Valentine’s Day is over!! tgsecretvalentine16 has officially come to a close. Thank you so much to everyone who participated; it’s really been a wild ride but it’s worth it seeing all the great fanworks that’ve come out of this event
I hope you’ve all had a great time participating in the event, and idk if I’ll be doing this next year, or if I’ll even be in the fandom next year, but if you’d like to undertake this project or start smth similar of your own feel free to message me
to those of you who signed up and confirmed participation but didnt post anything....@wisdomartblog @badmetalbat @izumimiyamura @heckyeahfma I hope you guys have a good reason for being late, and I apologise on your behalf for all the valentines who haven’t received anything; pinch hitters please be on standby just in case
to those of you who signed up and were too late to confirm participation and had to drop out, I’m really sorry for having to do so and I hope you’ll join if I do this again next year
@toki-natsuko Happy Valentine's Day! Alot of trial and error, but hopefully you love it, I always love to doodle Touka at school (but it looks alot more raggedy 😭) Have a great day 💖💖
notes: my tokyo ghoul secret valentine for @seisugi ! I hope you enjoy this dash of Akira since you’ve been feeling a lack of her
—
Akira heard the whispers of her comrades; whispers like howls of the wind on a stormy night—
“quinque freak”
“cold hearted bitch”
“does she even love?”—
It leaves her with a sort of melancholy feeling. The type of feeling you get when your favorite show ends. You know it’s coming but it still leaves you with an emptiness you can’t explain because, after all, the show was never real so why should you feel sad?
That’s right, why should she feel sad for the comments of people below her? It is illogical to hurt for the words of people who don’t matter (who never will) and Akira was anything but illogical.
And as the sky fades to somber tones she sits alone on her worn out couch with a bottle of cheap wine and some tattered pajamas. She finds a dangerous humor in the fact that at work people perceive her as this queen of ice—hah, had they dared get close they would see the spindling fractures in the ice. In each fissure they’d find the parts of her so few people saw—
a drunken slur, a plea to stay with her, a cry for her father, a touch of soft cat fur against her fingers, and perhaps most dangerously a desire to love and be loved—
but no one ever saw these things. Was it because no one dared to look or because no one cared to look? To her though this mystery was one she would not dwell on. For the most part Akira was content being the women people held scorn for—for the most part.
Salty droplets trickle down the curve of her cheek forcing her from her thoughts. Her eyebrows scrunch in confusion: why am I crying? She sets down her glass of wine not trusting the bitter drink for it aided in the art of crying. Tears dance down her cheek and she hugs her knees into her chest.
“I don’t care.”
(oh my dear, a voice in her head whispers, you do)
The tendrils of the words her coworkers say about her haunt her. And Akira, a logical women, was not found of ghosts. She was not found of the way those words stayed with her nor was she found of the hollow feeling they left her with. A bitter laugh escapes her lips and she replaces the sound with a sip of wine.
A purr tugs her from her pensive state. She blinks away the tears and brings her hand back down to pet Maris Stella. Her laugh softens and she feels the tears ebbing away.
There were facts in this world, set in their candor, and there were dreams in this world, floating through consciousness like a zephyr. Akira was no novice when it came to the facts of this world but sometimes she found herself suffocated by the dreams she held so close to her heart. Those facts—those callous descriptions of her—held true but that did not mean her dreams must freeze as well.
(dream on little girl, do not dwell on the words of others)
Her laughter begins to resonate loudly now and she’s not sure if the alcohol is increasing her laughter or maybe it was the realization that she could be hurt and she could dream; for she knew that meant she was not the cold hearted person her peers viewed her as. She supposes she always held onto those facts too tightly hoping if she accepted what they said it would hurt less—hah, how wrong was I?
“Perhaps a bath would be nice, huh Maris Stella?” She speaks in a soft airy tone, almost like the worries she had been drowning in a moment ago have become evanescent.
“Meow.”
“Good point, a bubble bath sounds even better.”
“Meow.”
“Oh, and candles.”
Fluidly she stands off the couch and makes her way to her bathroom. The counter cluttered in a girly mix of lotions and bath balms, of magazines and romance novels, of snapped hair bands and pastel combs. It was a space of her own design—personal and contained. Here she could let down the guards she held up all day at work.
The sound of the water splashing against the tub fills the room. She tips a bottle bubble bath soap into the stream of water. The scent of lavender wafts through the room. She is calm here. All those worries about who she is and who she wanted to be seem even more distant when she is surrounded by the things she loves.
She cared (of course she cared) of the opinions of her workers. She cared that they saw her as someone who was made of ice. Akira carried the facts of who she was on her back everyday and she also carried the myths of who they said she was on her back. At home she was able to unload those—the facts and the myths—and take a moment to remember what she should really be concerned with:
her feelings.
And in the end no matter how many stories were told none changed the beating of her heart.
