#cw: MCD

[l0vegl0wsinthedark]

Yours, Always and With Love

Warnings: (implied) MCD, angst

For @longdaytogo 🫡🥲

~

Dear "Mycroft",

I think I've finally figured out who you are. And I think it is bloody bollocking funny that I ended up with you as my pen pal. Are you really in the States? Merlin, I want to know what they think of you over there.

And you're wrong. There are people who miss you where you used to live.

You fucked up my nose,

HP

~

I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not that person. You're not always right. You're can't be all good. People like you don't survive for long. I'm nothing like you and even I barely made it. You think you're special but you're just another fool like me. Find a new life like I did. Your government does not deserve your loyalty.

You deserved it for spying on me,

D. Mycroft

~

Malfoy.

I don't do what I do out of a sense of loyalty. I do it because I want to be of some use. I'm definitely not all good and am most certainly a fool, you're right.

People keep writing about my bravery. They don't know I fake it. They don't know how afraid I am all the time. If I were less afraid, I'd find that new life.

HP

~

Dear Potter,

I think I might enjoy tales of your masked cowardice. Write some down and send them along with your next letter.

You do what you do because you were brainwashed into thinking that it is your purpose in life. It is decidedly not, I assure you.

Fake it one more time and find that new life. You'll thank me for it. And maybe you'll stop whinging about your crooked nose.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy.

~

Dear Malfoy,

Is my nose actually crooked because Hermione insists it's not, and Ron always starts talking about Ludo Bagman's nose? Needless to say, they're not very convincing. I now know why my dates never owl me back.

Speaking of which, I've had help throughout all of my many celebrated adventures. Perhaps if I had help (read: company) I might actually go start that new life. Find a new name too, maybe, while retaining my real initials of course. I'd hate to have to change my signature.

What do you think fits well with "HP"?

Best,

Harry

~

Dear Hideous Pumpkin,

I think your dates might owl you back if you shaved that scraggly beard off and found new glasses. You look like an expensively dressed homeless person in all your press photos.

We have a way of finding what we seek, I think. Three weeks ago, all I really wanted was to make a connection. Now I'm writing this one prat every other day and it feels quite fulfilling, rather.

You do have company. Look closer.

Best,

Draco M

~

Malfoy,

Sorry about the late reply. Work-related rubbish that you're probably not interested in.

I actually have been considering new frames. Do you think I should get bedazzled ones? I think they're in vogue now. They might help bring out my eyes or something.

It's a funny thing: connection. Kind of unpredictable where one might find 'em, right? I think I'm glad the pen pal agency connected me to you. It's definitely a fulfilling connection.

I'm writing this at 3am right before I run into work and get assigned a new mission. I'll be undercover and incognito so receiving/sending mail won't be possible, so I'll respond next when I'm back home. To make up for it, I've written down some of my earliest memories of my life in the cupboard and how I once locked my cousin in there. Go nuts and I hope you pull something as you laugh at me, you prat.

I'll be thinking of you.

Harry

~

Dear Potter,

I enjoyed your little collection of memories. You really were always an idiot, I've learnt. I don't know what on earth possessed you to believe that any of it would make me laugh, though. You rightfully blame me for a crooked nose but you don't think to unapologetically ruin the people who stomped on you like a bug when you were a baby and then proceeded to keep you under their boot until you were eleven?

I'm flying to England on the 24th. I'll be staying at the Ritz, London. If you're back from your mission and you're well, ring me at the hotel and ask for D. Mycroft. We'll have dinner or something. My treat.

I truly despise your job. I don't like the idea of you cut off from me the world like that.

I hope to see you soon.

Draco

~

Potter, I'm writing only because it would be incredibly rude of me to leave without telling you. I don't know what you think of me after last night. I might have asked you, if you'd been here when I woke up.

I'm sorry.

Malfoy

~

Draco, you absolute fucking idiot.

You write to me instead of ringing me on the number I gave you? And then I stroll into the fucking Ritz clutching sausage rolls and shitty coffee and the receptionist has to politely insist that I bugger off because "Mr. Mycroft has checked out already"?!

TEXT ME with your phone number and address. I'll book the next available flight to you.

You fucking idiot oh my god.

Harry

~

Dear Hideous Pumpkin Head,

You left three of your socks here and none match. Also, I know we only just hung up but I still wanted to write because somehow it's harder to insult you when I'm in front of you or listening to your voice.

My sheets stink of you. I'm never leaving this bed, I think.

Draco

~

Draco. Can't call. Destroy your phone and SIM. Stay within wards. Don't lose sight of your wand.

I will contact you as soon as possible. I am so fucking sorry. My god please be safe I am so sorry.

I love you.

Harry

~

Harry,

Did I really need to get a new owl? I'm perfectly safe and I am not afraid. Not anymore. Not when I have you.

I'm hoping that when you write me back, it will be to tell me that you've handed in your notice. The new flat here is enormous and it feels empty without you. Tell me when you'll be shipping your stuff and I'll make arrangements to have them brought here.

I can't wait.

Love,

Draco

~

Harry, why won't you answer your stupid phone? Honestly, I'm tempted to write to the Ministry right now, if only I hadn't spent the last fifteen years wiping away all traces of my existence. How's the notice period going? Have you started packing yet? It's very, very quiet here and it's unsettling. I may end up getting a talking bird and it'll be your fault.

Please call me.

Love,

Draco

~

Harry your phone is turned off and I can't think why and I am writing separately to Granger as well. If I don't hear from either of you in three days, I'm coming back there and I don't care about fucking dark wizards. I'M a dark wizard, as I was reminded often. We'll fight them off together.

Please I can't bear this respond.

Draco

~

Granger says you went missing eleven days ago. I don't care if you're undercover. My owl won't come back without finding you first.

~

Dear Harry,

Today I woke up and looked out the window and it was snowing. Almost Christmas already! That night at the Ritz you talked about your horrifying Christmas experiences as a child and I vowed to rectify that as soon as I'm able.

I've hung up twenty-two stockings, my darling, and they all have your name on it. I have a list of things I think you'd have loved and I'm going to find them all and stuff those stockings until they're bursting.

I'm getting our tree today. You said you'd always wanted a real one. I wish you were here so we could decorate it together. I hate ladders.

I keep thinking about I can't believe it's been six months alre I want you here I can't pretend anymore Please come take me away with you

I miss you. Every second of every minute, I miss you. I love you more with each passing day. I want you to come back Harry plea

Yours, always and with love,

Draco

~

[skeptiquewrites]

Microfic: Maybe Someday

for @drarrymicrofic prompt 'little person' by matt maltese. cw: major character death.

Scorpius,

If you're reading this, I am no longer with you. I'm sorry to give you one last task during a difficult time. Enclosed is a rail ticket. I've kept it with me all my life. Please give it to Harry Potter.

An explanation: a long time ago, Harry and I were very much in love. He asked me to run away with him. We were supposed to meet at King's Cross. I never showed up. I kept the ticket.

I loved my life. It gave me you. Please don't ever doubt that.

Harry should know I loved him, too

[smallangstdemon]

(CW: Implied MCD)

I couldn't decide which one I liked best, so have both!

Here is my submission for the KakaIru Maze Challenge 2024, prompt being "Angels and Demons". Here is Kakashi as a fallen demon, looking down in shock at a lone halo, beloning to Iruka... I had in mind that Iruka died and what's left is his halo, but what happened is 100% up to interpretation.

Close-up:

Style-wise, I'm not so happy with the colouring but the composition and feelings mostly came as I wanted, so I quite like this piece even if it doesn't showcases my best

[fastcardotmp3]

okay omg that makes so much sense actually about Steve and i think in general he's been such a constant for the party that going into season 5 without him would be really destabilizing and would really open up some space for some really interesting dynamics especially with Dustin and Eddie and Dustin and robin and just robin in general who's tether to the party is gone now, even Nancy who imo always saw him as her safe choice almost? like someone who would always be there in case it didn't work out?? soo all of that said how would you do it?? like how would you kill him??

it WOULD be so destabilizing! and you're right about the dynamics-- the reason I don't like the idea of them saving their Big Loss for the final season is that it doesn't give us any time to see the aftermath of what losing someone that vital to the group looks like, you know?

like the absence of a character you love is, in its own way, a continued presence and I think it's so important to a story like this one that (even if it forgets about it on a frequent basis) is so linked to the varied effects of grief on people

it's also the difference between killing off a character because you as a writer are done with them/ don't need them anymore since the show is ending and letting them die in an impactful way because that's the story being told, which is I think where a lot of people who don't like the idea of steve dying misunderstand where I'm coming from with it, because death is not inherently the end of a story nor the end of a character's importance to it!

but none of that answers your actual question I'm so sorry fjsdklf

I talked a bit about how I would kill steve in a pure replacement of Eddie's death scene here, but if you're giving me the chance to write it from scratch 👀 oh you know I am not going to deny you OR myself that fjasldkfj

Because if we're really leaning into the fact that Steve is the "gets back up" guy, I think his death would sneak up on us slowly until it ultimately just happens.

let me explain

Steve gets torn apart by those bats when he's dragged through the gate at Lover's Lake.

I mean he is well and truly fucked up in ways that aren't fully acknowledged by the show in canon, but what if we made that make sense? What if Steve gets up and keeps going and doesn't complain because he doesn't know how else to go about it?

Even after his arc in season 2 and losing Nancy over his instinct to push forward through pain, we never really see him have to grapple with that again, it's not a character trait he loses and it's a big part of who he is even post-New Stevification.

He's the damn tank, he's got no point of reference for what it looks like to deal with his shit in a healthy or productive manner, he just keeps moving.

So Steve gets messed up. He's bleeding, he's got torn muscles, he's definitely in the process of developing an infection or hypothermia or something walking around the UD with no shoes or shirt, open wounds just in the air like that.

And he doesn't make it a priority. He keeps moving. He gets back up. He gets his friends through that gate and listens to the plans being made and drives the getaway car and he has still not received medical attention.

We don't see Steve hurting save a few winces and grimaces here and there, even though all evidence would point towards the reality that he definitely is, because he doesn't want us to, because he's used to getting hurt close enough to the end of the thing that he can always make it out of the fray before he needs to deal with his own injuries.

He's the guy who keeps going.

He goes all the way through their trek back into the UD, manages to shut off the trailer well enough to keep the bats out even without either him or Dustin getting hurt (a close call, a scary one, but they're both breathing at the end of it, both on their feet).

Steve keeps going. He's wearing a lot of layers, but he can feel the blood soaking through them in heavier spurts now that he's aggravated all the torn flesh on his body with the running and fighting and such.

We see him wince a bit more now, bigger. But he hugs Dustin tight while they wait for their friends.

He makes sure the others get back safe, helps them climb over the mountain of bat's corpses leading up to the trailer and gets everyone back through the gate.

Gets himself back through the gate.

Stands amidst the complicated relief that they're all there but they aren't sure what all has happened yet, aren't sure they've won.

But he keeps standing.

Stays on his feet.

"Hey, Stevie, you OD back there?" Robin speaks up, something suddenly urgent to her shaky teasing as she notices Steve isn't following her as closely anymore on their trek away from the open rift in the ground and back towards where they'd hidden the Winnebago.

He sways slightly, but it's when he tries to smile at her that she sees the crimson shine of blood in his mouth.

"Nah, I'm-- right here with you."

And he collapses.

Unceremonious and on the other side of battle, in this moment when they're so close to finding shelter and safety, Steve's strings get cut and he falls to the floor at their feet and it's chaos.

It's Robin hyperventilating over what she finds when she unzips his jacket-- so much blood, why didn't you say-- this is so much blood-- and it's Dustin reminding him of a promise made in an elevator-- you die, I die, asshole!

It's Eddie trying desperately to call upon any of the first aid Wayne taught him and Nancy sitting quiet and still and barely present with two fingers pressed to Steve's neck, just under his jawline, waiting to feel...

Waiting.

She hardly even needs to check though, Nancy Wheeler, who knows better than most what it feels like in your chest when someone you love is--

"He's gone."

She knows he is. She can feel it. The world is different now and Steve Harrington is dead.

The world is different now because Steve Harrington is dead.

And all there's left for any of them to do is keep going.

[m0srael]

Some Sentences Sunday!

Thanks for tagging me, @orange-peony! I loved your snippet! I'll pass it along to @avenueofesc, @cluelesspigeons, @slytherholic, @nv-md, @sorrybutblog, and @basicallyahedgehog 💕 I've recently returned to a WIP that I started a year ago (!!), and I'm feeling really jazzed about it. It's (so far) got a few of the greatest hits: temporary MCD, time travel, a steamy, time-travel induced age gap, fuck-or-die, loopy magical theory. Here's a particularly heart-shattering snip from the interlude between acts 1 & 2--cw MCD.

Pansy stands, too. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides and she stares at Harry like he’s the worst, most evil person she’s ever seen in her life. “I’m not sorry I did it,” she says. 

Harry sucks in a breath, trying to keep the nausea at bay. “Did what?”

“Tried to turn you over to the Dark Lord. I should have tried harder. If he’d taken you, if he’d really killed you, my best friend would still be alive.” 

Harry wavers from foot to foot, trying and failing to meet Pansy’s unforgiving gaze. Tears start to roll down his face, hot and wet. “He’s dead?” he asks, his voice small and broken. 

“He’s dead.” Pansy says, with finality. She stares at Harry for another beat, and then turns on her heel to walk away. 

Before she can make it to the corner, Harry calls her name. She stops, but doesn’t turn around. 

“I wish he’d really killed me, too.” 

She hesitates, and then rounds the corner, and Harry is alone. 

[wisedawn13]

#xiantober Day 4: Ghostxian

CW // MCD

Lan Zhan stares up at the abandoned house in the dark of night, wondering how his life came to this. Objectively, he knows how: Nie Huaisang begged him to be the "skeptic" on his new ghost-hunting show and their brothers asked him to join.

(He's pretty sure he's really here to be eye candy)

Still. He wonders how it came to this. He hadn't wanted to say no; Nie Huaisang is one of his only friends even though they aren't particularly close. He probably should have said no.

Alas.

It's been a whole 3 months of scouring various "haunted" sights in the hopes of collecting any concrete proof that ghosts exist.

It's been 12 different sights and nothing.

Tonight is the 13th sight. Lan Zhan has no hopes of being proved wrong and he just wants to be at home.

Nie Huaisang hops out of the van with his bag of "tools" (Lan Zhan rather thinks of them as toys, but to each their own) and runs over beside Lan Zhan.

"Ready?"

Lan Zhan sighs. "Mn."

Nie Huaisang pulls up a camcorder and hits record, gesturing for him to do the same. He does.

Once they are recording, Nie Huaisang launches into his intro and spiel about the haunted history of this house. Lan Zhan knows it all already, he read the website. A young man who fought to save a group of people was murdered here 130 years ago. They never found out who did it.

There is talk of other ghosts and spirits being here, claims of sightings of a boy running the halls, an elderly woman in a rocking chair, a tall man who stands in the corner and stares at you, the feel of being pricked by a needle, and disembodied laughter.

Nie Huaisang's goal—aside from proving the existence of the preternatural—is to meet the man who was murdered here and find out who killed him.

Lan Zhan would just like to get the investigation over with.

They make their way in, going through the various rooms.

In the parlour, Nie Huaisang sets up a rem-pod on the rocking chair where people have claimed an elderly woman sits. There are minor spikes in temperature but nothing else happens.

In one of the corners of the house, he sets up a maglite in an attempt to communicate.

Lan Zhan has never been very fond of the maglight specifically, given that it can randomly turn off and on, but Nie Huaisang is very fond of the tool. No ghosts respond (shocking, he knows) and they move on to another area of the house to use the spirit box.

They make their way through, Nie Huaisang predominantly being the one to communicate with Lan Zhan rarely making comments or asking questions. Again, no clear answers come with the spirit box, though the feedback from it was definitely more chaotic than usual.

Nie Huaisang seems excited at that, claiming that proves that there's a lot of ghost activity here. Lan Zhan doesn't comment.

They end their joint investigation (they will be doing solo investigations after) in the basement, where the young man was found dead.

"Let's use the ovilus and SLS cam down here," Nie Huaisang comments, setting his EVP recorder and camcorder down before pulling out the SLS camera.

Lan Zhan sighs to himself and pulls out the ovilus, turning it on and aiming his own camcorder at Nie Huaisang.

Nie Huaisang explains what the equipment does (whether it's for the ghosts or for the viewers at home, Lan Zhan may never know).

"Hello! To any and all who may be down here in this basement, my name is Nie Huaisang and his here is Lan Zhan. We would love to talk to you."

[SEXY]

They freeze and Lan Zhan looks down at the ovilus. Nie Huaisang giggles, moving the SLS camera around the room. "Do you think I'm sexy?"

Nothing.

Nie Huaisang hums. "Do you think Lan Zhan is sexy?"

[HOT]

[MAN]

Nie Huaisang breaks into raucous laughter at that.

Lan Zhan, for his part, feels himself blush slightly. The ovilus has said many things before but never has it so perfectly seemed to compliment him in such a blatant way. Nie Huaisang is enjoying this far too much.

[VOICE]

"I think it wants you to speak," Nie Huaisang says.

"Hello," Lan Zhan says. "My name is Lan Zhan."

[SPARK]

[HEART]

[WARM]

Nie Huaisang is giggling, wiping tears away with his free hand and panning the SLS camera back over the room when he freezes with it aimed at Lan Zhan. His eyes widen as he looks at the screen.

"Looks like you've got company," Nie Huaisang states.

"What?"

Nie Huaisang continues to stare at the screen. "I can see you here, but there is also a clear secondary figure showing up. The stick arms seem to almost be wrapping around you from behind."

Lan Zhan's brow furrows.

[DON'T]

Suddenly, Lan Zhan feels the slightest chill breeze brush his neck. He sucks in a breath and glares at the old window behind him. Old houses are always so drafty.

Nie Huaisang clears his throat. "It's gone. Anyway, we got distracted by you getting hit on by a ghost."

Lan Zhan shoots Nie Huaisang an unimpressed look.

"I would like to speak to the man who died in this basement," he calls out. "Are you here now?"

They wait in silence for a beat.

[KILL]

"You were killed here, yes."

[HELP]

"You need help? What do you need help with?"

Silence.

"Is there anything you want to tell us?"

[ARREST]

[LOUD]

"Arrest and loud?" Nie Huaisang mutters. "Not sure what that means."

Lan Zhan shrugs minutely. "It's time."

"Right, okay ghosts! We're turning off the ovilus now, but we'll be back in alone soon."

With that, Lan Zhan shuts the equipment off and heads to the stairs.

"Ah, ah! Wait up!" Nie Huaisang exclaims, floundering to put his equipment back into his back and catch up. Together they walk out to the van and drop their stuff off.

"Okay, I'll go first this time."

Lan Zhan nods and sits down, picking up one of the walkie-talkies and waits to start the 30-minute timer once Nie Huaisang enters the building. Time passes slowly in the van at night, but he uses it to meditate. The timer goes off and he radios Nie Huaisang to let him know.

They trade off equipment and then it's Lan Zhan's turn to go in.

"I put the walkie where flirting happened," Nie Huaisang says with a smirk.

Of course. Lan Zhan nods and makes his way into the house and down to the basement. He finds the walkie in the far corner of the room.

"Found it," he radios.

"Good," Nie Huaisang replies. "Now I want to you sit in the middle of the room with your eyes closed for a minute while using the spirit box."

Without bothering to respond, Lan Zhan does as told. The annoying static of the spirit box drones on.

"Is there anyone here? Can you tell me your name?"

***** W— ***** Wei— *****

"Wei? Is that your name?"

***** Ying *****

"Wei Ying?"

All of a sudden, the sound of the spirit box cuts out and an eerie silence falls over Lan Zhan. He feels a chill brush over his skin.

~Lan Zhan~

A whisper of his name by his ears makes him jump, his eyes shoot open and he could have sworn he saw a beautiful man's face smiling in front of him, but when he blinks it's gone. Trick of the light in an old, dark basement.

Yeah.

And yet...

Lan Zhan, skeptic of the super/preternatural, finds himself starting to doubt what he previously believed as truth.

He feels something here, in this basement. In this house.

Slowly, he reaches his hand out, palm facing where he thought he saw a man. "Wei Ying?"

Nothing happens for a suspended moment and then he jolts when he feels something on his hand. The sensation slides and spreads over his palm before wrapping around as if another hand is threading their fingers between his. He lets his own fingers fold down.

Lan Zhan gasps quietly when he finds that he meets resistance as if there truly was a hand there, and yet he cannot see one.

~Lan Zhan~

The voice again, slightly louder this time. Definitely not the wind. It's a low, smooth voice; one that isn't familiar to him at all.

Well.

Lan Zhan loses track of time in the basement, holding onto a phantom hand, catching flickerings of the man's—Wei Ying's face. He feels unmoored.

He feels at home.

Until Nie Huaisang's voice rings throughout the house, calling his name in a frightened tone.

Lan Zhan starts, glancing at Wei Ying once more.

"I will return," he states. He has to. He will.

He feels a squeeze on his hand and then nothing. Wei Ying left.

With some reluctance, he stands up and grabs the dead spirit box.

"LAN ZHAN!?"

"I am okay!" he replies loudly.

"Oh, thank fuck!" Nie Huaisang yells. When Lan Zhan reaches the front of the house he finds a frazzled-looking Nie Huaisang pacing around. "You! Why didn't you respond to me?"

"What do you mean?"

Nie Huaisang groans. "I radioed you a bunch! You never replied!"

Odd. Lan Zhan never heard that at all. He reaches for the walkie and presses the button. Nothing. He fiddles with the power switch and tries again. Still nothing.

It seems that more than just the spirit box died when Wei Ying appeared. He wonders if that means the video stopped.

"It died," he states simply. "I apologize for scaring you. I merely lost track of time."

Nie Huaisang studies him closely. "Did anything happen?"

For some reason, Lan Zhan feels compelled to keep what happened a secret. He settled on, "All of the equipment seems to have died."

Nie Huaisang's face falls. "Does that mean we lost our footage?"

"We won't know until we check it."

"Right... Right, let's head out." Nie Huaisang walks back out to the van.

"Mn."

Lan Zhan pauses in the doorway, turning back to look into the house.

He feels a gentle caress on his cheek. He smiles softly. He'll be back.

~

They find out that the footage on Lan Zhan's equipment was, in fact, lost, meaning that a solid amount of the footage overall was lost given that some of that equipment was shared.

Nie Huaisang bemoans the fact that they didn't end up with enough content for a video but Lan Zhan finds he is quite pleased with that as he begins looking into how to buy that house for his own personal use.

It takes a while, but eventually, he becomes the owner of the house.

Lan Zhan moves in and lives his life in a haunted house. Wei Ying is the most present, but over time he comes to encounter the others who reside there too. His life is unconventional, but he finds joy in the moments he spends around Wei Ying, however fleeting they may be.

Sometimes Wei Ying has a stronger presence on Lan Zhan's plane of existence, other times it's a challenge to feel him at all. But they make things work.

Lan Zhan also finds ways to ensure that the house becomes protected so that no one else can buy it and tear it down.

And then, years and years in the future, Lan Zhan peacefully passes away in his sleep, the feel of comforting arms wrapped around him.

And when he opens his eyes, he finally sees Wei Ying, fully as he was meant to be seen. Lan Zhan smiles.

"Wei Ying."

Wei Ying turns to him.

With a wide smile, Wei Ying runs over and wraps him in a bruising hug. "Hey, sexy."

Lan Zhan laughs. A little nod to their first meeting, the start of the rest of their lives together. "Am I in my 30s again?"

Wei Ying nods, eyes roaming over him with a burning hunger. "Yup."

"Why?"

"The house remembers."

Lan Zhan tilts his head in question.

Wei Ying brings a hand to trace along Lan Zhan's jaw. "It remembers how you were at your happiest here, and it preserves that."

Not one to question that which he doesn't understand anymore, Lan Zhan nods.

"Hey, Lan Zhan?"

"Mn?"

"Can I kiss you?"

Lan Zhan doesn't bother responding with words, instead, he leans in and lets his actions speak for themselves. It's a wonderful thing, finally being able to be with the man he loves.

He spends the rest of eternity exploring Wei Ying's body, basking in the love he feels. The rest of the ghosts easily welcome him into their little family. Wei Ying and Lan Zhan all but adopt the little boy, A-Yuan (despite him having been elderly when he passed).

The house remembers them, and they remember it in turn. They find joy in their unending time together.

Their little family is odd, but Lan Zhan wouldn't have it any other way.

----------

Link to thread

[sourw0lfs]

floating away

written for STWG daily drabble prompt: island

wc: 400 | T | cw: shipwreck, dehydration, implied MCD

Eddie isn’t sure if he’s hallucinating from dehydration or if there’s actually an island looming in the visible distance. The image sways before his eyes and his head spins as he sits up to try and see it more clearly. Each breath feels like a chore from the heat beating down on him, blistering into the sunburn splattered across every inch of visible skin. But he makes it up, leaning heavily on arms that shake with his weight as he peers over the edge of the lifeboat. 

“Hey!” he rasps, throat burning with each syllable as he turns his attention to the others in the boat. “Guys! There’s land!”

He doesn’t get a response, but no one’s really been talking the last day or so. The quiet doesn’t alert him to anything just yet. Or maybe it’s the dehydration again, sapping everything in his mind, body, and soul as they drift through the open ocean. 

The island is getting closer, drawing up on their little boat like a giant in the sea. Eddie no longer questions if it’s real or fake. Not when the first beat of shade washes over flushed skin, soothing it gently, or when the bottom of the boat scrapes along the sand when it beaches itself. 

Pulling his body out of the boat feels insurmountable, but somehow Eddie manages, fingers curling around the edge as he tumbles down onto dry land for the first time in three days. At least, he thinks it’s been three days. There’s a chance he lost count at some point. 

He’s the only one that tumbles onto the sand. Steve, Robin, Nancy... None of them move from the boat, from where they’ve tried to tuck themselves under the seats to escape the sun. “Hey!” Eddie tries again, voice straining to hold any sort of volume. “Guys, c’mon. We gotta find water!”

Not waiting for a reply, Eddie drops to the sand again, eyes locking on the treeline in front of him as he tugs his worn out body towards it. Every inch feels like it takes an hour and he has to stop before even making it very far. The others still haven’t moved. Eddie doesn’t want to move anymore either. Maybe if he just rests now, he can find the water later when the sun is down and it’s cooler out. 

Deciding that’s a good plan, his eyes slide closed. 

[hpffwritersguild]

Day 4: Only me in the limelight

[elsanna-shenanigans]

January/December Contest Submission #4: Umbra

Words: ca. 3,000 Setting: mAU Lemon: no Content: Dissociation, needles, MCD

~~~~~

She was the Sun, and I, the Moon.

Contrary to the other girls her age, who would rise well past the star’s waking, her time awake was heliocentric. Put simply: the sky was awake, so she was awake.

So I was awake.

Upon waking, she stretched her arms inward, across her body, and then pulled out of the covers. The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, lighting her white sheets with a slightly emissive glow. Her room was messy but not dirty: used clothes went in the hamper, but clean clothes sat on her desk because she’s “just going to put them on again anyways.”

After cautiously getting out of bed, she tiptoed towards the vanity, listening to the faint chirping of birds. She placed her hands on the table and leaned forward, her eyes making contact with mine through the mirror. Closing her eyes, her lungs filled with air, chest expanding as she took in a breath of artificially conditioned air.

We made it through the night. The muscles on her face visibly relaxed. The dull presence of nothingness caught her attention; she looked to the side, exposing the bloodshot corners of her eyes.

Her tinted hair was frowzy from tossing and turning through the night. Every morning, it was a pain to maintain.

Oh? You already knew that?

After staring for a few moments, face showing no signs of her racing mind, she muttered her greetings.

“Good morning, Elsa.”

I smiled in reply. It was a shame that Anna had such trouble waking up. She loved mornings and desperately wanted to get out of her room to start the day; however, her subconscious and body disagreed.

A blurry memory rose to the top of my consciousness: it didn’t used to be this way. Anna used to bounce eagerly out of bed, ready to take on whatever the day threw at her.

Our bedroom, along with her parents’, resided on the second floor of the house. Anna never voiced her true thoughts, stating that she liked being “closer to the stars.” Yet it pained me to see Anna take so much care not to wake her parents.

“Hold my hand?” she whispered at the top of the stairs. I obliged, and we began to carefully climb down, making no noise.

Nowhere was safe. None of the physical locations Anna regularly attended could hold her a night without drawing a knife from under her pillow. Yet the Doctor encouraged trust in the environment, and independence from others.

But that’s what I was for. A shoulder to lean on. A body to collapse on. Arms to snuggle in.

A hand to hold.

Hand in hand, we turned left into the dining room.

There’s no harm in harmony.

The wooden dining table was barren; eight chairs awaiting two hungry hosts and six guests were neatly pushed in. Sun streamed in through the open curtains, rays resting on both the table and the connected kitchen’s countertops.

She pulled out a seat at the head of the table.

“For you, my queen,” she joked, gesturing for me to sit. I smiled and took my place. Anna turned away, heading into the pantry to forage for some food.

She happily shook the almost empty box of cereal. Anna deserved to treat herself, even if her parents would disapprove. Even if she would disapprove. I would approve.

After grabbing a bowl and spoon and pouring a drink from the kitchen, she bounced back to the table, taking the seat next to me. Her back faced the stairs, which left the sun to shine directly on her now smiling face. She was the Sun, and I, the Moon.

Her breakfast consisted of a bowl of dry Cherry Crunch with a glass of grapefruit juice. The meal was overly sweet, each piece of cereal flooding the tongue with bliss. It lacked any form of sustenance. I rested my chin on my arm, watching her play “find the differences” on the back of the box for the fifth time this month. Now it was “remember the differences.”

Each difference was so minor. One could make a small change and it would not be noticeable to anyone externally. Sprinkled about her life were little modifications over the course of a few years. Anyone would overlook them without overanalyzing the image.

But you overanalyze it—and in my concession, that’s the point of the game, anyways.

“Anna?” called the voice of her father, causing Anna to jump in her seat. His heavy footsteps could be heard thumping down each step. As he appeared at the foot of the staircase, Anna twisted around and greeted him with a nervous wave.

“Good morning, Papa,” she said, her mouth full of cereal. As he walked over to the table, she briefly glanced up at him, then immediately flicked her eyes back down to fixate on the bowl of cereal.

Upon seeing the food ingested, he inhaled deeply, moving over to my seat. Ignorantly, he leaned backwards to sit at the head of the table—right on top of me. I jumped to the side before he landed on the chair, arms raised protectively at my shoulders.

“Hey! Elsa was sitting there,” Anna pouted.

“I’m so sorry,” he stated blankly, staring at Anna and making no move to switch seats. I resigned myself to standing.

I was treated as an invisible figure. I couldn’t really do anything on my own, so I didn’t really think it was unfair. I’d already gotten used to it, as the only two people who really see me are Anna and…

Sometimes I feel my lungs are too full when I’m out of breath.

Her dad sighed—I don’t believe it was out of disappointment, but rather as an attempt to appease this overwhelming sense of stress, worry, and even guilt he held concerning his daughter, wishing he could do more. He was unable to fight Anna’s battles for her.

Or maybe I was projecting.

“Anna, just as I reminded you yesterday, you have two doctor’s appointments today, alright?”

“Yes, Papa,” she quietly responded.

~~~

Anna was sweating profusely, ready to collapse. Pine bristles stuck to the mud on her skin. In an unfortunate turn of events, Anna stumbled nearing the finish line, giving way to a mob of runners. Her cross country meets were demanding, and she barely qualified for the next race.

She was panting, hands on her knees, and asked for a favor.

“Elsa, can you chill my water?”

Her pleading eyes met mine, and I could not decline.

My hands hovered a few centimeters away from her bottle, allowing the cold to seep into the water. I had to be careful not to overdo my work and freeze it by mistake. I tended to do more than what was needed, chaining problems into problems.

I have a secret power, apparently. And I used it to make her drink a bit more refreshing. Anna usually says that I’m scared of germs because I never really touch anything.

She took a large gulp of the too-warm water and smiled at me.

I look away. The heat seemed to have affected me as well.

~~~

“It’ll only feel like a pinch.”

The nurse repeated that to Anna, spiking her with adrenaline each time it was repeated.

Anna’s heart beat rapidly, knowing that she couldn’t avoid the inevitable. She looked at me, quietly communicating one thought:

“Hold my hand?”

I obliged. The most agonizing feeling was the cold alcohol wipe on her bare skin, right below the rolled shirt sleeve. It made her feel vulnerable, as if—

Tears squeezed from Anna’s eyes. Pain pierced through her arm and spread through her nerves, spearing through tactile receptors and setting fire to my own. She continued clutching my hand, holding on tight, as if I would abandon her if she couldn’t feel my hand under hers.

The nurse placed the needle in the disposal.

“It’s done, honey. You’re squeezing that cushion awfully tight.”

Anna opened her eyes but did not let go of my hand.

“Seems like you put off meningococcal last year; we’re going to have to do that too pretty soon, alright?”

Anna hated the doctor.

~~~

She was the Sun, and I, the Moon.

The Doctor says that I “eclipse” Anna. Physical, mechanical, spiritual—I am quite lacking in one of the three, and I come off too strongly on the others. I cast a shadow.

Can a fantasy not have fantasies?

Anna loved to draw me. She likes self expression but doesn’t like expression. In her work, I was always by her side, and she made sure that I held her hand.

Anna also loved jumping off the seven foot treehouse. Because of the lack of padding, her parents forbid her to do so.

“Catch me if I fall, Elsa!”

Anna had me make a layer of snow, preventing her from being damaged too badly if she didn’t land on her feet.

I never understood the Doctor—were there really any negatives of dissociation, derealization?

She squealed in delight, and leaped off the wooden boards, reveling in the wind as she soared. In the brief moments of airtime, the world seemed to slow, and all I could see was Anna’s fulfilled grin.

Upon repeating the action, she tripped, of course, landing in my soft pile of snow. Anna was unharmed.

The blood stains could never be fully scrubbed off the patio, omnipresent scarring on her skin.

~~~

The Doctor, on rare occasions, spoke to me directly, as if addressing a child.

Although never referred to by name, Joseph was always humble. He never sought to confront his patients, but you could tell he knew when you were lying, when something was up. Anna hated it. His demeanor made her bite her lip, twist with guilt, and squirm in her chair.

She especially hated his coats. They came in all sorts of different colors, and she thought he couldn’t make up his mind on which his favorite was.

He seemed to abuse a form of casual interrogation. He would ask Anna a question and later ask me the same, assuming we never spoke with each other about it. In his findings, which he felt more comfortable sharing with me, often resurfacing was Anna’s strange, dire desire to become me. It frightened me and left me hopelessly aromantic.

Joseph warned me, “Elsa, please realize, for her own good: Sometimes it’s dangerous to dream. This isn’t healthy for her.”

~~~

She was the Sun, and I, the Moon.

I couldn’t look directly at her for long before tearing up. I started hauling the burden of more and more of her responsibilities, and as a result, less and less was accomplished. What scared me the most were the compliments.

“Elsa, I wish I could be you,” “Elsa, can you wake up for me?”

Doctor, what do I do?

~~~

She was the Sun, and I, the Moon. Her strengths endured in the daytime, and mine, the nighttime.

Anna was a brilliant symbol of radiance during the day. Anyone lucky enough to be blessed by her smile was sure to be instantly gratified, filled with contentment.

But at night, the sun sets, leaving nothing but darkness—darkness and the Moon—in its wake. The wake preceded the burial. Anna buried herself completely under the blankets.

The fear of the dark was evident in her hastened breathing, in the tears that sporadically dripped down to the sheets. The fear was so great that it could be felt through steady vibrations akin to the regular rhythm of a bass drum at a rock concert. The fear was so great that she submerged under the blankets, raising a shield at the cost of filtering light and air.

It is here that she felt I am never needed. At night, she felt ashamed. She feared that if there was not a single moment where she could live without my presence, the Doctor would diagnose her.

It is at these darkest moments that I fall back into the subconscious, heeding her will. Only once she falls asleep do I come to her aid, somewhat inebriated in this secondary state of consciousness.

The dream was nothing short of a reflection. A grapefruit wrung like a towel, juice tainted pink splattering across a canvas of stars.

I did my best to cleanse these visions, purge the mind of vile thoughts. Eyes closed, she thrashed. Heat enveloped her, cool air unable to pierce past the hefty blanket.

Nightmares.

~~~

Anna quickly looked at me and whispered, “Please stop tickling me, Elsa!”

I stifled a laugh. The doctor’s office was always cold, and every so often, Anna shivered violently.

She tried to hide it, but shivers caused by the cold were much different than those caused by fear. And no other location brought her more anxiety.

She sat on the slightly crinkled paper, absently kicking her feet in the air.

It made me feel so much worse. Something is very, very wrong.

The Doctor was right. Either Anna dies or I do. And I wanted what was best for her.

The clock struck with blunt sharpness, sure to wake anyone from a stage-fatigue inspired daze watching a classical orchestra. Its ringing was distant but crept closer with each slowing tick. Time was apprehensive of the future.

Anna closed her eyes and attempted to regulate her breathing. Her lungs filled rapidly, but she let the air out slowly.

I abandoned her.

As the nurse entered, I left the room.

My transparent figure stood alone in the hallway. The rooms were labeled, and I counted them. Room one, two, three…I heard a desperate scream resonating from within.

Four, five, six, seven…

There was no happy ending. It was always a paradox—I stay with Anna, continuing to cause her harm, or I leave, and hope she can make a return to good health.

Anna used to love waking up before I existed. That’s why I couldn’t remember it. Her mind was troubled because I was troubling her mind.

I did my best to ignore the choking, sobbing gasps that filled my ears. Am I a monster? I distracted myself by counting the letters on the eye exam.

I need to die. I am ready to dissolve into memory, and can accept peace with unconsciousness—

The door opened, and Anna shoved past me towards the receptionist. Her jaw was clenched shut as she paid, not giving me a glance.

“Anna,” I began to say apologetically, before she cut me off. The whisper through her teeth is incredibly faint—it terrified me.

“I never should have imagined you.”

~~~

They all wanted something: a heart, a brain, courage, and now…

“My wish came true.”

I stared into the mirror. My heart dropped. I was finally in charge of a physical body—but I was not the character Anna always drew.

I looked into the mirror using her bloodshot eyes. They drooped and struggled to stay open. But there was no one looking back at me.

My sister is dead.

I clutched the vanity, praying that this was one of her nightmares. Looking back up, I saw nothing but the same corpse staring back at me.

I couldn’t hide here forever. Lacking purpose, I took the stairs down to the kitchen.

I had lost everything in the span of one night. What was I supposed to do?

“Anna? Good morning!” Papa turned to look at me, and his smile changed. His eyes lost their creasing, and his cheerful expression faltered.

Unsure of how to respond, I stared blankly at the tablecloth and sat down in Anna’s chair.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he asked, a bit quieter than usual.

I shook my head.

~~~

I tried my best to act normal throughout the morning. But everyone knew something was off. I was much colder than Anna, responding rudely when there was really no reason to. I lost interest in everything.

The one feeling that stuck with me was a sense of abandonment. It felt as if everyone was watching me, waiting for the right moment to leave. I feared that nobody wanted to be around me. Is this how Anna always felt?

And it hit me again, after the stress of the day finally subsided. This was the solar eclipse. I blocked her light from shining through. Anna was gone. I needed to save her from myself, and bring back the Sun.

Please tell me: is this the last symptom, depersonalization?

“It is.” Joseph responds.

I sigh.

“I just want her back,” I say, my voice beginning to crack.

He looks at me, places his thumb and forefinger on his forehead, and looks once more. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. He analyzes me once more, and I’m not sure where to look. I focus on the jar on the back of the counter behind him.

“Try for me, Elsa,” he asks.

“Reach deep inside yourself and find Anna. Think of what she really loves.”

I close my eyes and start to think.

Anna.

Anna.

How did she ever think I could replace this bundle of energy?

This wild girl, a spirit uncontrollable.

You’re creative, adventurous, daring, and you are the Sun.

Anna. Please, please come back.

I allow my limbs to go limp.

But nothing. There’s no response. This was just another useless, faulty etude of the mind, a broken ouija board assigned by the Doctor. Tears blur the world around me, and all I see are the colors emanating from Joseph’s coat. Vibrant oranges, subdued indigos, sinister red. They mock me, warping into faded graffiti on a broken stone. I want to laugh, to reach out and touch the colors. All that escapes is a dry chuckle, under the guise of a sob.

But suddenly, I smell it. My mind is pulled out of the rabbit hole. Faint at first, it could be misinterpreted as a passing memory. But my nose wiggles, and there it was again! The sweet sensation arouses this desire for a familiar, shared passion. My body begins to move on its own, searching for the source of the smell. It wipes the tears out of its eyes and fixates on the slowly unwrapping piece of chocolate Joseph held.

She walks over to him, producing a faint, tired smile, and holds her hands out. He winks and places a square in her hands.

Anna.

~~~

She was the Sun. But I… What am I?

Moonlight isn’t real—its beams are simply reflections from the sun.

I do not have a physical form. My thoughts may not be my own.

Anna drives the physical form. We share the mental form. But each of us has our own individual spirits.

There are arbitrary limitations to the physical world. Corporeal presences have restrictions; I will never live truly in an organic body. But my spirit will remain forever.

Both the body and mind have a sense of palpability. They are substantive. I share the space in Anna’s brain, lingering in half of a sublunary form. I cannot exist in this universe without this anchor to the temporal world.

But the spirit is truly intangible. My essence, my existence, has no worldly form, no chemicals in a brain, no bytes in any metal piece of memory.

I don’t have to leave Anna. My spirit remains with her, without an artificial physical presence. I am no longer a festering parasite, but rather a mutually beneficial conscience. Morale need not come from someone else, but affection, support, and love is best served with the human touch.

I am just a dream, an immaculate Elsa. I am Anna.

[srfiv]

this is never getting finished

[sgt-tombstone]

Simon Riley has never understood why military personnel get married so quickly

Logically, he understands; most soldiers move often and want their partners to be able to move with them, and getting married means living off base, which has benefits all of its own. But he’s never wanted or needed any of that. Johnny goes where he goes because they’re a team, and they both have everything they need on base. They’re perfectly happy right where they are, no rings or vows needed.

And then Johnny goes MIA, presumed KIA.

After the initial shock, the anxiety, the helplessness, the overwhelming urge to do something, anything, to get his Johnny back… There’s the Board of Inquiry, where the entire 141 essentially testifies about what happened leading up to Sergeant MacTavish’s disappearance, and he’s declared officially KIA.

His belongings have to be returned to his next of kin which… isn’t Simon. Because they were never married. Instead, he has to pick through his room, collecting the pieces of Johnny that he’d stockpiled over the years; his sketchbooks, his headphones, his extra identification tag. He boxes them up and gives them to Price to be shipped to Scotland, to Johnny’s real next of kin, and he aches with regret.

Because he suddenly understands.

Marriage wouldn’t have saved Johnny; nothing could’ve. But it could’ve kept Johnny close, could’ve preserved some of Johnny’s memory. Instead, his room is cleared and cleaned and filled with the next soldier, and Simon is left with nothing to remember the love of his life by.

He had never even bought a ring.

[amikoroyaiart]

Just let me go or take me with you

[stellewriites]

very much inspired by a post i’ll link at the bottom to avoid spoilers

i love putting john price in situations

simon had known price for over a decade, had served under him as his lieutenant for a good portion of it, so he was pretty confident in answering yes when asked if he thought he knew the captain well.

he could acknowledge he wasn’t as close as say laswell may have been, but he knew that price’s wife was not common knowledge around the base either.

he’d pieced it together over the years on missions; catching the odd comment shared over coms; the glint of a ring around his neck; the odd teased mention of her when they sat in the rec room after barely scraping through a tough spot, when price needed the company as well as the silence ghost offered before returning to the real world.

it was how simon knew the sergeants were staying when price let slip about her one day. because he doesn’t let anything slip, wouldn’t, especially about her.

“got anyone at home waiting for you, sir?” gaz asked as he sighed impatiently over the coms, hour three of silently waiting and watching had finally gotten to him.

“i do,” price said simply, not offering any further information. ghost could imagine the amusement tugging at his daft facial hair as price refused to continue without prompting and simon smiled under his mask when he heard johnny scoff next to him before chiming in.

“c’mon sir, give us a wee bit more’n that,” he weedled. “when’d ya meet? is she nice?”

john hummed, the sound low and crackly over the radio in their ears. “met when i moved.”

“oh, a real meet-cute type thing, eh?” gaz teased.

john ignored him. “wouldn’t say she’s nice, soap. she’s more than that. ‘nice’ is your aunt’s new wallpaper; you have permission to shoot me point blank if i start calling her nice.”

“what is she then?” ghost piped up. this was the chattiest john had ever been on the subject and he was going to take advantage.

john went silent for long enough that the three men thought that was it, the end to their sharing session and knowing more about their captain outside of work. simon chewed the inside of his cheek.

“she’s devoted,” john whispered finally before his voice firmed. “heads up, team, movement 2 o’clock. anyone got eyes on the target?”

—

it was months later when she was brought up again, the team thinking. nothing of it until price’s phone pinged in his pocket enough times to pique johnny’s interest as they prepped to leave.

“that the wife, sir?” he asked.

john huffed, didn’t bother checking his phone as he turned and shook his head. “she’s clingy, but she doesn’t bother me when i’m at work.”

“how’d you know?” gaz asked. “could be an emergency.”

“‘n’ how’d you get her to agree tae tha’?” soap followed up quickly, having had issues with his own flings petering out when he was distant and slow to reply.

“been with her long enough now it’s routine,” john said simply. he checked his weapons before heading for the exit. “helo in 5, be air ready.”

—

the mission had gone to shit, and they were stuck hidden in a building that looked like it was 10 seconds away from collapsing under a brisk wind when ghost finally felt his patience snap.

it was no one’s fault, but being stuck in another country with no back up and a target on their backs for an extra three weeks wasn’t ideal and johnny’s insistence on playing cards at every opportunity to keep his idle hands and mind busy combined with gaz’s tinny whistling had made for the perfect scenario to grate on simon’s patience quicker than anything else ever had.

“tell us about her. ya wife,” simon asked, his gaze slipping across to john, watching him pick at his nails. his cuticles were red and raw from four days of agitated fidgeting since they’d ran out of cigars and cigarettes. every so often simon caught him pat his empty pocket before he’d remember and huff heavily through his nose like a bull.

john closed his eyes at the mention of his wife and sighed. he started his description without protest or hesitance. “shes soft spoken. christ, you’d hardly know she was there half the time, she’s so quiet. but she’s firm. stands her ground no matter what,” he chuckled. “don’t think i’ve ever won an argument against her.”

kyle laughed and ghost closed his own eyes, trying to picture what he thought the captain’s wife might look like. pretty certainly, but was she tall, plump, did she have an endearing gap between her front teeth, did she keep her hair short or long?

“she’s a bit of a homebody,” john admitted bashfully, unaware of simon’s drifting thoughts. “but i can’t say i mind it.”

“not wanting to leave the bedroom much when yer back?” johnny joked, hissing when ghost punched his thigh.

john just smiled placidly, eyes still closed. his eyebrows pulled down as he gushed, “god she’s gorgeous in red. wears it every time i come home.”

“lucky bastard,” gaz huffed.

“yeah.” john nodded and finally opened his eyes. “yeah, lucky.”

“you’ll be back with her soon, cap,” gaz reassured him when he saw price swallow thickly.

“thanks, gaz. now who’s taking first watch tonight? soap?”

—

john was quiet on the plane ride home, not unusually so, but ghost noticed the difference all the same.

he was pensive perhaps, worried what his wife would say when he finally got home a month later than scheduled, uncontactable the entire time. ghost could understand to a certain degree that john would have more important things on his mind than what his three subordinates were going to do as soon as they stepped foot on home soil, so he didn’t push when john ignored the few threads of conversation thrown his way by their younger sergeants. instead he nodded when john said a quick goodbye as they all parted ways in the airport.

simon could only assume john was the same all the way home in the cab that dropped him outside of his little three bed house.

he didn’t see however how john hesitated at the door to his home that evening. how he gripped the front door keys tightly in his fist, shook as he stared down at his feet instead of letting his eyes drift and catch on the windows, and felt as though he could crack a tooth from how hard he was clenching his teeth.

he finally opened the door when he thought the neighbours might begin to get worried and stepped inside, flicking on the lights as he went.

it wasn’t until he got to the kitchen that he found her.

stood bare foot, silent, eyes wide and pleading, blood seeping - always seeping. would it ever stop? would the blood ever end? - through her white pyjama top, his top that she’d borrowed for the night, and trickling down her bare legs.

her mouth opened and she visibly struggled for breath, but no sound escaped even as her tongue wagged on the floor of her mouth, lapping at the backs of her teeth as all words escaped her.

he swallowed back bile.

“hello, sweetheart,” he choked out. “sorry i’m late.”

the blood pooled at her feet, the panties she wore were seeped a dark purple from the viscus liquid dying the dark blue material and the shirt stuck to her front. john had remembered loving seeing her like this in a morning, had always thought she looked best in as little clothing as possible.

“i know you hate it when work keeps me busy, but it was unexpected. we were caught—“ a high screech, not dissimilar to that of a whistle that only a dog could hear, pierced through his ears and cut his words short. he curled in and covered his ears, but he knew it would do no good, he should’ve known better than to talk about work around her.

not after what had happened last time he got back late after overtime.

tears prickle at his eyes and the sound abruptly stopped. he’d never questioned why it seemed to be only him that could hear her protests, why his neighbours never mentioned a shrill cry every so often from his home. he had always said she was made for him and that had apparently translated literally into the afterlife.

he looked up at her again - it was best not to ignore her he found. it only made her angry.

“it won’t happen again,” he promised wetly. “i did my best to get back as soon as i could, i promise, sweetheart—“ he choked on his words, biting back a sob. she watched unblinkingly, silent except for the wet squelch of her feet on the laminate.

they both knew he wasn’t apologising for being late this time. he got like this sometimes, when her agonised face and mangled body was too much to bear after a long mission and the guilt bore down like a physical presence.

he couldn’t help but think if he’d gotten home even just an hour earlier he might’ve been able to save her, to have kept her company instead of leaving her on the floor alone and cold, maybe he could have caught the bastards that had hurt her while he was still travelling back from deployment after agreeing to hang back and finish his paperwork there and then instead of emailing it across.

he reached a shaking hand forward and blew out a ragged breath when his hand met nothing but frigid air. but when he brought his hand up to his face he could smell the copper tang of his dead wife’s blood on his skin. the stench unwashable, cloying, but if he concentrated hard enough it ever so faintly smelt like the vanilla perfume she used to wear.

“was telling the lads about you, love,” he forced an empty chuckle as he walked around her to the kettle and went through their usual routine. “think they might’ve fallen a little in love, not that i could blame them.”

he ran a hand over his face and gave himself a moment to let the tears fall as his palm hid his eyes. her silence was the worst part of it all, but he could see the glaring red of her in his peripheral when he dropped his hand to the counter.

it wasn’t pretending his wife was still alive if she was right there at his shoulder, was it?

“looks like i’ll need to grab you some more pg tips, sweetheart,” he said and poured the boiling water into two cups, sparing a glance over his shoulder at his wife. “we’re almost out.”

post link

[iridiss]

the “garroth is freaky as hell” propaganda continues

[fastcardotmp3]

Spring, in their own words, before and after the war. Steve, in their own words, before and after never again.

read on ao3 (part 3/3)

part 1 | part 2 for the lovely @thefreakandthehair's Spicy Six Spring Challenge 💛

“Here, tell me this,” she stays propped on her elbow but rests her head in the palm of her hand as she looks down at him, gets looked at with vague distrust in return, “why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Ask if you’re reading the situation right.”

“To find out if I’m reading the situation right,” he says with dripping, viscous pointedness that only tickles Robin further. 

“Alright,” she grins. 

“What the fuck is happening,” Steve deadpans. 

“Do you want me to tell you why I think you do it?” she can’t help herself, she pushes herself all the way upright and sits with her legs crossed, pulling at blades of grass and snapping them between her fingers just for a place to put the excess energy in her bones. 

Steve, for his part, settles into the familiarity of the moment, hands pillowed behind his head and letting his eyes fall shut as he chuckles, “who am I to stop you from your favorite hobby?”

Robin sprinkles grass on his face just to get him to sputter and knock at her hands so she can make the mood light before she has to tell him—

“You don’t trust yourself like you should.” 

[wisedawn13]

Lan Wangji Drabble

CW // MCD (but it's not the end if you catch my drift)

Could you imagine if Lan Wangji had died after he got whipped?

Maybe it was when he pushed himself to go to the Burial Mounds to find nothing but wreckage. Maybe he doesn't find A-Yuan. Or maybe he does, but he's too weak to do anything but hold him close and fade.

Lan Wangji focused all the energy in his golden core to A-Yuan hoping to gift him warmth and strength, hoping to help him heal. Hoping that somehow, A-Yuan can stay alive long enough for someone to come. It works. He sees the blurry form of his brother run towards him.

Lan Xichen is smart enough to know where his brother is when he finds he's not where he should be. He makes quick work of flying there, spotting the small, curled up white area is a sea of dark. Wangji. Maybe he makes it there and he's still alive, just barely.

"WANGJI!" Lan Xichen yells as he runs, not caring at all for propriety. He collapses to the ground in front of where Lan Wangji's frail body is curled protectively around a small child.

Lan Wangji blinks and takes a ragged breath. "Xiongzhang," he rasps, voice weak.

Lan Xichen bristles at the sight and sound of his little brother. This is all so wrong. He immediately moves to give him spiritual energy to heal but Lan Wangji only shakes his head.

"A-Yuan."

Lan Xichen shakes his head in response and continues to feed him energy.

Lan Wangji forces himself to push the child close to Lan Xichen. "A-Yuan," he says again, voice firm.

Lan Xichen's breath hitches as he looks from his brother, to the child, back to his brother.

Lan Wangji's eyes are pleading; that's what breaks him. "Okay," he whispers.

Lan Xichen takes A-Yuan into his arms. "Okay, Wangji. Now you."

Lan Wangji shakes his head one final time. He's smiling, though his eyes are sad. "I will find Wei Ying."

"NO! WANGJI! YOU–" Lan Xichen's voice fades away as Lan Wangji closes his eyes.

He exhales his last breath.

He will find Wei Ying.

----------

(ahahaha~ so that was a lot more than I expected to write for this! I just wanted a couple tweets about a fic idea I have but I went into more detail lol. Hope you enjoyed the pain 😌🖤)

Link to thread