#flash fic

[risingoftime]

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER ⟡ HOBIE BROWN

Hobie hadn’t realized that he butt-dialled your number while fantasizing about how it would feel to fuck you. In the midst of it all, he realizes that he might have an audience.

a/n: cause i can’t get him out of my head₊˚ෆˎˊ˗ 18+

part i | part ii

Hobie’s life had been in a constant state of unrest. If he wasn't fulfilling his duties as Spiderman, he was practicing and performing with his band Spider-Slayers. It had been a late night, and the only thing that brought him to peace was you. He found himself thinking about you more than he would like to admit. He had tried his best to keep his distance, knowing all too well what happens when people get entangled with him. But Hobie couldn't stop envisioning your sultry voice and soft lips. He wondered how your perfect frame would look bent over, pussy exposed all for him. Hobie was curious about how you would sound while getting fucked, if you moaned or whimpered when cumming and if he could make you do both. Shifting in his bed, Hobie became increasingly aware of his growing erection.

His dick throbbed at the thought of you and was already hard in his boxers. Hobie had never felt a desire as strong as he had for you. His hand releases his boner from the constricting fabric, already sensitive with need. Hobie wrapped his hand around his dick, pumping himself vigorously at the thought of fucking you. His precum acts as a lubricant while he imagines how your pussy would feel taking him in. Oh, the things that he would do. Hobie’s hips made languid movements, keeping pace with each thrust into his hand.

“Oh fucking hell, you feel so good.” His lips remained parted, letting out a breathy moan. Hobie visualized his cock deep inside you, your pussy taking it all too well and milking every last drop of Hobie’s cum. “Just like that,” he gasped. His toes began to curl from the image of your eyes rolling back and begging him not to stop. You're so beautiful it pains him to slow his palms from bobbing up and down his thick length.

Hobie’s hips begin to stutter, and his core tightens as he grows closer to orgasm. His free hand grips the sheets as Hobie’s body tenses at the tingling feeling that erupts. Opening his eyes slightly, Hobie watches as his dick jerks with each cum shot, soiling his boxers and rubbing the creamy white liquid against his skin. The noises from the friction between his hand and dick make wet slapping sounds. Hobie’s breath hitched as his body trembled at the mercy of the thought of cumming inside of you.

Once he could get ahold of himself, he washed his hands and cleaned the mess he had made. Hobie hadn’t realized how slowly time has passed when fantasizing about you. Looking around his room briefly, he could not locate his phone. He heard a lewd voice coming out from the sheets on his bed. Throwing the fabric around, Hobie found his phone had called your number by mistake. Your heavy sighs and whimpers ricochet through the phone speakers like a sweet melody to Hobie. It was evident what you were doing on the other side of the call. His dick was already pulsating and hardening. Unable to remain quiet for long, Hobie cleared his throat.

“Hello, love.”

navigation | masterlist

[beedreamscape]

When you thought you were in a contemporary rivals-to-lovers romance with touches of medical drama, but then they pull away your funds and you cry in each other's arms but you got hopes this might be your underdog moment, your chance to overcome adversities but then the bodies won't rot and the bodies won't rot and the bodies won't rot and J—'s eyes turn honey turn amber turn gold...

And maybe you've done something right but... they still won't rot and maybe he's crazy but maybe you're raiding a graveyard for him and it's the most romantic thing you've done in a while because maybe this isn't cute anymore, this isn't cool anymore, and he makes them move and he makes them walk and maybe this is actually the start of an apocalypse movie and here's where the disease begins.

Yet somehow the problem is still money and youtube comments and goverment lackeys and evil CEOs and bureaucracy and conspiracies and you were supposed to save the fucking planet, and now you're surrounded by meat and now he can kill and kill and kill and now the skeleton army doesn't sound absurd and now blowing everything up doesn't sound so bad—

And now you think you're tired of seeing the world in 2 by 35 and you just wanna go home and do Cappuccino Tuesdays and Popcorn Saturdays and walks on the beach with C— and dim lit nights with A—... but the movie isn't over yet and this is not your story to tell.

[beannoss]

with you, all in tangles (2)

3 times Yor blows kisses to Twilight and one time Twilight blows a kiss to Yor

For the @twiyorbase fluff fest! No content warnings, T-rating; manga spoilers. One chapter per day matching the daily prompts. Today's prompt: fall in love. And a note: @cantareincminor pointed out that pt 1 reminded of fanart of Yor blowing kisses to Twilight and it turns out there are at least two (2!) amazing pieces out there: this by @tazuransi and also this by @une08! They're both so cute and funny, they must have sunk into my brain, giving inspiration for this fic 😍😘 <- Part one (1) | Part three (+1) ->

Yor waved to Anya as the school bus pulled away and jolted a little in surprise when Twilight took her hand as soon as she'd dropped it from her wave. At her jolt, Twilight loosened his hold, murmured, "We don't have —"

"No!" Yor tightened her hand around his, bringing it up to her chest impulsively. "I'm just... I'm not used to this yet.”

Twilight studied her, and Yor held his gaze through her blush and against the urge to shy away. After a moment, he tipped his head, smiled a little. "All right," and he tugged gently, bringing their hands down to hang between them. "Shall we?"

Strictly speaking, the hospital where Loid worked wasn't exactly on Yor's way to to work. But since... since two days ago, they had walked together each morning. Twilight first, yesterday, to city hall, and now Yor, today, to the hospital.

Two days ago was when Twilight had said, Nothing needs to change, but there's something I want to tell you, and Yor had looked at the stiff hold of his neck, the uncertain cast of his eyes, the way his breathing was just a little elevated, all signs he was nervous, except that while Twilight often felt much more than he was comfortable with, he was never nervous and so she had flustered which had set Twilight to withdraw into himself in a way Yor had learned meant he was trying to think quickly to avoid panic, which made her fluster more, until finally Twilight had blurted out his feelings, and

And everything had stopped.

And Yor had breathed out.

And Twilight looked a little stunned when she smiled at him, even though she felt a little tremulous. When she said, Oh, I feel the same, she had told him softly. I have for months.

And everything had changed.

Or, she supposed it would be more accurate to say, everything was in the process of changing.

Twilight tugged her hand again, and Yor took a step forward, and then, just like that, they were walking together. "Will it be a busy day for you?" he asked.

"Mmm, no, I don't think so," Yor said, looking off to the side to consider. "Actually it's a little quiet at the moment." And in case he was asking about her other work, she added, "No reason for overtime."

Twilight made a thoughtful noise. "So you'll be home for dinner?"

"Mhm, should be!"

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, voice warm in a way that sent little shivers all through her body.

"And your day?" she asked, giving a little swing of their hands between them to release some of those shivers. She felt Twilight's eyes slide to her when she did. Knew he'd be tamping down on some amusement if she looked. Yor bit her lip against her own.

"My day should be fairly normal," Twilight finally answered. "I don't anticipate any extra patients."

"I should hope not," Yor said darkly: extra patients really meant side missions. "You have too much to do as it is. She must give you a break."

Twilight was quiet for a moment, then said in an undertone, "I'll let her know to sleep with one eye open. That she's on your list."

Yor gasped — Does he think I meant I'd break Sylvia — ?! Turned to him urgently. "That isn't what I meant! I would never —"

But Twilight was looking back at her with a mild expression, his eyebrows raised over eyes bright with humour.

"You're teasing me," she accused, and Twilight grinned slightly, "Possibly."

"Loid," Yor complained. But she knew she wasn't fooling him. Her cheeks were warm and her smile was too wide, too pleased, too there. Twilight had been trying to teach her some small amount of acting and subterfuge. She had so far taken to it poorly. 

But, she could tease him, too. Yor lifted her chin, saying, "I'd only do something like that if you gave me very, very good reason. Or,” she raised a finger on her other hand, which was a little awkward, carrying her bag but she ignored that. “Or,” she repeated seriously, “If you ask very, very nicely.”

"I see," Twilight said, and Yor could hear the smile under his serious expression. "It’s always useful to gain insights into the decision making of your employer. I'll bear that in mind."

"Mm. It’s very complicated,” Yor told him lightly. “But I’m sure if you work hard enough at it, you’ll come to understand.” Then, the fizzle of delight overwhelmed, and she laughed. 

Taking her by surprise, Twilight drew to a stop, pulling her around to face him. She opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, when he ducked down, pressed a swift kiss to her cheek.

Yor touched her fingers to the spot he kissed, and blinked up at him as he withdrew. He gave her a small smile, and just as he made as though to keep walking, Yor darted up onto her toes, ducking under his hat to kiss him quickly on the lips.

As she spun away, tugging his hand to continue walking, a quiet, "Hehe!" escaped her. Beside her, Twilight let out a soft breath. It was a sound she had come to understand he made when feeling... When feeling something tender. If he thought Anya was cute, or if he thought Yor was, was... was something. She shied away from naming what that might be. But he was feeling tender, anyway, and that kept her smiling. She was feeling tender, too.

It wasn't long from there to the hospital. They stopped across the street from the entrance, hesitating. It's all so new, Yor thought, looking up into Twilight's soft expression. She felt as though she didn't know what to do so much of the time, and certainly didn't know now. But it wasn't as stressful, this not knowing. This was Twilight after all. He never minded when she didn't know.

And it seemed like he may not know exactly what to do, either.

"Well," he said after a moment. "Have a good day, Yor."

"You too, Loid!" Yor rolled up onto her toes, dropped back down again. "See you later!"

"Mm," Twilight agreed. He looked for a moment like he might kiss her again and Yor's breath caught. But he glanced at the hospital, and evidently thought better of it. With a final squeeze of her hand, he let her go, and started across the street.

Yor waited. She probably should leave too but… She wasn't ready to go. She tightened her hands around the handle of her bag, wanting to watch him for as long as possible. So she stayed, waiting to see him in.

He knew, of course he did, with the finely honed instincts of his trade, that she was still watching. Just before the door he turned, raising his hand in a wave.

Yor lifted her hand to return the wave, then on impulse brought her fingers to her lips instead. Kissed them and blew the kiss to Twilight with a wink.

And it was a thrill, his small smile, his small blush, the way he looked away but ducking his head like he was filled with some emotion he didn't know what to do with. She knew — she understood — Twilight was still learning that it was okay to feel nice and to feel good, and that those things wouldn't be taken away. That Yor wouldn't let them be taken away from him. And that, in particular, he could let Yor make him feel nice and good and safe. That had been from before two days ago, when they were trying to be good friends to one another alongside their other shared responsibilities.

That little duck of his head, that little blush, that little smile, was as loud for Yor as if he'd shouted something to her from across the street. 

She swung her bag, and had a bounce in her step as she turned to her office. The song she hummed was one of Anya's silly little happy songs, and Yor laughed to herself. Maybe Twilight wasn't the only one figuring out how to feel very good and very nice things. Glancing at her watch, she calculated the hours until dinner.

Part three (+1) ->

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Language of Wolves, a Fairy Tale

There is a wolf with the voice of a person up on the hill. Travelers were sent there, both the lucky and unlucky sorts, if they could not speak the common tongue. The wolf had mastered any language he had ever heard and the people of the valley were both reasonable and warry. Send the travelers to the wolf, they said, bound by hospitality, and ask him who taught him how to speak or else whose witches throat he tore out and stitched into his own.

Many unsuspecting pilgrims, soldiers, merchants, and wayward souls, found themselves on the doorstep of a creature wearing silks and smiling in fangs. He knew their local songs though, every bit of story, and they woke in the morning with their lives intact and bags un-stolen. So the wolf remained even as borders shifted and languages died, even as scholars arrived and the wolf refused all questions on the nature of its knowledge. A humble beast it said, wearing coats of finest red only as the lords allow it.

Monks whispered of a miracle, nuns gave a pilgrimage of fresh goats and blood to the wolf at his doorstep, holy wanderers said perhaps even wolves had souls–even wolves could be saved. Others, of course, only asked more questions. 

Finally, there came a tricky man. Aged and silver, unwed, a scholar and a soldier both, coming from afar and very close all at once. The Scholar Soldier came in the downpour and the night, shed his muddy boots on the poor beast’s rug, and spoke in guttural tongues. The wolf’s eyes narrowed, and he used the voice of every person to ask where the Scholar Soldier came from. And the man spoke in tongues until the wolf’s ears laid flat against his head.

Do you not recognize it? said the Scholar Soldier, how can you not? The Scholar Soldier threw back his head and let out a howl–for he had fought in fairy wars, on the side of beasts, and knew the language of the wolves from the very first. The wolf tore off his fine red coat, tore at his beautiful cravat, and wept upon his floor. Can you take it back? he cried, can you make me whole?

Not a gift, of course, but a curse. As a mother turns away from her cub, placing a thorn in his throat that made him able to practice every language in the world but his own. Thrown out. The Scholar Soldier took pity on the old wolf and took him as a groom. They could be happy, he said, even if they were speaking with words never their own.

[milflewis]

Soulmate AU

1.

When Sebastian first meets Nico Rosberg — and his hair more specifically — again after the crash, he nearly pisses his pants laughing.

“I see you have a type, eh?” He asks Lewis. He runs a hand through his own blond hair.

“Tell me,” he starts, leaning forward over Lewis’s left shoulder. Bono is saying something in the seat beside Lewis. Lewis’s face is relaxed and calm.

“Did you jerk off to Michael too? Blond, German, very fast. He’d fit in your collection.”

Lewis’s face doesn’t even flicker. When he asks a question about whatever Bono is saying, his voice is steady and quiet. They could be back in their regular driver briefings. Something in Sebastian’s chest swells up, pushing at his heart and lungs, mean and sour.

“Don’t worry,” he tells Lewis. “We all did. Can’t have you thinking you are special, hmm?”

2.

There are stories — old ones — that one hears over the years.

Stories of those who don’t meet their soulmates properly in life, and so join them in death.

Sebastian used to love stories.

When he opens his eyes after going into the wall too fast and too hard, he is standing beside Lewis Hamilton.

Lewis is talking to Ted, the camera on. His eyes are shadowed and his shoulders are curved slightly inwards.

When he sees Sebastian next to him, he startles, mouth falling open. “I — You.”

“Lewis?” Ted is frowning, concerned. “Are you alright?” He has a hand up as if to tell the cameraman to get ready to stop rolling. Or to zoom in on Lewis’s face. Sebastian isn’t sure.

“Um.” Lewis blinks, swallowing. He glances at Ted and then back at Sebastian.

Never let it be said that Sebastian isn’t ever helpful.

“He can’t see me, I think,” Sebastian says, and then mimes a blowjob with his hand and mouth, tongue in cheek, in front of Ted, who doesn’t stop staring at Lewis.

“Right, yeah,” Lewis says, as shakey as Sebastian has ever heard him. “Um.”

“Funny story,” Sebastian says, furious. He wants his dad. He stays looking into Lewis’s tired shocked face. He thinks if he sees his mom, he will never be able to stop crying “Turns out we are soulmates.”

“Lewis, you okay? Do you need a minute?”

Lewis inhales. Sebastian can see him visibly remember there is a camera on him. When he smiles, it is a thin slight of a thing.

“Sorry, man, what was your question again?”

3.

Lewis gets more curled in on himself as the year goes on, face thin. Quieter too. Him and Nico snap and snap at each other’s heels. Toto nearly has a stroke keeping them from biting.

Sebastian is self aware enough to know that he is not helping. That his commentary — one sided that it is as no one other than Lewis can hear him and Lewis rarely responds, not through words nor expressions — is only making things worse for him.

He can’t bring himself to care.

It drives the cold away a little. That short spark of satisfaction and victory when he pokes and pokes and pokes and Lewis keeps a straight face through it all.

Sometimes, if Lewis breaks, either in a flinch or an aborted eye roll, or god forbid, a laugh, then Sebastian can even make himself pretend that he is still alive.

“I have a question,” Sebastian declares. He is standing over by the window, looking out at the paddock.

Lewis ignores him.

Nico is saying something in response to James Allison. He looks tense. The entire room looks tense. Sebastian rolls his shoulders.

“Did you stop fucking Nico before I died, or do you only not like exhibitionism? I could leave if you want privacy.”

This makes Lewis look at him. It is a quick glance, cutting and sarcastic, eyebrows slightly raised. He somehow manages to look pissed and amused and embarrassed, all at the same time.

Sebastian smiles sunnily at him. It is often exhausting to be around Lewis, especially when he is like this. Lewis might be quiet, packed in tightly, but he spills over most of the time. No one can ever accuse him of being small.

“You are right, I guess,” Sebastian muses thoughtfully. “I would not leave you alone. I would be too bored.”

Nico wins. Nico retires. Lewis disappears home for the break. Sebastian follows his brother around for a few months, chattering at him, even though Fabian doesn’t ever respond. It’s not that different from before if he is being honest.

There is a Lewis light in his chest, always pulling. It’s not that bad of a sore, Sebastian reasons. Only a little achey.

4.

Formula One has started back up again when Sebastian follows the tug back to Lewis.

Lewis doesn’t say anything at Sebastian’s sudden appearance in the garage. His shoulders relax slightly though when Sebastian makes a quick quip about Valtteri’s blond — Seriously, Lewis, Sebastian thinks, half fond — hair.

He looks less like a scrunched up tissue someone used to blow their nose with. Sebastian tells him this. He catches Lewis’s badly smothered eye roll in the sleek reflective black of Mercedes’ desks.

He even makes Lewis laugh, startled, when he asks him if he managed to get laid while Sebastian was gone.

“So,” Niki says, sitting down beside Lewis in his motorhome. Lewis hums, pulling out his earbuds. Sebastian is slumped on the floor, back against the opposite wall. They’re waiting to be called for the post practise debrief.

“So.”

The half grin, all teeth and eyes squishing up, that Lewis sends Niki reminds Sebastian of Formula Three. His fingers itch for a steering wheel.

“Are you going to introduce me to your soulmate anytime before I die?”

Lewis goes very still. Stupidly, damningly, his eyes dart to Sebastian before he looks back at Niki.

Niki raises his eyebrows. He, eerily, manages to look Sebastian directly in the eyes. Sebastian waves. Just in case.

Niki’s expression doesn’t change.

Sebastian’s exhale could be a laugh.

“Well?” Niki nudges. “I am not getting older, you know?”

“Jesus, Nik,” Lewis says, automatically, like it’s rote. “I’ve told you. Stop making those jokes.”

“You’re the one who calls me ‘old man’.”

“It’s a term of endearment!”

Niki stares at him down. For the first time in Sebastian’s life — and death — he watches as Lewis Hamilton gives in.

“I don’t need to introduce you. You already know him.”

“Knew him,” Sebastian corrects. Lewis ignores him.

Niki watches Lewis for a moment longer. Lewis, resolutely, refuses to look away.

“This is ridiculous,” Sebastian informs him.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Niki says, and for the second time in not even five minutes, Sebastian wonders if Niki can see him. He doesn’t bother waving this time but it is a little freaky.

“I hate you,” Lewis tells him, sulkily.

“Yes,” Niki says, patting him on the shoulder. “I know.”

“How did you know?”

Sebastian isn’t sure if Lewis is asking how Niki knew that Lewis had a dead soulmate or how he knew that dead soulmate was Sebastian.

“Hmm, last year, you were weird. Weirder after Sebastian. Not how Nigel was, with Elio, or Michael, with Aryton.” Niki doesn’t take his eyes off of Lewis. His voice and face is softer than Sebastian has ever heard or seen. “Just. Weird. And still too, after Nico left.”

Lewis swallows thickly. “Right.”

“Some of me hoped.” Niki stops. He looks over at where Lewis looked earlier, when he is steadily refusing to look now. “When James died, I looked out for him.”

He shrugs. There is something hanging heavy in his face. “We knew each other too well in life, maybe. Or that was all the time we were given. More than most.”

“Yeah.”

Lewis meets Sebastian’s eyes. Sebastian looks back at him.

“And,” Niki says. He reaches a hand behind them and raps on the wall. “These are a bit thin too. I heard you talking to someone, once or twice.”

“Fuck off,” Lewis laughs. He scrubs an open palm down his face.

Niki reaches over to pat his cheek firmly. “You are sleeping better, this is good. Keep it up.”

“Aye, cap’n,” Lewis says dryly.

5.

Jenson: you cheatying slag

Jenson: i knoiw 4 a FACT that you dont know all the wdcs off by heart

Jenson: usinh seb as your own fuckinh wiki is wrong

Jenson: always knew you were a cheater aty your core. fernando warned me about you LOL

Jenson: also. tell seb hes a nerd

[grtmnick]

In a voice that probably held more desperation than Regina would have preferred to show, she asked, “Can we please not discuss this while we’re in the middle of the town’s square?”

“But what were those noises I heard from your room last night?” Henry earnestly requested of his mothers.

“You heard your mom kid,” Emma interjected, “Besides, we were just wrestling anyways.”

A look of absolute mortification twisted Regina’s face. She brought her coffee towards her lips, trying and failing to stifle an audible groan.

[the-modern-typewriter]

"I may not be brilliant like you," the hero said, with a quiet and steady viciousness. "But I work bloody hard. I get better."

The villain stared at them, still apparently trying to comprehend the fact that they had lost. "Maybe there's a prophecy or secret bloodline..."

"Nope." The hero squared their shoulders. "I'm as common as toast."

The villain's eyes narrowed. "Nobody ordinary can beat me. You're extraordinary. I'm going to prove it."

The hero scoffed and turned away, adrenaline and victory thrumming through them, as the other ordinary people took the villain away.

The villain yelled at their back until they were out of sight.

[wibzenadarksiderwithasoftheart]

The Sith

Part 4

As promised, more of The Sith

This time inspired by some of these prompts from @creativepromptsforwriting I think there will be eight this time round.

***.

"Your eyes are already saying yes, now I just need your mouth to tell me the same."

Instead of giving him what he wanted, his stubborn Jedi closed those stunning blue eyes, his brow furrowed in persistent concentration to deny him what he knew they both craved. 

Damn the stubborn boy, he really should know better.

"Darling," he purred and pressed even closer, placing a possessive hand on the younger man's hip. The Jedi not even flinched at their close proximity but remained obstinate still. 

"Do not seek to resist me, it is pointless."

He leaned forwards until their lips were mere inches apart, finally getting a reaction, even if it was just a harsh intake of breath.

“Give in, dear one,” he coaxed him with a honey sweet voice, dripping dirty and wicked promises. Triumph rushed through him when blue eyes met his again, defeat eclipsing them along with a far more passionate emotion.

"Say it," he ordered once more, his voice nothing more than a breath.

"Yes, master."

2. 3. 4. 5.

Master posts for parts 1, 2 and 3

[lectorel]

Paulina steals Spectra's schtick: a monologue

Yeah, I know about your whole 'one bad day'. Ever consider that maybe the problem isn't human nature? Maybe it's just you.

'Cause I had my bad day, considered going evil, decided it was tacky, and got into psychology instead.

Not that I need to be a psychologist to see how you work.

Deep down, you know that you're an boring, pathetic little man who can only effect the world through violence. You have nothing else to offer - you're just an overgrown and undersocialized toddler throwing a temper tantrum over not getting what you want.

No one cares about who you were before you decided to become a career psycho, but I bet I can guess the basics - you were an ambitionless loser in a dead-end job, silently seething over the world's failure to give you the attention and respect you desired.

Not that you ever bothered to do anything worth either. 

Then one day you got hurt. A mugging, a gunshot, falling into a vat of acid like a b-grade goon in a Saturday morning cartoon, whatever. No one cared, because you'd never cared about anyone in your whole selfish life. 

That was the last straw, wasn't it? Realizing that you could have died and mattered to no one. Someone stronger than you might have taken it as a wake-up call to improve themselves. You just used it as an excuse to start killing.

You were always a clown, joker. The saddest, dullest, most pathetic clown in the whole damn circus, and that's all you'll ever be.

[raichett]

a stolen moment

Drafted into a war they don't care about, Scar and Grian steal a moment in time.

Content warnings: background war (vaguely referenced with no details), inexcusable fluff with an angsty backdrop, established relationship, handholding.

This can also be found on AO3.

–

A STOLEN MOMENT

“I,” Scar declares dramatically, for all his voice is softened with the burr of impending sleep, “have very cold hands.”

“Cold hands,” Grian repeats, flatly, turning over in his own bunk to catch the glint of light reflecting off Scar’s open eyes in the opposite bunk. There are no windows in the barracks, but the emergency lighting is always on low.

They’re both whispering, voices barely louder than their breaths, and all around them the breathing and rustling and occasional snoring of their fellow drafted soldiers gives the room a constant nighttime soundscape. The war has taught them, quickly, how to sleep when they can, how to hurry up and wait, how to rest even when wired from listening to the bombardments or too-fresh from the battlefield. How to snatch anything and everything good they can while it lasts, for however long it lasts.

“Cold and empty,” Scar expands, mournfully. “You should warm them.”

Grian, rolling his eyes, extracts his hand from under his scratchy blanket, mourning himself the warmth he’d kindled there with his own body heat, and reaches out across the empty space between their narrow bunks. Scar’s hand takes his, grabbing and holding it in mid-air, and they mutually shuffle their grip until it’s comfortable and secure, hanging between their two top bunks and presenting a low ceiling hazard to their compatriots in the bottom bunks.

Scar grins at him, his eyes crinkling. Grian can barely see the movement of his lips in the low light, the shadows pooling at the side of Scar’s nose, the crease of his laugh lines, but he knows that look off by heart, could close his eyes and pull it up, superimpose it on the backs of his eyelids.

“Goodnight, Scar,” he says, already rubbing his cheek and nudging his nose into his pillow to settle in properly.

“Goodnight, Grian,” Scar whispers back, squeezing his hand briefly, not letting go.

After that, somewhere, some time, slipping in like a spy, sleep drags them both down, their grips loosening as their bodies relax. Their fingers are too entwined to unhook, though, and they hold hands until reveille.

[lilac-hecox]

Damien/Angela - Damangela - Weekend

For @nerdynikki94

--

Damien wakes up early on Saturday. He’s got Angela with her head on his chest, face pressed into his t-shirt as she sleeps soundly, her hair a mess around her face, but undoubtedly cute as she keeps sleeping. He can feel Zelda and Freya around his legs. And he can more so hear Spork snoring rather than actual see the little guy, but Damien knows he’s there, probably tucked around the back of Angela’s knees.

It’s a lot all at once. A lot of heat and warmth, and for a moment, Damien feels pinned down by the blanket and Angela’s weight over him combined with the snoozing cats and the dog. The feeling fades quickly, replaced by the warm and fuzzy waves of affection and fondness he has for this life, his life with Angela, with their pets, how she has been sleeping over more and more because her apartment is shared with roommates and Damien lives alone minus the cats.

It's something so comfortable and so easy. Angela makes a sleepy noise, and she rubs her face against Damien’s chest, mumbling softly in her sleep. With the arm wound carefully around her back, he lifts his hand and runs a hand through her hair, pushing the dark locks away from her face.

Angela, hilarious, a workaholic, talented beyond measure. She had recently booked a voice acting role and had grabbed his hands in excitement when she had found out, her face split in a huge grin as she hugged him and he held her tight and whispered how he knew she’d book the gig, and how he knows she’ll absolutely kill the role.

Damien hears a tiny little snort and then hears the jangle of Spork’s collar as he sits up, his tag wagging as he crawls over the top of Angela and Damien with his shaking little body, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Damien laughs and pets the dog’s head, and Spork ignores him, turning to Angela and sniffing at her face, licking her cheek.

This must be a common occurrence because Angela groans.

“Sporky, stop,” she mumbles, the small dogs licking being enough to rouse her from her sleep.

“He might have to go to the bathroom, or he might be hungry,” Damien whispers. “I could take him out.”

Angela lifts her head and meets his eyes.

“You’re up?”

“Yeah, but only a little bit longer than you.”

She rubs one eye sleepily, yawning, all the hair Damien had fixed falling back into her eyes.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll take him out. He’s weirdly particular about where he takes a piss.”

“Aren’t we all?” Damien jokes.

Angela gives him a deep rumbling giggle as she scoops Spork up and slides out of bed, careful not to pester the cats too much as she goes, through Freya is looking at both Angela and Spork with a certain level of annoyance only a cat can achieve.

“I’d better give the girls breakfast too,” Damien says, “and start some for us. What sounds good?”

“Ooh, that breakfast crumble thing you made last time. God, that was good,” Angela says, using one hand to slide on a pair of pajama pants that she’s left at his place.

Damien brings his hand to his forehead, saluting Angela, which she rolls her eyes at.

“You got it, Miss. One Haas Family Breakfast Crumble coming right up!”

Angela laughs as she goes to take Spork out to use the bathroom and Damien extracts himself from the bed so he can begin prepping their meal. He’s happy. He’s so happy he almost can’t believe it. Damien is excited to spend this lazy day with Angela, eating breakfast, and just enjoying each other’s company.

[beedreamscape]

When Augustine is being genuine, he calls her Joy. Always Joy.

All the bitting, the fighting, the snipping.

Joy.

Somewhere in the ether Cristabel and Alfred are tangled up, looking down at their myriad long play, hearing the rumors of who they were what they could've done to save him save her, if they were given five minutes, five words, five days... it's a broken record.

They were both beyond salvation, nobody likes a peace maker.

And yet, at the end of it, he calls her Joy and his mouth is dripping with honey and his chest painted with the desecrated remains of her heart.

And she calls him Augustine, all nine letters, and again very softly, pleadingly. Mean souled little man, that person, miserable ass, man-shaped worm, chattering imbecile, vile condescending son of a bitch. Augustine, Augustine, you promised.

He knows her like he knows his own soul like she knows the sternum, he knows her violence like the taste of blood in his mouth, knows her taste like the taste of in-season melons, like the taste of lives past.

She's quick enough in the draw to know every nasty little inch of the Saint of Patience's body down to the millimeter down to the composition of his genetic code down to the taste of his skin.

There's no practical application in that.

She needs not to wrap her arms around him to perceive the marrow of his bones. She needs not to see him to know it's his lungs and his lips and his breath...

He smells like nicotine. Yuck. Pfaugh. She will stain her hands so his remain clean.

My girl, my child, my chick, my dove.

My Joy.

I'm profoundly tired of looking at your face, sick of stirring in the storm of your eyes, I'll eat Cristabel's rotten soul at the red table of your rotten-peach heart instead, I'll call your ribcage my tomb, the pillows of your lungs my grave.

May I burn in your pyre, may our ashes be mingled and fuel a lonely star in the furthest loneliest part of the universe where none can bother our slumber.

Corrosive effervescence, poisonous delight, drunken familiarity.

Shush, my kiwi, my pipsqueak, my bleeding-heart dove, let us rest easy now.

Joy will show you what fervid decided devoted passion looks like - one last crack of this frail wishbone - Mercy will teach you a lesson in forgiveness.

[beannoss]

with you, all in tangles (1)

3 times Yor blows kisses to Twilight and one time Twilight blows a kiss to Yor

For the @twiyorbase fluff fest! No content warnings, T-rating; manga spoilers. One chapter per day matching the daily prompts. Today's prompt: Blush. Title borrowed from Cut to the Feeling by Carly Rae Jepsen 💕 Part 2 (2) ->

It was their third mission together. Something easy, the Shopkeeper had said. For you. We'll see how your Twilight performs.

And Yor was… Yor was seeing.

Their first two missions has been in his world. Tonight's was in hers. Loid-Twilight was backup for her, for Thorn Princess.

He was performing very, very well.

She had always known he was kind and competent and handsome, of course. She'd known that she sort of, kind of, maybe a little bit had something of a crush on him. It's just that it hadn't mattered and hadn't meant anything because everything they were doing was false and anyway, there was nothing about Yor which might draw the attention of Dr Loid Forger in that way. And even if somehow there was, Yor didn't... she didn't like that she had so many lies between him and herself. She struggled enough with that as they were; it made her dizzy, imagining what those lies might do if, if they became — if they became more than —

Then that horrible night happened. Yor learned about Twilight. Twilight learned about Yor. And they both learned about Anya —

Days and days passed with lots of conversation and lots of discussing and lots of disagreeing quietly while pretending in front of Anya that everything was all right (unsuccessfully, because telepath) and being very honest in front of Anya that she had nothing to worry about (successfully, because it was true and also because telepath).

Then WISE contacted Garden and Garden agreed to meet with them, and the conversations became negotiations which included Loid's Handler and her Shopkeeper, and now they were here and doing missions together.

And Yor was being forcibly reminded that she'd never really stopped fancying Loid. Twilight. It had only become more confusing. And it was getting more confusing by the second, because he was incredibly talented. Of course she'd already known that but she hadn't know he was talented like this. And she'd never really thought about men's bodies before except for how to incapacitate or kill them or how to defend against their attacks, but she was thinking about Loid's body now, and how he moved and how he worked and how his hands were very clever and his shoulders a very nice shape and he had excellent foot work and precise muscle control and his waist —

"Thorn Princess?"

Yor bit her lip as her cheeks heated, something fluttery in her chest, in her stomach, and flicked her eyes back to his face. "Mhm?"

Twilight’s expression was mild but she knew that particular light in his eyes: he was frustrated. "I'm not sure how we'll get through,” he said. “WISE's intel must have been outdated; there are more of them than we expected."

"Oh." Yor looked around. They were on some sort of ledge, surrounded by bodies, most she had evidently taken down. She reviewed the assignment. If she wasn't mistaken, the primary client was actually immediately below them, and there ought to be a promenade under the ledge she could use to access his suite. She was confident she could deal with whatever security were physically in with the client, so… "Can you distract these people?"

"Of course," Twilight said. And he often looked unfazed and assured, but how had Yor never noticed how appealing that was before? Something stirred, fluttered, again in her belly. He went on, "But we still need to get two storeys down."

"Is it two floors? I thought his suite was directly below us."

Twilight inclined his head. "The suite has a high ceiling."

"Oh, that's no trouble. If you don't mind distracting these people, I'll finish the assignment."

After a beat where Twilight held her gaze, he asked, "You don't need backup down there?"

"No, but thank you!" Yor said cheerfully. She rolled to the edge of the ledge, and, protected behind a very ugly statue, she stood. There was no railing around the ledge which seemed like a safety risk — what if children ever came up here?! — but was useful for her needs. She stepped back, until her heels were right at the edge. "Don't worry about that!"

"I — if you're sure." He didn't sound doubtful, though Yor couldn't blame him for some hesitation. This wasn't the plan after all and she had long since learned that Loid liked plans! He didn't tend to mind them changing but she suspected he preferred it when he was the one changing them. Still, he was reloading his guns, and then pulling something from his backpack. He looked up at her from his crouch. "Thorn Princess. Yor. Are you sure you don't want backup?"

Butterflies took flight, fluttering sweetly in her in her belly, filling her chest. The way he asked it… As though... as though he cared. About her, about her answer, about what she needed to do her job. She beamed at him, and Twilight looked stunned for just a breath, pink appearing high on his cheeks, and —

And Yor blamed what happened next on the butterflies.

"You don't have to worry about me!" she called. Then she winked, blew him a kiss, and stepped backward off the ledge.

For the whole second it took to drop, her cheeks burning hot enough to heat all of Ostania, her mind was filled with a shriek, What was that?!

Then she landed, and gun shots sounded overhead, and Yor stood. She twirled her stilettos as the guards inside caught sight of her. The work began.

Part 2 (2) ->

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The City of the Dead

The city of the dead have no mouths to speak with. No minds to form reason. Memories and memories and memories that do not order themselves. In the ruins in the barrens on the edge of the world, skeletons began to walk. No one could answer why the dead rose in one small pocket of the world and forgot to sleep again. 

Holy men, alchemists, kings, and living martyrs all traveled to the great ruins of Makan and watched the walking. Bones that carried broken stones from one edge to the other. Kneeling figures that clapped their hands to an unknown rhythm. Spirits burst from wells and poltergeists flung rotted wood at strangers. Yet, the dead did not speak. They were asked of their names, their families, what led them back from the beyond. What necromancer would do this.

They did not wage war. Nor do they pick up swords. The dead were not peaceful perhaps but neither were they purposeful. Makan was an old city, ancient beyond memory, and deserted once the nearest river was dammed and diverted. They were ruins that hung off a cliffside and turned brilliant red against the rising sun. A place of scholarship and history–until it became something more. 

Bodies rattling, teeth clattering, voices of faded spirits like the wind through craigs and singing through tree branches. Some pilgrims swear the dead call their name when they aren’t looking. Others claim they are watching, judging, deciding who will be pure enough to deserve salvation. Still others say they are empty vessels simply caught on repeat–the same routine daily, weekly, yearly for eternity. A meaningless display turned sensational. 

They were famous after all. A skeleton which pushed a baby carrier down the center road from dawn to dusk named the Mother. The well witch who cackled and splashes anyone that passed. The tower Stranger with one arm and one leg who watched anyone who entered, skull swiveling in place. A ghost that rang the church bells–one that people rumor calls your name if you pass too close. Others say it is not your name, but the name of the person you should marry.

The theories were limitless. A place of unimaginable power and limitless looping. And no one to take credit, rally the armies, or put them to rest. Pilgrims came and went. Queens and princes and priests blessed and cursed the place, tried to burn or drown the inhabitants, claimed ordinance or forbade their citizens to make the trek to the ruins in the barrens on the edge of the world. 

In the second dawn of the God-Priest Amix III, a final pilgrimage was made. A Holy Child had been once more chosen from the masses of orphans found in the priestly empire. Dark-eyed and solemn, they were hand-picked for their docile nature. A toddler given a steady diet of jelly the color of stars and flavor of chilled mint. In other countries, they call it Prophecy Meats and treat it as a rare delicacy and dangerous altering substance. The Holy Child, chosen for endurance or perhaps very little at all, is given this steady diet of Stars until they can see the past and present all at once.

The Holy Child of this generation, a girl no more than eight, had survived her first years of seeing the wars and joys and horrors to come. She was dying, of course, and the attendant-nun had become attached. Sister Grehn was warned against such things. Told to keep her distance and remember their purpose, great and beautiful. Sister Grehn begged and pleaded and said, why not take her to the sea? The mountains? Any place that might help her lungs. Take her to healers of other lands.

She got the city of the dead. Sister Grehn carried the Holy Child, too small for her age and eyes as big as black holes, close. “Would you like to see the well, little one?” The nun whispered. “The funny skeleton pushing the baby carriage?”

The Holy Child, who privately kept her birth name, looked up. Nima, a peasant name, a rabbit name, felt the press against her eye sockets. She gave a long exhale. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. They are like me.”

Sister Grehn held her tightly to her chest, mouth turning into a battle line. No, not here, she thought. Please. 

The Holy Child closed her eyes and whispered, “They are tired.” 

Even eternity has an end and the Holy Child spoke the last words of the city of the dead to her first friend and one she privately called something else. “Mom, the river is not gone. The river is all.”

There are many types of spirits, life beyond life, and memories that do not forget how to rush down the land and twist across stone. The wizards that diverted the mighty river centuries before had used magic, darker stuff to do a simple job, cut corners to avoid the wrath of a king or priest or any other towering sovereign who are all the same. The water moved. The soul went elsewhere. The spirit of the river burst through the ruins of Manak. And tried with all its might to live again.

FIN

---------------

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[milflewis]

ok but mob au

1.

“You really didn’t know who I work for?”

When Yuki found out that Pierre’s boss is the Sebastian Vettel, the Lion of Singapore, and the unofficial heir to Schumacher & Co., he had only raised his eyebrows. Pierre took that to mean he had already figured it out.

Yuki blinks at him. “No.”

“But.” Pierre frowns. “Why did you — I always have so many knives on me! Is this not weird to you?” He gestures at his jacket which hangs open, showing four different perfectly sharpened blades tucked into the lining.

Yuki shrugs. “You are French, yes? You like to cut things. Like cheese.”

Pierre mouths wordlessly. Cheese.

“Anyway,” Yuki adds. “You are weird, so. This would not be weird.”

2.

The first time Sebastian meets Lewis, his runners are wet with Michael’s blood and Lewis’s hands are pressing his head into the glass door. His face aches, nose throbbing.

“Can I help you?” he says, or tries to say. It comes out vaguely smushed.

He pushes back a little just to see. Lewis lets him move half an inch before shoving him back.

“Jesus, Hamilton,” Sebastian hears Michael say. His voice cracks roughly. Sebastian nearly cried when the doctor told him Michael survived the surgery, that they got all the bullets out and he was in recovery. He swallows thickly, as the relief makes him all dizzy even now. “I know you got out today but c’mon, let him go. This is Sebastian — I talked about him.”

The hands on Sebastian’s neck disappear and he’s rubbing at his jaw when he turns around. “Ow,” Seabastian tells Michael. His cheeks are pale and his chest is wrapped in white bandages but his eyes are alert and he is grinning.

“Sebastian, this is Lewis Hamilton. Lewis, Sebastian Vettel. Mika says we are all friends here.”

He pats Mika’s ankle that is propped up on the bed beside his hip. Mika’s eyes stay closed, arms folded in his chair, chin on his chest. There are dark bruises under his eyes under now.

“Right. If Mika says so.”

Lewis steps back towards Michael’s bed, grabbing the duffle bag from where it was leaning against the wall. Sebastian looks at his bare arms, the tattoos that go all the way down to his fingers, the rings there. His jeans sit low on his hips. He needs a shave. Sebastian recognises him from his mugshot, even of his hair is longer now and his face is more lined.

They hadn’t had the time to arrange for Michael to share a cell with someone affiliated with them, and when they had got in contact with him, a week later, he had settled in well enough with his cell mate. By Michael standards at least.

Does not talk much, Michael had told Sebastian over the phone. Likes his fucking singing though. Stares at the picture of his dog. Do you think he is lonely?

When Sebastian had brought it up with Mika, the best person for this kind of thing when Corinna is away, Mika had only shrugged, and told him that he doesn’t think it is just Hamilton that is lonely, and that of fucking course anyone who could survive nine weeks in solitary with just Fernando Alonso as company in the next cell over is someone that Michael would find interesting.

Sebastian looks away from the breadth of Lewis’s shoulders in his white tank and pulls a face at Michael’s waggling eyebrows.

3.

“How old do you think I am?” Jenson asks, as Alex adjusts his long-rifle until it sits comfortably against his shoulder, supported by the flat roof they are lying on. 

Alex doesn’t answer, because he knows exactly how old Jenson is, and the fact that people continue to tell Jenson to his face that he looks ten years older than his actual age will never stop being funny.

“Ollie, how old do you think I am?” Jenson calls.

“Jen, leave the kid alone,” Alex says. “You could dye your hair.”

“Do I look like a man who would dye his hair solely to stave off questions about his age?”

“Yes,” Alex sweeps the street below them, marking the buildings bracketing the shop they are surveilling. “Ollie, how are you doing over there?”

He can hear him scramble around for a second before a burst of static. “Radio ready for orders, sir.”

Alex grimaces, still not used to that, as Jenson only laughs beside him.

4.

“Michael? We got him.” Eddie leans back against the closed door.

Michael hums, closing his leather notebook. He leaves his fountain pen tucked into the middle so he remembers what month of intakes he was going over.

“Send him in.”

The kid’s hair is long and dirty, falling into his eyes and around his ears. His knees are all busted up under his baggy shorts. His face is drawn and thin, and he is glaring at Michael, jaw clenched.

He goes all pale when he sees who sits in front of him. Seems like he didn’t know whose car it was.

“Jesus,” Michael says. “You’re tiny, how did you reach the pedals?”

This morning, the kid — Sebastian Vettel, Michael had asked around — had hot wired Michael’s car in under two minutes and driven away. Michael had watched from the restaurant’s window, amused and impressed.

Mika had been decidedly less so when Michael told him, ten minutes later, that they were going to have to order a cab.

“I’m not that short!” The glare intensifies. His eyes are kind of freaky, Michael thinks. Very big and bright.

Michael holds out a hand, level with his chest, and squints. He lowers it considerably. Sebastian looks like he wants to bite it.

“Of course not,” Michael tells him soothingly. Eddie gives him a reproachful look. Michael holds back his eyeroll but takes his hand out of reach of Sebastian’s mouth.

“I have a job for you,” Michael says, watching Sebastian’s eyes sharpen. He smiles thinly. “If you’re up for it.”

“A job. For me? What kind of job?” Sebastian tilts his head to the side, making his eyes wide. His curls tumble across his forehead. The whole effect is rather sweet, Michael considers, delighted. This will be interesting.

Mika has been nagging at Michael to stop picking up strays but he thinks he will agree with Michael on this one.

5.

Michael stretches out his back, legs interlocked at the ankles, until something clicks along his spine. He exhales slowly, sinking back into the shitty mattress.

They called for lights out fifteen minutes ago. Lewis is still in the bunk above him. Michael looks at the scratches across the metal rods. He had a good workout today, no interruptions, and his arms are nicely sore.

Seventeen minutes.

Lewis moves in his bed, rolling over to the right and for a moment, Michael thinks he will roll right off the edge, but then he is swinging down, silent. Michael holds himself very still.

"I am not interested in fucking."

"Yeah," Lewis says. "I heard."

Michael swallows. The sharpened edge of Lewis's plastic spoon presses into his throat. Lewis is dense and solidly heavy, knees on either side of his hips, one foot digging into his knee.

Michael has seen him fight. In an enclosed space like this, and unarmed, he isn't sure who would come out the better. His fingers itch with excitement.

"I found the picture you left," Lewis says quietly. The spoon doesn't move an inch. His eyes gleam in the dark like an animal.

"Okay," Michael says, not bothering to pretend not to know what he is talking about.

Lewis was fine this morning. He hummed to himself the entire way to breakfast, and he spotted Michael in the gym without even being asked. It wasn't until after dinner that he went all weird and still in himself.

Lewis presses down, just a little. Michael raises an eyebrow.

"Is he alive?" Lewis asks like he doesn't want to show his hand but is doing so anyway. His mouth trembles at the corners. Michael frowns at him. He has seen Lewis hustle in the yard at card games enough times to know that his poker face is better than this.

"Is he."

Oh. Jesus.

Michael laughs. It is too loud of a sound for where they are. He laughs anyway.

"You have issues," he tells Lewis, who only sends him a cutting look.

"That was supposed to make you feel better! Stop crying and all. You miss him, yes? Thought I could help."

Lewis stares at him. Blinks those animal eyes.

Michael makes a frustrated sound in the back of his mouth. He misses Mika. He never has to talk when Mika is around.

"He is being taken care of in that shelter you put him in. I had my people check. I was being nice! Friendly too!"

"We're friends," Lewis says slowly as if he expects Michael to say no.

"Obviously. You are being ridiculous," Michael says. "You think I would kill a dog? No!" He is a little hurt.

"You are the chief suspect in fifteen open murders," Lewis says, flat.

"Not of dogs!"

Lewis looks at him for a long moment before rolling his eyes. "How are you still alive, man? For real? I thought it was a threat."

He pushes off Michael and pulls himself up onto the top bunk, as silent as he climbed down at the start.

"No one else would see this as a bad thing."

He can hear Lewis roll his eyes.

"Literally every other person here would think you were sending a message. And not a good one."

"I was being nice!"

There is a clang of metal against metal, and their cell bars rattle. "Oi! You two! Shut the fuck up. Save the fighting or fucking for the morning."

"Gross, man," Lewis says, and Michael kicks at the underside of his bunk. "You are gross."

Maybe Mika was right when he said that Lewis might not take his generosity in the way he wanted it, Michael considers. He decides not to tell him. He would be too smug if he did.

He palms the sharpened spoon that Lewis had held to his neck and left on his pillow, beside his cheek. It is small and narrow. Michael presses his thumb against the slice, feeling it. He smiles, and tucks it under his sheet. He had needed a new one.

+1.

Sebastian had been small when Michael met him. All eyes and bony knees and dirty hair.

Then he opened up his mouth and his personality crawled out.

Michael has never looked back.

[alastor-simp-page]

Memory Wipe #333

Slowly working my way out of writers block-

HERE HAVE SOME DOOMED YAOI FORDSQUARED *throws*

Memory Wipe Log: #333

I messed up. Again. As I always do, as I have done three hundred and thirty three times before. And I am sure I will do another three hundred and thirty three times again. 

I kissed you. Ford, I kissed you and I liked it. No, liked—loved it, thrived in it. Felt alive for a moment in this cold world slowly squeezing life out of us. That grip on my wind pimp lessened for a single moment. I was free from the chains that bound me to this Earth and I soared through a thousand heavens until I found you.

But now, I gotta do what always happens between you and I. Whenever we have a fleeting moment of whatever this is, whatever this strange, wonderful and mind breaking feeling is I die a few thousand times. It’s a feeling which I cling onto until I must push myself out of your arms once again. 

It’s selfish, I know. It’s selfish to want it and to reject it. It’s selfish to deprive you of it. I know you feel it too. The way your hand seems to savor every single touch you can steal, your eyes linger for too long and that strange pleasant silence that settles between each other after a long night. I see it and I know you see it in me too.

So that’s why I had to wipe your memory again for the #333th time. And after I finish this letter, mine too. I’ve seen in the old letters: you’ve been sleeping when I press the cold barrel into your skull or begging me to stop. I prefer the one’s where it slips away into a dream, it’s all a dream. It’s a merciful way to forget. 

Yes, I know it's selfish. It’s selfish to wipe your memory and mine too. But you know, feelings like these only lead to disaster. You have to understand, Ford. I’m doing it for them. For little Tate and dear Emma-May. Do you know how it feels tucking my boy into bed and sleeping next to a woman I’ve never loved? 

I do love her but not in the way you make me feel. I love her as a person and as the mother of my kiddo. I would do anything for them but you make me question it. You make me think about terrible things, Ford. While they’re sleeping soundly, I think about you. I lay awake at night thinking of nothing of you, cursing you and tossing and turning until the sun rises. 

My boy’s always asking when I’m coming home, hoping to play catch in the yard. He writes to me, you know, ain’t that sweet? He writes about the B+ he managed to get in English, he complains about his poor mother’s salami and he misses me. Emma-May doesn’t talk much whenever I come back. She smiles and kisses me on the cheek, and we have a usual family dinner.

It’s not the same, Ford. It’s different. There’s a thick suffocating air in my home that wasn’t there before. An air that only arrived when you breathed life into my world again. 

I think she knows. They say women always know and now I’m convinced. She knows what I am and I hate myself for it. I sit at that damned kitchen table every night now and all I can feel is the world crashing down on my shoulders. I want the roof to collapse on me, I want the rug to be pulled out from under me. Anything not to look in their eyes, Tate so unknowing and Emma-May ever omniscient.

Tate thinks you’re just a friend, Ford. And I thought so myself…but now I don’t know what to call you now. All I know is that I’m a selfish conniving bastard trying to save face for the sake of my family. 

Yet here we are at Memory Wipe #333 and after rifling through a few lives of what could have been, you’re not so easily forgettable, are you, Ford?

Damn you. Damn you and that beautiful smile that sends me spiraling into another dimension. A world where the fluttering all consuming feeling of you lifts me up and lets me fly. A place where a chorus has your name scratched on the walls of your throat, an everlasting symphony of your name. A universe where your eyes are etched into the skies, ever soft and ever gentle. 

Damn you.

I heard a long time ago that free will doesn’t exist. That not even multiverses exist where there are a thousand different scenarios and different versions of you. It’s either some all deciding being dictating our lives or…we were always going to make that one decision. No matter the possibilities, your mind and heart would only choose one, forever and always. 

Maybe that’s how I am. No matter the world, no matter the possibilities, no matter the consequences, in every world, I’ll choose you. Every single damned time, even if it tears me apart at my cosmic seams. I never had a chance, did I, Ford? You were always bound to be a force pulling me apart and putting me back together. 

Even if there are no other worlds apart from this miserable floating rock. I hope in one world, in another lifetime, I won't have to forget. Or perhaps one day, I’ll decide not to forget. 

But we both know, that’s the only option I’m picking, don’t we?  

-“Fiddleford OUT”

Technically following angstober (Day #1) yippee late as usual. i actually had an idea and inspiration to write yeee