Renywrites - Reny Is Writing

Thank you very much!!

Drinking Buddies

Hey all! I've re-joined a fandom that is near and dear to my heart and I wanted to write something for all of these lovely people. Welcome to Good Omens!!

I'll be taking a break from Voltron for the time being, I need a change in scenery. Sorry to all those who are here specifically for that!

Without further ado; please join me and some drunk demons.

*

It was the one time a year where Heaven grouped together as a congregation to have their annual Great Plan meeting, where everyone was briefed on the vague idea of what could be happening in the coming year. Nobody was quite sure what to do now that the Apocalypse…. Hadn’t happened. Thus the vague meetings.

It was also the one time a year that Gabriel and Aziraphale dropped their respective demon partners at a bar and left them to their own devices for a few hours.

Despite popular belief, Crowley and Beelzebub got along quite well when there was alcohol involved. On this one day, they were reluctant friends instead of boss and subordinate. It was nice to have a change. Besides, it was also one of the only days that the Prince herself actually banished her flies and ran a comb through her messy hair, all for the sake of a few hours.

“Your Angel left you, too?” Crowley asks after they’d both gotten their drinks and sat in respective awkward silence for a few minutes.

Beelzebub scowls at her drink, a little more intensely than usual. “Yezzz. He’zzz running the damn thing.”

“You should’ve convinced him to cancel.” The snake scoffs, sipping his wine and glancing at the door. Twenty minutes in. This was going to last an eternity.

“I tried! He told me to buzzz off. Bloody angels and their bloody meetings.”

“Amen to that,” Crowley mumbles into his drink, ignoring the dirty look that earned him. Maybe he was picking up a few too many of Aziraphale’s linguistic habits. “So how is Hell doing, after you-know-what?”

“It’s more Hellish than usual, no thanks to you.” She scoffs. “Incredibly hot. Chaotic.”

“You should come and visit Earth more often, you might like it.”

Beelzebub rolls her eyes, knocking back the last of her drink and flagging over the bartender. “You sound like Gabriel.”

He makes a face, shaking his head. “Eugh, I make it a habit not to sound anything like him. Please don’t insult me like that.”

The Prince gives him a smug smile. “You dezzerve to be knocked down a few pegzz.”

Crowley ignores that. “Seriously, Beelzebub, your terrible Highness — coming up here may do you some good. You can… air out, as it were.”

“I quite like my office.” She says dryly, glancing up as the bartender pours her another drink. “It’zz familiar.”

“You’re festering.” He grins.

“I will not hezzitate to throw my drink on you, Crawley.”

“My name is Crowley,” the demon hisses, his yellow eyes flashing.

Beelzebub grins, tilting her head. “That’zz what I said.”

He considers her a moment, his eyes narrowing. Then he sighs heavily, shaking his head and turning back to his drink. “You’re still insufferable, I see.”

“The best of us never change.” She waves a hand. “How izz that Angel of yourzz?”

Crowley pauses, a dopey smile spreading over his lips at the thought of his Angel. Ah, Aziraphale… “He’s… He’s wonderful.”

“Dizzgusting.” She says flippantly.

The smile vanishes, replaced with an irritated scowl. That seemed to be a constant when he was in the Lord of the Flies’s presence. “And what about yours?”

“What, are you expecting me to get all mushy?”

“No, of course not.” He scoffs. “The Prince herself showing emotions? Preposterous. You don’t have a mushy bone in your body, Bee.”

“If I even have bones.” She says absently.

“If you even have bones,” he agrees. “But no, really, how is the Archangel Fucking Gabriel?”

The Prince cackles, throwing back her head. “He’s an azzhole! Juzzt like normal.”

“I never expected anything less.” Crowley rolls his eyes. How Aziraphale had put up with him for so long was a mystery to him — and it was an even bigger mystery how Beelzebub didn’t smite Gabriel where he stood every time he opened his mouth. Perhaps she was just attracted to rude dumbasses.

“He’s quite good in the bedroom, too.” She says, eyeing a couple in the corner who were making out like they would die if they didn’t spend their time swapping spit in a bar.

Crowley short circuits, the breath leaving his corporeal form. Then he smacks his hand on the counter with a triumphant, “I knew it!”

She gives him a flat look, but there was a hint of color creeping up on her sallow cheeks. “What? Did you place betzz?”

“Yes.” He nods. “I believe I won. My dear Angel owes me.”

“Azz if you two aren't fucking.” Beelzebub grumbles into her glass, glowering at him.

“In my defence,” Crowley holds up a finger. “It most definitely is not as frequent as you and Gabriel.”

“So that’zz your problem!” She grins, jabbing him with a bony finger. “You need to get laid.”

“He’s quite soft, he doesn’t do well with frequent, er… activity.” He quips, shaking his head.

“Your job is temptation, right?”

“Well, sure.”

“Then tempt him, you idiot!”

“But…” Crowley entertains this thought a moment, then makes a face. “But he’s so soft…”

“A little too zzoft, if you ask me.” Beelzebub rolls her eyes.

“He’s an Angel!” He scowls. “They’re soft by disposition!”

“No, I think yourzz is juzzt a zzpecial case.” She rolls her eyes, her finger tracing over the rim of her glass. “I must’ve mizzed that model.”

“Gabriel was just designed to be an ass.” Crowley huffs.

The Prince’s eyes go a bit hazy, and quite possibly… dreamy? “He does have a nice azz.”

“Oooh… was that an emotion?” The demon gasps in mock surprise. “Does the great Lord Beelzebub have feelings?”

She scowls into her drink. “Zzilence, imbecile.”

“I’m impressed,” he coos, leaning forward and looking over his glasses at her, eyes dancing with mischief. “Are you going soft, Bee?”

“I’ll zzmite you.” She says flatly, eyeing him.

“I’m already damned.” He snorts, leaning back and picking up his drink again.

“You’re a damned fool, that’zz what you are.”

“Perhaps,” he muses, looking up at the TV in the corner, following the sport with hazy eyes.

“I don’t see how Aziraphale puts up with you.”

He glares at her. “He — He loves me, thank you very much. He’s a very good individual.”

“How quaint.” Beelzebub drawls, rolling her eyes.

Crowley eyes her shrewdly, pursing his lips. Then he huffs. “Tell me about your Gabriel.”

The Prince, who had been taking a sip of her drink, chokes and splutters with a fantastic lack of grace. She wipes her mouth on her sleeve, giving him a deer-in-the-headlights look. “What aboutmy — my Gabriel.”

The demon grins lazily, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug. “I don’t know, anything.”

“Are you asking about my zz— my sex life?” She buzzes, concentrating on her words, metaphorical hackles raised.

“Heavens, no!” Crowley cackles. “I couldn’t care less what you get up to in the bedroom. What I mean is,” he wiggles his eyebrows. “Does he make you feel warm and fuzzy, your highness?”

“What?!” She squawks, flushing darkly, her gaze darting around. “No! Of course not!”

“I’m only kidding, relax.” He laughs. There was no need to suffer the wrath of one of Hell’s finest. “But really, what’s it like? Do you get along?”

“We get along well enough.” The Prince offers reluctantly. “He’s quite affectionate.”

“Is he?” That was hard to believe.

“Oh, yezz.” She nods, chewing on her lower lip. “Alwayzz wanting to touch me. He likes teazzing, too. The brat.”

That was shocking. Beelzebub was a prickly little thing. Many a demon had lost fingers for even brushing against her accidentally. “Is that so?” He muses, then gives her a wicked grin. “I’ll bet you love it.”

“You can’t prove that.” She says hotly into her drink.

He snorts. “No, suppose I can’t. Does he come into Hell to see you or do you go Upstairs?”

“What, you think I’d go up to that blasted place?” She scowls. “He comes to me. As he should.”

“How odd,” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Gabriel doesn’t seem to be the type to come to Hell willingly.”

“He’zz quite willing when I’m through with him.” Beelzebub chuckles. “Angels are rather good bottomzz, aren’t they? Or does your Aziraphale step up?”

“What?” The demon laughs. “No, he doesn’t have an ounce of dominance in him! Although he is quite loud.”

“Yours is loud? Unfair.” She whines.

“It took some coaxing,” Crowley says smugly, unable to help feeling a tad superior. “But it was worth the effort.”

“I’ll take that into conzzideration.” She muses. “Although Gabriel isn’t as zzoft as your Angel.”

“Yes, Aziraphale is quite a soft boy.” He says fondly.

“Gabriel is a little piece of shit boy.” Beelzebub groans. “Speaking of — they should’ve been done by now. What’zz taking zzo long?”

“I don’t know.” He wrinkles his nose. “Maybe they’ll be here soon.”

“They better be.” The Prince mutters, squinting at the clock.

*

Aziraphale and Gabriel walked into the bar they had left their Demons in to find them drunk and getting along… alarmingly well.

“An’ then I said… I said…” Crowley was slurring. He looks up just in time to lose his train of thought and brightens, looking more like an excited puppy than a fearsome demon. “Aziraphale!”

“Heeeeey — it’zz the piece of shit boy!” Beelzebub crows, in a loud and loose fashion that was definitely nothing like her usual disposition.

“Oh, dear,” says Aziraphale, “they’re quite drunk.”

“Wonderful,” Gabriel says, his expression pinched.

“What did you get into, love?” Aziraphale asks fondly, walking over and steadying Crowley when he reaches for his Angel.

“Nothin’.” He gives him a dopey grin, his eyes shining from behind his glasses, which were knocked askew.

“Gabriel!” The Prince snaps. “Get your bitch azz over here!”

“There’s no need to be rude, Beelzebub.” The Archangel sighs, walking over to his own mess of a demon.

Crowley was looking up at Aziraphale like he’d hung the bloody moon, a dopey, drunken smile on his lips. The Angel chuckles softly, cupping his face and brushing his thumbs over his cheeks lovingly. “I think you’re quite drunk, my love.”

“Psshhh,” Crowley wobbles in his seat, waving a hand and accidentally swatting Aziraphale. “Naw… Jus’ a lil — hic — a lil…” He trails off, getting distracted by the smattering of freckles across the Angel’s nose. “Hmm…”

Meanwhile, Gabriel was in a similar position, trying to persuade Beelzebub it was time to go home as well.

“You alwayzzzzz… alwayzzz ruin my fun,” she pouts up at her Angel, her dark eyes bleary and her cheeks flushed from drink.

“I believe you have plenty of fun on your own, Bee.” He sighs, prying her off the barstool and slinging her over his shoulder. “Come on. Bedtime.”

“See you next year, Gabriel,” Aziraphale calls after them. “And, er… Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He sighs over the Prince’s drunken giggling. “You as well.”

The Angel turns his attention back to Crowley, who’s eyelids were slipping shut as he sagged against the counter. Aziraphale pays the tab, adding a hefty tip for the troubles the demons likely caused.

“Come on, my love,” he says as he helps his demon off the barstool. “Until next year.”

“Next year…” Crowley agrees, stumbling along as his Angel takes him home to tuck him into bed and nurse his impending hangover away.

The Tumblr writing community is dying.

It’s something I’ve noticed over the past two years of using this site. It was gradual, imperceptible at first, something that most would brush off as a silly concern, or fault Tumblr algorithm for. While it’s true that Tumblr’s engine leaves a lot to be desired, I’ve noticed that even popular blogs have started to dwindle in terms of interaction or motivation. There could be a lot of reasons for this, but the biggest two I’ve noticed, experienced myself, and asked fellow writers about is this: (1) content being stolen, and (2) lack of feedback or interaction. I’ve never seen any logical person defend content being stolen, so I want to address point 2 instead.

Lack of feedback and interaction. I’m not saying this on my behalf so much as I’m saying this for friends and smaller blogs who have lost motivation to write. I was looking at my yandere writing blogs list the other day and noticed that a good majority of them no longer write. I usually update the list every few months, and by that point, more and more writers have stopped writing entirely. This isn’t a problem confined solely to the yandere fandom; in fact, there’s less writing blogs in general these days, especially ones that are active. I used to run a very popular BNHA blog with some friends, but that dissolved after our content was stolen and our followers stopped interacting as much. Out of our 8,500 followers, we hardly got 0.015% notes (~128 notes) on an average post. Tumblr is to blame for the lack of eyes seeing our posts, for sure, but that also means that at least 128 people saw one post and didn’t leave a comment or ask. We were considered a big blog; imagine what it’s like on a small blog.

My friend recently made a post that summed this up perfectly: 

“I’ve seen people say “Be grateful that people even lurk on your page.” and, while I get the message they’re trying to say, it’s more dismissive and hurtful in my opinion. Like you’re saying, “Oh your writing is mediocre, you should be grateful people even LOOK at it.”

Me personally? I’ve heard the argument that AO3 is a better place to post fanfics, and while that might be true, I’ve had friends experience firsthand the lack of interaction there too. I’ve heard the argument that interacting with some writers is intimidating (me included). I’ve heard that argument that followers might be too shy to interact. I’ve heard the argument that writers should write for themselves and not for views / likes / reblogs / etc, and while that’s ideal, it’s not sustainable for everyone. What works for one writer won’t work for another, but you know what will? Interaction.

That comment or ask that took you 2 seconds to write? We remember it. That reblog with the compliments in the tags? We remember it. Every single ‘named’ anon we get (heart anon, sunflower anon, etc)? We remember them. And the best part is? It’s actually easier to do these things on Tumblr since you have the option to send anonymous asks or make a sideblog specifically for reblogs! Trust me, whether the lack of interaction is the cause of a lack of motivation or what have you, every writer appreciates feedback (don’t be shy to offer some critique or compliments) or even a simple keyboard smash with some emojis. Even sitting down for 5 min a day per week to comment on your favorite writers’ new pieces makes a huge difference. Personally, since Tumblr’s activity feed is beyond terrible and I have over 1,500 posts, I don’t always see new reblogs or comments on my content; asks though? Always see those, can never go wrong with those. If you don’t want to reblog or leave a comment, then you can never go wrong with an anonymous ask. 

As my wise friend says: writing is an art, and in order to improve that art, we need other people’s eyes to see what we don’t.

For the sake of every writer (past, present, and future) on this platform, please share this post.

PSA

Because of the new Tumblr policy, I'm deleting my nsfw stuff. I have an AO3 account if you would still like to read it! Sorry guys.

That's the cutest thing ever??? Thank you???? Oh my God I love that so much-

The ship name for Lance/Romelle is ROMANCE

My day is made. That’s so freaking cute. I can’t. Thank you @cyancascabel

Pssst- I’m not a stalker (Okay I kind of am-) but you commented on my girlfriends post ( @renywrites ) and I just wanted to say thank you for making my day 😂

The Gay Agenda is now on AO3!

Hey guys! 

So I posted The Gay Agenda on my AO3 (Renegade_Reaper) because it got lost in my posts on here and I had a few people from my personal life asking for me to link it here. 

The link is https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771501/chapters/41933606#workskin

Let me know what you think!

Good evening! Does anyone have any music they listen to, specifically for writing? Unfortunately I’ve listened to my writing playlist for so long that it’s become my Normal Playlist and now I have nothing to use. 

Feel free to reblog with suggestions, shoot me an anon message, or simply comment! All is appreciated <3 

writing is hard

worthy

Hello! I am back from the dead, this time with a new fandom. Whoops. Take it away, Fruits Basket 2019!

Heads up, this contains references to suicide, self harm, and pregnancy. Akito uses they/them pronouns because I am a they/them and I say so. 

***

Akito sits in the darkness of their room, the screens closed. The shadows darkened, stretching across the room as the sun set. They watched it, as the shadows overtook the pale skin or their feet, traveled up their thin body, chased their fingers. It lingered on their neck, then swallowed up their face. Akito closes their eyes.

The shadows were all they had, now. Everyone was gone. Well, everyone but Shigure. But sometimes, they thought the shadows and silence were better than his pity. 

After the zodiac curse had been broken, Akito had become a shell of a human. Who were they, without the god they had always been? What were they, now that the part that had made them up had been severed? Akito avoided mirrors now, avoided those dark and haunted eyes that they hardly recognized. 

They drifted, most days. The staff probably thought of them as a ghost - a haunted thing, not quite here, not quite human. 

What did you do when holiness was stripped from you? What did you do when your life became as inconsequential as anyone else’s?

Akito’s eyes open, straying to the corner of the room when someone - Shigure, most likely - raps their knuckles against the frame of the door. 

“What?” They snap, and they can hear a bit of the old Akito. Bile rises in their throat. 

The door slides open, and there’s the rustle of a kimono before it slides shut again. A hand slides through their hair.

“It isn’t good for you to sit in the dark like this, you know,” Shigure murmurs. 

Akito allows themself to linger in the simple touch. Their long eyelashes flicker, and they tip their head a bit to look up at him. Shigure’s dark eyes were shadowed with worry. They flick their tongue over their bottom lip, gathering their strength.

“My head hurts.” They murmur, letting their hand tangle in the soft fabric of his kimono.

His gaze softens, his hand coming down to hold theirs, sitting down on the floor beside them. “Do you want me to call Hatori?” 

“No,” they whisper. This wasn’t the kind of hurt Hatori could fix. How could they ask him to, anyway? They had been so awful to him. To everyone. It was a wonder anyone had stayed at all. Besides, how did you fix a heart so fractured? Everyone had taken a piece of them when they had left. 

Shigure casts a measuring gaze of their small form, swallowed by swathes of fabric. They wanted to spit something nasty at him, drive him back. Don’t look at me, they wanted to beg. Don’t tell me what you see. 

The worst part was, Shigure had always been the one to stay. He’d been the one to comfort, to calm, to council. He was a rock, stable and stubborn. Harsh words hadn’t done much to him. 

“Alright,” He concedes at last, settling in beside them. His hand held theirs, like they were something precious. Something worthy of holding close. Akito swallows a lump in their throat and stares at the blank wall in front of them.

How did one find purpose after it was stripped away from them?

They throw up their dinner that night.

***

“You’ve got a high fever,” Hatori tells them in that flat voice of his. His back was to them, writing something in the chart they knew contained pages on pages of ailments they’d contracted over the years. “I’ll send you back with some fever reducers. You’d do well to rest. No strenuous activity for a few days, at least.”

Akito wants to laugh at that. When had they ever done anything that required more physical energy than a tantrum? 

Hatori turns back to them, fixing them with his stern gaze. It was funny, they think distantly, you could hardly tell he was half blind, with the looks he gave his patients. 

“Shigure tells me you haven’t been eating well lately.” His voice snaps them out of their head.

A familiar flash of rage wells up, but they’re too tired to do anything other than hold their hospital gown a bit tighter in their small fists. Their small mouth twists down at the edges, and they have to look away from Hatori. 

“You know you have to eat, Akito,” Hatori says, in that voice he used when they were a child and refused to take their cough medicine or sit still for a checkup. “That’s probably what’s caused your fever.”

“I’m not hungry,” they hear themself say, in a voice that does not belong to Akito. None of them belongs to Akito. 

Hatori gives them a brief, disapproving frown. It rips through them, right to the core. Severs them in half, shatters their torn heart and makes their insides bleed. Didn’t they see? Why couldn’t they see?

“Well, starve yourself if you want. But I highly recommend against it.” He says, in a short, impatient tone he never would’ve used before. 

He turns again, opening a cabinet to pull out a bottle, to give them more pills to choke down. Something desperate claws its way from their gut, scraping against their mouth, leaving gouges in their throat. 

“Hatori,” they say, this side of desperate. 

You have to know I didn’t mean it. You have to know that wasn’t me. Please, please know. Please forgive me. Please be gentle with me. 

Hatori turns to look at them, and they can see the annoyance in the crease of his brow, in the harsh line of his mouth. They can feel the hatred simmering beneath his skin, can feel the way he wishes they were dead. 

Or maybe that was just them. 

Their desperation dies in the face of it, withers to nothing. The small burst of mania vanishes, and they hold his gaze, struck dumb and mute.

“Yes?” He prods in that gentle way of his.

Akito tips their head forward, their temples pounding. “I’m sorry.” They say, their voice a whisper. 

The silence that follows threatens to drown them. They feel it rising from the floor like a flood, menacing and desperate and horrible. Akito looks up, and their breath catches in their chest. 

Hatori looked… shocked. Hatori looked like he had when they’d dug their thumbs into his eye, like he had when Kana had screamed, like he had when they’d laughed in his face and shook his blood from their fingers.

His blue eyes were wide. His mouth was slightly open. Akito bleeds, their insides cleaved apart. 

Just as soon as it appeared, Hatori shakes the shock away. He shakes the look away, into that mask of passivity he always wore. “Well,” he says, turning to their chart. “Let me go get the pills for you.” He closes the thick binder, hurrying from the room like Akito was a fire that threatened to burn him to ashes. 

The door slides shut behind him. Alone in the office, Akito puts their head in their hands and weeps. 

***

“I want to go away.”

Shigure’s hand pauses where it was tracing their pale hip. They were naked, sweat lingering in the swampy heat of a midsummer night. He props himself up on his elbow, head resting in his hand, looking down over them. 

“Away?” He repeats, his hand tracing the slight of their body. Akito lets it ground them, nodding. 

After another minute of silence, Shigure hums. “Where would we go?”

We. Akito’s insides twist at the word. They didn’t deserve we. They didn’t even deserve me. They deserved it. Monster, tormentor, demon. All the things Kyo had been wrongfully labelled and more. 

“I don’t know,” they say callously, pushing their hair from their face. “Away. Not here.”

This earns them a small curve of an amused smile. “Well,” Shigure sighs. “I have been meaning to take a vacation. Think about where you’d like to go, yeah? I’ll make arrangements. Hatori will have my head if I steal you away without a proper exam.”

Akito can’t help but indulge the wave of selfishness that makes them turn, makes them wrap their thin arms around him and hold on tight. They let themself feel relief when he pulls them closer with an arm around their waist and buries his nose in their sweat-damp hair. 

You don’t deserve this, they remind themself. You are on borrowed time. You have never earned this.

“Are you alright?” Shigure asks in that delicate way of his. Akito knows that delicateness is born from fear, from the need to step on eggshells. 

“Fine,” they answer.

***

“America, huh? That’s exciting.” Mayuko leans forward over the table. 

It was a wonder that Hatori and Mayuko had come to dinner in the first place. Shigure had been the one to ask, though, and Akito didn’t miss the way Mayu watched her words around them. 

“Yes, well, Akito was very insistent.” Shigure says with his devil-may-care attitude, reaching for his drink. Mayu looks over at them, gives them a thin smile. 

“I think it was a terrible choice,” Hatori says, not for the first time. 

He’d tried to argue them out of it, at first, but had broken after Akito had gotten up to leave, taking it as them going to lash out. They’d stopped at the door, realizing why he’d flinched, and left with a slam of the door. Just to feel the walls shake. Just to feel anything other than the dark pit that yawned in their stomach. 

Akito holds their chopsticks a bit tighter, shooting Hatori an annoyed look. They see him pause, see Mayu tense. They feel Shigure’s gaze on their head. 

“You know Akito,” Shigure interjects, before Akito has any idea of what to do next. “Stubborn to the very end.”

The tension in the room relaxes, and Shigure goes back to teasing the newlyweds, leaving Akito to pick at their rice in silence. They hardly say a word that night, but Shigure fills their silence enough for the two of them. 

When they bid Hatori and Mayu a goodnight, Akito watches them and wonders what it’s like to be in love with something other than self destruction.

***

San Francisco reminds Akito of Tokyo in all the worst ways. There are too many people, too much noise, too much smog. The cars are loud, the people are loud, and they hardly understand a lick of English. This had been a terrible idea. Hatori was right, as he usually was. 

Shigure seems to be having the time of his life, however, and Akito tries their best to join him in his excitement. After they spend a day sleeping off their jetlag, he drags them around the beachside city. They visit Nihonmachi first, and Akito finds peace in the familiarity of it. 

Here, the people had no idea who Akito was. Here, Akito was just a foreign visitor, someone who could be anyone. It felt freeing, and for the first time since they could remember, Akito relaxed. 

They were the first to speak when they ordered food. They bickered with Shigure, who seemed shocked that they were even speaking in the first place. They traded stories with the shop owners and their children, reveling in the wide eyed innocence of youth and the nostalgia of days long passed.

They felt sad when it was finally time to go, time to retire for the night. But Shigure was as familiar with their body as they were, and he could see as they pushed through the tiredness into dangerous territory. He had to practically carry them from the district, back to their hotel.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” He asks in the shower that evening, holding them up as their body submitted to the weakness it had always known.

They close their eyes as he drags a warm, soapy cloth down their spine, and they let themself smile. “Yes,” they say, and they mean it.

***

On their final day, Shigure drags them to an old Catholic church, citing he wanted to do some research for a book he’s writing. 

The structure is odd to Akito, very western. The religion was even more foreign, hardly making sense to them. But the building had a haunting, empty quality about it that they could sympathize with. 

Shigure leads them into the large building, into a huge room with stained glass windows depicting men and women and children. Akito was sure they meant something, but to them, it was just pretty imagery. 

They’re left by the altar as Shigure goes to track someone down, likely to interrogate for his book. They watch him go, left to take in their surroundings and hope that nobody tried to speak to them. Akito looks up at the wall above the altar, and wonders if this religion had any truth to it, too. 

They had been a god, once. They had been revered, feared, respected, obeyed. They had been worshipped, too. But being a god had been such a horribly lonely existence. Everything had been so dark, so crushing, so significant. The slightest act of defiance had sent them into a rage, and in their attempts to draw everyone closer, they had only succeeded in driving them away. 

Akito lowers their dark gaze to the altar, and wonders if sacrifice had ever been necessary in this religion. They wonder if it would matter if they had sacrificed themself, bled out on a stone cold slab for their own glory. 

They wonder if it would matter now, if they could bleed to death, if they could atone with their blood. Would that fix anything? Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? They were already bleeding. Most days, it threatened to choke them. 

Akito wondered if Shigure would miss them. If Hatori would. They had left such a stain on their lives, shaded everything dark for so long - what would happen if they just disappeared? If god was no longer God, what did they do? Who were they? What purpose did they have?

“There you are.”

Akito jumps, gives a sharp breath, and looks up into a worried Shigure’s face. 

He chuckles. “Easy, it’s just me. Lost in thought? Has this place managed to convert you? Now, there’s a thought. God being led to God.”

They know he means it as a joke, but they can’t help the vitriol in their tone. “I am not god anymore,” they hiss, and the emptiness where their soul had split in two aches.

Akito watches the amusement fade from his face, watches as Shigure sees them. Here, in this western holy place, where they are nothing but an insignificant piece in the universe. Akito watches those grey eyes widen, watches his mouth thin, watches the understanding settle and the pieces click.

They want to cry in relief and scream in horror.

***

“Akito,” his voice is so gentle. They don’t deserve gentle. “Akito, look at me.”

Shigure had closed the door to their hotel room and looked at them, and the tears had not stopped since. They hated how he looked at them, with gentle understanding, with pain, with sorrow. They hated it - so why did they want it?

His fingers tilt their chin up, his other hand coming up to wipe their tears. “What’s wrong?” He asks, and they break. 

“I am not god,” Akito says, reaching up to clutch his wrists, their fingernails digging half moons into his skin. “I am not god, so - so what does that make me? Who am I? Why - Why didn’t I die, why was I left?” 

They sob, their head tilting into his palm, dark eyes closing tight against the pity that was surely in his eyes. Their small body shakes, and they want nothing more than to curl in on themself and hide away for good. 

“You weren’t left. I’m here. Hatori is here.” Shigure says when their tears pause long enough for them to suck in a breath. 

Akito tears away from him, clutching at their elbows, shaking their head. “You shouldn’t be,” they gasp, “you should be far away, you should have left me behind. I’m - I’m a monster, I’ll always be a monster, nothing will change that.

“I don’t know who I am, Shigure!” They wail, dropping to their knees, their frail body conceding against the whirlwind of pain and suffering they’d been stuffing down. 

Not moments later, he’s kneeling in front of them, hands hovering over their shaking body. Akito can feel his unsurity, can feel his hesitation. Why revive a dead beast, why fix a broken altar? Why not leave it to rot, leave it to fester, leave it for the maggots and the flies and the plants. 

Shigure takes them in his arms when they have no tears left, when they are left shuddering and shaking and broken. He pulls Akito against him, holds them close, and whispers in their ear, “You are Akito.”

“I wish I were anyone else.” They whisper, face pressed to the fabric of his dress shirt. 

“No,” he hushes, pulling them back to look at them, his grey eyes serious. “No. The world would be so different without you, Akito.”

Maybe it would be better, they don’t say. 

“What do you need?” Shigure asks, and Akito lets themself be selfish.

“Worship me,” they breathe, letting desperation take over.

Shigure’s gaze darkens a bit, and Akito prays it’s with desire. He picks them up, pulls them into a kiss, and they hold onto him like he would somehow save them against the tidal wave of self hatred and misery.

Before they can take it back, he lays them down and worships at the altar of a long dead god.

***

“I told you that going to America was a bad idea,” Hatori snaps, his stress palpable, despite it having been weeks since their trip. They had been bedridden for days, unable to stomach anything or stay awake enough to even try. Akito knew all of their ailments were mostly mental, mostly emotional. They were starting to wonder if Hatori really knew the depth. If they really knew, either.

“Sit still,” Hatori mutters, setting up a phlebotomy kit. Akito didn’t think blood work would help anything, but didn’t have the energy to argue it. They don’t even flinch at the needle, and Hatori fixes them with something close to a worried expression. 

“I’ll get this processed and be back within the next couple hours with the results.” Hatori says, taping a cotton ball to the crook of their pale elbow, pulling away with the small vial. When they don’t respond, he sighs and walks out of the room. 

Akito can hear hushed conversation from the outside of the room. Likely Hatori speaking with Shigure. Their fingers tighten on the blankets, their eyes drift to the door open to the outside. 

The door slides open, announcing Shigure’s presence, and they roll over to look at him. He smoothes over his troubled expression with a smile, going to sit with them, rest their head in his lap. 

Akito buries their face in his thigh, relaxes as he tangles his fingers in their dark hair, pretends to be alright for his sake. They were doing a lot of that lately; pretending to be alright, just so that worried expression of his faded away. 

They stay like that, drowsing in and out of sleep, Shigure’s hand in their hair. It remains for the hours it takes for Hatori to get back. 

When he does, it’s with the door slamming open, jostling them awake, and Shigure’s sharp, “Hatori!”

Hatori freezes in the doorway, staring at Akito, then straightens and walks over, handing Shigure a piece of paper. 

Akito watches him scan it, reading the results as he usually did. Although before he can scoff and hand it to Akito with a tease about scaring them to Hatori, Shigure tenses. His eyes go wide. 

“What,” Akito says, their voice cracking from non-use. 

When they don’t get an answer, when the tension rises in the room, they push themself up and snap, “What, Shigure?”

Shigure jumps, glancing down at them, then gives them a thin lipped smile and hands them the piece of paper. “Read for yourself.”

They take the paper, sitting up. Their dark eyes scan it, reading over the results. Normal, normal… Everything looked normal. Just as they’re about to look up and give Shigure and Hatori a piece of their mind, their gaze freezes on the very last result. They read it again. And again. 

Their gaze lifts, flicking from Shigure to Hatori. Then they start to laugh. It’s an ugly, manic thing. Hysteria creeps up their throat, breaking through the fog that had claimed them. 

Shigure lets out a chuckle, seeming relieved by this. Hatori even seems to relax.

Akito reads over the words again, their fingers gripping the pages, sweat crinkling the edges where it rested in their palms. They hiccup suddenly, a sob choking them. A tear leaks down their cheek, blotting the ink on the paper. They take a breath, trying to compose themself.

And then Akito begins to scream.

***

“A psychotic break.” The psychiatrist says, sitting back and clicking his pen, writing something down. Adding more to Akito’s already full chart. “I’d say major depression and possible PTSD. Normally I would prescribe something, but with the pregnancy, I would say just keep an eye on it. The scratches are cosmetic, more Hatori’s area of expertise.”

The psychiatrist gets up, casting a glance at Akito. More pity. Akito felt sick of it, sick of people looking at them like they were on the verge of breaking when they had already broken.

“Someone needs to be with Akito at all times,” the doctor continues, tucking his pen in his pocket. “No leaving her alone. Especially not this early in the pregnancy. We don’t want anything to happen to the baby.”

“Of course, doctor,” Shigure says, leaving his watchful place at Akito’s side and going to shake the man’s hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Anything for the family head.” The man says, exchanging one last handshake with Hatori, who had been lurking in the corner, before taking his leave. 

The room is silent, and Akito can feel the scratch marks on their cheeks itch. One or two would surely scar, they had made sure of it. After Hatori had broken the news, they’d screamed their voice raw and had tried so hard to claw out of their skin, out of a body that was not their own. 

It had taken Shigure holding them down and some sort of sedation shot from Hatori before they finally relaxed, blood pooling on the floor beneath their face, breathing erratically. Shigure had yelled at Hatori then, demanding why he’d broken the news like that, accusing him of not knowing how close to the edge Akito was. 

Akito had never heard Shigure yell before, let alone argue with Hatori in a way that wasn’t teasing, and it was only their sluggish panic attack that brought the two from each other’s throats. They had cried pathetically as Hatori had stitched their face while Shigure called around the Sohma family in search of someone who could deal with this better than they could.

Now, they felt numb in a way that was almost a relief. The pain from their face kept them grounded, and sometimes they moved too fast to feel the stitching throb in time with their heartbeat. It reminded Akito that they still had one. 

“Akito,” Hatori starts, sounding all sorts of worn out and frustrated. “Why didn’t you tell me? Or Shigure? We could have prevented - this.” 

The two men look at them, and they look back. “Why should I?” They settle on. 

Shigure’s grey eyes flare with anger, and Hatori looks like he’s swallowed something sour. 

“You’re carrying our child,” Shigure starts, his temper flaring, before Hatori cuts him off. 

“Explain yourself.” The doctor’s blue gaze pins them in place.

Akito sits in silence for a while, chewing on their words, trying to find the right ones. There were no right ones, though, and so they sat in silence.

***

Akito spends their days by a mirror, after the third month. Their body is so small, and the curve of their belly comes quicker than they imagined. Pregnancy wasn’t all bad, they had decided. It made them more tired, sure, but at least now they could justify their exhaustion with the fact that they were growing an entire human within themself. 

Hatori made weekly visits, setting a strict schedule and diet. They had been made to keep a journal by their psychiatrist, as much as they hated it. But it had helped some. They were able to write out the darkness that threatened to eat them alive, purge it all before they went and sat naked by the mirror, watching their child grow within them. 

Shigure was their shadow now, more so than before. Akito could hardly do anything without him there. He had taken to sitting in the corner and reading or writing while they went about their day. He was there in the night, to calm them from the night terrors they had, always ending with a small child and their hands covered in blood, fingers curled into cruel claws. 

But it was getting to him. They could see it, even if he didn’t mean them to. 

“You should go visit Ayame.” Akito suggests one evening during dinner, prompting a coughing fit as Shigure chokes. 

“I’m sorry, what?” He rasps, after they patiently wait for him to finish, their gaze steady on him. 

“You should go. Visit someone. Get out of here.” 

“Trying to get rid of me, are you?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. 

Akito hums, sipping their tea before sitting back a bit, one hand resting on the swell of their belly. His gaze follows. 

“No,” they say at last. “But you need it. I’ll call and make the arrangements myself, if I have to.”

“Akito,” Shigure sighs. “Who will stay with you?”

They smile faintly, tipping their head back, closing their eyes. “I doubt they’d want me to come. Either of them. We have the servants, and Hatori is here weekly. I’ll be fine.” 

Shigure hums, his gaze uncertain.

***

Akito realizes very suddenly one night that they would do anything for their child. 

It was one of the rare occasions when Shigure had left them alone, and they had taken refuge in the mirror once again. They were sitting against the wall, mirror in front of them, a hand cupping the side of their belly. It had become a nightly ritual to sit and watch themself in the mirror, familiarize them with a body that now did not belong only to them.

The journal was starting to help. Shigure had started taking them on walks, after Hatori made a comment concerning their pallor, which Akito thought might also be helping. The dark cloud that was their thoughts had not gone away, but something was drowning it out for now.

It was dizzying when they realized all at once that it was because of their child. 

What was creation to a god, if not everything? What was closeness to a god, if not the definition of their existence? Akito was not a god anymore, but they were creating, they were close, and their child was safe where they could reach. 

When they felt the cloying fear of abandonment, they set a hand on their belly and realized they were not alone. When they spun out, got lost in the spiral of who am I what am I how can I go on, they could look in the mirror and think, I am a creator. 

The first time the baby kicks, it shatters Akito in a way that makes them want to pick up the pieces and put them back together, but better this time. They sit up, stare at their wide eyed reflection in the mirror, then scramble to their feet. They’ve hardly got a robe on when they run into Shigure in the hallway. 

“Whoa!” He grabs them by the elbows, his gaze searching, scanning for something wrong. “Where are you going?”

But Akito only gives him a grin that’s as blinding as the sun and takes one of his hands, pressing it to their belly with a soft, “Feel.”

They stand there for agonizing seconds, heads bowed, focused, before a tiny foot kicks into the palm of Shigure’s hand. 

Akito laughs, and for the first time, their joy is not twisted by some sick sense of destruction.

***

Tohru ends up stepping in, because of course she does.

It’s more of a surprise to see Kyo behind her, his angry gaze fixed menacingly on Akito from where his partner can’t see. The promise of protection over Tohru is comforting to Akito, in a way. Unnecessary, but comforting all the same. 

“Oh wow, you’re so big already!” Tohru gasps when Shigure steps aside to let them in. Akito tips their head to the side, then looks down at themself. It was nearing six months at this point, and they did not waddle, whatever Shigure might say.

It had taken a long time, but Akito had finally convinced Shigure to go out on a break, to do something for himself that wasn’t a trip to the store or a meeting with his editor. He, Ayame, and Hatori were going away for a weekend. There were mentions of Yuki, but Akito did their best not to pry. 

It was hard, unlearning manipulation. But they were determined to do it - if not for themself, then for their child.

“Come in, come in,” Shigure fusses, ushering the two in the door. “Tohru, I’ve got a list of instructions and phone numbers and anything you might need on the fridge. I’m only a phone call away.”

Akito gives him a look. “I won’t go into labor.”

Shigure winks. “Oh no, that’s for if you miss me too terribly. I’ll have no choice but to come home at once! You may lie to yourself, Aki, but Tohru could never. Isn’t that right?”

Shigure turns to a flustered and confused Tohru, who gives a faint. “Ah… no?”

“That’s what I like to hear!” Shigure pats Kyo on the back as he passes, then takes Akito’s hand and leads them to the front door with him. 

They watch as he slides on his shoes, trying to ignore that old voice that wanted to beg him to stay, accuse him of playing favorites and leaving. He seems to hear their inner turmoil, and looks up, giving them a soft smile.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” He murmurs, taking their face into his hands and tipping it forward to kiss their forehead. “Try not to torment those two, please.”

Akito holds onto his wrists, their long eyelashes flickering. “Alright,” they murmur. He smiles against their skin, pressing a kiss to their lips before pulling away. 

“See you Monday,” He calls over his shoulder, stepping out the door and leaving Akito on the step.

Akito stares at the door, fighting the urge to run after him. They’re startled out of it by Tohru, though, who gently takes their hand. 

“Come on,” she says kindly, pulling them away from the door. “Are you hungry?”

“Huh?” Akito tears their gaze from the door. “Oh. No.”

“Well, I’ll start on dinner anyway.” Tohru nods, leading them to the sitting room off the kitchen. “Here, you sit and rest. Shigure said you get tired around this time, anyway.”

Akito gives an annoyed sigh, and notices how Kyo tenses, ready for a fight. “He would say that. Bastard.”

Somehow, Kyo and them are left in the same room together, alone. A thousand memories wash over Akito, and they choke on some of the darkness that liked to linger around everything Before. Their hands itched for their journal.

“So,” Kyo starts, always unable to sit in silence. “How’d you get that?” He taps the side of his cheek.

Akito brings a hand up to touch the angry scar on their cheek, then snorts. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

Kyo bristles, then seems to remember something and takes a measured, deep breath. “I couldn’t care less, actually.” 

“Then why’d you ask,” they sit back, rolling their eyes. 

“You know, you’re still a real asshole, despite what Shigure says.” Kyo snarls, and Akito blinks. 

A small part of them wanted to jeer and taunt, to threaten and win. Their hand twitches, finding the ample curve of their belly, feeling the small life beneath their skin. They take a steadying breath. 

“Shigure likes to see the best in everyone, I think.” Akito says. They can tell they’ve thrown Kyo off - he looks stricken, not too sure on how he should react now that Akito hadn’t risen to the bait. 

“Didn’t know you had a best.” He mutters sullenly, sitting back and eyeing them suspiciously. 

Surprising even themself - Akito laughs. “Neither did I,” they admit. “But he seems to think so.”

Kyo sits back, staring at them long and hard. Before, Akito would’ve gotten pissed, would’ve lashed out at anyone who tried to make them into anything they weren’t comfortable with. But these days, they were desperate for a definition that wasn’t cruel monster worthless pathetic that their brain supplied them when they tried to do it themself. They’d done so much damage to the Cat, the only thing they could do now was draw his own conclusions. Whether or not they had changed, they recognized that they did not have the right to beg for a forgiveness that they didn’t deserve. 

The redhead frowns after a moment. “You’re different, somehow.” He states, always to the point. “It’s… weird.”

“Weird,” Akito hums, thinking about this for a moment. “I think I can live with that.” They decide, nodding. It was worlds better than anything else they had come up with. 

Kyo shakes his head in disbelief. “Damn, you used to be so good at eviscerating me the second I got in here. What the hell? Is this some kind of game?” His voice raises, and Akito stares steadily at him.

“Is this funny to you?” He accuses, getting to his feet. “Do you think you can just change overnight, and we’re supposed to just accept that?”

“No, I don’t think that.” Akito cuts in when he pauses to take a breath. They watch the fight turn to disbelief again, watches Kyo stare at them in open confusion. They wait until they know he’s listening, and then they take a breath.

“Look,” they start, and pause, closing their eyes a moment. “I don’t expect you to accept anything. I hurt you,” they hear his teeth click shut, watch his fists clench. “And what I did was unacceptable. If you want an apology from me, I - I’ll give it to you. But that’s… I have so much to atone for.” 

They look at him, really look at him, and sigh. “I owe you an apology. But you don’t owe me your forgiveness.”

Kyo and Akito stare at each other for a long time, long enough that it takes Tohru opening the door to the kitchen and seeing them to break it. 

“Uh… guys? Is everything okay?”

Kyo snaps his gaze away to Tohru, some of the tension melting from him. “Yeah,” he says, flicking his gaze back to Akito. “We were just talking.”

Akito notices how his tone softens for her, how his gaze melts a bit, and they wonder to themself if Shigure looks at them like that.

***

The moment Tohru and Kyo are gone, Akito pulls Shigure to what had become their room, stopping once the door is closed and stepping into his space. They let out a breath, relaxing when his hands cup their face, their own resting on his chest. 

“Did you miss me?” He asks, his tone teasing.

“Yes,” Akito says, without hesitation. He doesn’t even blink - this is not new, this dance they’re doing. It’s an old thing, one they’ve played for years and years. “Shigure?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” They say, and then, “Will you marry me?”

If I am not worthy of this, they think, then you are, little one.

***

The day Shiki Sohma graces the Sohma household with her presence is a long and arduous one. Akito is in labour for two days, and the household breathes a collective sigh of relief once the cry of a baby being introduced to the world rings out. 

Akito is not ashamed when they cry as Hatori lowers her onto their chest. They kiss her tiny head, hold her tiny body, and realize. 

This is who they were. Akito Sohma, creator of Shiki Sohma, and partner to Shigure Sohma. They were the head of the Sohma household, once the bearer of a dark curse, and a survivor of being split in half. 

Shiki cries for the world, and Akito cries for her and the future they would fight to give her. Their daughter would not bear the suffering her parents had. They would give their daughter the world, and maybe one day, she would give it back.

You ever try to write romance and you just feel like this image

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