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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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MARTIN EDEN (2019) dir. Pietro Marcello

#contrary to wound ; i still know nothing of defeat | visage

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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aylumin:

I’ll do it without the apple. She thinks about it, wonders where he would aim for. If he would pick a point past her or through her. After all, she’s the reason Vladya’s gone. She hasn’t paid for it, not in the way this place likes; with blood or bone or some part possessed. It might be why she had approached at all, with no way of knowing whether Jack’s nerves were worn thin enough to imagine anyone as threat, and so turn the weapon on them. She’s of mind to mention the waste of ammunition, just to argue with him, just to stir something. Only he knows her well enough to know she’d not be herself if she was insinuating such things should be kept for causing harm instead.

“You can tell me about it, if you like. The Seychelles, or anywhere, anything.”

“I’d not been outside that small cluster of islands. Ireland, England.” Doesn’t mention France, “Until.. well wherever we are now. Where is it you’d rather be?”

---

“god, ayla,” jack can’t help but laugh, can’t help the way his face splits like a wound reopening into a grin. he’s quick to slip the rifle strap over his head, to rest the thing against a nearby stone--there is no need for it here, not when ayla has worked with such diligent and unrelenting kindness to convince him that he is more than his ability to hit a target from a distance, than the tattered remains of uniform and the training that has defined him for so much of his adult life. his hands, his body, are both better served in closing the distance between them, in wrapping around her small shoulders and pulling her into his chest, in making himself something solid to lean against, something that communicates through the power of touch alone that injuries, that grief, need not be borne alone. “you sound just like i did when i was your age. all i wanted was to get the hell away from my parent’s farm and play hero. pretend i was jason on my great ship full of argonauts, moving from great adventure to great adventure.”

he presses a kiss to the top of her head, before resting his chin on top of it. he wants to tell her not to lose it, not to let it become secondary to the desires of other people in the same way that he had, but he knows--in the same part of his mind that is trying to come to terms with the fact that they might not leave this place, that thinks they might have already passed on from the world of the living--that it’s already too late. the young woman in his arms will never be as young as she was when she stepped onboard that ship again.

he smiles gently, shrugs his shoulders. “it’s warm, in the seychelles--in a way that i didn’t know it could be, that it never is in england. you would lay on your back in the sand and it would come up from the very center of the earth, it seemed. the waters are so blue they’re almost green--and sometimes, i swear, you can see right to the bottom. we got a day of shore leave, got drunk, and swore that admiral drake’s treasure was there, just sitting on the floor and waiting for someone brave enough to go down and get it.”

he kisses her head again before he lets her go, before he lets his eyes drift to the line of the horizon, beautiful in its own way, he supposes--unbroken as it is by any flag or nation. “as for where i’d rather be--i don’t know. they train us not to think about it.” he lets his face soften for a moment--a gesture he would only allow for ayla, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “i keep thinking about a house, mostly. somewhere green, with plants growing wild. jon’s there, with me. august, if that’s what he decides he wants. you, if you decide that’s what you want.”

#i'm not used to being loved ; i wouldn't know what to do | the doe hearted #soft? did someone say absolute SOFT in this HELL?

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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edwardboyne:

he takes to the sea, as he always does when he’s lost. but it doesn’t bring the same comfort here—especially here; it’s been like this for some time now. the sound and sight of waves crashing against the ship make edward wonder how long until they turn deadly. unlike the past, when the very same thing would make him enthusiastic and eager about the things to come. right here, right now, he dreads the idea of what’s waiting for them, whatever they choose to do.

though he does try, here and there to think of a way out of this. and sometimes, when he lets his thoughts become a bit more foolish, not only does he think of a way out of this but of an outcome—of all of them in a safe harbour, not even an english one, just somewhere out of death’s reach. when the hour is late and he can’t control his mind as well anymore, he imagines the ones they’ve lost among them, too. it always jolts him awake and edward curses himself for the naivete.

so there’s no comfort in the sand beneath his boots, nor in the sound of the ocean which, if he’s being honest—doesn’t sound quite right here. too quiet, like it wants to hide something from them. the way home, perhaps.

the gunshot rings too loud in his ear as he approaches, reminds him of another gunshot, the one that made everything even worse than it already had been.

“i don’t doubt you abilities mister fox but even now, i’d rather not tempt fate.” edward can’t bring himself to mirror jack’s laugh, the sounds just isn’t there. he walks closer, hands folded behind his back. edward looks to the sea again—maybe if he stares at the waters long enough, a change will come. “have you been into the city at all? to explore?”

---

for lack of any other entertainment, older cadets at sandhurst had often taken to telling stories about navy men to the new recruits--as though a completely different measure of taxonomy were needed to make sense of them, instead of being simply a different species of the same thing. bunkmates had shivered, whispered tales to each other about lashes doled out for minor offenses, as though such a thing didn’t occur within the very walls, about mutinies and food that featured cooked rat as a major ingredient, and they had pulled their blankets up around their chins, looked furtively towards the nearest door, when they spoke of sailors having their mouths sewn shut by cruel captains, by doctors that wanted to verify a patient was actually dead before closing his burial shroud for good.

jack watches edward boyne turn his body towards the sea, watches the corners of his eyes relax almost imperceptibly as they follow each calmly lapping wave, and thinks that perhaps the tales hadn’t been too far off--only, the purser had pulled the invisible strings through his lips himself, to keep the howling, the grief of it all from constantly bleeding out from between them. after all, he thinks, you can only swallow so much of the stuff before it makes you sick, before you’re coughing it up mixed with bile and salt water.

perhaps it’s the better solution, in comparison to letting it all settle just underneath the surface of the skin like a bruise that never stops throbbing. in comparison to constantly having the palm of his hand pressed against his ribs to cover the hole.

jack wraps his fingers around the rifle strap and shrugs so that the thing lies across his shoulders, before coming to stand beside him. “august wanted a room--we haven’t--” he swallows, and shakes his head. “it hasn’t been just the two of us, since we lost him.” he lets his voice trail off, follows the weary path of the purser’s eyes to some distant, unseeable point on the horizon. he’s never been able to draw comfort from the water in the way that so many men do--and even now, he finds himself grinding his teeth at the way the tide draws in and out, regardless of the two of them standing here, regardless of the pain that sits between them like a shattered monument.

“i’ve also been making a list of every advantageous vantage point in town, because i can’t hope to arm and defend a perimeter, keep estrada on his fucking ship.” he sighs, and brushes a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “its the only useful thing i can think of doing--and even then,” he feels the corners of his mouth pull upwards, just slightly. “the thought of putting a bullet in marcus estrada’s skull from five different angles isn’t nearly as comforting as i had hoped it would be.”

he spares a glance at the other man, and his unmoving straight line mouth. “and yourself? come across any rooftops i should be aware of?”

#we are moving ; it seems ; towards a kind of aloneness | the purser #nedward? for ME? i am fed here this day

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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* ( 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐎𝐍 / 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

These may have been edited for clarity or length or to better apply for roleplaying.

do it. be bold.

we must continue our ruse until i’ve found my match.

me, unavailable; you, desirable.

i trusted you more than anyone in this world, and you took advantage.

you do not know me, but i know you.

you have no idea what it is to have one’s entire life reduced to a single moment.

is this not lovely? all of us together again.

an expert in the art of the swoon.

i wish to be entertained.

it would be better if you refrain from thinking about me at all.

lovely indeed. we should tempt scandal more often.

the social season is upon us.

your love is an unrequited fantasy.

i cannot stop thinking of you.

i am anything but interested in you.

it is more than just your honor at stake.

i write in my diary which is not the same as writing in my novel.

a pairing like that would be most enchanting indeed.

the season’s diamond, even more precious and rare a stone than previously thought?

stare into my eyes.

is it awful that i’m enjoying it?

if you desire the sun and the moon, all you have to do is go out and shoot at the sky.

we could pretend to form an attachment.

if there is a scandal, i shall uncover it.

must our only options be to squawk and settle or to never leave the nest?

all is fair in love and war.

there is nothing you cannot do.

my honor is not for sale.

if this is to work, we must appear madly in love.

i’m aware of your reputation.

do not tell me that is another scandal sheet.

you’ve always amused me.

we find ourselves seated next to each other. i’d think you’d be happy about that.

marriage has it joys, but it also brings with it its special trials.

it’d be better if you refrain from thinking about me at all.

you do not know me, and never shall.

you do not humiliate the one you love.

i’m aware of your reputation and i am anything but interested in you.

what if i want to fly?

the ones we love have the power to inflict the greatest scars.

every presumptuous mother in town will leave me alone and every suitor will be looking at you.

you do not trick the one you love.

if you desire the sun and the moon, all you have to do is go out and shoot at the sky.

let it be known that if there is a scandal, i shall uncover it.

you think that just because i’m a woman, i’m incapable of making my own choices?

love, conquers all.

you can choose to love me as much as i love you.

i am tired of pretending.

from the mornings you ease, to the evenings you quiet, to the dreams you inhabit my thoughts of you never end.

i cannot continue acting as if i do not love you. because i do.

i love all of you.

i cannot be your fool again.

the brighter a lady shines, the faster she may burn.

we chose to love each other every single day.

pride, it will cost you everything and leave you with nothing.

i am looking out for myself.

you don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.

you must simply marry the man who feels like your dearest friend.

i am ensuring my own future. because i know in my heart i know that there is no one else who ever will.

you do not lie to the one you love.

to meet a beautiful woman is one thing, but to meet your best friend in the most beautiful of women is something entirely apart.

circumstances change, ladies. sometimes over night.

her heart is no matter, as long as her hand remains free.

you cannot assure me of everything.

i will always protect you.

i believe i should like to stay.

i believe you should like to go.

what others should ever want such damaged goods now?

you have no idea what it is to be a woman.

you are perfection itself.

what? you don’t love me for my subtlety.

would you rather die than marry me?

i am yours, i have always been yours.

it is you i cannot sacrifice.

i burn for you.

it pains me you should think every compliment a mockery.

i ask you, can the ends ever justify such wretched means?

#hello i love adrian’s galaxy brain #I know I have some opens but if they do not speak to you please!!! send me one!!#if u specify I will turn them into starters!!!#ofc for anyone - tris jack cyrus or victor

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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Luka Khabelashvili

#you love me despite the history of my hands ; their mangled confession | the wildcard #the sun inside of him rages like wildfire ; and he is gold | the scion #when everything you touch turns to gold | muse

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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WHEN | AFTER LANDFALL WHERE | A NONDESCRIPT STRETCH OF BEACH, A SAFE DISTANCE AWAY FROM THE PROMETHEAN WITH | OPEN TO EVERYONE

this is not his rifle.

here, in this mirage of a place, conjured by the grief stricken minds of mad men out of seawater, this purgatory made of mist and blood, he still thinks of the old adages tossed around by instructors at sandhurst, old soldiers holding court around campfires in the field. the nature of the beast is this, they would say. eventually, you come to know the body of your gun like the body of a lover--your hands get to tracing every curve tenderly, you know the exact location of every knick and freckle. then they would grin, elbow the nearest boy still too green around the gills, the one who they deemed still too quick to flinch, and mutter under their breaths--’fraid that’s what passes for tenderness out here, lad.

the rifle jack settles against his shoulder is heavy, hard bodied as every firearm is--but it isn’t his. his is warmed by the hands of another aboard the promethean more than likely, or perhaps it sits prisoner in the gun room--the j and the f carved into the stock obscured under layers of gathering dust. another casualty he failed to prevent.

he exhales, bites down hard on his bottom lip as he tries to settle the one he now holds against his shoulders, against his flesh and bones. this is not his gun--but he thinks that perhaps that might be fitting, for he is no longer a soldier. he stands yet again with his boots planted in the uncertain earth of foreign sands, only this time he does not shirk the sun--he allows it to perform its work, to melt the flaking gold leaf that covers his skin and turn it into armor, to make him into more.

let them call me a hero now, he thinks as he gently slides his finger towards the trigger. let me be worthy of it.

he fires, and the bullet shatters his green glass bottle target.

he feels the corners of his lips begin to pull upwards. he will not fail again.

he can hear footsteps sound behind him--they might have been hidden underneath the ringing of gunfire if he had been anyone else. he glances over his shoulder towards them, drags a hand through his hair--he only just notices that it is long enough to tuck behind his ear, to be blown carelessly in front of his eyes with the breeze of the sea. “you haven’t come to volunteer to stand over there with an apple on your head, have you?” he laughs, a quiet sound that sounds rough with disuse to his own ears. “because i’ll have you know i hit that exact shot once, drunk off my ass in the seychelles.”

#trying to get back into things!! which is why this is BAD but have it anyway

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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ORANGE SKIES.

a playlist for jack fox.

❝ god, how is he supposed to answer such a question? how does anyone ever talk about grief, when the entirety of language as it is taught to schoolchildren does not encompass the damn thing adequately? how do you talk about loss, when the very nature of the thing is an absence? how do you remember a version of yourself that you no longer recognize? how do you remember a limb that you no longer have but feel phantom ache for, an organ that did something vital but now ceases to function?

/ / . happy holidays, kylie ! thank you for making me cry at respectfully scheduled intervals, and giving me one of the most revolutionary mlm friendships i ever wrote in ,,,, over a decade.

#when i tell you i died.....#when everything you touch turns to gold | muse

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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THE PROGENITOR | SOHRAB KHOSROW

@ferroustype

“ALL I HAVE IS MY ARROGANCE I WILL TEACH IT TO LEAN BACK AND SMOKE A CIGARETTE IN YOUR FACES, AND YOU SHOULD BE SO LUCKY.” - MOHJA KAHF “ISHTAR AWAKENS IN CHICAGO”

LISTEN HERE X

Happy Holidays Lack!! Love you!!

XOXO KYLIE

#the images are from an excellent iranian visual artist named shirin neshat!!#i am the kind of person that can't wait to give gifts so!! here we are first day!!

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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riversoaked:

strange, then, how it was the pain that was the easiest part of it. what was a prickle, a stab, an ache compared to this thing in her chest? she had grown something of a new organ, between heart and ribs, and she had yet to understand its weight. she could not say: why would i flinch? she could not say: i am used to holding pain elsewhere. instead, she saw the understanding flicker in the man, she recognized his stare.

for one of the fallen?

oh, they were all haunted here; they were each doing the haunting themselves. by laughter, by separation, by the hope that had promised and taken again and again. she watched jack steadily — for vladimir, she imagined. she remembered walking on the berg with the boy, laughing at the way he scrambled after her, young and determined all at once. she remembered seeing the easy friendship between the men, glad none of them were alone in the cold.

she gestured for him to take a seat beside her.

“what’ll it be, sergeant?” she started cleaning off the supplies, looking at him in a new light. not a man, but a canvas. not a canvas, but a memorial. where would he choose to carry the soul of his friend? “a word, an image? a piece of belief you both shared? how do you want to remember him?”

---

how do you want to remember him?

god, how is he supposed to answer such a question? how does anyone ever talk about grief, when the entirety of language as it is taught to schoolchildren does not encompass the damn thing adequately? how do you talk about loss, when the very nature of the thing is an absence? how do you remember a version of yourself that you no longer recognize? how do you remember a limb that you no longer have but feel phantom ache for, an organ that did something vital but now ceases to function?

he spares a glance at the quartermaster’s arm, where a bloody but black word sits permanent in the flesh--hope. perhaps that is how you begin to make sense of it, carving out one word at a time until you collect phrases, until the truth of it is made of flesh and bone instead of something abstract and unknowable. the quartermaster wants to remember hope, here where it could easily be argued that none exists--what does jack want to remember of vladimir, in defiance of the life without him that now seems to unfurl itself like ribbon, like the red string attached to the belt of theseus as he makes his way through the shadowy labyrinth towards the minotaur?

he smiles, as he meets the quartermaster’s gaze. “something only he’d be able to make sense of, brilliant and pretentious all in the same fucking breath. aristos achaion.” he swallows, sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and worries it for a long moment. the memory plays out as if it were happening right in front of him--silvery images move, versions of them that no longer exist that have a softness around the edges seat themselves across the table. vladya’s hands move excitedly, august grins as though he’s managed to wrap a rope around the moon itself and drag it down to make friends with, the jack before egypt rolls his eyes and pretends not to be fond of the two pups he’s somehow found himself in charge of, that have somehow sunk their milk teeth into the muscle of his heart and made a den for themselves from the bones of his ribs. he doesn’t need to hear the noise of voices, of sandhurst happening around them, to know what vladya says.

“that’s what they called achilles,” he says in tandem with the memory, his voice suddenly rough. he clears his throat, blinks his eyes, and it all dissipates, like snow being blown on the wind and falling onto solid ground. “it means the best of the greeks.” he swallows, feels the corner of his mouth pull up again. “he’d hate it--never make the comparison for himself, but--” he shrugs his shoulders. “he’s not here, and i am. so, best of the greeks it is.” he meets her gaze again, rolls up his shirt sleeve to reveal the blank expanse of pale skin that stretches over the bones of his wrist. “over the pulse point.”

#when war makes a sound like that ; it keeps you up at night | the veteran #HOPEFULLY THERE IS SOMETHING TO RESPOND TO HERE KAT #TURNS OUT JACK ISN'T OVER VLADYA'S DEATH ONE BIT NOR AM I

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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devotedrowning:

he can see it, the way that jack is wrestling with something deep inside, the way his eyes track through memories, the tears that push through, the connection between them a single thread, but when you look closer, see that’s nothing but loops and knots of twine that gathered, yarn twisting and catching, doubles back, trails that drip before being dragged back in, seeped and salt-dried.

vladya is gone.

first instinct, he scoffs, wet and choking, laugh of disbelief despite the truth he feels settle around him. ‘ of course he fucki - ‘ an exhale, half-laugh, catching, serrated in his throat. but this isn’t it, this isn’t all of it.

there is more grief here to be processed, garrote wire that threatens to join between them, or slive through the connection, tightening around both their necks. jack is looking at him with - roi doesn’t know. has never known, apparently, didn’t know jack well enough until there was a rangi sized hole standing between them that they both pretended he filled.

this time, it’s roi who doesn’t return the hug, for the first second, then clings back, desperate. he wishes to be a child again, curled into an embrace of ignorance, where if he closes his eyes, someone bigger and stronger will deal with the issue. he clings back, hurting, for jack has an air of finality around him and roi doesn’t know why and this cannot be it.

‘ jack. just - there’s nothing you could have done that could be this bad. just please - ‘ pulls back, rests his hand on jack’s cheek. ‘ please just tell me. ‘

---

he doesn’t expect it--the way that roi steps away from him in anticipation of the blow, without ever knowing from which angle it’s going to come, and then closes the distance and wraps his arms around jack’s shoulders as though it is he alone that is tethering the younger man to reality. a flame flickers in the back of his mind, offers the small warmth of hope that perhaps roi will still let him stay, let him continue to protect, to find a way to get him out of this prison cell, for fucks sakes, fuck you marcus estrada you fucking imitation colossus--but he presses the palm of his hand over it, knows that it won’t be enough. truth is a double edged sword that way, healing and still leaving a cut behind, leaving the blood.

“there is roi--god, there is. and as much as i wish i could go back and change it, prove that i’m not the man who did it anymore, i can’t.” he shakes his head, bites down hard enough on his bottom lip to taste copper on his tongue, which mixes with the bile at the back of his throat to create something sour, something sickening that settles in his chest, sinks to the pit of his stomach. he doesn’t pull away--he’ll let roi decide if he wants to cross the fissure that exists between them to solid ground, or if he wants to drive the heel of his boot into it and break the ice, forever throwing them on opposite sides.

“tamati--he caught a bullet in egypt, like i told you. it was bad, he was bleeding--but i got to him.” he exhales slowly, closes his eyes. “i got to him, and i could have tried to stop it--i could have dragged him to the nearest medical tent, done a thousand other things that could have saved him, but i didn’t. i looked at him, and i thought about how badly i wanted to be him, to have what he had--and i let it happen.” he swallows, and lets it hang for a long moment, holds the young man in his arms as tightly as he can so that he can absorb some of the impact, despite the fact that it was he who threw the haymaker, the right hook out of nowhere.

“that’s the truth of it--whatever you want to do with it, i won’t stand in your way or stop it. just know--i regret, more than i could ever say to you, that i robbed you of a brother. but you should also know,” he smiles, digs his fingers into the fabric of roi’s shirt. “that i am glad to have met you, and i’m glad to have been a part of your life, roimata. you are as much a brother to me as august is, or vladya--even if you want to end it here.”

#memories compressed and focused ; in my body and yours | the devoted #i have to lie down i cannot believe the consequences of jack's own actions like this

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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WHEN | AFTER LANDFALL WHERE | HIGHWAYMAN’S REST WITH | @aveaugvstus

they don’t need to speak--not at first.

its the unspoken agreement between all soldiers, that the mouth cannot be opened in mourning--for if you cry for one comrade fallen on the field of battle, there is nothing that will stop you from wailing and gnashing your teeth for them all. patroclus knew what he was doing when he put on the armor, says odysseus. it was to achilles fault that he mourned, that he fell to his knees, that he gave into the side of himself that was all to human. there is still a war to be fought, a battle to be won, the day after.

but it is also more than that.

jack and august do not speak because there is something fundamental that has been lost, because the very nature of void defies all attempts at definition--you cannot speak of what is no longer there, you cannot put a name to the thing you cannot see, you cannot put easily navigable borders around the thing you cannot make sense of. it is enough for the two of them, orphans in this world as they are, to look to the other side of the table and know that the man across bleeds endlessly into his hands just the same. for jack, it is enough that eventually august stops pushing. it is enough that the younger man falls into his arms and allows jack to protect him, to use his flesh and bones to construct a safe place for the two of them to worship at this small shrine that exists strung between them both.

it is enough, until jack is staring down the spine of a knife pointed at the other one third of his bruised, bloodied heart--until the two of them spare a glance at each other and nod, as they follow captain dowling down onto the beach and into the heart of this phantasm of a place. it is enough, until freedom brings with it decisions they’ve both been pretending they do not see out of the corners of their eyes--brings with it the sudden endless span of a life that does not include him.

jack closes the door to their room and exhales, drags a hand through his hair. hadn’t ayla told him he had a choice, here and now? to fade away or do what needs to be done, to fight for the peace he craves do desperately now? he’s been playing at hero, at captain and sergeant and whatever he had been taught he needed to be--now it was time to become, to embrace what he’s spent so long fighting, pretending that he does not want. odysseus first had to go to troy, make himself the cunning hero, the glorious victor, before he could walk inland with his winnowing oar, before he could bury it for good and no longer think of the sea. that transformation, he knows, begins and ends with the young man in front of him.

wherever augustus sutherland decides to go, whatever he decides to do, jack will be with him.

“so, lance-corporal,” jack smiles warmly. “what do you make of this fine fucking mess we’re in?”

#the sun inside of him rages like wildfire ; and he is gold | the scion #GOD I LOVE THEM #also let's pretend this didn't take me 1000 years to write for u claudia my love

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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“He asks, ‘Would you like to be the hero?’ and his thoughts say No. The hero suffers. The hero loses. The hero dies. Out loud, 'I already am.’”

— Excerpt from Mortal Hearts // L.H.Z

#we have heard the chimes at midnight | words

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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jack watches the process silently, unlit cigarette held between his fingers.

he’d seen it done before--soldiers were creatures of action, incapable of dealing with long stretches of boredom without getting into some kind of trouble, and the materials were easy enough to collect even in the most remote of places. he’d always wondered why--wasn’t there enough pain to be had when the surgeon was digging a bullet out of the meat of your thigh? did the cut of shrapnel as cannonade exploded mere feet from where you stood not sting enough? battles came back often enough in the dead of night when the eyes were closed, when you were trying to clean the blood of your friend off of your hands and your face--why did they need to be commemorated in ink, through the visage of a beautiful woman or a passage of scripture that would become unreadable?

it isn’t until he sees the quartermaster work carefully on herself, the way she seems to gradually go from being a solid line of chorded muscle in her chair to something gently unwound, laid bare and honest with every line, that he understands it. there is no more accurate memory than pain, and at the end of everything, when the ship has splintered underneath your feet, when the gunfire has ceased and the dust begins to settle, all you have that truly belongs to you is the body, is the skin that against all odds, remains stretched over your bones.

the tattoo is a statement to the universe. i have made my choice, i defy you stars, this thing is mine and this is what will forever be part of it.

he blinks when she speaks, meets his gaze from across the empty bar. he hadn’t meant to stare, and color rushes to his cheeks. “nothing--sorry. i was just thinking about how i’ve seen grown men weep openly at having that done, and you didn’t flinch once.” he smiles, before worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “do you think--” he drags a hand through his hair, shrugs his shoulders. “do you think i could convince you to do another one, master rowland? for one of the fallen?”

location: the siren’s sorrow. time: after landing. with: open to all.

( tw needles )

this was the true jules, the real one, jules cut and splayed like a tortured albatross set as a tortured omen. sailors, be warned — this might be you one day. children, be frightened — this is what you never want. the grief of it, the accepted anger. i will never be more than this. jules nursing a glass of something ( didn’t ask for specifics, just asked the strange barkeep for the deepest cup they could find ) and jules wallowing in the guilt of a failed ship. her present running parallel to her past.

a statement, nyima’s soft words, something cruel now: hope led me to you, to this. a question, jules’ harsh voice, something that was finally answered when nyima leaped for the gun and made her choice: why don’t you fight?

jules finished tying the needles together, dipping them in the mixture of ink and gunpowder. the tattoo would come out black, which seemed wrong for nyima. it ought to be red, maybe green, maybe every bright and brilliant color that reminded someone of warmth and summer. but no, it’d be black. jules lay out her arm on the counter of the bar, nudging her glass to the side and sucking in her breath as she brought the needles to her skin.

gradually, slowly, the tattoo took form. a reminder, the only thing from the woman jules would allow herself to save. a moment. a thought. a gift.

hope 1845.

as she finished, she noticed someone had taken the seat near her. sentiment hardened, and she pulled her arm back. cleared her throat of the tears that had lodged themselves there.

“what?”

#when war makes a sound like that ; it keeps you up at night | the veteran

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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Mary Oliver, "On Thy Wondrous Works I Will Meditate" from Devotions

#your eyes never left me ; they were there ; within me ; pouring their light into the depths | the doctor

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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arcticdoctor:

he listened. it made him flush, just how deeply jack had watched him — had jonathan truly been so unobservant, to miss all the ways jack had studied him? to see the sergeant’s eyes grace his flesh with interest, with curiosity, with the same love that jonathan turned to the world around? even as jonathan had found himself sketching in the margins of his notes ( brilliant blue eyes, rough and perfect hands, the sharp curve of a nose ), he had never guessed the attention to which jack fox fixed on him. he had never guessed the attention to which jack fox fixed on everything.

the rebuilding cracked, for just a moment, for just one brief breath: i knew it wasn’t you.

oh, oh, jack. it was. it was jonathan. it had been jonathan who thought he saw the creature trapped and helpless, it had been jonathan who took it upon himself to unearth it. it had been jonathan that dirtied his hands, digging them deep into the island to save it, thinking — if this is the creature, it is a child, if this is the creature, it needs us as much as it fears us. it had been his choice, real or imagined as that choice may have been. it had been him that begged for its return.

but jonathan listened to jack now, quiet and steadying himself. and, in hearing, in listening, he found something new. i have every intention of honoring his sacrifice. in speaking to augustus as vladimir laid in the sickbay’s bed: you would not wish for him to be anything other than what he is, would you? the thoughts running parallel to each other. vladimir was a boy who chose the hero’s end; vladimir was a man who understood what that meant.

and even as vladimir might live beyond the veil, even as he might be waiting for them to simply open the door and reach through for him, jonathan knew this much: he could not stop the wheels of sacrifice, of martyrs and of saints. it did not lesson his guilt, his grief, his confusion, but it settled it. it made it bearable. here is the hurt you feel, and here is the lesson within it. sometimes there is purpose, sometimes there is only the pain. loss as a form of love. love as a form of loss.

his forehead rested against jack’s own.

it was time to start living again.

“i want life. i want life, even when i have little stomach for it.” especially then, especially now, when he felt too weak-kneed to hold the weight it took to love the dark spots growing in the world alone. ( for darkness grew too, like plants, like mold, like love. ) especially then, especially now, when he pressed a kiss to jack, to his cheek, to the gentle lobe of his ear. he had never guessed that grief and joy might both exist within him like this. “will you stay with me? speak of love and hope and all things good in the world. speak to me of what we might do, you and i, tomorrow or one week from now or five years. help me be brave in this.”

---

“i can do that.” jack exhales, practically into the doctor’s mouth. he wants to gently wrap his fingers around the man’s throat and make him swallow it carefully, internalize it like wine in the blood, in the same way that food nourishes the body--do not be afraid, i will be brave enough for two of us. i will make myself your sword and your shield, your home and your hearth--whatever you need until you are ready to be it for yourself, make of me. “but you should know, you don’t have to be brave with me. i love you--i want you when you’re scared, when you’re heartbroken, all of it. i want all of you.” he exhales a shaky breath, shakes his head. “there is no need to hide your hurt from me--not when i share it.”

he gently moves the doctor’s hand from where it rests on his cheek to his chest, where noticeably there is no uniform jacket, no medals or gleaming gold buttons--only the soft fabric of a shirt that has seen better days, and his flesh and bones beneath it. this is the only bravery that is needed here, to be more than what the clothes on his back might dictate, than what someone else with a crown atop their head might tell him that he is. here, with jon, he is brave enough to be a man before he is an idol, before he is a blunt instrument to swing at an enemy.

he smiles, and he can feel the heat that has been brimming in his blood begin the process of turning into something else--the age old miracle of making something into wine, something sweet on the tongue, singing and intoxicating. he steals another kiss, lays another prayer at his favorite altar. “it’s strange--they tell you not to think too hard of the future, when you’re a soldier. it’s the hope that kills you, that distracts you long enough that a bullet catches you in the chest or in the head. you’re only supposed to think of living for the next minute, or the next hour.” he gently tucks a lock of hair behind jon’s ear, shrugs his shoulders. “i’ve only ever thought about being a general--but--” he worries his bottom lip between his teeth before chuckling breathily. “i don’t think that’s what i want anymore--and i don’t think that’s what vladya would want for me either.”

he pulls jon over to the chair that sits pushed away from his desk, moves his hands underneath the doctor’s shirt when he settles over the top, presses their faces together again. “i’d like to keep learning, i think--i’d like you to keep teaching me everything you know. maybe i’ll find something that i care about as deeply as you do. i’d like to give you a garden, i know that as well. a proper one, with a greenhouse and ornate wrought iron fences--plants that i’ll pretend i don’t know the names of, because i like the way you say them. beyond that--i don’t care, as long as you’re there.”

#your eyes never left me ; they were there ; within me ; pouring their light into the depths | the doctor #this is perhaps not good but we are getting there!!!#we can start wrapping this if u want it is up to u my love!!!

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sergeantfcx · 3 years

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