nine years—for him, at least, the misaligned time between the Source and the First makes his headache when he thinks about it too much—he can still feel the sharp twist of remorse when he thinks about those months in Ishgard. How easy it was to indulge in drink and sex to hide from truths he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge. He knew what he was doing when he ended up with Hilda, her closest friend, that night—and many nights afterwards. He knew how it would hurt her.

And, in that moment, he didn’t care.

By rights she should never have forgiven him.

“So, yes. I am certain she remembers how much of a fool I’ve been. How much of one I still am.”  

Across the way, Aureia bids goodbye to Taynor and catches his eye. He shifts his weight as he watches her approach, struck by sudden uncertainty as she moves closer with every step. When he considers what to say to her, somehow there are both a thousand things and absolutely nothing.

Desperately searching for some point of conversation, he latches onto something Urianger said earlier. “What did you mean by self-proclaimed bardship earlier?” he says. “You make it sound like I’m some amateur.”

“And thou art not?”

“I—”

“I have yet to see thee touch an instrument or pen and perform a song. Thine aptitude for stealth and espionage is not conducive to such merriment.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! Many people have conflicting aspects to their character. Simply because you have framed yourself as a master of prophecy and not much else doesn’t mean we all should subscribe to a singular facet.”

“I did not say as much. I merely implied that thine current capacity for poetry and song dost not harken to the title of bard.”

“You make me sound like the most amateur of amateurs—”

“What’s going on here?”

Aureia draws up before them, dark red eyes passing from Thancred to Urianger and back again. A muscle twitches in her cheek, as if she is holding back a laugh.

“Urianger is of the opinion that I am not a bard,” Thancred says quickly, eyeing his friend.

She blinks and folds her arms, a perplexed expression on her face. “Thancred, I know plenty of bards—”

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“You are not one of them.”

#ffxiv #ffxiv fic #wip #aureia malathar #release me from my work schedule so i can get back to this #writing tag

[supermarine-silvally]

20 questions for fic writers

Thanks for the tag @chameliyun!

How many works do you have on ao3?

Eight I think! Mostly longform which is why the number is so low lol

2. What's your total ao3 word count?

503,612

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently I'll write for Death Note, My Hero Academia, Hunter x Hunter, Demon Slayer, One Piece, Soul Eater, Mass Effect, Dragon Age, and Doctor Who. I have VLD fic up on my ao3 but I don't write for that fandom anymore lol

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Starbound (VLD, 294), Ground Zero (MHA, 223), Far Longer Than Forever (VLD, 76), Tales From Wammy's House (DN, 62), and The Ghosts Within Us (HxH, 57)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I'm usually super late to respond lol but yeah I try to get to all of them! I love interacting with people and I treasure all the feedback I get!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

All my ao3 fics (excluding Tales From Wammy's House, which is a collection of short stories I wrote as part of a fandom event) are unfinished, but I know which one is gonna have the angstiest ending... no spoilers though!

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Again, they're all basically unfinished so no spoilers!

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Haven't so far so hopefully I never will lol

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I am physically incapable of writing smut. I know some ace people write it no problem, but... I am not one of those people lol

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I'm open to crossovers but I can't recall any that I've actually written. Usually I prefer to do them in the same sort of genre (for instance, a MHA/Marvel crossover or Pirates of the Caribbean/One Piece kind of thing where there's a sort of plausibility in setting)

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

If I have, I don't know about it. Not sure why anyone would bother though lol

12. What's the longest you've spent working on one fic? And the shortest?

Longest: I've been working on A Shot in the Dark since 2020 though I don't update it much anymore. But I don't want to abandon it at this time so I'll count it as ongoing.

Shortest: Tales From Wammy's House since it was for a week-long challenge lol

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! Second Chances is co-written with the amazing @til-the-static-comes :)

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

I'm a big canon/OC shipper so I'm really attached to my canon/OC (and OC / OC) pairings moreso than most canon/canon, buuuut my favourite all-time canon/canon ship is still the Doctor/Rose Tyler; you can pry them from my cold dead hands. Killugon (Gon Freecss/Killua Zoldyck from HxH) is a close second.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

A Shot in the Dark is already so bloody long and I'm still a ways away from finishing it, but I'm gonna try, I promise.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue, I think. And I'm pretty good at character-centric stories.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm not great at poetic, descriptive writing since I'm usually more interested in what characters are thinking/feeling rather than their external traits/environment. That might be more of a style thing though. I do have a bad habit of making characters monologue for a little too long sometimes, and relying too much on internal monologues too.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Oooh okay so I actually have so many thoughts about this!! I think it's a really effective tool if done properly-- I frequently use languages other than English in my writing since a lot of my characters tend to be bilingual. For me, it's really important to use it in the right moments that make sense within the narrative, and keep a logical kind of consistency to that rule. In my own writing -- I'll use my MHA fic Ground Zero as an example since I do it a lot there -- I like utilizing other languages in moments that reveal something about the character (Kova's foreignness/identity as a biracial/cultural Japanese-Ukrainian teenager is a major theme of her character and of the story) or when it creates moments in which a character's dialogue is supposed to be impenetrable to other characters in that scene AND THEREFORE to the reader as well-- but I DON'T use it (even though the character would technically be speaking another language in that scene) when I WANT the reader to understand what's being said. In Ground Zero, when Kova is having a phone conversation with her Ukrainian father, she's obviously speaking Ukrainian to him, but I don't write the conversation in Ukrainian because I want the audience to understand the dialogue-- and because that would be really, really annoying for a reader to have to wade their way through, assuming most of my readers are not fluent in Ukrainian (and neither am I, for the record-- I know a bit, but not enough that I don't have to check with external resources created by native speakers). But in contrast, when Kova is with her Japanese friends, if I drop a Ukrainian word/phrase into the conversation, the reader is getting the experience of the friends, and both the characters and the reader are meant to share in that confusion until Kova translates it. (Example: Bakugou is not meant to know that Kova has been calling him a dickhead (khuylo), but the WAY she says it is meant to convey that she's being derogatory so he's somewhat aware he's being insulted without me having to put a translator's note right after). I do translate and put the Latin lettering (as opposed to the Cyrillic) in the notes section at the bottom of each chapter, though.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Ever? Pokemon. On ao3, VLD.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

I'm so close to finishing Ground Zero and it has such a special place in my heart so I'll pick that one :)

no pressure tagging: @shrinkthisviolet, @deathbecomesnerds, @chickensarentcheap, @antivanruffles, @til-the-static-comes, and anyone else who sees this and wants to!

#tag game

[varlaisvea]

Journal entry from a Riften bunkhouse

~850 words Rated G

Here’s a little snippet from a BIG WIP— i’ve been working on it for almost a year, and this is the FIRST thing I’ve published! 😬 Some of it (like this part) is in the form of journal entries. The whole story spans both Second Era and Fourth Era timelines, and features both the Dragonborn and the Vestige of Coldharbour.

This, though, is neither of them—it’s one of the main characters (OC), a Khajiit from the Second Era (less than a decade after the epic year of 2E 582). He’s in his 30s and from Riverhold, which means he’s lived through the Knahaten flu and two Imperial occupations of his home city. He will someday become the first Khajiiti Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, and this is an excerpt from his journal as he makes his way to Winterhold for the first time, to enroll in the College.

Please enjoy, feedback welcome! I could use the encouragement!

——-

Tonight, we are staying at a dingy bunkhouse in Riften. I was, quite unexpectedly, unsuccessful in my attempt at seduction a few days ago, but Vihk was still kind enough to invite me to the tavern with him and some of the others from the caravan. I think he was only being polite, and anyway I was feeling quite restless, so I spent the evening wandering the docks and streets in thought. I had heard the guard here harasses wanderers, especially at night, but correctly guessed that account was from someone who is not of my stature or impressively sleek clawfulness. The worst I got was one “keep moving, cat.”

I do not know how long it has been since I have felt motivated, curious, and excited to learn, but today, when I talked to those mages in the caravan, I remembered: this one is also a mage, and has been ever since he asked his mother if he could learn the clan-magic along with his little sisters. Is this not something Araszha once loved about himself—his intellectual curiosity? To feel it again only made me despair for how long it had been gone, and how little I had even noticed its absence. But to catch a glimmer of it… I wanted to cling to it and chase after it. Not in the joyful way, though, in the urgent and desperate way; clawing at strings. A motivation so flimsy it almost feels shameful.

Still… perhaps it is preferable to my prior plans.

A few days ago in Ska’vyn, I noticed a very handsome, very snobbish-looking Dunmer who was traveling with a caravan to Winterhold, and I saw that Riften was one of the stops the caravan would make. Although I had been idly considering traveling to Riften for a while, I only knew two things about the city: it has a reputation for looking the other way on many unsavory activities, and it is very far away from Riverhold in Ne Quin-al. An ideal destination, yes? I told the caravan driver I was going to Winterhold, and paid for passage, planning to charm my way into a lovely evening (or a few) with a deliciously condescending Dunmeri dandy. 

Perhaps in Riften Araszha-dar would be too drunk to wake up in time for the departure to Winterhold, and be left behind—the caravan driver would already have been paid; no skin off his frozen nose. The only people who might notice a missing cat would be aforementioned Dunmer snob (who would doubtless be glad not to have to avoid eye contact with his most recent less-than-wise decision), and other members of the caravan. All of whom would be unsurprised that the slick and shifty Liar-dar they had met was as unreliable as he was insufferable, and perhaps be mildly relieved to be free of such a cat, if they felt anything at all.

Riften’s seedy reputation seems well-earned—one could easily get oneself into misfortune here. It would be easy for someone—perhaps even someone taller and more furry than most Nords—to go missing, especially at night. In fact, I feel one could easily go missing in such a way that, for example, anyone who might be trailing or threatening them would be delayed for days or weeks, trying to get any sort of definitive answer as to their whereabouts or condition. Otherwise, no one would notice or care, especially if one’s very appearance suggested a lecherous thief to most of the city’s inhabitants—a dozen other identical criminal pests come through here every week, probably. I imagine Riften is more accustomed than most cities to seeing occasional bodies fished out of the water, or removed from a dimly-lit alley, or a cheap inn bed. Likewise, the people of Riften are probably more accustomed than most to avoiding the everyday undead—hollow-eyed skooma eaters, beggars, gamblers, drunks. Which is to say: it seems easy to become a ghost here, and whether one becomes a literal or figurative ghost matters to no one, ghost included. 

Even if, say, one’s family worried for them, even if one’s lovingly tenacious family tracked down their last known location, Riften would shrug with bleak disinterest—why would it matter if a given degenerate ends up face-down in a grimy skooma den, in chains en route to a Morrowind plantation, or at the bottom of the lake? In any case, they are gone. And for the sort of people whose lives end here, one way or another, that is a blessing to them and everyone else—even the people who fish bodies out of lakes and skooma dens get some work out of the deal. My wandering tonight confirmed: Riften seems to be exactly what I was looking for, when I decided a few days ago that it was finally time to make my way here.

I am back in my bunk, but of course I cannot sleep. Isn’t it strange, to think that Mother first told me about the College of Winterhold over twenty years ago? It is stranger still to know that tomorrow, I will be able tell her I have finally arrived! 

#tesblr #eso #tes fanfiction #college of winterhold #khajiit oc #pls clap #apparently people hate first-person perspective? and also believe khajiit can’t be intellectuals? that is too bad for you and you are wrong #lordt i hope this makes sense #i heard u like noir detective monologues?? people like those right?

[the-bi-space-ace]

Some writing asks for funsies. :)

🚀 Do you like to outline your fic first or create as you go?

🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share?

🦈 Which character is the toughest to write?

🧪 Do you research for your fics?

💘 Is it easier to write angst or fluff?

🚦What sort of endings do you prefer to write: ambiguous, bad, happily ever after, etc.?

🤖 Are non-fandom friends aware that you write fanfic?

(Lots of questions, feel free to pick and choose if you don't want to answer all of them!) <3

🚀 Do you like to outline your fic first or create as you go? When I first started writing I just created as I went along but now I plot everything out beforehand and they get to writing. Currently all 10 chapters of my next fic are all outlined just waiting to be written! 🎁 Have a piece of a WIP you want to share? YOU BET I DO!

The both of them had emerged, covered in blood and smelling of blaster fire, but alive. Cody couldn’t even describe how it had felt to push through the crowd and seek out that familiar blond hair and blue and white armor, frantically trying to confirm that at least one person he cared about wasn’t gone. He was still covered in grime and he was positive his wrist was sprained, covered in bruises and cuts and praying to whatever was out there that he could get his hands on one of his brothers and confirm the presence of a heartbeat. By the time he saw Rex his chest was cracked wide open, something angry and raw rearing its head. His lungs ached while his anxiety mounted. He saw Rex, bent over one of the 212th troopers and trying to calm him while the medics reset a broken bone. There was a rough cut over one of Rex’s cheekbones that had scabbed over and while anger surged in Cody over seeing it he couldn’t help the strangled noise he made at the site. The captain turned to it immediately and before Cody even realized he moved he was crushing Rex to his chest and holding him so close it was almost like they were one person. For the first time in a long time Rex buried his face in the crook of Cody’s neck and just breathed him in like he had been just as destroyed. And now, looking at how dead tired his brother was, Cody realized just how badly they both needed to rest. How badly they both needed to break.

🦈 Which character is the toughest to write? Honestly? Sometimes it's Tech. I'm not nearly as familiar with his personality and voice as I am with the others. I've definitely gotten better since I first started writing but it still needs WORK.

🧪 Do you research for your fics? Yes. Yes I do! I spent probably too much time researching but I like when things are as accurate as they can be! Although. Sometimes I straight up can't find answers to my very specific questions and use the 'Star Wars Science' excuse when I can't figure something out lol.

💘 Is it easier to write angst or fluff? I find my writing flows better when it is angsty. When it's the emotional bits I can get lost in long paragraphs of wordy nonsense because the emotional bits are what really drive me to write. I can get that way with fluff too but usually with the more introspective parts. But fluff and comfort really have my heart. It is rare to find a fic of mine without it.

🚦What sort of endings do you prefer to write: ambiguous, bad, happily ever after, etc.? I'm a happy ending person. I love happy endings. I always want to try and tie things up with... maybe not always happiness but hopefulness. I can't see myself writing something ambiguous or bad unless there will be a continuation in another fic. I have absolutely read and enjoyed things with endings that are ambiguous or bad! It just has to feel satisfying.

🤖 Are non-fandom friends aware that you write fanfic? My partner reads and edits my stuff and other than that not a single non-fandom friend knows that I write at all! I just get so nervous thinking of anyone reading my stuff! And that sounds so silly as someone who posts fanfic but I physically can not be in the same room as someone who is reading something I wrote. I get weirdly nervous about it and just have to walk away.

#ace answers #I am having such a good time with these

[incognito-insomniac]

Name Meanings

I was tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton​ Thank you so much!! ^_^

Not sure who to tag so anyone join in who wants to!

I’ll pick a small group, I have waaaaay too many OCs that I still care about.

Captain Alysia “Aly” Hawthorne - The Outer Worlds

“Alysia” is a variant for Alyssa which means “Rational”. And in many ways Alysia’s main struggle is her rational sense of right and wrong butting up against the uncaring force of capitalism in Halcyon.

I never came up with a last name and I literally forgot my reasoning for it until filling this out. She takes on the name Alex Hawthorne which is an in-game option very early on. Then I developed the nickname “Aly” which could be used for “Alex” or “Alysia”.

And I just never worked past that. Her surname is just “Hawthorne” now which is from the Old English haegborn or hagethorn and meant “thorn used for making hedges and enclosures.”

Calder Jacobson - Fallout 4

“Calder” means “From The Wild Water”. Calder was actually from an original story I was writing where Zavidah, the Goddess of Animals and Shapeshifting, turns Calder into the first werewolf. I didn’t have a good feeling for his personality so I decided to throw him into Fallout 4 and see what happened. I can’t remember how I chose his name but it seems fitting.

“Jacobson” mean “son of Jacob”. I don’t remember choosing it and I low-key hate it now. But here we are.

Erimenthan “Erim” Lavellan - Dragon Age Inquisition

“Erimenthan” is a made-up male variant of “Erimentha” which was part of my original Tumblr handle and it means “ Collector Of Thoughts, Determined Protector”. In trying to come up with an elven name for my first DA:I playthrough this seemed very fitting. And then I created “Erim” as a nickname for him.

“Lavellan” is of course not chosen by me but is the elf background surname given by the game. And it’s not even a surname but a clan name. But it’s origins are in Scottish folklore as a mythical creature Wikipedia describes as a very large noxious rat like creature that lives in deep pools of rivers. So big side-eye to Bioware for that one.

Nadezhda “Nadi” Trevelyan - Dragon Age Inquisition

“Nadezhda” means “Hope” and “Nadi” is just nickname from that which she prefers to go by.

Once again a Bioware provided surname, “Trevelyan” is a Welsh and Cornish name derived from a place-name which originally meant "farmstead 'trev' or Tref (town in Welsh) of Elyan" which reading through a few sites is pretty common for Medieval surname development. “Elyan” is of unknown meaning in it’s English origins. But in Arabic the name means roughly “One Who Climbs Upwards” or “Exalted” among other similar meanings. So arguably a much nicer surname than “poisonous river rat cryptid”. Looking at you Bioware!

Osyen Trevelyan - Dragon Age Inquisition

“Osyen” is a made-up variant of the Welsh name “Osian” which is a variant of the Celtic name “Oisin” meaning “Little Deer”. Oisin is also a the famous warrior poet in Irish mythology. I actually spent some time on Osyen’s backstory giving him seven siblings also with Welsh names. Can’t entirely remember why I chose Welsh, but it was related to some deep digging I did into the Trevelyan surname and in-game origins of Ostwick and the Free Marches. I honestly need to do better about taking notes for my OCs.

Liam Harper - Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator

“Liam” means “With Gilded Helmet” and funnily enough he does have blond hair. But I honestly didn’t realize the connection until now. I just liked the name.

“Harper” is an occupational surname for someone who plays the harp. Again not intentional. I just like it. Liam isn’t musically inclined but I’m sure he could make an excellent analogy of how writing is very much like plucking the strings of a harp.

Anlanihal “Anla” - Skyrim

“Anlanihal” is a made-up name I initially created as one of Erim’s exes in my very long WIP for him. I actually liked the name so much I used it in a D&D campaign for an Elf Barbarian who was a lot of fun. And then when I wanted to try and actually finish Skyrim for once I made a Bosmer Elf and named her “Anlanihal”.

I would have sworn dollars to donuts that “Anla” was a popular name. It does not seem to be. I cannot find it’s meaning anywhere. However, there are a handful people around the world with that name that popped up on Google....and it is a popular acronym.

She also doesn’t have a surname. One could argue it would be Lavellan since she is part of Erim’s clan in my initial rendition of her. But now knowing it means “toxic nutria of lore” I might consider something else.

#this is more than i planned to do #but i love them all! #it was so hard to decide! #my ocs #not all but most of them #oc calder jacobson #oc captain alysia #oc liam harper #oc erimenthan lavellan #oc osyen trevelyan #oc anlanihal #oc nadezhda trevelyan #name meanings #tag game

[charlotte--kensington]

Guess who is starting a new thing because she totally doesn't have like 5 WIPs anyway? Meeeeeeee

Anyway, this will have multiple parts, but aside from some minor stuff there's no true chronological order I'm planning or anything.

"You can't seriously expect to keep me here."

The expression of complete and utter annoyance that adorned the face of the God of Death was one to behold. His eyes followed the movement of the deity beyond the set of bars separating them, but his arms remained where they were, folded across his chest as he stared the other down.

There was a mirthful smile on that sun-kissed face, a glint of mischief as the God of Spring eyed him with a mix of interest and marvel and pride, a combination that brought about naught but hybris, that had brought about the demise of Icarus and Bellerophon alike. A slight smirk played around his lips, and the eyes of the caged god narrowed farther yet.

"And why should I not? You have neither escaped nor tried to, have you?"

He continued his path along the living cage that had sprung up around the God of Death by virtue of the other's power alone. Bright blue eyes and wheat-blond hair, tanned skin and the muscles of a man, a God, who spent each and every day on the field and in the gardens.

The picture of a simple man, and yet he'd managed to trap the Lord of the Underworld so easily.

"As long as you are here, why should I expect anything less than for you to stay?"

The God of Death grit his teeth, fists tight around the trunks of what should have been decade-old olive trees, when really that living and growing cage that surrounded him had sprung up in a matter of seconds. A wide canopy of leaves had formed above him, a soft blanket of daisies and violets beneath his feet.

And yet, nothing was as pretty as it seemed.

He was trapped, at the mercy of a young, impulsive god, cut off from any source of power as the cage kept him bound to the mortal realm and as deep-running roots separated him from the black earth and the minerals it held.

He was bound, the King of the Dead trapped above ground as though all his power and subjects had lost value.

"Somebody will notice," he replied at last, "Somebody will notice, and when they do, they will apprehend you, foolish God-"

"Alfred."

The God of Spring had interrupted him, uncaring for his words or the danger they told of.

"Call me Alfred."

"Why should I, we're not-"

The God of Spring - Alfred - rolled his eyes, taking a step closer to that cage that had grown upon his wish, with little more than the wave of a hand and a wish on his lips. He reached out for him, a tanned, calloused hand reaching through the branches as though to caress his cheek.

At the last second the God of Death retreated.

Something flashed across the other god's face, but he couldn't quite name whatever emotion it was.

"You'll be here for a while," the other insisted after he'd regained himself. "I'll be the only one for you to talk to, so you might as well save both of us the time of using titles. So what will it be, Arthur?"

Arthur, God of Death, Ruler of the Dead, King of the third realm, had never been a devotee of making things easy, much preferred order and structure over the simplicity of chaos. He frowned, trying to force the other deity to join his subjects by virtue of his expression - the proverbial death glare - alone.

"It's funny of you to assume I'd wish to talk to you at all," he retorted curtly, "I live among the dead, it's not like I make a habit of talking to them either."

"And yet you talk to me."

Arthur folded his arms, leant back against the trees that formed the back of that little bit of green he was confined in, lips pressed together in a fine line as he remained silent.

The other god merely laughed.

"Is the silent treatment really how you want to convince me to release you?" Alfred questioned, still snickering to himself, as he charmed a small ivy tendril to climb up the stem of one of the trees, snaking around the stem and the branches and higher yet.

"Guess I'll just have to decorate your new home with sunflowers and daisies all over."

"Don't you dare."

"Oh, you bet I will."

#fanfiction #usukus #aph america #aph england #aph hetalia #writing #hades persephone #greek myth retellings #CK myth AU

[dashawfrostart]

This Week In "Time & Again" #12: It's Alive... Alive! Honest! And A Little Sour, And A Bit Sweet!

Guten Fhtagn! It's been... a while again.

(this is just a colourful teaser for you now, because it feels silly to make a post that starts with a wall of text - even though I personally love walls of text. Keep reading and you'll find out why those weird empty rectangles are here! And as I often do: there's an animated GIF in the end of the post!) Lately, life has sucked me into a giant cycle of great and lush eventfulness. Kinda as if I hopped into a funnel and then swirled around a bit. I might even say it was fun (haha, fun funnel 😁 What, not funny?.. Lame?.. Aah, well then). So, below goes a straightforward chronological report on what happened to "Time & Again" during this long looooong period of my blogging hiatus.

2 weeks ago I've actually spent only a few days working on "Time & Again" - much less than anticipated. As I always say, life usually takes away so much time from art!.. 🤣 However, it's always a choice. Because I'm not drawing 24/7; never did, and perhaps never will - because otherwise I'll never go birding, among other things. And birding is love. Birding makes Frosty happy. I wanna see more nuthatches and northern flickers around me, preferably every day, when possible. Too much to ask? Yes! But life is always about setting priorities straight and meticulously balancing the things you love and want to do. Because something always goes first, and something other goes second (third, fourth, etc.). So that is what I'm trying my best to do here.

But that was only half of the problem. The other half of the problem was about my futile endeavour to relight the creative spark that was seemingly extinguished over the course of the previous 2 weeks - perhaps due to the reasons mentioned above in this post. I'm always very hesitant to take breaks as I work on my projects, because it breaks immersion - and getting back into the mood again might pose a serious challenge. That is exactly how some of my novels/stories failed to see the light of day in the past. Now, since the work on Chapter 5 is nearing to its end - yes, it's almost done!!! - it's just very disappointing to slow down and having to look for the spilt marbles on the floor (however, Lothar, personally, will definitely benefit from at least TRYING to find his own marbles 🤦‍♀️ dear goodness, that man is indomitable). The work still went well, but without excitement I previously had. And I perpetually have serious problems trying to figure out a personal cure for the "lack of spark" issue: not even once in my entire life have I found a resolution that works wonders like a panacea for me in situations like that.

That said, with all of the distractions and not-exactly-creative events with myself in the epicentre, I managed to keep my word and created a Krita forum thread featuring majority of WIP screenshots from Chapter 5, which you can view following that link. Now, my only objective in this regard is to keep updating it 😁 (what I'm kinda failing at recently)

While not being exactly productive with "Time & Again" - that is only up until this week (read ahead) - in the meantime I have reconsidered a couple things that are related to the artistic part of my existence. One of the decisions was to take down the links to my DeviantArt account sometime after this post goes life. The reasoning behind that decision is as simple as an egg: because I don't post anything on DeviantArt anymore. And I keep forgetting to do it anyway. And I keep forgetting simply because it doesn't really matter. In the recent years I perceived DeviantArt to be nothing but a sort of a personal sketch/art dump simply for the sake of gaining more exposure [not really - read an UPD note ahead]. Let's be honest here: DeviantArt is not a good place anymore. It used to be awesome in 2008-2010 or around - for me anyway. But nowadays... Not so much. I don't think I want to delete it yet, for I still want to pop up, perhaps, once or twice a year and dump all the new artworks in there for the future archival purposes - and in case if somebody might be still interested. But for now, I view my DA account as an almost completely dormant collection of trash masterpieces of yore. So I will stop promoting it for the reason of it being obsolete like the morning dew beneath your feet in its current state. (holy effing smokies, that song was very difficult to find to provide a link to! 😱) [UPD 2024/03/12]: my aim with this was originally a bit off - which I realized only now. Aside from it being a random artworks dump, my decision to keep my DeviantArt account alive was precisely for linking back to it: meaning, I was thinking about uploading artworks on there in order to specifically use them in my posts and on the websites. So, yes, it is a relatively dormant collection, but also a convenient stash of art things to utilize elsewhere (thank you, id Software, for teaching me this word! 🤣). I'll see if that really works out in the future tho.

There's also something else that I don't to reveal just yet, and I'll keep it a secret for now 😉 I must try something before I jump to conclusions.

HOWEVER!.. This last week has changed the tides considerably, in my favour. Again, having only a very hypothetical and a rather unclear clue on why that happened - what, I must admit, mesmerizes and puzzles me to a great extent - that long-longed-for spark I thought I had lost along the way somehow magically returned back to me after I spent a few hours (and 2 days in total) of writing an arch-important "Notes & Commentary" section for the reissue of all the previous "Time & Again" chapters that is nigh (here, I teased ya. Now live with it 😎🤣). I really like "Time & Again". Even while it's still incomplete. Even if Lothar is just a stubborn a**. Even if a certain other character has quite funky fetishes. Even if Jeanny is perhaps dealing with her own little pinky demons. I really like "Time & Again", and I really enjoy its style, so revisiting the whole thing for the sake of writing additional materials for it quite possibly worked in a positive way on my spark. I love you, my spark. Let's keep it this way for as long as we can from now on. So now the work goes quite well, and I feel very good about it. There's still something troublesome that needs to be dealt with... but that'd be a painful tale for yet another post.

And, of course, I experimented with some Krita stuff again - for it seems, Chapter 5 really marks a period of great technical discoveries for me.

For example, finally, after all these years 😅🤣, I learnt and made a very good use of the toggle "All Layers" and "Current Layer" settings of Contiguous Selection Tool (that'd be your Magic Wand tool, ya Photoshoppers around - including my past self). That helped me to speed up flood fill of the certain areas. Speaking of flood fill and all, I experimented more with the "smart fill" as well. In the previous post, I was dreaming about an advanced AI algorithm to automatically recognize and colour the characters according to a user-prepared colour pallete. I might be exaggerating a bit, but flood-filling flat colours on every page felt almost stupefying - and, in short, not fun. I've read a little about the potentials to automate the process in Krita and have discovered a few neat tricks that I might use to speed up the process of colouring of the next Chapter. But right now - that's a story for another day in the future. And at last, let's talk about the backgrounds. I find it that the backgrounds that are just, let's say, "placeholders" and don't contain the surroundings of the characters are sometimes challenging. And in Chapter 5, there's gonna be plenty of those - because oh boy do I love long conversations! (strong self-awareness and self-mockery go here) And most of these conversations don't even require detailed environments for the backgrounds! Because people are just friggin' talking! And their surroundings don't matter on those particular panels. I've looked through quite a few graphic novels and comics at the local book store to get extra inspirations - but very often I see that the artists simply fill the panel with a solid colour. Completely flat. I must admit, I'm deeply hesitant to do the same, because I like at least a little texture on storywise-insignificant solid colours. It gives... depth.

So this is what I've been doing so far (and yes, you guessed it now! the picture in the very beginning of this post is very relevant here!):

While the "flat solid colour" on the background just seems... too flat, I decided to utilize a gentle gradient as a base, and then to apply additional brush strokes on a separate layer with special blending mode in order to create the effect of imperfection and ever so slightly visible texture to it. After a few sessions of trial and error, and thinking about how it feels and if it matches the mood of the chapter, I ended up using a couple of watercolour and splatter brushes together, in black, and the layer blending mode that I figured worked best for me was Soft Light (SVG). As illustrated by the following GIF:

And LAST (but as usual: not the least, but I won't cover "the least" in this current post for now, for the post is already a fatso - typical, innit?!), I've learnt how to use Filter Layers for the quick colour correction on the go. And this might be extremely useful in a long run for the future chapters of "Time & Again". I might cover this in one of my next posts.

That should be enough for now. So let's summarize: I most certainly did NOT disappear because "Time & Again" ceased to exist, or because I've been abducted by aliens, or because I got carried away giving belly rubs to pinky demons, or anything alike. I disappeared BECAUSE I was working hard on my story, even though at times it didn't go as smooth as I wanted to 😉.

Well, folks, let's wrap it up for today, and see you next time in another blog post! Take care! You will see Lothar in action again soon enuff! 👋

#TimeAndAgainbyDWF #This Week In Time And Again #graphic novel #krita

[deathbecomesnerds]

20 questions for fic writers

Thanks for the tag @supermarine-silvally! Sorry for taking so long on this!

How many works do you have on ao3?

I have an impressive 81 works.

2. What's your total ao3 word count?

*checks A03* Holy Banana Nut Muffins...a whopping 664,798 words. That's impressive, Liz! Thanks, Liz!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

So, I currently write mainly for the Guy Ritchie universe? But I focus on 'The Gentlemen' but that doesn't mean some characters from any of his other works don't creep in.

I write also for 'Control', it's my favorite video game. Everyone should play it.

Sometimes, depending, I do write the occasional Stranger Things fic.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Trouble (The Man From U.N.C.L.E): 240 Down, But Not Out (The Man From U.N.C.L.E): 189 Little Girl/Old Man (Stranger Things): 151 Mess (The Gentlemen): 125 Til Death Do Us Part (Stranger Things): 110

5. Do you respond to comments?

Sometimes. It depends on what is said. I like to let comments/reviews be, but every so often they'll say something or ask a question and I feel compelled to answer.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Ooff. Umm...The Imposter? Maybe? I don't know. I like to make sure all of my work has happy endings for the most part.

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

'The Unfortunate Reunion'. All the shit went sideways, people died, and a pregnancy was lost. But the bad guys were killed, and there was peace and love...

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes. I do. I guess I write all kinds of smut? Idk, it's smut! What more do you want? lol.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Sometimes? But not really. I like to keep all my dollhouses separated.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes! A long, long time ago...and it was translated into Spanish, too!!

12. What's the longest you've spent working on one fic? And the shortest?

I guess my ongoing one, Bark Like A God. I'm going on two years with it and I've still got a long ways to go.

My shortest? I'm not sure. I do write a lot of one shot/stand alones. But if you are talking about something with multiple chapters, probably 'The Unfortunate Reunion', or "...And Baby Makes 3', I wrote them both in two months.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope.

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

I prefer to write OC's, and like to pair them with characters.

BUTTTTTT...I am a sucker for Jesse Faden/Dr. Casper Darling (Control) and you can fucking fight me on that one!

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

There is this one fic, "Did You Hear About Jackie?', it's a Castle Rock fic, I've gotten 3 chapters in and then dropped it for my current fic spiral of 'The Gentlemen'. I'd love to get back to it and finish but I doubt it. It's been like, 3 years.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I'm not sure. Character development? Dialogue?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Run-on sentences and paragraphs. Like...I go full blown Stephen King with describing things sometimes.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I wish that I knew other languages so I could very openly do that. I do use Google Translate, or if I happen to know someone who speaks the particular language, I'd ask them.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Okay, hear me out...CSI: Vegas. I was in middle school. Greg Sanders/OC. The fics I still have on my A03 & FF.Net accounts. They're horrible written. Lol.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

Y'know what, I am so proud of 'New Daddy', it's a smut that I literally spent a whole year writing. Nobody really paid it any mind, but I don't care. I put so much time and energy into it. I fucking love it.

I guess I'll ask @rayslittlekitten @kesskirata @autumnleaves1991-blog @spacegoldilocks

#writing #bunnie does a thing #the gentlemen #control remedy

[madame-vera]

Q&A - Build Your Own Story Week

This time on the writers discord server, the question of the day was set-up as a 5 part response over the week. The moderators spent the week asking us questions about our preferences, storytelling, characters writing and worldbuilding in the hopes it would give us a better understanding of our writing and maybe even give us some potential new WIPS to work on. Some days were simple, others were a bit more complicated or had multiple parts to it.

Instead of posting my responses separately I decided to compile them all here in one post. No messy searching for me XD. Enjoy!

what is your favorite (or least favorite) genre to write, and why? do most of your WIPs fall in the same genre?

I like hopeful fantasy, fix-its, what-ifs, supernatural/mythic fantasy, steampunk and slice-of life.

I like reading romance (but am very fussy) but don't like writing it. Definitely not a fan of crime/horror.

I guess I don't like the dreary, but I do like questionable endings, non-perfect endings, vague endings (so long as the story itself is solid enough). I mean, one my fave stories sever is Harmony by Project ITOH. I also the 'for-want-of-a-nail' trope so the speculative what if this did(n't) happen stories or plots where things line up just so are great.

Most of my WIPS are what ifs, fix-its or continuations. they tend to have a funny/serious or happy/peaceful tone.

if you were to take two of your favorite plot devices and one of your least favorite, what sort of plot could you make from that? (within the bounds of what you’re willing to write!)

Two plot devices I like are non-perfect happy endings that came with some sort of change/loss and for-want-of-a-nail, what-if type situations. Or maybe fond family. That's good stuff.

One I don't like but could maybe possibly write is love triangles or typical hero object quest things.

One I don't like and definitely could not write is those goddamn annoying misunderstandings that could be easily avoided if the characters just stopped, took a breath, and waited for just one damn moment.

Worldbuilding Questions

Does your world have magic? How is it used?

What historical era does it take place in? (OR, if it's your own fantasy world, what important events have happened before this point?)

Is there running water?

What does the difference between the classes look like? (Is there significant class division?)

freebie! pick a random element that you'd like to include and consider how that informs the rest of your world! (for example, the existence of ghosts!)

Magic

I'm undecided on whether or not I have magic. Probably not. But if I do go with it it'll be used in conjunction with science so they'll support each other.

Historical Era

Some undecided millennium after a global apocalypse in a fantasy world. I.E era. There's been loads of technological advancements so i guess it's semi-modern?

Running Water

Some places yes, other places no. Haven't worked out the technology of it yet.

Classism

There are class differences, to varying degrees. There are a lot of displaced people and new nations thanks to the societal and ecological changes from the apocalypse so people are still kind working it out. Some have managed something close to equality or democracy, some haven't.

Quirks

I'll have to pick a few faves, I think.

The Apocalypse: It wasn't anything grizzly like a meteor or disease or something. It's just that there was a difference in space causing the planet to be exposed to a greater degree of light and heat. That fractional amount was just enough to completely through the ecosystem out of wack, which then messes with society.

Leyakist/Manteia: Really cool continents. Solarpunk meets afrofutirism meets fantasy. The continents themselves are made not of your typical land, but one really freaking huge lotus pad shaped fungis. It's one fungi but it has to pad growths so there are two continents. The people can travel to each other through the deep sea stems. No one knows about this. The continents are also completely isolated from the rest of the world because the fungi messes with the wind and ocean patterns.

MaiRycia: A ginormous bow shaped continent often thought of as two because the centre area is under the control of two allied nations. The lower nation is willfully isolated so no one can go through them. Instead they have to go through the top nation which is super wealthy because of all the trade. The right of MaiRycia is entirely a religious empire and the left is a bunch of indivual nations of various governances. People like the centre being cut off for this reason.

Aurora River: The planet has rings that change colours seasonally (which actually makes it a useful annual calander). The shadow it casts is called the Aurora River and is a common travel route.

Kalreem: A continent full of lakes and fault line hotsprings. The aesthetic is a mix of Venice, SE Asia and art nouveau.

Wicklser: Gourd shaped continent with mountains, lakes, rivers and waterfalls. Split by a river that runs along it's length that has a ginormous boat train running on it. The train is also a nation with underground cities.

Belryde: Almost always winter here. Shaped like a penguin.

Main Cast Questions

first and foremost, do you have multiple POVs, or only one? are you writing this in 1st, 2nd, or 3rd?

next, think a little bit about your story so far… what kind of role would your main characters have in this world? do the main events happen to them, or do they go out and seek change?

and, perhaps most importantly… what are some flaws you might give them?

I usually focus on just one characters POV, but sometimes I'll do 2 or even 3 if I'm feeling particularly brave.

I almost always write in 3rd person.

Right now I just have a world, but the stories would probably be on a smaller scale, people living their lives, going through relationships, exploring the world around them, going on their own adventures. The worlds events would affect them but wouldn't be the focus.

Flaws are tricky, depends which characters and story I choose.

so far, we’ve looked at genre, plot, worldbuilding, and most recently, our main cast! now that we have some main foundations, we’re going to look at something a bit more nuanced… antagonists. depending on your story, this role could be fulfilled by a lot of people or things. it might be nature itself, the MC’s flaws, or an external “villain.” so! who’s the villain of this story?

Antagonists! oh no……um……….

This one's difficult to answer since I don't have a set story and only a handful of OCs. I'm still focused on setting up the foundations of the setting. As such I'll answer this in three parts: ideas for my OCs, ideas for planned fanfic wips and the sorts of antagonists i find i tend to like or write.

First things first, the OCs.

Lale, Silvaiarin and Silvaiarins sister (really need a name for her) are all from the same story. Their story is a complicated one so I'll focus on their individual antagonists. For Silvaiarin and his sister their antagonists are their conflicting desires and the people/politics at home. Silvaiarin wants to leave to marry Lale. His sister wants to be the next ruler. But traditions are getting in the way of their goals so they have to not only defy tradition but break it and remake it anew entirely. Lale has to face the uncertainty of Vaias' family when gaining their approval and Vaias' own personal issues. Worse, they're all preparing for a massive war, so the opposing leaders are also major antagonists.

Verita is survivor of a conflict zone, human trafficking and institutional/systemic violence. Her story is about her surviving it, growing through it and taking her place in the world. Her antagonists are the powers that be, the ignorance and prejudice of the common people, the systemic abuse and discrimination and most horribly, herself. No one comes out of that in one piece. She puts herself through the wringer trying to make it out as mentally intact as possible, then she must learn to heal, even if it means discarding the methods that kept her safe and sane in the first place. Her choices themselves are the antagonists.

Myras' story is about her achieving her dream of becoming a prosthetist. I'm not sure what that would make her antagonist? Her lacking skills? A character flaw? Maybe I could make contradicting goals or values. I'm really not sure yet 😅

Next are the antagonists in my favourite fanfic wips and ideas.

The one I'm most looking forward to is a modern au MDZS one where Jiang Yanli leaves her household with her siblings to live in a safe home instead. It's about her no longer just surviving, but living. The antagonists are her parents, conflicting internal goals and values (in particular the importance she places on her siblings and her role as the one who raised them, and her needing to learn to live as herself rather than only perceiving herself through her role as a caregiver), the issues her siblings are dealing with, conflicting wants/needs & values/goals.

Another MDZS fic, I'm going to have Madam Jin overthrow her husband and take over the Lanling Jin Sect by allying herself with his victims, especially his bastards and their mothers. Her antagonists will be her husband, much of the Jin Sect, the cultivations worlds traditional values and her own traditional values and prejudices.

There are a couple of Pet Shop of Horrors fanfics where Leon tries to find D. I'm not sure what this makes the antagonist. Their relationship issues? Communication issues? Distance?

There are others but those are the ones I know best off the top of my head.

Lastly, antagonist types I tend to write or favour.

When it comes to antagonist characters I definitely prefer some flavour, an interesting motive, complicated relationships, depths. Characters that aren't cookie cutter baddy of the day types.

Concept type antagonists are fun when they involve the internal conflicts and growth of the characters, like the conflict between needs and wants or goals and values. The sorts that come with difficult non-perfect choices, especially if there's not clear cut right or wrong and the consequences aren't ideal but work well. You win some you lose some, that sort of thing. Societal/Cultural based conflicts, especially those that provoke thoughts of 'what if' are also fun but I tend to prefer reading them to writing them.

#prompt response #writing question #OCs #qotd #lale #silvaiarin #Verita #Myra #OC #questions #antagonists #worldbuilding #storytelling #characters #preferences #POVs #genres #plot devices #tropes #madame vera #MoP

[soyouthinkucanwrite]

The money thing (part 2/2) - Daniel Ricciardo

Warnings: SMUT! angst, confrontation... and more SMUT!

This is it, guys! Buuut... I think I'm gonna keep this story going, what do you say? Shall we find out about how shopping with Charlotte goes, and the party, and just how (y/n) handles this new dynamic overall? As always, let me know what you think! Read part 1 here!

When you got back at home, you were barely inside the apartment and Daniel was already pushing you against the door, kissing you passionately. You go down the corridor half kissing, half walking, Daniel chasing you all the way. You run to his room and then inside the shower, taking off your sweaty clothes on the process. You guys get under the shower and the feeling of the chill water along with Daniel’s kisses on your skin is just too good.

“You’re unbelievable” he says, letting your feet touch the ground again. You wash each other clean after that, running your hands through each other’s body and memorizing every curve, every detail.

“You’re unbelievable” he says, letting your feet touch the ground again. You wash each other clean after that, running your hands through each other’s body and memorizing every curve, every detail.

After a while, you get out of the shower, dry your hair quickly then wrap yourself in a towel. You go to your toiletry bag on the sink and take your toothbrush out, brushing your teeth while Daniel finished showering. Then you take your hair cream and put some on, your hair is really starting to feel the damage with all this boy’s shampoo, you think. Then you take some skin serum and apply some drops on your face, spreading lightly. Man, you missed skincare and it missed you. Last step: body lotion. Daniel gets out of the shower and you know he's watching you.

“Why you’re pampering yourself all up?” He asked coming behind you and kissing your neck.

“I’m doing what I was supposed to do the last two nights…but got distracted” you smirk at him. He lifts his hands in mock defense. Then you open the towel and start spreading the cream on your stomach, then your legs, then your butt. He’s watching you still, so you smile. “You say you like my skin, well it takes a lot of creaming to maintain it”

“I thought that was my job, love” He says in a low voice from behind me, putting his hands on my hips.

“Not like-” you start but decide it’s not even worthy, he knows what you meant. You just swat him on the shoulder and he laughs, going back to the room.

“By the way” he says putting his head back through the door. “You smell amazing, so finish up and get your ass back in the bed so I can properly cream you up”

“Daniel!” Little shit. He laughs even louder.

When you go back inside the room Daniel is sitting on the bed, looking through his phone. You pass him towards the closet and decide to take a look at the clothes you brought with you, to see if there's anything you could wear to this party tomorrow. What do you even wear to a yacht?

You take a few outfits and place them in front of your body, testing them on the mirror, but nothing seemed appropriate.

"You want a shirt baby?" Daniel asks you out of nowhere.

"Hum? Yeah, sure" you answer him, hanging the clothes back in the closet.

"Are you looking for something for tomorrow? Just buy something with Charlotte" he said simply while putting sweat pants on.

"Yeah... I..." you took a deep breath, "It's just..." you tried to say, but nothing seemed to come out. You were scared he was gonna think you're being ridiculous.

"What?" he looked at you.

"Nothing, never mind" you gave up, putting on his shirt with your underwear and going back to his room. He followed you, wearing nothing but his sweat pants.

"I'm just guessing here, but I have a feeling it's a good one" he started, "It's the money thing, isn't it? You don't want to spend money buying an outfit for this party?"

"It's not that I don't want to, Dan. I just can't afford it!" you said raising your voice tone a bit. He just stared at you for a while. "I don't know if you've noticed, I'm not on a million dollars contract but I'm still living like I was!" you sat down on the bed, eyes filling with water. "I just can't do this anymore, sorry. It's killing me and it's so stupid, so petty, but again, it's not! Cause what would the solution be? You paying for everything? Me just becoming a leech? A gold-digger?" he was watching you quietly, but let out a laugh at that last part.

"Don't laugh! I'm serious!" you continued.

"Baby, listen to yourself. What do you want me to do besides laughing?" he smiled sympathetically at you.

"Well, I'm glad you're finding it amusing because I feel sick everytime the subject comes up. The clothes, restaurants, plane tickets... I can't be living like that, and it's not just that. It's also because I know there's only one way this is going"

"You finally understanding this is ridiculous and accepting the credit card I made on your name months ago?" he said sitting by your side.

"Us not being together anymore. We're just from too different worlds, it's not gonna work. You need someone that can keep up with this lifestyle" you said getting up and walking towards the bathroom.

"No, you're not!" he said pulling you back down to his lap by your waist. "Enough with this bullshit" he said kissing your face and wipping your tears away. "Tell me what the real problem is. This is not about money, money is only a tool, a means to something, we can't let it have this much power over us. There's always more where that came from" you just looked at him. He had a much more healthy relationship with money than you, maybe because he had so much to spare. "This is not about money. You're not greedy, I know you. You're just the polar opposite of it. The most generous person I know. Is that it? You're feeling guilty?"

"I think... kind of. It's not fair, how can I have so much, knowing that most people have never even seen that much money. We’ve spent the average person's paycheck on a meal, Dan!" you said.

"(y/n), baby... it's not your responsibility. You can't carry this weight on you. You already do so much for people, you volunteer and donate all the time... you can't deprive yourself because other people don't have the same opportunity, that wouldn't be fair either" he tried to reason with you.

"But what about you?" you asked.

"What about me?"

"I just... listen, I know, rationally I mean... that I don't handle the idea of money very well. If you must know, I couldn't even take money from my parents as a kid. I just can't help but think it wasn't fair to them and it's not fair to you, to spend it with me. It's yours! You worked hard for it! I’m literally leeching on you!"

"So, you agree? The money is mine, so I can do with it what I please?" he said.

"Yes, but-"

"Why can't I spend it with the person I love most in the world? Huh? What is so wrong with it? Even if I was choosing to spend it on you instead of on myself, which I'm not, why couldn't I?"

"I feel like I'm taking advantage of you"

"Baby, we're taking advantage of this life. I was given this unholy amount of money for doing my dream job. Can you see how rare and fucking blessed this is? I mean, I thought so, until I met you. I thought I knew what a good life was until you were in it. This is a good life, with you enjoying this fucking lottery ticket with me" he said pecking your lips and rubbing your back, while you leaned on him. "Is this why you wouldn't come to London with me?" you looked at him and nodded.

"Sorry about that..."

"No, I'm sorry I didn't push more on the subject earlier. This has been going on for long enough now. It's just money, (y/n). Just it. Just a tool for the wonderful life we lead together. You understand?"

"Yeah"

"Look at me" he said turning your chin to look at him. "Do you really? Will you let me pay for stuff now? Tell me whenever you have an expense or even better, will you accept the credit card I made for you?"

"I don't think that's necessary"

"Please baby. Let's try it my way? Will you use it from now on?" he asked again pecking your lips. "Say yes. Say yes, or I'll give you a minimal monthly spending goal as well" he smiled and you looked at him like he was crazy.

"I'm not comfortable with it"

"Just try, please? You can start by buying something tomorrow for the party" the look on his face changed and you knew he was about to tease you. "If you'd prefer, we can say you're buying something for me... you wanna be my sugar baby?" he laughed.

"Too soon to joke about it" you said but laughed anyway. "Okay" you said after a while, "I'll use it. But you have to promise me you'll tell me if you change your mind"

"You're scared I'll go in debt?"

"I know you would"

"Good. Because I would. For you. But I know you don't need me to, so if we run out of money we'll just be poor together. Good thing you have experience, huh?" he laughed.

"Asshole!" you swatted him on the chest.

"You know I'm joking. But you get it now, don't you? We're lucky enough we don't have to worry about it, so let's not worry about it. It shouldn't even take a second of our day, it doesn't matter. Us, being together and our happiness is what matters. Okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, for being so understanding. Sorry for being... you know"

"I love you. And I don't expect you to simply go on a shopping spree, although I do expect you to buy those plane tickets soon. But the thing is, I'm here for it, I'm here to solve every little obstacle that gets in our way, no matter what, no matter how silly you're being"

"You're being so mature about this" you smirked at him.

"Well, what can I say? Being the perfect human I am, I understand that other humans are not, I'm just humbled that I can guide you on your path of enlightenment" he laughed and you rolled your eyes. "In all seriousness now, you know why is that, don't you?"

"Why? Because you're just better than everyone else?"

"Well, yes. But also because I have it really clear in my mind what really matters. And that's you. Us. It's all that matters to me. Being good for you" he said looking into your eyes.

"I love you, so much. I don't deser-" he cut you out by kissing you deeply and pulling you closer to him.

You moved so you were straddling him now, your arms around his neck and your hands on his hair. His hands that were on your waist, keeping you closer, started to slip down your body, so he was holding your bum.

"I want you" he said against your lips. You smiled and started to grind down against him. You were only wearing his shirt, which was bunched up around your waist, and your underwear, which wasn't the sexiest piece you owned but you didn't think Dan would care. In fact, he didn't seem to care at all for your underwear, cause he was already slipping his hand under you, pushing the thin layer to the side, and sliding his fingers through your lips.

You moaned at the sensation, still sensitive from your adventures early in the shower. "I... Dan..." you begin to say, but couldn't form a full sentence.

"What is it, baby girl? You want to say something?" he whispered against your ear, sucking your earlobe lightly. Then he pressed his pointer and middle finger against your clit, circling them firmly against you and making you moan louder for him.

"I'm still sensitive from early" you said against his lips, laughing a bit.

"You want me to stop?" he asked looking at you deeply.

"No!" you answered almost too fast, making him chuckle. "Don't stop, please"

"Hum... since you asked so nicely" he said sucking on your jaw, then your neck. You took that opportunity to slip your hand down his torso, feeling his chest and abs, and then reaching for him through his sweat pants. He was rock hard already. This man is insatiable. You smiled at the sound he made when you grabbed him lightly.

"I just want to feel you inside me" you said pulling his pants down and out of the way. He lifted you both from the bed slightly to help you take them off, then you grabbed and lined him with your center, sitting down slowly, letting only the head in first.

“Babe, please,” it’s Daniel’s turn to beg now “I need you" and then you sink down on him, feeling all of his length while he bottoms out inside you. He sucks on your sweet spot, muffling the groan that comes out of his mouth.

"Oh my god Dan" you moan, dropping your head back and giving him even more access to your neck. You pull his hair a bit more, fingers clamped down so tightly you're scared you might pull his hair out. You stay like this, feeling him deep inside you, for a while. He pulls away to look you in the eyes and kiss your lips, massaging your tongue with his. It's so intimate, so truthful, like he said, the only thing that matters in the world.

"I love you" he says looking you deep in the eyes. You nod before replying because you want to make sure he knows you know. That you believe and trust him.

"I love you, so much" you say back.

Then you roll your hips, testing out the angle, and it's almost too much to handle. It feels like hours and seconds at the same time, but you find a rhythm together, a pace you can keep sitting on him, while he only worries about kissing you and keeping you both from falling from the bed.

You're sure you'll be feeling sore tomorrow. Actually, you already are. Your legs, tired from the running and all the sex you've been having lately, start to give out and you lose your strength. Luckily, Daniel seems to catch that before you have to say anything, so he brings his hands to your hips and starts to help you move up and down on him.

You sit up slightly, moaning at the different angle he hitting now and he groans, feeling you clench around him. "(y/n)" he moans your name, "baby, I'm go-" he moans, feeling you clench again.

"Me too" you reply.

"Where do want me to? Huh? I'm gonna cum for you baby" you kiss him, feeling your pussy spasm around him, making it even harder for him to keep a steady rhythm.

"Inside me. I need you to come inside me, please, please baby" and there's no time to think, to ask if you're sure. You feel his whole body tensing and his thrusts get sloppier. Then, when you feel the hot liquid spur inside you, he grabs a handful of your ass with one hand and slips his other in between the two of you, flicking your clit rapidly and precisely.

That's all it takes for you to lose it completely, your walls fluttering around him as your body trembles at the intensity of the pleasure.

You both ride your orgasms together, you rolling your hips slower and slower, and him holding you tighter and closer until you stop completely. The only sound being your heavy breathings.

After a while, you pull away to find him already staring at you.

"You are the most beautiful thing I ever laid eyes on" he says to you and you feel the warmth of his words.

"I'm yours. Forever" you say simply and kiss him lightly on the lips.

"I feel like I have so much to lose. It honestly scares the living shit out of me"

"I know what you mean. I feel the exact same, I promise. I don't know how I got so lucky to find you" you say.

"And I, you. But we're just being dumb, right? I guess it's good we know that, but also... that we're not going anywhere, right?" he asks and you can sense there's some insecurity behind his line.

"Right. We're only getting stronger" you say and kiss him again. "I love you, Daniel"

"I love you, so much" he says touching your foreheads. "Let me get something to clean you up, then we can cuddle the rest of the night"

"You're the only guy I know that likes cuddling this much" you smile getting up from him. He hisses a bit at the sensation but gets up right after you.

"You don't have to worry about other guys' preferences" he says rolling his eyes. Yep. If your thing is low self-esteem and money-related issues, his is definitely jealousy and overall insecurity.

"I don't, silly" you peck him in the lips. He seems to relax a bit and when he comes back from the bathroom his phone lights up, he goes to check on it after passing you the towel.

"Charles just texted Charlottes contact. I'll forward it to you, okay?"

"Yep" you answered and it was your phone's turn to light up. "Can I confess something?" you asked him, adjusting your clothes.

"Hum?"

"I'm really excited to hang out with her tomorrow. I kind of miss girl company during the GPs and even when I'm here in Monaco and you're busy" he smiled and put a shirt on.

"Look at you, making friends! How cute"

"Shut up" you playfully pushed him, while you guys climbed into bed. You texted her 'hello' and Daniel's address before locking your phone and adjusting in his arms. There's still a lot to figure out and you weren't sure you'd be able to handle the money thing any better. You hoped so, after all, you didn't know how much more Daniel can be understanding. But you could think about all that another time. Right now life was good in the arms of the man you loved and loved you back. You felt safe.

.

.

Tag list (this is so fancy! I've never done a tag list before haha): @scotlynaurora @your-favourite-blonde @unicornfairytail @c-d-9

@isntmadrid @lharrietg @sassybatflowerpaper

#Daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo smut #daniel ricciardo fic #daniel ricciardo fluff #daniel ricciardo fanfic #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #dniel ricciardo x reader

[myelocin]

Cradle | Sakusa Kiyoomi, Iwaizumi Hajime

Synopsis: First is love; in the forms over the years you come to know. Then second is grief and loss; and how the struggle that comes with it defines and reshapes you. And finally third is acceptance, where you realize that the awakening to love and life’s questions have always just been in the palm of your hand.

This story is for those who shielded themselves from love before it could even hit them. 

Characters/Pairings: Sakusa Kiyoomi x Reader x Iwaizumi Hajime | Seijoh 3rd years (friendship)

Genre/Tags/Warnings: Slice of Life, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Slow burn, Seijoh4!Friendship, Cellist!Sakusa, Musician!Reader, Hajime lmao, Mutual Pining, Love Triangle, Happy Ending!!, Character death, mentions of spiraling

WC: 17.5k

a/n: a month long wip! this one is all for you, mom. i broke my heart writing down these memories, but i hope you read this on the other side. + big thank you to @introvertedfangirlpower for the cello facts! really helped me :)

playlist: Message to Myself - Roo Panes

ko-fi | commissions

For you, love began in the unknown.

You say unknown because you don’t remember much of your childhood other than the flashes of residual warmth that came with the memory of your mother. For as long as you can remember, she always felt like that: warm and familiar—like home.

Her presence like the warmth that stays on your coffee mug long after you’ve consumed your drink. Warmth like sitting in front of a fireplace as you watch the last bits of firewood extinguish in the flames.

And your fondest memory perhaps—warm like the hands that cup your face and kiss your forehead every morning before you left for school.

The early years in your life meant days spent in planted gardens outside of a kitchen window where the pink and yellow flowers bloom in the spring, and jumping in the fallen leaves raked in a pile centered in the backyard in the late autumn.

Then in the winters, when it became too cold to lay in blankets in the backyard stargazing for constellations—you’d spend the Christmas nights listening to bedtime stories about her time traveling the world you have yet to explore. “You’ll fall in love with seeing what’s out there,” you recall her saying as she tucks you in bed with the green blanket she knitted for you when you were a baby.

Though you suppose even if you loved the winter months with her the best—you could never go wrong with sipping the iced tea she’d leave for you on the porch in the afternoons you spent outside in the summers. The iced tea she made was always the best: never too sweet, and never too bland either.

And for the most part of your childhood, your father was absent. You didn’t really care; his absent never lingered. So even when the bratty kid from the classroom next to yours would brag about the brand new jacket her papa bought her from a trip overseas—you didn’t care. The jacket you wore was still the same one from last year, and the scarf wrapped around you was the one she knitted two winters ago, but the way she wrapped you up and kissed your nose made the taunting escape your mind.

Your mother would tell you stories about the times when you were a baby and of how she’d tuck you in nice and snug in your blanket whenever she felt the room was too cold and then fan you out when the temperature rose. Apparently, when you were a baby you never cried too much so she was left to guess whether you felt comfortable enough with the room’s temperature or not. She always finished the story by saying you smiled at her either way so she supposes she guessed right every time.

You don’t question it because she guesses right every time.

During father daughter dances that were annually held in your school, your mother always made sure to take the day off of work early so the two of you would have dinner some place nice instead. Her jokes were better than the ones your dad halfheartedly chucked your way when he did come to visit anyway, so you didn’t mind.

Your father ringing you up three hours before the dance with the last minute classic excuse of “sudden meeting today, I’m sorry.” didn’t bother you as much as you think it should have when your mom was right next to you ready to tell you another story from her younger days.

Her “younger days” as she liked to call it was always a favorite topic of hers that she always returned to from time to time. At eight years old, it felt like there was so much of the world still to explore and despite her telling you to live your childhood to the fullest, you didn’t ask what it meant and requested to hear an encore of the story she just finished telling.

She’d smile and you’d hear her tell you that no, and that you should have listened, but you know during the “father daughter” dinners shared between the two of you, she was extra soft and that it would take nothing more than pleading eyes and one more “please” before she’d relent and tell the story again.

She was always enough; every second with her felt just right—and if there’s something you never regret during your childhood, it’s those times where you’d ignore the teasing of having “no dad to dance with” from your childhood bullies because you were more than content with the superwoman who raised you anyway.

-

If there was someone in your childhood other than your mom who never hesitated to hold your hands—it was the boy who lived right down the street: Iwaizumi Hajime.

“He looks a little scruffy,” your mom used to tell you and you’d shrug at her words because to ten year old you, she did have a point. Boys were icky.

His family didn’t move in your street until you turned ten years old, but according to the Oikawa family who lived next door—the Iwaizumi family had already been one of their long term friends. Tooru, the pretty boy who was your next door neighbor and often brought you the Christmas cookies you’ve come to love every December didn’t hesitate to knock on your door and ask your mom for permission to bring you out and play.

Tooru was okay, you thought; he had nice hair and a pretty smile even though he wore alien t-shirts every chance he could get. But, he was always kind enough to remember that you preferred almonds in your cookies instead of the cashews the recipe called for. So when your mother looked at you for your answer, you nodded shyly before running to your room to grab the jacket and scarf she reminded you to wear. The chill from autumn’s air has been settling in the region lately, so you let her wrap the scarf around you tightly before you left.

She did the same for both Tooru and his mystery friend, and you could only nod proudly when Tooru introduced his friend to your mother with, “This is (l/n)-san, she’s the nicest auntie here!”

You don’t notice the boy who walks quietly beside Tooru until the three of you reach the park. When you do finally notice him, you subconsciously find yourself moving a little closer to Tooru, your puffy cheeks hidden in the layers your scarf buried you in.

“Oh!” Tooru suddenly exclaims like he just had an epiphany.

“(Y/n),” he says as he turns to you and grabs the sleeve of your jacket, “—this is Iwa-chan. My bestest friend!”

Iwa-chan, the boy introduced to you peeks at you from Tooru’s left side and puffs his cheeks, “My name is Iwaizumi Hajime, nice to meet you.”

“Hello, I’m (y/n),” you reply and tentatively hold your hand out as an offer for him to shake, “nice to meet you Iwaizumi-san.”

His cheeks turn red at your words and you fight the urge to laugh at how silly it looks with his pout when he says, “You can call me Hajime. Nice to meet you too.”

Beside you, Tooru must have thought that his friend was taking too long to respond because he sighs loudly and grabs Hajime’s hand and clasps it on yours. “Iwa-chan, you’re supposed to shake her hand! Not stare.”

The red tinting his cheeks turn into a couple shades darker as he shakes your hand and turns his head to the side after muttering something along the lines of, “Baka-kawa.”

You smile at him when he faces you, and then smile even wider when the blush on his cheeks turn even redder. Maybe it’s just the cold air, you think, but none the less it suited him.

His hair was a little scruffy and he liked to wear Godzilla t-shirts under his jackets, but his cheeks blushed a pretty shade of red when you smiled at him so when your mom asks how your day with Tooru and the new neighbor went, you smile at her and say, “Mama I made a new friend!”

Hajime seemed nice, you suppose.

-

And you’re right because Hajime was always kind; he smiled in a way that had you smiling along with him in mere seconds. Though he was a little rougher with Tooru, Hajime always made it his mission to make sure he held your hand—if you needed it—when you needed to jump down a big step; the ever present blush on his cheeks when you’d beam at him stayed regardless of whatever season so you suppose you can’t blame it on the cold air anymore.

During your summer breaks, the three of you would spend the afternoons in your mother’s backyard sipping iced tea and catching cicadas. Tooru, along with you, would whine about how gross bugs were but you’d sooner relent than him when a pout began to form on Hajime’s face.

“You don’t have to,” Hajime says and takes a seat next to you on the swing next to the rosebushes. Tooru, from a far would yell triumphantly before tossing the volleyball he’d brought with him from home again. You, on the other hand could never have it in you to see Hajime upset so you’d pick up one of the three nets he’d brought with him and nod towards the garden.

“It’s okay!” you say and offer him a sweet smile when he’d look up, “as long as you keep the worms away from me then it’s okay!”

“I’ll keep them away,” he replies suddenly looking excited. Hajime jumps from the swings to grab another net and tugs at your hand to run towards the garden; he chooses to ignore the look on Tooru’s face when the latter shoots him a knowing smirk.

Bugs were never your thing and there was also never a day where you thought you’d be out in the garden running hand in hand with a boy trying to catch cicadas on a summer afternoon—when you’d much prefer to be sitting in a picnic blanket with the family dog who always nudged your hand for belly rubs. But then again, when you see Hajime, the kind boy with the infectious smile who always held your hand when you crossed the street or jumped from big steps, beam at you with his laughs ringing in the air—you conclude that it can’t be so bad after all.

When the sun would set and the three of you would let go of all the cicadas you caught, your mom would sit the three of you down for dinner and talk about your days.

“Ah, youth,” your mother would comment and you’d nod along, smiling because if this is what she meant by the beauty of youth—then you don’t ever want to let this go. If youth meant summer afternoons spent catching cicadas, festivals in the autumn, hot cocoas in winter, and picnics in the spring with Hajime and Tooru then you decided you really don’t want to let it go.

You think that especially when you look at the table across you as you smile at Tooru shoveling his dinner down and smiling at your mom because she was the bestest cook ever and laugh when Hajime’s always the one offering to pass the salt or the dish your mother asked for.

“Haji is really smart, mama,” you say looking up at the woman seated next to you and Tooru would whole heartedly agree then mutter something about “Iwa-chan” being really good at arm wrestling. Hajime would flush with the familiar shade of red you’ve grown accustomed to at Tooru’s comment but tell your mother a polite thank you when she’d clap her hands together and agree with Tooru’s compliment.

That night when your mother tucked you in for the night and moved to turn off the lights in the bedroom, she tells you that Hajime and Tooru are nice boys and that she’s glad you befriended the both of them.

You tell her goodnight and smile into your covers, feeling warm at the thought of your mother’s words, Tooru’s laughter, and Hajime’s kind smile.

-

High school was a strange time for the three of you.

Strange, in the sense that even though the three of you maintained the closeness of the friendship you’ve shared since childhood—certain things factored in the evident shift in some relationships.

Tooru was one example.

You would give up an arm for him in a heartbeat if it meant it would save his life, but at the same time, there are some moments where you wouldn’t hesitate to rip off his arm just to get him to shut up.

He’s always been perceptive, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise when he came to your house one day, plopped himself on the beanbag he claimed to be “his spot” at the corner of your desk, look you dead in the eye, and declare, “You have the hots for Iwa-chan don’t you?”

Internally, you wince at the statement but outwardly maintain the air of nonchalance you’ve mastered over the years. Tapping your pen on Tooru’s forehead, you click your tongue, “If you don’t finish your essay by today, I’m not gonna edit it for you.”

“You’re changing the topic, (y/n),” Tooru quips and if the conversation was about something different, you’d smile at the sing-song tone he was using.

“Changing what?” You ask.

“(Y/n),” Tooru replies, dragging out the last syllable of your name, “—you’re so obvious, even Makki and Mattsun could tell.”

“Could tell what?” comes Hajime’s voice from the doorway.

You let out a sigh because in a way you’re thankful for Hajime’s impeccable timing in entering your room. You turn your head and glance at him from your desk, offering him a lazy wave as a greeting.

“Iwa-chan!” Tooru exclaims and scrambles on the beanbag to sit up properly. “How much have you heard?”

“Were you talking about something important?” Hajime asks with a flat tone as he sits on your bed and pulls out his laptop.

“Your mom asked me and Oikawa to stay for dinner tonight, by the way. That cool with you?” he asks.

You look at him, the expression on your face quizzical, “Haji, you guys always stay for dinner. Mama and I love having you two around.”

From your peripheral vision, you could see Tooru look between you and Hajime back and forth and for once you’re glad he chose to stay silent.

But then when a familiar tinge of red falls on Hajime’s cheeks and you smile fondly at him, Tooru suddenly hollers, “(Y/n), that’s what I mean. You totally have the hots for Iwa-chan!”

Hajime’s eyes widen as you slap a hand over your face.

Today was one of the days where you decide you want to rip Tooru’s arm off.

-

Dinner later that night was, to put it bluntly, awkward.

You figured your mom must have already read the atmosphere by now but as of the moment all you could really do was shoot glares towards Tooru from across the table. Usually, the seating arrangement would be like this: you sat next to your mom, Tooru right across you, and Hajime diagonal from you.

Tonight, Tooru decided that it was time to “switch things up” and traded seats with Hajime.

“Ahh, this feels nice,” he says as he sits in the chair inches away from the chair where he sat for years.

“Boys,” your mother begins, “I heard you both got into the volleyball team.”

Tooru beams at her through a mouthful of pasta. “Yeth!” he chimes and Hajime elbows him on the side reminding him to eat properly before responding. You, along with your mother give a soft laugh at their interaction.

“How are you three liking high school so far? I expect the two of you to get rid of any boys who have bad intentions towards (y/n),” your mother says as she sips on her wine. Internally, you groan, because this was a conversation you would much prefer to not have. Especially in front of Tooru, you decide when he grins with an undertone of something you could only guess was anything but good. You shoot him a warning look; Tooru decides it’s a good day to ignore you.

Over the years, you made your appreciation known towards Hajime’s amazing timing. It was like he had a sixth sense when it came to either you, Tooru, or the both of you simultaneously. He had always managed to round the corner right as the passing university boys would spot you alone by the convenience store, catch Tooru before he did anything too drastic whenever he blamed himself a little too harshly for a loss from a particularly bad game, or like earlier that night—walk into a room interrupting a conversation you would rather avoid altogether.

This current situation was not one of those times.

Hajime took a bite. Your eyes were still locked on Tooru who did everything but look in your direction.

“I don’t think that’s a problem, (L/n)-san,” he said and leaned forward. Your mother next to you raised an eyebrow in question and muttered an, “oh?”

Hajime took another bite, still oblivious to the current conversation. You still looked at Tooru who smiled at you in a way that had you gripping the fork in your hand a little tighter.

“No scary boys around (y/n), at all! Isn’t that right, Iwa-chan?” Tooru exclaims and looks at his best friend next to him who was still engrossed in his plate of food. You hold your breath looking at Hajime as you wait for his response.

“Huh? Yeah. Anyway, this new recipe is really good (l/n)-san,” he finally says and nods towards your mother. Tooru clasps his hands together, smiling.

“Personally,” Tooru begins, “I think Iwa-chan and (y/n) would be the most perfect couple!”

You run your hands over your face, already feeling the heat crawling up your neck. Feeling your mother’s stare you let out a sigh and face her. “Mom-“

“Hajime! That’s great! I was wondering when the two of you would get together, it’s literally been years.”

You stare at her. Hajime stares at her; pasta sauce is smeared on the corner of his lips.

“I know, imagine being the third wheel this whole time!” Tooru comments.

-

“Hajime’s a nice boy,” your mother tells you as you join her in the living room after Tooru and Hajime returned home.

“We’re not, a thing, mom,” you say despite her laughing at your tone.

“I didn’t say you two were a thing.”

You open your mouth, but eventually close it when you come short of a response. She had a point.

“Mom,” you groan, “Haji is nice. Tooru is nice. Both of them are nice.”

“I know that, (y/n), you’re just being defensive now,” she laughs and you can’t find a retort so you huff in response.

When the room is dips into silence, you grab the familiar green blanket folded on the corner of the couch and take a seat next to her. She looks at you when you lean against her shoulder and drape the blanket over the two of you.

“(Y/n),” your mother says softly.

“Yeah?” you respond, looking up to catch her gaze—the kind where it’s steady and soft.

“Never lose yourself if you decide to give your heart to someone. I raised you well enough and no boy should ever make you feel like you’re taking two steps back,” you know she doesn’t say it to spite Hajime, but the message and advice in her words reach you anyway.

“Never in a million years.”

-

You know your mother means well because everything she’s done so far was because it was for your sake. Her credit of being a good mom was well deserved: a full time nurse and a full time mother wasn’t an easy feat but she did it—and not a day goes by where you felt like you had to fight for her time.

And because of that, you knew in your heart that Hajime knew the both of you enough to understand the dynamic you had with her; for that, you were always thankful.

True to Tooru’s words, it only took the both of you six more months of back and forth bickering in your room before you eventually built up enough courage to stand in front of Hajime with your confession written neatly in jet black ink on paper tucked inside the pink envelope Tooru had demanded you to use.

He was quiet, and staring at you long enough for your cheeks to turn as pink as the envelope you were holding that it had you beginning to wrack your brain for excuses to turn and walk in the opposite direction. Only, when you looked up, cheeks flushed and the “Sorry I think I have to be home early to put my fish to sleep,” at the tip of your tongue—you stop because Hajime’s looking at anywhere but you and because his entire face is red.

You still have the envelope awkwardly stretched out towards him so when you move in attempt to retract it, his hands are suddenly clasped over your wrists and he’s looking at you, red face and all, saying, “W-wait—“

The both of you must have been quite the spectacle for the way you’re staring at each other, red faced, and waiting for the other to begin speaking because you could definitely make out Takahiro and Issei’s snorting from some feet away.

“—shit,” Hajime continues and the way he’s still staying silent and going back to avoiding your gaze has you tugging your wrists out of his hold and sheepishly telling him, “Sorry, this is a little awkward isn’t it?”

You’re standing in front of Hajime with your hands holding the letter behind your back and an awkward smile on your face.

“(Y/n), this is really weird—“ he begins and you’re shaking your head automatically at his attempt to soften the blow by waving your arms—and the letter—in front of him saying, “Haji! No! It’s okay you don’t have to say anything, this was a really bad idea—“

“No, I mean—“ he cuts you off then pauses as he’s sifting through the contents of his bag and pulling out a slightly crumpled envelope, the color a disturbingly identical to your own.

You look at Hajime. Hajime looks at you, at his envelope, then towards yours that paused with your hand midair. Issei and Takahiro’s laughter can be heard even louder from the background when Hajime runs his hands over his face and exclaims,

“Oikawa you son of a bitch.”

-

Two years and some months ago, Oikawa Tooru—the self-proclaimed “love guru” between you and Hajime had declared to have pulled off his “greatest plan.”

Apparently, the original plan called for only you to confess to Hajime via the classic love letter—but Issei and Takahiro had thought that the shits and giggles were worth to have both of you confess to each other at the same time instead.

Tooru always retells the story in the fashion where he leaves out Issei and Hiro’s names out of the credits. On the contrary, you and Hajime don’t have in in you to react much.

In the beginning, Hajime the friend held your hand through many of your highs and lows.

From age ten, he’d always make sure to hold your hand when you’re jumping from steps a little too far for your liking. At twelve, he’s holding your hand as he leads you away from the worms that found its way near the picnic blanket. At fifteen, when the two of you accidentally confessed to each other thanks to your friends’ schemes, he held your hand as he pulled you in the direction opposite of Tooru yelling, “Iwa-chan, don’t forget I’m the best wingman!”

Hajime, the boyfriend, had continued to hold your hand as well as share a multitude of your first throughout the years.

Your first date where he’d always let you walk on the correct side of the sidewalk, and make sure to squeeze your hand whenever the two of you would pass by a group of boys who let their stare linger. Your first kiss—a quick peck after a game where he’d rushed to you, lifting you up and planting a kiss on your lips before either of you could even process what was happening.

A reassuring hand on your back in the train ride during rush hour, kisses on your knuckles when he thought no one was around in quiet libraries, and your favorite: the feel of his thumbs tracing idle circles on the back of your hand when you’re watching him review the game you recorded earlier.

You were each other’s first “I love you,” when you’re seventeen, which was said in the hours between the day and night on your walk home down a quiet street you’ve skipped, ran, and biked across countless of times. You heard it break the silence before you said it with your own lips, because the way Hajime said it was like he was just talking about the weather that day.

When the two of you stop in front of your house and Hajime’s facing you, he’s smiling in the way that has you blushing instead of him this time and he’s looping your scarf even snugger around your neck after muttering some comment about how cold it was that day.

“Haji, did you just tell me you love me?” you ask him when he’s zipped up your jacket and you’re peeking at him under the various layers of the scarf he secured around you.

“Yeah, of course, I love you.”

“This is the first time you’re telling me that,” you say with an almost bashful expression and your eyes are cast down so you don’t end up seeing Hajime’s eyes widen at the realization dawning on him.

“(Y/n), shit—“

“I love you too, Haji,” you cut him off and even if the expression in his face is still a little apologetic at the lack of climax of your first exchange of I love yous, he’s holding your hands and pulling you flush against him in an embrace, his proclamation of more “I love yous” fluttering against your ear in warm breaths.

You think about it sometime later when you’re clearing up the plates on the table from dinner and you ask your mom, “how do you know when it’s right to tell someone I love you?” and she looks at you with an expression that says she knows exactly what you’re talking about but humors your attempt at nonchalance as she replies with, “It just slips out as if you’re talking about the weather.”

And the way she says it has the second thoughts just automatically leaving your head. You tell her “I love you,” in the mornings before she leaves for work and you don’t really think about it—not because it’s a passing comment, but because you just simply love her.

The feeling’s there because what you feel in the moment is as genuine as it can get, so when you think about Hajime from seven years ago who blushed red when you shook his hand and the Hajime seven hours ago who told you he loved you like he was talking about the weather—everything dawns on you in the way that feels right. No second thoughts, deep analysis, or euphoric moment.

>> to hajibug:

>> 23:50: i love you

-

In college you decided to pursue music as a career choice. Music was one of the many things you and your mother had bonded over but watching you play in first chair always gave you the best view of her beaming from the audience.

Whenever somebody asked you why you decided to pursue a career in the field as vague and competitive as music—for a long time you fumbled with your words as you struggled to piece together a coherent enough sentence that would make it seem like you were chasing something for a “deeper” reason. Though, the truth is—you just happen to enjoy it.

The way the shoulder rest snapped perfectly in place with the violin, the weight of the bow in your hand, the smell of rosin during practice, the tuning before the concert started before hearing the eventual mess mold together into one harmony—you loved every second of it.

On the final concert of your first year in college, a week before Hajime’s move to California you stood in the orchestra room reading a text from your mother saying that she couldn’t make it this time because of a doctor’s appointment running later than usual.

You still sat in the first chair of the first violins section and even though you would have loved nothing more than to see her smile at you from the crowd—it was in the coda of the final song where  your eye finally catches Hajime watching you from her seat. When the violins put their instruments down in the measures of rests, you glance over to look at Hajime while your toe continued to tap the counts remaining until you’d play again.

You bite back a smile because he looked a little uncomfortable from the high collar of the suit he put on. Tooru’s probably the mastermind, your thoughts chime in as you smile and tuck the violin back in between your chin and shoulder, your rosin covered bow hovering over the E string.

And when the final count of the rests came and went, you could only smile as you see Hajime physically hold his breath as the violins amplified the crescendo of the climax.

-

It was later that night when you finally made it home that you realize that perhaps your favorite part of the song was when you felt the emphasis of the dynamics in the pieces you played.

The moment of absolute silence as the conductor draws everyone’s attention to the tip of the baton.

“(Y/n),” your mother starts and your eyes lock on the slight tremble in her hands.

The seemingly collective sharp breath everyone takes when the tip of the baton begins to signal the final counts until the start. Your fingers pressed on the first note as your bow hovers over the string.

“What’s wrong?” you ask but you let your fingers only ghost on her hands when she holds her silence, refusing to meet your eyes.

Sometimes it begins with a quiet note—and you smile at those because it sounds like a whisper despite it ringing in the auditorium.

“I’m sick,” she says and what she says doesn’t register in your head.

Other times, the first note comes in forte and leaves everyone in a resonating silence while the following notes interlace and begin to tell the story.

“I have cancer, (y/n),” she tells you again, louder this time and her sobs echo so loud in the silence of the house that it suddenly makes you want to throw your hands over your ears.

The conductor is waving the baton; you’re closing your eyes as you mold yourself with the music and focus on nothing but your fingers flying across the fingerboard and making sure the timing of your bow matches the tap of the rhythm set.

“Mom, you’ll be fine right?” comes your assurance in question and she’s not answering because she’s crying harder.

First position to third, then fourth, then something else you don’t quite remember as the pressure from your bow presses harder and harder on the strings to climb with the crescendo the orchestra is rising to.

She looks at you, glassy eyes and trembling lips, then holds your face in between warm hands as she presses her forehead against yours.

Then as the baton drops and the crescendo overflows—the air around the room instantly changes. The shoulders relax and the movement of the bow shift from staccato to legato as the music continues to flow.

“I’m scared to leave you alone,” she finally admits and you finally break down and cry with her because you realize you have no one but each other.

You cry because she’s crying at the thought of leaving you alone when she never cried at all the times your father chose another family over her.

And as the music decrescendos into the whispers of pianissimo, you close your eyes as the gentle sway eventually lulls to a stop.

It’s half past ten and you’re still in your formal wear, but your mom’s fast asleep on the couch. The air from the AC brings you to a light shiver so you shuffle closer and pull the blankets tighter around her frame.

The last note drops and resonates in an almost infinite echo. Your eyes snap back open you feel yourself exhale.

For a moment the auditorium is in silence.

You sit on the floor next to her and listen to the sounds of steady breathing. You could pretend it was just another movie night where she fell asleep on the couch, but the telltale tracks of tears are on her cheeks and you hear her sniffling from time to time so you sigh instead.

Then, the audience erupts in an applause.

In your room, you put your palm over your mouth and begin to cry again.

-

“I love you so much,” is what Hajime said two years down the road when he decided to move to California to finish his studies.

First, he’d made a stop at your home and sat with your mother over breakfast as she wished him well on his new adventure. By the time he was at the door, it was the first time you saw Hajime cry for and with her when she wraps him in a scarf she knitted just for him. You watch softly, as he wraps her in a hug and parts with a promise to always take care of you despite the distance and wishes for her healing.

You’re standing at the border of the gate only Hajime can cross where he’s wrapped you in a hug with his chin resting on your head.

“I love you so much,” he says and you nod your head against his chest. He’s saying it as naturally as he always has and your reply is as immediate and natural when you say, “I love you too, Haji. So much.”

“(Y/n),” he starts when he pulls away from you and looks you in the eye; he’s suddenly serious and you’re afraid.

“If you ever feel like you don’t want to keep doing this, then we can take a break.”

Your brows pinch together as you reply, “Why would I want to break up with you?”

“I’m not saying we will, I just don’t want you to shoulder too much because I know how much you’re hurting right now,” Hajime explains, and his eyes are as genuine as the tone of his voice.

“Haji—“

“I believe in you, though, just—“ he pauses and his eyes soften before he continues, “take things one day at a time and remember that I’m here loving you every day, okay?”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he finishes and you only nod at his words because the fact that you’re going to miss him really begins to hit you. Hajime’s looking at you in the tender way where you know he knows you’re about to cry because he pulls you in another embrace before kissing the top of your head as he murmurs his parting I love you in the quiet tone only you can hear.

When Hajime crosses the gate and turns the corner, you can’t help but bite your lip to keep from crying. Only a couple more years. You could take it.

-

It’s in the next eight months where you realize that while Iwaizumi Hajime shared your first love—he was also your first heartbreak.

They always said that long distance was difficult and the fact that you and Hajime were even trying was commendable enough. But that was the problem—commendable sounded like you were in the relationship for the sake of a prize. Like you were suffering through the now for a prize. Like the good part was only a one-time thing reserved at the end.

It felt wrong, and looking back at it now—perhaps that’s where the downfall began.

As time passed, your mom’s illness worsened. Cancer was ugly and it let itself be known in as many ways as it could. Time and time again, you’d watch her hair fall in strands, then clumps, until she eventually decided to shave it off for good. She smiled at you and you don’t hear her tell you, “It’s okay,” over the buzz of the razor. You don’t think you have the heart to listen to the quiver of her voice that you know is present with her words, so you suppose the loud buzz worked out in the end.

What broke your heart the most was seeing her excitement when her hair grew back after a pause in her treatment—only for her to sit down and tell you that she’s “okay” when you’re shaving off sections of her hair again.

You didn’t let her see you cry because you wanted to be as strong as she was in this; because you knew the both of you broke down within enclosed walls away from each other. Though every time you were face to face—the front was always back up. And the front was flawless; like the edges of a chipped sword finally smoothened back into a blade. But at the same time, flawed; because like the sword—the sharpness always kills.

It was unconventional, but it worked. The momentary sigh of relief was still moments of relief at the end of the day.

Hajime, on the other hand thought differently though. The second you’d answer his call request on particularly off days, he’d tell you to cry. And you would; fat drops of tears rolling down almost as soon as he finished his sentence.

Then only a year of loving each other through a computer screen passed before you realized he became your pillar at the same time you began hardening.

“Never lose yourself in the pursuit of someone or something,” are the words from your mother you consciously make an effort to tell yourself everyday even as you sit in with your phone in hand waiting for the call Hajime promised you early this morning.

And you’re well aware you’ve developed an unhealthy habit as you’re lying in bed, fighting sleep with the time on the clock nearing 4am still waiting for Hajime’s call. It wasn’t the first time he missed a promised phone call—and you weren’t mad because you understand that he has as much of a schedule as you do and that time difference was a wedge the two of  you needed to work with.

But still, you think, then sigh when you put your arm over your eyes as the clock clicks to 04:07AM beside you, this fucking sucks.

You know Hajime will text you an apology when it’s seven am for you and late at night for him, but you put your phone’s ringer on silent to convince yourself that you’re fine and you’re not dependent on his presence at all. That you’re handling yourself just fine and that the anxiety you have every time your mother comes back home from a checkup is something you can deal with by yourself.  

You shut your eyes when the dull ache in your chest begins to grow sharper as your thoughts shift from school, to your mom’s illness, to Hajime, and to the fact that you want to cry at the heaviness of everything.

And the frustration is eating you alive because you hate feeling this helpless. Not when your mother taught you nothing but how to be strong your whole life. Not when all you should know is how to stand on your own two feet despite whatever the situation life throws at you.

So when the morning comes and you wake up to a plethora of Hajime’s missed calls and frantic texts asking if you’re okay—you text him an assurance that you’re fine and that he shouldn’t worry about it.

You face the day with everything you feel pushed to the back of your mind. You face the mirror and tell yourself that you’re fine.

-

Hanamaki’s a good friend, and a lot smarter than you give him credit for.

It didn’t fly past him when you left for phone on silent or chose to spend your break with him or Mattsun when you usually would utilize that time for Hajime. But at the same time, he noticed you spacing out in conversations a little more than usual, reject any plans they invited you in, and his least favorite—see you break down in the practice room when you thought no one was around.

Neither he nor Issei chose to tell Hajime or you about it; he could never understand what you were going through—but he understood that the way someone heals differs from person to person.

It took about a few more months of Hajime’s schedule piling up and your silent breakdowns for the both of you to finally snap and confront one another.

It started with Hajime telling you a round of an apology, “I’m sorry, I promise I’ll call you on time—I just,”

“—shit everything’s just crazy. I’m sorry, babe.”

Then you nod and absent mindedly twirl one strand of your hand as you force his apology in one ear and out the other. You were fine. You’re handling things well. You didn’t need Hajime as a support system, so you reply, “It’s fine. I got this.”

And you like to think it was going well, but he asks, “How’s your mom doing?” and your hands are suddenly gripping the edge of the table (where you know he can’t see) tight. You didn’t tell him that she cried from the results when she came home earlier and waved you off when you stood up to help her balance herself. That thirty minutes ago you could hear her yell at your father over the phone about something she didn’t tell you about and that at the moment, you’re thankful for the way your fingers were digging into your skin because it’s helping you re shift your focus into anything but what was going on.

Hajime’s not looking at you because he’s looking at the report he was typing on his laptop instead. So first, you hype yourself up by thinking about how you don’t need anyone to push you through things and that how you’re handling yourself and the situation was more than fine, then, you answer,

“She’s okay, too.”

You try to ignore how gritty it sounded; Hajime doesn’t seem to notice either.

You’re quiet after that and Hajime must have thought it was odd because he pauses his work to look at you and ask, “Are you okay?”

And he says it with such a gentle tone that you suddenly want to crumble and tell him about the heaviness that hasn’t left you since the day your mom began slipping. But a knock from Hajime’s door and a distant call of his name snaps you out of those thoughts. Hajime, on the other hand, ignores them and asks you the question again, which you wave off this time with a quick, “It’s okay you can call me when you’re done.”

He’s hesitant when he leaves and he shoots you a text seconds after his face leaves the screen but you don’t reply; you spend the rest of the night with your face pressed against the pillow while you will yourself to believe that you, alone, have everything under control.

And, really, you should have left it to end like that.

But you don’t; because when morning comes and you wake up feeling heavy, you’re left in a haze where everything feels muddled. And the feeling of screaming hits you so fast and so hard that the dam just breaks.

It’s seven am and you’re crying for reasons you can’t find a starting point to. The kind of cry where every heave hurts and makes you ball your fists because of an unsourced anger. It’s disorienting and frustrating because you’re not mad at specifically anything—but at the same time, everything feels like its swallowing you whole again. You wish you could blank out like the time she told you she was sick—even if it meant moving through your day hyper aware of your movements. But you can’t, because it’s one of those days where the heaviness just sits on your chest and forces you to face the fact that it hurts.

And you always say “it” because you don’t know where to begin. Because you never began; never sat down and looked at your reflection in the eye and asked yourself, “what was wrong?”

Because you’re fine.

Everything’s fine.

It’s still fine because when your phone is ringing, you answer with a fresh face and a smooth, hello.

Hajime greets you like usual, but then settles into a background that isn’t.

You don’t really care.

He asks you how you’ve slept, and you nod once as a reply. He’s chuckling and says something about you looking cute cuddled up in bed, still half asleep so you nod again to go along with his story. Underneath the sheets, you’re fisting the blankets as you count each breath you’ve inhaled and exhaled as Hajime begins to talk about his day.

Then someone, who you can’t recall you know, sits next to him with an arm casually draped over his shoulder and pushes her face near his as she waves a hello. Usually, you’re not much of the jealous type so something like that shouldn’t even be a red flag for you. Hajime was a friendly person all around, and time and time again he’s explained how different the American culture was from home.

Given that fact, on a normal situation it would have been fine. Understandable, even.

But before you could even begin smooth your thoughts back to rationality, you explode. Hajime’s facing away from you in a conversation where he can’t see, so you suppose that could have been a good thing.

Then, your anger comes out.

First, it trickles; you stay silent and opt to stare at him, seething when he finally begins a conversation. Hajime’s eyebrows shoot up just like that and he bids his friend a quick goodbye before rushing into an empty room.

Second, it pools. You tell him a series of things you don’t even think makes sense, but from the way his face morphs into a grimace—it wouldn’t take much to conclude that what you said was something ugly.

Third, you’re wading in waist deep. You’re sitting up and pointing at him, bringing up a photo you saw of him with his arms hung over someone’s shoulder. A classmate, you concluded last week; a lover, you accuse him of having in the moment.

Fourth, Hajime rushes to keep you from going in further. He doesn’t feed into your anger and instead tells you to take a deep breath before talking to him. And for a second, you relent and listen. He explains that she’s a classmate from his biology class and that you’re just overreacting over something that shouldn’t even be an issue.

Fifth, comes the struggle. Your anger flares at his words and everything you’ve felt and pushed underwater suddenly bobs to the surface. Hajime wasn’t at fault, and you know that, but he’s huffing in a way that tells you he’s inches past exhausted and it does nothing to quell your outburst.

“Maybe what you should do is listen to yourself and calm the fuck down,” is what he tells you as you flinch at his tone.

“Well, I’m sorry, for just wanting to talk to you Hajime,” is what you say as retaliation. Hajime’s hand that instantly flies up to soothe his temple doesn’t fly past you.

“We are talking, (y/n). Why are you trying to make me apologize for something I didn’t even do?”

“Why can’t you understand my point? This is exhausting, Hajime.”

“I told you from the beginning. If you didn’t want to keep doing this then we stop,” he retorts, anger steadily rising.

“You’re making it sound like you’re the one wanting to stop this,” you bite back.

“I don’t. But it’s like every time we talk nowadays it’s like you’re being too much, this doesn’t seem like you anymore,” Hajime finishes.

And as the silence settles, everything clicks. You’ve been too dependent, and he feels the same way. He’s right, this isn’t you at all. You shouldn’t need to cling to him to for crumbs of healing; because you’re more than fine.

Have been more than fine, really; so you blank and reply, “You’re right, sorry about that.”

He looks at you, confused, before the silence envelops the two of you again. You allow it to stay this time.

“Maybe we should take a break, (y/n). Just some time to cool off; I feel like we’re just too overloaded right now.”

“We should,” you reply, expression unfazed as you cut the call.

The sixth, is where you allow the anger to stay instead of recede. Your mother asks you how you’re feeling and you’re quick to answer that you’re okay.

Hajime doesn’t text you until an hour later, wanting to talk. You set your phone to silent.

“What made you decide to not get back together with dad?” you ask her when she’s quiet in front of you. Your mother looks at you for a while before she pieces the red eyes and silent phone together, then tells you, “I loved myself more.”

You nod, conflicted. Her eyes were as red as yours and you heard her weeping his name just the night before and she knows you’re aware. Your phone vibrates on the table again and you miss the way her eyes flicker to the device momentarily before focusing them back at you.

Both of you know, but neither of you ask.

“Never lose yourself, right?” you say quietly and she gives you a solid nod as she pours you a cup of coffee.

You never really liked coffee; then again, you never really liked the reality either.

But you take the mug and gulp in the bitterness anyway.

Then finally, the seventh is where you succumb under its waves. Hajime calls you later that night and you answer, expression honed into an almost natural state of indifference. He looks a little worse than you, but you ignore that.

“Is this it?” he asks and you nod curtly once, your fingernails already digging into your palms under the table.

“Are we going to hate each other?” Hajime asks you again and you sigh.

“I don’t have it in me to ever hate you, Haji,” you answer, truthfully and he gives you a halfhearted smile.

“I love you,” he says like he’s just talking about the weather, and stays on the line for a few seconds more before he eventually takes your silence as a response.

“I love you, too,” is what almost comes out of your mouth like second nature, but you bite your tongue anyway.  

He can’t hurt you first this way.

-

Sakusa Kiyoomi didn’t really root himself in your life until nine months after your break up with Hajime. Graduation came and went like the unfurling of a leaf, and before you knew it, you’re suddenly in the real world.

Before that, you only knew him as the first chair cellist who you always accidentally locked eyes with in every concert you managed to snag the first chair spot in the first violin’s section.

Bumping into him during morning practice first led to string quartets, then duets during concerts, shared practice rooms—until eventually, he asked you out on a date.

He inserted the question in the conversation so naturally, too. After putting away the music stands, then shoving (in contrast to him neatly arranging) the sheet music into your folder—you were halfway done with loosening your bow when he asked, “Do you wanna get dinner later?” out of the blue.

To others who may have listened in to the conversation, it sounded like a natural invitation between friends, and Kiyoomi must have realized that because he was quick to face you after zipping up the case of his cello, and add, “—I meant dinner with me.”

You were still holding your bow and staring at him stare at you, so he filled the silence with, “Like a date. I’m asking you out on a date, (y/n).”

The two of you never really initiated anything outside the relationship between music partners, and the occasional friendly outing—but it had always been with others. Looking at him, you admit Sakusa Kiyoomi was a man who mastered hygiene. Which was always a bonus in your book. But you think back to Hajime for a second, then click your tongue quietly because you realize you shouldn’t be thinking about him when someone else was asking you out.

But you sigh and still offer him a smile when you reply, “Sorry I gotta watch my mom tonight. She’s not feeling well.”

Kiyoomi nods, and his eyebrows shoot up like he remembered something. “I heard your mom was sick? I’m sorry if I’m prying.”

You nod sharply once before internally groaning then thinking about how to steer the conversation away from the oncoming “I’m sorrys”, “It must be so tough,” or any sympathetic comments of the like.

But Kiyoomi only nods in understanding, briefly turning back to loop his arms through the case, then looking back at you again saying, “Ah. Understandable. My grandmother had cancer and my mom made her this soup that helped with the aching; I can give you the recipe for it.”

Your eyes shoot up at his response and the rehearsed response of, “I have no choice but to be tough for her. It’s okay, though,” dies in your mouth so you close it again and only nod a yes.

Kiyoomi turns to open the door once you had your own violin set inside and stands by the opening of the door to let you out first. You smile; he was mostly reserved, but still a gentleman.

“(Y/n),” he begins when the two of you walk side by side in the quiet morning hallway. “I know you don’t want to hear the pity comments, but I just wanna put it out there that you’re doing well.”

Your steps halt with his when you reach the end of the hallway where the flooring splits into two different directions but you face him, the thrumming of your heart feeling making you a little more choked up than you expected and tell him an honest thank you.

He lifts his right hand as a goodbye while he shoves the other in his pocket after he settles his mask in place, then turns to walk on the opposite direction.

“Sakusa-san!” you call out and he stops a few meters in front of you to turn back in your direction again.

“Dinner!” you call out again, “this weekend!”

You know your cheeks are a little more red than you would have liked and you’re more than aware of how white your knuckles must be from grasping the straps of your case, but you ignore that and add anyway, “As a date.”

The mask covering the lower half of his face obscures the expression he has but you notice the miniscule crinkle on the corner of his eyes when he laughs and replies, “Can you say that a little louder? I can’t hear.”

You huff and action to turn around because the heat on your face was getting a little too uncomfortable, but you hear him say, “It’s a date!” so you nod awkwardly in confirmation before turning your back and walking the opposite way.

You can imagine the look he has on his face and just how much amusement he’s gotten from the interaction but before you walk too far you hear, “Just call me Kiyoomi,” from him behind you.

You smile and feel as if you’re flipping into the first page of a new chapter.

-

In contrast to the push and pull energy you felt with Hajime, after almost being in a relationship with Kiyoomi for a year, things felt easy.

Communication between the two of you didn’t feel like unraveling codes; plus, being in the same department also meant your schedules mostly linked up. Though, personally, your favorite part was that he was never too pushy with the things you wanted to deal with alone.

He knew not to pry when you walked in the practice hall with bags under your eyes holding a cup of coffee you swore to heaven and back you detested drinking; you always saw a parcel of your comfort snack with a note laid beside your violin case in the locker room, though.

And when he ate dinner at your house, he also kept his comments to himself and never let his eyes wander to the amount of pills you had to help your mother count out when the little alarm in your phone rang. Then again, you never needed to question his intentions when he showed up the next day with a thermos filled with the soup your mom said she enjoyed once as a passing comment.

He’s always been one to remember the smaller details.

Along with preferring to stay in his personal space, Kiyoomi wasn’t one to smile too bashfully, but you can’t help but notice that when she laid her hands on his as a thank you and asked him to take care of you—the smile that graced his face looked warm.

She said that Kiyoomi seemed like a nice boy, and you agreed instantly—because he is.

He never pushed past the boundary you kept around yourself despite entering into a new relationship. There was a mutual air of respect—and neither of you expressed the desire to breech it.

Being with Kiyoomi felt as natural and in order to the flow as it does when your hands move to automatically loosen your bow when it came to packing up, or beginning with the A string when the conductor motioned for you to begin tuning.

You liked to think you fit quite well together. Like the duet that an audience listens to and clap at as if they were the whole orchestra. Like the blend of the high and low notes written on a score that collides in perfect harmony.

And it feels like it too.

Every time you’re seated across each other on the stage and you’re staring straight at one another to climb with the crescendo then descend into silence—you know that your heart, along with his, are beating in the same rhythm, with the same frequency. You’ve always found that break from the real world when you picked up an instrument and you’re glad that Kiyoomi’s the one you’re entering into that dimension with.

The ten minutes on stage feels timeless. The rush from the music still resonates in an infinite echo—your fingers twitching, craving, to fly across the notes in an encore. You’re smiling because when you stare at him—he’s smiling too. Unabashed and sparkling where you have no doubt in your mind that even without the stage lights he’d gleam the same.

And even as the crowd’s still cheering as you stand hand in hand and bow next to each other, you don’t hear anything. When reality begins to trickle into your senses and the rush of intoxication wears off, you let your smile mellow into a soft curve. You face the front row and look at the seat that’s a little towards the left and try not to notice your mother’s absence. You know she was admitted to the hospital three weeks ago and she hasn’t been doing too well. Kiyoomi squeezes your hand and whispers a, “you did well,” which you nod at.

He’s still smiling even as you exit the stage and pack up your instruments so you decide not to tell him that the boy sitting in that specific seat reminded you of Hajime.

-

Hajime, on the other hand became the contact on your inbox that got pushed down further and further when the holidays passed. You meant it when you said that you could never hate him—because you know you never really could.

He still showed up on your Instagram feed posting photos about his weekend road trips to Malibu or the spontaneous trips to Vegas his new friends looped him into—and you were happy to see him glowing. More times than not, your finger would hover over the like or send button to the comment you always end up deleting and you know it shouldn’t be that way. But reality reminds you that it is.

Your reality reminds you that Iwaizumi Hajime is someone who was witness to your growth and decline and that he was someone you chose to leave in the past.

But at the same time, his passing hellos were never left unheard. Kiyoomi knew, and like always, respected that. You would think this is the part where he should be reacting a little more aggressively, but you knew him to be above petty actions. He was secure, and he let that security be known in the grip of his hand that remained steady against yours when either Hanamaki’s or Issei’s eyes would stare a bit too long. They too, let their hesitations be known when you first introduced Kiyoomi to the both of them.

Issei opened his mouth with what looked to be the beginnings of a retaliation, but Hanamaki cut him off swiftly with a resounding, “We’re happy for you,” that promptly ended the conversation at that.

Then again, it didn’t change the fact that it was after that night where Hajime’s texts to you eventually dwindled to the seasonal greetings.

You tell yourself you don’t mind.

Because you don’t.

Because you’re fine.

-

Your mother isn’t fine.

Even though she’s been hospitalized for the past four weeks now, the past week has been specifically the most difficult. In and out of consciousness where different tubes were stuck and different needles prodded at her skin every day. It killed you because the second you heard her cry from when she thought you were still asleep rang in your ears over and over again throughout the day that resulted in you missing rehearsals for that entire week.

Kiyoomi drops by after school along with Hanamaki and Issei to check up on the both of you, but eventually leave when visiting hours end.

Kiyoomi usually stays a while longer, though; sitting outside the hospital parking lot and talking over a cup of coffee became a temporary permanent for the both of you during those weeks.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, then scoots closer to you on the bench when you exhale a sigh and lean forward. When your elbows settle into a rest on your thighs, you turn to him, offering a smile. It looked more like a sad quirk of the lip but Kiyoomi must have appreciated it more than he let on because his posture relaxes with you as he exhales.

“It’s weird, Omi,” you begin. “I mean she’s been at the hospital for treatments and checkups before but this is weird.”

Beside you, he stays quiet, and despite the distant noise of traffic in the background your voice sounds a little more amplified than you would have liked. None the less, you continued, “I’ve always known she hasn’t been fine but the past week just happened so fast.”

Puffing out another breath, you watch as it leaves you in a cloud before bringing the rim of the coffee cup to your lips. You don’t take a sip. Coffee was never your favorite anyway.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks you and turns his body completely to face you.

You think about it, then sigh. You don’t; at least, not yet.

“It’s okay, she’s strong,” you tell him and raise your cup as you shoot him another smile.

“So are you,” he offers as a reply, then knocks his cup against yours softly, chuckling when your face grimaces at the taste.

“Why do you always order coffee when you hate it?” he asks as he watches you take another sip.

You laugh, then scoot closer to lean your head on his shoulder. “It’s just practical,” you answer. “It helps me stay up so even if I’d rather get the peach tea, I know that one will knock me out within an hour from all the sugar.”

Kiyoomi laughs at your reply before looping his arm through yours and threading your fingers together.

“You can loosen up time to time, you know,” he tells you and you smile a smile that strains both the muscles on your face and feeling in your chest.

“I wish I could,” you answer.

-

“Are you happy?” your mother asks you later that night.

The question catches you off guard and you take a seat on her bed next to her. You don’t look at each other and instead look at the wall that’s in front of you, so, tentatively, you reply, “Of course I am.”

And she’s quiet after that so you return her silence and continue to sit next to her.

The clock hanging above the door of her hospital room ticks slowly and for a while you’re comfortable. At this point you aren’t sure whether you wanted time to move faster or slower—because you knew the moments you spend with her are granted through borrowed time.

Time that’s borrowed from the prayers you kneel and voice out every night, the needles and tubes that poke and prod at her skin every day, and from the pills you help count out every time your alarm rings.

She began slipping the minute she told you she was sick—and along the years you knew she let herself slide along the current more carelessly every time she told you she was tired.

You’re looking at her when she touches your hand and you try not to flinch at how cold her skin’s gotten. She’s smiling when you face her and it makes you inhale in a way that hurts because the look on her face practically just tells you she’s tired.

But like the two of you had always done: you stay silent and mirror your smiles instead.

“I’m proud of you,” she says and your heart breaks as you will yourself to not cry. It occurs to you that she isn’t crying when she says it because her voice is resolute as it is soft. You want to ask her why she’s proud of you but you don’t because you realize when this becomes a memory you just want to leave it at that.

You want to leave it as a moment where a mother is telling a child that she’s proud of her.

So instead, you ask her, “Are you coming to see the concert with me and Kiyoomi in a few weeks?” just to make sure. That she’s still there; that she will still be there.

Her silence is your answer before she’s reaching out between the two of you and squeezing your hands instead.

-

On a Tuesday morning the next week she passes away at 3:08 PM with her eyes closed and face serene. The nurses tell you she opened her eyes to look at the world once more before she closed them and exhaled her last breath.

She was probably looking for you, they mean to say, but you bow your head in thanks when the medical staff offer their heartfelt condolence. You aren’t sure if you wanted to see her close her eyes for her last breath, but at the same time—you wonder if that thought was too selfish on your part.

When you’re in the car in the parking lot of the hospital grounds, you smell her perfume—lilac, so you close your eyes and tell her soul rest easy and I love you.

You text Kiyoomi to meet you in the practice room to go over the score once more after you gave yourself a few more moments to pull yourself together.

He texts you back with an, “are you sure?” so you sigh because he must have already realized what happened. Your fingers hover over the keypad of your phone as you think of an excuse to cancel plans last minute but Kiyoomi’s contact photo on your phone interrupts your thoughts in a call.

Despite your hesitation, your finger press the green to answer the call almost immediately.

“(Y/n?)”

“Hey,” you respond.

“Want me to come get you?” Kiyoomi asks and you notice how much softer his tone is.

“I can still drive, it’s okay—“

“—Are you okay?” he cuts you off and you nod your head frantically. It felt too automatic, and that thought didn’t fly by you, so you sigh.

Kiyoomi notices your silence over the line but he stays and for that you’re grateful. He isn’t really pushing you and you feel a sense of gratitude again because you don’t exactly know what to say either.

Before you could reassure him that you’re in a sense, “okay,” his voice breaks the silence over the line again.

“No one else is here, so I’ll wait for you if you’re coming.”

The smile that breaks on your face is one of relief, or at least you think it is, because your eyes are stinging and you hear yourself sniffle when you tell him a quiet okay, and thank you.

“I love you,” is what you think you hear Kiyoomi say as you cut the call and put the car in reverse.

-

“Sakusa Kiyoomi present here?” you call out with a slight chuckle as you push open the door and peek in the room.

His head snaps towards you immediately so you offer him a sheepish smile at best when you finally arrive in front of him. Kiyoomi’s eyes are softening in the way that has your heart constricting automatically so you cast your gaze down and immediately fidget with the zipper on your violin case. The steps he takes are heavy and audible in the wooden flooring so your heart hammers even more when you hear him cross the distance between the two of you.

“(Y/n),” he starts and you look up when his hands are on your shoulder. They feel warm, you think, much like the look you see in his eyes when he steadies his gaze towards you.

Kiyoomi joins you in your silence when you choose to remain in it and respond to him by only stitching on another smile. The palm of his hand is still warm on your shoulder but you try to focus on anything but the waves of his sympathy and presence because you know the second you step back in reality, you’ll break—again.

So when his hand squeezes your shoulder and he parts his lips to say the condolence you don’t know when you’re ever going to be ready for, you cut him off.

“Please don’t,” you tell him, and it’s said with a tone that’s clipped tight and with lips pulled into a straight smile—the kind where you can already feel the edges crack with every second that passes.

Kiyoomi sighs and stares at you, but backs down when he feels your body tense.

“I’m right here,” he reassures, as you cast your gaze to the side when you feel the sting in your eyes threaten to overpower you.  

“I know,” you reply and with that he turns and takes his seat again.

The two of you are facing each other when you have your fingers on your respective positions and bow hovered over the string. The metronome in the background ticks and you close your eyes desperate to slip out and slip in to focus. The disconnection almost happens automatically because as soon as you hear yourself verbally count to start, your hand with the bow twitches and—

“(Y/n),” Kiyoomi cuts off and your movements automatically halt. The tone of his voice is solid and just like that you feel yourself begin to crumble; still, you try to harden, anyway.

“What’s up?” you say and open your eyes to look at him. The cello you thought was resting between his legs is set down next to his chair and his bow is on the music stand; he looks at you—intention transparent at this point.

“I love you,” he says. “Please talk to me—“he pleads, but you cut him off.

“Omi,” you begin. “I know what you want to tell me and I know you mean well, because you always do. But please—“you pause and look at him with as much intensity as you could muster before continuing, “—let me pretend like today is just a day where we’re practicing for the concert she could have finally gone to.”

Across you, his body leans forward before eventually halting at the sight of you tightening your grip on your bow.

“Just let me pretend this is a normal practice and I’ll be home later with someone still waiting inside the house,” you continue, volume rising but resolve shaking.

“Please,” you finish before tucking the violin back between your chin and shoulder and raising your bow to signal the start. Kiyoomi relents with a sigh and picks up his cello and bow before looking at you.

“Ready?” he asks when his bow is positioned above the string.

“Always am,” you reply and close your eyes as you slip back in focus and feel the bow glide into the first note.

The first note is an A, so you place your fourth finger on the D string and slip into your empty realm with a vibrato.

A memory flashes; you’re in the sixth grade again. It’s September, and you finally make it home with your new violin case in hand. Your mom comes home from work and smiles at you as you point at the strings and name them in the order your orchestra teacher had you memorize earlier.

“This one’s the A string,” you say and you see her smile like she’s proud of you.

The next note makes you climb to the third position, and you could recall that the dynamic changes around this measure, so along with Kiyoomi you’re pressing a little harder.

“We learned the third position today!” you hear your own voice say. It’s your second year playing and you’ve made it to the honors orchestra. Your mom sits in the living room, watching you with a twinkle in her eye that tells you she’s more than proud as you show her the arpeggio practice you learned earlier that day.

The next few notes fly across the fingerboard as the familiar crescendo builds. The depth of Kiyoomi’s strings blends with the octave you’re playing at as you feel yourself being swallowed and wading in your thoughts deeper and deeper until—

You stop.

Because with your eyes still closed, you suddenly see her from the night before. Your mother with the glimmering eyes and fragile hands, wearing the red beanie she said was her favorite ever since her hair fell out. And your eyes are still closed when you hear her tell you that she’s proud of you, her voice bringing you back to that night where you wanted to do nothing more but let your defenses down.

So involuntarily you do; your eyes are still closed when you begin to weep, but you can hear movement from the background before you eventually hear Kiyoomi call, “(Y/n),”

“I’m sorry,” you say and frantically wipe away at the tears and cough out the cries threatening to overflow and spill.

“(Y/n),” Kiyoomi says again and you look up.

His chair is turned so that he sits facing away from you. Your forehead scrunches with the peculiarity.

“Kiyo-“

“Just let it out,” he says then picks up his cello and continues playing from the measure you stopped at.

Then you do.

Like a thread snapping, a cry rips its way out of your throat as you finally, finally allow yourself to feel the heaviness that’s long settled in your chest. Your violin along with your bow set on the floor as you crouch down and press the heels of your palms against your eyes.

It hurts, you realize, when every time you close your eyes you still see her. You still hear her tell you her goodnight stories, affirmations, and reassurances.

It hurts, because you’re tired. Tired of living in the world trying to be the adult you know you aren’t just yet. You’re tired of going home and smiling with her when you could tell the reason why she has tear tracks on her cheeks was because of the call with your father you overheard from the night before.

Because you’re angry, you think. You’re angry at her illness. At your father for leaving and giving the weight of being a parent and provider at the same time. At the fact that neither of you were ever vulnerable enough to even cry in front of each other, and angry at yourself for never having the courage to tell her that it’s okay.

Because all this time you’re been struggling. Struggling to try to always be an adult when you never closed the chapter of your childhood. That you’ve always struggled to push past every affirmation that you’re okay and every single one of those moments were just bouts of false confidence. And it’s exhausting to put up a front to your own reflection.

Even when nothing has really been okay. You’re hurting even more when you realize that so you clutch your chest and cry harder.

This must be the consequence of pride, is the thought that comes to your head. You could build the strongest walls and wrap yourself in the most intricate barriers just to act tough but in time, you will break.

Like now; you’re sobbing into your palms for the years’ worth of pain you let pride push away while Kiyoomi is climbing even higher than the strongest dynamic you know the piece calls for.

You know he wants to let you know that it’s okay, and that you’re safe. His message resonates in pure clarity as he pushes on the strings harder and harder to swallow the sounds of your cries.

His back remains turned as you look at him, still crying, while your thanks bubbles out as incoherent as your cries.

It hurts, because you the only person you’ve cradled in your hands to heavens far higher than the ones you’ve known is gone.  

You’re still crying and the pain in your chest is still stinging much like the pain from a reopened wound does, but you let him come to you as he lets you come to him in an embrace.

“Let it out,” he murmurs in your hair as you wrap your hands around his middle and cry into the fabric of his shirt. He’s probably a little uncomfortable at you sniffling right into his shirt, but the way his hands are rubbing circles on your back reassures you otherwise.

“You’re okay,” Kiyoomi says again and you cry harder because you want to believe him.

Five missed calls and seven texts messages all coming from Hajime lays unopened on your phone at 6:17PM.

-

“She asked me if I was happy,” is what you tell Kiyoomi as the two of you stand side by side peering over her casket some days later.

“Are you?” he asks and you smile at him in a way that tells him that at the moment you’re not.

“Will you be happy?” comes the question after that and you shrug.

The lines on her face are like always, and the mole between her brows look the same. Your mother lays still in the casket, cheeks pink from the blush they put on her and lips red. You think your mother’s friends told the funeral workers to paint them her usual color, so you’re thankful for that. She looks like she’s just asleep—and you don’t know how to feel.

You want to reach out and hold her hand but you know the skin will be stiff and cold; you don’t want to remember her touch like that.

To you, she’s still alive.

She always will be alive.

Kiyoomi’s hand grasps yours in a way that’s as gentle as his presence has always been. When you look up then right to meet his eyes: looking like warmth despite the depth that it has words rolling out of your lips before you could comprehend the situation.

“I will be.”

Kiyoomi smiles and you look back down without bothering to further explain your answer.

You know he always believes you. The sentiment is one you appreciate, but at the same time, you’re not sure if you even believe yourself at the moment. You have to be strong, you think.

And just like that your defenses climb back up.

-

Takahiro along with Issei make it to the funeral along with Tooru and Hajime skyping in from overseas. It wasn’t as awkward like you expected it to be, and you’re glad.

Tooru’s crying along with Hajime and the rest of you as you watch her return to the opened earth.

You’ve dried your tears by the time you face Tooru and Hajime on the laptop screen, the grief on their faces similar to the one on yours.

“(Y/n),” Hajime starts, and you nod, waiting for him to continue. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay,” you respond, gaze focused to the left side of the screen—Tooru’s side.

Even though all you could see was Tooru’s expression on the screen tearing up with yours, you ignore the telltale scrunch of Hajime’s forehead where you know confirms his disbelief over your words.

“I’m coming home next week. Got a job offer there,” Hajime’s voice cuts again and before you could respond Tooru’s voice thrums over the speaker as you feel Kiyoomi’s hand settle on your shoulder.

“You okay?” he asks you when you look up at him. Nodding your head, you shoot him a smile before turning back to the screen, one hand resting on top of Kiyoomi’s.

“This is Kiyoomi,” you introduce and feel yourself unintentionally holding in a breath as you sit and watch for Hajime’s reaction. He’s quiet; eyes steeled over and form rigid. Probably just a trick of the camera, you tell yourself, so you open your mouth hoping to find an excuse and end the call early but Tooru’s voice overlaps yours for the second time that day.

“Ahh! The boyfriend?” He asks and you smile as you see him leaning closer to his laptop’s camera. You had to hand it to him; you know that look. Tooru was someone who could craft a mask and uphold it for as long as he needs and every time it was flawless.

Which was why when Kiyoomi bows his head in a greeting and greets, “It’s nice to meet you,” in the tone he used with your mother, you know he hadn’t caught on to the fact that he was facing a façade.

“Likewise,” Hajime’s voice cuts through and you try to not shiver at the intensity of it.

“Let’s catch up when I get home?” he says again; this time, softer and you nod before you could think of a response.

“Take care,” is the last thing you hear from him before the camera on his side of the screen blinks back to black and Tooru’s face magnified and centered.

“He’s finally coming home, (y/n)-chan,” Tooru smiles and at the sincerity of his voice you smile along with him.

“He finally is.”

-

Hajime had always been, and always will be your first love. You found yourself choked up the second you see him wave at you from the arrival’s gate and you swore in that moment hugging him felt like coming home.

Which was because of nostalgia, you told yourself. There had been so many firsts and memories shared with him that you know just because you moved forward with your life—that didn’t mean you’d buried what you had with him in the past.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi?” he asks when you’ve settled in the grass next to your mother’s tombstone with him across you.

“Yeah, he actually played for Itachiyama back in high school,” you say.

“Volleyball player turned classical musician?” he asks and you nod with a resonating yup, your hand trailing down to the grass to pick on the blades aimlessly.

“He made it to nationals too,” you comment.

“Are you trying to just rub it in?” he asks and tosses some ripped grass your way. You move to the side and stick your tongue out at him which he laughs at. Hajime’s laugh reminds you of the summer afternoons in your childhood home where you’d chase cicadas and write memories in polaroids and you’re suddenly feeling nostalgic.

“Nah,” you say and smile as you look up at him. He’s facing his right and letting his eyes glaze over the gold paint of your mother’s name on the cement.

“I miss her,” Hajime whispers and you nod, your heart squeezing.

“I do too,” you reply and when he looks at you and meets your eyes, you catch yourself smiling because he has tears threatening to spill over the waterline too. “Every day,” you continue.

“You’re making me cry,” Hajime huffs and leans back facing the front after he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Your fault for still being soft,” you laugh. Unlike you, he’s always been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Hajime begins after the moments of recollection passes. You look at him and smile, not really sure whether you even have the desire to push through with the conversation or not. “Why are you even sorry?” is what you want to ask him, but you hear yourself say, “it’s okay, Haji,” instead.

“We could have made it,” he says again, his voice cracking as he looks at you.

“Could have,” you repeat and offer him a halfhearted smile at best.

“Do you regret us?” Hajime asks and he seems hesitant with his answer; like he doesn’t want to know your answer. You shake your head no as soon as you meet his eyes and reach your hands out in the space between you.

“Never,” you say and squeeze his hands when he takes yours into his own.

“You’re going to make me cry, again. Shit,” he laughs and this time, you laugh along with him.

The afternoon, despite the September air feels warm. Almost like the summer afternoons back home. So when you close your eyes, you let your defenses down as you imagine sitting in the garden: the one with the yellow and pink flowers, shouting promises in the air with Hajime and Tooru as the three of you let the wonder of childhood guide your idea of reality.

You decide that for just a while longer, you’ll keep those same defenses down as you feel Hajime pull you to stand up with him and face the open field behind the cross of her name.

“Wanna see if we can find cicadas?” he grins and you laugh, replying, “What are we, twelve?” as you follow him and break out into a run anyway.

It was in that afternoon that you realize, Hajime’s always felt like home. His presence always meant that your thoughts jumped back to the days where you watched his hair spike and grow like flowers from a garden blooming and wilting. To the days where talks of the future were shared over a dinner rolls and laughter. To the days where telling someone “I love you,” felt as natural as if you were just talking about the weather.

Hajime reminded you of losing yourself in the kind of love that felt unabashed and boundless. Like running on fields where the sun remained in the golden hour indefinitely. He was the first love you’ve cradled with a heart that was still a stranger to the ways of the reality.

“Are you happy?” he asks you when the sun above breathes the beginnings of a goodbye. You recognize the question your mother asked you before she passed and in that moment you close your eyes and envision yourself in a different year.  

“I am,” you whisper back earnestly and your heart flutters with every corner of the wall that crumbles down as you stare back at him.

He looks at you like he wants to ask a question but the thought of Kiyoomi flashes in your mind. Your eyes scan the flecks of emerald in Hajime’s as you close your eyes and feel yourself retreat along with the setting sun. The warmth in your chest remains as you think of Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi who told you to let it out and let it go. Kiyoomi with the midnight eyes who spoke of the answers to the questions you have yet to discover.

“I have to be happy,” is what you tell Hajime again and the smile he gives you is soft. Like he wants to dive down your thoughts more but instead chooses to remain anchored outside your walls.

But you still lean into his embrace as he pats your shoulder when you tell your mother goodbye.

She must be happy, you think to yourself. Because today was an afternoon spent in the sun like she was alive again.

A text from Kiyoomi to you and one from Issei to his brings you back to the present. You wave goodbye to the photograph of her on the tombstone while Hajime leaves a yellow flower he picked under the sun by her name.

He smiles and you hear him say he’ll walk you home.

Your heart thrums; it’s almost like he never left.

-

Hajime won’t leave.

Despite your intention for him to not show up to your house being extremely blunt in your text message, he shows up thirty minutes after Kiyoomi’s parked into your driveway.

“Hajime,” he grins, introducing himself with a hand stretched out in greeting as Kiyoomi looks at it in contemplation. You watch the two of them, three feet away and anxious at their first time face to face interaction.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” your boyfriend says and reaches out to shake his hand. You could practically feel yourself sigh in relief.

“Haji, you didn’t have to come,” you say and shoot him a tight lipped smile. “Omi and I can handle the boxes, plus there’s not much left to pack up anyway.”

“So,” Hajime begins, turning around and blatantly ignoring what you just said. “Makki says there’s some heavier stuff in the attic? I can help you with that.”

Kiyoomi looks at you as you eventually sigh and nod at him to follow Hajime up into the attic.

-

For the rest of the day it went on like that. At every hint you dropped in regards to the lack of necessity for Hajime’s presence—he’s suddenly tuning out and changing the topic. It was like he couldn’t hear. You huff when Kiyoomi shoots you a look that hints his amusement towards your predicament.

Hajime’s time in California surely must have rubbed off on him.

“You two shared a lot of memories,” Kiyoomi comments after he sees Hajime point at a trinket and recall a story.

“We grew up together,” you reply and Hajime nods along with you, smiling.

“I knew she was gonna be a real one when she didn’t chicken out from catching cicadas with me,” Hajime laughs across you.

“You used to catch cicadas?” Kiyoomi questions, eyebrow quirking up. You had to fight the urge to smile at the way his two moles scrunched together.

“Used to,” you answer and grip the photo album in your hand before placing it into the box. It was one of your favorites, you remember. You spent your summer nights pasting stickers and writing captions into the photos your mom took of you, Hajime, Tooru and your dog. There were probably a few in there that were with her, but you decide you can put off the nostalgic trip for later as you shut the book and tuck it into a corner of the box.

“Sakusa,” Hajime initiates when the three of you stand back up, stretching then facing each other: Kiyoomi to your left and Hajime across the two of you. “Take care of her will you?”

“I plan to,” Kiyoomi replies beside you and you reach to squeeze his hand as you watch him offer Hajime a sincere smile.

“Can you give us a moment?” you ask Kiyoomi and he’s quick to nod.

“Thanks,” you say and lean into his kiss on your forehead before watching him grab the remaining box and make his way out the door.

Hajime stands in front of you with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“He’s a good guy,” he tells you and you smile gently, head nodding in agreement to his words.

“One of the best,” you reply, smiling.

“You’re happy right?” Hajime says more than asks, but before you could answer, he speaks again.

“I’m here for you, always,” he confesses quietly and you swallow thickly because you could already decipher the meaning behind his words.

“Who’s going to pull your scarf to remind you that it’s cold?” Hajime declares softly and you knit your eyebrows together as you tell him that you can do it yourself.

“I know you can,” he laughs and walks closer to you as he tugs off his own scarf and wraps it around your neck.

“I just like doing it for you.”

-

“Earlier,” Kiyoomi begins after he’s settled in the couch of your new apartment’s living room. You turn to face him, attention in focus then wait for him to continue.

“When we were upstairs Iwaizumi-san asked where you were moving.”

“Oh yeah? I forgot I didn’t tell him my new address, thanks for remi—“

“He asked again if we were going to be moving in together and I didn’t answer,” he swiftly cuts you off. You stare back at him, confused, then nod your head urging him to continue.

“I didn’t answer him at first because I wanted to see how he’d react.”

“Omi—“

“(Y/n),” he sighs. You blink back, confused.

“He still loves you.”

Kiyoomi says this like he’s just talking about the weather and because of that you’re suddenly aware of fast the room dipped into the newfound silence. Your heart hammers in your chest while you feel your hands curl into a familiar fist; fingernails automatically moving to dig into the flesh of your palms.

“Of course he does, I do too—“you reason, but his expression shifting has you revising your choice of words.

“I will always love him, Omi. Haji was my friend before he became anyone else,” you explain, softly, and reach out to take his hand in yours. He smiles at you and you mirror it, appreciating the way he didn’t pull out of your touch.

“Is that it?” he asks before you look at him, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

“What else is there?” you laugh and shift your focus to his hand on yours.

“Are you really happy?”

“With this?” he questions again and sits up, taking both of your hands in his. Kiyoomi stares with baited breath, so when the silence buzzes in your ear even louder, you nod.

“With us?” Kiyoomi whispers and the echo it delivers rings loud. You hear his question ricochet from the walls to your ears over and over again while you stare straight into the plethora of questions he chooses not to vocalize manifesting themselves in his eyes.

Then, almost slowly, you nod. Because you are happy, though more so thankful. But that’s still happiness, the voice in your head reasons, so you relent and cup his face.

“You’re my blessing, Kiyoomi,” is the truth that’s spoken from your lips as you watch something living unfold in his.

“I love you,” is what he says and you nod, speechless, as he presses his forehead against yours because you feel everything in his words.

“Are you happy?” he asks again when you part and you smile, remembering your mother and Hajime’s words. The sentiment in his question is one of honesty, that in that moment, it suddenly fills you with newfound warmth.

“She asked me the same thing,” you answer, vulnerable. Kiyoomi always had a way that made it okay to feel vulnerable.

“Because I think she knows your answer,” he tells you quietly and what he says makes you think of his words.

“I’ll get there,” is what you planned to answer but before you could get the words out you’re suddenly widening your eyes as you see Kiyoomi shift and bend down on one knee in front of you, a ring in his hand.

-

Three years later | Italics in flashback

For the first time in your life everything felt connected.

From the pin that held your veil together, to the yellow and pink roses that bloomed along an aisle of white.

Everything felt like it was finally in place as Tooru took one look at you from behind the doors and teared up.

“Please don’t make me cry,” you tell him and smile as you loop your arm through his.

“This is payback for making me cry when you asked if I could give you away,” he laughed before dabbing at the corners of his eyes.

“Thank you, Tooru,” you whisper as he gives you one final look. The browns of his eyes reminded you that you are loved.

“Your mom would be so happy now,” is his reply as the doors open.

She would be happy, you think as you take one, two, then four steps forward as you grip your bouquet tighter. The pendant with her photo is surrounded in gold plating, and you find yourself thinking that nothing suited her better than gold.

To and for you, she had always been golden.

You feel Tooru part with you midway as he lets you walk the final stretch alone. It was supposed to be the other way around, Issei commented before, but Takahiro was quick to side with you and say it was fitting. Even if Tooru stood in your parent’s place to symbolize giving you away, a parent’s job is really just to walk with you to the halfway mark in life and let you walk the rest of the way alone.

You find yourself smiling at the memory.

The engagement ring on your left finger catches the light from the photographer’s flash as the first notes of a cello play.

“I would ask you to marry me but I know you’re going to tell me no,” Kiyoomi tells you.

“I don’t know you, yet, (y/n). But I know you just enough to know there’s some things you are choosing to not let go of.”

You watch him stare at you, eyes soft and understanding you’re suddenly overcome with the urge to cry again.

From the aisle, your eyes catch Kiyoomi’s as he stares back at you, beautiful and iridescent in the light. He’s always looked the most beautiful when he felt connected with music, you think. Much like now, as he presses harder on the strings and close his eyes to slip into the element.

“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi soothes, and reaches forward to wipe the tear sliding down your cheek.

“I don’t think I got to know you, just yet. I only saw bits of who you were under that exterior and neither of us know if we could work as well then if we lay ourselves bare now,” he continues and you nod, understanding his point.

“I love how resilient you are, (y/n),” Kiyoomi whispers and you smile because his voice isn’t cracking. He’s okay with this, and somehow, that lifts the heaviness in your chest. “I love how you never break despite the situation, but I’ve only known that side of you so far.”

“You deserve someone who’s seen you from the start. I can stay and we can work this out, but I don’t know if I’ll love you then. Iwaizumi loved you then and now, and I think you still do too. I could never take you away from that.”

“I don’t want to ask you who you are yet,” he says and you nod telling him you’re still getting to know yourself too.

“She’ll be proud of you regardless,” Kiyoomi finishes and with that you sob.

Kiyoomi opens his eyes and looks at you with a smile while he continues to play. Thank you, you mouth telling him, and he smiles as he plays harder.

“For what it’s worth,” you begin. “I know,” Kiyoomi finishes and the smile on his face is as sincere as his words. “Our time will always be a part in history that will be ours.”

You inhale, smile, and then cup his face in your hands. “It will always be priceless,” you add.

This was a piece you recognized from years ago, you recall with a smile. If you had your violin with you, it wouldn’t take much for you to remember the score and slip into a duet with him. The dynamics, you recognized too—and the way Kiyoomi’s playing only tells you he’s playing even louder.

Three years ago he played the same piece you would have played for the concert your mom would have finally made it to. The same day she died you sat in a practice room with Kiyoomi, crying your heart out as the he plays the same melody you’re walking to now.

Let it out, is what he told you and you did just that.

Let it go, is what he also wants you to know and you did that too.

All your life you’ve thought of love and thought it was lost when you lost her. Kiyoomi, you realize, is the love you were just beginning to learn. The love you’ve parted with before you tangled yourself in too deep; and perhaps in another lifetime you could chase each other bare bones and all, but in this life you know Hajime is the love you thought you closed the door to despite leaving it ajar.

One last look at Kiyoomi lets you see that he closes his eyes as you turn away and face forward.

And when you do, you see colors.

Green from his eyes, like the leaves on your bouquet and the grass outside your childhood home. A yellow flower pinned on his breast pocket; the color from the petals of a flower your mother loved to grow the most. Pink; like the color his cheeks turned into when you first shook his hand.

Then when he smiles at you—you feel a sense of home. When you see him begin to cry, you feel a sense of love that washes over you like the soft waves of the shallow end.

Steady, constant, and safe.

Love, like the words your mother wrote to you in a letter you discovered in an old journal. Where she wrote that even if she never had your father to love, she found her love in you. To be cradled in you so that was enough for her.

That she knew she was strong, but even more so because her strength was drawn from being with you.

Love, like the words from a friend as you remember Kiyoomi’s reminder that it’s okay to take that hand that just wants to pull you out of the deep end.

Love, like the awakening from the depth and seeing that Hajime is the hand that’s been there all along and you have yet to take.

Love, you remember like your mother’s voice.

Love, like the one that has been with you since the beginning. Because you were loved from the very start.

And Hajime—whose name spoke of beginnings.

for my mother whose love cradled me from the beginning. may you rest where the flowers bloom the most beautiful. i love you.

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