#miles adrift inches away

[hathaway-hayes]

Bend, but never break

I'm destroyed, failing and later punished By fragments of glass; Splinters born mouths of former lovers, Slivered memories of Ambivalence and benevolence, Euphemisms for a Mutually assured heart.

She’s maybe miles away, but a drink’s Mere inches so that When I can't hear the birds, I space to the tune of a TV, A reckless electricity That's been turned off for years, Turned on for but a second or two And off once again.

Turned on again, yeah, As I sought hope in blank air time – 2:00 A.M.’d “Technicolor” And the drawn out, "Beeeeeeeep," That reminds us, we're still alive, If we want to be With bed’s but seconds away. But I can’t sleep, I hadn’t in years.

So when the power’s gone, The winds pick up, And I scatter adrift, astray atop time Remembering – seedling, sprout and “now,” Buried hardwood floors and door away, I continue to Tap this ancient dance with worn shoes, A tango minus one, with practice And throughout the years, Like the tree I wasn't, but now am.

Later I'll fall, not fail, A repetition welcomed for once, Like a leaf from the organic prior – That previous me, still connected So that I can later decompose, die And be born once more; A beginning in opposition to Destroyed, failed and further punished.

And so, my advice – Be the tree; bend, but never break.

- Hathaway Hayes (2013)

[fullmetalscullyy]

a wall of pillows

more vibesss

rated: g | words: 1842 | tags: royai, there was only one bed, fluff, waking together, cuddling

read on ao3

It made sense that Riza should move out of her bedroom.

Her back injuries, while mostly healed, were still not well enough for her to sleep in a bedroom where water was leaking in through a hole in a dilapidated roof, bringing some damp and a bitingly cold breeze along with it.

It was getting worse, Riza thought with a sigh, as she squinted up at the offending splinter in the structure. The air within the room was making her shiver now. Once night fell, and the early spring sun disappeared behind the trees, it would be even worse.

Her squint turned into a frown, then a scowl.

Roy’s hovering in the doorway as she assessed the damage wasn’t making it any better either.

The only other option was to move into his room. Because she could not face sleeping in her late father’s bed.

A night on the couch was absolutely out, according to her temporary caretaker. Not that Riza minded or would argue with Roy there anyway. The ratty, old piece of furniture wasn’t even comfortable for sitting on, never mind sleeping. It would only aggravate her back further. Roy had offered to sleep there, however Riza had never been anything other than a perfect host, something her father had instilled within her. She couldn’t ask him to sleep on that couch while she commandeered his bed.

“What if we were to share a bed?”

Her sharp glance at such a suggestion didn’t appear to faze him.

No, she didn’t particularly want to share a bed with him. But she didn’t want to freeze overnight. The latter would only hinder her recovery process.

Riza couldn’t have Roy facing the same fate either.

Roy retrieved the pillows from Riza’s bed before she’d even made a decision, and tossed them onto the top of his bed without a care. It was comical how much higher Riza’s pillow side was compared to his, but it wouldn’t be the case for long.

She arranged them carefully into a wall between her and Roy.

It was nothing personal, Riza explained to him, but it made her feel more… comfortable.

It was silly, she thought. She’d bared herself to him completely. He’d seen the tattoo on her back and had listened to her tale of how it came to be. He’d burned the most important parts off her skin. He’d seen her break down with the pain and howl up to the ceiling in agony. It felt like Roy Mustang knew her inside out, better than anyone else ever had, and yet, sharing a sleeping space still made her pause. It made anxiety flare within her chest, making her heart stutter in silent panic and her stomach clench.

Roy’s care as he nursed her back to health had been astronomically great. He’d been attentive and protective. He’d been at her beck and call, seeing to her every wish, not that there were many. When Riza had been unable to lift her head from the pillow in the early days, he’d assisted with her eating and drinking. He’d even read to her.

The sound of his voice had lulled her to sleep more often than she’d care to admit.

And Riza had witnessed his guilt towards it all. It swam beneath his kind, dark eyes and never relented. It was always present and never went away. Riza didn’t think it would for while even though she’d absolved him of his actions against her skin. He’d helped free her, Riza always told him. It was what she’d wanted. She reinforced those facts, but it still didn’t shift.

But it didn’t mean she’d stop trying.

Sharing a bed though… Despite the closeness which had developed even further after Roy had granted Riza’s request, it was an action which felt so… intimate. It felt like it was taking a step further into unknown territory. They were both young adults now and the innocence that had been present when they’d shared a bed previously as children was long gone.

Everything had changed between them over the last few years.

The conversation stating her wish to keep some semblance of a boundary between them was awkward, but Roy didn’t seem to mind. He shot her an easy-going smile and assured her it was fine. He remained open and understanding of her desire to keep distance between them and agreed with her.

“Whatever makes you most comfortable, Riza.”

However, during sleep, they were still drawn together.

Riza woke in the morning to find herself lying on top of Roy.

More specifically, her head was resting on his left side, above his heart – which beat steadily underneath her ear – and she was curled against his side. Her free arm was draped across his torso and gripped onto him by his ribs, her fingers curled into his side as she tried to hold on and secure herself against him.

Unconsciously she cuddled further into the heat source and pressed her face against his chest. She sighed quietly, basking the smell that was so familiar and safe to her, that it soothed her into further relaxation. In her half-asleep state Riza didn’t think twice about why Roy was so close or why she could inhale the smell that was wholly him so easily. It felt natural and right –

Her eyes snapped open, and adrenaline shot through her veins.

She really was lying on top of Roy.

Their wall of pillows, so carefully and precisely crafted to induce ease and comfort in a strange and almost embarrassing situation, was long demolished. The pillows were strewn haphazardly across the bed, laying kicked off to the side behind both Riza and Roy – both guilty in their meeting together through the night.

Roy’s arms had even wrapped tightly around Riza in sleep. One arm had looped around her waist while the other lightly gripped her upper arm, keeping her in place against him.

Riza jerked backwards but was quickly halted. She let out a quiet hiss of pain as the sharp movement pulled against the still tender skin of her burned back.

Roy on the other hand, still asleep, grumbled and tried to resecure his hold. The hand which had rested on her upper arm was lost with her quick movement. It now lay across his stomach. The fingers were flexing and searching, but they didn’t find what they sought – Riza. The arm around her waist tried to make up for it. Riza was pulled tighter against his side, causing Riza to let out a quiet, surprised squeak at the sudden, demanding movement. Her hand came to rest instinctively against his chest in an effort to steady herself as Roy fought against her gentle resistance in his sleep.

His brow had now started to furrow.

“Roy,” Riza whispered, still trying to put some distance between them.

He grunted and huffed.

“Roy,” she tried again, but didn’t pull away any further. She was simply trying to ruse and wake him, because Riza knew fighting against Roy would gain her nothing. Apparently, she wasn’t going anywhere within his hold.

“Sleep, Riza,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.

Roy let out a deep sigh – almost sounding content.

“Roy, open your eyes.”

“No.”

He even pouted.

“Sleep,” he breathed. Roy’s chest lifted and fell evenly, and his eyes still remained closed. “It’s too early,” he muttered semi-coherently. Riza only barely managed to string those sounds into a rough sentence to guess their meaning.

How close he was to waking, Riza didn’t know, nor could she determine. Roy made himself more comfortable and secured his hand on Riza’s waist. His fingertips dug into the skin of her hip, not painfully, but enough to know she was there. He was intent that Riza wasn’t going anywhere, apparently.

It took some deliberation – and a few minutes – but finally, Riza lay back down beside him. She hadn’t entirely given up, but her resolve was wavering second by second. If she was to be a prisoner within Roy Mustang’s arms, she may as well try and relax and enjoy it.

(Not that it would be difficult, however Riza would never admit that. Not right now anyway, with things being so new, and slightly thrilling).

Roy’s palm which was splayed across her hip was… a nice weight. It was comforting. Warm and soft. Gentle and soothing, despite her initial awkwardness and aversion to them being so close. The more Riza thought about it, the more she craved it and wanted to enjoy this whole scenario. Her aversion to the situation wavered and she felt herself giving in to the sanctuary he so freely granted her.

She eventually found herself genuinely enjoying it.

Her head pressed further into the pillow as her cheeks heat up, but Riza no longer fought against it. She had no desire to. In an effort to distract herself from the light embarrassment and what their current situation implied, and could possibly end up entailing, Riza kept it simple and focussed on him. Roy’s chest rose and fell steadily with sleep. He didn’t snore, but his breathing was deep and even, his hold secure. Just like before, she wasn’t going anywhere. She wasn’t getting the chance to escape him so easily.

The thought brought a small smile to Riza’s face.

It felt nice to be wanted by someone. To have someone wish to hold her close and comfort her. Roy had gone above and beyond with his care as he watched over her after burning the skin of the tattoo on her back, but Riza knew deep down it was due to his guilt. Possibly guilt for leaving her with her father, resulting in the tattoo, but definitely guilt towards causing her so much pain by burning her skin.

However, in sleep, where those thoughts escaped the mind, he still wanted her close. He still craved her to remain by his side. Riza could reason it was simply because she was nearby and she was warm, that it was an instinct, but he’d told her to go back to sleep. Had spoken her name. Half asleep he’d known it was Riza beside him.

Her smile grew wider as she continued to watch him sleep.

He wanted her nearby, despite it all. He wanted to hold her and comfort her. He wanted her to sleep by his side.

Riza sighed and closed her eyes. She couldn’t help but snuggle tentatively against him, which sleeping Roy encouraged. When the distance between them closed, his arm wrapped around her tighter. He let out a deep, happy sigh and relaxed beneath Riza. She did the same, falling asleep with a smile on her face.

After all, what was the harm? His arm was avoiding her bandaged skin. It wasn’t causing her any discomfort or pain. It was welcome.

Why shouldn’t she give into him?

With his heart beating steadily beneath her ear once more, Riza was lulled into sleep.

The betrayal from her pillow wall was worth it in the end, Riza decided quietly right before she drifted off, at peace.

feel free to leave a comment and kudos on ao3 :)

likes and reblogs are always much appreciated <3

[edelwoodsouls]

like real people do - ch.1 [fic]

It's nothing but screams of static and fire- And then Jon wakes up next to Georgie, in his Oxford dorm room. And then Martin wakes up alone in his flat. Shit.

[AKA Time Travel Fix-It]

Word Count: 3,595 | Also on Ao3 | Other Chapters: Not Yet

chapter one: sunrise

He's falling.

Through an endless age of darkness. Down, and down, the wind tearing past skin he no longer has, tugging at limbs he no longer feels. He is a shapeless form of web and tape and eyes, and yet he sees nothing, and hears nothing, and the world is nothing more than pain.

But he can feel a hand. Fingers digging into his skin, fingers he recognises, that he's held close for months, that he could recognise in darkness and fire and the end of everything.

He clings tightly to those fingers, to the feeling of them squeezing back, squeezing hard. Those fingers are alive.

As alive as anything can be, here.

They fall forever. Until time has no meaning and sense has no place, and he finds it so very hard to remember where he came from, where they're going, who they are.

And the sound begins to reform itself - because it's not that there is nothing to hear, but rather that there's far too much. A shrieking of static and reeling of tape, the echo of fire chewing hungrily at brick and sky.

Screams of countless voices, ending or in pain. Those have been an undercurrent to his every waking moment for months now, as constant as the beat of his heart in his chest used to be, before it stopped. But now they are everything, everywhere, and there is no sense of self to anchor to.

He is adrift in the suffering. He could exist here forever, in this waterfall of fear so pure it's painful, like cold air dragging across an exposed nerve. Electric. Alive.

And then, all of a sudden, the hand clutched in his vanishes. He panics, flailing out with his not-limbs, desperate to hold on to the one thing in this insanity that has some sort of meaning.

His fingers brush against nothing but tape, sharp and cold against his skin. He opens his mouth to call out, or to scream, and all he hears is static. He tries to cling to himself, and feels that self unravelling further.

And then, just when he thinks that he'll be lost to the chaos, when the fear rises so strong and bitter in his throat that he's sure he must be on fire-

Jon shoots up from the bed, panting.

He's drenched in sweat, his t-shirt clinging to him. The duvet is thick and stuffy against his skin, heavy against his body.

He has a body. He feels as if he's been nothing more than a thought, an idea, for years. All of a sudden, there is skin, and flesh, and fingers, and arms. There is a chest and a head and a heart-

His heart. Beating like a drum against his ribcage, pumping blood around his body, keeping him alive.

He's alive. His heart speeds up at the mere thought. He'd forgotten what his own heart felt like, what the relief of breathing was. Nothing more than a mechanical function, these past few months, he takes a moment to just... breathe. To let the oxygen flood his lungs and sink into his cells, as if blowing away cobwebs strung inside the unused passageways of this body.

He hasn't been alive, truly, since he first brushed against the End.

His chest feels tight with the weight of - everything. He feels the ache of his head, suddenly light and thankfully empty and closed. He feels the ghost of a knife between his ribs, cold steel sliding through flesh like butter, mixing his blood with the sticky, drying flakes of Elias'.

The loss of Martin's fingers, wrapped in his.

The pressure in his chest increases as he stares at his hands. Uncalloused, unburnt - there isn't a single pockmarked worm scar up his bare arms. His flesh is smooth, and clean, and- naked. It feels alien.

Something must be wrong. He's dead, or dreaming. He's in a dimension that's pure dream logic, or the fears have already begun their work and torn him away from the only thing that might stop him from joining them.

Maybe this is the centre of the eye. A final, peaceful vision to keep him occupied as his body spools into tape and his mind unwinds.

And Martin is... where?

He looks frantically around. The room is dim, but it's practically blinding bright to his eyes, adjusted as they are to the pitch of a collapsing world. He can make out clothes strewn over every surface and object. Books, left face down to keep them open, on the desk and the floor.

Something shifts beside him in the bed, and he jumps a mile high. Flinches away and rips the covers back, to reveal...

His newly restarted heart stutters.

"Jon?" Georgie's voice is soft and sleep-laden, and she rolls over in the bed to look up at him through a cloud of dark hair. "You okay?"

"I..." His throat fails him, closes up like a hand held fast against his skin, squeezing. He puts his own hands up to it, to feel it, to be certain his body is his - and finds it smooth. Unblemished by the scarring Daisy gave him.

He lets out a sob. Clings to his throat, as if he might be able to protect it, keep it safe.

He's never been safe, not once in his entire life.

Strong arms wrap around him from out of nowhere, and Jon flinches at the touch of skin on skin. But Georgie just curls tighter around him, pulls him close to her. Runs her fingers through his long hair, and its such a familiar gesture, such an old one, that for a moment he lets her do it. Sits in the quiet and the peace.

"Hey, hey," Georgie says quietly. "What's wrong?"

Jon tries to think of what words to say. To explain to her that she is nothing more than a figment of fear and dreaming. That any moment she will grow a hundred eyes or limbs, or melt away to wax, or grin in fractal patterns that ache his eyes to see.

It's the only explanation that makes sense. This is one of his few good memories, a final gift from the Eye before he disintegrates.

He is nothing more than a dream, too.

"Just a bad dream," he murmurs, unsure if he's reassuring himself or Georgie. He's longed for his world to end for a long time now, but he'd expected - half wanted - it to be crueler. Painful. He's been holding onto a vision of blood and fire. Of throwing his body in the path of something, saving someone, making all his wrongs right.

His decisions, finally given positive meaning.

He wasn't expecting the end to be this soft. Wasn't expecting it be the scent of Georgie's cheap laundry detergent, and a slow sunrise, and a warm embrace. The last few months - the last few years - have been a revolving door of ache and exhaustion.

This is nice.

Perhaps too nice.

It makes sense that the End would show him Georgie, though. That, at least, he understands. The girl who cannot fear. The woman who saw the End and, instead of flinching, managed to continue on.

Nothing to be afraid of, this vision says. You've done enough. You can rest.

Just let go.

But Jon has been afraid for too long to let it go just yet. He's been afraid, in one way or another, since he was eight years old. It's the electricity in his veins and the pump of his blood, the very thing that keeps him standing, keeps him going.

And he hasn't survived this long only to trust the first sign of kindness, or warmth.

"What's going on?" Jon whispers, expecting the question to disappear into the air like so many of his enquiries have before.

Georgie pulls away and looks him in the eye, still keeping her hands resting on his shoulders. He'd forgotten, how tactile Georgie used to be. How both of them, so starved of contact, had held each other constantly.

"What do you mean?" she asks, the softness beginning to bleed out of her voice. There's a hint of worry, so subtle he could almost believe it was genuine.

"Why am I here?"

Georgie's eyebrows knit into a frown. "Why wouldn't you be?" Her eyes search his face, the worry ebbing away faster now. "What did you dream about?"

He laughs, a bitter and broken sound. "Who says I'm not dreaming now?"

"You're starting to worry me, Jon."

"Am I? Can dreams feel worry?"

Georgie's frown resolves into a grim line of pursed lips. "What did you take? And how much?"

"I'm not high, Georgie," Jon scoffs. "You're just not real. A very convincing facsimile, I must admit, but I'm not an idiot."

She sighs, frustrated - already giving up on him. "Well, I'm going back to bed. Wake me up if you feel sick, or something. There's water on the bedside table."

And she burrows back under the blankets, faced away from him.

Jon frowns. This is not how dreams tend to behave. If this is a final act of kindness, it isn't very- kind. Surely the dream should continue to comfort him, or fade into something awful and twisting and logically insane.

He pokes Georgie experimentally, to see if she'll burst into a thousand worms or spiders or flies.

"What, Jon." She rolls back over, peering up at him from a blanket cocoon, unamused.

"You're..." he searches for words, "you're not going to..."

"To what, Jon?"

"Try to kill me? Burst into flames?"

"Why would I do any of that?" she asks, but her tone is edged with something sharp and wary, now.

"Because you're..." he shrugs helplessly. This is getting him nowhere. "Because that's what the fears do."

"The fears?"

A sudden thought strikes him. "The moment you die will feel exactly the same as this one."

Goergie flinches. No, that's too tame a word. She recoils, staggering out of the bed like Jon's just struck her with electricity. "What the fuck did you just say?"

"You told me that," he says, as his mind stumbles over itself to attempt to fit the pieces together. "Maybe a year ago, before everything went to hell. You told me about the End."

Goergie's voice is shaky when it comes. "I've never told anyone about that," she spits. Jon can see her inching towards the desk, the stack of dirty plates which is a staple to any university dorm room, and - more importantly - one of the knives among the pile.

"You did- or, you will- oh god, I think-"

It doesn't make any sense. It doesn't make any sense. When he'd promised Martin that maybe, possibly , there was a chance they'd both live- it wasn't exactly a lie, but he'd been pretty damn certain it wasn't true. Maybe for Martin, maybe he'd wake up in some other world to face the fears alone.

But Jon shouldn't have made it, too. Not with the knife buried in his ribs, not with fourteen fears pouring themselves down his throat and tearing him apart from the inside. He's been a dead man for months, and this should've been the closing chapter. A peaceful oblivion.

And maybe he should've felt bad for lying to Martin, for deciding to abandon him. But Martin would get to live on, maybe even prevent the fears from gaining a foothold in their new dimension. Maybe he could be that positive entity Jon always wished for, of love and hope and a hundred other silly things.

This, though. This is not a new dimension. This isn't possible, in any sense of the word - and Jon's had to expand that definition countless times in recent years.

But here he is, in a body that still needs a heartbeat and breath. Here's Georgie, hair loose around her head in an afro, instead of the tight cornrows she favoured later. Here they are, in their university apartment, before their relationship began to tear at the seams.

Georgie's hands close around the knife, and Jon flinches despite himself, a phantom pain in his side.

"Wait, Georgie," he holds his hands up in surrender, slipping out from the bed. "I need you to hear me out. I'm not- this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to listen. I think-" he takes a breath, "-I've travelled in time."

The words hang in the air, strung among the dust motes beginning to catch in the morning sun filtering through the curtains.

"Explain," Goergie says slowly, tapping the knife against her bare arm, apparently oblivious to the dregs of hot sauce or ketchup still stuck to the blade.

"I- wait, you're not going to tell me I'm crazy?"

"You just told me not to."

Jon blinks. He's so used to being dismissed, he's forgotten how pragmatic Georgie is. How she used to humour his long rambling with a soft smile and patience.

How he slowly, but surely, lost that privilege.

"Okay. Hang on, what year is it?"

"2008. March."

That makes sense. The university dorm - third year, when he and Georgie had pooled their resources and lived together, despite all advice to the contrary.

He takes a slow, steadying breath. "Before I woke up here, I was in 2018. Well, probably 2019, but it's not as if time made much sense anymore, and we weren't really counting the days- I mean, there weren't really days, because the sun wasn't exactly-"

"Jon," Geogie cuts him off with a raised eyebrow, and a vague wave of the knife in her hand.

"Right. Okay, so: monsters are real. You know that much, you've met them. And you told me about it, because I was on the run from them. Have been for all my life, I suppose."

He never really escaped Mr Spider, did he? He was never supposed to knock on the door, only witness it, as he would come to witness countless horrors.

"And then the world ended," Jon continues. He can fill in any gaps later, perhaps - they aren't the most important thing right now. "And you and I, and... some other people, we turned the world back. Or we were supposed to. I have to hope that you survived."

"And you?" Georgie asks. She's still clinging to the knife, but her hands are down by her side, unvigilant. If there's anyone who'd believe his stories, surely it would be Georgie. "How'd you end up here? Assuming you're telling the truth."

"We were making a portal to another dimension, to throw the monsters through."

Georgie lets out a sharp bark of a laugh, which cuts out quickly when she sees Jon's expression. "Oh. You're being serious?"

"Deadly, unfortunately. Things went... wrong. Martin and I... we ended up going through the portal too."

His hand flutters to his side, imagining blood slick on his fingers.

"So you've brought monsters with you," Georgie says. "Where are they then?"

"I don't... I don't know," he shrugs helpelessly. "I wasn't really expecting to survive the trip, if I'm being honest. I definitely wasn't expecting to wake up-" he waves his hands around their flat, "here."

He watches the emotions flitter across Georgie's face, as she attempts to settle on how she feels.

Something brushes against Jon's ankle, and he flinches back, expecting for a moment to see tendrils of darkness, or spider web. Instead he sees a small bundle of orange fuzz rubbing agaist him.

He bends down and scoops the Admiral up in his arms. He's barely more than a kitten, tiny and vibrating as he purrs and buries himself close to Jon's chest.

Something like calm, and certainty, settles inside Jon.

Georgie sighs loudly, watching the interaction with half-concealed fondness. She casts the knife aside on the desk with a clatter, opens a drawer and digs out a half empty bottle of shitty Tesco vodka.

"Tell me everything," she says, taking a swig and handing him the bottle.

"It's not even nine am."

"It's five pm somewhere," Georgie rolls her eyes and throws herself back onto the bed. "And I have a feeling we're going to need it."

[linebreak]

Martin wakes far more softly. A steady fade into being, like the sunrise beginning to wash across his floor. He blinks for a moment, trying to remember why the feeling of a mattress beneath him feels so wrong, why his body feels out of sorts with itself.

His memory cascades in too fast, in a flashing halo of green eyes and the scream of tape unravelling, and the weight of a blade in his hands. He rolls over to the side of the bed and is unceremoniously sick onto the floorboards.

He sits there, head held in shaking hands, for what could be hours, but is likely just seconds. Brings his hands in front of his eyes, expecting to see them slick with blood, or whatever fluid doesn't run through Jon's veins these days.

But there's nothing there.

He glances behind him, and is barely surprised to see no one lying beside him.

His feet remember the route to the bathroom, even if his mind hasn't caught up with his location, and he stumbles there quickly. Spins the tap open and scrubs at his fingers until the skin is raw and red and aching beneath the scalding water.

He still feels Jon's blood on him. Still smells smoke and flames.

Eventually, he looks in the mirror.

He hasn't seen his reflection in months, or however long it's been since the world ended, but he's certain he wasn't this clean. Certainly hadn't shaved in a while, for one, though it's hardly his clean-shaven face that makes him doubletake.

His hair is ginger. Martin runs a careful hand through his curls, testing them to be sure. They don't fall away in his hands, or turn into worms or psychedelic spirals; he feels the tug of his fingers catching and pulling at his scalp.

There isn't a single strand of white. He'd almost gotten used to the pale, bleached colour the Lonely had cast upon him, before the end of the world, but-

He isn't crying. He isn't. It's just hair.

His fingers grip the sink so hard he's sure something will break.

Logic. Calm. That’s what he needs right now. Obviously something has gone wrong, if he and Jon have been separated. Finding him is the first priority.

He refuses to consider the alternative.

But where has he ended up? He’d half expected to be scattered to the wind of a thousand dimensions, divided into tiny fragments of consciousness.

But this appears to be a singular universe. A reality of ideals, perhaps? Where Martin has his hair back, has a body that doesn’t yet ache or go hazy at the edges when he panics.

Except Jon isn’t here, so that can’t be true.

Martin emerges from the bathroom, still a little shaky, but with resolve, and it’s only now that he realises where he is. It’s been a long time since he was here, thank god - this apartment was hardly a good part of his life.

Freshly moved to London. Scrambling to find any sort of job that would take him, ultimately having them slip through his fingers. The walls are too close and the ceiling too low, the paint crumbling and the damp stains getting ever wider. It’s cold, with exorbitant heating bills and no double glazing, and now it makes a little more sense to him why he was wearing three jumpers in bed.

He was in this apartment when he applied to the Magnus Institute.

For a moment he stands in the doorway, frozen, as the realisation begins to connect dots in his head with absurd leaps of logic. It doesn’t make any sense at all for him to have ended up here, and yet- he can’t really deny the evidence of his own eyes.

So its 2009. 2008, at the earliest. The past.

Maybe this is an alternate world. Maybe the fears have no foothold here, and he has a chance to try again.

Would that be a good thing? Can he honestly say he enjoyed the life he had before the Institute? He hates Jonah Magnus with everything he has, hates what he and his colleagues were put through in those years.

But they were hardly worse than the endless grey of his earlier years. The Loneliness that lapped at his ankles long before he knew the name Magnus and that, if he’s honest, would have consumed him if the Eye hadn’t set its sights on him first.

And without the Archives, he never would’ve had Jon.

The world seems dangerously small and cold to Martin. The walls are leaning in to press against him, to put pressure on his lungs. If he thinks about this too quickly, too long, he might shatter into pieces and never move again.

He grips the doorway to steady himself, takes a deep and slow breath.

He needs to stay calm. He can panic later, when Jon is in his arms again, when they've figured out what's going on, when they march into Elias' office ten years too early and sink the knife where it truly belongs.

Maybe then he won't feel Jon's blood on his hands anymore.

Everything in time. Martin smiles through gritted teeth, as if to convince himself he's decided. Everything is fine, until proven otherwise.

He throws open the curtains to a fresh, sunlit morning, no eye in the sky or bruise-like clouds bearing down on him, and gets to work.

[daredevile]

Lumière

Summary: Lost in a timeless world of grief and sorrow, Bucky longs for a guiding light to lead him through the dark.

Warnings: Angst, character death, miscarriage 

A/N: This one's for @ussgallifreyfics‘ writing challenge and my prompt was 'it never hurts to keep looking for sunshine.'

The engine lulls into a hushed purr and he just wants to scream. Destroy every obstacle in his path. Veer left into the serene tides below the bridge - because at least then, he'd be in control of his end.

Dusk befalls upon weary skies and lights around him twinkle awake as nature unfolds into its own Starry Night. He strains his neck over the fluorescent hues of reds and yellows, knuckles burning white against the frayed leather wheel. And all he sees is miles and miles of vehicles sprayed onto eternal roads.

A part of him regrets it. Succumbing to those longing urges his subconscious sweeps into his slumber. As if Zeus, himself, branded his soul to the Underworld, casting the burden of reality upon the boulder he's cursed to bear till the thread of life ceases.

His gaze flickers to the stream below, the swaying of water had always embraced him with a sense of tranquillity - now, waves crash against the green, forever seized by the currents. He wants to escape too. Defeated by the cards the universe forced into his hands because he can't continue living hopeful lies expecting the bliss that'll never arrive.

The window rolls down and the mighty thrust of winter winds rush inside for warmth. His jaw clenches as the breeze trespasses his solitude and he considers abandoning the car because, much like the river beneath, he's imprisoned to this obscure sea of time.

Truth be told, he has no destination. Merely weaved into the plane of existence long enough till his will to endure the agony, wanes. It's the least he owes her.

The abrupt knocking on glass captures his attention. Palms flat against the window, a baby girl - no more than three - lights up when he catches sight of her big doe eyes. And for the first time in months, a smile willingly appears on his face, his shoulders ease and he's forgotten all the grief and sorrow the world has to offer.

Her hands extend from the seatbelt, motioning him to come closer. He sends her a small wave before her mother places a bottle of milk within her grasp and she lowers back into the seat. All he sees is the crown of her head bouncing up and down before their car inches forward and the feeling of numbness tunnels its path into his heart, again.

Right as the door opened, his hands snaked around your waist, chin resting atop your shoulder - and before you could face him, his lips pressed against the soft skin. For a second, your heart stopped and his laugh sent butterflies to your stomach. Swaying along to his humming, you leaned back into his soothing embrace.

"Ok, babe. Close your eyes."

"What're you doing Bucky?" You asked as he twirled you back into his arms. He bit back a grin, eyes instinctively fluttering towards the guest bedroom.

"Thought I asked you to close your eyes?" He whispered while you tried turning around, warm hands brushed past your lips as he covered your eyes. He paused in front of the guest room, guiding your hand to the doorknob before murmuring into your ear.

"Go ahead, sweetheart."

A gasp escaped from your lips in shock. Overwhelmed by the drastic modification of the room, you turned towards Bucky in wonder. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, shirt unbuttoned and hair dishevelled - the result of a day's work. He chuckled under your gaze, eager to show you every little thing he'd made.  

"Now, I know we said we'd do this together, but I wanted to surprise you."

"Bucky - it's perfect."

"Just wait till you see these!" He uncovered two pairs of baby shoes from the drawers, holding them in one hand each with the most radiant smile you'd ever seen and the pure gesture melted your heart.

Noticing your glossy eyes and loss for words, he pulled you into his chest, tracing calming patterns on your back. When you placed your lips on his jaw, he sighed with content, his hands caressing over your baby bump.

"We're gonna be great parents, I know it."

No. He forcefully wipes the tears trailing down his face - he cannot descend into this chasm of nothing, again. His hands seize the wheel because control brings even the smallest ray of sunshine to his thunderstorm.

He lost track of time a few months ago. Solely adrift in space, floating away to the horizon of forever. Because what's the point anyways? Everything is always taken from him. Ripped into a million shreds of distant memories. But, emptiness always welcomes him.

A faint melody travels through the steel bubble of a nearby car - an elderly couple humming along to classics from their time. He envies their rapture, not troubled by the miles of traffic ahead, but it fades into a forlorn desire that slips away from his fingertips.

The house was mute, dreading the silence that has fallen within these walls. Gloomy hallways, stale food and sealed doors. The living room had divided itself into two and it was only an exchange of reserved glances and sharp breaths.

"Y/N, there's nothing you could've - " It was anger. It was confusion. It was a cry for help. No amount of good would ever mend the puncture in his heart, he didn't need stitches - all he asked for was a band-aid.

"Stop. Just - please don't."

Neither of you had entered that room again, afraid to get caught in a realm of imaginary optimism where everything will be normal. The air was suffocating, mournful and miserable ever since the visit to the hospital yesterday. None of those meaningless words of sympathy and pity went into your minds.

Nothing he could do or say could ease the pain. And so, he stood up, slipped into his coat and reached for the door. His eyes found two tiny pairs of shoes laying right next to his and after a moment, he walked out with a heavy heart.

Time was what we need, he thought. That he'd return in a couple of days and somehow they'd get through this together. But time is funny. It enjoyed tearing him apart, taunting his life. It reminded him that he's alive and his baby girl isn't.

It's the thunder of engines revving that brings him to his senses. No matter how much he tried convincing himself to see you, his instincts begged otherwise. And every time he's restrained to the car, the streets always moulded into paths towards you, yet he steered to the opposite. But now, it's the least he owes her.

The barren streets unfurl in front of him, colours glossing over every circle and edge as he drives by the tiny shops. The world ahead fades from noir to pastel, eager eyes devouring every light. The steel bubble of the car bursts and he's exposed to the misfortunes of the universe as the door locks.

He skips over the creaky step, fist raised against the wooden door. A sense of familiarity washes over him and he knocks twice. It's mere seconds before the door swings open and your stoic expression is all that greets him.

Hesitant, he shuffles his foot back - a minute response to which a veil of tears glazes your eyes. His hands naturally guide you into his embrace, a wave of relief settles inside when you rest your head against his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Bucky. I really am, it's my fault - " You whisper into his shirt.

"No, Y/N it's no one's fault. What happened to us wasn't fair. But, we don't have to forget and move on to survive. Just please...please promise me you'll stay - we'll help each other. Together." He stares into your eyes, searching for any doubt, but his worries dissolve into serenity when a soft smile tugs on your lips.

"I promise, Bucky."

[lady-divine-writes]

The Prince of the Sea and his Child of Fire - Chapter 6/15 (Rated NC17)

Summary: Blaine is a water sprite, prince of the undersea kingdom and sole heir to the throne. Five days away from turning seventeen and his big coronation, he decides to take a journey to the surface, to seek out a legendary flame said to be tended by an evil witch. Instead of a witch, he finds something else entirely ...

Kurt is a fire fairy, prince of a race of fire fairies and heir to the throne. Five days away from turning seventeen (on the night of a full solar eclipse when he will transform and become king), he sees for the first time in his life a water sprite - a member of a race that he's been raised to hate.

What will happen when these two mortal enemies fall in love? Is there any way for them to escape destiny and be together?

Read on AO3.

Chapter 6

The sun rises, the sky turns gold, and Kurt can’t stop smiling.

There’s a new spring in his dance, a new song in his heart, and the flame – glowing in shades of champagne and primrose – has never looked happier.

Elizabeth smiles as she steals a moment to watch her son dance, relieved that he seems so much more joyful and carefree. Kurt tosses his flowers into the flame and the fire rises high into the sky, mirroring his joy, bending and swaying with him as he leaps into the air. Elizabeth drops down onto the branch, giggling delightedly at the giddy expression on her son’s grinning face.

It makes her feel young again.

“That’s a lovely song, my son,” she comments. “Is it new?”

Kurt stops twirling and immediately bows, so lost in his memories of Blaine that he had lost track of the rising sun and the imminent arrival of his mother.

“New song? What?” Kurt hadn’t been intentionally singing a different tune, but as his thoughts drifted to Blaine’s kisses, he couldn’t help himself. “Yes! It’s something I’ve been trying! Something new … uh … for the fire!”

Elizabeth watches her son’s eyes dart guiltily away, his cheeks color, his upper lip quiver … and she knows.

A mother always knows.

“And does … the fire like it?” Elizabeth asks, gathering up flowers from the meadow nearby. She can’t help noticing the petals that litter the pool, set adrift through the night, floating and swirling in formation like tiny boats.

“Y-yes.” Kurt tosses his last handful of petals into the flame. “V-very much so, I think. But it’s not a complete song yet. Just a few strains. I’m not even sure that I’ll keep it, to tell you the truth.”

“A-ha.” His mother throws her first batch of flowers into the fire, watching the colors change from the intense turquoise Kurt had managed to cull to a more sedate sky blue. “That’s a love song that you are singing.”

“Is … is it?” Kurt looks from his mother’s perceptive eyes to the petals floating in the water. “To tell you the truth, I-I hadn’t really noticed.”

Elizabeth leaves the flame to devour the remainder of the flowers and walks over to her son. She peers over his shoulder, the reflection of her face joining his, framed by the petals all around.

“Sweetheart, you’re going to become king in three days,” she says, combing his hair back into place with her fingers. “Right now is not a good time for you to fall in love.”

Kurt’s mind wanders, back to thoughts of his night with Blaine, and he swallows a sob.

“Will there ever be a good time?” he asks, looking past his reflection and far beyond the pool, out to the open ocean.

Kurt hears his mother sigh behind him. He folds his arms over his chest, raising his hands to cover hers where they rest on his shoulders.

“No, my darling,” she says, resting her forehead against his temple, wishing she could use her powers to rid him of his pain. “It will never be a good time. So whoever it is … I suggest you forget about them.”

***

Blaine emerges from the forest of kelp – exposed, vulnerable, out of his depth and miles beyond the borders of his kingdom. The kelp forest is farther than he has ever traveled alone, but he doesn’t have to go too much farther before he spots the animal he’s come for.

Sue.

An ancient sea turtle and one of the oldest living creatures beneath the sea.

A recluse, she spends most of her time terrorizing errant water sprites who wander too far from the castle and grazes in the jellyfish fields far beyond the boundaries of where it is deemed safe for any sprite to go … especially one of royal blood.

Blaine watches her list from side to side, her massive flippers pushing the water around her. He swims up behind her, keeping an eye out for other fish, especially jellyfish, who might look to capture him – or eat him. There’s not much use for political prisoners out here in the deep, this much he knows for certain.

He’s nearly upon her when she spins around unexpectedly, locking him in the gaze of her large, round, coal-black eyes – eyes full of experience and intelligence, but not an inch of compassion. She stares at him impatiently, every line of her face creasing in vexation at his presence as she lazily chews a jellyfish, the poor thing wrenching its translucent body back and forth in an effort to escape her bite.

“Now why would you try a stupid thing like sneaking up on me?” she mutters, mouth full.

Blaine remembers from numerous etiquette lessons that sea turtles like to be flattered, spoken to with an extraordinary measure of respect worthy of their incredible age. (And, according to his teacher, he should overdo it to be on the safe side.) Blaine bows low in her sight and, humbling himself, begins to speak.

“Oh, great and wise sea turtle, revered queen of the open ocean, guardian of …”

“Cut the crap!” the turtle gripes, spitting out the struggling jellyfish. It aligns its torn body with the current, preparing to escape, but Sue sucks it back into her grotesque maw, clamping down on it with her jaws. “Just skip to the end where you tell me what the hell you want! I’m eating here, and looking at your ugly mug gives me indigestion.”

Blaine frowns, but bites his tongue quickly to keep from saying anything that will make her angry.

“I want to know, wise turtle, if there is any way a fire fairy can visit my father’s kingdom beneath the sea?”

The turtle narrows her eyes at him but continues chewing, mouth slightly open, the mangled jellyfish making a last ditch effort to break free. Suddenly, Blaine feels sick. Sue sees him turn several shades of green and gulps down the squiggling remains of her lunch.

“Don’t feel sorry for him, Your Highness,” Sue says with a smirk. “Stupid brainless things, jellyfish. Can’t make a single decision for themselves. That’s why they’re so easy to catch.” She takes one last huge swallow to force it down, then belches in Blaine’s face. He raises his hands and covers his mouth to keep from losing his stomach. “Now, why would you want to bring one of those flitty little porcelain playthings down here to paradise with us?”

“I have my reasons,” Blaine says, undeterred by her sarcasm.

Sue watches the sprite closely and for an uncomfortably long time before she speaks again.

“You’ve fallen in love with one of them, haven’t you?” Sue laughs, nimbly spinning onto her back and then righting herself again. “Oh for heaven’s sake! Your father’s going to have field day if he ever finds out!” she proclaims with a cruel glimmer in her eyes.

“He’s not going to find out,” Blaine says, his voice changing from respectful to clear warning. She glares at him, challenging the young prince’s authority, but seeing his determination, she shrugs her front flippers, deciding that defying him is not worth her time.

 “Well, be that as it may, there is nowhere beneath the water a fire fairy will be safe, so you might as well forget your silly notions about bringing one down here,” she grumbles, turning her prodigious body around and preparing to leave.

“I have seen hot things beneath the ocean before,” Blaine argues, “so there has to be a way.”

“Oh have you, young prince?” Sue asks with a wicked chuckle. “And what happens to fire that is brought beneath the sea? Hmm?”

“It … uh …” Blaine stops, seeing her point before she makes it, but she’s not about to let it die there.

“I’ll tell you,” she cuts in. “It turns cold, it turns black, and then it dies. You know that this is true. And anything you come up with to protect your fairy will only prolong the inevitable.” Sue shakes her huge head. “But if you don’t believe me, go ahead and bring your fairy down here. Watch it turn blue and cold and freeze to death. Watch the light in its eyes go out.” The turtle swims up to him, stopping nose to nose. Blaine can see his face reflecting back at him in her shiny black eyes - not a safe place to be. “You know, death for a fire fairy under the ocean is slow and excruciatingly painful. I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. And I loathe pretty much everybody!”

Blaine imagines Kurt beneath the ocean – his pale skin turning unnaturally blue, his vibrant eyes going dark, the last breath in his body turning into bubbles and floating away with the tide.

“Do you really want my advice, Prince Blaine?”

“Yes,” Blaine says, willing to do anything, cut a deal with anyone, to find a way for him and Kurt to be together. “Please.”

“Forget about your fire fairy,” she says, sounding not the least bit apologetic. “You are going to become king of all the oceans. So why don’t you start by growing up?”

Blaine’s heart sinks, hard and fast. It must show on his face. With a smile of satisfaction on her fat, green lips, the turtle turns and leaves the prince in her wake, paralyzed by her words.

 ***

Twilight falls with the undersea kingdom in an uproar when Blaine returns. Guards pour out of the castle, dressed for battle and armed to the teeth, heading in all directions. Amid the chaos of soldiers deploying, Trent manages to find the prince and drag him over to a secluded wall.

“Blaine! Where have you been!?” he asks, tremendously relieved. “Your father has been asking all over for you!”

“What the hell’s going on here?” Blaine asks, the excitement - and subsequent anguish - of his recent excursion overshadowed by the current chaotic activity.

“There’s been another jellyfish attack! When I couldn’t find you, knowing where you’ve been going, I feared the worse!”

“Where was the attack? Is anybody hurt?”

“The king doesn’t have that information yet. But it was a small colony over by the outer kelp forest.”

Blaine stares at Trent with confused eyes. “Did you say the outer kelp forest?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I just came from there!” Blaine exclaims, ignoring the re-emerging look of hurt on Trent’s face. “There was no attack! The king’s intel is wrong! Who gave him this information?”

“I don’t know.” Trent hurries along the wall as Blaine heads inside the castle. “But from what I hear, it’s a reliable source.”

“No, it isn’t!” Blaine rushes with Trent in tow towards his father’s throne room. “It’s a set-up!”

The castle feels hollow, abandoned with the bulk of its inhabitants amassing outside and guarding the gates. Blaine can hear generals barking orders, preparing to send sprites by the hundreds to the kelp forests.

To start a war with no just cause.

Without even knowing it, Blaine returned just in time.

Blaine races down the hall and bursts through the ornate double doors of the king’s throne room, where his father sits, staring out the window, watching sprites gather from all over to protect their kingdom.

“Father,” Blaine announces himself, bowing to the king.

“And here comes my disgraceful son … at long last,” Malek scowls, wide yellow eyes staring at the still ocean. “To what do I owe the displeasure of your company?”

“Father!” Blaine pushes Malek’s insults aside for the good of their kingdom. “You have to call the troops back!”

“Why should I do that?” Malek asks, shifting his huge tentacles on the floor and re-locating to a different window.

“Because whatever information you have is wrong! I have a feeling that our kingdom is being set up. Why, I don’t know. But someone is intent on starting a war, and they’re using you to do it!”

Malek sits quietly, barely moving as his eyes follow the lines of soldiers in the courtyard.

“And why should I listen to you?” Malek asks, the room echoing with the resonance of his voice. “Even if what you say is the truth, you have shown yourself to be spoiled, disobedient, unworthy.”

“Father,” Blaine says, standing firm before his king, “I beg you to listen to me! What I say to you is the truth!”

Malek doesn’t comment on his son’s pleas, moving back again to the first window, his eyes fixed on his ever-growing army of sprites..

Blaine looks to Trent, who nods at him encouragingly. Hell or high water, he has to do what’s right - consequences be damned.

“I have just come from the kelp forest, Great King,” Blaine admits. “There is no army there. There’s been no attack. I swear this to you.”

Malek sighs his discontent. “Tell me, Blaine, why were you in the kelp forest to begin with? Your present duties did not require you to travel to those reaches of our kingdom.”

Blaine stares at his father, the truth dangling from his lips. “I … I … can’t tell you why, Father.”

Malek’s eyes burn with frustration and rage. “What!?” he roars to shake the entire palace. Trent drops to his knees with his hands over his ears.

“It was personal business of my own,” Blaine says, the closest thing to the truth that he can bring himself to admit. “Be angry with me if you want, but Father, you are making a mistake! You’ve been played! Someone is using you to start a war, but it doesn’t need to be that way! Call back your troops now!” Malek bares sharp, black teeth at his son. Blaine gets down on his knees before his father. “Please! We can put an end to this! Don’t be a pawn! Don’t be part of this slaughter! You want me to be a good king, and I’m trying to be! Listen to me! For once, listen to me!”

Malek’s expression doesn’t change. His tentacles coil into knots like fists; some of them pound the floor.

“If you are as loyal to this kingdom as you say,” Malek sneers, “then prove it! Go outside, stand a post, and defend this castle!”

Blaine glances out the window at the fading light crawling up toward the surface with a single thought in his mind.

Kurt.

“But …”

“Stand a post! Defend this castle, and then you might regain some of my trust!” Those are Malek’s final words on the matter. He leaves the hall, disregarding his son as he sweeps by, nearly knocking him to the ground.

The throne room goes still after his father’s departure, and quiet as a tomb, the heavy walls blocking the thump, thump, thump of battle drums marking time outside. Trent nudges Blaine on the shoulder. Blaine turns to him, hoping that, even after Blaine tore into him, he’ll have words of comfort for him. Of support. Of wisdom.

But Trent says nothing.

He hands Blaine a trident – a weapon reserved for royalty.

Grimly, Blaine takes it. He has no other choice. He twirls it once in his hand, setting the base on the floor with a heavy thunk. Trent smiles, giving Blaine an approving pat on the back, glad to see his prince taking charge, fighting for his kingdom.

Back where he belongs.

Blaine gazes out the window in the direction of the cove and the forbidden waters that would take him to Kurt.

The waters he yearns to swim right now.

“I’m sorry, Kurt,” he says, watching the daylight disappear into the waves, then blink out of sight. “I’m so sorry.”

 ***

Kurt can’t hide his excitement as he rushes to the cove, eager to see Blaine again. He’d listened to what his mother said and had given it a fair amount of thought throughout the day, but he decided in the end that he doesn’t care. They still have a few days left till the eclipse. If that’s all they are given, then Kurt will take it.

Besides, he understands full well what this is between them. It’s love. And love thrives. It endures. Maybe if they put their heads together, they will be able to find a way to make this last beyond their coronations.

Beyond the inevitable.

Of course, there will be plenty of putting their heads together if Blaine kisses him again.

Kurt is surprised when he reaches the cove and Blaine isn’t there, hiding in the weeds, waiting for him to arrive like he had the night before, but Kurt isn’t discouraged. He sings his new song as he dances around the flame, adorning the water with petals, weaving the flowers into his own hair, hoping that somewhere beneath the water his music will reach Blaine, wherever he is, and lure him to the surface.

But it doesn’t.

Twilight turns into dusk, then dusk becomes dawn.

And Blaine does not return.

[glowstickhaloboy]

y’all were really kind to take my personality quiz based on characters from my unpublished novel, so i thought maybe i’d drop the prologue? I realize that’s a whole different ask tho, and a bunch more time to sit down and read, so don’t feel obligated! but if you are interested and want to see what i’m working on, i’d appreciate it immensely <33

it’ll start beneath the cut

prologue—

July 7th, 2008

 Stars are large.

That is one of the first unlikely truths a child learns. They just look small, ardently burning themselves to death billions of miles out of reach.

And Peter looked small, too, as he jammed his skinny body through the middle of an old, juddering tire swing. The swing was the only thing in Uncle Miller’s backyard that the animated little blond boy could play with without needing the help of his imagination. Even at his own house, Peter was accustomed to stick-swords and tree stump obstacle races. A real toy was a novelty. He almost didn’t feel he was allowed.

Once inside, Peter waddled as far back as he could, then paused, possessed by an odd, un-childlike patience. The phrase be good was internalized in him. Wait a little longer, enjoy a fuller reward. Be good. Sit still. Be good. Whenever he visited his grandparents’ old house, however, his uncle purposely turned him loose. Peter became a downright flare of energy. His young, green muscles could not cling tight enough to the tire rubber.

All at once, with a deep breath and a spring of his knees, Peter let the world go. 

The sky pitched backward and forward, whooshing by as he clutched his tether. Every faraway star streaked by in perfectly straight, mesmerizing lines of white. Cold wind. Insect noises. Washed out yellow light spilling down the hill from the windows of the house. A young boy’s pumping heart big enough to fit the world inside and understand it, and understand itself, and all without a word, all with his breath held tight…

He dragged heel marks into dirt dry as cocoa powder, withdrawing from the tire as soon as he had the legs to, and flopped backward into bony summer grass. He ignored the impulse to rip fistfuls out, instead just holding the clumps absently in the sweaty gaps between his fingers, filing away its quiet hum of life. Memorizing. He realized he had missed it.

The rest of the long lawn sloped lazily off, like a map unraveling down a staircase. At the base of the hill stood all the trees of Parchdack. The same ones here lined countless other backyards. They bound the distance between parks and sports fields. They married crumbling fast food restaurants to an iron-gated cemetery. The heart of the town Peter had come to think of as home: everywhere and always right here.

He was so satisfied in his solitude, he’d failed to notice something was wrong, something obvious: one bright star swam adrift in the purpled dusk sky, a wandering flake of yellow ash. 

It was dropping down. Coming closer. It was not very large at all.

The starflake did not blink or dim. Its arhythmic, bug-like bobbing—the way it changed course if it floated too close to a tree or seemed to want to stay within sight of the yard—gave the impression it was aware of its surroundings.

Peter stared. Every thought approached slowly, shyly.

Maybe it was a shooting star? Those would have to land somewhere, after all. Or maybe it was a special small star, undiscovered up until now because small stars were clever and dodged out of the way of NASA’s telescopes. Maybe it was something that knew Peter by magic. Maybe it was going to let him make a wish, a reward for being a good kid.

The starflake drew nearer. Peter, not scared in the slightest, hopped up to look it in the eye. Since it still seemed like it was just light, looking at it should have hurt. But it didn’t. And, it was the strangest thing, but Peter thought he could sense what it was thinking. It certainly wasn’t his own sadness he felt. He felt excited, fascinated, greedy. A miracle of his very own!

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered encouragingly, trying to gain its trust.

The starflake hovered as if troubled. Then it... whispered. It whispered his same words back to him in an airy, miserable rasp: “Don’t be afraid.”

The previously summery wind blew distinctly cold on Peter’s bare arms, re-awakening his senses. He could feel the very straightness of his spine. His eyes stung with tears from not blinking, and a misplaced thought wandered to the forefront of his mind: did they reflect gold?

The thought of calling for his uncle did not occur. The regular world had fallen away.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Peter said, then paused to seriously consider. If this creature could talk, albeit stiltedly, what else might it be capable of? But it was too late now. The thing’s attention was fully on him—and this time, when it spoke, its words seemed to be its own. 

“Don’t… give up… on me…”

Peter’s heart winced with confusion and sympathy. He was reminded of his mother’s shoes clicking sharp on the floor after a bad day at work. Of nights when she gave one-word answers and passed the hours smoking cigarettes in her bedroom. If Peter was extra good, if he cracked a joke to cheer her up, if he sat quiet and unobtrusive—she didn’t lose the anger, exactly, but she might make the effort for one smile. Peter had gotten good at paying attention to even the smallest cues, always quick to find the right thing to say, to do, to be.  Even now, he was sure he just had to figure out what the starflake needed to be happy again.

The starflake’s light was fading little by little as it slipped closer to the ground, its descent sagging like a man overburdened. Peter’s hand jerked forward on instinct, but he held back. What if it wasn’t safe—for his sake, or for its? Like how you shouldn’t touch moths’ wings. 

It did not matter. Seeing Peter’s outstretched hand, the creature dove madly into his palm.

And it scalded! Peter flung the creature away on instinct, even if he felt shame as he did. The creature was hurt, panicking… But his hand burned with this heat unlike any pain he’d ever endured before. It had happened so fast. He gasped and managed to keep some air down, watching as an angry red welt bubbled up in the space where his thumb jutted out of his palm. The creature, growing darker by the second, sank smoking into the grass.

With just enough presence of mind to contain the damage to one hand, Peter hastily lunged for it, snatching the creature between two fingers. In the single second before his screaming nerves forced him to let go, he all but threw the dying starflake on top of the tire swing. There its light pulsed weakly, like a wounded chest weathering its last lungfuls of air. 

The rubber tried to burn, but only produced an acrid smell. Peter, meanwhile, stifled his sobs and rocked over the inflamed tips of his fingers, blowing on them to ease the pain. He’d earned three fierce burns: one from catching it, and two from pinching it.

The light went out unceremoniously while Peter was not looking.

It left no remains beyond an inch of mutilated rubber, which tomorrow would look like nothing more than a random blotch on a piece of junk. And Peter’s hand would be okay, too, because injuries healed with time. 

Again, the thought of telling Uncle Miller went ignored. Peter was a good kid who never started trouble or stressed anybody out. He was fine, and it was finished now anyway. It would just be a secret, that was all. Soon, Peter would be the only one able to read the signs that anything strange had ever happened there.

[b-kitsune]

Many ways to say I love you: Day Nineteen.

Kidge-a-palooza 2019 Prompt: Rebirth. Pairing: Kidge (VLD) Universe: Fantasy!AU. Status: Part 1/3

They had been moving for many days nonstop, thanks to the last misadventure they had lived in which they almost managed to escape alive with the help of the last magic resources at hand, earning several wounds around their bodies that hurt at the insistent touch of their clothes. They needed to disinfect the deep cuts as soon as possible, but many of their resources were lost as soon as the caves collapsed under their heads, taking the drastic decision to flee leaving their possessions adrift so as not to be delayed while running.

The mood was down, not even Lance was able to make an ironic comment about the situation and the night would soon fall while walking through the forest, the sharp senses of Shiro alerted him that the hunter animals were already in full swing looking some prey to feed, and they at this moment looked charmingly tempting, almost managing to walk on their own.

Hunk did his best to find a village around him to ward off the impending dangers and to rest properly after the hard battle, but the closest place was the small town of Arus, and it was several miles away from where they could It would take several nights to get there. So they had to camp in that place to recover at least a few energies.

They made a small camp in a comfortable area after a few minutes deciding which would be the best place. Shiro took his sword and went out in search of food along with Hunk, who was skilled at recognizing which foods of the forest were edible without dying of some kind of poisoning. Leaving Pidge in charge of the fire while Lance ordered a few leaves and dry grass to make a large bed improvised for everybody.

It would not be the first time that they shared space of rest to spend the night after an arduous battle, their life as treasure hunters for many years had made them close. Enough to not bother about the closeness between them. They knew each other completely and respect was their main basis for the strange friendship they had created among people of races as different as themselves. What for many was a complete madness when they knew them.

Lance yawned languidly after finishing a nest quite comfortable for everyone, who was about to fall halfway satisfied with pleasure, Pidge laughed at his behavior.

''And I thought that the minstrels were much more resistant.''

''Hey, don't blame me for being tired!'' Lance answered with a broad smile when he settled on the floor. ''Fighting against those trolls has been by far the stupidest idea we have ever had.''

''Yeah, well, I'm not going to deny it.'' Pidge said in a whisper. ''We had to be much more prepared. Even Shiro suffered serious injuries to his right arm.''

''Do you think there are scars left?''

''Are you kidding?'' Pidge's lips bent towards a sardonic smile. ''He should hardly have any cuts, Shiro is an oni, after all. It takes more than a couple of stones and magic fire to break his skin. Especially his right arm.''

''Ahh ... '' Lance replied disinterestedly. ''Well, sometimes I forget that he is not a human.''

''With those big horns that he has?'' Pidge inquired inquisitive, raising an eyebrow as if Lance had said something completely ridiculous. ''Even I can spend much more easily as one!''

''But not when you talking, Pidgy.''

Pidge placed one of her hands on her chest with a slight gasp coming from her lips, pretending to be offended by his words. But even she could accept that her character and her responses were often inevitably cruel or sarcastic. She couldn't help it, many times she felt that humans, especially Lance, were ridiculously stupid, so when they were visiting villages looking for some supplies for their missions, Pidge tended to close her mouth and let Shiro take care of everything so as not to generate uncomfortably situations.

Even when it was almost palpable to distinguish the supernatural area on Shiro's shoulders and people still tended to keep distance with magical or spiritual beings, given the ambivalent nature of their genes, he always captured the attention he least wanted, attraction, both men and women. And while it wasn't a nuisance most of the time, stopping when others saw his clear disinterest in coquetry often shameless, her beloved brother-in-law used to feel uncomfortable most of the time.

But Pidge could understand, those white horns that came out of his head looked imposing, added to that his eyes had a natural delineate along with a purple color around his eyelids, they gave him the image of an aggressive nature, without counting the mountain of muscles that he had all over his body. Even without his mystical nature, Shiro was a person who visually demonstrated not being part of the world of mortals.

Unlike Pidge, who, because of her short stature, the disordered image with a tousled hair under armor too big for her height, looked like an ordinary person. She could almost pretend to be a boy or a dwarf if it were not for the fact that her features were too delicate as she spent more years, but Pidge was completely perfect for what she needed in her missions.

She was the first defense in her group, the shield of her team and the connoisseur of labyrinths. A female appeal was not something she needed.

When about an hour passed, they could see Hunk and Shiro approaching with a deer between their shoulders, drooling almost instantaneously at Pidge, Lance had fallen asleep from exhaustion.

''I see you made a pretty nice nest.'' Hunk commented while lightly kicking the side of Lance, who only responded with a deep moan.

''We'd better let him rest, Hunk.'' Shiro spoke, while he was in charge of crumbling the meat with his hands, dividing the skin that they would use for that night. ''Lance took the worst part of the last battle, it will not hurt him to sleep a couple of hours more.''

''Yeah, I suppose you're right.''

When Shiro stretched the skin enough around some branches of a tree, Pidge made a delicate movement with one of her hands using the last reserves of magic that remained to seal the collagen and transmute the flesh to a softer texture for the touch. It was a simple spell that didn't require much mana, but useful at moments like those of that where they had nothing to keep warm for the cold night that was coming.

They threw it to Lance once Pidge finished her work, who gave a good sleep as he surrounded himself pleasantly. They both decided to sit by the campfire enjoying the meat that Hunk had prepared with multiple species and nutritious vegetables to regain strength. Little by little they felt the hunger disappear from their bodies to give way to a satisfied stomach, and the urgent need to sleep until the next morning.

But they couldn't afford such mistakes as lowering their guard during the night with hundreds of animals and possible thieves around a winding forest, so Pidge decided to stand guard the early hours of the night, promising to awaken Lance when it was her opportunity to sleep.

She spent a couple of hours cutting a piece of wood with one of her sharpest daggers, using her skills trying to listen to what the trees could tell her during those moments of calm and tranquility that very rarely happened, thanks to her noisy group of friends. The fire from the small fire crackling and forming mysterious shapes was the only thing she needed as light as the piece of wood began to take the shape of a spoon, a small gift to her friend Hunk because they had lost the utensils in their last mission.

After a couple of hours, when the night reached its maximum point and her friends snored at her side, Pidge felt a sharp twinge in her back that made her get up almost immediately, with her dagger in hand ready for the attack. The branches of the trees moved slowly, warning her of a nearby danger she had to be careful of. But when she turned around and tried to get close to Shiro to wake him up, Pidge saw what made her blood freeze completely.

A goblin smiling, petty, pointing Shiro's neck with a stake loaded with quintessence with enough edge to cut his throat in a few seconds, as a threat to any strange movement Pidge could make. In a few seconds, the around began to surround herself with others more of his class approaching her friends, but Pidge couldn't move a single inch, the goblins were ruthless and could not endanger Shiro's life. They dropped an unknown liquid over the ears of her friends, Pidge begged all the gods that it wasn't a deadly poison.

Pidge breathed deeply without making any movement that alerted her intentions until she felt strong steps behind her that made the earth rumble drearily, what she feared most at that moment was approaching and exhaustion didn't let her think what could do to get out of that problem. The goblins weren't intelligent beings, they were small monsters that lived from wars against other beings and primitive instincts, so their actions of stealthily approaching and poisoning their companions without an iota of violence, made her think that the strong breathing that felt behind her back surely it was an orc.

She swallowed hard when she heard his laugh rudely, the wretched bastard was enjoying her despair.

Her mind quickly turned to the most important goal, Pidge couldn't let those disgusting goblins kill her friends, she accumulated a wave of electrical energy through one of her hands to hurl it towards the goblins that were on top of their bodies friends to drive them away and generate painful damage. Before she knew it, Pidge was already running away from the camp, using herself as bait.

Pidge was exhausting considering she hadn't rested at any time of the night, but the elves used to have problems moving on the surface, so she found herself at a great advantage with various minutes of running. Pidge didn't know if she had managed to get the attention of all the goblins, but definitely, the orc was chasing her when heard the heavy footsteps behind her, which gave some relief to her heart.

She was sure that before leaving, Lance had woken up because of the current of her attack. Pidge only hoped that the poison he had been given wasn't so deadly as to disable him completely.

Pidge fell on some stairs after a few minutes running through the woods when a dart reached her legs, numbing them completely to almost the seconds. In front of her, there was an old castle surrounded by vines and roots, indicating its abandonment for many years.

Now she knew where the damned goblins came from.

Took off the dart from her leg quickly, but the poison was already beginning to numb her senses. Pidge watched as the orc with his followers came towards her, drooling rudely. Pidge cringed about with panic in her veins, trying desperately to move as she thought of some way out, but her legs didn't respond no matter how hard she tried.

A few words from years ago by the oracle of her village resounded strongly inside her head, something she had completely forgotten. A promise of fate that she naively thought had been delivered when she met her friends, and of which her family feared terribly when she began her travels around the world.

When she felt the footsteps of the orc approaching her, the tears didn't prevent falling to her cheeks for the cruelty that would end up being her death. Her mother was right when years ago she tried to desist about her desire for adventure.

Pidge was doomed.

She screamed in anger when the hands of a few goblins began to tear the clothes with their nails and teeth with fearsome ease, while others held her body against the ground. Pidge beat and bit them desperately, but it was useless when many of them held their limbs with a despicable force. Her throat burned with the force of her screams and her skin bled at the cuts that were made while they undressed her by force. Pidge naively thought that if she tries to concentrate for a few seconds, she would be able to perform a protective spell before she was raped, but her weariness and fear intervened with her magical abilities. Pidge felt desperate, helpless, and deep in her mind, it was constantly repeated that if she hadn't abandoned her family for a personal desire, none of that would be happening.

Her screams mingled with her laments when she saw the orc approaching with a look that made her tremble in her own place, one of the goblins bit her shoulder so hard that she was not able to continue to hold the basic spell of her appearance, changing its morphology into pointy ears characteristic of her race, her hair grew falling on her back to cover barely something of her trembling body, and her wings appeared tinkling erratically, being caressed with the nails of those inferior beings, somewhere in she was afraid they would be torn from her body.

In spite of everything, Pidge didn't stop fighting trying to break free, looking directly at the high-altitude monster whose mouth hadn't closed since he saw her fall for the first time, his saliva dripped rudely from his chin, and Pidge knew that after to desecrate her, he would devour her head with his own teeth.

Her eyes clouded with a lament from her insides when he took her by the neck with one of his hands.

She would have liked to eat a little more of Hunk's peanut butter cake.

He lifted her violently from the ground to stamp her against the wall, to the amusement of the goblins around her one of her wings broke to the impact.

She wanted to see what the sea was like when Lance talked so much to her at night.

Taking advantage of the position she was left in; the orc raised her backside with so much pressure that Pidge almost felt it would break her back. A deep growl inside his throat made her want to tear out his eyes, but her arms didn't respond no matter how hard she tried to move them.

She would have liked to be in charge of the union of Matt and Shiro for next fall when the trees covered the village with multiple colors.

But none of that mattered anymore, she thought. Her end was going to be miserable at the hands of goblins and orcs. A fate that she could never avoid even taking all the precautions.

Only for her desire for freedom and knowledge.

The only thing Pidge thought, before closing her eyes tightly, was that she could only be reborn with a destiny freed from the curses that came with an adventurous life.

The pressure in her insides never came.

However, she could feel the blood spreading on her back violently, when Pidge turned around, she could see that a giant wolf had ripped the head of the orc behind her.

The goblins began to scream in fear, attacking the beast with their claws and teeth, in vain. Pidge wanted to know what had happened in so few seconds, but soon her consciousness began to cloud through exhaustion and recent stress.

The last thing she was able to see, was a hair tied on a broad back and marks of a race cursed by darkness.

 ...

 When Pidge awoke, her limbs burned like shit, as if she had lived a marathon for hours with her brother Matt through the forest of her village, and the muscles of her body were completely torn after constant exercise, so she couldn't help the loud growl from her throat as she rose heavily from a warm, welcoming skin. When she opened her eyes, Pidge didn't see the old castle that was used as a colony for the goblins, nor the forest in which she was trapped with her friends for many days. But a simple bonfire, and the snout of the wolf that had saved it a few minutes ago.

Pidge quickly got up scared, regretting when she realized that it hadn't been a good idea considering the current state of her body, her wings felt stiff behind her back, so she supposed they were being held back by some bandage. She dragged the skin that covered her shame across her shoulders to give herself some heat, the night was still high in the sky and the cold was unbearable. She looked cautiously at the beast she was using as a pillow all this time, now she was sure that she had not imagined it, it was exactly as her father described it in his book of non-earthly beings that she read in her first years of life.

She was next to a cosmic wolf, a beast from space.

''I see you have enough energy to get up...''

Pidge looked away to the voice that greeted her, where a young man, with soft but aggressive features, looked at her with an expressionless face. The marks on his cheeks that grew to his eyes echoed in his memory. He, however, only offered her a bowl full of water.

''Drink it.''

Pidge took it looking at it cautiously, it had a strange color and it moved as if it were viscous on its contents. Pidge hesitated a little, but he had saved her from being killed by the goblins a few minutes ago, so it didn't make sense to think that he was trying to attack her life, so she took it in one trip.

As she supposed, it was disgusting, but she did her best not to return it to the first arcade.

''What the heck was ... '' Pidge barked hitting her chest, he shrugged and still moved the ashes of the fire with a stick.

''It will help you recover the quintessence of your body.''

''Thank you very much ... '' Pidge was surprised by herself when her voice was heard harsher and more serious than normal, touching her neck with one of her hands.

''Your trachea is somewhat closed; it is a consequence of the poison that was injected when you fled the goblins.'' The boy answered simply. ''You'll feel better after a few days.''

''How did you find me?'' Pidge asked, but he raised an eyebrow, inquisitive.

''I thought you would be a little more grateful, I saved you from being raped by the goblins.''

''But that doesn't answer my question.''

Pidge answered, a little more defensively. While she was completely grateful for his actions, it seemed a bit strange to her how he had appeared. No goblin perceived it to be miles away being that they were skillful in finding potential enemies. What was strange he kept her gaze for a few moments, until he sighed heavily as he continued to play with the fire.

''I ... I was the one who took them out of that cave last night. I was investigating the ruins of that castle as fieldwork. When I heard the noise from outside, I teleported with Kosmo to see what was happening. '' Caressed the outline of the head of his partner, emphasizing his words. ''That's when I saw the situation, and I ordered my wolf to tear off the orc's head before it did irreparable damage to you.'' His look went down a little, Pidge could see some regret in his eyes. ''I'm really sorry. I thought there was no one around the forest.''

''I understand.'' Pidge replied, a little calmer knowing the truth. ''You were quite reckless, not to say stupid. One doesn't scare the goblins from the caves without even checking the perimeter.''

''It's true.'' Affirmed his words heavily.

''But you helped me at the right time and I couldn't be more grateful for that. So, really, thank you.''

Pidge smiled warmly at the stranger. He didn't seem foolish; it had only been a terrible coincidence that he was about to end her life. But again, she felt really grateful that he had appeared at the ideal moment. Part of Pidge also knew that her actions had been precipitated when she fled into the forest with no plan in mind.

She moved her legs a little more towards the fire, the cold of the night drowned her bones with regret, and although the layer of the skin helped not to die frozen at that moment, it didn't cover her body completely. Suddenly, a fact made noise in her thoughts, breaking the silence that had been armed around them.

''Did you say the last night?'' The elf nodded, confused by her question. Pidge's heart jumped in panic. ''How long have I been unconscious?''

''About two days. We have been moving since then, why?''

''My friends are in that forest.'' She answered worried, he frowned thoughtfully.

''I doubt that they remain there, I didn't feel any magical or human presence while we passed the forest.''

''Is it the same skill you used before releasing the goblins?'' Pidge asked sarcastically, he just watched her irritated.

''No, I used a tracking spell looking for someone who could help you. But I didn't find anything.''

Pidge's concern was evident in her face, her friends would surely think that the goblins had taken her, and if they weren't close to an elf's tracking skills, then they had run to the opposite direction without Shiro's help, who could feel her presence while they were at an adequate distance.

Perhaps the liquid that the goblin had slipped through their ears was precisely so that they couldn't easily find her, and not a poison like Pidge had initially created. But the elf's words brought her out of her thoughts.

''Anyway, we are closer to Arus than the forest, they will surely be there.''

''I don't know...'' Pidge moved a little more to rest her head on the back of the cosmic wolf, she still felt a little weak. The wolf accepted her delightedly. ''One of them is my brother-in-law and an oni. He will be desperately looking for me everywhere.''

''If he is intelligent, he will feel your quintessence trail out of the forest. They are pretty good sniffing yours.''

''Maybe you are right.'' He certainly had it, Pidge thought, somewhat surprised that he knew about youkais. Her best option was to head towards Arus at that time. ''I'm Pidge, by the way. You will take me there, right?'' The boy smiled slightly, nodding after a few seconds staring at her.

''I'm Keith. Do I have another option?''

''No.''

Pidge finally answered a feeling of warmth reached her heart when she reached an accomplishment while watching those eyes as dark as night. Keith had just been responsible for her rebirth, and she no longer needed to fear the death of a prophecy.

[mamichigo]

Hi! How are you? May I request a Dazatsu scenario/headcanon when Dazai went back to Port Mafia (the condition of Mori in the past chapters), Atsushi is devastated and after a while Dazai surprises him and confess???aasdhmkdljk!!! Thank you!!!!

Anon, I hope you don’t mind that I went the extra mile and actually wrote this. If you’d like something different, please do let me know.

the shape of your absence (1.9k)

When he thought about it—truly thought about it, as he rarely allowed himself to do so the pain and the despair wouldn’t creep back in and hold him with shackles that pulled on his neck and stole his breath away—, the anger he felt was misplaced. Unfair, even. If Atsushi let himself be rational about the events that transpired not so long ago (two weeks and three days, almost four), the steam of rage would slowly seep out of him like mist.

And that was exactly the problem, as once the anger left, all that took its place were tears that Atsushi had been choking on for days on end. He had already cried enough, the first night. For so long his head pounded, his throat burned and his entire body was drained of all energy. Getting up from the bed the day after was a nearly impossible task, but Atsushi showed up for work anyway—more for everyone else’s sake than his own.

Though, seeing their faces fall even further at the sight of Atsushi’s disheveled state, maybe he shouldn’t have come at all, then.

It was much too late to think about that, now. But Atsushi found himself reflecting on his own actions more often than not, nowadays. Not on anything that truly mattered on the longer run, mind you: maybe he could’ve replied more enthusiastically to Tanizaki’s invitation a few days ago, he could’ve offered to help when he noticed Yosano struggling with the coffee machine, he could’ve fixed his own tie before Kunikida had approached and fixed it for him (albeit not without grumbling and scolding him quite a few times).

Just normal, ordinary interactions that left Atsushi feeling a stranger in his own skin, struggling to remember if this was how he responded to others in any given situation. The more often it happened, the worse Atsushi would feel; every time Atsushi blinked at them in confusion, every time he hesitated or stayed quiet for too long before asking what were they talking about, again? With each one of those moments, the worry only grew on their already exhausted looking faces.

Atsushi didn’t know how to explain to them that he felt lost, adrift in a sea he never learned how to navigate. He had been riding on someone else’s boat this entire time, and now he could no longer bring himself to the shore, nor was there an anchor to keep himself from being dragged by the tide.

He didn’t know how to explain that, while Atsushi talked to them, he only saw the empty spot beside them, where Dazai should be standing.

How did he let others know that, for over two weeks, all Atsushi heard was fading laughter, while everyone else was completely silent?

Even more so, how did he let all those feelings out, when Kunikida was staring at him expectantly, waiting for a response that Atsushi couldn’t give, because his mind and heart weren’t there at all. Atsushi opened and closed his mouth several times; Kunikida’s frown deepened. He could feel Ranpo’s knowing gaze burning on his back.

It was just the same as always, all he needed to do was ask Kunikida to repeat himself. But the sun was getting lower on the horizon, and with it went the rest of Atsushi’s resolve and his already weak front. The familiar sting of tears greeted him, and Atsushi tried for a wobbly smile, but didn’t fool himself into thinking it looked like anything else other than a grimace.

“I— I need to go,” was what he was able to to say before running out of there completely, stumbling through the heaviness of his own body. He heard Kunikida’s voice behind him, but didn’t stick around for long enough to find out if the man would come after him.

He doesn’t stop running once he’s out of the Agency building. Instead, he takes one long breath of clean air and picks up the pace, fast enough that the people, the streets, all become a blur he can’t distinguish. He wheezes out apologies on automatic, not even feeling when he comes in contact with some stranger’s shoulder.

For weeks now Atsushi has felt the urge to escape, somewhere far away from the uncertainty, the heavy atmosphere in the office that made the air rarefied. He just wanted to be able to breath without feeling like his lungs were collapsing, to look and see past the ghost of warm brown eyes. It didn’t matter from what he was running, or towards what, all Atsushi knew was that he needed to go, now , before his body ceased to function altogether under the weight of his too tired heart.

He ran until he no longer could, until his feet tripped on air and he was falling down, down and down for what felt way longer than it truly was. By the time he stops, face pressed to warm grass, there are new and burning cuts all along his arms and legs, but Atsushi can’t find it in himself to get up.

He gazes at the bright surface of the river, reflecting the orange light of the sunset, and chuckles miserably. Of course, of all the places to go, his body would decide to come here.

Here, of all places. Where they…

“We first met here, didn’t we? What a coincidence.”

Atsushi doesn’t turn. In fact, he doesn’t do anything at all, already tired beyond what he’s capable of bearing to let himself hope that this time, when he hears Dazai’s voice, it’ll be true. To let that hope be shattered yet again when he finds out it’s only one more trick his own mind is playing on him.

“You know, I expected a lot of things, but being ignored wasn’t one of them.” Atsushi hears the grass crunch as it���s stepped on for a few seconds that last for an eternity. A pair of perfectly polished dress shoes come into view, and when he looks up, brown eyes looks back. “Hello, Atsushi-kun.”

His throat constricts, and he struggles not to fall apart entirely when his heart falls out of his chest. Perhaps in any other situation he would’ve acted in a more composed fashion, but as it is right now, Atsushi can only scramble to get to Dazai, throwing himself at him in a messy hug.

“Woah!” Dazai says, holding him even if only to keep them both from suffering a painful fall (in Atsushi’s case, another one). “Slow down— Atsushi-kun, I can’t breathe—”

“I was so worried, I didn’t know what would happen. We didn’t have any updates on you for so long, I was starting to fear that— I was afraid you would—” Atsushi shivered, unable to let the words out. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Dazai chuckles, starting on a sentence that would surely be just another joke, a dismissive explanation. But Atsushi can’t hear it right now, is sure he would just break into tears if he did, so he hugs Dazai tighter, as much as he possibly can without hurting Dazai.

The words get cut off, and Dazai goes quiet, not moving for a minute. Then, a bit hesitantly, as if unsure of what to do with his own hands, Dazai wrapped his arms around Atsushi’s waist, the young man tucked neatly under his chin.

“I thought you wouldn’t be coming back,” Atsushi whispers, hopeful and fragile like he had stopped himself from being so many times since Dazai walked away flanked by Port Mafia goons.

And just like that, It’s as if the world cracks around them. The temperature drops, Dazai’s body tenses, and his arms slowly retract despite Atsushi’s attempts to keep him there.

“I’m not,” Dazai says, blunt and almost cruel in a way that he rarely was with Atsushi.

“What?”

“I’m not coming back, Atsushi-kun.” Dazai nudges Atsushi’s body away with a gentleness that betrays his tone. Atsushi, confused, stares at him unblinking, unsteady on his feet. “I made my decision, I’m not going back on it.”

“Why not?” He blurted out. “I— Don’t you want to come back?”

“It’s not about wanting, Atsushi-kun, it’s about what’s better for the Agency. This was the best alternative,” Dazai explained, but Atsushi couldn’t make sense of his words.

“There has to be another way, right? Another solution. You always managed to find a way out, we can fix this, too,” Atsushi insiststed.

When he takes a step forward, Dazai takes one back.

“It’s not that simple,” Dazai says.

“Then we’ll make it that simple!” Atsushi pleaded, still inching closer to Dazai even when he pulled away.

“That’s not how it works, you don’t get it—”

Before Dazai could escape again, Atsushi reached for him, taking hold of his wrist, looking at him with pleading eyes. “Then make me understand!”

“I love you!” Dazai ground out in a pained whisper, as if it was squeezed out of him. He broke away from Atsushi’s touch, only to hold his head between his palms. “Just listen to me, I love you. I need to make sure you and the life that you cherish are left intact, no matter what happens. I can’t lose anyone else, Atsushi-kun.”

“I don’t want to lose you either!” Atsushi told him, clutching one of the hands still on his cheek. “Please, Dazai-san—”

“Live. No matter what happens to me, live, Atsushi-kun.”

As soon as Dazai let go of him, fingers slipping through Atsushi’s, he knew he was losing him.

“If you’re not there, I…”

He tries, one last time, to get in Dazai’s space. Maybe, if he held on tight enough, Dazai would stay. Maybe he could strip away the Mafia black that tainted him, in plain sight as his new dark coat billowed in the wind.

But as soon as he as much as twitches, something cold is pressed to his forehead, and Atsushi stares in shock at the barrel of the gun.

“My subordinates should be here any second,” Dazai says, words as cold as his eyes (so far from the warmth that Atsushi had become accustomed to and taken comfort in). “Go, Atsushi-kun. And don’t come looking for me.”

Atsushi breathes in and takes a step forward, so the gun is flush against his skin. He shakes, but he’s confident when he says, “You wouldn’t shoot me.”

Dazai visibly falters, fingers twitching around the trigger. He smiles, brimming with a pain that Atsushi can only begin to understand.

“Please, go. I’m begging you.”

Atsushi looks from the gun to the Dazai’s hunched shoulders, to the way Dazai’s entire body seems to reject the heavy clothes he wore as a member of the Port Mafia. He looks into Dazai’s eyes, the person he trusts with his whole soul, and nods.

“I’ll come back for you,” Atsushi says, with the conviction that his own heartache had smothered in the past few weeks. “I’ll find a way.”

Dazai didn’t reply, nor did he move, but Atsushi knew he heard him. Moving past the gun, Atsushi pressed a brief kiss to the corner of Dazai’s mouth. “I love you too, please wait for me,” he whispers.

Atsushi sees black spots approaching them out of the corner of his eyes and any chances he had to say more is cut short, so Atsushi squeezes his eyes shut and turns, refusing to say goodbye.

As Atsushi runs in the opposite direction, he fails to see the tears in Dazai’s own eyes.

[trelldraws]

with total, heartfelt honesty: i just don’t understand people who don’t care for las vegas. (it’s like that one wonderful turn of phrase from the new yorker, you know, the one about queen: there are people alive who do not enjoy sin city, but i believe in my heart that those people are simply adrift.)

going to las vegas is like this: you drive west, and west, and west, and a little south, and the temperature ratchets up by the mile. (by the time you hit st. george there are palm trees instead of cedars, and winter is something that happens to other people.) wind your way through the jagged yellow gorge along a parched little creek that passes, in late july, for the virgin river, and find yourself suddenly in glorious, stupefyingly hot nevada—eighty miles of nothing but joshua trees and solar farms and a couple aborted attempts at gambling-positive civilization, and an hour later it’s the same hour that it was over an hour ago and 114F by the thermometer and you’re doing eighty past probably the biggest trucker bar in the entire american west—

—and out of the vast empty frying pan of the mojave rises that colossal glittering shrine to human hedonism, gaudy and opulent and so hot that driving into the valley at 11:00PM the temperature jumps from 98 to 101F. it’s ludicrously wasteful and over-the-top, every inch a celebration of its own ridiculous nature: palm trees and designer labels all lined up in a row and a fountain the size of a lake in the dead open desert, all gobbling up water and energy and money and tourists and belching out carbon dioxide and light enough to see over the california border

(the tourists in las vegas are the fun kind of tourists, for two reasons: first, because however much vegas might like to rebrand itself as a family destination it isn’t; and second, because those who travel to vegas are going for vegas, and are possessed of a single mind. one does not go to vegas to get away from the crowd.)

the strip in 2019 does not look like it does in ocean’s eleven. when you watch ocean’s now there’s too much black in the background—danny stands outside the bellagio and the aria and the vdara and the cosmopolitan aren’t there, and neither are the endless array of enormous flickering billboards. (these days it’s all moving pictures, glitzy ads for the stage shows that can be read from a mile away.) and then again it does, because jostling next to the glassy behemoths are the classics, still; and it must be the cultural persistence of these places that makes las vegas feel like a temporal liminal space, half hollywood antique and half space opera dream, stuck on its way from 1946 into some far distant future. the flamingo still stands, and certainly something of bugsy siegel lingers prominently about the entire north end

(the city out past the strip is perfect, too: sprawling flat, whitewashed instead of stucco, and palm trees lining every last street. orange double-decker buses tote slogans for an aggressive water conservation campaign, and really, if nevada can get its act together enough to fine for over-watering and pointless turf there might be hope for us yet)

which is all very glancing, of course, the experience in passing, and maybe there’s legitimate reasons that someone might dislike las vegas. but the fact of the matter is that i don’t care, because: las vegas delivers. life everywhere is mundane, it’s relentlessly disappointing, it’s drab. nothing ever lives up to expectations and nothing ever is like it is in the movies—but las vegas is, and it does

there is a certain fundamental joy to knowing that at least one place lives up to its movie magic. that there’s still somewhere where people smoke cigars on the casino floor and everybody drives like an absolute maniac and music plays in the street all the time, and that elvis really just had all of it exactly right, down to the very last word

[selinavizari]

A Day At The Carnival With Taron

Anon Request! Thanks again for the idea! Sorry for the long ass wait. I’m slacking.

Content: Fluff, Smut, Strong Language

Word Count: 1788

It was a gorgeous summer afternoon. My heart was beating a mile a minute as I stood outside the carnival’s entrance. Visitors were passing by me and I watched them march on. There were hordes of excitable teens congregating among each other. I wondered where Taron was. He did say he was close by but he was running late. The urge to double text was at the tip of my fingers. I frowned and started to adjust my knee length dress. It was stretchy, cotton, airy... perfect for this weather. I adjusted the thin straps and ran my hands through my hair. Anything to avoid sending what could be an obnoxious text. I kept glancing towards my phone in hopes of seeing a message from him. Maybe he can’t make it. That unfortunate thought washed over me as I looked towards the street and then down at my painted toes. The grass brushed against them. I wriggled them and began to fidget. I took a deep breath and began wondering how much the uber would be to get back home...you know… just in case. I reached into my pockets and began to untangle the ear phones. It was only in their for a few moments and they were already in a knot. My eyebrows furrowed in complete concentration. Out of nowhere, I felt something rub against ankle and it abruptly made its way to my calf. I almost leaped out of my skin and that sent my earphones flying.

I swung my elbow around at the assailant and it was Taron. His eyes were wide and his grin was almost cartoonish.“Gotcha!” He managed to dodge my blow. I slapped his arm. It was a love tap. He pulled me in for an embrace. “Oh my god! I’m glad I was able to get out of the way in the nick of time. You could knocked me out!” When he released me,  I crouched and scooped up my fallen earphones. “You could have been some weirdo pervert!” I exclaimed. “True. I'm not a weirdo. But I'm positive that I'm a pervert.” He waggled his eyebrows and gave me a most suggestive smirk. I took immediate notice of those adorable dimples. I could feel his eyes all over me. I blushed. Sweetness returned to his voice as he whispered. “For real. I am sorry that I left you here waiting. That’s not cool. Not at all.” “It’s okay. Glad you’re here now.” I stood there shuffling my feet like an infatuated schoolgirl. Taron held my hand up to kiss it. I couldn't maintain eye contact with him. He drove me wild. “Let’s check this place out!” A glint of mischief hung over those words. We strolled towards the entrance with our arms interlocked. I stole a few glances at him. He was wearing a fitted cotton white shirt that had a few wrinkles, and relaxed denim jeans. They were  worn in. His hair  tousled. I felt safe and secure while his hand held mine. The aroma of popcorn and cotton candy filled the air so I couldn’t get a whiff of his cologne. I could see a slight tiredness in his eyes and then I felt guilty for even thinking of leaving the park. He could been on on set or with his agent. I should ask him? Maybe not. I involuntarily gripped his hand tighter. Taron noticed and looked at me through the corner of his eye with an inquisitive look. “Hm? You okay?” “I’m-m-m good.” I stammered as I collected my thoughts. After we stood in line for our tickets, Taron asked, “What do you want to get on first, love?” My eyes surveyed the massive park for a few fleeting moments like an explorer.  It was a landscape overwhelmed with bold, garish colors. As I squinted my eyes, I rubbed my chin. There was plenty of amusement rides, food trucks and carnival games to choose from. “Don’t think too hard.” He folded the magenta strip of tickets into his back pocket. I found it. “Right over there!  The Tilt-A-Whirl!” “Cool. Let’s go.” The line was short and that was one of the main reasons why I choose it. We were able to get on the ride in no time. The operator strapped us in this free spinning car that looked like a sliced, bright red apple. When the ride started, I squealed and then covered my mouth. The sound that left my mouth sounded a child. Taron mocked me by trying imitating me. When it picked up speed, our apple car began spinning out of control because of the uneven platform. I couldn’t stop laughing. Taron was having a great time! “Ooohhhh Myyy Goodddd!” He yelled out. This was an absolute blast. When the Tilt-A-Whirl slowed down, we both caught our breath. I wobbled my way across the platform, and down the heavy duty metal staircase. Taron made sure I was steady. “What’s next?” I pointed at the spaceship. The broad blinking lit sign read, “Gravitron”. Taron scratched his head, “What is that?” “...You’ll find out.” I answered cryptically. He was going to be in for the shock of his life. When Gravitron took off, and the spinning entered turbo mode. We felt glued down to the panel. Taron screamed, “What the FUCK is this? Get me off of this! What is all this pressure?! This is insane! Y/N, why do you hate me?!”  He struggled to raise his arm. I laughed so hard my belly ached and tears formed in my eyes. The ride slowed down and I could not stop giggling as I wiped my eyes. “Oh this is funny?!” He beamed towards me as he gestured his hands around the spaceship. I nodded. We were both out of breath. “Okay, it kind of is.” He admitted. “I pick the next one! You lost all choosing privileges! That was bullshit.” “Fine, fine!” I rolled my eyes. “What about that roller coaster? We’ll sit in the front. It’ll be fun.” I raised my eyebrow. I knew he was trying to get back at me a little. “No problem.” “So you’re not scared at all?!” “Nope, I’ll will never be as scared as you were in that spaceship.” I teased. “I wasn’t scared! I was mad!” He laughed as he cleared his throat. “Surreeee, you were.” I responded sarcastically. We sat in the infamous first row reserved for thrill seekers. He rested his hand on my thigh. The track was wooden, and a vintage model. That made me a little nervous. The cars went up steadily and I paid close attention to the clinking of the gears. I could feel Taron’s hand wandering up my thigh. The roller coaster climbed higher and higher. He was going for it. Right now. His middle finger rubbed my on clit through my panties. I closed my eyes and bit my lip. I could feel myself getting wetter and my legs spread wider. As soon as we reached the very top, he pulled his hand away. He broke the trance he put me under. I opened my eyes to witness that we were going to experience the first drop. I looked over at him and he winked at me. I shook my head. “You are something….ELSSEEEE!” The roller coaster dropped into an almost vertical downward slope. My stomach did backflips and I thought I was going to be flung right out of my seat. My body tensed up in anticipation for every twist and turn. Before I knew it… it was over. I looked over at Taron in utter disbelief and nodded my head. “Well...that was interesting.” “I told you it would be fun.” He held my hand and led me down the staircase and back to steady ground. I wondered if anyone noticed our antics.“We can continue over there I think...” He nudged his head towards this outlandish fun house. “But...how…” I was unsure. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.” He pulled me in close and whispered into my ear. “I can’t wait to find out what your pussy tastes like.” He brushed his thumb across my lips. I gasped at how casual he was about this sexual escapade and he kissed me. I always believed that he was sexy but today he was taking things to new heights. He led me towards to the entryway. We walked down the aisles and glanced at our distorted reflections in the mirrors. Then we proceeded to wade through this multi-colored ball pit. It was rather quiet. Not a soul around. Then we arrived at a plastic yellow tube that we needed to crawl through to get to the other side. “Ladies first.” He bowed. “Mhm. What a gentleman!” I bent over to crawl on all fours. “Is this what you want? Enjoying the view?” “I want it. This view is perfect.” He licked his lips. Taron looked behind him to make sure the coast was clear. “Go in...a little further.” I crawled a few inches into the tube. He gripped my thigh, “Stop.” He pulled down my panties and I arched my back. I felt the cool air up against my exposed pussy. He lifted my dress up and grabbed my ass. I moaned. I felt him put two fingers inside and thrusted slowly. I moaned louder but lifted my hand to cover my mouth in hopes of stifling the sounds. I didn’t want us to get caught and that turned me on even more. “You are so wet.” He murmured and then placed soft kisses on it. I could hear the smack of his lips against me. What followed was Taron’s warm, stiff tongue fluttering rapidly on my clit. The build up was swift and I was adrift in absolute ecstasy. I arched even further so that he get a better angle. My face was inches from the plastic tube’s smooth cool surface and my breasts almost spilled out my dress. It yanked up so far that I would have taken it off if we had the luxury of privacy. Those delicious, wet sounds bounced off the interior walls and my eyes rolled back. “Please... Taron… right there. I’m so close. Sofuckingclose.” I struggled to constrain the volume of my voice. My legs were shaking as he maintained that brisk, rhythmic pace. A powerful orgasm surged throughout my body. I tried to pull away but he held me down. He had a taste but thirsted for much more. A coarse, authoritative voice rang out from behind me that wasn’t Taron’s. It was a little too far away. “What the hell is going on here?!”

[kkruml]

I don’t even know your name Chapter 17

@smoakingwaffles my yoda, love ye I do.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 2.5 | Chapter  3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11| Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

AO3

Previously

He heard the shower turn on and he smiled reflexively, looking down at his dusty and disheveled appearance, the exertion from her move still on his skin. One hand was already discarding his shirt as he stepped into the hallway towards the bathroom.

He stopped to take one final sweep of the flat, their flat- and eyed the pile of envelopes on the counter.

The corner of a thick manila envelope caught his attention- he saw the distinct mark of a hospital name printed. His smile faded and his brow creased as two fingers, slightly shaking, pushed the pile of envelopes enough to see the return address and he froze.

Massachusetts General Hospital- Surgical Residency Admissions Office

His eyes stared at the envelope as his pulse filled his ears; his world slowly faded to black as he stumbled backwards and hit the hardwood floor.

Jamie

It was her birthday; she deserved a perfect night.

She deserved to be happy. No matter where she was. He wanted- needed- answers. He feared what she would say. He was desperate to know. But he would have to wait.

One more night to cherish her before it all crumbled away.

One night to imagine every possible scenario that ended with her leaving.

Just make it through tonight.

Claire

I had never thought much of my birthday. My childhood had been spent on archaeological digs, scouring books in libraries for ancient secrets. The calendar hadn’t meant much to me until med school. And now, with Jamie, I eagerly checked my schedule against his, looking for precious hours to spend together.  

Having spent the better part of the day packing and unpacking my little corner of the world and settling it amongst his, I had been given the best gift of all.

Jamie.

And- that- I intended to celebrate.

We had ordered another round- two drams of Glen Grant and two pints of stout. Jamie’s arm stretched along the back of my chair as my arm rested softly at his side. The final syllables of Joe’s punch line prompted a snort from Gail as I hiccupped into my glass and I laughed, trying to find my breath.  I felt the low hum reverberate from Jamie’s chest and I leaned into the sound, one hand cupping his knee as I felt the line of his thigh press against mine.

Flashes of the life I had always wanted finally came into focus. Nights were not filled with formal dinners and expensively ostentatious bottles of wine, with etiquette and manners at the forefront and education and politics meticulously woven in. No. Instead, they were filled with pub food, cheap beer, good whisky, and my favorite stories made new again with Jamie by my side.

Joe launched into another memory from our neurology rotation and I felt a long sigh from Jamie. His eyes were focused on Joe, head nodding slightly as he listened but I caught the slight tick of movement in his cheek, as if he was wincing, though it did not fit the story he was hearing.

He had been quiet tonight; I had eyed him speculatively more than once, sensing fatigue. His breath came hard at times, as if a weight lay on his chest. His eyes were hooded and I scarcely saw the sea of deep blue, but felt the familiar heat emanate from his chest and I settled myself next to him, basking in the warm glow of bliss I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I felt the drum of Jamie’s fingers along the chair, against my shoulder. My eyes searched for his, but he stopped short of meeting my gaze. Instead, one corner of his mouth curled slightly as he pulled his arm from me to take a drink of whisky.

Jamie

Boston.

His ears heard the deep, velvety voice, but all he could focus on was the neat, even print on the envelope.

Boston.

That word, that thought, kept trickling back into his mind despite his best efforts. He fought every urge to ask, and each time their eyes met he felt his tongue fight the word as it tried to form. Instead his hand found hers and pulled it to his mouth, gently kissing her knuckles. He heard, almost felt her sigh as his lips lingered against her skin for a moment, soaking in her smell and touch, before resting them both on his thigh. His heart pulsed both in love and in pain at the light hum of her laugh while anticipating the next line in a well-worn and beloved story.

Boston.

He wanted to be near her, encompass her, pour himself into her and drink them both together. The sting of the word would shock his senses and it took all his energy not to retreat. He needed space, needed to be near her, needed to be alone and yet together all in one moment. His thoughts spun in an endless circle as Joe’s voice seeped in, feeling ivory skin locked between his fingers. He set back against the chair, cold and firm, exhaling hard as he nodded, hearing faint traces of the words floating around him.

The tension between his shoulder blades could have snapped with a light touch. They walked slowly up the steps to their flat. Their flat- the words sent a hot spike into his chest as his mind started swirling once again.

As he pushed the door closed behind them, he turned to see her staring at him, close- too close, not close enough. Her eyes found his, whisky eyes glowed in the dim light- embers burning into his soul.

“Jamie,” she whispered; her voice low and full.  She smiled as her eyes softened and her hand reached for his. “Take me to bed.”

He felt the hot spike penetrate his rib cage as her words hit him. His feet were locked in place, his hands burning to feel her skin against his. He wanted nothing more than to kiss, touch, caress every inch of her but felt his heart contract at the thought.

Her eyes flickered in doubt, her smile fading as her hand fell slightly. “Please?”

The word broke his spell. He stepped towards her and without a word his lips found hers as his fingers locked into her curls. His tongue traced hers as she moaned into his mouth, her hands reaching for his arms, fingers pressed into muscle. Without breaking their kiss, he slowly walked her back into the apartment, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her closer against him.

Her skin pulsed against his. Fingertips traced the lines of her curves as her breath filled his lungs. His tongue dipped from breast to rib cage and across her ivory skin. His lips grazed her collarbone and lingered against her neck, soaking in the faint traces of lavender on her and as it mixed with the honey on his breath. Small gasps escaped her lips as her back arched, their hips pressed against each other. Her fingers grasped for his curls and pulled his face to hers, deep blue drinking in her deep amber.

He entered her slowly, savoring each sensation, watching her lower lip quiver as he moved gently, purposefully. His eyes traced the lines of her face from her cheek to her chin, the curve of her lip as she brought her face to his. His eyes watched every movement, memorizing every sound that escaped her lips. Shadows of this moment would haunt him long after heat of her skin had left his fingertips. He pressed deeper, seeking for possession, both of her and his own. As the rhythm slowly brought them to pieces, she cried out his name- her voice written on his soul as he shattered around her. 

Claire

I felt weightless, adrift. My hand reached for him and found his pillow, empty. The deep contentment that coursed through me the night before dissipated as I yearned for his warmth, his steady heartbeat pulsing around me.

I found him sitting at the table; shoulders slouched slightly as he sipped his coffee, eyes fixated on the crack in the wood. My cup of tea was sitting next to him, as it was every morning.

I smiled as I walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder and as I kissed his cheek, I felt his muscles tense. “Good morning, Sassenach.”

“Good morning, sleep well?” I asked, trying to coax a smile but was met with hooded eyes.

He took a small sip and as he swallowed, I heard a low, “Mmph.”

“Jamie,” I asked, “Is something wrong?”

One hand rested on a thick envelope, fingers drumming lightly as he slowly slid it to me. His eyes finally met mine and burned my skin.

 Massachusetts General Hospital- Surgical Residency Admissions Office

 My eyes stared at the emblem, and my heart stopped. One hand trembled as I broke the seal and slowly pulled the top sheet out enough to see the first few words. I blinked twice before trying to focus on each letter.

 Miss Beauchamp, We are pleased to announce the opening of a position in the Surgical Residency Program.

 A thousand fragmented thoughts flashed across my vision as I stared at the words, unable to move or speak.

“… Boston, then?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it was thick with anticipation.

My face lifted from the blue and white emblem on the envelope to see his eyes- a dark storm behind a carefully crafted dam- staring back at me, waiting. “Jamie…”

My heart was pounding against my ribcage and my lungs struggled for air as I tried to piece it all together.

Boston. Scotland. Jamie. Home.

“Jamie,” I tried again, my voice was hoarse and shook slightly. “I applied for this program but that was over a year ago, that was before…”

“Before me.” His eyes dropped back to the table, he pressed his hands together and rubbed one palm with his thumb.

“Before a lot of things.” I tried to clarify, but his eyes were a thousand miles and two hundred years away.

“If ye hadna met me, would ye go?”  

“It’s more complicated than that.” My hand reached for his and tried to interlock our fingers. His hand did not resist but his fingers lay motionless. The movement that had all been but a reflex was suddenly a distant memory. I tried to clear my throat, to find focus, “I was weight-listed there, a position opened up so I’m next in line… if I want it.”

“Claire,” he paused, and raised his face to mine, eyes wide and unassuming. “Do ye want to go?”

“To this program?” I clarified, trying to find a few precious moments to sort out my thoughts.

“Aye.”

“It’s an incredible program. Anyone would lucky to be there.” My voice shook slightly as I tried to steady it.

“Yer no’ answerin’ my question.” His accent was growing thicker as I felt a distance form between us.

“Do you want me to go?” I felt my chin quiver as tears threatened.

“No-“ The word sounded broken as he took a deep breath, and shook his head slightly. “No I dinna want ye to go,” his eyes were a tumultuous storm as his voice shook. “But ye need to do this. Ye need to go to Boston.”

“But Jamie-“ the panic was seeping into my voice as I stared at him, his face as flushed as mine felt. “Things are d-different now.”

“I wilna be the reason ye miss out on this,” he pushed his chair away from the table, eyes focused as he took a deep breath before turning to leave the room. The sound of his feet on the hardwood floor pulsed in my chest to the beat of my heart.  

“Please,” my voice cracked as I my head fell into my hands, fingers shifting into my curls as I felt the tears form. “Please don’t do this.”

He paused, turning back to see me. I heard two deep breaths before I felt slow, careful footsteps behind me and I felt large hands encompass me. His arms locked around me as his chest rested against my back.

“Mo nighean donn,” his face nestled into my curls, his lips finding my cheek as he sighed heavily.

My hands grasped his arms, strong and warm as I tried to steady my breathing. “Jamie-” but the words wouldn’t come. I closed my eyes, feeling the nearness of him and letting him fill my senses.

“I dinna want ye to leave, but I canna bear to be the reason ye stay.” His arms tightened around me as I felt a warm droplet meet my cheek, and I felt a small cough from Jamie’s chest.

The tension in the air was snapped by the deafening sound of my phone ringing. I stared at the screen, unmoving, still clenching Jamie’s arms, unwilling to let him move. My eyes locked onto the name calling and I felt my heart beat loudly in my chest. One hand slowly reached for the phone, shaking slightly.

On the fourth ring, I finally hit answer.

I tried to compose my voice, failing miserably, "Gail?”

“Claire-Claire! Please, you have to come to the hospital. It’s Joe…” My mind went blank as the phone slipped out of my hand and hit the table. Arms around me tightened as I felt a cold chill in my bones, his heat unable to penetrate my thoughts.

“Claire? What’s wrong?”

Flashes of images ran through my mind but all I could manage through a wisp of a voice was “Joe.”

[fullmetalscullyy]

awareness

all the good and soft vibes to u ✨🌻

rated: g | words: 1689 | tags: royai, there was only one bed, fluff, cuddling, pining, yearning

read on ao3

there was only one bed: and they were both so aware of each other but unable to speak

This was not good.

Well, it was, his body argued, but it wasn’t.

Sharing a bed was something Roy’s heart and mind yearned for, but his rationale told him he should put a stop to it. To create distance and back away.

There was no other option this evening, however, unless he wished to sleep on the floor.

He did not.

He’d seen some rather questionable stains on the old, ratty carpet. Roy wouldn’t sleep down there even if someone paid him to.

So, they were both stuck in their predicament for now.

How Roy was going to get any sleep, he didn’t know. Not with Hawkeye lying right there, so close and so warm. So enticing, as she always was to him, even with the simplest of movements and gestures. When the softest of sighs left her as she relaxed and drifted off into a slumber, Roy was a goner.

The desire to reach out and touch her was incredible. To draw her in close to his side where she’d be safe and loved as she deserved. To breathe her in and commit every part of her to his memory, so that their time apart, when they couldn’t be together, would be slightly less painful. To hold her and cherish her in this unexpected turn of events, where they were shoved unceremoniously together, but where they could also turn it into something for their own personal benefit.

It was overwhelming. It almost choked him, and Roy looked over at his Lieutenant. At her back and how it rose and fell with her steady breaths.

The pulse in his ears was almost deafening.

Roy’s arms remained rooted to his sides. The hands forming fists as he resisted the urge.

He would have groaned at his inability to stop stressing and overthinking the situation, but he was afraid of waking her. Or disturbing her. He couldn’t be sure if she was asleep yet as he was too high strung to focus and notice. He could hardly hear now anyway, thanks to the heartbeat in his ears. He wouldn’t have been able to strain and listen to determine if that were the case even if he wanted to.

Roy lifted his eyes to the ceiling and started to count the swirls of paint and follow the patterns painted across it.

His body was so aware of her that his eyes were wide open despite his fatigue. Hopefully, his attempt at counting would relax his mind and body and grant him the chance to get some sleep.

Hopefully.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The Colonel wasn’t sleeping, Hawkeye knew that for sure. He should be, for they had a long day ahead of them tomorrow, but he wasn’t.

She should be too, but it was hard to admit the reason as to why that was the case.

Not because she was in denial of any history or was unaware of any feelings or anything of the sort. No, it was because every instinct, despite her heart’s insistence, was telling her to calm down, to stop thinking about him and them and go to sleep before they did something professionally foolish.

Not that they hadn’t done so before, mind you, but… this was different. Riza was adamant about that.

(It wasn’t different).

They needed to be level-headed and undistracted for tomorrow. It was an important day, and all eyes would be on them. Scrutinising closely and criticising any misstep, no matter how small or insignificant. They had to be at their best and give it their all. There was no room for personal feelings or lingering glances. Nothing that would halt progress and make minds wander.

But… Lying awake all night, hyperaware of one another, not getting a wink of sleep would hinder them too…

Her mind was so smart. Her train of thought made a good point.

Riza rolled over, eyes still closed, as she feigned sleep. Her left leg was cramping up anyway from being held so still for so long. She let out a quiet sigh of relief as the blood began to pump through her muscles again and eased the tension and pain, nearly forgetting Roy was less than a foot away from her in the bed.

The Colonel nearly started as her body called for relief. He stiffened beside her and there was a sharp inhale. It appeared he was as aware of her lying next to him as she was.

He was so close, so warm. He was always so welcoming when she was invited into his arms or his bed. His soft smile warmed his heart and as they lay together in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company and holding one another, he always looked so happy. His smiles boyish, his eyes twinkling with his joy. It was so sweet and endearing, and it made her fall in love with him all over again.

Those were her happiest moments with him too. Simply being together.

A long, quiet exhale left the Colonel in the still of the night. Riza buried her head deeper into the pillow and covered her mouth with the back of her wrist to try and hide her amusement.

He was obviously worrying. Fretting. Bless him. Perhaps it was time to put him out of his misery so he could finally get some rest. For the sake of their work and the country, of course. Nothing else.

The Colonel’s body was a tightly wound string when Riza “subconsciously” snuggled closer to him as she “slept” and rested her head upon his shoulder.

It was only natural she’d gravitate towards him, after all.

And he was so much comfier than the lumpy pillows of this hotel.

She could feel the tension rolling off him easily. It was palpable in the air he held his breath. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath – the air heavy and silent – waiting for her next move in her “sleep”. But, really. They’d done this before. She didn’t know why he was stressing about it so much. And if it allowed him to relax and finally get some rest, well Riza felt it was her honour bound duty to help him.

Their situation couldn’t be helped. It had been out of their hands, and they’d been thrust into this so they would be as well to make the most of it.

In a way, she appreciated his resistance. He didn’t want to overstep. He was always this way, but Riza always went to him willingly. Roy knew this. There was never any question about that.

Perhaps it boiled down to their past. Riza knew that, like her, he struggled with acceptance of anything that may bring him even the slightest sliver of joy after their actions. But they were working to atone, to redeem – which was why tomorrow was so important.

They would succeed.

First of all though, she’d see to her Colonel.

His head turned on the pillow towards her and Riza felt his chin bump gently against her forehead.

It made her smile.

He inhaled slowly and let it out, and with it, Riza could feel the strain leave his body.

As simple as that.

Riza shifted to become more comfortable and placed a hand on his chest, right atop his heart. It was hammering beneath her palm and sympathy washed over her. It just made her cuddle in closer. She was drawn to him, to help him, to soothe him as best she could.

Eventually, he stilled, now comfortable. The sigh that left him was much lighter. Riza could hear the relief in it.

“I love you,” he breathed into her hair, his words a quiet mumble.

Her wrist was not large enough to hide the width of her smile this time, however she didn’t want to.

“Are you awake, Lieutenant?”

She grunted quietly to confirm, feeling rather tired now they were both relaxed and in one another’s arms again.

Riza felt at home. She felt at peace. Curled against Roy’s side she could get the sleep which had evaded her so far this evening due to the distance they’d placed between themselves.

He chuckled quietly. “Have you been awake this whole time?”

Riza didn’t answer him. She felt him smile against her scalp.

“I suppose I was thinking rather loudly,” he whispered as he brushed her hair off her face. “You always know exactly what I need.” A kiss was pressed reverently against the top of her head.

“Because I love you, Roy.”

Riza blinked her eyes open finally when a finger lowered to her chin. He lifted it slowly, encouraging her to lift her head, so not to jar her neck. His eyes were filled to burst with his love for her and Riza was enraptured by it. Her breath caught. She gazed into their depths, wanting to get lost in them, get lost in him and his love. She wanted to bury herself beneath his skin and wrap herself around his heart, basking in the affection and care he offered always, without fail or hesitation, in their private moments together. It made moisture spring to her eyes which she blinked away, but Roy saw. He smiled softly and lowered his head to brush his lips against hers. Riza lifted to meet him eagerly, overwhelmed by everything he’d shown and given her.

“Get some sleep, Roy.” Their breaths mingled together once they broke apart from their loving kiss.

“I’ll be able to now that you’re in my arms,” he grinned cheekily. All that was missing was a wink, but it still made Riza smile. It made her laugh. It made her extremely happy, and Roy looked it too.

They both lowered back onto the bed. Roy wrapped his arms around her shoulders tightly and drew her in close against his body. Riza returned her head to his shoulder, her hand to atop his heart, and hooked a leg over one of his, which Roy easily captured. They became tangled together, finally relaxed, and finally able to sleep.

Finally at peace.

feel free to leave a comment and kudos on ao3 :)

likes and reblogs are always much appreciated <3

[mayushiis]

*rubs hands together* OKAY. YOU ASKED FOR THIS. LONG POST BELOW BUT YOU CAN THANK ME LATER AFTER YOU’VE READ ALL THESE.

i just finished reading someone to watch over me by nightofnyx8 AND I ALMOST CRIED IT WAS SO GOOD!!! it’s snapshots of royai from an outsider perspective and ugh i just fell in love with the oc too

heart & home by boltlightning has such a cozy and warm feel to it, it’s like a log cabin if it were a fic! it smells like cinnamon and feels like a warm cup of hot chocolate in your hands

we’re miles adrift we’re inches away by fullmetalscully is SO cute, it’s a little bundle of really cute royai prompt fills that will have you aww-ing all night! chapter three specifically deserves a shoutout because it is PLAIN ADORABLE. if you want young!royai fluff then look no further because it’s the best i’ve ever read <3

oh and speaking of fullmetalscully, this wouldn’t be a royai fic rec if i didn’t recommend the way it was! it’s an au where roy and riza got married after berthold died and riza never joined the military. it is the most exquisite work i have ever laid my humble eyes on, words cannot do it justice. i wish so badly that it was canon. also ft. royai fankids who are just so perfect you will feel empty when you remember they don’t exist

hold your hand out in the dark by bringingglory is a character study exploring roy and riza’s relationship with the dark and light following the promised day and roy being afraid of the dark and it is pure poetry

and you BETTER read amends by sayarling, it’s a good parent berthold au where riza’s mom’s death just brings them closer instead of driving them apart! i loved him so much in this fic and his relationship with roy and riza brought me to the brink of tears so many times… #respect

wrath by minerva aemilius is a morally gray wrath!roy au and it is SO good you will constantly be on the edge of your seat!!! buckle in babe!! wrath!roy is kinda Mean to riza in this one tho so watch out

now prepare for my all time favorite fma fic series ever. less royai-centric and more background royai, the meaning of hyacinths by starryeyedchar is basically a roy/hughes deathswap au that primarily explores roy and hughes’ friendship and is so, SO PERSONAL TO ME. i get so emotional whenever i read it i just can’t. it’s currently a wip with eight parts to it, it’s at least gotten as far as episode 30 of the anime but the author is intent on seeing it through to the promised day so have no fear!

after that, you HAVE to read the colours of the world by maikusakabe! it’s not royai, but it’s a roy-centric fic where truth sends him to hogwarts to get rid of voldemort and he ends up becoming a professor. it’s a wip as well unfortunately but SO worth the pain

truce by ranowa is an ice alchemist!hughes au, purely comedy, roy and hughes have a spar and vastly regret it. it is really funny and cute and you totally need it in your life

speaking of ranowa, hospital snow angels is post-tpd parental!royal fluff and it is the cutest thing ever please read it you will die of toothache

another really cute fic of roy‘s relationship with the hughes family is 5 times roy picked dare and 1 time he picked truth by icewhisper, it’s explicitly ot3 though so feel free to skip if you don’t ship it! it’s so soft though i beg you to give it a try

notorious by bob_fish is set in pre-canon, chris mustang-centric, and it’s about roy’s early years with chris! i love it so much and wish there was more :(

hero of war by dejavu22 is a precanon au set in ishval where roy meets the rockbells after getting injured, deserts the battlefield and returns to resembool with them, and ends up befriending little ed, al, and winry! its a wip but i love how the rockbells are characterized here :)

not roy or riza-centric but my master ed by blueteller is a time travel fic where ed gets sent back to xerxes and he adopts buys young hohenheim (as a slave) to change the course of history! also a wip, but i love young hoho so much so i read it anyways

a tiny thought:

I recently started to consume more content from the fma fandom, and seeing so many talented people out there warms my heart ♥️ Diving into the worlds of other writers is such a great escape from real life hoho

I’m finally checking my collection of Marked For Later on AO3 — “later” came sooner than I thought.

that said, I might take it slow from writing and try to “educate my literary taste” (spoken in the same manner as my Literature professor)

as of the moment, I’m reading delicate by lantur! (so shy to tag her here because this is just a tiny random thought, but hello if you’re seeing this, dear friend, I’ve left comments on each chapter I read!)

feel free to comment your royai / fma fic recs !

[writesandramblings]

The Captain’s Secret - p.48

“Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained”

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 47 - Mushroom Hunting 49 - Going Nowhere Fast >>

The USS Glenn, which had the benefit of Straal's eager participation instead of Stamets' incessant demands for systemic perfection, had their drive up and running first. Stamets was very annoyed at Lorca's admonishment over their perceived loss in the race.

"Lieutenant, I need that drive up and running yesterday. The fact that the Glenn is online means you've been wasting time."

"Wasting time? Really? Do you want it working, or do you want it working right?" said Stamets scathingly. "Because I refuse to half-ass years of my research to satisfy your precious little—"

Lorca raised his voice to the point it made most of the people in engineering stop what they were doing in alarm. "Lieutenant! I don't think you understand what's at stake here. Every day, every hour, every minute this ship is not active, people die. Our people die. Now can you get this drive online or can't you!"

Either out of some misguided misunderstanding as to the power dynamics at play or some genuine desire to commit personal and professional suicide, Stamets stood his ground and shouted back, "If I get it online and the first test kills us, then what was the point!" He threw up his hands in an exaggerated shrug. He was in the habit of making everything sound like the world was ending. In this case, the glove fit.

Lorca's eyes narrowed. "Henderson!" he barked. An engineer stood at attention from the side of the room.

"Yes, sir!"

Lorca kept his gaze firmly on Stamets as he addressed the other engineer. "Can you get this system up and running by twenty-two hundred?"

"Yes, sir!" Henderson had no idea if it was possible, but he knew better than to argue with the captain.

"Well, then. Unless you want me to drop you off on the nearest rock minus your precious mushrooms, I suggest you make good on that, Stamets. Do you understand?"

"You don't know how any of this works without me!" protested Stamets.

"I believe the words you're looking for are 'yes' and 'captain.'"

It was hard to imagine Stamets' complexion getting any paler, but somehow it did. "Yes, captain."

Lorca stormed out of engineering, biting back the urge to turn around and punch Stamets in the face. He grimaced and almost snarled as he tried to remind himself there were bigger forces at play, and Stamets was something he was going to have to deal with every day for the foreseeable future.

"Captain!"

Lorca whirled and snapped, "What!" with such avarice he startled himself slightly, especially when he saw it was Landry. She seemed taken aback, but not flustered.

"If this is a bad time," she said.

Lorca closed his eyes a moment and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose as he breathed in. When he exhaled, he was sufficiently calm. "Commander Landry. What can I do for you?"

"I want to set up a few unannounced combat drills to test the crew's readiness for threats. I'd need you to sign off on them, and with your permission, I'd like at least one of the drills to be a surprise for senior crew. Including you."

It was a bold move for a commander to suggest her captain was in need of a drill—particularly when he came from the same security and tactical background—but it was also wartime, and Lorca appreciated the sentiment enough to smile softly. "How many drills did you have in mind."

"Three this week, five the next."

"I'll let you surprise me twice," said Lorca, smile widening. Landry responded in kind, smirking in pleasure at the chance to give her captain a run for his money.

"Thank you, sir. I'll send you the schedule for the ones you'll know about." She tilted her head slightly. "You know what I find always does the trick after dealing with those eggheads? Hand-to-hand combat."

There was a look in Landry's eyes that was not hard to read, but Lorca knew to tread carefully all the same. "Is that an invitation?"

It was.

"Oh my god, Hugh, I just, I can't!"

Stamets was standing off in the corner of engineering at the holocomm, totally ignoring the flurry of people scurrying around him in the vain hopes of meeting the captain's deadline. He was taking the minutes out because he had to. He could feel himself overloading.

Culber was, as always, a patient and respectful ear. "It may seem impossible, but if there's anyone who can do impossible," he offered in encouragement. "Break it down into steps and go through them one at a time."

"It's just, he makes me so mad! Coming in here, threatening to take my research away..." Stamets pressed a hand to his face. "Ugh! I want to kill him!" His hand shook in the with frustration.

"No, you don't," said Culber, smiling, because knew Stamets was a gentle person beneath his tense, grating exterior.

"Okay, okay, I don't," admitted Stamets. "But if an accident happened..."

Culber laughed. The sound relaxed Stamets immensely. Just hearing that laugh made it seem like everything was going to be okay. "Why not call Straal and ask him how he got his drive up and running?"

"And suffer the indignity of him lording it over me?" Stamets liked Straal, but occasionally their research partnership could get adversarial. Often they did their best work operating in competition. "Besides, I know how he did it. He cut corners."

"Maybe there are a few corners you can cut, too?"

It was an earnest, sincere suggestion that came from a place of genuine goodwill. Stamets reacted by shuddering and shaking his head. "But if we cut corners and it isn't safe... and if the captain"—it sounded pejorative when Stamets said it—"thinks I'm willing to cut corners now, then down the line... If I give him an inch, he'll take a mile." Stamets sighed and looked momentarily adrift. "I wouldn’t forgive myself if something happened to you because of me and my work."

It was impossible not to be flattered. "You know I love you no matter what," said Culber. "Besides, you already happened to me, and I'm glad you did."

A goofy smile spread across Stamets' face as he looked at Culber, cheeks flushing.

"Now get out there and knock 'em dead," said Culber. "Figuratively speaking."

"I'm not promising that," said Stamets with a grin.

As the call ended, Culber sighed. He was quickly wising up to the fact Lorca was less a captain and more a force of nature unleashed upon the crew. What had they gotten themselves into?

Landry was an entirely satisfying opponent. There was something irresistible about a woman who could hold her own in a sparring match against a man nearly twice her size.

"You're pulling your punches," she said. "Come on."

"If I drop you, you're gonna make me pay in those security drills," guessed Lorca.

Landry bobbed and weaved in readiness. "Price of admission," she challenged. She was an aggressive fighter. She had already landed several solid kicks on his torso and legs that promised to bruise. In return, he'd given her a couple solid torso strikes, several arm hits, and maybe-not-accidentally a small jab on the cheek. He had the weight, the strength, and the reach. Her advantages lay in unrepressed ferocity, stamina, and flexibility.

Her ferocity could also be used against her. He jabbed, she blocked and returned with a kick, but Lorca was ready. He executed a quick hooking move that caught her leg and disrupted her balance, taking advantage of the fact to sweep her down to the mat and pin her to the ground. He was careful to land more beside her than on top of her. The point was to knock her down, not hurt or disable her to the point of ending the exercise.

"Surprise," he said, a devilish grin on his face.

She was close enough to taste the sweat coming off him. Her dark eyes searched his and seemed to promise something of a different nature. His eyebrows rose in daring invitation.

She took the invitation in a slightly different direction. Rolling and twisting, her leg came up and around so that when she bucked, it knocked him backwards onto the mat and she ended up on top of him with his right arm twisted under her control. He released a satisfactorily pained exhalation. "Right back at you," she said.

It was not an easy position for him to get out of. It was possible to overwhelm her position by sheer strength, but to do so would have been an insult to her technique, which was excellent. "You gonna let me up?" he asked, turning his head towards her even though this made his shoulder twist further in pain.

"Do you want me to?"

He bit his lip, grinned, and shook his head no.

"Then I guess not."

That was fine. They didn't need to get up for what came next.

"Ellen," he said afterwards with a chuckle.

"That is my name," Landry remarked. "Is there something funny about it?"

There was. He started to snicker.

She sat up, suddenly concerned, because laughing at her name was not how encounters usually ended in her experience.

"I'm sorry," he said, almost meaning it, "it's just... My wife's name is Eleanor." He started laughing again.

Landry had read his file and there had been no mention of any wife, past or present. "You're married?" she said, shocked. It wasn't that she minded—what happened on starships tended to stay on starships—but she disliked the idea of being misled about their congress.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Absolutely not. It's a joke. A very bad joke. How about another round?"

Saru entered Lab 26 with a vague sense of trepidation. Stand up to Dr. Mischekelovitz, that was his goal. Don't let her see him as anything less than the most hardened piece of steel. As the inner door opened he began his speech, which he had carefully prepared: "Dr. Mischkelovitz, it has come—"

She gasped and shrank away from him.

She was sitting at her desk, which was only a few feet from the door, with a framed piece of paper in her hands. She had been crying. She was crying still.

The speech suddenly seemed inappropriate.

"I am sorry," he said immediately. "I will come back." He turned to leave, then realized steel could have many purposes. A weapon wielded to display one's strength was one interpretation, but it could also be a shield to protect others, or a support upon which to build something. A first officer who was steel could be all of these things. He turned back towards her. "Doctor. What is wrong?"

She didn't speak. The whimpers in her throat were almost chirps, tiny and high-pitched. She looked down at the frame in her hands and closed her eyes.

"Would you prefer if I left?" he asked. "I would like to help you, if I can."

The little chirpy whimpers turned into a sustained warbling.

It did not come particularly naturally to him, comforting humans, or really comforting anyone, because like most Kelpiens he had lived much of his life in an innate state of constant self-serving fear evolved to evade predators. Even now, some part of him was screaming that he should run, and Mischkelovitz was clearly no threat to him. She was the furthest thing from a threat imaginable.

He looked at the frame in her hands. It held a drawing of her, but it was unlike any other portrait he had ever seen. It was styled like an engineering schematic. There were straight lines running through it, markings that resembled circuitry and pistons, and circles of perfect technical precision. It was almost as if someone had drawn a diagram of her face designed to be built into something robotic or mechanical.

He knew her history because everyone did, and it seemed a fair guess. "Is that... your husband's?"

Even before the Battle of the Binary Stars, Saru had known the reputation of Milosz Mischkelovitz. He was widely regarded as one of the finest design engineers in Starfleet, and engineering wasn't even his main area of interest. Some of his designs were said to be years in advance of what Starfleet could actually produce. What things they could make were known to be of uniquely elegant form and function, carefully planned out in advance of production down to the tiniest details. Though Saru had never seen Milosz's raw design work himself, he had heard it was exhibited in art museums on occasion. Seeing this portrait, it was clear why.

"May I see?"

Mischkelovitz's hands shook as she turned towards Saru and lifted the image slightly towards him. He accepted it with great care.

The detail viewed up close was exquisite. Varying line width helped define the exact light and shadows of the portrait. Some of the lines were so thin they were smaller than a human hair. "It's beautiful," said Saru.

"So was he," said Mischkelovitz, folding her hands against her chest. "He was the most beautiful person in the entire universe. I miss him."

Saru gently returned the portrait to her desk. He knew from experience what had helped him through his grief at the loss of so many friends and loved ones at the same battlefield where she had lost her husband. "Would you like to tell me about him?"

Mischkelovitz slowly looked up at him, her eyes wide and hopeful. "Yes!" she said, almost breathless. "Yes!"

He drew up a chair beside her and sat and listened as she told him all about her husband with the sort of detail that can only be shared by someone who has known true love.

Saru found the captain in his ready room, the lights dim, the stars shining. "Mr. Saru," said Lorca, clearly in an excellent mood. This despite reports he had gotten in a veritable shouting match with Stamets just a few hours earlier. Lorca rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation. "I'm ready for your report. How're our projects doing?"

"For the most part, well," said Saru. "And I spoke with Dr. Mischkelovitz. I think, captain, that... I may understand what it means to be steel."

"Told you so," said Lorca with a grin, pleased as much with himself for saying it as he was with Saru for starting to live up to the words. "Now, let's start with that warp field interference project in Lab 12..."

As they stood and discussed their scientific endeavors, Saru thought to himself that true steel meant more than Gabriel Lorca thought it did. It wasn't just about standing up for yourself. Sometimes it was about sitting down for someone else.

Part 49

[whenimawakeandwhenimasleep]

Pynchweek 1: Something old, something new, something borrowed

Ronan marries Adam in early September. Surrounded by friends and what remains of Ronan’s family. It’s one of those autumn days when light stays really low and golden and shatters through the forest as pillars.

The lawn at the back of the main house is big enough to accommodate the few dozen of them. Good food and lanterns and fireflies for the night. Adam had voted down a show wrestling, but they had agreed to pizza. Just them and the people they love. Nothing big, nothing showy, no fuzz, no nerves. Ronan had been so highly strung in the morning that he vomited between shower and putting his suit on.

Traditions were trivial to them, in a monumental way. There was very little room for we-should-do’s and it’s-always-been-this-way’s in their relationship when everything about them was new and untried. Someone else would have called Ronan and Adam adrift and rootless, but they had more history in each other than most people spanned in their entire lifetimes. Too much magic to hide away to pay attention to long-established conventions. No extensive families to appease, not people left to judge them. Their whole life together had been a ritual. Reconfiguring it to please others would have been a forced mock-up - and Ronan Lynch did not lie nor did Adam Parrish yield to the will of others.

They had woken up together and had decided to spend every single moment that led to the ceremony that way. No jinxes about seeing your spouse in the wedding attire before the wedding. What were curses for impossible boys? What were curses after being possessed and almost unmade? So, they had dressed up together and Adam had done his tie. He, on his part, had ruined Adam’s styled hair by running his fingers through it.

Just before the ceremony, there is a shift in the reality. Like time starts slowly picking up speed. It moves and weaves and leaves Ronan completely winded, but he hangs on against the current. The whole noon becomes a series of shots in his mind, beautiful minutes that suspend in front of him. Adam’s calm smile as they say their vows. Their hands together when the justice of peace has spoken. Adam’s hands. His hands clammy. Adam’s soft lips. So many people looking at them that if he doesn’t hold on tighter to Adam, he might lose his breath. The extra cream wedding cake that he insisted on having, in hindsight a problematic choice considering that it’s impossible to cut without the cream bursting around the piece. Adam’s laugh, shockingly clear, chimes inside him.

It’s only when they dance that Ronan seems to be able to pull the brakes. They’re turning with the rhythm of the music and time slots itself in the right gear around them. He doesn’t want to look around and Adam makes it so easy for him. A couple of inches shorter than him, Adam tilts his head up and leans against Ronan’s cheek. Strong fingers stroke against his hairline and between the soft skin and rougher hands, he has no other choice but to keep his eyes on his husband. After some time, he feels how other people join them on the dance floor. Henry and Blue waltz by them, the first channeling his inner Astaire, while the latter flashes them a crude gesture. Ronan’s chest inflates gratefully and he blesses the short fucker. He takes the lead back in their dance for a second, just to bump into to the other pair. In his periphery, he can see Declan and Gansey shaking their heads in unison.

Dusk settles into the valley. Most of the pizza is gone and the cake is on the verge of crumbling down because their guests have decided to eat most of the base layer. Matthew is, if possible, even more exuberant than usual, but Declan has taken away his punch cup. The witches are getting on well with the Ganseys and Ronan can’t decide which of the clans has done more humbling.

He is sitting at their table and watching as Adam dances with Opal at the other end of the dance floor. Oddly mismatched dance partners, his husband in a crisp, well-fitted white shirt and their kid in a wispy, uneven tulle dress that billows around Adam’s waist as he holds her up in his arms. She shrieks loudly every time Adam spins her around, completely off beat. After the justice had married them, Ronan had foolishly thought that his heart couldn’t be crushed into smaller pieces than it was then. But watching his two people twirling and laughing, he feels how his chest falls into amazing stardust that flies to his lungs like gun powder and sets his throat burning.

To push back the burning so that it won’t reach his eyes, Ronan plays with a piece of cake on the plate in front of him. It’s half-eaten and doesn’t have whipped cream on it. After Opal emerging, they haven’t taken any cake or cookies themselves; she tends to open Oreos and lick the filling or peel the cream of the cake and then dump the rests unceremoniously in front of them. He complains a lot about it and Adam never complains about it, so no wonder why the kid hasn’t learnt not to do it. What would he really do? Ronan has a sneaky feeling that  the rests are Opal’s own way of expressing love.

He is startled out of his thoughts when a firm arm entwines around him from behind.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Adam rests his chin on his shoulder and watches, just like him, as Blue and Calla dance their wild version of Salty Dog Rag. The air is warm and a bit humid and Ronan can feel how Adam’s sweat clings on his skin. He tries not to think how good it would feel like to trace it away with his tongue.

Instead, he leans back against his husband.

“Don’t get fucking desperate, not with your pay grade”, he retorts back and loosens his tie with his free hand.

“Gansey wanted to talk to you. He was beckonin’, but you didn’t look.” Across the floor, Gansey picks up his cardigan from the back of his chair and looks at him with fire in his eye. Sappy-happy occasions tend to bring out the younger, boyish Gansey out. “Suppose he wants to give brotherly advice to you and take you for a last ride before our trip.”

Whatever advice there ever was to give to him, Gansey gave it when they lived together. After his decision to quit school, Gansey stopped giving him advice and started asking him questions. No, this is Adam giving him a breather, a moment to gather his thoughts with his bestman.

Ronan gets up and turns around. He married a man who understands him wholly, who knows how overwhelming these things get to him, recognises when he needs to count to zero. He couldn’t have gotten luckier than he did and so he leans down against Adam’s lips and whispers: “Thanks, asshat.”

“Don’t stay away too late. We’ve got to say goodbye to these people in good time. And we’ve got a date tomorrow.”

“Jesus… Didn’t I just marry you so that I don’t have to date you?”

“Well, you should’ve picked someone who’s not so high maintenance”, Adam says with a dry smile and scratches Ronan’s sides gently through his shirt.

“Thought you’re the maintenance in this relationship.”

“Mmmm, am not, if that leaves you in charge.” With that, his husband pushes him towards their friend and taps his watch as a reminder. They move closer to where the cars are parked, him backing and Adam strolling slowly forward. Distance is nothing but a force between them, an unbreakable cord that resonates with each step. It’s been tested and tried a thousand times when they were younger. There’s a decided, calm authority in Adam that ignites the dust inside him.

“You didn’t tell me where we’re going tomorrow”, he shouts as he climbs into Blue’s car. Before he slams the door closed, he sees Adam shrug slightly with a winning smile. What an asshole.

Next day, he gets to drive them all the way to countryside near Charlottesville. Adam signs him to pull up to the side of the road and they switch drivers. Their night and morning had been unhurried, but filled with evident desperation. Still he feels a tight, hot pull in his insides when Adam floors the pedal cocksure and steers them to a smaller road.

The last town was miles ago and they’ve passed very few cars on their way. Guess they are the only ones dumb enough to get up so early. None of the fields or the forest look familiar to him, but then again, Ronan never drove this route north when Adam was studying.

“Care to tell me now where we’re going”, he says as he looks from the forest to his husband. To anyone else, it would seem like he is concentrating on driving. Keeping his eyes on the road, one hand languidly on the steering wheel and one leaning bent on the window. The problem is that Adam doesn’t need to concentrate when he drives. There’s not much difference between their ways of driving. He takes risks, while Adam calculates and then takes risks. All the same, the speed meter whines miserably every time either of them has an open road ahead.

“Nope”, his husband says and pops the final sound, just to annoy him.

Adam is nervous. As a rule, Ronan doesn’t want to face anything that makes a man like Adam nervous.

After thirty minutes, they pull up to a parking lot in front of a church. ‘Parking lot’ is stretching it, as the lot is mostly just gravel and patches of grass here and there. The building itself is small, dirty white, constantly apologising to the empty countryside surrounding it. Catholic, Ronan’s mind adds helpfully. Catholic, despite Ronan’s many problems with the institution, still mean family to him. Home. Faith. His faith and the faith of his parents and brothers.

“Take your jacket”, Adam says shortly when they get out. Ronan’s mind has yet to move forward from the thought of religion. In all honesty, he had thought they would drive to a bigger city to spend the night, but Adam had only told him to take his suit with him. Opal stayed behind at the Barns with Declan and Matthew.

As they climb the few steps to the open church door, Ronan sees that the father is already waiting for them. Adam greets him warmly and politely, so much like Gansey in his pleasantness, so much like himself in his frankness. Ronan takes the hand the older man offers, feeling helplessly puzzled.

“Well, then, Ronan. Would you like confess before we move to the blessing and the communion?”

There is nothing but stillness in him. It’s a sleeplike daze, the feeling he gets when he tries to wake up but he’s taking something with him from the dreams. They had asked the local parrishes for a Catholic blessing, but all of them had turned down a couple like them. It had hurt like hell, but Ronan had put it all in driving and working. Didn’t want to keep mourning it, because there was nothing to be done. It wasn’t even Adam’s religion, and his religion had rejected him.

Now here he is, in a quiet church, on his way to a confessional. He looks back at Adam who sits calmly in the pews and there’s a lightness inside him. It was there yesterday, when he said “I do” in front of the justice, but this feels refined. Collected. It’s not picking up speed, it lulls, swells. Mary looks upon them from her altar behind his husband and Ronan thinks of his mother.

The confession goes as it always has gone. There’s a lot to tell and he has to give a director’s cut of it, mostly because there’s too much magic and petty sins involved. He doesn’t need to confess any impure thoughts anymore, hasn’t done it in years and now confessing feels like it should feel. It’s a burden being lifted off, secrets poured out. It’s strange how Ronan has been finding his way back to his faith after he and Adam happened.

Afterwards, Adam confesses as well. It takes more time, which Ronan spends lying on a pew. The priest walks his husband through the process but the extra time spent in the confessional is no doubt due to Adam’s pedantic “leave no stone unturned” mentality. Once told to confess, there’s not a small filing cabinet he won’t open. There are vaults there, inside Adam’s head, that are only privy to Ronan; steel-walled and tucked nicely behind a system of locks that have been opened one by one over the years. Some of them, the most vulnerable ones, are still behind mazes and Ronan looks up the serene face of Mother Mary and promises that he will spend all his life guarding those.

The blessing, just like the confession, goes like it always goes. Just like the communion. But this time Ronan is present. He sees not only minutes, but seconds of it. Hears every word he says and hears every word Adam says. There’s no current, just him and his husband kneeling on the altar, the warmth of it all washing through him. The body of Christ and the blood of Christ are heavy on his tongue. Adam looks at him, a bit unsure, over the brim of the cup. To ask if this is what he wanted. If Adam had read him correctly. If this was what was missing. Ronan wants to scream out all the warmth that’s nestling next to his heart.

Outside the church, they thank the father, Ronan now more talkative than what he was when they arrived. The father tells Ronan to visit the mass despite his differences with the local church and wishes Adam to take part in the tradition of weekly mass, as well. Adam smiles sweetly and politely, even though that Ronan knows Sunday mornings to be Adam’s own time which won’t be spent worshipping God.

They look at each quietly as they get in the car.

“Where did you find out about him? That he was cool with, you know?” Ronan says and he feels how his throat begins to constrict shut around the vowels. There’s a lot inside now, has been since yesterday and he just hasn’t got it out yet.

Adam looks down and plays with his wedding ring, with Blimblim as Opal fondly refers to it after mishearing Blue’s name for the dream-made band.

“Well, there’s internet, you know?” Adam’s words get a longer quality, a hushed nasality that emerges when he is doubting or sad or angry. Ronan is so full of love for the man in front of him that he can barely take full breaths in. It’s like there’s no vacancy and his body is choosing Adam over oxygen. That hardly surprises him.

Adam leans  forward to turn the key in the ignition, a faint ashamed blush on his cheeks and his neck, but Ronan throws his jacket and tie on the backseat and himself at his husband. They smash against the driver’s side door, hands desperately grasping each other’s sides and neck. There’s a low murmur that escape Adam’s lips and Ronan can feel how they turn into a smile against him.

“We’re not going to make out in front of a priest”, Adam tells him breathily and shoves him away. Ronan leans in to give him one last peck and kicks the door open.

“Why not? We’ve done worse in a church. Now let me drive to the Barns.”

Ronan burns most of his adrenaline away when he drives them back. When he slides their car to an abrupt full-stop in front of the main house, he’s settled down and ready to talk when the time comes.

The time doesn’t come straightaway. In fact, it takes many hours and a family dinner until they’re left alone. Opal wants her time at the center of their attention and Declan and Matthew stay the night to eat yesterday’s leftovers. Between pizza and old cake, Ronan tells Declan quietly where they spent the better part of the day. It’s a sobering emotion, having that talk with his older brother. They have had their share of fights and animosity and distrust, a youth spent in raw misunderstanding. But when it comes to this, there is no one else Ronan would want to talk to. Declan understands the importance of what happened in the church. When Adam, Matthew and Opal commandeer their strangely private conversation, Declan lays his hand on his neck. It’s heavy in pride and feels home, just like the communion wine. Ronan will never tell his brother this.

After everyone else has gone to bed, Adam and Ronan stay outside on the porch. And that’s when he can begin to explain it.

Ronan talks of his disappointment and shame when the priest in Henrietta had turned them down and his silent desperation when the priest in the next town over had done the same. How he had visited his old thoughts that made him sick sometimes. Thoughts that told him that loving men was wrong. Adam lies in his arms on the couch and squeezes his hand.

Then he also reaches inside himself and brings out everything that went through his head in front of that priest. How it fits together with everything that happened in front of the justice. And how nothing would have been worse if Adam had not arranged that, but how it would have been different for him. How happy he was yesterday and how happy he is today. It’s more talk of emotions that he is usually capable of but after all the trouble, Adam deserves to hear it.

In his turn, Adam tells Ronan how he is a damned idiot for thinking that Adam wouldn’t see the hurt. How he looked and reached out to the gay communities in the state to find a Catholic priest who would bless their marriage. He didn’t do it in the fear of Ronan being unhappy with the wedding and he didn’t do it so that he could be reassured of his importance to Ronan. Those days are long, long gone. No more fear, no more uncertainty. He did it because it means a lot to Ronan.

Being known and being understood has always been synonymous with being loved in their relationship. Sometimes it requires work, a conscious effort to decode actions and put words in the right order. But Ronan knows it’s what they vowed to do for the rest of their lives.

Adam’s hand burn on his arm, like an echo of those vows. A hum that arises from their bones and core. Ronan bows down to kiss his husband and breathes in that sound, knowing it will never stop resounding.

Their wedding song:

Heal / Tom Odell

[uss-edsall]

Off to the northwest Whipple, cautious but resolute, was steaming back in the direction of Pecos’s last broadcast position. Somewhere to the northeast and much nearer (between the oiler’s sinking position and her attackers) was Lt. J. J. Nix’s Edsall, which must also have been heading for Pecos. Many miles closer, though, were Japanese ships under Vice Admiral Nagumo, and they, too, knew of Pecos’s location and her survivors in the water. Until now it has not been recognized just how close Kidō Butai was to Pecos. Thus memories of some American survivors in the water never registered as much sense as they might have had this proximity been correctly understood. A message went out from Vice Admiral Nagumo in Akagi to Rear Adm. Ōmori Sentarō (commander, Screen Force) in Abukuma at 1700 hours [1530 hours USN]—just as Abernethy’s ship appeared to be sinking—and it instructed him to “dispatch two DDs and capture the survivors of the U.S. tanker Pecos. Search for the survivors until sunset. If unable to find them, then return. The enemy’s position at 1600 [1430 hours USN ] 205 ° 20nm from Akagi.” These orders were then forwarded by Ōmori to the first section of DesDiv 17, destroyers Tanikaze and Urakaze, along with the added injunction, “after capturing survivors of Pecos, sink her.” Off toward the last reported position of the oiler the two big destroyers duly steamed. For a couple of hours they “searched an area covered by heading 150 through 220 degrees, speed 0 to 12 knots. However, [they were] unable to sight an enemy ship.” As darkness fell, Tanikaze radioed that they would discontinue the search at 1830 and turn back to rejoin the task force. Naturally they had no desire to linger at low speeds, burning up fuel and loitering in seas thought to have enemy submarines present. Yet little did they—or the Americans in the water—ever realize just how close they had come to each other. . . . Soon thereafter, as his boat rode up out of the troughs to a higher position on the waves, Gus Peluso spotted something else. Looking to the west he saw “two destroyers in the red sunset.” Given what we now know to be the facts, it is not unlikely that the chief had glimpsed Tanikaze and Urakaze as they searched for the men from Pecos. Peluso remembered that he and the others “couldn’t be sure they were destroyers because of the distance—8 to 10 miles away.” The chief yeoman, whose eyesight was better than his ship identification skills, also believed he saw “Marblehead . . . with its four stacks . . . going away from [them].” Of course this was not Marbly. But if Gus Peluso had actually spotted a ship with multiple funnels off to the west, it could have been either Rear Admiral Ōmori’s own flagship, Abukuma, leading the Japanese task force as it steamed past the point where Pecos sank or—and more mysteriously—the only other American warship (and one sporting four funnels) in the immediate area. At the same time Peluso and many more survivors in the sea began to notice other noises: sounds of gunfire and bombs exploding in the distance, which were soon followed by shock waves they felt through the water. Some of the men thought they might have been from submarine attacks. Peluso believed as much: “People in the water could feel concussion from depth charges.” However, these “rumbling noises” were not from depth charges alone. “We could hear noises of battle distinctly . . . the crack of six-inch and eight-inch guns,” Peluso later recalled. What those men adrift in the warm, choppy seas heard and felt at that very time was nothing other than the Japanese attacks on Lt. Joshua James Nix’s old destroyer, Edsall.

In The Highest Degree Tragic, by Donald M. Kehn