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meliorist-midoriya · 3 years

Text

chasing the sun

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

pairing: takami keigo x fem!reader

genre: angst with a happy ending, reincarnation au

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

word count: 11.7k

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

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

crossposted on Ao3

【 ☀︎ 】

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning, madam.”

“Good morning—”

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

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

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

Wholly fitting for an outsider like him, really.

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

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

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

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

A minute passed…

Then another…

Then five…

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

(In his world, losing meant death.)

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

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

“You’re a new face in the palace.”

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

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

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

Two could play at this game.

Well, now, this was new.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll live for you, then.”

And with a smile, you fall in love.

(Keigo falls even harder.)

【 ☀︎ 】

He should have known.

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

He really should have known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(He was.)

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

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

“Done saying your prayers?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Must you be so dark?”

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

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

I really… should’ve known…

“Keigo!”

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

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

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

No, for eternity.

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

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

【 ☀︎ 】

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harsh.”

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

A sleepy, familiar town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“God, her ginger candy was the best.”

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

“That was ages ago!”

“And you still react like a little boy!”

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

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

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

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

“Wonderful job of changing the subject, really.”

“Wonderful job of being annoying.”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Not so little anymore, Granny.”

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

“Granny!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...Keigo?”

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

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

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

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

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

“Yes, Grandmother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Probably both.

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

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

“...Did we just get kicked out?”

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

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

Talk.

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

Nice going there, Keigo, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

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

“What, so, we both had boring lives?”

Far from boring.

“...Yeah, I guess so.”

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

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

“And how would you do that?”

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

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

“Oh, hush. Are you coming or not?”

“I’m coming, coming.”

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

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

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

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

“You still suck!”

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

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

This, Keigo realizes, is nostalgia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who was he to ask anything from a normal person?

“Lead the way, then.”

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

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

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

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

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Like you’d ask me first.”

【 ☀︎ 】

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

One, two, three, one, two, three…

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

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

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

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

“Keigo?”

“Yes, beautiful?”

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

“Will you come home?”

Home.

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

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

To him, “home” meant you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One, two, three, one, two, three…

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

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

And, for a traitorous moment, Keigo wondered.

Dreamed, even.

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

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

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

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

One… two… three…

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

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

“—but don’t.”

【 ☀︎ 】

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

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

(Would it ever end?)

How long has it been since the first shot?

(Too long.)

Would he live to see the sunset?

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

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

Something like the will to survive.

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

Civilians. You’re fighting civilians, you mur—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, man.”

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

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

“Fucking— how did you even survive that?”

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah—”

“Shit, I’ll get you to the medic.”

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

“I’m not gonna make it to the medic.”

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

“Just a couple more times.”

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

“Aw, don’t tease Y/N too badly.”

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

“I won’t.”

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

“...Just do it yourself.”

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

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

“Kei...go?”

【 ☀︎ 】

Waiting was agony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, they came.

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

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

How many men did they lose?

(Too many.)

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

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

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

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

Life, Touya thinks, is cruel.

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

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

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

Death, Touya grieves, is even crueler.

Keigo would never get to go home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

【 ☀︎ 】

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

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

“Everything good with you, Professor?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hell, he expected them to.

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

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

A schoolwide email? Okay, th—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will be missed…

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

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

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

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

Professor Takami had work to get done.

Keigo could mourn later.

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

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

Did you go through this too? When he—

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

【 ☀︎ 】

When did I…?

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

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

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

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

“What…?”

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

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

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A flower shop, in this secluded side street?

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

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

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

“Uh—”

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

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

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

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

Right on time.

【 ☀︎ 】

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

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

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

It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

Keigo.

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

“One…”

I want to see you.

“Two…”

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

“Three—”

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

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

“Y/N!”

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

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

He was home.

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

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

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evehere · 3 years

Note

I just wanted to say I am absolutely taken by your 2ha ficlet as well! I even started reading "The wife is first" per your recommendation, and every new chapter I read all I think about is "ooh, this would fit so well with ranwan, what an amazing idea!" I really can't wait to read the rest of what you have written, thanks for doing this

Hi! Omgsh, thanks so much for the nice! I felt that since people might not know the series this au is based in, they might not take an interest to it! I write for my own pleasure, but it feels good to post it and see some response.

I’m glad you’re enjoying QWS. It’s really a comfort novel, like, each chapter feels so warm and nice! I reread some chapters when I’m feeling in the mood for some comfort without the hurt part (／ω＼) And the main characters are so similar as well, like JS is a bright boy on his way to take care of his hubby and JQ is the cold and aloof man who is like wtf every time JS does something for him. Besides, I really like the setting the author created for homosexual marriage.

I leave you here the main scene that was inspired in the novel, I hope you’ll like it!

Yearning willow masterpost ❤️

Mo Ran 2.0 (2)

Resurrection

Mo Ran snapped his eyes open.

Was he dead?

It was dark, a faint crimson undertone around him.

He was lying on something soft, something akin to a blanket covering him. He was warm and comfortable.

There was, however, had a faint pressure in his head, as a light hangover, and a frantic feeling in his chest, his heart beating hard and his breathing picking up. Did the spirits have the same sensations as the living? Mo Ran asked himself. Tentatively, he curled lightly his fingers. His fingers answered at his slightest order, with no difference to when he was alive.

Excruciatingly slow, Mo Ran moved his hand up his chest, and placed his hand over his heart.

It was beating.

Was he really dead? Or had Xue-bofu come up with something at the last moment, saving him? But he would swear that he had felt the knife in his neck, and the blood flowing out like a fountain.

Mo Ran glided his hand over the spot of his chest where the executioner had made the second cut. The skin was intact, no sign of a knife cut. Mo Ran frowned slightly, feeling that something was amiss.

His eyes were adjusting to the dark. Those were… curtains? Like a canopy?

As a thunderstruck, he realised what was amiss. He couldn’t feel his ribs. Instead, there was supple muscle under his hand, like he had before he entered the prison. In prison, the prolonged lack of food had led him to lose almost all muscle mass.

Startled, he sat on the bed. He felt… good, despite the headache. Better than he had in the last months. But it was more like… normal.

He was wearing a cosy night robe, partially open at his chest. Mo Ran opened his lapels, noticing dumbfounded that the blade scar he had got in a battle a couple of years before his imprisonment was nowhere to be seen. In fact, he had no injury other than some old scars. He was… intact. Whole.

Mo Ran was alive. Not just alive, but his body was in the state it was in several years back.

There was a huff of breath next to him.

Startled, Mo Ran looked to his side. A body lied next to him, with his back facing Mo Ran. There was another huff of breath as they stirred, apparently deep in sleep. They had long, silky hair extended over the pillow. He couldn’t determine if they were a man or a woman.

He was in a bed. Someone was lying next to him.

This wasn’t unknown to him. Quite the opposite, Mo Ran was very familiar with this setting. Also, he was recognising the place, his heart threatening to get out of his chest as his hand trembled from the force with which he clenched his night robe.

There was only one way to check it.

Putting a hand on the pillow to support himself, he reached over and peered at the face of the sleeping person next to him.

Rong Jiu.

Rong Jiu’s young, graceful face, with his tender and androgynous features.

They were lying in the canopy bed in Rong Jiu’s old rooms in his Nanping manor. He recognised now the crimson drapes with embroidered mandarin ducks. Now that he saw them again, the deep red colour still vibrant and new, he felt the same need to tear them down.

As he had before his imprisonment.

He threw another look at the man lying beside him, noticing the lovebites and the handprints on the skin that peeked out of the blankets. What’s more, there were fine rope marks on Rong Jiu’s wrists.

Weren’t those remarkably similar to his own handiwork!?

Mo Ran couldn’t bear to stay in there anymore, so he got up from the bed, letting the bed curtains fall closed. He was indeed in Rong Jiu’s old room, with the same red and gold decorations and rich fabrics with detailed embroidery. However, last year Mo Ran had made some renovations to make the room more spacious. The room looked as if he had never made them.

It was cold, and it was still dark outside, but he could see faint sun rays from the paper windows. The room was silent—not even birds were singing yet.

There was a mirror in a corner, and Mo Ran watched his own reflection.

Strong. Muscular. Tanned. Traits he lost when he was imprisoned. Yet the white hairs he had got when Chu Wanning got ill in prison had disappeared altogether.

Had he… had he gone back in time?

Mo Ran was confident that he had died at the execution grounds. But he had heard stories before. Stories of people who died under serious grievances, with the blessings of the gods, going back in time so they can start over with the knowledge of the future.

The realisation hit Mo Ran like a sack of stones, and he staggered, dizzy.

“Fuck!”

Gods hadn’t abandoned him after all. He had another opportunity.

Another opportunity.

His voice, however, finally rose the sleeping beauty resting in the bed.

“Hum… Houye… You woke up so early today.”

Mo Ran’s gaze was icy when he looked back at the man sitting up on the bed. Years ago, he had received Rong Jiu as a gift from Viscount Chang. He had liked him and took him in as a concubine. In the end, Rong Jiu proved to be an internal spy all along, and provided the court with more evidence of Mo Ran’s wrongdoings to expiate himself with good deeds. Viscount Chang had brought him back when Mo Ran was imprisoned and got himself some merits from the emperor.

How he had fallen for the tricks of this little vixen!

He had been so blind to find attractive an androgynous and seductive beauty like Rong Jiu. It was nothing like the beauty of his husband, his Wanning…

Chu Wanning. If Mo Ran was back, that meant that Chu Wanning was back too?

Rong Jiu noticed that Mo Ran looked gloomy and unwilling to talk to him, but merely thought that he might be in a foul mood.

“Houye, did you not sleep well last night? Did you have a bad dream?”

I died, moron. That’s a bad dream in its own right.

Since Mo Ran still showed no signs of talking or approaching him, Rong Jiu raised, draping a robe on his shoulders, and hugged him from behind.

Mo Ran fought his first instinct to shake the treacherous man from his back. He wanted nothing more than to shake him off and slap him until he vented his anger. Yet, for the time being, it would be best if he were careful and treated everyone as if they knew nothing—at least until he got more information about his own situation.

Besides, he should care about his marquis reputation, just in case. His reputation as an immoral who did anything he pleased was the reason people had been so ready to believe that Mo Ran had tried to dethrone the emperor in his past life.

In his past life, Chu Wanning used to advise him to be humbler and keep a low profile, but he hadn’t heeded his advice. Later, he’d realise the kindness behind his words.

“How about I ask servants to prepare breakfast for you? Congee and fried buns sound good?”

Finding himself unable to talk, Mo Ran simply nodded his head.

Rong Jiu called a servant and went on his well-practiced routine with Mo Ran, preparing boiling water and clean clothes. Mo Ran merely observed him. The man really hadn’t changed in the past years.

If everything was real, if Mo Ran was back in the past, then everything had yet to happen. Mo Ran had yet to lose his title and his estate, he had yet to die, and Chu Wanning… Chu Wanning was still alive. He could still fix things with him before it was too late.

Rong Jiu had been taken into the manor in his second year after his marriage with Chu Wanning, so he knew he was already married to him.

“What day is it?” Mo Ran asked Rong Jiu as he approached him with his thick outer robes in dark blue and lined with grey rabbit fur.

Judging by the cold, it was around winter, but that alone wasn’t enough information.

“Third day of the tenth month, houye. Today’s the beginning of the winter.”

“Dingyou year?” He guessed it should be around that time.

“Yes, houye,” Rong Jiu answered with a hint of amusement. “Did houye had too much to drink last night, that he has to ask about the year?”

Dingyou year. He was twenty-six years old, and he had been married to Chu Wanning for almost five years. He was back from his last big military campaign, earning the title of Taxian general from the emperor. The campaign had taken him barely a year and ended around… The Lantern Festival? Mo Ran remembered he had been back for that one. He had been back in Nanping-fu for almost a year then.

After his campaign against the north, everything had gone downhill. Mo Ran had been drunk on praises and riches, taking in five or six concubines every year, and allowing himself to do as he pleased. He had gotten into many fights, both private and in court, and he had estranged himself from the Xue family and Nangong Si.

He remembered how he had gone out of his way to make Chu Wanning miserable as well.

The servants brought in the breakfast and set the dishes on the table. Mo Ran took a seat on the low table and let Rong Jiu serve him a bowl of congee. He extended his hand to take the bowl and chopsticks, but Rong Jiu batted his hand away with a teasing gesture.

“I’ll serve houye his meal,” he said with a flirtatious smile.

Mo Ran merely stared at him, incapable to react at first. The wish to slap a few teeth out of that smile was so strong that Mo Ran almost acted on it. Then he remembered he should act normal, to avoid raising suspicion.

A slow, boyish smile appeared on his face, and opened his mouth when Rong Jiu approached the spoon to his lips. He used to fish out sputum from their prison’s meals, so no matter how disgusting he found to let the boy feed him, he had no trouble acting his role.

There were worse things.

He let the young man feed him three bowls and a half, alternating with bites of the fried pork buns, and then stopped him. It had been so long since he last had a full meal, that the need to finish every bit of food in sight was strong.

From what he remembered, he usually had two bowls of congee and a couple of buns for breakfast, but, in his mind, it had been half a year since he last ate to his heart content. His belly didn’t agree with him, feeling overstuffed, and Mo Ran stopped Rong Jiu before he got sick. He would get used to eating regularly again, he supposed.

He couldn’t help to scoff internally. Rong Jiu would give him whatever he asked, with no regard to what was actually good for him.

Mo Ran wanted nothing more than to ask about Chu Wanning (where was his husband?), but another manservant got into the room with his official robes, a heavy garment in deep purple and a tall, black hat.

Fuck. Of course, if he was back, he’d have to go to morning court.

“Take it away and call a doctor. I’m not feeling well,” he told the servant.

If he had to attend morning court, he should at least familiarise again with the current situation. To be safe, he should avoid it for a few days.

Rong Jiu looked at him with alarm.

“Why didn’t houye say anything earlier? Quick, go call a doctor!” Then he fretted around Mo Ran, pulling him to lie back in the bed.

Mo Ran batted Rong Jiu’s hands away—he was getting throughly fed up with Rong Jiu’s act, knowing that he fretted around him now, but news of his “illness” would spread to Viscount Chang before noon. Ignoring the look of incredulity in his concubine’s face, he wrote a leave of absence and gave it to the servant, telling him to take it to the palace.

“Tell the doctor to come to my office.”

He had no patience left to deal with Rong Jiu.

Nanping-fu was a siheyuan, a courtyard house, divided in a front courtyard and a backyard. The main door, Mo Ran’s office, guest parlour and the library were all in the front courtyard, open to guests, while everyone’s bedchambers, the family shrine, the kitchens, storage rooms and guest rooms were in the backyard.

All the chambers were arranged around an elegant inner garden in a square. The one positioned in the north stood among them as the main house, where was Mo Ran and Chu Wanning’s room.

The same room he had shared with Shi Mei. Mo Ran frowned, uncomfortable with the thought. He’d have to do something about it.

Mo Ran walked through the beautifully decorated pathways with slow, lingering steps. The last time he had seen the place, some servants had even turned the flowerpots upside down, some taking the valuable flowers and others taking the hand-carved pots.

On his way to his office, he passed the guest parlour. The mere sight of it brought bad memories to Mo Ran. It was there where he received the imperial edict ordering his imprisonment. With it, any woman in Nanping-fu could be enslaved and sold as a servant, and any man left in there was to be exiled. Though few fools were still there when the sentence reached it.

Fools like Chu Wanning, his stubborn husband.

“For his father’s past achievements, and his own contributions and military merits towards the empire, Chu Wanning, husband of the criminal Mo Ran, is granted a pardon. By the grace of the Son of Heaven, this marriage is rescinded. He is hereby allowed to return to his old post in the Censorate, retaining the goods he brought into the marriage!” The imperial eunuch had announced.

At the time, Mo Ran had thrown a hateful glance towards his husband. Had he stayed just to show off his pardon? Or did he stay to laugh at Mo Ran’s expenses? Or maybe it was both of them. At the time, it wouldn’t have surprised him; Mo Ran had made his life mission to make Chu Wanning’s life as uncomfortable as possible in the eight years they had been married.

Chu Wanning should be happy that the marriage was over.

That’s why the words Chu Wanning had said after kowtowing three times had utterly surprised him. His thin figure looked as if a strong current of wind could blow him away.

“I’m grateful for bixia’s magnanimous graces. But since this marriage was meant to unite the old and new nobility, nothing more would serve this purpose than letting the both of us get the same sentence as husbands. Husbands should be as of one body; we shall share both glory and failure.”

“What are you doing?” Mo Ran asked, absolutely bewildered. He was signing his own death sentence!

Chu Wanning hadn’t even looked at him, his head bowed to the floor—only the tips of his ears reddened as a sign of his fluster. Mo Ran’s eyes were red as well, his frustration and his pain long past the point of trying to fight for himself.

“I won’t leave Nanping-fu,” Chu Wanning had said.

At first, Mo Ran still thought it was a trick. That some imperial eunuch would come to the prison and announce that the joke was over and Chu Wanning could go and take back his post at the Censorate. But the imperial edict that came was instead that Chu Wanning was stripped of his titles and his possessions. Later, all doubts were erased when the prison guards interrogated him.

The need to see Chu Wanning was so enormous that Mo Ran could hardly breathe. It filled everything and grasped his heart, constricting it painfully. He had to see him and make sure… make sure that Chu Wanning was still alive. That this wasn’t a nightmare conjured by his dying mind, in which he came back to life only to find that Chu Wanning wasn’t there.

Or worse. A punishment set out by the hell judges, to let him live an eternal life in this nightmare.

A servant passed next to him carrying a basin of water, bowing to Mo Ran when he was a few steps away.

“Greetings, houye.”

“Hum,” Mo Ran said in all answer. The servant was about to go away, when he cleared his throat and asked off-handed, “where is furen?”

The servant merely looked at him, his eyes wide as plates. The fear pricked his heart hard, cold sweat forming on his back, and Mo Ran made a tight fist, waiting for an answer.

“F-furen?”

“Yes, where is he?” He asked, trying to conceal his anxiousness under his mask.

“H-he’s still kneeling in the shrine, houye, as you ordered him yesterday.”

Fuck.

***

Houye (侯爷): a respectful way to address a marquis (hou, 侯). It can be used by his spouse, concubines, servants, all those whose ranks are below him. People of his same rank and above may address him as “Mo-hou”.

Dingyou year （丁酉）: 34th year of the sexagenary cycle. It’s just a way to keep track of the time, because I don’t know in which emperor’s reign would this be based on XD

Nanping-fu (府): fu means “manor”. There was a distinction between what one could call their own house, and only nobles of certain level could call their homes “fu”. A lower level would be “zhai” 宅, while the higher level would be “gong” (宫，palace).

Furen (夫人): literally, “madam”. BUT, furen is made up of the characters 夫 (fu, husband) and 人 (ren, person). Being as nouns are only gendered because they’re historically tied to a certain gender, I think it’s fine to think that a furen can be a man, but in a position of deference towards their spouse.

***

If you liked it, please consider supporting me with a rb!

#yearning willow #qws au #2ha #2ha fanfic #dumb husky and his white cat shizun #二哈和他的白猫师尊 #I have most of it outlined now #and I'm afraid #because I have another gigantic fic that started just like this XD

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isolemnlyswearpevensie · 4 years

Text

Green as the Ring | Sirius Black x Reader

Warnings: Angst with happyish ending?

Time/Era: After the 2nd Wizarding War

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: Y/N finds the resurrection stone in the Forbidden Forest three years after Harry defeated Voldemort.

Request: can I request a Sirius black x reader fic based on the song If I Die Young by the Band Perry?

A/N: Thank you for the request! Based on the song choice, I figured you wanted angst. Enjoy!

masterlist | read on ao3

“Do you think this will ever end, Sirius? Like, do you ever think we’ll win?” Y/N sat at the small table in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Sirius sat at the other side, taking leisurely sips from a beer bottle and looking much older than he actually was. His eyes were sunken in from the lack of sleep and his forehead had permanent frown lines. This broke Y/N’s heart because, in her mind, Sirius was still the happy, go-lucky young adult she had married. But in reality, he was a sad man confined to the walls of his dark childhood home.

“Of course, everything ends sooner or later,” His voice was gruffer than she remembered. Maybe that was a side effect of the dementors, or maybe it was from the smoking habit he hadn’t been able to shake since his mid-teens. Y/N couldn’t tell.

“I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.” Sirius allowed himself one shallow laugh into his beer.

“All I’m saying is to trust Harry, darling. He’s strong and he will succeed.”

“He shouldn’t have to.” Y/N’s thumb twisted her well-worn wedding band on her finger. Sirius noticed this and covered her hand with his. A brief moment of silence fell over the kitchen.

“We should really clean that, you know. It’s not good for the emerald to be dirty,” The green stone caught the dim light and glistened. Y/N smiled, thinking about how that ring had been with her through so much.

“I would, but I don’t want to take it off.” Sirius sat back and grinned, instantly looking ten years younger.

“It’s alright, it won’t offend me if you take it off for five minutes.” His smile was lopsided and the perfect embodiment of everything Y/N loved about Sirius. “I’m honestly still surprised you have it.”

“Of course I still have it, my dorky husband gave it to me.”

His smile now reached his eyes, which was rare nowadays. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“For standing by me, even through Azkaban.”

“I will always stand by you, my love.

“If I die, Y/N, can you make sure I’m buried in either satin clothes or a satin-lined coffin?” Sirius and Y/N found themselves back at the kitchen table. It seemed to be their meeting place, especially late at night when no one was awake.

“Well, you’re not going to die, first of all. And second of all, why satin?” Y/N stirred her tea and took a sip, allowing the flavor to overtake her senses. The house creaked, making Sirius switch positions uncomfortably.

“It’s an old joke I had with James, honestly. Mother always hated satin, and I never knew why. Also, weirdly enough, roses. James always said he wants to get buried with a rose and that I should get buried in satin to spite her.”

Y/N thought back to the night in which Remus, Petunia Dursley, and herself were sat in the living room of Number 4 Privet Drive planning the Potters’ funeral. Y/N was tasked with looking over James’ will. She asked Remus why he wanted to ger buried with a single rose, in which he shrugged. Petunia had insisted that it was silly, but Y/N made sure his request was fulfilled.

Y/N took a long gulp of her tea, trying to appear as if she was observing the table cloth’s pattern. “Well, that answers why James’ will said to be buried with a rose.” Sirius sucked in harshly through his nose.

“Was he?”

“I made sure of it.”

Sirius set his magic mirror on the kitchen table, a cold dinner remaining untouched next to it. The meal had been served hours previously, but Sirius’ anxious stomach didn’t allow him to eat his food.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Y/N asked gently as her eyes scanned his face. She used to be able to read his emotions like a book, but some time during those twelve years, he built a new emotional wall she had yet to break. His eyes glanced at hers for a split second before returning to the reflective surface of the mirror.

“We don’t use pennies, we’re British wizards.”

Y/N rolls her eyes fondly. “You know what I mean, Pads.”

“I’m just thinking about how me going to Azkaban really must have fucked with your life. I mean, you were seen as a murder’s wife.” His eyes pull from the mirror and brush over Y/N’s face, similar to how she did moments earlier.

“It was hard, I’m not going to lie, but I never thought you killed James and Lily. Not even for a second.”

“Did you wear your ring?”

Y/N paused, picking her words very carefully. “I wore it around my neck on a chain. It was too dangerous to wear it on my finger.”

“Yeah? I’m sure you were shamed,” His eyes drooped and the frown lines on his forehead grew more pronounced.

“I was threatened, yes, but nothing more than words shouted at me. It was hard, but I had Remus.”

Sirius gestures to the mirror on the table and sighs. “Do you think Harry will call?”

“I’m sure he will, just give him some time. He just got to Hogwarts.”

Y/N sat at the table of Grimmauld Place, but this time Sirius didn’t accompany her. Instead, Remus filled Sirius’ chair. He, too, looked much older than he was as they sat in silence. Y/N observed the green gem on her finger in an attempt to ground herself.

“I guess it’s just us again, Moons,” Y/N’s voice cracked. The house was now oddly quiet without Sirius; not that he was overly loud, but his presence alone spoke volumes. The building felt even emptier without his warm energy and inviting arms.

“Yeah, I suppose it is.” His eyes were glued to the wilted daisy bouquet on the table. Molly had attempted to liven up the house, but even they were riddled with death. It seemed as though all beauty was drained from the world.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. This isn’t fair.”

“It’s not, but this is what we have to work with,” Remus brought both hands to wipe down his face. He looked tired, both physically and mentally. “We have to be strong for Harry. We need to support Harry.”

Y/N sniffled again, “You’re right.” She took a shaky deep breath. “He’s with James now, he’s happy.”

“He’s with James now,” Remus repeated. Y/N couldn’t decide whether Remus wished to be with James as well or not.

“It was weird,” Harry’s voice shook slightly. “They were only a few years older than me, all of them. Sirius and Remus were only teenagers.”

Y/N pushed a plate of cookies towards Harry. It was months after the final battle, and after isolating himself, Harry had finally reached out to someone from the wizarding world. The pair were sat at the table in Y/N’s small flat while Remus’ words echoed through her mind. We have to be strong for Harry. We need to support Harry.

“Well, it’s said that in the afterlife, you take the age where you were happiest. For them, it was before your parents’ death, which would make them teenagers.” Y/N responded, taking one of the treats for herself. She couldn’t say she was surprised when Harry had shown up at her flat, the two had grown close before Sirius’ death.

“I wonder what age I’ll take.”

“Hopefully, it will be when you are much older. You have a lot of life left to be happy.”

Harry took off his glasses, wiped them on his shirt, and returned them to his face. “I want to be happy, I just don’t think I can.”

“You just went through something very traumatic, sweetheart, it’s okay to not be okay. It will happen, be patient with yourself. Let yourself heal.”

“Do you think you’ll ever be happy again?”

Y/N was silent for a long time before she was able to answer.

“I think eventually, I will be. Some things never heal, but they can scar. Losing my friends and husband will just take a long while to scar, as will the war.”

“It will take a long time for me too, I reckon.” Harry took one of the gingerbread men from the plate and took a large bite.

“If it makes you feel better, you aren’t alone. You have me, and the Weasley’s, and so many others.”

“You have me too, Y/N. I know you think you have no one, but you have me.”

Y/N smiled, silent tears rolling down her face. “We can work on being happy together.”

Harry made it a routine to visit Y/N regularly from there on out. And as he grew, their relationship changed from mentorship to a deep friendship.

“Have you looked into working at Hogwarts?” Harry said when Y/N discussed her unemployment.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you always say you want to teach and you’re quite good at it. I’m sure McGonagall would be more than happy to pass her transfiguration position to you.” Harry grinned, munching on a sub sandwich he brought for them to share.

“Oh, I could never live up to her! Besides, I’m not sure I could even walk the halls of Hogwarts again.” Y/N wiped her mouth politely with a napkin.

“What if I told you I already asked McGonagall and she said yes?” Harry had to bite back a grin as he watched his friend’s eyes grow wide.

“Harry! What-”

“I know, I know. But, I’m going to be the new DADA professor, and I thought it might be nice to have a friend there with me,”

“You’re going to be a professor?! Oh, Harry…They’d be so proud of you.” Y/N’s shocked face turned into a look of admiration for the boy.

“Well, they’ll be proud of you too, once you accept your new position.”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

Harry’s face twisted into a shit-eating grin. “It’s the least I could do, considering all you’ve done for me.”

Y/N pulled the younger boy into a hug. “Thank you, Harry. Really, thank you.”

Y/N skillfully walked over the overgrown floor of the Forbidden Forest. It was a Saturday, meaning most students were at Hogsmeade or sleeping, so she decided it was the perfect time for her to collect acorns. The young Professor had been teaching her second-year students how to turn acorns into actual heads of corn and had run out by 3rd hour.

The roots of the huge trees were very overgrown, so her gaze was fixated on her feet in order not to slip. It was a beautiful morning, with the sun just barely hung in the sky and the morning birds tweeting happily in the trees.

She was enjoying her small adventure until something out of the ordinary caught her attention, making her acorn harvest come to a halt. It was a smooth black stone, which seemed to be carved into a diamond shape. Y/N bent down and picked it up in order to observe it better. It was quite heavier than it appeared, and a bit sharp.

“Hello there, Professor,” A voice said out of the blue, making Y/N jump back. Her eyes came to meet the gaze of someone she never expected to see again.

“Sirius?” Y/N’s voice came out as a slight whimper. He appeared to be the cheeky 18-year-old boy she had fallen in love with, complete with bun, leather jacket, combat boots, and chains. Y/N took a step back in shock.

“Y/N,” He responded stepping closer. The gruff in his voice was completely nonexistent. “It’s a bit rude not to say hello back.”

All happiness seemed to return to his face; the wrinkles in his skin were smoothed and his eyes held the familiar mischievous sparkle Y/N knew like the back of her hand.

“How are you-? You’re dead!” Sirius chuckled and nodded.

“Thanks for reminding me, love.” His voice wasn’t rude, but light and teasing. His ring clad pointer finger points at the rock in Y/N’s hand. “You found the resurrection stone.”

She looked down at the rock then back at Sirius. “I can’t believe this. I never thought I’d see you again,” Her hand grabbed the ring around her neck. She began to wear her wedding band on a chain again to avoid questions from curious students. “You’re so young, you’re a teenager!”

“I know, hot right? I always loved this outfit.” His eyes were filled with love. “You’re even more gorgeous than how I left you,”

Tears flowed down her cheeks. “I miss you so much, Sirius. I need you, I need you so fucking bad.”

“I know, baby, I miss you so much. I am so proud of you, you’re doing so well. And a Professor! Look at you!”

“Can you see us? I mean, from the afterlife.” Y/N placed her acorn filled bag on the ground.

“Yes, we are always around. You just can’t see us. Actually, I’ve attended some classes of yours. I had to see how good you actually were.”

Y/N’s cheeks heat up. “Oh??”

“Calm down, love.” He laughs without a care in the world. “You’re absolutely brilliant! Harry, too. Remus said his boggart lesson was better than his.”

“I can’t believe you’re here, oh my god.” Y/N reached a hand out to touch him, but it passed through his form like air. Sirius’ eyes filled with sadness.

“I’m here, minus the blood and guts, I guess. We only have a little bit of time left.”

“What? No!”

“I know, babe, but anytime you need me I’m here.” He points at the rock then at her heart. “I love you so much, Y/N. So, so much.”

“I love you even more. All of you, I love all of you.”

“James and Lily asked me to tell you thank you. For looking after Harry, I mean. All of us are thankful, really. You two have been good for each other. They also say they miss you,” He smiles sadly. “We all miss you. Especially me though.”

His form starts to dim, making Y/N grow sad again. “We’ll be together again someday, my darling.”

“That we will, sunshine. I am so proud of you,” He grows paler, but his smile widens. “Just remember, every time you see a rainbow, that’s me there with you. I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you, darling. Until the day I die and after that.” As Sirius fades out of existence, Y/N puts the stone in her acorn bag and exits the forest.

The next class she taught, second years turning acorns into ears of corn, the window cast a large rainbow across the wall. The rainbow didn’t leave until Y/N retired for bed that night.

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enternalempires · 4 years

Text

What She Learned

Jasonette fic, a lil hurt/death, a lil romance, and I like it so... (also can someone please explain to me how to add the thing that I can make it so yo guys can click ‘read more’ instead of being forced to scroll past the whole thing???)

7-years-old and Marinette is told by one Chloe Bourgeois that she will never be worth anything in life, because ugly little girls like her don’t deserve attention. She’s pushed to the ground but she does not cry at her split knees or the scraps stinging on her palms; she stands up and she doesn’t talk back but she returns from school to a warm house and caring parents.

Her soulmate mark appears a month later and her bully spends a month sneering at the Phoenix resting against the inside of her wrist, dancing in reds and darkness and resurrection.

A week later, she learns that there are more important people to listen to than those who make her cry at 8 in the morning.

9-years-old and Marinette thinks that the blonde mayor’s daughter is the worst person she will have the unfortunate chance to meet. She gets insulted and glared at and has a hard time making friends but she is strong and she is kind and she will continue to stand even if she doesn’t know how important it is to get up after you fall.

She’s having dreams of dark streets and color nights; of dark gargoyles hanging off buildings, dirty-faced children, a city drowned in fear. She sees the face of a dizzy woman and an angry man and she wakes up terrified because there are bruises on a body that is not her own and the ache of an empty stomach underneath their palms. When she looks into a mirror there is a boy with a too-serious expression for such a young face and eyes blue enough to drown her in the sadness there.

She learns that there are some children out there who never had the chance to learn kindness before they learned how to survive.

10-years-old and Marinette is shoved into a row of lockers by a boy she doesn’t recognize, her pink dress and pigtails sneered at until tears fill her eyes. She doesn’t know how to defend herself but she tries until she’s shoved onto the school’s grimy floor and breaks a finger trying to catch herself.

She does not cry, she does not say sorry, she does not think that it is fair for her teacher to say, “Boys will be boys,” instead of “I’m sorry you got hurt on my watch.” She will continue to stand up for herself even after a broken wrist.

She asks her parents about the nightmares, about the boy with blue eyes and an empty stomach; they tell her about her soulmate and they tell her that one day, she is going to meet him and love him how their parents loved each other.

13-years old and Marinette does not understand the word sacrifice but she is about to learn. She flinches at the sight of magic-tainted earrings and feels her fingertips run cold with insecurity— because she never wanted this, she didn’t want to be a hero and she didn’t want to be in charge of saving people when, in the past, she never knew how to save herself.

It has been a year and she starts to see flashes of a man in black and a large house that feels too clean to be tainted, too open to be safe. She sees the reflection of a boy in red, green, and yellow and feels the comfort of the heavy books underneath his fingers.

He never got the chance to be smart before, never got the right education, never learned something unless it helped him stay alive— and she goes to sleep smiling because even though he’s not quite happy, at least he’s safe.

15-years-old and Marinette is dreaming of a man in green and purple and she’s sobbing because— he’s getting hurt and she’s watching from his eyes and she can’t do anything about it. He cries out for his father, for the man promised to be there, and he dies alone and staring at a bloody crowbar, his blue eyes going dull in the reflection of his own blood.

She wakes up screaming and feeling empty and with the Phoenix on her wrist looking like nothing more than a pile of ash, red feathers and glowing eyes going blurry and dark. There is not enough light in the world to make her chest hurt any less and her parents hold her as she cries but don’t speak; there is nothing that could be said to comfort someone in the face of a loss like this.

She learns what it is like to be alone for the first time in her life and she no longer knows how to dream.

17-years-old and Marinette is standing at the bottom of the Eiffel tower, ruination around her, swirling and teetering on the edge of death, surrounding her like a wet blanket, the water of horror digging deep into her bones. She has watched her comrades die for her and she has watched them protect her with everything in them, believing that she will win. Believing that she will bring them back— and she does, and they’re safe, but nothing can change the fact that she will always remember what her loved one’s looked like dead, empty eyes staring right at her.

She did not win against Hawkmoth, not really, not when she has lost so much. She casts her cure and she returns home with the two recovered miraculouses, a heavy heart, and enough trauma to last a lifetime.

She knew what it felt like to mourn someone she never met but now she learns how it feels to grieve two people at once, even when they are still alive.

19-years-old and Marinette is staring at the fire that consumed the bakery, her home, her parents. She saw too many horrible, traumatic things that it takes a couple seconds to register that this is it, they’re not coming back. Because yes, she has seen the world end but no, the world did not end. She is used to being able to fix things that are broken in a way that makes sure they never broke but this is not one of those things and her parents are not some of the people whose lives she has the luxury of saving.

She is desperate to run and she is desperate to fight but there is no longer a battle in Paris. Her instincts tell her to go, go, run, don’t look back and don’t think about the bodies left behind, so she does and she ends up in Gotham and she ends up looking at familiar gargoyles and familiar streets and feels an ache so wide inside her heart she’s surprised it’s still beating.

She owns a small bakery on the corner of crime alley that is the only neutral ground in seemingly all of Gotham and she learns how to bake without crying at the scent of baked bread, turning her grief into comfort as she’s surrounded by her parent’s smell and memories of her childhood— she shares that comfort with any kids who come in looking for a safe place to spend the night.

21-years-old and Marinette has built herself a home; the building is old but warm and drenched in magic. She found all the other Miraculous boxes and lets the Kwamis roam free inside of her apartment, there’s over a hundred of them in total but she bonded with them all and, in return, they love her. She is the Guardian; both a monster and a protector at once.

The kids flock to her like moths to a flame and over the years she has gained all of their trust. She asks for nothing in return when she gives them food and medicine and a warm place to sleep. There’s magic on the doors that lead to rooms full of bunk beds and closets with food and medical supplies and sleeping bags and all is welcome— the kids know about the Kwamis and they know that she is safe, in a world that has taught them to fear everything, she is safe.

They call her the Guardian or Lady luck and she learns how to have a family again without being terrified of losing them.

23-years-old and Marinette has just saved one of her kids from Scarecrow. It is not the first time and it will not be the last. There are those that are terrified of her, gang leaders and villains that won’t step foot onto her land— but these are her kids, these are her people, this is her home and she will not feel guilty for protecting them.

She is polite to Batman and the other vigilantes, she has made friends with the Sirens, and she knows her way around Gotham and she knows when there is a problem that needs to be solved. She does not know what to make of Red Hood or the dreams that come with him or how her fingers tremble when one of the older kids comes through the bakery’s doors with a crowbar tucked under her arm.

She does not know how to make her mind any lighter, she does not know how to get rid of the darkness but she learns that there is such a thing as healing with time.

24-years-old and Marinette comes home from patrol and finds her balcony’s doors open and the living room smelling like blood. She sees Red Hood’s eyes for the first time and she does not cry, she does not fall, and she does not flinch. They are blue and more angry than sad and guilty— so, so guilty— but she knows them well. Her wrist burns and the Phoenix rises again from the ashes, and she no longer feels so alone.

She patches Hood— Jason, his name is Jason— up and she still does not fall over but her knees are weak, so very weak because he’s here and he’s alive and oh my God. She does not ask about the bullet wound but she asks about the sickly and tainted magic clinging to his skin. He tells her about waking up in the Lazarus Pit and when asked, she tells him about a boy in white and the moon cracked in half in the sky.

They do not know each other’s past well, they do not know so many things but they know that they don’t want to lose each other again. They do not know what to do next but she learns not to question it because her soulmate is alive and that’s good enough for her.

26-years-old and Marinette is getting married under a sky full of stars and the hands in hers are warm and there’s nothing cold about her life. She has her home, she has her kids and bakery and she has her Kwamis. She has Jason and he isn’t gentle but he is kind and he knows how to hold her just right when she feels like falling apart. She is kind and soft and knows how to hold him when he feels like the madness is getting worse again.

She is happy for one of the first times in years and she knows that, despite it all, she’d go through it again if it meant she could end up here; happy in her husband's arms and cheeks hurting from smiling so wide.

She has learned a lot and she’s not even 30, but she has learned how to love and how to be loved and how to always get up when she falls. She knows how to stand, feet firmly planted into the ground, and she knows how to not let herself get blown over when things get too hard.

But if she did happen to let herself fall?

Well, now there’s someone there to catch her.

#jasonette #jason x marinette #mlb fic #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #fanfic #batman dc #jason todd #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #death #learning #soulmate AU #cute #love #marriage

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yyh4ever · 3 years

Text

Yusuke's Personal History

Source: Yu Yu Hakusho Official Character Book Reikai Shinshiroku, pp.12-13, 2005.

Links to: Kurama’s Personal History and Hiei’s Personal History

Yusuke Urameshi - Personal History

Yusuke Urameshi was just a delinquent boy, like any other we see anywhere. However, after he died in an accident and met Botan and Koenma, various fortunes and life were waiting for him...

1. Raizen goes to the Human World

700 years ago, the Kamakura Period¹ was filled with chimimouryou². Raizen, who was moving wildly as a jikininki³ at that time, met a certain “food doctor” (kudakusushi), it was love at first sight. He spent the night wooing her and made a pact...Raizen returned to the Demon World and the kudakusushi woman gave birth to a child. Raizen and the kudakusushi never met again, but Yusuke Urameshi was born 44 generations after that child was born.

Photo caption: ➡ The kudakusushi woman is said to have been one of the best of esoteric Buddhism practitioners. The guts to not fear even the jikininki, has it been passed on to Yusuke as well?

Translator Notes:

¹ Kamakura Period (鎌倉時代): the period from 1192 to 1333, known for the emergence of the samurai, the warrior caste, and for the establishment of feudalism in Japan.

² Chimimouryou (魑魅魍魎): demons of the mountains and rivers;

³ Jikininki (時食人): human-eating demon. Youkai who eat human corpses, the type of demon which Raizen belongs to.

* Kudakusushi (食脱医師): this name was created by Togashi. As Raizen explained in the series, the “kudakusushi” were like doctors who eat the flesh of humans who died from illness in order to create antibodies and cure the infected.

2. Yusuke becomes a spirit detective!

In order to save a boy from being hit by a car, Yusuke died in his place. However, he was informed that the boy wouldn’t actually die without his help. He wandered as a spirit for a while in order to be resurrected as a special case. After somehow being resurrected, he was appointed by Koenma as a spirit detective (against his will) and spent his days exterminating youkai who were committing evil deeds in the Human World.

Photo caption: ⬅ As a spirit detective, Yusuke uses various items to solve difficult problems caused by evil youkai.

3. Encounter with Hiei and Kurama

During his activities as a spirit detective, Yusuke encounters youkai thieves who have stolen the three Artifacts of Darkness. After defeating Gouki and obtaining the Orb of Baast (gakidama), he confronts Kurama, who carries the Mirror of Darkness. After understanding Kurama's true intentions, Yusuke cooperates with him, releasing the power of the mirror. The only remaining treasure is Hiei’s Shadow Sword (kōma no ken). Yusuke struggles in the battle with Hiei, but wins with Kurama's help. From this encounter, the bond between the three begins.

Photo caption:

⬆ Yusuke didn't sense the evil intention peculiar to youkai in Kurama.The first meeting with a future encouraging friend.

⬇ Hiei was trying to hurt Keiko and transform her into a youkai. Fighting alongside Kurama, Yusuke managed to arrest him.

4. Genkai’s Apprentice

As part of his work as a spirit detective, Yusuke infiltrates Genkai's Disciple Selection Meeting in order to find Rando, a youkai. As he overcomes the challenges posed by Genkai, Yusuke advances to the final round of the tournament. The opponent of the final match is Rando, the one he was looking for. He was also angry that Rando hurt Kuwabara more than necessary and managed to win! He becomes Genkai’s apprentice for about half a month in order to master the Spirit Wave (reihadou)...

Photo caption: ⬅ Yusuke had a long-term relationship with Master Genkai. Without her, Yusuke’s growth wouldn't happen.

Note: I don’t know if it was due to some anime dubs, but I’ve heard people saying that Yusuke trained with Genkai for six months, a year etc...What is stated in the manga: the first time Yusuke trained with Genkai, it was for 15 days (half a month like is written in the databook); the second time, after Toguro’s invitation, Yusuke asked Genkai to be trained for the next 2 months.

5. Showdown, the Toguro Brothers

With the help of Kurama and the others, Yusuke defeats the Four Saint Beasts, who were trying to invade the Human World, and saves Yukina from Tarukane, a gaudy rich man. It seemed that the peaceful days had returned, however, the Toguro brothers, who were working as Tarukane's bodyguards, summoned them to be the guests at the Dark Tournament. They joined the tournament as the Urameshi Team, and despite the struggle, he managed to win the championship.

Photo caption: ⬆ The final against Younger Toguro, who killed Yusuke's friend with his own hands, just so Yusuke could show his strength!

6. Fight with the former spirit detective

Sakyo, the mastermind behind the Dark Tournament, was trying to connect the Demon World and the Human World through a tunnel. Following Sakyo’s will, Sensui, the former spirit detective, stands in Yusuke and his friends way. They defeat Kamiya and the others, who have acquired the ability of "territory" due to the interference of the Demon World, and finally chase Sensui down. However, Yusuke has his heart punched by Sensui and dies...

Photo caption: ⬅ In the battle with Sensui, something sleeping in Yusuke’s blood awakens! The story takes a new turn.

7. Enthroned as the king of a small country in the Demon World

After being resurrected by the Great Atavism of the Mazoku, Yusuke defeats Sensui and leads his life in the country where his mazoku father, Raizen, lives. And then, King Raizen dies...In order to create a breath of fresh air in a messed Makai, Yusuke proposes to hold a Unification Tournament to decide the king of the Demon World. With this proposal, the Demon World’s nations are dismantled and a king named Enki is decided. After losing the tournament, Yusuke returns to the Human World.

Photo caption: ➡ Three kings reign over the Demon World. But besides them, there were other fierce warriors living as hermits!?

Source: Yu Yu Hakusho Official Character Book Reikai Shinshiroku, Yusuke Urameshi Personal History, pp.12-13, 2005.

🇯🇵 日本語

どこにでもいるような、ただの不良少年だった浦飯幽助。しかし事故で死亡し、ぼたんやコエンマと知り合った彼には、さまざまな運、命が待ち受けていた...。

雷禅、人間界へ

現代より七百年前、魑魅魍魎があふれる鎌倉時代。当時食人鬼として跋扈していた雷禅はとある食脱医師と出会い、一目ボレ。一晩かけて口説き、彼女と契りを結ぶ...。雷禅は魔界へと戻り、食脱医師は子を生む。雷禅と食脱医師は二度と出会う事はなかったが、その生まれ出でた子より44代後に浦飯幽助が誕生する。

➡ 密教屈指の呪術者だったという食脱医師の女。食人鬼すら恐れぬ胆は、幽助にも継がれている？(14-241)

幽助、霊界探偵になる！

車に轢かれそうになった少年を助けるため、身代わりに死んでしまった幽助。しかし実は少年は助けなくても死ななかった事を知らされ、特例で復活するためにしばらく霊魂としてさまよう。なんとか復活した後はコエンマより (むりやり) 霊界探偵に任命され、人間界で悪行を働く妖怪たちを退治する生活を送った。

⬅ 霊界探偵としてさまざまなアイテムを使い、凶悪な妖怪が起こす難問を解決。(02-171)

蔵馬、飛影との出会い

霊界探偵として活動中、三つの邪宝を盗んだ妖怪盗賊と出会う。剛鬼を倒して餓鬼玉を手に入れ、暗黒鏡を持つ蔵馬と対峙。蔵馬の真意を理解した幽助は、蔵馬の申し出に協力し、暗黒鏡の力を解放。残る宝は飛影の降魔の剣のみ。飛影との戦いでは苦戦するが、蔵馬の協力で勝利。この出会いから、三人の縁は始まる。

⬆ 妖怪独特の悪意を感しなかった蔵馬。後の心強い仲間との、初対面。(02-231)

⬇ 螢子に傷を付け、妖怪へと変身させようとしていた飛影。蔵馬と共に戦い、なんとか逮捕に成功。(03-030)

幻海へ弟子入り

霊界探偵の仕事として妖怪·乱童を見つけるため、幻海の門下生大選考会へと潜入する幽助。幻海の出す難題をクリアしつつ、最終審査のトーナメント決勝戦へと進む。必要以上に桑原を傷つけたという怒りもあり、なんとか勝利！霊波動を修得するため、半月ほど幻海の��子になる…。

⬅ 長い付き合いとなる師匠・幻海。彼女なくして、幽助の成長はなかった。 (03-056)

対決、戸愚呂兄弟

蔵馬たちの力を借り、人間界に進攻しようとしていた四聖獣を倒し、あくどい金持ち・垂金の下から雪菜を助ける。平穏な暮らしが戻ったかに見えたが、垂金のボディーガードをしていた戸愚呂兄弟よリ暗黒武術会のゲストとして召集を受ける。浦飯Tとして参加し、苦戦しつつも、なんとか優勝したのであった。

⬆ 己の強さを示すためだけに、幽助の仲間を手にかけた戸愚呂(弟)との決勝！ (101-32)

先代霊界探偵との闘い！

暗黒武術会の黒幕である左京は、魔界と人間界をトンネルで繋げようとしていた。その左京の意志をつぎ、先代霊界探偵である仙水が幽助たちの前に立ちはだかる。魔界の干渉で"領域"という能力を手に入れた神谷たちをしりぞけ、ついに仙水を追いつめる！しかし幽助は仙水に心臓を打ち抜かれ、絶命する...。

⬅ 仙水との戦いで、幽助の血に眠っていだれが覚醒��物語は新たな展開に。(13-062)

魔界の小国の国王に即位

魔族大隔世で復活した幽助は仙水を倒し、魔族の父·雷禅の住む国で生活を送る。そして国王·雷禅の死…。幽助は混乱する魔界に新風を起こすため、魔界の王を決める魔界統一トーナメントの開催を提案。この提案で魔界の国々は解体され、煙鬼という王が決定。トーナメントで敗れた幽助は、人間界へと戻るのだった。

➡ 魔界に君臨する三人の王。しかし彼ら以外にも、隠者としで暮らしていた猛者がいた！？(15-109)

#幽☆遊☆白書　公式キャラクターズブック　霊界紳士録 #Yu Yu Hakusho Official Character Book Reikai Shinshiroku #yusuke urameshi #personal history #浦飯幽助

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dances-with-kuribohs · 3 years

Text

A continuation of the previous Trustshipping installment, though not as focused on Seto and Isis. 3200 words.

...

It had been a normal excursion: Seto and Ishizu had left early in the morning for a hike, braving the humidity of the day, and they’d returned to find the house empty, windows open to allow a breeze through the kitchen. It was a comforting kind of silence, and as Seto ordered them lunch, Ishizu selected their next outing for the day. The seaside town was alive with culture, arts, food, and history, and though Ishizu knew Seto disliked the continual visits to the hillside temples and museums, she planned the outings anyway, determined to convince him in the end.

Her research occupied a pleasant portion of the morning, and lunch was the two of them, still alone in the house. Ishizu contented herself with the sunshine and the company, lifting her head when Seto moved behind her chair to rest a hand on her shoulder. The sounds of an arrival were hardly enough to disrupt her good mood, and Ishizu smiled to hear Malik and another voice -- Mokuba -- unlocking the side door to let themselves into the house.

“Seto!” Mokuba was always first to say hello, still enthusiastic in his greetings even as he’d reached the turbulent age of fifteen. Malik was somehow more muted, smiling broadly as he spotted Ishizu, and Ishizu waited for a third figure to enter before realizing that the two boys were alone.

“Malik?” Ishizu turned in her seat, then stood. “Where is Rishid?”

Malik shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “He wanted to do some reading, so we showed him a path to another vineyard. Orchard? Something like that. He had a lunch with him.”

“Then what were you two doing?” Ishizu’s tone was firm, lilted with the question but still solid.

Mokuba had ducked into the kitchen, pouring glasses of water for himself and Malik, and he opted to answer the question as he leaned against a chair. “Well, first we went to the market.”

“Again?” Seto interjected, his protest overridden by Mokuba’s explanation.

“Then we went through one store. And another.”

“There was a fortune teller.”

“And a guy with a monkey.” Mokuba wrinkled his nose. “Then we ran into the guys selling boat tickets again--”

“Oh, and then we tried the tea stand! Awful. Awful stuff.”

“There were tons of people.”

“And you went without Rishid?” Ishizu repeated the information in shock, reaching out to grip the back of her chair. Malik faced her, his ease fading to be replaced with a wary anger.

“Rishid didn’t have to come with us. We started out together, but he wanted to spend some time on his own. So we let him.”

“Malik, you’re telling me you wandered a foreign city with a fifteen year old boy.”

“Hey!” Mokuba tried to protest, studying the Ishtars. “I am a teen.”

“I’m twenty, Ishizu, it’s not a big deal to hang out with Mokuba for a few hours--”

“That’s not the point! What would you do if you were stopped? Questioned? Do you know where his passport is? How would you explain the fact that he’s clearly Japanese, and you aren’t? Think, Malik, there are more things going on than just wandering through the market!”

“You’re being paranoid. It’s Greece. Half of the people don’t even care that we can’t speak Greek, they just smile and wave at us anyway. There’s not some Stazi thug waiting to check our papers.”

Ishizu scowled, holding herself taut. In the back of her mind, she knew that Seto and Mokuba were still watching, but it was more important that Malik was challenging her, that he was staring at her with the familiar fire in his eyes and the anger of a man denied.

“Why would Rishid leave you? He never leaves you.”

“Ishizu. Sister.” Malik slipped into the tongue of their childhood, the sounds more familiar to her ears. “I don’t need Rishid for everything!”

“Yes, you do.”

“I am a grown man!”

“Then act like it.”

“Ishizu.” Seto spoke again, shocking her out of her stance and forcing her back into Japanese, and Ishizu straightened to take in the three men arrayed against her. However, Seto was not finished. “I don’t have a problem with Malik going with Mokuba, as long as Mokuba doesn’t mind.”

“Seto, he is the one who nearly killed Yugi and Jonouchi, who threw your entire city into chaos--”

“Ishizu! It was three hours at an outdoor market! You think I’m going to resurrect the Ghouls in three hours?” Malik moved toward her and Ishizu did not give way, though she saw her avenues closing. “Why even let me come along if you won’t let me do anything?”

“It’s not about you going out, it’s that you were responsible for Mokuba. Seto may see no issue with it, but I know you, Malik.”

“You don’t trust me with Mokuba?”

“I wouldn’t trust you with my own child.” Ishizu felt the words leave her, and then she felt the rest of her world give way. It wasn’t--

She hadn’t--

Malik’s face fell, his anger now giving way to something even more rare and vulnerable. She hadn’t seen this in him after Battle City (damn that tournament). She hadn’t seen this kind of pain in him even after he exorcized the terror living in his soul. Her own brother stared at her, and she could not take back what she’d said, even as his pain etched itself over his face.

He said nothing as he recoiled, turning to leave the room through the side door, and Ishizu was suddenly aware for the third time of both Kaibas still in the room. Mokuba had been deathly quiet, an observer rather than a participant in the conversation, but Seto’s gaze was more intent, darkened with something she could not identify.

Ishizu also turned to leave the room, fleeing into the darker hallway and closing the door of her own room behind her. Back in the kitchen, the Kaibas were left in silence, and Mokuba took another sip of water before letting the glass clink against the tabletop.

“Malik was fine. Really.”

Seto exhaled slowly, releasing the tension from his shoulders. There was nothing to say, not really -- Mokuba was fine. In truth, Seto had not been concerned about Malik’s presence on this holiday. Whatever Malik’s grudges in the past, he’d grown since then, and while Seto might not find him a scintillating conversationalist, Seto did consider him a decent enough companion. This trip had revealed that both Mokuba and Malik possessed a high level of enthusiasm for whatever whim had possessed them, and Seto didn’t find it surprising that they’d both gotten caught up in their exploration of the city center.

Seto poured a cup of water for himself, asking a few light questions about the outing to assure Mokuba that he had been paying attention. In contrast to the Ishtars’ heated words, the Kaibas comported themselves with even tones and banal pleasantries, finishing their water and moving the glasses to the sink. Facing the outside window, Mokuba paused, reaching for a towel to dry off the glasses as he rinsed them.

“Seto? Are they going to be okay?”

It was an unusual question. Seto knew that there was a necessary deception here: perhaps a pleasant lie, simply to reassure Mokuba for the time being. It was complicated to navigate both Ishizu and Malik, particularly now that they’d disagreed. Even so, it was good for Mokuba to have someone who related to him, someone who would spend time with him outside of Seto’s influence. Seto watched Mokuba closely, considering his answer, then nodded with more confidence than he felt.

“Of course they’re going to be okay. You heard Ishizu: she still talks to him after everything that happened at Battle City. I suppose they just need a little bit of time.”

Mokuba nodded, but didn’t say anything. As he set the glasses beside the sink to finish drying, Seto reached up to ruffle Mokuba’s hair, turning at last to leave the kitchen.

“I’m going to go talk to Ishizu.”

Seto made his way down the hall to the room Ishizu had taken, knocking once on the door before hearing her muffled voice from inside. He let himself in, then closed the door behind him, surprised by the darkness of the room and by Ishizu’s stillness as she sat on the edge of the bed. Seto navigated to a spot beside her, waiting to listen if she had any instructions or requests for him, then sat beside her to feel the bed shift.

It would be easy to blame the movement of the bed for the way Ishizu moved toward him, but Seto could also feel her hand reaching up to grasp his arm, steadying herself as she pressed her cheek to his shoulder. He was surprised: she worked so hard to remain steady, to project an aura of peace and strength, but now she was curling against him, her breaths shaky.

Occam’s Razor was a surprisingly effective tool in understanding Ishizu Ishtar, he’d found. She often made sense, and followed her own patterns with frightening consistency. It made this deviation all the more worrying, and he lifted a hand to brush her hair back over her shoulder and pull her closer to him. She exhaled with a soft moan, a noise he had heard from her so rarely, and he adjusted his other arm to support her back. Even now, she was so quiet that he couldn’t tell if the sounds she made were truly sobs, or were simply her breaths, muffled by her posture.

Finally, Seto shifted again, moving his hand to her cheek and found the dampness of tears there. “You’re not all right.”

She tensed, curling even more tightly, her knees pressed tightly together. “I didn’t mean to say what I said.”

“Is it because Malik is your brother?”

“I told my own brother I wouldn’t trust him with my child. I don’t even have any plans for a child, certainly not any time soon, and I suppose you would...be involved in that.” Despite her distress, Ishizu still pulled away, reaching up to press a hand against her eyes. “That wasn’t my point. If that ever becomes a possibility, you would have your say, of course. But I cannot go to Malik and tell him that I didn’t mean it. I will not lie to him.”

Seto considered the words, the weight of experience that lay within them. “You would not leave your child unattended with him. You still think he’s dangerous.”

“Not ‘dangerous’. Just irresponsible. Foolish. A bad influence.”

Seto shrugged. She wasn’t wrong, at least. “You think I shouldn’t let Mokuba be alone with him.”

She tensed at that, finally pulling her hand away from her eyes to face him. “I should not have said that either.”

“Ishizu, if that’s what you truly think, you should say it.”

“Mokuba is your brother. It’s your decision to make. I’m hardly even a--”

“I trust you.” Seto overrode her denial, watching her retreat, then regain her strength. “You are a part of Mokuba’s life, even if it is only as my partner. I do think it’s good for Mokuba to make his own decisions, to explore things on his own, but I cannot let him wander into danger.”

“My brother is…” Ishizu had to look away, folding her hands in her lap. It was fascinating, how even now the tracks of tears were still visible on her cheeks, but her features were composed, unmoving. “Is that evil of me? To look on my own brother and still doubt that he could be, that he might be, a decent man?”

“I think it is reasonable to state that your brother has made many bad decisions.” Seto lifted his chin. “You said that he tried to kill Yugi. I could be guilty of the same crime, if that’s part of your assessment.”

“Yes, well.” Ishizu closed her eyes to exhale, discovering her resolve. “I did not see that attempt. I was never included in your list of victims.”

Seto was prepared to respond, to speak again, but his refutations seemed too flat, too pale in light of those words. A victim? Yes, Ishizu had been wounded by Malik’s actions, even if she’d never faced his violence directly.

It was a better track record than Seto had, at least.

Seto looked away, feeling again the fragile barrier between what was needed and what was accurate. He prized accuracy, and yet in learning about Ishizu, he’d found more and more opportunities for the small white lies. The gentle smoothing of facts to offer reassurance. But this idea was too uncertain, and Ishizu’s pain too real for an off-hand comment.

“You don’t have to make a decision now. You don’t even have to discuss this with him now.” He paused, then forged ahead. “I would ask that you talk to Mokuba. You can disagree with him, but he chose to go with Malik today. And he is fifteen.”

“Malik was seventeen when he led the Ghouls.”

Oh, she could be so right and still so infuriating. “So you can see why I want to make sure Mokuba has the wisdom and life experience to make good decisions.”

Ishizu waited, reaching out again to take Seto’s hand in her own. It was not as tender as their previous embrace, and Seto made no movement to return to that level of affection. He knew all too well what she might be facing: the rush of thoughts, too many to name, the onslaught of possible avenues with no answers and no path forward. Indeed, after nearly a minute of silence, Ishizu released him again, her hand clenching instead on emptiness as she returned it to her own lap.

“You shouldn’t have to.”

There was the barrier. The eggshell’s edge between what should have been, and what truly was. Seto felt his temper rising, his anger at the reminder unfair and unjustified. Had that been Ishizu’s intention? Had she sought to divert him by making him angry?

“I have been Mokuba’s guardian since I was eight. No matter what the law says, I was the one responsible for his protection. That won’t be the case in a few years. When Mokuba is able to make his own decisions, he deserves to understand the consequences and reasoning behind his choices.” There was a gap, something missing. He plunged into it. “I don’t want him to be lost or to blame me for holding him back. I don’t know that he would. But even the possibility that he might accuse me of limiting him is terrifying.”

Ishizu moved, and Seto turned to see her pressing both hands to her face again. He didn’t understand, and he hated not understanding, but then she leaned forward with a short, pained sob, and Seto replayed the last few seconds in his head.

He’d simply been talking about Mokuba. As difficult as it was, he knew that Ishizu usually understood. She’d listened to him talk about Mokuba before, and she was even quite fond of Mokuba in her own way. What was this, then?

He’d said something. He knew that. What part of it was the key?

I don’t want him to blame me for holding him back.

He stood in order to move in front of her, reaching out to find her shoulders and guide her upright again. He could feel how she resisted, how she wished to turn away from him even now, but he did not let go as he stepped forward. It was a careful orchestration, guiding her against him so that she could hide her face against his shirt. With the additional contact, her trembling was even more apparent, and Seto moved a hand to her head to attempt stroking her hair in a soothing motion.

He’d wanted to bring the Ishtars here for an escape. A chance to see more of the world without the pressures or expectations of dueling, of cards or companies. Somehow they’d only ended up here.

“Does Malik blame you for things that have happened?”

“If he didn’t before, he likely does now.” Ishizu’s voice was still firm with the resolution he appreciated about her, but she did not look at him, did not change her position.

“Neither of you are blameless. But Malik made his own decisions. Now he must live with the consequences, one of which is that you do not trust him.” Seto had the disconcerting sensation of deja vu. “He must learn to live with that truth. At the same time, you can’t ignore your own position. You can’t keep sacrificing yourself for him.”

“I know.” She pulled away, sitting upright again, reaching for Seto’s arms to brace herself. “Seto, I am grateful that you invited him. That you asked him to attend.”

“I didn’t consider what it might provoke in him. Or in you.”

“That’s not your job either. We have had a good time. It’s simply--I can still love my brother. I just cannot trust him. And to see him, to know that he spent time with Mokuba without me there, or without you present, that is hard to accept.”

Seto waited, realizing that they were back to old ground. Ishizu would retread this path again, trying to resolve things, trying to wrestle with these things in the darkness of her own room.

“Would you want me to prevent Mokuba from going with him?”

“I would never ask you to do that. Or force him to choose between you and Malik.” Ishizu shook her head, finally pushing Seto backwards. “I don’t know what to do.”

How often had she had to admit that? Seto smiled grimly, considering this Ishizu Ishtar who had faced the world without the comfort of the Millennium Tauk. He backed away so that she could stand, moving through her room with an eerie silence in order to redirect her attention.

“I’ll talk to Mokuba,” she said after another moment. “None of you should feel compelled to avoid Malik for my sake. I will speak with him too, only...later. When we’re both ready.”

Seto watched her, unable to see her face. “I’d rather spend my time with you than with him.”

Ishizu turned, her smile gentle. “You don’t know what that means to me, Seto.”

He had a rather good idea, but he decided now was not the time. He left without a farewell, closing the door behind him, and ventured back to the kitchen to find Mokuba still waiting for him. It was unusual to consider him now: to know that he’d spoken with Ishizu about Mokuba, all while having Mokuba himself right here. Seto impulsively tugged Mokuba into a lop-sided hug, amused by Mokuba’s sputtered resistance and fascinated to notice that Mokuba’s head now reached up to Seto’s chin.

He’d take Mokuba out for the afternoon, let them both get out of the house. If Malik or Rishid returned, Ishizu could discuss things with them in her own time. It wouldn’t be over in an instant: Ishizu had made that clear. But Seto had meant what he’d told Mokuba before. The Ishtars would solve their dilemmas in their own way, in their own time. And if they could emerge on the other side of this and still look one another in the eye, then there was hope for the Kaibas too.

#the trustshipping continues

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lizardrosen · 3 years

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@eirenical also asked "..and omg is it terrible to want to know about literally all your Les Mis, Narnia, and Star Wars WiPs?? Because I kind of want to know about all of them. XD" on my wip post

Les Mis

SINGING THE SONG OF ANGRY MEN is just my catch-all les mis doc from before I transferred everything from Word to Scrivener, meaning everything in there is before reading the book. I was probably really unfair to Cosette because i thought of her as competition for Eponine's happiness. Anyway, have a e/R fic i wrote based purely on dash osmosis, and complete with misspellings!

resurrection? was just a really strong image i had to write out and was always curious what the larger story would be. Basically Grantaire is smiling soppily at Enjolras and then thinks "That was before they died" and is sad and thoughtful about The Ideal.

Gray Is Okay - turns out I've already posted this one on tumblr! Grantaire and Enjolras talk about pronouns and convictions and uncertainty!

brietbart online - short fic where Enjolras gets himself worked up over right wing newspapers because “It’s good to know how the enemy thinks” and Grantaire helps him calm down. (Pretty sure this one was inspired by someone being Very Extremely Wrong about one of my favorite episodes of star trek, and then I noticed the source) This wasn't very good writing and it wasn't really going anywhere, so I'm never going to post it.

“Please Come Inside” - Enjolras is greyromantic and mostly he just loves all his friends, but he has a queerplatonic relationship with Courfeyrac which slowly develops into (possibly?) romantic attraction, and he's very confused and upset by this internal change and has to Process.

from my vague notes:

at some point they end up at a chinese restaurant because courfeyrac calls it "the ultimate comfort food" enjolras always makes a token protest when they go, but he secretly loves it just as much or more because salty foods are his weakness "we don't need to change anything we're doing," courfeyrac says as he stabs at an egg roll with a single chopstick, "or we can. Uh, your choice. But no matter what I won't be ashamed of you, and i'll trust that you aren't ashamed of me." (courfeyrac is not aro-spec, but he did introduce enjolras to the term) and they talk about their feelings and enjolras's main fear, besides that he's not aromantic at all, is that he'll be forcing courfeyrac into the closet, because even if whatever-he's-feeling is close to what someone else might call romantic, he still Can Not bear to have himself called a boyfriend courfeyrac mostly just wants enjolras to be comfortable, and he's willing to take whatever form their relationship eventually comes

Friendlier Skies - this one's my les mis space au, with a bunch of shorter stories that all fit into the same solar system. One of my favorite elements is that the Gorbeau Building has been remixed into a ship that accepts literally anyone as passengers with no questions asked.

And the Narnia and Star Wars are going under a cut!

Narnia

Gallivanters is an AU where instead of being from Narnia, Caspian is just a Spanish transfer student at the boarding school where Edmund and Peter are, and they have a bunch of nerdy adventures. I'm pretty sure Caspian/Peter was endgame in my head, but i never got that far.

once a king or queen was just my catch-all Narnia doc. Lots of Edmund, lots of Susan, and one ficlet where Susan Pevensie and Carrie White talk about the family they've lost and the girls they don't need to be anymore. I swear I remember writing a lot of Jill and Eustace too, but it must have gotten lost when transferring computers.

Theory of Narnia - technically not a WIP anymore, but I used the plot of Narnia to write an essay explaining different Theory of Knowledge concepts for extra credit in high school. It had footnotes and everything!

To Fill Different Lives was a passion project for several years! It was supposed to be for a fic exchange in 2010 but it got too big for me and I had to drop out. It's Jadis after the Last Battle, recounting her history to no one because there's no one left. Many things about it make me cringe looking back at it, but I still looove this opening:

I have lived for a long time, long enough to fill several different lives. Looking back, I begin to realize just how similar all of these lives have been. Each time, I had power, but needed more. Each time, I chose a color and assumed it as a part of my identity. And each time, there was a boy.

Star Wars

There Will Be Light - oops, I already posted this one on tumblr too! Luke has bad dreams after Obi-Wan is killed, and Han comforts him. Not meant to be shippy but it definitely could be!

Qui-Gon lives (and somehow everything is worse??) - never got past the "vague chatting" stage, but our conversation started with this

lizardrosen: you know how qui-gon tells padme something like "i can only defend you, i can't fight a war for you" ? and then the jedi order DOES fight a war for the republic eirenical: YES. lizardrosen: how *pissed* would he have been if he'd lived to find out about kamino and the clones and all of that eirenical: *nodnodnod* I think about that a lot, actually. About how Qui-Gon would have dealt with the war. Somehow, I think it would have either broken him completely... or broken his compassion for others. AND I'M NOT SURE WHICH WOULD BE WORSE.

and then we talked about how qui-gon and obi-wan and anakin are a really solid trio for a long time, so it takes a long time to break qui-gon's compassion, but it happens hard, and "obi-wan and anakin are never quite able to be the dynamic duo; they'll always be three minus one but they try, they try so HARD"

Obi-Wan after Revenge of the Sith is just what it says on the tin. He's sad and alone and trying to connect to Qui-Gon, but not quite ready for him even when he does finally show up. This one also has a really good opening paragraph!

Everyone Obi-Wan loves is taller than him. Everyone he has loved? Used to love? No, he loves them still, even those gone from the world, or out of his grasp. He would have grown to love Luke and Leia too, tiny as they are, if given half the chance, which is exactly why he cannot allow himself to take that chance.

#eirenical #les mis #narnia #star wars #my writing #friendship is great!

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deprssivewriter · 3 years

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Errors in general and Nye in particular

Thanks to the best bro for motivation (even though you did it unconsciously).

It’s time to talk about concept and characters, yeah. Although today I will pay attention to the most unprocessed of them.

A brief digression: once upon a time there was a boy of fourteen years old and he wanted characters with angel wings. But he not only had given up on the wings, and he'd given the race the stupid name "Errors," and by the time he was twenty, he hadn't come up with anything better. So, in addition to the wings, Errors each have their own curse (there are only a few types, but more on that later). Accordingly, when they are severely or mortally wounded, the curse consumes them (who understood thay understood, who did not understand they will understand). However, even after the resurrection, the curse does not immediately go away, it torments the wearer for another couple of days (depending on the circumstances), while the body slowly recovers. Errors are born rarely from ordinary people, parents see the wings from birth, even though they are like in a hidden state. By the age of 3-4, Errors awaken their first powers, including their wings, and they can no longer keep them hidden, so for the next few years everyone can see their wings until they learn to control them. We continue to develop my insanity, Errors are immortal. You can kill them only by pulling out their wings, all other methods of killing lead only to rebirth. By the way, the Error itself can not pull out the wings, either, they will grow back in this case. It seems that all the most important things are indicated.

Let's go back to the one I originally wanted to write about. Nye. Initially, he was envisioned as a completely neutral character, but quickly enough something went wrong, and he became an asshole, which probably difficult to find. But a recent conversation with bro made me think about him. I really wanted to write something, and I asked her if she wanted to see something from the life of a certain character. She also said that she wanted Nye and Jack(another Error) to meet for the first time, and I was a little upset. It was in my mind in general terms, but I never thought about this moment in detail, however, as well as about Nye. Among all my characters, he is the only one who does not have a prototype from real life. Somehow, he just happens to exist on its own. Among other things, somehow it turned out that he was fucking special. In theory, the first Error appeared due to a freaking major failure in genetics, according to the theory, all the genes there should have been recessive (I'm not a biologist, so I don't quite understand what I'm saying, I warn you right away). Nye, in turn, was born an albino, which is also a fucking glitch in genetics, and with it came a new curse that no one had before. Nye is currently the only carrier of it (and probably the only one, I don't think that he wants to have a child). So, when I thought about him, I tried to put aside all my negative attitude towards him, and realized that in fact he is very strong, and it is quite possible that he was so twisted because of life. He had to deal with all this shit himself (Errpr’s powers, I mean). And even when he was able to find some information, he still had his curse, which no one had ever seen before. And I will remind you that he is an albino, so he periodically got severe sunburn. I also remind you that the curse begins to work when the wearer is seriously injured. His curse is carnivorous butterflies (yes, what will you do to me). They eat away at the place where the wound is, which is accompanied by hellish pain and not the most pleasant sight, in the case of death, the butterflies eat him completely, while he remains conscious for as long as possible (when I imagine what pain he is experiencing, I already wince). And to avoid suffering, he was able to subdue his own curse, which also happened for the first time in the history of Errors.

Nye has learned to spray his body on butterflies and thus travel long distances in a very short time, he has to wear a black cloak so that the sun can not burn him, and in case of which people do not see his rotten, butterfly-eaten flesh. Also, since some butterflies are extremely good at mimicry, he has learned to use them to turn into any person, which is also a great achievement. Let's go back almost to the beginning of the post, where I mentioned Jack. Nye took him away from his family around the age of 7 to take care of him, so that he would not face the same difficulties as Nye himself. Only Jack's family was good, they loved their son, even too much, perhaps even considered it a blessing that their son was an "angel". But Nye took him anyway. My main character, has a theory that maybe Jack's parents were part of a cult that hunted her once (ugh, in short, Error’s feathers are important shit and that very sect catches them as children until they can't control their wings), or at least were going to give it to them, and all their love is ostentatious, so that Jack does not master the ability to hide his wings for as long as possible. Given that I still haven't refuted this theory, it's possible that this is true, and Nye actually saved him (let's skip the point that after a dozen years, he began to treat him). I'm all for what, maybe Nye is just broken, like almost all of my characters. Yes, compared to someone else (I'm talking about the main OC, yes, her name is Tie), his suffering and pain are not so large-scale, but we all have a different psyche, none of us consists of iron or something harder. In addition, in the end, after almost a decade from the main events, Nye still comes to his senses and realizes that he behaved like an asshole.

Up to this point, I have not had any sketches with Nye, except for some very short snatches from the plot, because it is very difficult. It is extremely difficult for me to think like Nye from events of present, he is extremely adept at mixing lies with the truth, so that in the end you involuntarily begin to believe him.

"You know, I almost feel sorry for her. She has everything and nothing — no friends, no homeland, no family… She is a proud person, she never gives up, but her very contempt for death speaks volumes. She has nothing to lose, and she wants nothing but her own death, and she won't get it. Tie is smart enough to understand this and more… She hates us, fights with us, but even so, she understands that the truth is on our side. By blood, she is a person, but by birth she is tied to Errors and **. ***, Yuzuru, and even ****** can be forgiven and accepted. Tie — no, because the hatred of the traitor and betrayal is stronger than the arguments of reason… She knows how to show that she does not care, but she is a living being. She proved to everyone that she was ready to be the best, but it wouldn't change anything… She will live her life with the stamp, so she does not fall in love. Whatever she is, she is afraid that her children will turn out to be Error and live the same life. That they'll live in hell... "The good has sharp fangs" ... that's what Tie once said. Her drinking with *******, her friendship with demons, her lack of fear… God, everyone is afraid, even me, but Tie is not… She seeks her own death, and finds someone else's, " Nye said softly.

I'm sorry, some of the words are censored (?), because I'm not ready to talk about someone’s names yet. Let's go back to the other one. Will you be able to figure out where the lies are and where the truth is, without knowing anything about Tie?

While the real Nye is hard for me, I have a good understanding of the Nye of the future and, as it turned out, of the past. And all this demagoguery I spread only for the sake of the second.

When the curse first consumed me, I didn't immediately understand what was happening. Gradually, the white butterflies of “death" were killing me. I knew I was turning into food for them, but I couldn't help it. I just lay there helplessly, watching as they gradually absorbed my flesh and reached my bones. Everything happened very slowly, and I was conscious until they got to my heart.

But even after the rebirth, they have not disappeared. I didn't want to go through that excruciating pain again, I didn't want to be [eaten] again.

I tried not to get hurt, but it's very difficult, so I started wearing a black raincoat in all weathers to keep the burns to a minimum. That's something.

But in battle, it is more difficult to avoid a blow or even death. In one of these I do not know how, but just for a couple of seconds, I turned into a flock of butterflies, with the help of which I was able to avoid a blow. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but it struck me. And ever since, I've been haunted by the thought that it's Me who can control my curse, not it.

With small steps, I began to master it, first scattering the individual parts of the body, getting used to the sensations and control over each of the butterflies. Then it was more difficult, it was necessary to learn not only to scatter the whole body, but also to spend as much time as necessary in this state. It's very energy-intensive, but I'm sure it will pay off for me.

Maybe with this ability, I can become something special, something more…

#writing #original character

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tonystarkbingo · 4 years

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Tony Stark Bingo Party Prompt Meme

http://generatorland.com/usergenerator.aspx?id=25057 -- we took tags from this random generator and then made up more detailed prompts from them. These prompts are open use, even if you’re not participating in the bingo, but please tag us if you write one, we’d LOVE to see what you did with it! nonsense + everyone is gay + denial : Tony+harem - Tony, while an incorrigible flirt, does not believe that anyone actually likes him, let alone as many as do. They come up with increasingly ridiculous ideas to ask him out or at least let him know they like him, while he innocently thinks they're all just such awesome friends superpowers + bodice-ripper + sad Stuckony - something set in the Regency(ish) era but with secret superpowers as an added bonus. Let’s of angst over trying to hide their secret powers, and wanting to save people without revealing themselves and also cause they’re gay. clones + nighttime + wishes Coulson/Strange (StrangeAgent? AgentStrange? DrAgent?) - Coulson ends up spending the night in the NY Sanctum. Some of the artifacts happen to be particularly sensitive to subconscious fantasies... and isn't it lucky that cloning himself happens to be one of Strange's powers? cruising + flashbacks + bad boys Winteriron possible future Stuckony - small warning for drinking mention - Tony is driving around to distract himself so he doesn't get drunk. He gets in an accident because he is not actually in a state to drive. The accident is comparatively harmless, the flashback to his convoy being attacked in Afghanistan is less so. When Tony wakes up in the hospital he learns that the person who dragged him from his car to safety is one James "Bucky" Barnes, resident motorbike riding bad boy heartthrob and friend/visitor of Steve "regular ER customer" Rogers, who's his hospital roommate. room service + lifeguards + sharing Tony is a lifeguard who takes his job very seriously. He's attending a convention-slash-training seminar at a posh uptown hotel, but then there's a knock at the door. He opens it to find two room service carts, both with order slips on them that indicate they're actually destined for another room. Rather than call the obviously harried and beleaguered bellboy back, he pushes them down the hall himself and knocks on the door... which is answered by none other than the hot beefcake fellow-lifeguard that's been distracting Tony all day. They end up sharing the enormous amount of food... and then maybe some more. :wink: overthinking + pity sex + customer service Tony just turned 40, he's been friends with Bucky and Nat for forever, and they'd been each other's marriage backups for the longest time, like, if they weren't married at 40, they'd marry whoever wasn't married either in their little trio. Only, two years prior, Buckynat became husband and wife and so he's having a little pity party on his floor at the Tower, drinking virgin mojitos and seriously consider a particular customer service to cheer himself up in one way or another - might as well get an orgasm, as shitty and sad as it may be, it's his birthday ffs - but then Bucky and Nat appear in his elevator, and they pull him off the couch he's been sprawled on for three hours, and Nat is the first to kiss him, and he's too stunned to react much but when he does question wtf is happening, Bucky shushes him and Tony lets him. The next morning he is evidently convinced it was all just pity sex, or a kink of theirs or whatever.... certainly nothing to do with the fact that they've been courting him forever and got tired of waiting for him to step out of ObliviousStarklandia. Of course not. wolves + romantic friendship + wigs Okay, so, someone has been doing an excellent job of hiding his baldness from someone else, with whom he's been in a long term best-friends-but-in-love not-quite-relationship. He's got an elaborate series of wigs, and over the years he's gradually been replacing them with slightly more grey ones so that someone else doesn't realise. Aaaand then someone gets bitten by a werewolf, and when he shifts for the first time he is completely bald and the secret is out. accidental relationship + butt dialing + warlocks Tony Stark is not happy with today's mission, not like there's an occasion to enjoy dealing with magic. But now he's in a relationship with Bucky, which is not bad, that man is gorgeous, but this is not the way. He's ranting about it to Jarvis and doesn't realize that he sat on his phone nor that he dialed the other supersoldier in the team until he hears a muffled laugh beneath him. He's going to kill that warlock smuggling + fear + road-trip okay, a Star Wars AU. Farmboy Peter is fleeing from stormtroopers who found out his parents were Jedi. He runs into smuggler Tony and they take off in Tony's ship for an extended road trip in space. possession + loving marriage + gardens & gardening Pepperony, Morgan insists there's a spirit possessing the garden because she's seen the plants dancing. Turns out they've accidentally created sentient plants and Tony is like nope, call somebody else, I do mechanical engineering and they call Dr. Cho to fix it. The marriage is in there somewhere I promise idiots in love + bonding + resurrection Ironhawk - Clint tries to get Lucky back after he goes over the rainbow bridge, but he can’t actually read latin and ends up bringing back Tony from the 18th century. And poor Tony gets Clint as his guide to the 21st. Shenanigans and eventual fluffy ending improv + cultural appropriation + shield maidens After the Battle of New York, Tony's interviewing Thor about Asguardian tech and learns that they have all kinds of shielding devices, and gets interested in trying to replicate what Thor describes just in case aliens decide to pay a call on Earth again. Thor, for his part, is kinda shocked that Earth doesn't have any such shields, though on the other hand it is Midguard, so. You know. Tony gives it a shot and a couple weeks later he's launching the satellites into orbit for a preliminary test of the shields. He intends to test them with SI tech developed from seized Chitauri tech, but before he can get the chance an alien army shows up, guns blazing and very mad about something. The shields hold, thankfully, and the aliens send a strongly worded letter informing him that he has infringed upon their religious and cultural traditions by putting the Stark logo on them. Their planet was visited centuries ago by time-travelers that greatly influenced their culture, religion, government, etc. These time travelers carried devices with that same Stark Logo on them. The Stark Logo has become a complex cultural symbol over the centuries, and they don't appreciate him using it on war tech, even if on shields. Eventually, they figure out that the time travelers' tech was Tony's tech, and agree to leave in peace, but only after Tony spends a terrifying couple of days trying to improvise his way through a diplomatic disaster with an alien power. vampire family + slapstick + loss WinterIronWidow: So, Natasha's been a vampire for a long time, and she's lonely, so she decides to take on some mates, enter established relationship WinterIron. She vampirises them, which leads to Tony having fits about GARLIC and my god, I'm ITALIAN, you horrible woman! And Bucky's like "I'm... CATHOLIC?? OM-- I can't even say G-- now??" awkwardness + chatting & messaging + shyness Tony doesn't understand why everytime Bucky comes into the lab, Dum-E tends to drop whatever he's holding and go hide in his charging station. Dum-E's always a bit clumsy and silly but this is more than usual and Tony's worried that Dum-E doesn't like Bucky or something like that. Anyway after much discussion, with JARVIS as translator and go-between, it turns out that Dum-E has developed a bit of a crush on Bucky's fancy robotic arm. Which ends up of course being a hilarious & awkward situation for all involved. candles + explosions + blind date tony gets bullied by pepper to go on a blind date to get out of his funk, she insists that this Matt Murdock character is the perfect date and Tony will like him. reluctantly tony goes to fancy restaurant and meets Matt Murdock and they hit it off instantly the little snarky assholes. they have a nice dinner by candle light and it's all going so well up until dessert when they order some kind of chocolate lava cake which was tragically not cooked properly and ends up exploding on both of them and bam they fall in love and live happily ever after skeleton puns + reincarnation + deus ex machina A snap, that was all it took to snuff out something so bright amidst the rubble of what was once New York City, and, with Tony gone for good, the living seem rather, well…dead. Until, one day, someone they all thought long dead returned to them, a blue cube glowing in his grip and a sweet promise of a new beginning dripping from his lips. But of course, no new beginning comes without a price laundry + tenderness + dialogue “I hate laundry,” Morgan declared after trying to refold her sweatshirt for the seventh time. “Me too kiddo,” Tony whispered back, sneaking a glance over his shoulder to Pepper who was putting clothes into the wash. “But that’s why we do it together. It gets done and we don't have to do it alone.” world domination + paranoia + everything hurts Tony knew what was coming, he knew. He’d seen the future and he knew. The Kree were coming - why would no one believe him? Not his husband, not the team, not even his own son. He kept convincing them they had to suit up and defend the planet and Steve and Peter kept telling him that a engineering professor from Cal Tech can’t do that, that this suit he talks about is only in his delusions. But he’s not paranoid. Or crazy. Or any of those other words. He is Iron Man. He just has to convince everyone else. feels + useless lesbians + Santa's workshop Toni doesn’t think anyone could accuse her of overflowing with Christmas spirit. That hasn’t stopped the rest of the Avengers from turning the “festive cheer” dial up to eleven, and Toni thinks she might just have to spend the whole next month hiding in her workshop. (Hey, she let DUM-E wear a Santa hat – that has to count for something.) Too bad Jamie Barnes – cyborg superassassin extraordinaire, Captain America’s best friend, and Toni’s big gay crush – has gotten the exact same idea. Now the rest of the team thinks they’ve got a “thing,” and Toni can’t decide which is worse: putting up with the Avengers’ not-so-subtle attempts at matchmaking, or spending all her time with the woman she loves and who she is absolutely, 100%, totally certain doesn’t reciprocate. Getting through this holiday season without having her heart broken might just take… a Christmas miracle. shapeshifting + secret organizations + nurses “C. Barton - Orderly.” That’s what his tag said. But only a very few people knew exactly what kind of hospital Saint Natalis actually was, and just how busy they could be during the full moon. kissing games + pirates + book stores Tony always thought that the shop had a mind of its own. The books were one thing, whispering their secrets to patrons who managed to find their way to it. Jarvis always did warn him not to touch any of the artifacts. The "DO NOT TOUCH" signs plastered all over the crates. So maybe it was his fault that he managed to summon 'Buccaneer Barnes' after touching the shiny pirate sword. "Let's play a game. If you win, I'll help you put all those runaway monsters that jumped out of the books. If I win, you owe me a kiss. Whatdaya say Stark?"

#TonyStarkBingo2020 #prompt meme #party games

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millysaurusrex · 5 years

Note

I love your stories. Could you maybe write something about Gendrya naming their first born son Sandor? Thank you!

Father

Arya loved her father more than anything. Ned Stark was the greatest man who ever lived, if she had anything to say about it. She remembered gathering wild flowers from the fields in summer for him, and the smile that would crinkle his eyes as she presented him with her messy bouquets.

Her father never scolded her for playing with her brothers, and always laughed when she’d sneak away from her sewing lessons to best little Bran in archery, even when her mother would fix him with a stern look. He was the only person in the world who seemed to love her for who she truly was - well, except for perhaps Jon Snow - and Arya worshiped him for it.

He was kind and just and honorable. As a child, she had thought honor the most important trait a person could have, and Ned Stark was considered the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. But the way that some men sneered the title, the honorable Ned Stark, made her think that not all were impressed by her lord father. She had never cared what they thought - what were the opinions of a few jealous lords compared to her beloved father?

But, in the blistering heat of the South, she learned that honor could very well get a man killed. It had killed her father. And with the swing of a massive sword, her faith in honor rolled down the steps of the Sept along with her father’s head.

—-

The journey up the King’s Road to the Wall was arduous and bloody. She often felt close to death each time a team of bandits decided to rob their little camp or a particularly daring prisoner took an interest in her. Yoren did he best to shield her.

“Until we reach the Wall, you’re no longer Arya Stark,” he hissed in that accent of his that reminded her so much of home. “You’d do best to remember that, lest you want to have every raper here seeing who could put their bastard in a high-born girl.”

He was not one of her father’s bannermen, instead a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, and a close friend of her uncle Benjen. He’d been the one to smuggle her out of the city. He’d shielded her eyes as the Mountain took her father’s head before a cheering crowd. Yoren was certainly not her father, but he was as devoted to protecting her as a father might.

So when ser Amory Lorch drove a sword through the back of his neck, Arya mourned for him.

—-

Beric Dondarrion was once a bannerman of House Stark. It might be strange to think that the leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners was once a lord himself, but Arya had regarded him with the cold disinterest that befit a man who broke his vows to his liege lord.

He looked different, but Arya supposed that’s what happened when a man was killed and brought back to life over and over. She had known little about the lightning lord when she was a child. (She was always far more interested in the stories of knights and dragon riders to care what other lords got up to.) And anyway, any man who abandoned his honor to be an outlaw and had no qualms about abducting children was no true knight to her.

“You’re not our prisoner, little lady,” He repeated Thoros of Myr’s earlier declaration. “We will get you back to your lady mother.”

“For a price,” she sneered. Beric shrugged.

“We do what we must to survive, little lady. And we need gold to survive.”

Later, she’d been laying by the fire when she overheard Beric reminiscing over his numerous resurrections with Thoros.

“Can you revive a man with no head?” She’d asked softly.

“Each time I awaken by the flames, I’m a little less the man I was before. Lord Stark was a good, honorable man. I would never wish such a life on him.”

She’d wanted to ask what an outlaw could possibly know about honor, but she kept her mouth shut. She’d been right, of course, because a moon’s turn later, he sold off her only friend to a Red Witch.

His name was added to her list for that.

(But years later, in the darkest recesses of her ancestral home, she’d cry over his beaten, broken body.)

— -

The Hound was a miserable old shit. He stank of wine and piss half the time and never seemed to care that it bothered her, even as she struggled violently against his strong grip.

“You’re not going anywhere wolf-bitch. Not until I get my gold from that twat of a King you call a brother.”

He’d been on her list for a very long time. She often dreamed about running him through with Needle. He’d killed Mycah. It’d be poetic justice. Her father always said that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

Robb would surely allow her the honor.

When they reached the Twins, she’d felt an almost ecstatic glee at the thought of seeing his head on a spike.

But, it wasn’t his head that would be lost that night. Robb had always looked so much like their mother…the sight of Grey Wind’s bloody head mounted onto her brother’s mutilated body would haunt her for the rest of her life.

She’d cried into the Hound’s armor that night.

He was there the first time she killed a man.

He was a Frey soldier. Some beady eyed fuck. She didn’t care what his name was or who he was, he’d been there with the others, had slaughtered her mother, brother and the good sister she’d never met. He’d declared war on House Stark by slaying Robb’s direwolf.

Had it not been for the Hound, she might have died at the hands of Frey’s, too. And when they sat eating the abandoned food surrounded by dead soldiers, he’d asked if that was her first kill.

(She told him that it was her first man.)

She returned the favor in a tavern some time later. The Lannister soldier who stole her sword was there and he joined them at their little table, cheerfully insisting that the Hound join them to raid and pillage their way through the Seven Kingdoms. She still hated him, but she couldn’t help the smirk when he told the twat that king could go fuck himself. When the Hound flipped the table onto the Lannister soldier, he easily killed each of his men. He was fighting the last of the men when Poliver snuck up behind him ready to strike. Before he could deliver he killing blow, she incapacitated him, snatched back Needle, and drove it into his throat.

They shared a love for killing, or so Arya quipped much to the Hound’s chagrin. He snapped that he no one liked killing and laughed when she told him that she would have killed King Joffrey with a chicken bone, had she gotten to him first.

The last time she spoke to him, before he journeyed to the North to fight alongside her brother, he’d been dying. He’d demanded that she kill him and taunted her when she refused. Instead, she took his coins and made her way to the nearest shipyard.

(She’d taken his name off her list long ago.)

—-

Traveling with the Hound was not the cleverest of ideas, but Arya knew she’d prefer no other companion. He wasn’t the chatty type and neither was she, so they mostly journeyed to King’s Landing in comfortable silence.

Three days ride from the Red Keep, she found herself regretting her decision.

“Did he ever find you?”

“Who?” She asked, biting into the leg of rabbit she’d caught.

“Who? That bastard blacksmith of yours.”

She hadn’t expected him to bring up that. “Gendry?”

“Yes, the new Lord Baratheon. The twat nearly was nearly out of his trousers trying to find you.” His laugh sounds cold in his gravely voice.

She refused to look into his eyes. “He found me.” And that was that and neither of them bring up the new Lord of Storms End again.

—-

Losing her father had been the hardest thing she’d ever went through. Seeing the downtrodden look on his face had broken her heart because she knew he was dying the worst kind of death - the death of a traitor.

She never expected to feel the loss of another as boldly as she did her lord father. But, as they stood there in the crumbling shell of the Red Keep, she knew that her heart was breaking again. Saying goodbye was never easy, and Arya was alarmed at how difficult it was to part with the Hound. They had shared so much of their journey together, from the death of her brother to the battle against the dead. It was with a heavy heart that she realized that she could remember the Hound’s many lessons more clearly than those of her father.

He’d become somewhat of a father somewhere along the way, she supposed. And so when he demanded that she live, she knew she had no other choice but to obey. They would never see each other again, she knew. She’d gotten her revenge and now it was his turn to cross a name off his list, the only name on his list - Gregor Clegane.

“Sandor, thank you.”

It was the first time she’d ever called him by that name, the first time she ever said it out loud.

It made him smile.

—-

When she was little, she had loved her father more than anything. He was the only man who ever allowed her to be herself, and never blamed her for not being a lady.

That is, until she meets Gendry. Gendry loves that she rides horses and wears breeches. He never scolds her for sparing in the training yard - he makes the weapons she uses. He laughs when she makes unladylike quips at the lords who feel bold enough to remark on her behavior. When a man makes a vulgar pass at her he smirks and tells the little lordling, who is cowering in his boots before the burly Lord of Storm’s End, that it isn’t he that the lord should fear, it’s the lady herself.

Gendry is kind and brave and honorable. He stood by her side when they were children and he’d defended her even when he thought she was a little bastard boy named Arry. He’d gone beyond the wall with her brother and fought side by side with their allies when the dead came marching down onto Winterfell. He’d nearly lost his life during the battle of King’s Landing.

She once told her father that she’d never marry a lord, that it wasn’t her. And her father had smiled warmly and she’d felt loved. When she repeats the words again, it’s with a heavier heart, and the look on the newly legitimized Lord Baratheon’s face makes her feel like she’s run him through with her sword.

She tries not to think about that, though, because there is no use ruminating on the past anymore. Not when they’ve survived so much. Not when they have so much to live for.

(And so when she sees him again, standing in his new castle, with a new limp and a new name, she tells him she could be his lady.)

When they marry beneath the heart tree, she wants to weep, because it is Jon who takes her cloak from Gendry and not her father. She smiles happily at her beloved cousin anyway, and knows that he is watching down on her with pride.

House Stark has finally joined with House Baratheon.

—-

It takes a great deal of strength to be a good father. She’s met enough men and women to know what the loss of such a role model can do to a person. But, she also knows that a man does not have to be related by blood to be a good one.

However, Gendry will be a wonderful father. He dotes on her while she is heavy with child, and coos at her belly whenever their babe kicks. He never knew his father, Arya knows, but he is as loving and kind and honorable as her own. When she goes into labor, it is in the highest room of the single tower that is Storm’s End. Her dutiful husband refuses to leave her side, although his men insist that it is tradition for the man to go hunting during the birthing. He eagerly follows each and every one of her commands; even the most ridiculous, which makes him run up and down the stairs to and from the kitchens for fruits and honey.

He never complains, never argues, which makes her roll her eyes, because he’s never been afraid to tell her she can go shove it.

He will be a good father, she knows, because he stands there by her side and allows her to nearly crush his fingers in her deathly grip as they welcome their twin sons into the world.

(It is a surprise but a welcomed one, and Arya and Gendry clutch their babies to their chest.)

“We should name them after our fathers .” Arya says, staring into one of her son’s red screaming face. His eyes have not opened yet, but she hopes they’re Baratheon blue. “So, you’ll be little Ned.”

She smiles at her husband who is staring wide eyed at the screeching little bundle in his arms. “I never knew my father…it doesn’t feel right to name my son after him.”

She raises a brow and smiles. “Then what would you prefer his name be?”

Gendry looks at her then, those eyes she loves so much staring deeply into her own. “I think our sons deserve to be named after the brave men who taught their brilliant mother what honor is. He’ll be Sandor.”

“Sandor.” She whispers, and her heart feels like it’s going to explode.

#gendrya fanfiction #gendrya #father roles #Sandor

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ghost-chance · 4 years

Text

Excerpt from "The Demon King and the Half-Breed Hermit"

Gotta log off for a while after this but first, I wanted to share this (unedited and incomplete) scene. It's for an upcoming (in-the-works) chapter of my Piccolo/OC-centric ▶Dragon Ball post-GT◀ fic, found on my FFnet account. Why am I sharing it? Firstly, it's proof I'm still writing (...trying...) and despite the long wait for new chapters, DK&HBH has NOT been abandoned. (NOTHING has been abandoned!) Secondly, THIS is what happens when I tell myself "I need to start writing characters who can effectively communicate and deal with their emotions like functional adults!" 😑 Yes...AUBERGINE happens.

Hopefully the "Queen of Issues" can make someone smile.

🌲🌳🌲🌳🌲🌳🌲🌳🌲🌳🌲🌳🌲🌳🌲🌳🌲🌳🌲🌳🌲

Life as a single mother was generally a struggle; as a single mother of two half-Saiyan boys, life was a never-ending catastrophe. Fortunately for Son Chi-Chi, both her boys were grown men capable of running their own lives; unfortunately, that left her to manage her household alone. Oh, sure, Gohan and Videl regularly offered to move her into their home and take care of her, but she wasn't quite ready to accept that offer. She was quite capable of taking care of herself…at least, that is, when she wasn't weighed down with groceries and being chased down by a saber-toothed wildcat.

Winded, she stumbled and landed hard on her knees, her bags falling and the contents scattering. One moment she could practically feel the beast's rancid breath on her neck; the next a warning shout split the air, quickly followed by a pained yelp. Chi-Chi scrambled onto her back and stilled at the familiar silhouette cast by the afternoon sun through the trees. Black hair as ragged as ever and eyes dark as pitch, Aubergine held the struggling wildcat by the throat, leaching away its strength. She drained it a little longer before letting it slink away in shame, then looked to her fallen sister-in-law over her shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Chi-Chi answered as she gathered the spilled goods, then belatedly added "thank you." Aubrey shrugged and hoisted the bags onto her shoulder as the black faded from her eyes.

"Well, someone's got to shield the squishies," she replied instead. The familiar retort used to irritate Chi-Chi, but now she recognized it for what it was: you're welcome. I don't mind. Aubergine's long silences, half-answers, and silence took a while to adjust to but by now it was like a second language to her sister in-law.

The remainder of the journey to Chi-Chi's home passed in a silence midway between comfortable and awkward, and before she knew it, the matron was stowing away her groceries. Aubergine sat at the table, brooding and fiddling with a small shaker jar from the revolving rack in the middle. Recognizing the speckled contents, she pried the lid open, sniffed at the contents, and sneezed; her eyes and sinuses burned in protest as she jammed it closed and shoved it back on the rack. Yes, she identified it correctly. "So how's Piccolo settling in?" At the resulting silence, she turned to find Aubergine scowling like someone who just chewed five lemons in a row without stopping to sweeten them. "That well, huh?" Chi-Chi teased. I

Aubergine shot her a deadpan glower then exchanged the speckled powder for a jar full of tiny seeds. As if it explained everything, she grunted, "he's not dead yet." These seeds didn't burn her nose but they had a rather unpleasant smell somewhat like rank body odor. Nose scrunching at the stink, Aubrey exchanged the jar for a tall shaker full of tiny white crystals with a much sweeter scent. Over by the table, Chi-Chi gave a knowing smile as the half-breed examined her spices. "I don't understand how one person can require so many of these things," Aubergine muttered surveying the multitude of tiny jars and shakers on the Lazy-Susan. "What's the point of all this crap?"

"Spices?" Chi-Chi asked, and upon receiving a blank look added, "they make food taste good. As for the number, different dishes require different spices—you can't cook everything with the same ingredients." Aubrey stilled, eyes wide and locked on the three jars she investigated before. "What brought you here anyway?" If Chi-Chi didn't know any better, she'd say the half-breed was embarrassed.

"He quit complaining," Aubrey mumbled. "He used to whine that I was poisoning him; now he doesn't say anything…but…he doesn't have to. I thought…" She fell silent, cleared her throat, then collected the other two bottles and shoved the lot toward Chi-Chi. "Fish. It was worse than usual."

Chi-Chi was used to getting only half the picture from her half-Saiyan sister-in-law but this was even less information than usual. Those three spices were never used in the same dish; then again, this was Aubergine, and Aubergine was quite possibly the worst cook in the realms. "Correct me if I'm wrong," Chi-Chi asked, "but are you saying you cooked fish…with black pepper, cumin, and sugar…?" The half-breed glanced at the jars, read the fading labels, and gave a wary nod; Chi-Chi felt her breakfast threaten reappearance. "No wonder, then," she sighed. "Cumin and pepper can be used on fish but generally not together, and you don't use sugar on seafood."

"This is so stupid." …and so began Aubrey's usual response to statements regarding food as anything beyond life-preserving sustenance. After so many years of hearing the same thing over and over again, Chi-Chi easily tuned out the increasingly loud rant and gathered a few more appropriate seasonings for fish. "Food doesn't have to taste good!" Aubergine spat without regard. "Its only purpose is to keep you from dying of hunger, anything beyond that is friv—" Finally, she went silent. Of course, taking Chi-Chi's frying pan to the skull would shut anyone up.

"There's more to life than just existing," Chi-Chi scolded as Aubergine rubbed the already swelling lump on her skull and growled under her breath. "There's more to life than just survival. We were put on this Earth to thrive, not just not die."

"We were put on this Earth because my dumbass brother didn't have the balls to kill that midget Pilaf from the start." This time she ducked the frying pan.

"You're missing the point as always," Chi-Chi huffed. "I swear, you're so much like my Goku. Aubergine, when your life's over, you'll have an eternity to look back on what you did. If all you have to look back on is not dying, then what's the point?" Aubergine went silent, glaring at the wall beside her as if blaming it for everything that ever went wrong in her life. It didn't escape Chi-Chi that said wall stood between her kitchen and the home Goku and Aubergine grew up in. Not for the first time, she wondered what the half-breed's life was like in those early years, and what molded her into the distant, bristly woman she was now.

"Life was always enough before." The admission was quiet—half-muffled in Aubrey's mostly flat chest and aimed into the polished tabletop—but to the human matron it had the same impact as a battle cry. "Stay out of danger," the half-saiyan muttered as though reciting some sort of task list. "Find and maintain shelter, locate reliable sustenance, protect your brother…" ..wait for me to come find you. I promise, I'll come find you! Bardock may have been a visionary, but an honest Saiyan, he was not. He never came for them… "That used to be enough…" …until said brother ran off with a blue-haired teenager in search of adventure and left Aubergine behind. Sure, she caught up after a while and tagged along for a few misadventures—living alone in the wilds got boring, after all—but at the end of the day, she couldn't even accomplish the most important of these tasks. She couldn't protect Goku. One hand strayed up to brush her bangs out of her dead eye. She couldn't even protect herself. "Why isn't that enough anymore?"

"Perhaps it never really was enough." Chi-Chi's smile held no judgment and her voice no censure. "Perhaps you're only just realizing it now." Perhaps…Aubergine turned to the window, eyes trained on the distant misty peak of Mt. Paozu. After so many years of feeling stuck in place, maybe it was time to change. "I've offered before and the offer stands—I'll teach you to cook if you'll let me." For the first time, the offer was answered with a long silence instead of some bitter retort or evasive remark, proof in Chi-Chi's mind that the other was finally considering it.

"A year ago none of this would've…" Aubergine fell silent; again, she was driven to brush her bangs away from her blind eye though they weren't impairing her sight. That nervous tic would be the death of her someday… She cleared her throat and tried again. "Nothing mattered a year ago. It still shouldn't matter." Chi-Chi faltered. She recognized where this topic was leading as easily as she knew how Aubergine must have reacted to Piccolo's resurrection. She smoothed the skirt of her long dress and seated herself at the table. The rest of the groceries could wait a bit longer.

"The first time I lost Goku…" I lost Goku. Even after so many times of saying those words, her throat still caught around them; even after how many times Goku died, the very mention still triggered an echo of the day Krillin brought her the news. Her son, missing – her husband, dead – worst of all, the threat wasn't even over. "Well, I was a mess," Chi-Chi finished mildly. The past was in the past—let it lie there in peace. "Every time I lost him, I felt sure it was my fault for not being strong enough to keep him. Every time he came back, I tried harder than before to make him stay…and every time, I lost him again anyway…the last time, for good. He refused to be revived." Even now, the words made her eyes burn and her throat clench, so it was a comfort when Aubergine broke the tense silence.

"He was an idiot like that." The dry remark earned a weak chuckle.

"Indeed. Even now, were he to walk through that door, I'd still take him back. He left us all behind when he refused resurrection, but I'd still welcome him home with open arms." She hummed softly, leaning on her elbows and looking out the nearest window. Already the blue of the sky was deepening and the days, shortening—harvest time might come early this year. "For all his faults, and there were many, Goku was always so much stronger than I ever could be. I could never leave behind those I love, even to keep them safe…he did so without a second thought."

"But when the danger's gone, how does staying dead solve anything?" Aubergine cut in—an unusually long sentence from an unusually brief speaker. "The people he left behind—they still needed him—they depended on him, and he turned his back on them!" Chi-Chi hazarded a glance at her company; Aubergine was off in another world, her vision trained somewhere far beyond the woodgrain of the tabletop. "Didn't he know? Didn't it matter?" Chi-Chi's wrinkle-framed lips tilted into a sly smile.

"He knew there were such people, I'm sure," she answered. "I have a feeling he didn't quite understand what it would put you through." Aubergine gave a faint nod, eyes distant, then startled as she realized the subject change. Both women knew they were no longer talking about Goku; neither was ready to admit it, either. The half-Saiyan's cheeks darkened in embarrassment, but the effect was lessened by the venomous glare aimed out the window. "You never told him, did you?" Chi-Chi pressed.

"Why bother?" Aubergine muttered. "He knew what he was doing. He had to know I'd—" She fell short, remembering vividly the searing pain in her chest from the day the earth was destroyed—the fracturing of a heart timed to the shattering of a planet. From the first wince to the last breath, she felt Piccolo die, and it was a feeling she'd never forget…or forgive. "...I never should have marked the bastard."

Once again, Chi-Chi was given only bits and pieces, but this time she was content with it. If the scars on Aubergine's throat were any indication, the whole picture wasn't one she cared to see.

#dragon ball gt #dragon ball #Fanfiction #wip #Piccolo #piccolo/oc #proof I'm not giving up #emotions are hard #tagging took 20 tries because my autocorrect id smokimg the crack and likes correcting properly spelled words into gibberish #fuck you too Kindle #fanfiction and fanart #Chi-Chi is more than just a fishwife

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ofkoroksandgreatfairies · 5 years

Text

And It Isn't Perfect, But It Is Enough

They were physically closer then they had been in one hundred years, but somehow farther apart then they could've ever predicted. Zelda doesn't recognize this new version of her knight, and Link doesn't know how to exorcize all the ghosts haunting his princess.

Here is the story on AO3.

---

When they arrived at Hateno Village, it had been three days and two nights since Calamity Gannon's end. Their entire journey could be summed up in hours of tense silence, quiet anguish, and on Link's end, immense pain. The two hylians didn't talk much; there was one-hundred years and an ancient evil stuck in-between them. That kind of thing, in their experience, seemed to make normal conversation a little more stilted and heavy.

"The stable is out back, I'll take the horses." Link swung his legs off his horse, jumping down to the ground and landing on his feet with a soft thud. He walked around to where Zelda had halted her horse, offering her a hand.

Moments like that made them both a little sad. Link had lost a lot during his time in the Shrine of Resurrection, but little mannerisms like the way he helped her dismount seemed to remain. It reminded Zelda of a time long before where he had been silent, and she had been royalty.

There was something sad in the way she kept holding onto the way they were, and she found the Link that stood before her now horribly unfamiliar. The Link that helped her off her horse that afternoon spoke freely, laughed loudly with travelers he knew, and swore under his breath when they encountered monsters. And while it was a far cry from the stoic knight she had originally met, it wasn't a bad change. In fact Zelda welcomed the way his voice cut through the often terrifying silence.

Zelda inspected the sign outside of the house, running her fingers over the carved wood. She was stalling. There was a very big part of her that wanted to rush inside and look at everything she could possibly find, but the other part remained rooted in royalty, and left her waiting for permission. Zelda supposed she had no reason to act royal anymore; there was no kingdom, her destiny had been completed, and all of the people her father ever lead -besides the long-lived Zora of course- had long since passed. But Zelda felt out of place, and holding onto the nobility she tried so hard to abandon for so long alleviated a bit of the alienation.

Link's steps were loud and disruptive as he strode past her to open the door. Zelda had taken notice of how being in Hateno Village seemed to strip him of all pretenses of stealth and vestigial means of defense. He moved languidly here, shoulders slouched and all his weapons sheathed. He was relaxed. It was a sight the princess had never seen from the Link she used to know, but one she found fascinating in the one she was currently familiarizing herself with. He deserved rest and relaxation, she thought, a soft smile stretching across her face.

Link passed through the threshold of his house, throwing the weapons slung across his back up into racks along the walls. Zelda remained outside, standing just outside the door, worrying if she was truly being a bother. She figured Link had no obligation to her now; Calamity Gannon had been vanquished, he had freed her, and every other heroic debt Link had never even owed in the first place had been payed in full. She thought she held no necessary place within his home, so Zelda stood outside and studied the grass beneath her feet.

"Come in. You must be tired." Link said frankly, leaning against the doorway and offering her his hand.

There is was again; the same hand back once again to lead her. Her mind battled against her heart as Zelda contemplated going inside. Half of her wanted to go into the house, fall into the bed Zelda had no doubt lied within, and sleep for a millennia. But the other half of Zelda felt guilty as she assessed the many wounds covering his body; Gannon had physically inflicted them, but she condemned Link to those scars from the second she put him into the shrine.

"Are you sure? I can find an inn if you'd like a night by yourself. I don't want to intrude, saving me was enough, and..." She rambled on, her cheeks getting more red with each passing second.

"Come inside." He said simply, stepping outside to where she still stood. He smiled at her, grabbing a hold of her wrist gently and leading her in.

Link's house was a monument to all he had seen and done since coming out of the shrine. Along the walls were racks of strange weapons, jars of collected herbs, and sets of armor waiting to be upgraded by the great fairies. Everything within was left in haphazard piles or messily hung up, Zelda observed. The mess should have been expected, she reasoned, of course Link didn't have time to organize. He had her to go and save, after all.

Zelda did that a lot: tell herself that Link 'saved her'. It wasn't true of course, as he only aided her while she herself vanquished Calamity Gannon, but it was a habit she couldn't help. Her father had raised her in such a fashion that Zelda now believed she could never be nearly as powerful as she needed to be. The constant prayer sessions, arguments, and belittling of her youth had taken a toll on the princess; no matter how much Zelda wished to deny it. And even though King Rhoam had passed, and the Kingdom of Hyrule no longer existed, the ghosts of both still continued to haunt Zelda.

Zelda followed Link's confident steps into the kitchen. He motioned to a chair, and she sat herself at the table hesitantly. It was quiet as Link took to the stove and began creating a stew out of an assortment of vegetables, the gentle clank of the occasional pot sounding against his gentle humming. He turned away from the stove and Zelda watched with subdued curiosity as he lit the fireplace; it was the most domestic she had ever seen the knight, and a bit of her melted as she watched. Link returned to the stove, but not before glancing over at Zelda, and asking her if she'd like something to drink.

"No it's okay, really. I thank you so much for your gratitude, but you truly don't need to do anything else. This is enough." She cast her hands in front of her face, motioning to all that surrounded her.

He didn't say anything, only turning to a cabinet, grabbing a cup and filling it with water. Link placed the drink in front of her anyway, and walked back to the stove.

After the first night, they had fallen into an odd kind of routine. Instead of opening up and making up for all the lost time, Zelda had closed herself off. She believed herself to be a burden upon her knight, so she hardly spoke unless spoken to, and never asked him for anything. Link fell back into the familiar silence around her as a result, and it was almost like before Hyrule had fallen. Everything she had ever wanted to say to Link over the past century sat heavy and thick upon her tongue, choking her into silence. There was too much time, too much loss, and never enough rest; their destiny had always decreed them to be separated by Gannon, and even though Gannon had been vanquished, his evil left a divide between them.

Link emptied the stew into two separate bowls, and the most delicious scent swirled through the room. He really was a fantastic cook, and Zelda found herself thanking Hylia for this new-found skill with every meal she ate. He set the bowl in front of her gently, taking a seat opposite of her.

Link wasted no time at all, digging into the meal he prepared with unabashed vigor. The sight of him across from her, eating like an absolutely starved animal, made Zelda smile. This view was familiar; it was nice to know that little bits of the boy she used to know remained. Zelda could remember nights spent around blazing campfires, slightly dubious food, and the most amazing friends. Now it was just her, Link, and the bittersweetness souring her meal because although Link still dripped stew all over his tunic in his enthusiasm, the champions were not there to laugh with her. The table felt empty, no matter how grateful she was to still be here with him.

Link finished before her, and pushed his bowl to the side. He disappeared into the other room, and brought the master sword and a cloth back with him when he returned. Link placed the large sword on the table with a loud metallic clang, and the sound alone made her jump a little in her seat. Link glanced up at her, a slight smirk on his face. He was teasing her, Zelda realized, and suddenly his face became that much more familiar to her. The teasing was something she recognized, a bit of her old Link given back to her, and Zelda shot him a small smile back.

"You still keep your weapons on the table I see." Zelda took a sip of her drink, looking at him over the rim of a tip-backed cup. "Have I taught you nothing?"

Link only smiled brightly, turning his face back down to his sword and shaking his head. He was still shy, Zelda observed, and it warmed her to see how Link still tried to hide his blushing smile from her.

They lapsed back into silence, the only sounds an occasional clank from Zelda's spoon, and the soft sound of cloth as Link polished his sword. If she closed her eyes, Zelda was back before the Calamity, and she swore she could hear the laughter of the champion's surrounding her. The thought made her sad, because although Zelda never particularly liked sleeping on the ground, she'd suffer through all the sore muscles necessary just to camp out with her cherished friends one last time.

---

Link took small, furtive glances at Zelda in between looking down and polishing his sword. Truly the master sword didn't quite need such an extensive cleaning; especially as it hadn't gotten that damaged, but he liked the domesticity of Zelda eating a meal at his table, in his house, so he quickly found himself with cloth and sword.

Throughout the past few days of travel, he had often looked at Zelda, only to see her lost in thought. Link guessed those thoughts were almost always torturous if the grimace often stretched across her face was any indication. He still felt an innate want to protect her from anything and everything, but Link realized there wasn't anything he could do about her grief. And he figured, maybe his memory loss was a part of the problem too. Zelda didn't often talk to him, but when she did her voice was filtered through a thick layer of oppressive guilt. So Link kept his mouth shut tight, not wanting to upset her.

There were a million things he wanted to say to her: some of them were words of thanks for her encouragement during his quest, others were how she was the first and only thing he remembered for a long while after waking up in the shrine, and most of the remaining things were just about how much he missed her. Zelda had been a beacon of pure light during his journey; a bit of happiness on the horizon, lying just past the Calamity. Now she was here, safe within the walls of his house, and all he wanted was for her to stay.

Zelda seemed to think she was some type of burden, an absolute ridiculous notion in his mind. She had spent the last one-hundred years staving off the greatest evil imaginable, of course he'd take her in willingly. Truthfully, Link felt an incredible guilt for leaving her alone that long, but making her meals and giving her a safe, warm place to sleep alleviated a bit of that weight.

Zelda cleared her throat quietly, and placed her spoon back into the bowl. "That was very good. Thank you, Link." She said softly.

"Of course." He replied softly, taking their two empty bowls to the basin to rinse them.

"When did you buy this place?" Zelda's voice is small, tentative and hesitant; but the fact she's talking to him brings a grin to Link's face regardless.

"A few months ago. Right after I freed Vah Ruta. I needed somewhere to keep the champion's weapons, I didn't want to use them until Calamity Gannon."

"Oh." She said. Zelda laced her hands together politely upon the table, and Link saw the curious look on her face.

"They're still up. I didn't use them. I can show them to you if you like." He offered hopefully.

"Yes." She breathed out. "I would like that very much."

Link, without a thought, helps Zelda up from her chair. He holds her hand in his lightly, guiding her to the wall in the main room where all the champion's weapons remained hung up, side by side.

They started on the left, and Link watched Zelda's breath catch as she looked at the bow lying just behind the glass. It was unmistakably rito in design, with golden wings capping the ends: Revali's Great Eagle Bow. Zelda brought her hand up, tracing along the outline of it. She shuddered, remembering that this weapon was all that was left. It was proud, brightly-colored, and indubitably strong, just like it's champion; a tear fell and Zelda brought a sleeve up to catch it.

"We can take it out, if you'd like to hold it." Link offered softly. Zelda nodded, letting go of his hand.

Link felt the absence of her fingers in his sharply as he took the bow out of it's mount. He handed the bow to Zelda and watched as she took it in her hands.

His heart broke as he watched her touch the edges tentatively, like they'd burn her if she held too tight. Something in her face spoke of ghosts and misery and years lost and dead friends. There was nothing he could do for her, no matter how much Link wanted to take her pain away. So instead he left Zelda to her memories, and gathered the rest of the champion's weapons in his arms. Link looked back to find Zelda kneeling on the ground, cradling the bow like a long lost child, silent tears falling down her face. Link, arms full of gear and a heart full of sorrow, sat himself next to her, crossing his legs under him.

If Zelda noticed his arrival next to her, she didn't make it known. All Link could see was the way she seemed to draw in on herself, staring past the bow in her arms. Link could see the distance between them in her eyes, and found himself scooting closer to her as a result. It was enough, but it was better, and she gave him a sad sort of smile, looking up from the weapon, as he got closer.

The afternoon was spent in tears; a common occurrence in most moments since they'd been reunited. Their collective sorrow was unavoidable, and Link found himself sobbing with her.

As tears of his own dropped, the knight came to the conclusion that maybe he didn't deserve to let them fall. He didn't remember much, and believed his emotions to be, to a certain extent, entirely artificial. He looked over at Zelda, finding that she was beside herself with grief, and Link felt the guilt eating him alive. She remembered everything. There was nothing he could do to fix that, and he hated Calamity Gannon even more for all he continued to steal from them.

Link hadn't realized when he'd gotten so close, but as he handed her Urbosa's Scimitar, Zelda crashed into his arms easily. She collided with his chest, tears soaking his tunic, and Link brought his hands around her, carding them though the ends of her blonde hair. It would have been a tender moment; but Zelda hugged the scimitar to her chest, whispered Urbosa's name into it like a prayer, and suddenly everything tasted melancholic instead.

They worked through each weapon together, taking them into their shared hold like precious god-given gifts. Zelda and Link had little to remember their friends by, but they'd take what they could get and cherished the abysmal remains all the same. Once Zelda's sobbing subsided into just tears, she looked up from where she was tucked into his chest, blinking blearily up at Link.

"How much do you remember about them?" Her voice came out shaky, and it practically maimed the knight to hear how much guilt she carried within it.

Link recounted to her exactly how much he'd learned about their friends through his travels. He told Zelda about Sidon, and Yunobo, and Teba, and Chief Riju. Told her about how all of them helped him understand who the champions were and how he knew them. He told her about freeing the divine beasts, and meeting their friend's spirits. He described how they looked sea-glass green and how they still talked to their respective divine beasts like old friends. Zelda choked out a watery laugh when Link recounted how Revali doubted him up until the very end. She smiled with an unbridled fondness when he tried to imitate Daruk's voice and loud, room-filling laughter. Link got quieter as he recalled Mipha; he stood up, pulled his zora armor off the wall to show her, and finally pointed out to Zelda all the places he'd have scars if he didn't have Mipha's blessing. And finally, Link told Zelda about Urbosa; about how tall and intimidating her spirit was, how she bestowed the scariest blessing he'd ever experienced, and how she was so so proud of her little bird.

At the sound of the old nickname, Zelda's sobs began anew; but this time there was a soft smile accompanying the tears, her eyes so very far away but so very warm. He couldn't put a finger on what exactly she was feeling, but she clutched his tunic like he was the only real thing she'd ever known, and it suddenly didn't matter if he understood. His confusion was fine; he could deal with it, as long as she was finally getting a little bit of the endless peace she deserved more than anything.

Link continued to run his fingers through her hair, softly pushing stray hairs away from her face. She was curled into him, legs tucked in like a child, seeking shelter from all the memories plaguing her. Zelda had gotten quiet now, the occasional hiccup here and there, but otherwise still. Link weighed the outcomes of his question in his mind, hoping it wouldn't set her off into another wave of emotional turbulence she couldn't handle.

Link had watched Zelda, these past few days of traveling, become overwhelmed with a torrent of visible despair every time she looked in his direction. It was a quiet sadness, hidden just behind her eyes and in the straight line of her mouth; but Link had been dreaming of her face since he'd woken up, so it was incredibly apparent to him that something was wrong with his princess. There was something about him that upset her, and he was willing to do whatever it took to fix it.

He took a breath, gathering her closer into him. "Why do you look so sad when you see me?"

Link understood the stupidity of the question the second it left his mouth. He watched Zelda crumble, her eyebrows drawing inward as she curled up around herself and became small in his arms.

"I don't mean to. Really. It's not your fault." She began, before being cut off by her own hiccup. Zelda breathed deeply, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. "It's just that you are so different from how I remember. Not a bad different, just unfamiliar."

Zelda moved her thumb across his cheek, feeling the way Link leaned into her hand. All was quiet and warm, they were together and they had both lived. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to give her the strength to continue.

"Sometimes, I remember who you used to be. He was quiet and closed off and almost never looked at me. I didn't like him very much." She chuckled sadly, looking up at Link in a way that made his heart ache. "But you laugh so loudly, and walk so freely and there are always happy people around you. I think you are who he would've been if he had been given the time to grow up. It does hurt a little to remember because you have his face and yet you are so different; it's like looking at the ghost of the boy I once knew. But you have grown and done so much; and you now, this new Link, is someone I am blessed just to know. So yes, I think I might always mourn a little bit for the boy I never got to watch grow up, but it has nothing to do with anything you've done. You saved me, and I will be forever grateful."

Link had been cold since the second he awoke in the Shrine of Resurrection; but now found himself ablaze with an inferno of warmth. He felt it in his toes, crawling up through his legs and into his torso. It sat in his torso, burning through his chest and threatening to burst out. He smiled in softest way, bringing his face to her hair and hugging her close. Nothing was fixed, they still had so much to clean up, but Zelda was in his arms, warm and soft and safe, and it was enough.

"I missed you so much, Zelda. Even when I didn't know who you were." Link whispered into her hair, uttering her name like it held divinity. "Please stay here with me." It sounded desperate, and Link could feel the way he begged on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't care. She was here, and he had finally saved her, and he didn't plan on letting her go.

"Are you sure?" She asked quietly, a voice full of self-doubt and a timid fear. "You have no obligation to me anymore, you finished your duty as my knight the second the Calamity ceased. I would understand if you didn't want this anymore."

"Please just stay."

She nodded, tucking her face under his chin and breathing into his neck. Link had so desperately wished for this outcome; for her to stay with him, that he found himself in disbelief that it had actually happened. Zelda had always seemed like his one-shot at happiness, he knew it from the second he heard her voice within the Shrine. Now she was here, and he had his arms around her, and Link could feel that she was more real than anything he could've ever hoped for. Her skin was soft in his hands, her hair longer then he remembered, and her soft smile more comforting then anything else he'd ever seen.

Link had always suspected that he had been in love with Zelda at one point in the past, but sitting there, wrapped up and at her mercy, he was sure he never stopped loving her. Even when he forgot everything else, she remained.

#zelink #botw zelink #botw zelda #botw link #angst #botw fic #loz fic #zelda x link #the legend of zelda: breath of the wild #loz botw #legend of zelda #legend of zelda angst #my writing

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