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averytinyelephant · 3 years

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sing our love from the rooftops

Author’s note: This is my response for @tog-valentine-exchange! This response is for @jill-8-7 (who’s art is amazing, go check it out!!) and their artwork. I’m sorry for this being a little late, but hopefully the fic’s good enough to make up for it! My first go at a songfic, but I feel pretty good about how it turned out! Listen to Love Someone by Lukas Graham here. (Also, this can sortof (?) be read as a peek into (epilogue actually, haha) to my fic for Vih and Eevee’s Honey Lavender AU which... has turned out to be quite a monster, so apologies to both of you for taking so long to finish it! I really hope that it’ll blow you away once I’ve finished!!) Fandom: Tower of God (Read the Webtoon here!) Pairing: Khun Aguero Agnis/The Twenty-Fifth Baam Word Count: 2,633

Summary: Khun may be new to relationships, but he knows missing Valentine’s Day with his partner for work is a really shitty thing to do. So he’s planning on making up for it with a surprise that’s sure to sweep Baam right off his feet. Everything’s laid out perfectly, but Baam manages to beat him to the punch anyway.

Khun taps his foot impatiently and checks his watch. Half an hour to go, he thinks to himself. This damn meeting is dragging on like molasses, even though he’s already worked out an arrangement with Shibisu so he can get out of this one earlier.

It’s not that he doesn’t like his job: quite the opposite really, this business is something he’s poured years into building from the ground up. It’s quite simple, even if there are some days that are a little too reminiscent of a childhood he’d rather not think about, and much of it comes with practiced ease now.

No, it’s not that at all, it’s just that his whole life was turned upside down almost two years ago now by a certain man with the brightest golden eyes, and he finds himself looking forward to frivolous, overly sentimental things like Valentine’s Day despite himself. He knows that this meeting is important (there was a reason that he resorted to scheduling it today of all days, after all) and that he has a surprise planned out for his partner to make up for not being able to spend today with him.

Just half an hour more and I’ll be on my way to see him, Khun reasons, trying to force himself to pay attention to this meeting, when they’re interrupted by a knock on the door.

They enter briefly, and it’s a member of security, “Mr. Khun, I need to speak to you privately for just a minute.”

She tells him that someone’s requesting his presence from the ground floor, claiming to be his partner and that they’re incredibly persistent. Khun feels like his eyebrows might be touching his hairline right now and he’s about to dismiss her, that’s impossible, he wants to say, and it wouldn’t be a lie but she goes on to say, “He says his name is Jue Viole Grace.”

And that’s — Khun feels his world stop for a moment. This… this could be a real problem: he’d not even told his closest friends about Baam and had gone to great lengths to make sure their relationship remained private, something untouched by this messy life of constant competition, how could anyone know?

Despite the turmoil in his head, Khun manages to answer, “Thank you very much, though I’ll deal with this personally,” and walks back into the conference room to excuse himself briefly before making his way to the attached balcony. If he remembers right (which he always does), his car is parked on this side of the building and should be readily visible from this balcony. If the imposter wants his attention, he’d either be there or near his car, and there’s no harm in checking from here first, especially since they mostly likely wish him harm.

Peering over the balcony, Khun sees he was right, they’re just by his car and — he has no idea how he knows this, the figure’s much too small from all the way up here to see properly but it just clicks in his head with a terrifyingly overwhelming certainty that this is Baam, he’s staring right at the real thing, Baam’s right here looking up at him and waving excitedly, that’s impossible, how —

His phone’s ringing — no, Baam’s calling him. When he answers, he can’t even mask his shock when he asks, “Baam? How the hell—”

“Sorry to pull you out of work Khun!” he chirps back, not sounding the least bit sorry, “I wanted to surprise you for Valentine’s Day!”

What the fuck.

“But, Baam, you’re supposed to be — You told me you have a gig tonight at Endorsi’s place, it’d be crowded as all hell, and you flew across the country to see me?”

“Yup!” And Baam’s unpacking his guitar.

Wait. He’s unpacking his guitar.

“Are you crazy? You’re going to serenade me right here and now?”

“Oh, great, I was wondering how to explain this. It’s kinda awkward, y’know, I tried phrasing it a few different ways and none of them really clicked. I’m glad I don’t have to—”

“You can’t be serious, I swear, Baam, one of these days—”

“Put your headphones in! You’ll be able to hear me a little more clearly.”

Khun grumbles a bit to himself as he does, determined to express his indignation despite his shock, and Baam only laughs at him.

“Okay, they’re in. You’re so on, by the way.”

Baam just huffs and puts his phone in his pocket, and Khun doesn’t even need to look at his face to know he’s understood.

He waits patiently as Baam tunes the guitar and meets him with a challenging lilt to his voice as he asks, “Can you hear me okay?”

“Loud and clear.”

As Baam plays the first few notes, Khun can’t see his face from where he’s standing at the balcony’s edge, but he’s seen Baam play so many times he already knows how serenely focused his eyes are, the relaxed and confident set of his shoulders, the involuntary quirk of his lips as he loses himself in playing. He never gets tired of seeing it, and he wishes he could see it again right now. He thinks he’s already heard this song before, its opening is familiar but he can’t hope to place it right now, but he’s reminded again when Baam starts to sing that it doesn’t matter, this version — Baam’s voice, even tinny and distorted through the phone’s mic, a little muffled by the fabric of his shirt pocket — will be more beautiful than any original he’s heard.

There are days, I wake up and I pinch myself You're with me, not someone else

“Who else would there be but you?” He means it sarcastically, to poke fun at his choice of song in this game they’ve played for years now, but it comes out horribly dopey and fond instead and Khun suddenly feels his cheeks burn. Baam’s late for a chord for a fraction of a second anyway, so it’s not an entire failure.

And I’m scared, yeah, I'm still scared, that it's all a dream

“A damn good dream, I’d say,” Khun manages in the haughtiest tone he can muster at the moment and that gets Baam’s voice to crack a little with suppressed giggles, but his playing’s still flawless as always.

'Cause you still look perfect as days go by

“Please, that’s a given.”

Even the worst ones, you make me smile I'd stop the world if it gave us time

Khun’s about to say something snarky again despite how deeply the sentiment resonated with him, but the way Baam’s voice swells at the chorus tears away his pretense.

'Cause when you love someone, you open up your heart When you love someone, you make room If you love someone, and you're not afraid to lose 'em You’ve probably never loved someone like I do When you say You love the way I make you feel Everything becomes so real Don't be scared, no, don't be scared 'Cause you're all I need

(Privately, Khun admits defeat this time, because he doesn’t think he could muster a witty comment, a sufficiently steady voice, or even the will to compete right now despite all his pride.)

And you still look perfect as days go by Even the worst ones, you make me smile I'd stop the world if it gave us time 'Cause when you love someone, you open up your heart When you love someone, you make room If you love someone, and you're not afraid to lose 'em You’ve probably never loved someone like I do All my life I thought it'd be hard to find the one 'til I found you And I find it bittersweet 'Cause you gave me something to lose

Khun feels himself straighten before he registers commanding himself to do so, because that’s it — that’s what Baam’s trying to tell him. For a split second, he’s taken back two years and three hours before, a conversation asking about Baam how he chose songs to learn, a light voice on a hot desert breeze saying “there’s always one bit, a whole verse or a few words, one bit of the song that tells you plainly what they’re trying to say.”

He doesn’t know how he knows, there’s no evidence to suggest such, but Khun feels it like a punch to the solar plexus: this is that part. This is what Baam’s been trying to say, what he’s telling him now: It’s you, it’s you, it’s always been you. When we met the first time, my heart remembered the shape of yours from somewhere our eyes have never seen; we’ll never be favored by the stars but I’ll fight each day for us; everything beautiful reminds me of you because I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you more than I can ever show you in ten thousand lifetimes, so I’ll love you every day of this one and hope you understand.

But when you love someone, you open up your heart When you love someone, you make room If you love someone, and you're not afraid to lose 'em You’ve probably never loved someone like I do

When Baam finishes, he looks up at Khun, and he doesn’t even need to see his face to know he looks shy and sheepish like the reality of the situation’s finally hit him and Khun — Khun can hardly even speak. He’s certain he looks like a complete moron, gaping mouth and openly flabbergasted, but he can’t even bring himself to care. Before he knows it, his feet are carrying him away from the balcony and back into the still-busy conference room. He thinks Shibisu’s trying to speak with him and he’s distantly aware of Baam calling out to him in his headphones, and fuck, this is so fucking stupid, Khun’s never this impulsive —

He rushes out the door anyway, making a beeline for the elevator (he briefly considers the stairs when he passes by them on the way and has to focus to turn his brain on momentarily and think of how many damn stories there are in the building to decide against it) and slams the button for the ground floor. He can hardly stand still as it goes down, tapping his foot and checking his watch and oh, Baam’s disconnected the call, and his hands are shaking (absently, the rational part of his mind thinks it’s amusing how closely what he’s experiencing now resembles a panic attack) and fuck, this is still so goddamn stupid, and fucking finally, the elevator’s stopped at the ground floor. Before the doors even open all the way, he’s gone, sprinting through the front door and around the side of the building to where he parked this morning and he sees Baam, zipping up his guitar case and he looks ethereal now that he can see him up close —

“Aguero?”

And Khun feels the last of his sanity snap in two as he just grabs Baam by the collar and kisses him so hard he can feel the way Baam yelps in surprise in each of his teeth. His lungs are burning and his heart’s pounding in his throat, already winded from running so fast, but he still can’t bring himself to care.

Baam’s the one to break the kiss, breathy and concerned, “Aguero? What are you…?”

And damn, Khun realizes he has to give him answers.

Say something! “You’re fucking ridiculous.” Not that.

Baam looks more than a little offended. That’s… appropriate.

“Absolutely and totally impossible, I fucking hate you so, so much,” Khun knows he’s rambling nonsense, but Baam’s gotten him choked up and unable to even comprehend what he’s feeling right now, much less express it in words, so he just kisses him again and hopes he understands.

He breaks the kiss again (he doesn’t get it, obviously, because he’s not making any sense) and replies, “You’re telling me two very different things here, Aguero.”

Wait. What?

Khun forces his brain back online through sheer willpower and really, properly looks at Baam, and — this bastard’s smiling of all things right now, he looks like he’s about to burst out laughing any moment now. “You’re the worst. You know that?”

And he does burst out laughing, and it sounds like a million bells chiming in the most euphonious orchestra in the most irritating way possible. “I hate you so much — I have a ticket for a flight for LA in two hours and a rental car waiting for me, I made arrangements to work remotely for the next week to make up for today, I was going to — stop laughing at me!” He means it seriously, but he’s so giddy right now, he’s certain he’s grinning wide like a fool.

Baam exaggeratedly wipes tears from his eyes and wheezes out, “You scared me! I thought you were mad at me—”

“I am mad at you! You ruined my surprise!”

And Baam’s laughing again and Khun can’t figure out if he wants to kick him or kiss him again, but he redeems himself (just a bit) when he says, “I’m sorry! I’ll help you get a refund on that plane ticket if you want.”

“That’s not what I care about here, Baam!” That only makes Baam laugh harder, and okay, Khun has to admit, this entire situation is frankly ridiculous, and he starts laughing with him before he can catch himself.

After a few moments, Khun manages to collect himself enough to retort, “I’m definitely doing something else to make up for it.”

Baam looks at him curiously as Khun pulls his keys from his pocket with a flourish. “You mean right now?” he asks incredulously, “But what about your —”

And, well. Khun’s definitely not about to admit Baam made him forget about work entirely. But he’s saved from having to think of a decent cover because as if on cue, Khun’s phone starts ringing with a call from Shibisu.

“Khun? What the hell’s going on, you just disappeared, is that —”

“Shibisu, wait, listen.” At this point, Khun knows Shibisu well enough to know that if he doesn’t cut him off now, he’ll never stop asking questions. “I need you to manage the rest of it. You’ll be fine, it’s just a little earlier from when I had to take off anyway—”

“Yeah, I know, but, Khun, what’s actually going on? Don’t tell me—”

Khun just looks Baam in the eye and winks at him when he answers, “I’ve got something a lot more important to tend to.” Baam flushes bright red but beams at him anyway and Khun barely tamps down the urge to coo at how cute his partner is.

The other line’s silent, but it seems like Shibisu gets it because he sighs, dramatic and long-suffering, before muttering, “I really should’ve taken Hatz up on that bet, he’d owe me money right now.” Khun’s grips the phone a little tighter in irritation, but he makes a note to reward him somehow for not taking the bet before Shibisu continues. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it. But you owe me the presentation in two weeks and one hell of an explanation.”

Khun doesn’t even think before he answers, “Deal.” He still hates cashing out his end of a bargain first, being indebted to someone rather than having others owe him, but when Baam beams at him as he pockets his phone again, Khun thinks it’s really not all that bad.

“Come on, lover boy,” Khun teases as he spins his keys once and unlocks his car, “you showed me LA last time, it’s your turn to see New York City.”

#im so sorry for this being late feel free to yell at me for it #anyway! i hope you like it #songfics are wonky to write but i did my best!#vi writes #khunbam #khun aguero agnis #the 25th baam #tower of god #tog valentine exchange #tell me where you’re going so i can chase queue anytime

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pocket-luv101 · 3 years

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First Impressions // Chapter 4

Fandom: Servamp Ship: LawLicht (main), KuroMahi (side), Tetsono (side), Jekuni (side) Characters: Hyde, Licht, Kuro, Mahiru

Summary: After Licht meets the wealthy bachelor, Hyde, she was certain that she could never be friends with him. Their paths continues to cross and she slowly comes to know him. Licht wonders if she judged him too quickly. (LawLicht, Pride and Prejudice AU, Fem Licht)

Ch.1 // Ch.2 // Ch.3 // (Ch.4) //

Hyde leaned against the door while he waited for Licht to change out of her wet clothes and into dry ones. He asked the maids to prepare clothes for her to wear while they sent her wet clothes to be washed. After the times he saw Licht protect her sisters, he predicted that she would visit Mahiru after she learned that she was ill. He never expected her to leap over the creek and almost trample him with her horse though.

The door next to him opened and Licht stepped into the hall. The dress she wore belonged to Hyde’s sister who was taller than her. Licht gripped a handful of the skirt and lifted the fabric slightly so she wouldn’t trip as she walked. She addressed the maid before she spoke to Hyde. “Thank you for the clothes and drying my hair, madame.”

“I don’t know many people who would be so polite to the staff.” His comment turned Licht’s attention to him. Her sisters worked closely with their staff and she considered them friends. They would tell her that noble families were often haughty and unappreciative of their work. Licht’s eyes narrowed at the thought that he could be the same. He appeared surprised by her kindness towards the staff.

“I believe a person’s character is shown through their work rather than their rank or wealth. I enjoyed speaking with her. She told me that my sister is resting in the room down the hall.” Licht nodded to the room and then she walked in the direction. Hyde fell into step next to her and he held his arm out to him. She knew that it was customary for a gentleman to offer his arm as he walked with a lady. “There’s no need to be so formal. It shall only take a few minutes to reach the door.”

“I was worried that you’ll trip on that long skirt. You can hold onto me so you won’t fall even if you become tangled in the fabric. I wouldn’t want you to twist your ankle. May I escort you to your sister, Angel Cakes?” He continued to hold out his arm to her. After a moment of hesitation, Licht let one of her hands fall from her dress and she placed it on the crook of his arm. She was able to feel his warmth and his toned muscles through his jacket.

They walked down the hall and Licht glanced to the family portrait at the end of the corridor. Hanafield’s manor was a grand building and the rooms inside were even more so. Licht couldn’t imagine how they were able to collect enough flowers to cover the tall walls. Despite how extravagant the manor was, her gaze would always fall onto Hyde. She had to admit that he was handsome but she didn’t know if his heart would reflect his exterior the way Hanafield did.

They stopped in front of the room they gave Mahiru and he opened the door for Licht. He noticed the way she leaned forward slightly to peer into the room and search for her sister. He thought the subtle gesture was endearing. Before he moved into Hanafield, he learned that his neighbours were a prestigious family. Hyde had assumed they would be cold and formal but he could see that he was wrong. He wanted to learn more about her. He considered asking her about her opinion on the play he gave her but he knew it was better to wait until after she spoke with her sister.

“Mahiru!” Licht almost tripped over her dress as she walked to the bed where she laid. She sat on the edge of the bed and she found that her sister appeared only slightly flushed. It was a relief that her cold wasn’t as dangerous as she feared. “We were worried sick when we learned you caught a cold in the rain. Mikuni and Misono wanted to come to see you but they had to attend to family business. They will come as soon as the work is done.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you or any of my sisters. I thought I would be able to reach the manor before the rain started. As you can see, the weather did not agree.” She told her through several sniffles. Licht took out a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to her sister. “Thank you, Licht. I’m glad you’re here but there was no need to fret. The Servamps would’ve written that they are caring for me. What would’ve happened if you got sick coming to see me?”

“Your motherly instinct would fight off your cold and you would rush to the kitchen to make me chicken soup.” She joked and Mahiru giggled. Her laughter was quickly overtaken by a cough and she pulled the blanket to her chin. Licht could easily see that she was trying to hide the symptoms of her cold and lessen her concern. “You’ve taken care of us for years but it’s my turn now. I’ll pour you some tea.”

Licht turned to speak with the maid but she saw that Kuro had already made a cup of tea for Mahiru. He placed it on the table next to the bed. “Would you like sugar in your tea?”

“Only a spoon, please. Thinking simply, it wouldn’t be good to have too much sugar while recovering from a cold.” Mahiru smiled up at him. Her face was a little red and she didn’t know if it was caused by the cold or Kuro’s kindness. “Thank you for staying by my bedside and making sketches for me. They have lifted my spirits even with this cold.”

“This man was alone with you while you were weak from a cold?” Licht’s eyes narrowed at Kuro. It was improper for a man and a woman to be alone in a room together. She knew the assumptions society would make if they knew. She hated the thought that people would whisper rumours about her sister. A scandal could quickly grow from the rumours and limit Mahiru’s future choices. She started to rise to her feet but Mahiru placed a hand on her sister’s arm to stop her from turning her anger to Kuro.

“Kuro has done nothing but treat me kindly and be respectful, Licht. Wrath has been with us this entire time as well. There is no need to worry about my reputation.” She nodded towards Wrath who sat next to the window. Licht had been so concerned for her sister that she didn’t notice the others in the room. With a light tug on her sleeve, Mahiru urged her to sit down again. “I know you mean well in your heart but you shouldn’t be so impulsive.”

“Licht is your sister. I understand why she would want to protect you.” He didn’t appear to be offended by Licht’s anger as others would be. Mahiru felt a warmth spread through her heart. She could only be with a man who respected and understood her sisters with their quirks. Kuro placed a sketchbook onto her lap and said, “I should go so you can speak with your sister alone. It has been a pleasure. Wait, I don’t mean to say I’m happy that she got sick.”

“I understand,” Mahiru laughed and her warm voice made him relax. She watched Kuro leave the room and she waited for the door to close before she turned to Licht.

Her sister sat in the chair next to the bed where Kuro had been. Mahiru tilted the sketchbook to Licht so she could see the drawing of a rose. “When I fell ill, Kuro came and asked if I wanted something to pass the time. He didn’t want me to be bored or lonely in this large room by myself. We both enjoy art and we took turns drawing in this sketchbook. He kept me company. He’s a good man.”

“You don’t need to convince me of his noble character. My sisters are fellow angels and their divine judgement is never wrong.” Licht told her confidently. Mahiru had always been able to make friends quickly and she trusted her opinion on people. As long as the Servamps didn’t give her a reason to object, she would support their relationship.

“I feel guilty that I might have caused you worry while I was here in a warm bed. Mikuni is already stressed about the house and Father’s will.” Mahiru let out a heavy breath. “A wealthy marriage would solve our problem because our husband can buy the house or inherit it. I like Kuro but I don’t know what I’ll do if he starts courting me. I don’t want him or anyone to think I’m with him for his wealth. Thinking simply, it’s not fair to either of us if we start a relationship with such doubts.”

“You’re not the type of person who uses others in such a way. I’m certain that Kuro will be able to see that as well. If he doesn’t, he wasn’t worthy of your heart.” Licht reassured her sister. “Maybe we can write a petition to the court and ask them to grant property rights to women. There must be other families with only daughters in a similar situation to ours.”

“The house’s title might fall to Haruto before the law can change.” Mahiru was the most optimistic of the sisters but she couldn’t deny that it was nearly impossible to keep their home. Mahiru laid back against the pillow and she stared at the tall ceiling. The golden leaves painting on the ceiling was beautiful but she closed her eyes to imagine the simple wooden roof she would see when she woke up. Others would call her strange but she preferred her modest home.

She felt the bed shift beneath her and Mahiru opened her eyes to see Licht lay next to her with her face buried in the pillow. At first, she was scared that her sister would catch her cold by lying next to her. Mahiru noticed how stiff her shoulders were and she could tell that there was something in her mind. She patted her hair like a mother would. “We’ll find a way to keep our home. Haruto might be a reasonable and progressive person who we can compromise with.”

“I yelled at Mother before I left the house. She deserved it but I know she’ll be angry at the both of us once we return home.” Licht chose not to tell her the reason she lost her temper at their mother. Anger still lingered in her blood at how their mother had been so cold towards Mahiru’s condition. How could she be more focused on matching Sakura with a Servamp when she learned Mahiru was sick?

“Families fight but we can understand each other after a talk. You won’t have to face Mother alone when you return home because I’ll be there with you. We’re sisters.”

Licht stepped out of the room and she carefully closed the door so the soft click wouldn’t wake her sister. She asked a maid to watch over Mahiru while she slept and to call her if her condition changed. She wanted to stay by her side but she thought she should take the chance to thank the family for caring for her sister. The maid gave her directions to the library where the family would likely be. The manor was large and she could easily imagine becoming lost in the winding halls.

She followed the faint sound of voices in the distance and she recognized Hyde’s laughter. Licht stopped in the doorway and there were a few other guests she didn’t recognize. The family sat with their back to the door so they didn’t notice her. Most of the group were seated around a table playing cards while Hyde was at a writing desk. Occasionally, he would look up from his letter to speak with his guests.

“I hope we are not boring you, Lady Hina. You came to visit in a very short time and we didn’t have the opportunity to prepare anything for your arrival. We’re cousins and we enjoy your visit but letters are a formality to help prepare us.” Hyde folded his letter and handed it to a butler. “You’ve caught us in the middle of work and we already have guests.”

“Do you mean the woman with the dark hair? I saw her briefly in the foyer but she didn’t stop to introduce herself to me when she passed. I would excuse the rudeness as shyness. It must’ve been mortifying for her to be seen in such a state. Her skirt was caked in mud. I overheard from the staff that she rode through the rain. Whether she is mad or stubbornly inclined to show her independence above other women, I cannot say. I can only assume she was a spectacle when you found her.”

“I assure you, Cousin, I thought no such thing. Licht is not the type to shy away from people due to social pressure either.” Hyde corrected his cousin. “She had something more concerning on her mind than polite greetings. Her sister has fallen ill in our care. I understand her motivation but I would not like the thought of my sister riding in this weather.”

“Your sister is from a prestigious family while I hear that the Eves hold a modest income. The Eve sisters can afford to be more reckless when their prospect for a husband is already so little. It must be difficult to find a match in their situation.” The feigned sympathy in Hina’s voice made Licht’s hands tighten at her side. “I stopped at a cute little ribbon shop and the seamstress told me that Kuro danced with an Eve.”

“Kuro never cared for the family title or wealth so he won’t consider those things when he chooses someone to court.” Hyde envied his older brother who had decided to retire to the drawing room rather than gossip with their cousin. He wished he could do the same but it would be impolite to leave now. “I would like to find a wife who is refined, witty, and talented in the dramatic arts.”

“Talented is such a belittling thing to call something.” Licht’s voice turned the room’s attention to her. She didn’t step back from their surprised stares and she stood with her back straight. She entered the room and she met Hyde’s red eyes. “The word implies that someone is born with a gift when most would pour hours of practise into perfecting their craft.”

“How would you show your appreciation for someone’s craft?” Hyde asked her, intrigued. He thought most would be happy to be called talented.

“I cannot know the preference for each artist or performer. I play the piano and I enjoy when a person dances along to Choppin or cry after I’ve played one of Beethoven’s Sonatas. It helps me know that I have moved the audience and properly portrayed the emotions of a song.” Licht stopped in front of Hyde and curtsied slightly. “I came to thank you for housing my sister while she’s sick.”

“It was our invitation that caused her to be soaked by the rain. How is your sister? I would wager she’s better since you’re willing to leave her side.” He moved from his spot on the writing desk to offer his chair to her. Hyde thought the tea would be more fun with Licht present. “We only arrived a few days ago and the staff haven’t moved the furniture in yet. You may sit here.”

“I wouldn’t want to take your seat while you’re working.” Licht nodded towards the letter on his desk. “The doctor says that Mahiru is recovering well and it’s possible she will be fit enough to return home within a few days. My sister fell asleep a few minutes into our talk and I thought it best to let her rest. I only came to thank your family so I should go now.”

“Sitting by yourself will be boring. Would you like a book to read and pass the time.” Hyde walked to the bookcase and took down a few novels. “I’m an avid reader myself. Did you enjoy the Shakespeare play I suggested last night? I could give you something similar.”

“I read the play with my sister and it was fun. I do enjoy gothic novels though.”

Hyde smiled at her words. “As do I. Though, Shakespeare is my preference.”

#servamp #lawlicht #kuromahi #greed pair #sloth pair #servamp hyde #licht jekylland todoroki #servamp kuro #mahiru shirota #fanfiction #fem mahiru

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honeymoonjin · 3 years

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Content Creator Year in Review!

now that i have finally escaped the labyrinthine 2020 i may as well go sappy for a lil bit and chat about my creations i suppooooosee.... thank you very much to the thoughtful @ttttaehyungie @kkulfm-writing @flurrys-creativity and @nightowls388 for tagging me in this xx

first creation and most recent creation of 2020: my first creation of 2020 was my most recent creation is strawberry lemonade, which i wrote for a sapphic fic fest on twitter

one of your favorite creations from 2020: i didn’t write many oneshots, but i have a soft spot for florezco. i love writing gentle, passionate characters, and the jimin in florezco is the epitome of that. researching it was so much fun too, and i have nothing but fond memories.

a creation you’re really proud of: honestly, love is the warmest colour is one of my personal achievements because all the things the mc is struggling with, i was really having a hard time with when i was writing it. i poured a lot of my heart into this and it helped me process things for myself a little.

a creation that took you forever: definitely tgm. i guess it’s kinda cheating bc it’s a longform series but i feel like if i finished it all the way it would end up taking like 2 years fkjdsfksddjfsk in terms of oneshots, strawberry lemonade took a long time. i was so rusty that sometimes it felt like pulling teeth to get words on the page. i’m so happy i powered through though.

a creation from 2020 that received the most notes: technically my most popular 2020 post is the tgm masterlist. out of curiosity, i added all the notes for the masterlist and each chapter and bonus content (since the whole thing was written in 2020) and it’s over 27k notes isn’t that BONKERS ? tgm also currently has over 60k hits on ao3. i had never expected to even get 1k notes when i first started out in march of 2020. wow, even just working this out now makes me feel even more grateful for this lil community we fostered together and i promise i’m working really hard right now to try and find a way to bring it back <3

a creation you think deserved more notes: because i had a lot of direct interaction with tgm (asks, reblogs, discord) i had the luxury of no longer paying attention to notes. i know everyone preaches (and i have too) about how notes don’t matter but they kinda do, in terms of feeling like your hard work is being received with warmth. i do wish strawberry lemonade would get more notes but i’m unsurprised since it’s not the usual fic you’d find here, and i was inactive for so long. i know it’ll take time to build a regularly interacting community again like i had with tgm.

a new fandom you joined and a creation you made for it: ...crickets

a creation you made that breaks your heart: tgm. always tgm. i feel so unsatisfied with myself for not finishing it. i miss the days i was updating weekly like crazy. isn’t it weird that i could update a 10k chapter each week while working and being in uni, but now i’m graduated and unemployed and i spend a whole day on 1k? fksdjfkds madness luv

a ‘simple’ creation that you really love: honestly, i really loved making the tgm bonus contents. the social dummy app is a lot of fun and it was nice getting to kinda play in that world without having to pay attention to the grand arcs of the plot and stuff.

a creation that was inspired by another one: almost all of my oneshots have been inspired by the art style of ghibli movies. it’s that magical realism, the wonderful mixed in with the ordinary, the love given to the smallest of details. whenever i write, i’m picturing my story in that aesthetic.

a favorite creation created by someone else: this is so hard trying to choose just one but it’ll have to be The Songbird and the Sea by maia_archives. this fic is literally so good that it is now PUBLISHED (or at least available as a fiction ebook w name changes i believe) and there is even a sequel which i haven’t gotten too yet bc i’m putting off rereading the first one as long as possible so that it feels like the first time again THATS how much i adore this fic. i don’t think i’ve read any piece of fiction better executed than this. it literally does every genre better than anyone. it does the pirate au better than potc, it does slowburn better than pride and prejudice, it does worldbuilding better than jules verne, i cannot praise it enough.

some of your favorite content creators from the year: on the home soil: my best girls @dreamyhan @hongism @baekhyyun @wintertae @sope-and-shine @ironicarmy @minjoonalist and my absolute role model @joopiterjoon (i’m sorry for not putting down more, i really have not read on tumblr at all this year) on ao3: annie_vi, Arobeebee, GinForInk, minverse, SugarAndMint, Lilithgirl, moonflower1306, tendershipping, Only_A_Fangirl, maia_archives, elle_O_moonchild, jjks, spudcity

and for good measure, another couple more creations of yours that you love: my guy if i actually posted more things in 2020 maybe i could list them here

tagging: the people i have tagged above, as well as anyone who sees this and wishes to do it! please tag me so i can read about your marvelous creations ;;-;

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haljathefangirlcat · 3 years

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MOR mozalieri angst and galadred jb 👀

OH MY GOD ARE YOU TELLING ME YOU’RE INTO MOR TOO SDFGHJKLSDFGHJKLK

... ahem. These are both really short because I jotted them down as a spur of the moment thing and I have absolutely no idea when or if I’ll actually make something out of them. So I’m just gonna post everything I wrote for them since it counts as “a little snippet” anyway, lol.

The first one is angsty af and entirely the fault of that part of L'Assasymphonie where Salieri is playing with the knife while ranting about his impostor syndrome and his inferiority complex. Uh, and Le Bien Qui Fait Mal, too, but that goes without saying. If it ever went anywhere, it would probably include very pained love/professional admiration confessions, a idiots in love/mutual pining “wait, no, I’m pining for you but you wouldn’t even look at me!” “are you kidding me, I’m the one pining but I thought you hated me!” moment, and PLENTY of hurt/comfort. I have absolutely no idea about anything else, though, because I don’t even know where or when even the scene I came up with is set... which would be a pretty important thing to know, from a practical standpoint, tbh.

TW FOR SELF-HARM AND VIOLENT IMAGERY

He’d only ever thought of what it was like to love like that. To feel the bright-bladed knife plunge and twist and dig inside his chest, tenderly cut through quivering flesh and sinew, saw his ribcage open to open up his heart to the burning beauty and white-hot light streaming in from above. To seek that pain and hide away from that pleasure, and curse the man who was the cause of both while cursing himself for letting him hold such power over him, for loving him and for hating him, for always failing to live up to him, to be like him.

He’d never spared one thought to consider what it might be like to be loved like that. To be made aware that your very existence was a spring of endless suffering for one who claimed to feel an ever-growing affection for you, to be made into an obsession in the black of night and an ivory idol bathed in golden sunrises, to become an inescapable curse. To have that much power, and not rejoice in it or even want it. To not be cruel enough to stomach it.

Mozart didn’t need to mock him with his brash laugh or hurl cold words at him. It was the softness in his voice that made guilt well up in his gut like pouring venom into a bowl until it overflowed; it was the sadness in his gaze that cooled his heart until he shivered. It was his own shame at himself, washing over him once again in new, sudden, crashing waves for new, sudden, piercing reasons, that brought him down on his knees, brought his head in his hands.

And Mozart, he came down to him. He lowered himself and crouched on the floor to reach him. Put his arms around his shoulders for a moment, then drew back and took Salieri’s wrists in his hands, holding them gently, gingerly. Scared, or disgusted, or perhaps just careful not to stain himself with his blood. It was starting to cool. It felt sticky, dirty.

«Come with me,» Mozart said, and drew Salieri’s hands away from his face. Some distant part of Salieri’s mind felt he should not allow that so easily, but the rest of him just felt tired, so he did. How strange that even though he was the one shaking, his breath ragged and hitching, it should be Mozart to cry. He wanted to laugh at the sight, but found he couldn’t. He could only let himself be dragged up to his feet, and then into a chair when he started feeling lightheaded.

He even obediently raised his hand and stayed put as Mozart ran to fetch warm water, soap, and clean cloth.

The second one is, once again, inspired by one of your fics. ;) Remember when you wrote that artist!Jaime/tattoo artist!Brienne fic where they bonded over Arthurian characters and I was like, “someone should introduce both of them to the concept of Galahad/Mordred because they’d love it so much for their own different reasons?” Ideally, this should be the fic where they actually get introduced to it... if it ever went somewhere.

The basic plot would be: “Jaime was overjoyed when he found out he could pour his old love for all things Arthurian AND his passion for drawing into fandom. His first fanart were all very dramatic, very romantic Mists of Avalon -inspired Arthur/Morgana pieces because he identified with that due to his ‘fated’ relationship with C., but as that started to go sour, he branched out into edgy, purposefully badwrong Arthur/Morgause stuff. Eventually, he found out about Galahad/Mordred and got really into the whole ‘doomed man on the path to making all the wrong choices finds redemption through connecting with another misfit with a high moral drive and noble nature who may have his own issues but believes there’s something good in him for some reason’ aspect of it. That’s when Brienne, budding fanwriter mostly into gen stuff due to romance bringing back bad memories, found his art and unexpectedly got hooked to the whole ‘noble-hearted and justice-loving misfit can’t really connect with anyone on a deeper level until he meets snarky, sad not-so-doomed man who actually sees HIM beyond both the brave knight thing and the ‘will never fit in anyway’ thing’ aspect. Now, they regularly chat through comments and tags and the occasional message. But things get more complicated when Jaime, who actually lost a hand in an incident years ago and had to relearn to draw after that while suffering the ableism of the usual suspects, finds the courage to post selfies on his blog both with and without his prosthetic hand to show the world and himself that the hardships he had to overcome don’t mean he’s less of a person or less of an artist or less in any way. That’s when Brienne goes from finding him interesting and funny and actually pretty charming to finding him HOT. Which scares her a whole lot due to her past experiences. But that’s okay because they’ll never see each other irl anyway, right? Unless they find out they actually live in the same city and Jaime asks her to meet to work on a collaboration they’ve been thinking of for a while but never really got to work on until now...”

And here’s what I currently have:

But then Mordred is staring at him again with those too-green eyes of his, except that this time there’s no mockery or coldness in them, and Galahad’s been warned again and again not to get too close to him and he’s been told over and over that he can’t trust him, but now he thinks that maybe, maybe he really does understand –

Brienne stares at her screen. She actually described Mordred’s eyes as gray. Didn’t she? Usually, she picks dark gray, or dark brown, or dark. And yet, in this one story, they’re suddenly green.

Okay, time to take a break from revising. She gets up from her chair, rolls back her shoulders, and goes to grab a snack and a glass of water. She tries not to wonder what’s gotten into her – but she doesn’t really need to anyway, because she has a feeling she already knows.

Not that there’s anything bad about it. In a way, it only makes sense. He’s the artist who got her into the ship in the first place, and they’ve had a few pleasant conversations in the notes to his posts and, eventually, in the comments to her fics. So, it’s not that big of a deal if she associates him with these characters. And… well, recently he’s started posting selfies on his tumblr. And fine, she might have some sort of pathetic little celebrity crush – is that even the right term? Is he a Tumblr celebrity? – on him. Truth to be told, it’s not even as pathetic as the crushes she’s had when she was still in school, because at least he’s never insulted her or made fun of her looks, and she’s reasonably sure he wouldn’t even if he ever had the chance to. Which he won’t get, but anyway…

Anyway.

Apparently, the lines might blur when she’s distracted. Big deal.

#wip meme #my fic #otp: on se reverra #janiedean #ask

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ladyxxdaydream · 5 years

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37. The two of you wear costumes from the same fandom at a costume party. (Yuri on Ice?)

Sorry it took me so long to get to this prompt, anon! Sadly, I’ve never seen Yuri on Ice (its on my list!!) so I had to go with a different fandom. Hope you like it!

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

#37 (from this prompt list here. Feel free to submit your own! I’ve already filled 20, 32, 47 & will be filling 2.)

Iruka walked into the party alone. Kotestu and Izumo opted to “watch scary movies” instead, which Iruka knew was code for fucking all night. They were still high off their new relationship. They’d invited him over, but he really wasn’t in the mood to be the third wheel while they made out and fondled each other under a blanket, waiting for a polite time to kick him out. Besides, he liked dressing up, and he thought he did a hell of a job on his costume this year.

Iruka prided himself on his craftiness, which was part frugality, part creativity. He already had the boots, and the navy pants. The blue tunic was fashioned from an old bed sheet. He brought the design to a friend in the theater department and asked her to stitch it up with white trim. All that was left was to bandage up his arms to his elbows, pull on a pair of fingerless blue gloves (the middle and index cut at the knuckle instead of the palm), and fasten the white choker around his neck—he’d ordered the flat, square wooden beads online, which were less than $5.

He made a damn fine Sokka.

Several people had already told him so on his walk over from the dorms. Some had even asked to snap a picture with him, which Iruka shyly obliged.

Upon entering the house, Iruka went straight to the kitchen and poured himself a beer from the keg. When he turned back to face the rest of the room, his eyes landed on a folding table lined with snacks. Iruka knew it was Kurenai’s idea, because Asuma didn’t have that kind of courtesy. What really caught his attention though, was the rather tall person in a fuzzy Appa suit. It looked like a onesie for a 10-year old, given that it cuffed at the guy’s knee, revealing pale calves, instead of reaching his ankles. The flat, wide tail swayed as he moved. It was oddly adorable. Iruka wondered what kind of face went with that swath of silver hair.

His curiosity got the better of him.

“Nice costume,” Iruka said as he approached, biting into the rim of his red plastic cup to try and smother his smile.

The guy looked up from the table, and swept his eyes over Iruka in obvious assessment. It made a heavy kind of heat settle into his skin. Iruka wasn’t prepared to be met with someone so attractive.

“You too,” the guy said. “I see you’ve got excellent taste in television.”

“Did you get that in the kid’s section?” Iruka smirked. He couldn’t help himself. It was so incredibly dorky.

“How’d you guess?” the guy grinned. “The best part is the hood.”

He pulled it up over his head, the arrow bisecting it through the middle, while two brown horns stood out on either side.

It was the cutest thing Iruka had ever seen in his life. His heart beat hard against his chest.

“Hm,’ Iruka hummed. “You’re missing a few legs.”

“Well, we can’t all look like professional cosplayers. Didn’t anyone tell you this was a halloween party? Your costume should either be slutty, cheap, or tacky, judging by the look of this crowd, and yours is none of the above. I went for cheap,” he said, placing a hand on his chest.

“Mine barely cost a thing. I made it. Minus the boomerang,” Iruka said, placing a hand on the object slung at his hip. “I bought that.”

“Huh. Look at you,” the silver-haired stranger said, clicking his tongue. “And you shaved the sides of your head for it, too? What dedication.”

“Ha,” Iruka laughed. “I had this hairstyle before today, believe it or not.”

“Hm. I don’t know if I do,” the guy said, narrowing his eyes at him a bit.

Iruka’s breath caught in his throat.

He’s flirting.

—

Kakashi was flirting. He couldn’t help himself. Not when this sexy fucking water tribe fantasy was standing right in front of him, dark skin and all. Admittedly, he’d searched for fan art of an older Sokka before and it definitely tickled his fancy. And uh, he may have bookmarks of Zukka in his browser, but this was… this was a million times better.

“Kakashi! I see you’ve met my brother!” Asuma all but shouted, slinging an arm around his interest’s shoulder.

It took everything in Kakashi not to scoff.

“He looks nothing like you,” Kakashi said bluntly, in pure disbelief that he’d be attracted to anyone related to Asuma. Asuma was about as far from his type as you could get. A loudmouth, grizzly jock, who ironically didn’t give a shit about his health, if his diet and terrible smoking habit were any indication.

“Yeah, well, he wouldn’t,” Asuma said, yanking his supposed brother’s neck to his chest, whose face flushed with embarrassment as Asuma rubbed his knuckles against his scalp. “He’s my adopted brother.”

The Sokka look-a-like gave Kakashi a weak smile beneath Asuma’s headlock.

“He’s a newbie. A freshman. Ain’t that right, ‘Ru?” Asuma said, letting him go.

“It’s my first year here, yes.” Asuma’s brother said, meeting Kakashi’s gaze for a second, before flicking his eyes down, smoothing out his costume. He readjusted his ponytail, giving Kakashi an opportunity to check out his biceps. Oof.

“I’ve been trying to get him to hang out with us forever, but he’s too busy with chess club and being…”—Kurenai walked by, derailing Asuma completely— “…gay…”

“Being gay? I’m too busy being gay?” Asuma’s brother deadpanned.

“Yeah, you know…” Asuma said, still staring at Kurenai. “You’re part of that organization or alliance or whatever… hey..” he said, bringing his attention back to them for a second. “I’ll be back.”

Yeah right, Kakashi thought, before Asuma left the both of them standing there. He wasn’t about to complain though; he could get back to flirting now, especially since he knew his interest was attracted to men.

“It must take up all your time. Being gay,” Kakashi teased.

“Yeah, my whole life really,” the younger man rolled his eyes with a laugh.

It was such a fascinating, genuine sound. It was full of warmth. Kakashi wanted to wrap himself up in it.

“Uh, Ru was it?” Kakashi asked, needing to know the name of the man he was quickly coming to adore.

The man blushed profusely, scratching at the scar that cut across his nose.

Shit. That was not helping.

“Ah. T-that’s a nickname. It’s Iruka.”

Iruka. Hm.

“Kakashi, if you didn’t catch it earlier.”

“It was hard not to with my brother’s dulcet tone,” Iruka said, sarcastically.

It was Kakashi’s turn to dissolve into laughter.

—

“I should… go home,” Iruka said, standing up from the couch, only to sway a bit. Kakashi placed a steadying hand on Iruka’s hip, before standing up himself.

“Uh, Iruka. You’re a little drunk.”

They had played a partnered game of beer pong (which Kakashi was excellent at, and Iruka well… Iruka tried), before settling into the couch to chat. That was over an hour ago.

Iruka swiveled towards him, bringing their faces a little too close for comfort. Kakashi tried to keep his eyes off Iruka’s lips.

“Am not,” Iruka protested.

“Iruka, your eyes are so glassy, I could drink from them.”

They stared at each other for an awkward moment, as Kakashi wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole, before Iruka burst out laughing.

“That was weird as hell. How—what. Was that a pun on the word glass or were you saying you could literally suck liquid from my eyes beca—”

“Okay, I get it.” Kakashi cringed, feeling his cheeks heat up. “It was weird. I-I don’t know why I said that. It just happened. Will you,”—Kakashi took a deep breath—“let me walk you home? Please?”

Kakashi rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, feeling self-conscious. This damn fleece costume was making him sweat beneath Iruka’s stare.

Iruka huffed out another laugh, stifled by the way he was biting into his bottom lip.

“Okay.”

—

When they made it out to the sidewalk, Iruka appeared a little lost.

“What dorm are you living in?” Kakashi asked, as Iruka scrutinized a particularly large tree.

“Uzushio”

“It’s that way,” Kakashi pointed.

“I… knew that,” Iruka said, changing direction. “I was just… admiring nature…”

“Mhm. Sure.” Kakashi quipped, not believing him for a second.

Kakashi watched as Iruka not-so-gracefully began to walk, sparking an idea to pop into his head.

“Wanna ride me?” Kakashi asked, looking Iruka dead in the eyes with an impossibly straight face.

Iruka tripped over nothing, blushing all the way to his ears.

“E-excuse me?”

Kakashi knew what he said, and how he said it. It was completely worth it. He got the reaction he wanted. It was payback for Iruka embarrassing the hell out of him earlier—stupid glassy eyes comment.

“Do you want a ride? On my back?” Kakashi asked, innocently. “You look like you’re gonna fall over.”

Iruka studied him for a moment, his face scrunched up in contemplation. It looked like he was struggling to connect with the last of his brain cells.

“Stop overthinking it,” Kakashi laughed. “You look like you’re going to combust. Come on,” Kakashi said, bending his knees, offering his back.

There was a few seconds of hesitation before he heard Iruka move behind him.

“I’m heavy,” Iruka protested.

“I can handle you.”

He heard Iruka sputter.

Really, it was too easy.

“Do you need help getting yourself up Iruka?” Kakashi taunted him, which resulted in a sharp tug on his costume’s tail.

“Shut up,” Iruka said, hopping on top of him. He yanked the hood over Kakashi’s head in retribution.

“Hey,” Kakashi laughed, as he pushed himself to stand. “That’s covering my eyes. The whole point of me accompanying you home, is so that you get there safely.”

Iruka felt a wave of heat wash over him, as his crush increased tenfold.

“I-I wanted the full effect,” Iruka said, tugging on one of the plush horns, before he smoothed the hood back to Kakashi’s forehead, away from his eyes.

The real reason he pulled that damn hood up was because he needed a barrier between his face and Kakashi’s bare neck, lest he sunk his teeth into it.

Iruka smashed a smile into Kakashi’s shoulder, encircling his arms around Kakashi’s neck, before he picked up his head and said—

“Yip yip.”

—

Iruka woke up the next morning to find his facebook page blowing up.

Someone, a random girl apparently, had taken a picture of Iruka being carried on Kakashi’s back last night with a caption that read:

Cutest couples costume ever!!!

Asuma had tagged him.

#kakairu #prompt #hatake kakashi/umino iruka #kakairu fanfic #my work #i wish i had talent bc i need kakashi in this appa suit #my fic

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ah-maa-zing · 5 years

Text

Whelp. I knew this was coming, and honestly I wasn’t expecting to feel this emotional when it did, but here I am anyway.

It’s difficult to know what to say. It may sound silly, but Arrow has been a significant part of my life for nearly a decade. It came to me in a time when I desperately needed a distraction from my personal life, and it proved to be that and much, much more. It was the first time I ever involved myself so deeply into fandom. I remember the joy of watching the S2 finale, and the excitement of what S3 would bring, and the amazing embrace of a small but dedicated community when I first joined Tumblr, and by extension, the fandom.

We were the little ship that could. Back then, nobody thought we would make it this far. We didn’t even know if we’d ever see our favourite couple actually become a couple. We thrived on hope and collective dreams, and incredible, jaw-dropping creativity. The fanfics, the art, the gifs, the videos. The relentless optimism, the sheer joy of seeing our favourite characters interact in the most basic of ways (the squeeing whenever Oliver so much as placed. a. hand. on Felicity’s shoulder, my goodness). We were, are, truly blessed. I’ve watched a lot of TV over the years, and can count on one hand the ships and shows that have become cornerstones of my life. Hand on heart, Olicity and Arrow hold a special place above all the rest. I have never felt as much for fictional characters as I’ve felt for Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak – to see their journey from friends to partners to the loves of each other’s lives to husband and wife and parents to two amazing children – can you actually believe it?!

Who would have thought then we’d come to the end of this journey with our ship not only canon, but married and with children? Certainly not me – none of my ships had ever reached those milestones before. It’s been a rocky, bumpy journey with potholes galore; but all said and done, a satisfying and ultimately fulfilling one. One I would go back and relive in a heartbeat. There are always things that could have been done better, that we wish we could change or erase (isn’t that just life?), but there’s something to be said for being grateful for what we did get. I certainly am – I’m grateful for everything we got, and I’ll always be grateful the show had the courage to change course and give it to us.

So much of my heart is wrapped up inside this show. I’ve had incredible experiences as a result of it: going to my first ever convention with (then) near-strangers with whom all I shared was a love of a TV show, and who have since become wonderful and lifelong friends; the memories of waking up ridiculously early of a morning to watch an anticipated episode; the euphoria when THAT promo for 3x20 dropped; writing fics and reviews and metas and interacting with so many people I’ll never have the opportunity to meet; creating gifs and edits and pouring every inch of creativity and love into this show and this community. The crazy laughter, the frustrations, the sadness, the joy and celebration. So. Much. Love.

All things come to an end, and on a rational level I know it is time. Nothing can last forever, and I appreciate the cast and crew and writers getting an opportunity to go out on their own terms, to tell the tale one last time, to end on a high. But when the time comes, it will still sting. It will still feel like “too soon” and it will still be difficult to let go. But that’s for another day. For now, I intend to enjoy this last ride, no matter what comes. Though let’s be real: if anyone deserves everlasting happiness and peace it’s Oliver Queen, and the people he calls his family. Give him and his wife (this. will. never. get. old. as. long. as. I. live.) and their children (gaaaaaaaaaaaah) and their brother everything they deserve. There will never again be another OTA. And there will never again be another ship like Olicity. They are, in all ways, the OGs.

There’s so much more I want to say, but maybe that’s for another time.

For now, suffice it to say that I love this show, and for all that’s ever happened or that will happen, I will always, always love this show – for everything it has given me, for every experience I’ve had because of it, and for all the memories I will carry with me forever.

#Arrow #Original Team Arrow #John Diggle #Felicity Smoak #Oliver Queen #Olicity #Oliver x Felicity

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typhonserpent · 5 years

Text

Pause

Fandom: Dragon Age 2 Rating: Explicit, MAJOR trigger warnings for depictions of suicide, self harm, and death. Genre: Drama Pairing: Fenris/Anders Summary: Fenris catches on early to Anders’ suicidal plan. He’s seen so many slaves commit suicide before. He recognizes all the signs. Finally when Varric mentions Anders trying to give him his pillow, Fenris knows that there is little time left. He and Anders might not get on like the greatest of friends, but ten years does change people, and Fenris is set on rescuing Anders from himself.

It’s finally finished! Here’s my entry for Fill-a-Thon 2019. You can find the original prompt here.

✦ My Writing Tag ✦

✦ AO3 Link - Please leave me a comment! ✦

Fenris was 16 the first time he'd heard the word 'suicide' delicately danced around.

On hotter days, Danarius liked to dress him in a chain harness which looped around his chest several times and came together in a large emerald positioned over his heart. Danarius was, in fact, quite proud of the outfit, because the gem was enchanted to provide a barrier that made his usual chest plate unnecessary. Of course, the chest plate carried the added bonus of ensuring nobody thought Fenris was an easy target, and therefore was more practical to wear day-to-day. Nevertheless, private events sometimes called for different attire, preferably one that showed off the tattoos burned into Fenris' body. His best work of art, as he put it.

Fenris had been wearing that harness. The sweat dripping down his neck made his leather collar stick to his skin. Danarius was on the balcony, overlooking the Minrathos skyline. Sunlight bounced off of polished statues and brass roofs. Fenris poured more wine into his glass.

Pairian stepped out, and cleared his throat. He was an old elf, his hair all salt, no pepper. His collar was notably threadbare compared to Fenris', the leather's finish flaked and chipping along the edges. "Master?" Pairian said, stopping behind Danarius' chair, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid I must inform you that we have lost Jamael."

Danarius heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes, and slammed his wine glass onto the table so hard that the base of it broke. Expensive liquid sloshed out as the body of the glass toppled and shattered on the balcony floor.

"How?" He growled without looking in Pairian's direction.

"We found him in the pantry when we realized he hadn't cleaned the banisters. He ..." Pairian paused with all the care of a man walking on eggshells. He knew the next words he spoke could be met with a whip, "He appears to have suffocated."

"Has the pantry been dug deeper? How in blazes did he suffocate?"

"The ... rope around his neck may have been the culprit. Master."

Danarius rolled his eyes again and stood, kicking aside some of the broken glass on the ground. "Fenris, fetch me another glass."

"Yes, Master." And without further ado, the obedient little wolf set down the wine bottle and bolted for the kitchen.

It had been only a few months since the lyrium ritual gave him his markings and stole his memories. He didn't know if he'd known Jamael before then. Perhaps they'd been friends. After all, Jamael had been friendly enough towards him. Sunlight bled through the windows and illuminated every other stride he took as he ran, barefoot, down the halls of Danarius' huge manor.

He reached the kitchen to be greeted by a small crowd at the entrance. A stretcher had been fashioned out of two poles and an old sheet, and two of the larger elven slaves carried away a man barely recognizable from the last Fenris had seen of him.

Fenris strained to remember the last time he'd seen Jamael.

They'd passed in the hall way. Jamael had smiled and said, "Hey, how are you feeling? Still itchy?"

Fenris shook his head. Jamael had seen the physical results of the lyrium ritual. The pain, the blood, the ache that lasted for weeks, and then the itch that persisted as the wounds healed.

"If you need more, don't be shy. If you can get away from the Master for five minutes, anyway. I can sweet talk Seri into more elfroot anytime you need it." Then, he'd grinned. He was always smiling. Always helping. A personality as bright as his red hair.

That smile was gone now. His tongue swollen and sticking out, cheeks and eyes puffy. His entire head was discolored dark shades of purple and blue, sharply cutting off where the rope was wrapped tightly around his neck. The end of the rope dangled off the stretcher.

"Never thought he was the type." Someone in the crowd muttered.

"He seemed so happy yesterday." Another whispered, "I almost thought he was turning around."

"That's how it starts." A nearby voice replied, "You remember Sheera? Same thing. Months of silence, three days of calm, and then her corpse gets dragged out of the wash room. Wrists all cut up."

"Such a shame."

Fenris moved his hands to his ears, fingers tangling with his hair. Why didn't anyone try to stop him? If they knew the signs they could have at least tried!

He had to push his way through the crowd to reach the kitchen, muttering apologies all along the way. He waited a few extra minutes with the glass in his hand and his back to the door, just to ensure that he wouldn’t see the corpse again when he left.

Danarius liked Fenris to sleep at the foot of his bed. After all, a body guard should be there to guard the master at all times. Fenris told himself he didn't mind it so much. It was comfier than the slaves cots, and warmer too. Danarius always afforded him a blanket and pillow. Sometimes they'd even share the same one.

Later that night, Fenris was curled up at the foot of Danarius' bed, blanket wrapped tight around him. Water trickled and splashed in the next room while Danarius washed himself, and eventually he returned to the bedroom, hair damp, body wrapped in a silk robe.

"I'm sorry in such a state as earlier, my pet. I despise slaves like Jamael. I thought I had rid myself of most of them."

The question danced on the tip of his tongue. After all, a slave who asked a question out of turn could very easily be answered with a whip. As Danarius sat on the bed and toed off his slippers, Fenris mulled over the question in his mind, and finally decided he could ask if only to find out what not to do in the future.

"Master," He whispered, his voice as small as a mouse, "What did Jamael do?"

"He committed suicide, Fenris. He killed himself."

Suicide.

Fenris turned the word over in his head. He'd never heard it before. Just hearing it made him want to squirm. It sounded sad. It sounded wrong.

"To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker." Danarius continued, "You know that, don't you my pet?"

Fenris nodded, because despite his shattered memories, the words did sound familiar. The idea of killing himself had never even crossed his mind.

Danarius smiled, sending a wave of relief washing over him. He wasn't in trouble for asking the question. He wasn't going to be punished.

"Good boy," Danarius purred, "Now shed your armor and come here. I think I'd like to hold you tonight."

x - X - x

Danarius kept two whips in his office. One was a cat o'nine, a fairly standard punishment tool. A worn wood rod wrapped in leather that knotted at the end and then was sliced into several smaller strips. It stung the same no matter how worn it was, though it was occasionally replaced with one that bore stiff, fresh leather.

The other was a bullwhip, and it would be easy to assume that the whip with only one tail was kinder, but that would be a foolish assumption. At the end of the tail was a gold claw. Well, the slaves assumed it was gold. Nobody was ever facing it when it was out. It was as though he had cut off an eagle's toe at the first knuckle. It tore through flesh like a blade through paper, leaving deep gashes in it's wake.

It also made an unearthly hissing sound when it struck flesh, leaving Fenris to assume that Danarius dipped it in something before he used it.

Fenris, of course, had never even seen it. Danarius sent him to wait in the hallway when he had to use it, and he was left with the screams and cries of whatever poor soul was in there with him.

A year had passed since Jamael's death. Sometimes the image of the swollen, discolored face still made Fenris wake up in a cold sweat. If possible, he grew further away from the other slaves since then. Danarius no longer allowed him to dine in the servant's wing. He was to stay by Danarius' side at all times, even if it meant eating on the floor while guests were over. The few occasions where Fenris was sent away included especially confidential meetings (usually with other Magisters), evenings when he and his wife tried to consummate, and moments like these.

Whoosh-CRACK-hiss, and in the center of it all an ear-splitting cry that echoed through the hallways while the hiss gradually fizzled out.

"I said COUNT!" Came Danarius' voice, echoing in the same voice.

The slave girl sniffled, and in a weak, shaky voice, choked, "O-one."

Whoosh-CRACK-hiss. Fenris flinched. She didn't cry out this time.

"Two."

Whoosh-CRACK-hiss. Her cry was broken. Barely a sound audible above the whip's contact.

"... three."

Fenris closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to steady himself. He pressed his back against the wall. He counted the seconds in his head.

one ... two ... three ... four ...

If enough time passed that meant it was over.

five ... six ... seven

Whoosh-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK

Fenris put his hand over his mouth, listening to the stretched-out hiss so intently that he nearly missed Danarius' footsteps approaching. Danarius burst through the door and Fenris immediately straightened his stance, eyes open and forward. Icy eyes glanced at Fenris, then at the whip in his hands. He ran his fingers along the thinnest portion of the letter, sighing when he came back with a streak of blood on his hand.

"Get her out of my office." He commanded, "I'll find you when I need you again."

He was gone without another word, leaving the door open behind him. Fenris dared a glance inside, where the elven slave was crumpled in a limp heap on the floor. Six wicked, bleeding marks shone boldly on her upturned back.

Her face was pale. Wide eyes stared into space. She didn't move when Fenris knelt beside her. She was shaking, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"Can you walk?" Fenris asked.

She didn't respond. Fenris shook her shoulder.

"Come on, let's get you out of here." He continued.

She shook her head and turned her face towards the floor.

"If you don't leave he'll whip you again when he returns."

"Let him. Let me die." She choked, squeezing her eyes shut and letting her tears drip onto the marble tiles.

"You don't mean that."

"I do!" She was sobbing now, a hiccup on every breath. With a sigh, Fenris lifted her up by her shoulders.

He managed to hoist her over one shoulder so that her back was in the air, her arm wrapped across his other shoulder. In the kitchens, Seri was rifling through cupboards and emerged as soon as he entered, her face dropping.

"Maker, she must be bad if he sent you." Seri sighed, "Set her on the cot. I'll put the water on."

Unlike the other slaves, Seri had a tiny corner of the pantry to herself. All the better to wake up early to start breakfast, or to tend to the master's whims should he find himself hungry at night. It served double duty as the closest things the slaves had to a sick room.

As gently as possible, Fenris lowered her onto the cot, careful to lay her on her side. She winced as her weight left his shoulder.

"I apologize." He pulled up a crate and sat next to her.

Her eye were bloodshot. She replied with a sniffle, "Should've left me to die."

"To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the maker."

"I don't care!" She shouted, shakily propping herself up on one elbow, "I want out of this mess! I wanna be free! I don't care how I do it!"

Fenris felt the color drain from his cheeks. If ever there was a word that earned a slave six lashings, that was it. If anything that was generous. Some slaves had fingers and toes cut off for less.

He swallowed a lump in his throat, and chose his next words very carefully, "If you say things like that ... you'll be punished again."

"Oh what do you care? You don't even know me." She sniffled and flopped onto her stomach, chin buried in the pillow.

"What is your name then?"

Hugging the pillow close to her, she looked at him over the fabric. He held out his hand.

She wiped off her eyes, and shook his hand.

"M'name's Deveri." She said, her voice muffled, "I've heard Master call you Fenris."

"Yes."

"I wasn't always a slave, y'know. M'parents sold me to get out of debt. I don't care 'bout them, but I hate our Master."

Seri's voice popped in along with a pot of water in her arms, "As slaves go, we're actually quite lucky. We could be serving one of those magisters who cuts up every slave for experiments. At least under Master Danarius we get three hots and a cot. Decent food, too. Not rotten leftovers or table scraps."

She pressed a damp rag into Deveri's back, earning a hiss in response.

Fenris opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something left unsaid between them, and he couldn’t put his finger on what. Seri poked his arm.

“You’d best get back to the master before he misses you.” She said.

Fenris never hesitated on an order. He immediately stood and left, barely catching Seri snapping, “Hush” while Deveri quietly sobbed.

Two weeks later he was fetching a bottle of wine from the cellar when he ran into Seri again. Burn-striped hands threw a glob of bread dough on the counter and started kneading deep caverns into it.

“Seri,” He began, pausing at the door to the cellar.

“Hm? What you need? You hurt?”

“No, I was ...” He shuffled his feet, eyes on the ground, “I was just wondering how Deveri was doing.”

“Heard the news, eh? I’m afraid she didn’t make it.”

His heart jumped to his throat. He looked up to see her kneading the bread as though she’d said nothing.

“What?” He breathed, “The whipping was harsh but … did her back get infected?”

Seri wiped her hands on her apron, “Her back was healing fine, she cut her wrists. That’s what did her in. Sorry I thought you heard.”

His jaw hung slack. He could feel the jolt from his heart spreading through his whole chest. He didn’t move until Seri set her hand on his arm and squeezed.

“Sorry, dear.” She said, “She did ask me to give you this.”

She pressed a purple ribbon into his hand.

“She says it’s from before she was a slave.” She continued, “Now you’d best get the master his wine. You know which one he likes.”

She went back to kneading the dough, and Fenris was still staring at the ribbon in his hand.

“To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the maker.” he muttered.

“I don’t think that helped her much, dear. It’s good if it works for you, but it ain’t for everyone.”

x – X – x

The sun rose through the fog in Par Vollen and cast a gradient smear of blue, pink, orange, and purple every morning. It probably rose like this every morning, but few were so special as this one.

Fenris was bundled up in a knitted sweater and a scarf, both borrowed from the Fog Warriors. “Borrowed” was a loose term here, as they had thrust the items into his hands the first night they saw him shivering. Danarius never cared if he was cold. He was used to toughing it out.

A lot had been happening that he wasn’t used to.

When Danarius had been forced to evacuate Par Vollen, there wasn’t enough room for his beloved bodyguard. Fenris was left behind, alone for the first time he could ever remember, and was immediately taken by the very same soldiers who’d attacked and forced the evacuation in the first place.

He thought he’d be killed. Then he thought he’d be taken prisoner. More and more, though, it seemed like he was just staying here, and he liked it well enough he supposed. One morning he awoke in a panic, seeing that the sun was already set low in the sky and the others were already working. Oversleeping was not a luxury he was allowed in Danarius’ house.

Waking up early was nice, too. Never before had he perched on a hillside to watch the sunrise, simply because he wanted to. The Fog Warriors’ tents were to his back, and a few were already rising to greet the morning.

Gundat was a tal vashoth who had stripes of scars on both arms and short, curled horns. His jaw was crooked and so was his smile as he walked past Fenris while hiking up the hill.

“What are you doing up so early?” He asked.

Fenris shrank back, and Gundat knelt, signaling him to stop, “Hey, hey, don’t be like that, you’re not in trouble. I was just curious is all.”

Fenris didn’t look up, and muttered, “Watching the sunrise.”

Gundat gave him a tired smile and patted his shoulder, “That’s good, Fenris. That’s good. You should enjoy that stuff if you can.”

Gundat’s eyes were sunken in, dark circles lining them and an underlying exhaustion that he’d seen so many times before, in slaves worked to the bone for days without rest. Words got stuck in his throat while Gundat rose. He wanted to say something, but he wasn’t permitted.

Except Danarius wasn’t here, and nobody here ever stopped him from speaking. He watched Gundat walk away, and realized that he didn’t have to stay on the hill. There were a lot of sunrises, but there was only one Gundat.

He stood up, and asked, “Are you alright?”

Gundat stopped, “I’m fine. Just tired. I don’t really sleep at night, that’s why I take the night patrol.”

“You look so ...” Tired? Lifeless? Too calm to be normal?

"Fenris," Gundat set a hand on his shoulder, making him flinch, "You're on your own since your master left you here, right? You seem happy. You get to be happy. Treasure that. Not everyone has it."

Gundar turned again. Fenris watched him until he reached the top of the hill. His horns had just started to disappear over the curve when Fenris sprinted.

"Gundar!"

The tal-vashoth in question met Fenris as right as he caught up to him.

"I get to choose what I do every day, right?"

"Of course."

"Then I want to spend today with you."

Gundar huffed a laugh, "Why? You have better things to do. Watch the sunrise more. Be happy."

"I'll be happier watch...if you...I'll be happy..." Fenris stammered.

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe through his nose. He felt a teardrop run down his cheek, and sniffled.

Gundar brushed the tear away with his thumb.

Fenris knew what was happening. The Fog Warriors were masters of patience. Gundar was waiting for Fenris to continue, and would wait until the sun rose tomorrow if need be.

Finally, he whispered, "To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker."

Gundar shrugged, "Sorry, I don't believe in the Maker. It's fine if that works for you, though."

"I...I don't want you to hurt yourself..." He choked, wiping his eyes with the sweaters' sleeve, "Please...if it helps...can I spend the day with you? Please...that would make me happy."

Gundar smiled, and although it was an exhausted, heavy smile, there was still a genuine sparkle behind his eyes.

"Alright, Fenris. If it makes you happy."

Fortunately, Gundar wasn't with Fenris when Danarius gave him the order to kill.

Unfortunately, Fenris would never be able to face Gundar again.

x - X - x

It was ten years before Fenris again heard the word 'suicide' delicately danced around.

He was in the hanged man like he had been so many other nights, though this time perhaps he'd had a bit too much to drink. He was finding a lot of amusement in teasing the others about how easy it was to read their tells. He'd attended enough high-class Tevinter parties as Danarius' bodyguard, after all. When you're not allowed to talk, you spend a lot of time listening.

"Looks like I have all of Hawkes coins~" He hummed, dropping a handful into a stack and delighting in the clink clink clink they made as they fell.

"Oh, I'm not out of this game yet. Ante up." Hawke pulled a coin purse out of her pocket and dropped it on the table. She gained a spark to her eye, one which Fenris had seen so many times. It meant she'd been taunted enough to push forward no matter how stupid it made her.

Not that it was hard to get her to that point.

"What's it mean when all the cards are different, again?" Merril asked.

Isabella answered, "It means Anders should have given me his hand back by now."

The mage in question had his head resting on his fist, cards lazily propped up with a limp hand. Isabella reached over and snatched them from him. Anders startled awake with a yelp that drew every eye at the table in his direction.

"You alright, Blondie?" Varric asked.

Anders rubbed his eyes and yawned, "Must have been one of Isabella's anecdotes. I think you should stick to the storytelling, Varric."

Isabella leafed the cards together, rolled her eyes, and passed the deck to Merril to cut. "Ha ha, very funny. Are you in this hand or are you going to doze off again?"

"Well as much as I love losing my life savings to Fenris, I can't be much fun when I'm like this." Anders pushed away from the table, leaving right as Isabella started dealing cards.

"What's gotten into him?" Hawke asked, jerking her head at the door.

Merril arranged the cards in her hand as she answered, "Maybe there's another outbreak in Dark Town. You know how he doesn't let himself sleep when the clinic is full."

Varric shook his head, "Nah, Hawke's right. He's been weird lately. Well, weirder than usual. You know the other day he tried to give me this pillow that his mom made. He said something about wanting me to have it. Don't get me wrong, we're close. He's a good friend. It just seems like the kind of thing you'd save for your brother or something, you know?"

Fenris felt a familiar jolt in his chest, the kind that made him want to stand up and follow Anders. He looked at his cards and couldn't focus on them. They were all red, which meant something, but words escaped him. He didn't want to be here. Hawke said something, and he didn't hear a word of it.

"I fold." He said, setting his cards down.

"Come on, don't be like that. You haven't even discarded anything yet." Isabella whined.

Fenris was already shoveling coins into his coinpurse, "Apologies. I remembered there was something I have to do." There wasn't a lot of time. Anders could already be out of sight by now. He'd only dug a trench into the pile of coins.

"Keep the rest for drinks." He added, straitening up. With a quick wave, he was out of the Hanged Man and into the seaside air.

Most of Kirkwall was protected from the wind by its own walls and buildings, so the chill was there but the moisture from the water's surface didn't settle in until early morning. Fenris could see his breath in the air. It was cold but not unbearably chilly, though it would be in a few hours. He looked left and right and was met only with empty streets.

His feet flew down the stairs that led to dark town. The clinic was the only place he could think to look. To his surprise the door was unlocked. He burst into an empty room. Looking wildly around revealed only empty beds and medicine shelves, with Anders' desk shoved off to one side.

"Shit." Fenris mumbled.

At the desk, there were piles and piles of papers all bearing Anders' handwriting. Perhaps he could have looked for a sign, a plan, a hint, anything if not for the fact that his reading lessons with Hawke had barely finished covering the alphabet. He was cursing - both mentally and literally - the fact that slaves weren't permitted to read, when the door by the desk creaked and Anders stepped out of his bedroom.

"Fenris?" Anders said. His hair hung loose and framed his face. His eyes were wide open, red, and shaded with dark circles underneath. "What are you doing here? Are you hurt?"

That was an excellent question, and it made Fenris freeze. Because really, what was he doing here?

For a brief second, he considered breaking his own arm. Then he’d have a reason to be here.

No, that would be silly.

Fenris cleared his throat, "You seemed troubled. I thought you could use some company."

"It's late. I'm surprised you care. I thought you hated me."

Fenris sighed. Maker, why was he making this so hard?

"No I don't hate you," He groaned, "I just think you're a misguided fool."

"And? If you're here to argue in favor of the Templar order imprisoning mages for the crime of being-"

"Maker, can we not talk about mages and Templars for one night?" Fenris snapped, "We can talk about something else! Literally anything else!"

Anders blinked, taken aback. There was silence for a second while the gears turned in Anders' head.

"Alright," Anders concluded, "What do you want to talk about?"

Which was another excellent question.

"Walk with me." Fenris decided. Because if they were walking, at the very least, he had something to do while he was thinking of what to say. And thankfully without question or comment, Anders took his staff and followed Fenris.

They left dark town, largely because dark town was a bad place to be when it was dark. Low town wasn't much better, and as they passed the Hanged Man they could hear Hawke loudly demanding another round of drinks. Their friends were great company, but crowds weren't needed right now.

"The sky's clear tonight." Anders said, "If it weren't for the buildings you could see the stars."

Which gave Fenris an excellent idea.

"Do you want to?"

"Want to what?"

"See the stars?"

"... I guess?"

They cut through high town to get to the abandoned manor Fenris claimed as his own. On the top floor in one of the guest bedrooms, a portion of the roof had collapsed and the accompanying chimney had crumbled into a slope of broken cobblestone. Moonlight was shining in beams through the hole when they entered. Fenris climbed up first, and offered his hand to help Anders up.

It was a sight to behold.

Kirwall stretched for miles from one end to the other, but as high up as they were, they could see the ocean in the distance as well as the gallows and every side of the wall that surrounded the city. Above them was a velvet blanket coated with dots of light that drew the eyes heaven bound. The ground and the sky fought for attention here. One a feat of man, the other a feat of the divine.

"It's beautiful." Anders breathed, "How long have you known about this spot?"

"I found it not long after I moved into the mansion." Fenris sat down next to a handful of empty wine bottles and dirty plates, "Sometimes I come up here to think."

"That's a laughable thought. Most nights I'd prefer to stay out of my own head." Anders sat down next to Fenris, "So, what was it you wanted to talk about."

"I don't know. Something. Anything. The stars?"

So they talked about the stars.

The constellations were different between the Marches and Tevinter, though they found a small handful had the same names. They both had a hobby of stargazing, it seemed. And when they grew bored of the stars, they watched the town below, and found they both enjoyed people watching as well. It seemed they had a lot in common, so long as they weren't talking about mages or Templars. They watched drunks stumble home and graveyard workers shuffle around on the streets. They swatted bugs and talked about how annoying mosquitoes and flies were. They talked about bugs that they didn't find annoying. They talked until the sky grew pale with morning twilight.

Anders had his arms crossed to hold in his warmth, his legs drawn up to his chest. They'd been silent the past few minutes, occupied with watching a gray-haired human man. He was on a long walk that started at the docks and went to low town, through through the market place, and stopped for a rest on the chantry steps, completely unaware that he was being watched. "Thank you, Fenris." He said, "I suppose I did need some company."

Fenris nodded, and a long silence stretched between them.

"You know ..." Anders continued, "I was considering doing something incredibly stupid tonight, and I'm glad I didn't do it now."

"I know."

Anders wouldn't meet Fenris' face. Instead his cheeks flushed, and he looked to the ground.

"'To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker'." Fenris continued, "But you already knew that, and the Maker isn't going to stop you. I am. Because nobody ever says the word 'suicide' until it's already a regret. And if I had to choose I'd rather abolish that sin than the sin of being a mage."

Anders drew his knees closer to his chest and buried his chin in them. A breeze sent a chill all the way to his bones. He flinched when Fenris' hands brushed his skin. Gentle, patient hands pulled his bangs back into their usual ponytail.

When Fenris moved away and returned to his seat, Anders dared to look up again, and glimpsed a flash of purple fabric behind him. A ribbon.

"Slaves don't have any possessions, strictly speaking." Fenris said, "I've had that in my pocket for more than 15 years. I expect it back. Not from Varric, not from Hawke, but from you. So if you find no other reason to live, you can know I'll be expecting to get that ribbon back. It means a lot to me."

Anders wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled. Fenris returned to watching the skyline. Scooting a little closer, Anders leaned on him, and they watched the sunrise together.

#typhon writes #long post #dragon age #dragon age 2 #fenders #fanfic #fanfiction #tw #suicide #self harm #death #dead things #angst #fenris #anders

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icypantherwrites · 5 years

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Just a quick request for some advice, I've noticed you seem to be very good at promoting your works, requesting feedback and actually getting some, and reposting on Tumblr and such. Now admittedly, you are an awesome author and I pretty much love everything you write, but I have to think your promotion abilities are part of what brings you hits, kudos, likes, and feedback. Do you have any advice on the best ways to promote my fanfiction, build a fanbase and short of begging, get more comments?

Self-promotion and marketing definitely are a large part of my fanbase. I’ve seen it go both ways; amazing writers and fics that don’t have much attention and not-so-great ones that have huge followings because of social media presence of the author. So while having quality stories is still a large part of it, so too is marketing.

My background is not actually in marketing but journalism, but I did run a number of social media pages and have always been a very big people-person and engager, which I’ve applied to pretty much all aspects of my life. One of my favorite slogans I’ve learned from retail (and marketing) is you can’t sell what’s not out. i.e., if you don’t present your product you can’t expect to have any customers (or in this case readers).

In my case, I’m a very prolific author, meaning I have a lot of stories under my name and I’ve been fortunate that a couple of those have become bigger name ones in this fandom for extra exposure. The more you have, obviously the more you will “sell” and therefore, generally, the more exposure you’ll get and then comments (comments though are a fickle beast and it really really varies).

I’m borrowing some of the advice from a previous post (you can always search my blog with “#writing advice” for more things) but these would be a couple of strategies I would recommend you try out :) Not all of them may be applicable to you either, as all authors write at different paces and volumes and have different time constraints, but maybe something in here will help ;)

1. Have an update schedule! This one is really important. Whether that means you pre-write the entire fic or you buckle down and commit to a regular posting (which is how Color was for me for the first couple months until I pre-wrote enough to kick back and relax a bit xD) be it weekly or bi weekly or every two weeks (the other bi weekly? Such a weird word) you do that.

When you get people on a schedule and they are more likely to come back and comment with something other than the dreaded “update soon!” because they know you are going to update soon and when exactly that is. Give readers something to plan and look forward to, just like a favorite TV show that airs weekly.

2. Respond to comments. Whether you write giant-ass paragraph responses or even a simple “thank you ♥” it goes a long way. I know I always am more inclined to really keep up on a fic where the author has shown to appreciate their readers (although if I read your fic and like it I will comment regardless ♥). I know for me right now I have stopped doing this as it just got... draining for me, to respond in detail and never see those readers again and it felt hurtful to me. But I still make a point to say thank you in the author’s notes and if anyone has a question I do try to answer that too.

3. Read other authors’ works you enjoy but do not self-promote. Please don’t do that. I hate it when I see that and it makes me even less inclined to check out a fic (I’m already very picky with what I read and don’t read much at all). By all means comment on the fic and be like “I headcanon Keith is a good cook too!” because those personal details are lovely and maybe that’ll inspire that other author to click on your profile to see if you’ve got a fic with such a theme to go read.

But otherwise, keep your comments about their fic (or your reaction to it) and show your excitement and passion for that fic. Bookmark too (and Ao3 lets you add comments; you can bet if I see a nice comment on a bookmark tag I’m clicking on that author to see a; what else they’ve bookmarked and b; if they’ve written anything). Well written and passionate comments tell a lot about a person and if they can write a nice review they likely can write a nice fic and could be worth an extra click to see their profile. That is indeed how I’ve found several authors and fics I now read :)

4. Chapter length. This I have noticed over time but shorter chapters (for me around 3k-4k) tend to get more comments than longer ones because people have “more time” upon finishing to leave a comment. It doesn’t always work but it is something I’ve witnessed on more than one occasion. That said, don’t write a chapter of only 1k words and think they’ll pour in because it’s short. Leading on to…

5. Whatever your chapter is, make sure it has content that people will want to respond to. Not every chapter has to have explosions and action and intense heart-to-hearts, but every chapter should have something memorable. Filler chapters are unavoidable, especially in longer fics, but do what you can to make them not quite so “blah” and give them some heart.

6. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, meaning write multiple things (although perhaps not as much as me ^^;). Having a mix of a longer running chapter fic (for those “episodes” back in bullet point one) to keep people coming back and having a few shorter fics (be one-shots, two-shots, or shorter chaptered fics) to draw in new people and help you out when you get stuck on your other fic is invaluable. I definitely expanded my audience and brought in new readers that gave me little boosts of support when I started publishing one-shots semi-regularly.

7. Don’t be afraid to self-promote on your blog. Reblog your works, pull out snippets to share, reblog those too if you don’t get many notes. I don’t really get how Tumblr’s tag system works, but tag your first few tags with the biggest ones that those browsing might stumble across. Ao3 does let you link to your Tumblr so long as you aren’t advertising commissions or patreon or the like in said blurb so make sure you link to your tumblr too to get cross-traffic.

8. Post sneak content on your blog; previews and snippets. Get people excited about the work before you post it.

9. I don’t know how reasonable this is for most, but holding little games or contests can really up the engagement. Starting out, doing something like a bingo card prompt event could be one to consider; the “prize” is writing the prompt which gets you both more content, therefore more eyeballs on said content, and hopefully a very grateful fan who will leave you a nice comment and reblog it for their page.

10. I like ending on this number. Um, oh, okay! This is both great for writing experience, content and engagement! If you see a piece of fanart you like that you feel compelled to write a bit for, do so and reblog it! Anyone who clicks on that art will see your reblog of it and maybe, maybe, the original artist will reblog your selection too! Not just artists either, but there are lots of “prompt” type posts I see that you could do that for as well.

AO3 | Ko-Fi | Patreon | Discord

#icyanswers #writing advice #marketing #advice #writing #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction advice #tumblr advice #tumblr marketing #marketing yourself

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rukafais · 5 years

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Petrichor

A/N: (For @atara-08-art/atara-08 (tumblr will only let me ping one of your blogs??), who is a wonderful inspiration, an amazingly atmospheric artist and a dedicated lore researcher who spent an amazing amount of time putting together a ton of notes on Hallownest’s linguistics - and also puts up with English to communicate with the English-speaking side of fandom. )

[ao3 mirror for easier reading] In endless sleep, Lurien dreams of the life and world he left behind.

“Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.”

W. S. Merwin, “Separation”

He is one of three, seal upon the Vessel. Life willingly given in service, to sleep. For a city’s protection, for a king beloved.

He has always been a good servant. He has always been devoted. He has lived for the city, for the King; even before he gave himself up without hesitation, gladly offered everything he was and ever would be, his life already belonged to it. It was only a matter of time, to be asked for and to answer.

He was a perfect choice. Singlemindedly devoted, wholeheartedly loyal.

He should not dream. He knows this. It could compromise the Seal, and worse, the Vessel itself, who may even now hear the Dreamers’ thoughts.

He should not dream, nor lose himself in memory, nor think of anything but his duty.

Lurien the Watcher gives all and leaves nothing for himself.

Lurien, without title, without any home but Hallownest, aches for the sound of rain.

They are fragments. They are indulgences.

He holds them close to the heart, one of the few things he has been allowed to keep in the depths of this vast and endless sleep.

It is the sound - the sound that pounds endlessly against the glass in his memories, that has soothed his worries and lulled him to slumber so many times - that creeps into the too-bright landscape of the dream first.

The rain is unceasing. It always pours here; it shapes the world, and everything in it. It beats down stone and reshapes it; it falls down curves of metal, each droplet a new and ringing note.

Few things move him, it’s said. He hears them whisper in the streets, in the palace; the Watcher, cold and unfeeling, the impartial observer with a heart of stone and steel. A sentinel whose only love is the King himself, they say. Parents use him as a threat against their children, if they are unruly or disobedient; I’ll send you to the spire, and you’ll never return.

Only in the silence of his spire does he escape it, if escape is truly the right word.

He has never particularly cared for the opinions of other bugs, nor what they think of him - only that they leave him be, and do not impede his actions. He acts for their own good, as the King acts for Hallownest’s future; it is not required that he is loved.

He adjusts the telescope, and paints in silence. The scratch of brush on canvas is the only sound in the room, aside from the constant rain.

Under his paintbrush, colours smear and blur, blending together until they become shapes and backdrops, a silhouette of the city’s buildings viewed through the rainswept glass of a curved lens.

He raises his head to look at the gallery he’s created. Pictures of rain-rinsed streets, sketches of guards and citizens with colourful umbrellas or withstanding the downpour. Portraits of those who found the patience to pose and model for his meticulous, self-indulgent hobby.

He feels a soft swell of quiet pride.

The rain continues to fall.

The dream is unmoved by his memories.

It is bright and dry and hot, and full of an alien, scorching light. Nothing like the gentle light of the lumafly lamps, or the pale light of his beloved king. No rain has ever touched this sky, no darkness could survive here save the endless abyss of the Vessel.

Eyes closed against those painful rays, he recalls the touch of chill glass at his fingertips, the smooth metal of a balcony railing. The sound of water dripping.

In his head, it rains.

In his head, there is a time almost forgotten, distant. He has almost lost it.

Almost.

He remembers--

He remembers the storm rolling in, the grey sky, the dark clouds. He remembers the cold wind biting at his exposed shell, scraping at his face.

(He had no mask, then.)

He remembers shivering, breathing hard, not out of fear or even entirely out of cold, but a kind of excitement.

A cloak was dropped and bundled around his shoulders, around his slight, small form; too big to be made for him. Comforting all the same. Warm and soft and heavy, a protection against the chill.

Someone’s presence at his back, someone’s hands on his shoulders. A quiet voice from a past so far away that the words are forgotten and only the tone remains.

Thunder roars, high above. The rain comes hard and fast, the drumming of it filling his entire world. The wind howls.

He remembers the high sound of what must be his own voice raised in laughter.

Even that is a stranger to him.

--so little, in the end. Memories of Hallownest, that ageless kingdom, have buried what little remained.

He feels no regrets. So little of his past, before the kingdom, was worth regarding.

In his head he shapes the almost-forgotten storm, reconciles it with that endless downpour from the city he so loves. From his memories he spins the dark, cold spire, whose dry and chilly rooms are so unlike this radiant, uncomfortable heat.

It becomes his shield.

The Light imprisoned screams from the Vessel’s heart and demands worship. Demands remembrance, demands release. Heat radiates in pulses, in waves, and in it he hears that clamouring voice that scratched at his dreams, even now rings in his head.

(Lurien the Watcher looks impassively from his spire at the burning sea below, and though the light claws and rams against the windows he remembers with exacting, meticulous clarity, there is no crack and no stain upon the glass. His telescope is not marred nor twisted or melted by the heat; his paintings do not fade or dry in the presence of the sun.

No beam of light touches the floors here. For the love of the King, for the love of his city, he creates an impenetrable fortress to keep it safe. He becomes it.

His heart is unwavering, unmovable, focused. He traps the light with his own forgetfulness, his own refusal to consider that outside influence.

So it is, and so it always shall be.

If he regrets anything, it is --)

“This is the price to keep Hallownest safe,” the Pale King says, without inflection or emotion. The same unwavering conviction, the same calm, he has always had. “To ensure that it will always stand.”

(The same unerring will that had captured Lurien so intensely, and never let him go.)

Lurien stands at the walkway, a respectful distance from his King, and looks down into darkness.

The cost, the price. Paid with a mechanical precision, an exacting calculation.

To protect the city, to protect its inhabitants, to protect the kingdom, it should be done. It must be done. It must be done.

The discard of failures, until the perfect vessel is found.

(The slaughter of children, until the perfect one is born.)

He has long since stopped asking how the Pale King bears the weight of his designs. More than anything, he understands this -

the Pale King either holds it so well that no trace of his true feelings remains, or he does not consider it a weight at all.

(He does not know which he would prefer, or even if the preference would make things less terrible.

But then, is that not why he follows him? For that conviction, for that light that never wavers.

No matter how stained and bloodied the price, the Pale King pays it. All for Hallownest’s sake.

Is that not honorable, in its own way?)

He stands at the walkway and observes his King at work, and understands why he is here.

As the Watcher, he bears witness to what lies hidden beneath the Palace, beneath the City itself. That death, that darkness, that price paid in void that cries like the living and stains like blood.

The Pale King watches as the machines he has created slaughter yet another batch of failures.

The discarded vessels (the dying children) fall so far into the abyss that he doesn’t hear them hit the ground.

“We will seal this place, once the Vessel is born,” he says. “There is no need for anyone else to witness such shameful failures.”

Lurien lets no emotion show in his voice.

“It will be as you wish.”

He feels the grip of guilt, of pain, a vice that twists his heart in his chest.

There is no rain to soothe him here.

Only that crushing, deafening silence.

-- if he regrets anything, it is that final, ultimate price paid.

The cost that -- even now -- is bound in chains and holds their bright nightmare at bay, beating unbearably where a heart should be.

But the Seals must hold. For King beloved, for city protected, they must hold.

He does not waver. He cannot. The price has already been paid; to try and release it now would waste everything they had worked for.

He has no illusions that his guilt somehow absolves him of the situation, or washes his hands of those dark stains;

he witnessed, he watched, and he did nothing.

If the day comes when the Seals are broken, though he hopes it will not come, though he hopes seal and prison will do what they were meant to do and hold forever and preserve forever--

--he will accept the judgement.

Lurien the Watcher dreams of a long-lost spire under endless rain, and does not wake, and does not let that light escape. He bends himself to his duty with a will of steel.

(Lurien, who came to a kingdom long ago and left his past and name behind, nurses the pain of guilt that never fades and wonders if it was worth the price.)

#hollow knight #lurien #lurien the watcher #togetherslapping words

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impracticaldemon · 5 years

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Hijikata’s Holiday

by impracticaldemon for @nollatooru ~ from Your HakuSanta

fandom: Hakuouki words: 1500 (laugh track)(oops, no) ~ 5100 words read also on: AO3 | FFN [added December 27, 2018]

Author’s Note: This story is intended to take place in the winter after my story Do As I Say (also for nollatooru, so this isn’t just a shameless self-reference). I was thinking December 1865, which could work; however, although Itou and his faction joined the Shinsengumi in late 1864, they are not mentioned in this story. The word count was already out of hand with the original cast alone. Nollatooru requested Hijikata, HijiChi, Okita & cats, or anyone & cats. I’ve tried to deliver. Posted first on tumblr!

tags: @shell-senji @eliz1369 @rainylune @nalufever @petri808 @hidetheremote @resshiiram @kondo-hijikata @hakuyamazakisensei @flower-dragon @shibuemiyuu @writer-appreciation @sabinasanfanfic @eheartangel @hakuokisecretsanta2018

Hijikata’s Holiday

It started with an absence of noise. Still half-asleep, Hijikata turned puzzled eyes on the window screen. How odd. Judging by the light filtering through the thick paper, it was past dawn—in fact, it was past his usual time to get up. Today was a festival day, but that usually meant more of a clatter, not less. There wouldn't be captains and sub-officers nursing hangovers until tomorrow.

He sat up reluctantly. Winter in Kyoto was cold, and he felt no inclination to leave the warmth of his futon to go find out what could account for the strange silence. Given the time, he'd probably missed his chance to write, which dimmed what little enthusiasm he had for facing the chill weather, today's major and minor headaches—Sōji usually accounting for both—and the dinner meeting he had with the new Sub-Comptroller of Kyoto to discuss the Shinsengumi's urgent need for extra rations over the winter months.

It took several moments to register that the room wasn't cold. In fact, it was quite pleasant, if not precisely warm. A glance at the brazier told him that somebody had tended it during the night. The fact that he hadn't woken was worrisome, but he wasn't altogether surprised. He'd recognized the tea that Chizuru had brought him last night as Sannan's 'special' blend, which meant that it was laced with soporific. He would have objected, but the girl had poured it with a soft smile, and murmured that "Kondō-san sent his best regards, and would Hijikata-san please rest well this evening." The last time he'd refused the evil brew, Kondō had brought it himself, tricked him into drinking it, and then refused to let him work late for a week straight. (1)

A quick—and slightly apprehensive—look around the room gave him a modicum of reassurance that although somebody had been in his room, it was more likely Saitō than Sōji. He'd like to think that he'd have woken for anyone less familiar, or less soft-footed. The whole thing was idiotic anyway—what kind of military force gave their Vice Commander a sleeping draught?

Huh. He'd misplaced his inkstone yesterday, but now it was sitting on his desk. And... there was a small bowl containing an evergreen sprig and something leafy with red berries. He doubted—really doubted—that the arrangement was Saitō's. Not that the art of flower arrangement was necessarily beyond Saitō, but there was an air of subdued festivity about it... if there was such a thing. He refused to accept even the possibility that Sōji might have made it for him. For Kondō maybe. If he lost a bet. And even then, he'd cut the greenery with his sword.

It was quite a quite an attractive grouping, actually—

The enduring fir supports the crimson berry that braves winter's chill.

He was out of bed and reaching for his writing materials before he realized it. Well, damn. He glanced again at the window. Nobody had come for him yet—or been sent by Sannan, in a fit of hypocritical concern. The man had once told Yukimura to wake him, on the pretext that he was late for breakfast. He'd been dressing when she'd arrived, which had annoyed him and flustered the hell out of her. Although... her comments to herself in the immediate aftermath had been pretty funny, poor kid. Yeah, but you didn't mind the admiration, did you? He had found it very... honest... after the careful flattery of the Shimabara geisha, and the half-fearful simpering of the city girls.

Hijikata couldn't see, and would have denied, the reminiscent smile that hovered on his lips. Meanwhile, he had drawn his writing book from his desk, and was quickly preparing ink in the ceramic tray. Minutes passed, while he inscribed his new haiku. Satisfied, he set aside his materials, replaced the book under the patrol log kept on top in the (so far utterly vain) hope of keeping his hobby from prying eyes, and took out fresh linen and his carefully folded hakama.

He was half-way through changing when there was a polite "Shitsureisimasu, Hijikata-san, Yukimura desu," at the door. (2) For one, wild moment, he was overwhelmed with déjà vu, and some part of him contemplated not saying anything just to see what would happen. Happily—probably—the moment passed. A second, soft, "Hijikata-san?" got him out of his fugue.

"Just a moment, Yukimura." Then, impelled by the gods knew what: "Unless you'd prefer to come in while I'm dressing?"

There was a pause—the kind of pause that you can hear—and finally, "I will wait, Hijikata-san."

Unlike last time, there was a murmur of conversation, and he realized that somebody—presumably one of the captains, was with Yukimura. Annoyingly, that brought a touch of heat to his cheeks, but it faded quickly, and he stalked over to the door and slid it open with a snap.

It turned out that Yukimura had been expecting him to call her in. She was standing just outside the door, a tray with tea and breakfast—both still miraculously hot and steaming—clasped tightly in both hands. Thanks to her lack of inches, and his expectation that she'd be farther from the door, he saw Saitō before seeing Yukimura. …Not only Saitō. Yamazaki was there as well. They stood behind Yukimura on the engawa, looking for all the world like retainers to some under-dressed, underfed princeling.

"Saitō? Ohayo, Yukimura, Yamazaki."

Fortunately, Saitō didn't seem to mind, or care, that he'd been missed from Hijikata's "good morning." Indeed, Hijikata rarely found Saitō's lack of expression to be off-putting; most of the time he found it a welcome calm in the daily drama that running the Shinsengumi entailed.

"Ohayogozaimasu, Fukuchō. I will come in with Yukimura, if I may."

Hijikata stepped out of the way, but his gaze was irresistibly drawn to the garden beyond the wooden walkway. There was a fine layer of snow on everything, but it lay completely undisturbed, with the exception of the footprints of—presumably—his companions. He observed that Yamazaki had taken up a position not far from his door, but the whole morning was beginning to take on such a surreal aspect that he couldn't quite bring himself to ask about it just yet.

Once the men were seated opposite each other, and Yukimura had set down his breakfast tray—he felt his eyes widen a little at the carefully-prepared meal—Saitō began his report. Not that it was precisely a report, it was just that Saitō made everything sound like a report. He was a first-rate swordsman, and an excellent officer, but he couldn't tell an interesting story to save his life. Nagakura swore that he loosened up when he was talking to inanimate objects, but that only happened when he was very drunk, and Hijikata was rarely around for that kind of serious drinking these days.

"The Commander was concerned by your absence at dinner, Vice Commander. As you requested, I told him that you were speaking with officials at the Comptroller's office in order to set up a meeting to discuss the current shortage of rations."

"Did you remind him that the last load of rice we received was not only short-weighted, but full of freaking weevils?! We had to toss out four bags, and decontaminate the kitchen storage area!"

"Commander Kondō remembered the incident, Vice Commander."

"Excuse me, Hijikata-san—your tea. Saitō-san—your tea."

Hijikata automatically thanked Yukimura for filling his cup, then felt his brows contract inward—well, further inward—when he saw her look furtively at Saitō, who clearly blinked in return. It reminded him to pursue his original question, once he'd wrested back control of the conversation.

"You flirting with Yukimura now, Saitō? Didn't expect it from you."

"No, Vice Commander." Saitō left it at that, but Yukimura reddened and leapt at the bait.

"Oh no, Hijikata-san, o-of course not! But Kondō-san said that Saitō-san shouldn't let you get too worked up—I mean, too worried—about the rice, because—"

"Colonel Sannan has already agreed to pursue the matter on behalf of the Shinsengumi," interposed Saitō, in his uninflected voice. "He said that he would be delighted to attend the dinner meeting this evening."

"Delighted," muttered Hijikata.

"Sannan-san said that he hadn't had the chance to meet the new staff at the Imperial Comptroller's office. He truly did seem very pleased, Hijikata-san." Yukimura smiled cheerfully, and just as Hijikata was concluding that she had no idea how scary the soft-spoken man could be, she added thoughtfully, "I realize that the last official quit after Sannan-san investigated the Shinsengumi's rice allocation, but we didn't have problems for many months after, right?" Her expression had become unusually serious. "Sannan-san said he would do whatever was necessary to protect the needs of our men, and Kondō-san agreed that healthy food was very important."

Hijikata risked a look at Saitō, who met his gaze without comment. Yukimura could be surprisingly fierce when it came to looking after the Shinsengumi, and Hijikata should have remembered that she'd taken the latest food shortage to heart.

"Fine. But why are you two here explaining all this to me anyway?" He gave them both a 'don't mess with me' look, or tried to. Chizuru was too busy pouring him more tea to notice—she had a way of making it just the right temperature from the start, so that he tended to finish it quickly.

"The Commander suggested that you would appreciate a holiday," said Saitō. "Yukimura, Sōji, and I were given the task of ensuring that you are able to enjoy the day." Being Saitō, he stopped there, having expressed the salient point.

"A holiday?! No, wait—Sōji is supposed to make sure that I enjoy a holiday?" Hijikata automatically looked around for the green-eyed… man. Menace to my existence is more like it… Not even Kondō would expect Sōji to—well maybe—no, surely not?

"Hai. Along with Yukimura and myself." It took Hijikata a moment to recollect himself and realize that Saitō was answering his question.

"But everyone is helping out," Yukimura rushed to reassure him. If 'reassure' was the right word. "Kondō-san was worried when you missed dinner—as Saitō-san mentioned—because it was the third time this week." Hijikata thought there was a disapproving edge to her voice, but her expression was as sweet and earnest as ever, gods help him.

"Yukimura noted the frequency of your absences," murmured Saitō, gazing down into his tea.

"R-right! But Sannan-san agreed to go to the dinner, and Nagakura-san and Harada-san said they'd conduct an early morning patrol today, and no drills, so that nobody would be around this morning—but also because it makes sense to check that things are safe for the holiday crowds—"

"Uh-huh." Fascinated despite himself, Hijikata began to calmly eat his breakfast. The room was warm enough that his delicately flavoured miso soup was still remarkably hot. It was obvious that Sōji's help—whatever it was—hadn't extended to breakfast, thank the gods.

"And I asked Heisuke-kun if he'd be willing to hunt ducks or geese this morning so that I could make us all a nice holiday dinner later this afternoon before everyone goes out for the evening. He thought that was a great idea until—um…" Yukimura suddenly stopped talking.

"Sōji reminded Heisuke of the last time that we shared a meal of Yukimura's duck hot pot." All three people present shared a moment of silence as they each visualized Heisuke's piece of duck flying through the air and hitting Hijikata square in the middle of the forehead. It had not gone well for the cheerful Eighth Division Captain after that.

"Y-yes, well, Okita-san just said that this was Heisuke's chance to make up for it, and so—and so, that's all settled!"

"Really, now?" Hijikata couldn't quite visualize how such a comment would settle anything, but he was willing to bet he would find out.

"I needed to discuss a scheduling issue with Sōji at that point, and I believe that Yukimura arranged any further details with Heisuke, Vice Commander."

"I see. So Harada and Nagakura just happened to volunteer for an early patrol—"

"That is correct, Vice Commander."

"And Heisuke's off hunting ducks, or geese—are you sure he'll be safe? The marsh area is very cold this time of year." Heisuke was a lot tougher than he looked, but he was also a magnet for disaster—according to his own view of things. Most people felt he invited disaster in with open arms, although he was ably aided and abetted by his brothers in idiocy.

"Shimada-san went with him, Hijikata-san. He said that he would be happy to spend time out bird-hunting with Heisuke-kun. I made sure to pack them a good lunch, and I included a few sweetened rice cakes."

Saitō didn't bother to elaborate on this, since Shimada was known for his love of sweets, and was very fond of Yukimura. He also adored Kondō, and had probably stepped in quite willingly to help out with this wild scheme to "give" Hijikata a holiday.

"I'm still a little puzzled on a few points," Hijikata said, with an air of polite inquiry. Like, what the hell is Sōji up to?

"I made sure that this courtyard was secure overnight," noted Saitō placidly.

"Oh—oh yes. And Yamazaki-san will be on duty this morning. To… to make sure that the courtyard remains secure—and peaceful, as is proper for a holiday."

"Needed to get some use out of the scarf, Saitō? Or did it dawn on somebody that leaving me defenseless to assassins for the sake of a few hours of sleep was less than optimal?"

Yukimura looked suitably concerned by the mention of assassins, but Saitō obviously felt that he had already dealt with that topic. He addressed Hijikata's first question with no trace of the sarcasm with which it had been asked.

"I was adequately equipped for the cold. The Commander allocated me extra coal for a brazier." Saitō bowed. "Please excuse me, Vice Commander. Sōji and I will be sparring together this morning over at the Mibu Temple grounds, and then we plan to visit a swordsmith who is reputed to be better than average at sharpening blades."

"You won't be sticking around Saitō? What will Yukimura do if I suddenly try to exert myself by doing my job?"

Saitō said nothing, and Hijikata finally relented and waved at him to go. Yukimura was very slowly tidying his now-empty tray.

"Since I have my writing things, am I at least allowed to get through some of my back-log of reports?"

Yukimura shook her head, looking anxious, but determined.

"Kondō-san asked me to bring him your list of reports to be filed."

"And?" How did Yukimura even know that he had that list, or where to look? Although technically she was his page, and these days she managed to spend some of her time running errands for him, despite his original plans for her (or lack thereof).

"He said that only the marked items were to be dealt with today." She brought out a piece of scrap paper—his scrap paper—and handed it to him.

There were only two marked items, and one of them had clearly been added by Kondō: 'finish summary of important points to make perfectly clear to the goat-fucking asswipes at the comptroller's office'—that hadn't been meant for Kondō's eyes! Or Yukimura's, now that he considered it—and 'buy a new coat'. Seriously? Buy a new coat? They needed food! And they were still dealing with the reputation as deadbeats foisted on them by the late, unlamented Serizawa Kamo.

"Yukimura."

"Hai!"

"Did you see this list?"

She obviously had. It showed in little ways—such as how she was practically staring at the admittedly threadbare haori he'd brought with him from Edo. But if he didn't let its condition bother him, then what was the problem?

"Kondō-san told me which items to point out to you, Hijikata-san."

"I don't need a new coat. The coat I have is fine. And when I'm out on patrol I've got my blues."

"You never wear your coat when you go out, Hijikata-san, even though you dislike the cold."

"I don't mind the cold."

There was a long silence, during which both combatants reconsidered their tactics. As a junior, and a subordinate, Yukimura should not contradict Hijikata. Or as a woman, especially since she wasn't his wife. Another good reason not to get married, as if I needed another one. Anyway, it had been tactically unsound for Yukimura to say that he disliked the cold. A true warrior didn't let the elements bother him, and he knew that she didn't want to offend him.

"…Hijikata-san?"

"Yes, Yukimura?" He held out his cup for more tea, feeling that he could be gracious in victory.

"I asked Kondō-san whether it would alright for me to improve your old—I mean, current—coat, by adding a new lining."

"You asked Kondō-san? But why—" Hijikata broke off, perturbed.

"Well, Kondō-san and Inoue-san were discussing the time you all spent together at Shiei Hall, as they sometimes do, after dinner two nights ago, and I happened to be cleaning up the dining hall, and Kondō-san asked me if you still had the haori you used to like so much. I asked him what it looked like, just to be sure, and then Inoue-san described it, and he told me that it was made especially for you by a good tailor, and that you were very fond of it."

Hijikata resisted the urge to smack his hand into his face, but it was a near thing. Unfortunately, Yukimura continued on, nearly tripping over her words as she tried to get it all out.

"And I was surprised to hear that, because you never wear that coat, so I asked Kondō-san if maybe I should fix it up a little, but Inoue-san said that you preferred to wear nice clothes, that weren't patched, and then Kondō-san agreed. So I suppose that's where it all started." She was slightly breathless, but added: "And even if you don't mind the cold, I worry that if you don't wear a coat in this weather, then you will get sick."

Many words floated through Hijikata's head, mostly unprintable. He drew a deep breath, and tried to ignore the half-anxious, half-stubborn look on Yukimura's face that always reminded him of—oh, his sister, his sister-in-law, his aunt, and the countless other women he'd grown up with. It didn't work, so he reined in his temper—because at the end of the day he was a practical man—and turned and examined his old coat. The truth was that he didn't wear it because it looked shabby, and fucking Serizawa—he rarely thought that name without an epithet—had been right about appearances, but he really didn't like being cold, even if he wouldn't say so.

"So I'm supposed to buy a new coat?"

"Yes?"

"Because to hell with rice, you're worried I'll get a cold?" He was giving in, but determined to go down fighting.

"Sannan-san will deal with the rice situation, I believe in him. Also, he is taking Okita-san with him this time."

"…As long as they don't tell me where they hide the bodies."

"Hijikata-san?" Yukimura had that reproving look again. "Okita-san said that he would smile and be very polite. He knows that we don't want you to worry."

He stared at her, but she seemed genuinely confident about the whole thing.

"And is that Okita's contribution to my, ah, day off?"

"Okita-san said that he wanted to help in any way that he could."

"Uh-huh."

"And Saitō-san said that the best way to help would be to stay out of the compound."

"Good man. I'd give him a raise, but I need to buy a new coat."

"…Yes? So I'll go get ready then?" Yukimura looked both relieved and pleased.

Hijikata debated telling her that he could damn well shop for a coat on his own. But the look on her face… She'd be crushed, probably, and he had a feeling that Kondō had already told her to go with him. So for her sake, and Kondō's—since they'd obviously spent so much effort on all this—he'd take her along. She'd slow him down by staring at all the people in town for the festival, but he'd manage. And if he was going to spend the money it would cost for a decent coat, then he could afford to spend just a little on a couple of sweets for her, and maybe a small souvenir.

"Right—go get ready, and I'll meet you at the gate. I need to add a couple of things to this memo for Sannan-san on the… rice situation." And I want to tell him to make damn sure Sōji doesn't 'accidentally' kill anyone.

"Hai!" Yukimura immediately stopped fussing with the tray, and hurried off as though Hijikata might change his mind if she didn't leave fast enough.

Chizuru spent a blissful morning and early afternoon out shopping with Hijikata. She made sure not to talk too much—although Hijikata-san didn't seem to mind her questions, for once—and she tried not to skip—something that Okita-san had teased her about in the past when she'd been excited about leaving Shisengumi headquarters—and whenever they stopped to look at coats she tried to remember to behave like a boy, and not a girl. She was extremely embarrassed when one shopkeeper told her that she obviously admired the Vice Commander a great deal, but that he, for one, didn't think that boys should be recruited so young.

They saw both Harada's and Nagakura's patrols in the distance a few times, but somehow, they never actually crossed paths with one. Even Chizuru began to suspect that this was not just by chance (or mischance). Fortunately, Hijikata-san seemed to find it amusing, so it didn't turn into a problem.

Eventually, Hijikata-san chose a coat. Or rather, he chose a style, and a material, and paid to have a coat made for him, which impressed Chizuru a great deal. After that, they stopped at a shop for tea, and although Chizuru meant to serve the tea, Hijikata-san said not to bother, so she didn't. He said that if others found it strange for the Vice Commander of the Shinsengumi to stoop to having tea and snacks with his page, then so be it.

"I suppose you should get back so that you can cook dinner," said Hijikata, when they left the tea shop. "Although it's optimistic of you to believe that Heisuke can catch anything but a cold. I predict you'll be trying to find yet another way to cook salted fish."

"Heisuke caught two excellent ducks last time."

"Ah, but flailing around in the water I can see. It's the patience required for winter hunting that I'm not so sure about."

Chizuru firmly quelled a momentary qualm or two. "He'll be fine. He has Shimada-san with him. They'll come back safe and sound, with food."

"Hm. Well, Shimada is very reliable; but he's with Heisuke, so who knows what will happen."

When they eventually returned to headquarters, they discovered that they were both wrong, or alternately, both right. Heisuke had caught not one, but two birds—migrating geese—and poor Shimada had slipped and fallen into the swampy muck. The big man brightened up considerably when Heisuke assured him that nobody needed to know about the incident—other than Chizuru, who wouldn't tell—because he could keep his mouth shut, and knew what it was like to be teased by certain people who should be kinder to their fellow officer. Chizuru declined Heisuke’s help with dinner, but praised him so effusively for catching the geese that he left to warm up in excellent spirits.

Harada and Nagakura popped their heads into the kitchen part-way through the afternoon, to say that all was well, and that Hijikata was sitting calmly at his desk writing—though whether it was personal correspondence, or work, they didn't know. Chizuru bowed to both of them, and thanked them earnestly for their hard work that morning. They exchanged knowing looks over her bent head—they'd seen her out and about that morning—and when she straightened, they were both grinning affectionately at her. As tired out as she was from all the walking, and now the dinner preparations, she had to smile back.

"He was in a damn good mood just now, Chizuru-chan," Nagakura told her, "so maybe we're the ones who owe you—he even said not to worry about curfew tonight." He paused in the act of turning away, to add, "Although I still don't know how you kept Sōji out of his hair all day, especially when he was so annoyed over the whole coat thing, and Kondō-san fussing about Hijikata-san not coming to dinner."

"Um, I—I'm not sure what you mean."

She looked so uncomfortable that Harada grabbed his friend's bicep and hauled him away. "Come on, Shin—let's go congratulate Heisuke on providing dinner without either getting hurt, or ticking off the boss."

"Yeah, fine, but you're curious too, Sano."

Their voices trailed away, and Chizuru turned back to her cooking, feeling relieved. She'd promised not to tell, and even if Okita-san thought he was just threatening her, she knew it was very important to keep her promises to him. And he had been a bit upset over Kondō-san saying that Hijikata-san should have a new coat. She didn't completely understand why Hijikata-san and Okita-san didn't get along, since both of them cared so much about Kondō-san and the Shinsengumi, but for now it was enough that she was learning not to be so alarmed by their disagreements.

In the few minutes of quiet time after dinner was prepared, and before it needed to be served, Chizuru took advantage of Inoue-san's offer to watch over things, and slipped away to a smallish gardening shed near the wall of the courtyard. The door slid open before she could knock, and Saitō pulled her quickly inside.

"They're all fine," he said, tilting his head toward the back of the shed.

There against the wall, and carefully concealed from the door by a rack of large burlap sacks, was a kind of nest made up of discarded rags and soft paper. In the center sat a thin black cat with a white muzzle and a white belly. It couldn't be called an attractive cat, since one eye was swollen shut, and it appeared to be missing part of one ear. The four kittens nestled around it—or rather, her—didn't seem to care. They mewled and gently bumped her with their heads, and periodically peered around her legs at the quiet, green-eyed man who was holding out a dish of meat scraps to her.

"It's quite a feast you got her, Chizuru-chan," commented Sōji, watching as the black cat delicately picked out another morsel of goose innard. "Just what she needed."

"I'm glad she's doing better, Okita-san. And oh—the kittens are so sweet!"

"Oi, don't move so fast, or they'll run again. They're not too quick, but it's a pain to catch them, and then mama here fusses."

"Sumimasen, Okita-san." Chizuru put her hands behind her back to keep herself from scooping up one of the fuzzballs for a cuddle.

"Ehn, it's okay—they'll probably be more up to playing tomorrow, ne, Neko-sama?"

Chizuru laughed a little, then quickly covered her mouth. "I'm sorry, Okita-san, but she doesn't look much like a court lady…"

Okita shook his head at her. "You shouldn't be so quick to judge, Chizuru-chan—you don't look much like a lady either, you know."

"Um… that's true, I suppose."

"Anyway, she's a fighter, like the onna-bugeisha."

Chizuru just nodded. She wasn't especially familiar with the women warriors of the samurai caste families, and she still thought the mother cat looked more like street fighter than a noble lady. Not that Chizuru minded, though. She thought the little family needed all the help they could get—and if Okita-san wanted to look after them, then she would help Okita-san.

"Yukimura must return to the house, Sōji. And Sannan-san will be expecting you soon."

"I know, I know." Okita turned to Chizuru.

"You promise to come by with food again later? I don't want to leave any because I don't know if she's up to handling another fight right now."

"I promise."

"And you'll check the water?"

"Hai!"

"Sōji."

"Fine, fine. But we have a deal, right, Chizuru-chan? You don't tell anyone, and you help me look after them while it's so cold."

"It's a deal, Okita-san. And I haven't told anyone."

"Well, I guess we'll see how it goes."

Okita stood up and stretched, his green eyes glinting in the faint lantern light. He almost asked about Hijikata's new coat, but then decided it wasn't worth it. He'd gotten to save the cats—plus a chance to go out with Sannan-san, which might be entertaining, although there were sure to be some dull bits—and Chizuru and Kondō-san were happy, so… he could let it go. Besides, the spar with Saitō had gone well, and he hadn't felt too out of breath, for once.

"Okay, oyasumi, neko-sama."

They all filed out of the shed, careful and quiet in the cold, dark courtyard. And if Hijikata happened to see them returning to the house, and happened to check in the shed before going in to dinner, well, almost nobody knew about it. The one silent observer had been aware of the whole thing from the start, having watched the various comings and going of the headquarters' inhabitants throughout the day. However, since Saitō-san already knew about it, and Hijikata-san didn't seem inclined to interfere—had even appeared to be smiling, just now—Yamazaki certainly had no need to do more than wish, very briefly, that he too were getting a new coat.

End Notes:

(1) See Do As I Say (not just shameless self-referencing, since nollatooru did say she'd enjoy another similar story!)

(2) "Excuse me, Hijikata-san, it's Yukimura"

A/Note: As always, your comments and reviews are very much appreciated. Please never think "I have nothing interesting to say." While a detailed review is a wonderful, precious thing, you can make an author's day with a simple "This was great!" or "Thanks, really enjoyed this!" or even "Eep!" Knowing you're out there, and enjoying my work helps so much! (To those on tumblr: yes, I read all the tags)

I'm taking the time to say this now, because I'm seeing fewer reviews and comments than ever, whether it's on tumblr, FFN, or AO3. I know it can be hard to figure out what to say, but if you can find a minute or two to type some positive feedback, it can help a writer to want to write again. And if you have constructive criticism, or you've seen a typo? All the authors I know, myself included, are grateful for that kind of feedback as well, although it's even better if you can do it directly by private message or something similar.

Note to reviewers/ those who comment: I try to write back to everyone, but it's taking me longer these days. If I haven't written back, I sincerely apologize. If you comment on Anon or Guest, I can’t write back directly, but thank you! Please know that all of your feedback is important to me, regardless.

#hakuouki #haku fanfiction #hijikata toshizo #hijichi #hakuokiss #impracticaldemon #imp writes #nollatooru #haku gift exchange 2018 #i hope you enjoy it!#i enjoy your art and sketches and comics so much!

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laraslandlockedblues · 5 years

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I am absolutely stuck in rarepair hell (though I love Rylen, my heart beats for Samson) and I don't know how to get out - I don't even know if I want to. I think I'll just... indulge in this and create something for my ship in the future. Now my question - how do you deal with hate that you got for your rarepair (if it even happened, that is) and how do you deal with the lack of feedback compared to all The Big Ships (TM)? I'm really impressed with what you built here and would love to know more

Hello Nonny! I am so sorry on the delay answering this but I really wanted to give you a well thought out answer that wasn’t influenced by cold meds (they make me really loopy, haha). You deserve a better answer than “tell ‘em to eff off!” which is what it would have boiled down to last week.

First off - welcome to Rarepair Hell! So far I’ve learned the beauty of Rarepair Hell is that everyone who’s in it with you - even for other rarepairs - tends to be super lovely. We all understand each other’s pain, haha. But also, I can guarantee you that there are others out there who will love your pairing just as much as you do. Even if it’s just one other person, they will be out there and ready to consume ANY content you make for the rarepair. The one beauty of rarepairs I’ve found is that content is so scarce when anything is produced for it, everyone who loves the ship JUMPS at the new content because we’re all so desperate for something to satisfy our rarepair cravings. It’s fun, in a way, even though it’s not as prevalent as for bigger ships.

I’d also like to point you in the direction of my Writer BFF and love @dismalzelenka if you haven’t already found her - she’s a Samson positive writer/blog and you will be very, very welcome in her corner of Rarepair Hell. Don’t hesitate to reach out to her, she would LOVE to talk Samson with you, I can guarantee it.

You’ve already got the right idea in your response as well - “I’ll just indulge in this and create something for my ship.” That is EXACTLY the right mentality. Just as with any pairing, even the Big Ships™, write it for you. Write it (or art it, but I’ll address writing since I can’t draw for shit) for you, because you have a story you want to tell your way. When I started writing Cullen fic, it wasn’t because there wasn’t already a plethora of Cullen fic out there - it was because I had a story with my Evelyn that I wanted to tell for me. I didn’t expect anyone to read it because there was already so much out there, so I wrote it for me with zero expectations and shared it in case there was anyone else who would appreciate the story I was telling.

And honestly, that’s all I do with writing Rylen fic. I want to write about and tell his and Abby’s story(ies), for me, because I enjoy them. I’ve shared them hoping perhaps other people were looking for that story as well. One of the greatest bits of writing advice I’ve ever seen boiled down to - write and tell your story because you never know who might be waiting for it. That held so true with writing and sharing Rylen fic - I had no idea how many people it would resonate with. You might find a similar response to your content as well, so I suggest trying. Without trying you won’t know.

Now for the more serious parts - I haven’t really received direct hate for my ship or writing Rylen fic. I’ve heard indirect bits of “ugh why him?” from around the fandom, but you know, I approach fandom with the core rules at heart:

1) Live and Let Ship.

2) Don’t Like, Don’t Read.

3) Your Kink is Not My Kink. (Not super applicable here but throwing it out there)

The truth of the matter is, your work is not for everyone. It isn’t. Even my Big Ship™ fics aren’t for everyone, and I know that. That shouldn’t prevent you from writing or sharing the story that you want to tell. Everyone has their own taste, their own preferences, and honestly that’s what makes fandom such a fun and diverse place. It’d be boring if we were all cranking out the same canon Cullen/Trevelyan fic over and over and over.

Now, does that mean that everyone will have the same response and know to keep their opinion to themselves if they don’t like your pairing? Unfortunately, no. Not everyone knows that saying “Opinions are like penises. It’s ok to have one and it’s certainly ok to be proud of it, but don’t shove it in people’s faces.” (Crude but accurate.) Not everyone knows that an opinion is an opinion, and not a fact shared by everyone else. There may be the occasional comment from people who can’t make this distinction and try to criticize you based on their opinion. Hell, I’ve had this happen most often on my Cullen fic and not my Rylen fic, surprisingly. I once got a few comments from someone who was admittedly NOT a Cullenmancer that boiled down to “I still hate him” and I was baffled that they felt the need to make certain I knew that on something I had spent so much time writing.

But you know what? That was a them problem, not a me problem. In the end, I just ignored the comments. It wasn’t worth engaging, because I wasn’t going to change their mind, and they weren’t going to change mine. For whatever reason they felt the need to slap their opinion on something I had poured time and effort into because I love Cullen, and I decided not to expend any more of my time or effort into acknowledging their opinion. It wasn’t worth it.

So if you receive hate, there are several choices you can make:

1) Ignore and move on with your life, because everyone is entitled to their opinion, and some are just louder about them than others. That is not a reflection on you or your pairing, and if they’re not addressing your writing or story but your choice of rarepair, well - that’s their issue. You DO NOT have to engage with everyone. I know we all get it in our head that we owe everyone a response, but let me reassure you now - you DO NOT owe anyone your time. Period.

2) Politely thank them for trying out your work, even if it turned out not to be their cup of tea. A polite and thoughtful “Thank you for reading, and I’m sorry this isn’t the fic for you. I hope you have better luck in the future,” can be simple and effective to get the point across to them that you’re not engaging further.

3) If it’s particularly hateful, don’t engage at all. Delete it and move on with your life. Trolls and haters thrive off of reactions and responses, and the best thing you can do for yourself is to not give them any.

4) Go the sarcastic route and find a gif of the back button to instruct them how to handle the situation in the future. Possibly best for repeat commenters who seem particularly masochistic about reading things they don’t enjoy. Perhaps they don’t know where the back button is, and you can help them learn the lesson of “Don’t Like, Don’t Read” in your reply.

Honestly, though, I think you’ll be surprised at the response to your work. Most people are looking for fic and art that cater to their tastes and that they’ll enjoy. The majority of us are here for fun, and not to stress ourselves out hating on things we don’t like or agree with. Yes, there is a small minority to whom that is fun - but I think you’ll be surprised that the support far outweighs that group.

In the meantime, for rarepairs, you’ll have to work a little harder to cultivate your fandom experience. Seek out other people who like Samson, and engage with them. I know they’re out there, and it’s a smaller part of fandom - but they’ll be happy for more content, I’m sure of it. And if you ever need more rarepair commiserating or support or advice, my inbox is always open. Good luck creating, Nonny! xx

#long post #this answer got away from me #but like i said you deserved a well thought out reply #thank you nonny #and good luck #welcome to rarepair hell #it's actually fun #even if sometimes you just wanna cry #hehehe #i might reblog this later to make sure you see it #rarepair hell #dealing with hate #thank you!#tmi tuesday #Nonny #perfectly ok to reblog #writing advice

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joi-in-the-tardis · 6 years

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Ok this bestie post is BEAUTIFUL and I love you both madly.

Bestie Month Post (for those of you who might have missed it)

You know, as I kid and young adult I think a lot of my friendships were me being “adopted” by someone else- usually an extrovert. As I’ve gotten older I feel like I’ve gotten a bit better about reaching out and purposefully making friends with people (all across the introvert/extrovert spectrum).

That being said, as one of the photos in the post shows...

I feel like this is a good place to mention that not only am I introverted, I’m also shy and socially anxious. Those things don’t all mean the same thing and being one doesn’t mean you are the others. I just happen to have the whole package deal. lol One thing this means for me is that I have a hard time starting conversations with people. It kinda goes one way: I say nothing at all and the crickets drive me mad. Or the other way: I share to the point where I’m sure I’m oversharing.

Jem pretty much had to tell me we were Besties. I mean, I knew we were friends. There was a lot of interaction- both on our blogs and in our chat boxes- that went on before this post was made. But, how much that means to one person can be different from how much it means to another. Which kind of means that I’m answering question 2 first or at least along side question 1. There’s a certain raw honesty that’s required sometimes. It can be scary. I know that there have been many times that I’ve written long, personal things to people here and I’ve sat with my finger over the send key and sweated(Jem most certainly included, at least early on).

Without body language clues or fun little coffee dates or trips to the mall it’s hard to know how someone’s going to react to what you say. However, I feel like the people I’ve gotten the closest to here? They’re the ones I poured my heart out to. The ones I made myself vulnerable in front of with only my understanding of who they were (how they present themselves) and hope that they would be as kind as they seem to be. Those moments when I sat poised, ready to make a run for it if things went south... But, I wound up with virtual hugs and the feeling of actually being understood.

I’m not advocating that you invade the first person’s inbox you find with your most deepest, darkest secrets. Get to know them a little first. Follow their blog: put them on notifications. Comment on personal posts. Comment about what’s going on with them and add in some stories about yourself, too. Send a hello message, maybe about something they posted. See how things go. See if they open up a little to you and return that by opening up yourself. It’s a two way street and there’s no reason for them to put themselves out there if you’re not willing to at least meet them halfway. (The same can be said in reverse: don’t expect the other person to constantly listen to you if you’re not willing to listen to them!)

I think you have to remind yourself that people are blogging publicly for a reason. They could be rambling away in a notebook somewhere. If they had lots of friends that shared their interests, they would probably be sharing with them instead of here. We’re here because we want some attention, even if we don’t want to admit that. And, I think a lot of us want a connection with other people. Maybe not everyone’s looking for a Bestie, but I bet they are looking for friends. At the very least, I’m just about positive they’re looking for people who share their interests and want to talk about them.

In my case, Jem had put in her blog description to chat her up any time. So, one day, when something was really bothering me and I needed an ear? I sent a message. Later when something was bothering her, she sent me a message. Somewhere in between, we realized we had way (way, way) more in common than we’d ever realized. As I recall, the downhill slide in to Bestie-dom happened pretty quickly as we found we could talk to one another and understand each other so easily when most people in our lives could not.

So, I suppose my answer to question 2 is that you’re going to be scared but you have to do it anyway. (Or, as Carrie Fisher said, “Stay afraid, but do it anyway. What’s important is the action. You don’t have to wait to be confident. Just do it and eventually the confidence will follow.”) Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And, you have to occasionally be very outright about your affections. There’s only words here so words are what we have to use. Have you enjoyed chatting with your friend? As you’re saying goodbye: tell them. A simply “thanks for chatting” or “thanks for listening” or “I really like talking to you” goes a long way to warming a heart. Maybe you don’t throw the “Bestie Bomb” out there right away (love ya, Jem!

Okay, so that’s question 2 down. I’ve peppered question 1 in there, too: Jem shared a lot of herself on her blog and I responded to it. I commented on photos. I remembered stories and brought them up later. I admired and shared her artwork because, by golly, the world should see what my friend can do! In turn, I got more personal on my blog and Jem returned the favor. Comments became conversations, conversations became long chats. Some are silly, some are serious. Most are both. There’s an openness we’ve fostered that I think is rare and treasured on both sides. And, we’re not afraid to tell one another what that means to us. We’re also not afraid to tell the other (gently!) when they might be in error. I think a real friendship means honesty even when it’s not a compliment. It means the other person can count on you to be real. But that, I think, comes later and with greater trust.

As for question 3... I think you should monitor your expectations a bit. Not everyone is going to want to chat with you daily (not everyone has that kind of time!). Not everyone is going to want you to fly to their house and chill out with their fam for the week (I’m still a bit in awe at the trust required for that!).

Besties take time to cultivate. Frienships take time to grow. Start small and work up to it. If the other person comments back on your comments, maybe send them a message to further the conversation. Give them time to get back to you. Respect that they have a life (job, family, IRL friends, pets, hobbies, etc).

With some persistence, trust, time, sharing, and determination I believe anyone can find a good friend here. I remember being on this website in the years before I ran across Jem (and you, Skyler, among others). I remember seeing mutuals go back and forth. I remember seeing those friendships and being absolutely baffled as to how they happened. How they were maintained. Across countries and oceans and time zones. I wondered and wondered. How? Maybe it’s not the same for everyone... but, putting my heart out there is how I feel I’ve earned my friendships. Be it a heart that needed mending or a heart that was ready to help someone else mend.

(Because I’m kinda excited that I can add a photo here that I didn’t get to add to the other post: art and prezzies from my Bestie. I can shamelessly show off a little, right? ;) )

Anything you wanna add, @jemsauce?

#friendship #besties #internet friends #how to friend #bestie month #jemsauce #joi rambles #long post #skyler10fic

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