#flashfictionfriday
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Nothing but heart
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This is for @flashfictionfridayofficial : A Form of Distraction #FFF228
and @fluffbruary : Duvet.
Fandom: Kamonohashi Ron no kindan suiri/Ron Kamonohashi’s Forbidden Deductions
(Beware of possible spoilers)
Oh, how things had changed.
Ron’s momentary attention was focused on the ceiling’s pattern. Working out the intricate mud-coloured woodwork that turned pitch black in the middle of each square that had been the choice of his grandparents when they used to live here suddenly fascinated him in spite of knowing this place since his childhood. Bless their hearts for that. The lone ceiling fan was installed a year before his mother decided to embark on traveling the world. Living in England for most of his life, she saw to it that he never broke contact with them, insisting that he returned to Japan every summer vacation.
There was a faint rustling movement on his right, he glanced at the brown hair that belonged to a young man next to him, the police detective Totomaru Isshiki covered in his blue duvet. He didn’t forget that he was there. Not at all. He was aware that Toto stayed.
Ron turned around and gathered the sleeping man in his arms. Who would have thought that after five years practically living like a hermit another person, a warm body was next to him, willing to be with him? Toto moaned, but his eyes were still closed. Exhaustion took him over after the revelation and danger of the Auberge case. The police officer suffered minor burns, a scratch on his left cheek marred his almost perfect face. And him? Ron thought he would die, and the case was his last deduction. Toto, the ever loyal, came back for him. Lying on the floor of a burning luxury hotel, the brown-haired man told him to get his shit together. But there was no way out, the fire engulfed the whole building. That was the moment they decided to die together. Toto stayed and the rescue team arrived like in a dream.
Apologies, Toto, you don’t know how happy you’ve made me.
What Ron didn’t realise was that in those days of voluntary isolation, he was utterly convinced that he would live and die alone. As a result, his own mother gave him an ultimatum, reckless and selfish, she’d only visit him if one of them was on the verge of sickness or death.
He glanced at Toto’s sleeping face, surprised that the man, only three years older than him and a stranger from a year ago, had become his no. 1 supporter, his wall to lean on.
Toto hugged him back, placed his head on Ron’s neck.
This is a great distraction for tomorrow there is no turning back.
He needed strength to fight the opponent, who finally had shown his fangs ready to strike. Now that Toto was included on the equation, he must think and act double time.
Ron closed his eyes and joined his partner, peaceful for now.
~ fin ~
* pics are from “Derail”
#kamonohashi ron no kindan suiri#ron kamonohashi#totomaru isshiki#ron et toto#rontoto#rkdd fanfics#rkdd fanfic idea#flash fiction#fff228#ron kamonohashi: deranged detective#ron kamonohashi's forbidden deductions#fluffbruary#flashfictionfriday#a form of distraction#flash fiction friday
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Blue, blue ocean
For @flashfictionfridayofficial entry: #fff242: Soaring above
and @fluffbruary February 27 : table | blush | laundry
Fandom: Bang Brave Bang Bravern
Pairing: Ao Isami/Lewis Smith
Words: 398
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I wish I could have touched his face and ease that crease on his forehead… I wish I could have grabbed him and…
One in a million, but one and the same. Lewis thought as he soared above the clouds and began to disintegrate.
I wish we could have shared some more time… I wish I could have known you much earlier…
Regrets came in late of course. Afterthoughts that didn’t have any more space in the present time.
Fragments of memories, of a life that past, flashed before him like a camera reel. The shards of broken glasses became tiny mirror prisms showing scenes of his life.
He could see a makeshift boxing ring on top of a ship. Brought on by his suggestion to do some boxing where they could unleash their pent-up sexual frustration and the misunderstanding between them, the Japanese lieutenant was ready to find connection.
“Do you feel it too?” The yellow-blonde-haired American man asked his Japanese counterpart as he lay on top of him grinding their crotches together much to the delight of their comrades, who thought they were only horseying around.
Isami, a Japanese gentleman and a dignified military officer, blushed and was suddenly speechless. Shyness, yes. Better to lay blame it on that emotion, but frotting with Lewis in front of the public wasn’t what one would call a proper decorum.
“That’s private,” Lewis heard Isami say when they were in the canteen eating their curry.
It occurred to him that before the Purge, he and Isami began to talk in earnest. Still the same stoic younger lieutenant, he gave signs to Lewis when he wanted to strike a conversation.
One time Lewis observed how Isami stood there next to him, not responding at all, looking at Bravern’s direction. After giving his reply, he thought it was all over. He was ready to leave when a hand stopped him.
“Lewis… wait…”
The American watched the smooth face in front of him, the imperial almond-shaped black eyes, the urge to kiss those thin lips was so strong he had to step back.
“Your eyes remind me of blue ocean.”
His last recollection was Isami’s face during their last goodbye when the latter was boarding Bravern. A simple nod. That recognition that the two of them perfectly understood.
You stay alive for me while saving the world.
Then everything turned to dust.
*Episode 8 was such an emotional rollercoaster, but somehow expected.
#flash fiction#flashfictionfriday#fff242#fluffbruary 2024#fluffbruary#bang brave bang bravern#yuuki bakuhatsu bang bravern#bbb flash fiction#ao isami#lewis smith#isami x lewis#soaring above
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Boy, @flashfictionfridayofficial, do I ever have a contribution to this one! I've been waiting for an opportunity to share this piece, which I wrote a while back as a warm-up for my wip The Dotted Line's narrator's voice. I polished it up to share. It's technically 123 words too long, so just think of it as 123 bonus words. 😅
For undisclosed reasons I suspect this may be of particular interest to Life in Black and White's beta readers. 😉 @sunset-a-story @joeys-piano @ananarchie @catchingbigfish
IN CONVERSATION ✉️
Stream of consciousness | 1,123 words
I’m told my friend is visiting today.
He visits once a month, on the dot. Tries to, at least. When my will and that of the swine overlords allow it; when boredom or restlessness or the fleeting desire to see a man who thinks I hung the stars coincide with his schedule. When all necessary factors align like celestial bodies in a ritual, I suppose. I see him then.
He visits more than anyone else. More than my father, my wannabe stepmother, my doting long-distance grandmother. Certainly more than the other losers on the outside who've long since abandoned their misguided notions of me. Don’t misunderstand me - I appreciate his dedication, foolish and perplexing though I may find it. Considering how little I offer in return, it’s impressive.
He loves me, you see.
We were close, once, in a sense. I’m sure he recalls it that way. I’m skilled in the art of beautiful illusions; I cannot provide “close,” but I can craft a convincing approximation, which can be useful. It can even be fun. With him, it was often fun. But it’s been years, now, and still he clings to me like a pathetic, starving puppy I cannot shake from my leg. I don't always want to, but sometimes, I do. I find myself of two minds today, like bouncing on a seesaw. Ambivalence declawed.
And so, shortly before the scheduled time, I’m led through the security checks. Clearance obtained, a C.O. takes me down to the basement floor, down a Silence of the Lambs-esque hallway, to the gray-walled room, seventh door on the right from the clanking, rusting metal staircase.
He’s already there when we walk in, as always, sitting stiffly at a table along the far wall, near the vending machines. The room isn’t busy, I note. The wall clock above his head reveals I’m here hours earlier than usual.
Today's escort, Stella, leads me directly to the table. She’s on a power trip, but she's not hard on the eyes - though the whole ‘glorified mall cop’ aspect ruins it. With a pointed glance she tells me, sternly, “You have an hour.”
“Yes, Mama,” I mutter - sardonically, under my breath - as she walks off. It’s doubtful she heard me, but I don’t particularly care either way.
My sorry bastard of a friend, on the other hand, definitely heard me. He chuckles as he stands. “Behave,” he says, in jest.
I grin, self-mocking. “You heard nothing.”
As always, I feign enthusiasm, pulling him into a brief, casual embrace. Yet his arms always hold me a little too long, and squeeze a little too tightly. He thinks I don’t know. It’s hilarious. It’s revolting. On occasion, I’ve begun to regret creating this monster, I think. I think perhaps that’s the expected response.
We sit across from each other at the little white table. He looks at me, smiling. I can tell he still tastes me when he swallows, a nagging aftertaste at the back of his throat.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Sleepy,” I reply, elbow on the table, chin resting in my open palm. “Why’d you come so early?”
He shrugs. “Sorry. Have to be in shape for work on Monday.”
“Still at the same place?”
“Yeah, same place.”
A loud pause that bounces off the walls. Around the room three other tables are occupied, out of about twelve. It’s quiet enough that I can overhear voices, but we’re spread out enough that I can’t make out words. For their sake, I hope their conversation partners are more interesting than mine. A shame, really. He once worked so hard for my attention, but I suppose he’s lost himself over time.
“What’s new?” he asks, breaking the silence. Squirming, though he tries to hide it. It’s like he scrambles to find words in a mess of strewn-about letters. What’s wrong, hm? They used to come so easily.
I lean back in my chair, draping an arm lazily about its back. “Oh, same old, same old.”
“Still working?” he asks.
“Yeah. They’ll throw me in the hole if I don’t.”
“Right.”
The inside of my brain feels like watching paint dry.
“How’s the wife?” I ask.
He smiles. “She’s good.”
“She know you’re here right now?”
His brow dips infinitesimally, like he caught himself a split-second too late. He’s so predictable. It bores me.
“Yeah,” he finally says. “Why wouldn’t she?”
I shrug. Smile. “Dunno. Just figured maybe you wanted it to be our little secret.”
Another pause, delectably tense. His flustered eyes shift downward; mine dart, furtively, to the wall clock to my left. It’s not that I mind the visits, necessarily. They occupy me for an hour - sometimes longer, depending on who’s watching the room - and add variety to a monotone routine too rarely peppered by fleeting chaos. Often, though, the journey to and from the visitation room ends up being the most interesting part. He was entertaining, once, in another time, but now, it’s like he restrains himself. Sometimes I really do wish he would leave for good. It’s not like he has much to offer me now, especially as it seems even our conversations have turned grayscale.
“The table isn’t level,” he comments suddenly.
I force a dry laugh. “No shit. We’re lucky if they stand up at all.”
I glance at the clock again, wanting fleetingly to call the officer over so I can leave - if only so that the walk back upstairs might provide a moment’s respite from the unrelenting, creepy-crawling boredom. It doesn’t bother me that much, to tell you the truth. It isn’t uncomfortable, per se. It’s just always there, near the lower end of my awareness threshold - a low hum, a background conversation that you overhear, but that doesn’t quite capture you.
With an hour spent in mostly dull, meaningless chatter, he finally rises to leave. We hug again - briefly, ceremoniously. He says ‘bye,’ I say ‘see you next time.’
As I’m led from the room, back up the metal stairs and toward a different flavor of boredom, I wonder, bemused, if the expected response might be to take pity on my friend. But why should I? Why should he take it so personally? Why is that my problem? It's not like I get off on being cruel. It's not that I want to not care. I just don’t. Perhaps things would have worked out for him if I were naïve, if I did not know to be ruthless in taking what I want because it’s the only way I will ever get it.
It’s a shame, for him, sure. It's just no one’s fault, but the way of the world. Only the strong survive.
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I'm real, I'm here. Open your eyes and see.
#249 - Open your eyes, prompt from @flashfictionfridayofficial
Pairing -Sirius/Remus
Warnings - Disosociation, PTSD
Words - 871
Summary - Remus often dreams about Sirius and it makes him reluctant ot open his eye to the nothing he knows he will find when he does. But will he? Has he really lost everything?
Read on AO3 here
Remus was having a wonderful dream. The last 17 years hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t spent most of it alone. Hadn’t lost the love of his life twice, hadn’t accidentally knocker d up his best friend and lost her, hadn’t had to deal with all the bullshit that came with being a werewolf and a war hero.
No, in his head, Remus got to pretend he was cuddled up in bed with his husband. He got to pretend he was happy.
Remus always hated the early mornings when waking up was confusing, and his life and memories muddled up. He ran his hand over the other side of the bed, knowing it would be empty and cold. It had been for a long time.
Laying there, eyes closed, trying to shut his emotions off, trying to forget everything, how his heart wished for more.
“If you open your eyes Moony, you will get more,” a soft voice said. A voice from his memories, a voice from his dreams. A voice his unconscious mind had obviously summoned to torment him more.
“Is it one of those mornings, love?” the voice asked softly.
Remus couldn’t help but frown. The voice didn’t usually go on tangents. His dreams of Sirius were muddled up with memories, but they didn’t react the way they should, the way the real Sirius would have.
Remus felt himself give a full body shiver when he felt a hand in his. H e knew that hand, he knew every wrinkle and callous, the shape of the knuckles and the way the log, graceful piano playing fingers fit into his. He knew that hand and it felt thing like dream Sirius’ hand.
“That’s right my Moonbeam. Open your eyes for me,” Sirius’ voice said.
Remus wasn’t sir of he wanted to or not. Dream Sirius sounded very much like a concerned real Sirius would ad Remus was terrified if he opened his eyes, he would lose him again. He was always losing him in his nightmares. Again and again and again, and Remus wasn’t sure if he could deal with it once again.
“Oh love. It’s ok. I’m real, I’m here. I came back, remember? I always come back to you Moonshine.” Sirius’ voice said sadly. “just open your eyes Moony, the boys will come bother us soon if we aren’t at breakfast. You know how Harry gets. And Teddy.”
That made Remus’ breath catch in his throat. Dream Sirius didn’t know about Teddy because Sirius had never known about Teddy. Remus had never been sure how Sirius would react to the lad and his subconscious reflected this by not allowing Dream Sirius to know about him.
If Sirius knew about Teddy then Sirius......
Remus reluctantly opened his eyes, prepared for nothing. But there, sitting beside him, hair loose and messy, a soft smile on his face, was Sirius. “Siri,” he breathed out in wonder.
“Hey darling. It’s nice to see those beautiful eyes open. Rough morning,” Sirius said as he softly raised Remus’ hand to kiss the back of it.
“I thought...” he trailed off again.
“I know, love. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last. We deal with dissociative shit in this household on a regular basis, after all. I still can’t believe harry was going to join the aurors. Kingsley must be batshit. The boy can barely cast an expeliarmus at the minute," Sirius said sadly.
“Sirius,” Remus said in wonder as he launched himself forward, grabbing Sirius and pulling him closer. He buried his head under Sirius’s chin and allowed Sirius to hold him tight, to reassure Remus that he was there, that it was Sirius heartbeat he could hear as he was pressed to him as tightly as possible.
Remus was back in a light doze, surrounded by nothing but Sirius, when he heard the door open.
“We figured it wasn’t the best morning when you didn’t come down, so what did we do Tedster?” Remus heard Harry ask.
“We made da bekfst, bekfust papa,” a soft, sweet, angelic voice said.
Remus opened his eyes and sat up properly, not letting go of Sirius’ hand. He saw their boys in the doorway. Harry looking sheepish at having interrupted and Teddy looking over, excited after having helped Harry make them breakfast.
Remus felt the tears of gratitude sliding down his cheeks.
Teddy noticed too and ran forward and peppered Remus’ face with kisses after Harry helped him clamber on the bed. “Da, you sad?” the 2-year-old asked.
Remus looked down at his baby and smiled. He grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him close too. “No, baby. Da’s happy. Da is right here with you all, our family. Why wouldn’t I be happy?” he asked Teddy softly.
Teddy beamed at the answer and started jabbering on about how he made the breakfast with Harry’s help. Sirius barked in laughter and Harry smiled happily at the family they had clawed and glued back together after Voldemort's defeat and Sirius’ return from the veil.
Remus’ life had felt like it had ended when he was 20 and now at 40 it had started again. He got to be happy. He deserved to be happy. They all did.
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Under the Stars
Fandom: Andromeda Six
Pairing: Juniper "June" Nyux/Traveler
Rating: General
Summary: Stargazing isn't easy when you're trapped on a starship, but thankfully, June has a good alternative.
Words: 750
Additional Tags: Kitalphin Traveler, Flash Fiction Friday, Prompts, Short Fiction, Stargazing
Read on AO3
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial
A serene quiet had descended on the ship, the night cycle creating an illusory calm among the residents. Maris imagined what the others did on occasion, but not tonight. Now with June’s arms around her and the stars shining overhead.
With a sigh, she snuggled closer to June, the warmth of his body enough to chase away the chill of the room. Stars danced on the ceiling, the projector displaying the Earth’s many constellations across the grey metal panels, white pinpricks that nearly resembled the stars outside her window. June pointed at the one right above their heads, a smile tilting the corners of his lips.
“That’s Canis Major.”
Maris’s eyes followed his finger as he traced the path of the constellation, trying to commit it to memory, but knowing she’d fail even before she began. Not that it mattered, when she would use it as another opportunity to have these quiet moments with June. Because she treasured every moment of peace they got.
“That’s Cetus.” He said next, pointing to one a little further away. “They used to call it ‘The Whale.’”
“It doesn’t really look like a whale.”
June chuckled, breath brushing against the top of her head. His hand ran along her arm, leaving goosebumps behind. “It’s just a name, Maris.”
She snorted, hands trailing across his chest gently, the soft fabric tickling her fingertips. “It’s a stupid name.”
She felt June’s smile when he pressed a kiss against her hair. “Do you want to complain about some more or shall I continue?”
Maris huffed, trying not to laugh at his question. “You can continue.”
June’s body shook in laughter, but he managed to find his voice to continue. “That’s Hydra. And that one there-” He focused on one that looked like it had arms or legs or something. Really, to her it looked like a spider. “That one is Hercules.”
“Why does he look like that?” She asked, frowning at the projection. Whoever the people who lived on Earth were, no human being looked like that. “It doesn’t even look like a person, June.”
“Someone is overly critical of a bunch of dead astronomers.” He teased, reaching up to brush a hand over her hair, tangling his fingers in the teal strands. “What would you name them?”
“Hmm.” She glanced around at the picture hovering above them, finger trailing over different forms until she landed on one. “That’s a crab.”
“That’s Perseus.”
She didn’t dignify his response with a word, instead moving on to the next constellation she saw. “That looks like a snail.”
“That’s Serpens.”
“None of these make sense.” Maris muttered, giving it one more go. She pointed at the one that looked like a blocky body without a head. It couldn’t be perfect, but it was close enough. “See? That one looks like a person. Sort of. What’s that one?”
He stiffened slightly, breath stuttering in his chest. It took him a moment before he answered. “Orion.”
Oh.
She raised her head, concerned eyes searching his face for that flash of pain that usually accompanied any mention of his birthplace. Instead, she found him studying the constellation curiously, eyes bright, expression smooth of fear for the first time since she’d known him.
Maris pressed a soft kiss against his chin, earning a gentle look in response that had her heart stuttering in her chest. “Are you alright?”
June cupped her face in his hands, bringing her closer to meet his lips in a deep kiss that left her toes curling in her boots and her heart nearly jumping out of her chest. He didn’t pull back completely when the kiss ended, lips brushing hers tenderly, achingly.
A silent moment passed, a heartbeat, before he spoke.
“Orion is where I came from, but it’s not my home, Maris.” He trailed his mouth over her cheek, across her closed eyelids, before settling between her eyebrows, a lingering touch that nearly set her on fire. “You are. And being here with you, even under a fake night sky, is all I’ve ever dreamed of.”
Maris exhaled sharply, not even realizing she’d been holding her breath in the first place. There were so many things she wanted to say, but they all paled in comparison to the simple. “I love you too, June.”
He laughed, the happiest sound in the entire galaxy to her ears. Tucking herself against his body, their gazes returned to the stars projected above them, content to lay in silence and be at peace.
#my writing#flashfictionfriday#flash fiction friday#andromeda six#a6#a6 traveler#a6 fanfic#juniper nyux#june nyux#traveler x june nyux#oc: maris#maris x june
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Injure, Not Maim
Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians
Rating: Teen
Genre: Action
Characters: Clarisse La Rue, Michael Yew
Clarisse revelled in Capture the Flag.
For @flashfictionfridayofficial #236: Fight or Flight. It's been a while since I last wrote a FFF prompt and I think I'm out of practice trying to keep the word count down, but I've wanted to write some Clarisse&Michael Capture the Flag for a while and the prompt fit so I gave it a go! Might play with this concept again at some point without a word limit challenge.
Reminder that there’s now a discord server for all my fics, including this one! If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi!
Clarisse revelled in Capture the Flag. Training was one thing, hours upon hours upon hours of drills and practice against dummies, against her half-siblings, against anyone that could give her a good workout, but it was too tame, too controlled. The savagery of war ran through her veins, and for all that weapons training was an essential precursor, it wasn’t the same.
Capture the Flag, though? That was different. That was the camp divided in two and devolving into chaos as they clashed, no rote drills to be repeated over and over again, but unexpected manoeuvres, carefully laid plans going awry and adaptations forced on the fly.
This was where Clarisse thrived.
Her spear crackled in her hand as she downed a blue-plumed opponent, the electricity more than enough to take them out without maiming them (Chiron was very clear on that one rule, and Clarisse respected the centaur enough to respect it), and she didn’t hesitate as more blue plumes swarmed her. Their strategy was clearly to overwhelm her with numbers – no-one in camp could take her on one-on-one and be confident of victory, and few could give her an even match – but a spear against swords and daggers gave her the advantage of reach, and for anyone that got in close, she had her dagger, too.
“Bring it on!” she crowed, jabbing the butt of her spear into the armoured stomach of an Athena kid before whipping the electrified shaft around in a sweep that knocked two of her other assailants off of their feet. This was fun, and the war in her blood sang as she engaged with the next opponent, another Athena kid because Athena kids were children of war, too, and Clarisse might scoff at their incessant need for plans upon plans, but they could fight.
But Clarisse was better, even outnumbered – although that count kept dropping down as she knocked more and more down, leaving a messy ring of limp, twitching demigods around her.
The blue team were never going to win if they all threw themselves at her, leaving the rest of her team free to track down the opposing flag while she whittled down their numbers steadily. It was a daft tactic, and part of Clarisse knew that Annabeth had to have something up her sleeve, because she always did, but she also knew that she wasn’t letting Annabeth have this victory. If this was the number of opponents Annabeth had calculated it would take to take her down, Clarisse would just have to prove her wrong.
Clarisse let her face split into a grin, laughter escaping her as she kept fighting, as her spear tore armour and nicked skin – no maiming, but there was a difference between injure and maim, and Clarisse had learnt where the line lay years ago.
Her laughter was cut off by an arrow, skimming across her arm and leaving a bloody furrow, followed by another on the opposite arm, and then another.
She didn’t need to see the gold and red fletching to know exactly who had shot at her. It was always the same person. Always.
“Michael!” she roared, batting away the next lunge from her opponent on the ground as she scoured the trees surrounding her for any sign of the Apollo kid. The arrows had come down to her, and Michael never seemed to touch the forest floor during Capture the Flag, lurking in the trees out of sight like a coward as he rained blunted arrows down on the other team – on Clarisse, whenever they were on opposing teams.
They often were.
Her answer was another volley of arrows, coming from a different direction to the first because of course he was staying on the move.
Clarisse’s other opponents disappeared, but she hardly noticed as she struck out towards the foliage. Michael had the greater range, but her spear could still reach the branches and he could only navigate them so quickly.
More arrows rained down on her, and if she was anyone else, someone who didn’t have war thrumming through her blood, fight or flight instincts might’ve been pushed towards flight, away from the aerial threat that was difficult to find and even harder to stop, but Clarisse had never chosen flight in her life, and wasn’t about to start now.
She lunged towards the arrows, her armour defecting the blunted tips and the stolen breath from the impacts barely registering, and thrust her spear up.
She made contact with something, something that immediately cursed her out as Michael tried to not get knocked off of his perch on the branch. Blood ran down the crackling shaft, not enough to be a maim but enough to know that she’d caught Michael, and she yanked it back. Movement between the leaves gave her visual on where Michael was lurking, and she swung her spear around again, feeling the moment the shaft collided with something that moved with the momentum.
Michael broke his fall with a roll, bow still held loosely in his grip. One leg stumbled beneath him as he came to a stop on his feet again; a trickle of blood stained the fabric of his pants around a tear. It was a scrape, the same he’d done to her with his arrows. Injure, not maim.
Weakness.
Clarisse didn’t hesitate for a moment, pressing her advantage, but Michael had long since learnt to merge fight with flight and fled, hauling himself back up into a tree before her spear made contact and letting out another volley of his damn red-and-gold fletched arrows.
“Coward!” she spat. “Fight me.”
“I don’t need to,” his voice floated towards her, leaves rustling in a tell-tale motion.
She roared. “Get back-”
Cheering interrupted her, and she whipped her head around to see the distant, tell-tale shimmer of red fabric changing to gold down by the creek. Michael shifted in the trees, deliberately letting her see the satisfied smirk on his face.
“You lose.”
#percy jackson and the olympians#percy jackson fanfiction#riordanverse#riordanverse fanfiction#flashfictionfriday#clarisse la rue#michael yew#tsari writes fanfiction
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Endless Horizons
For @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: FFF210: The Sand Ocean
Words: 1000
Step.
Step.
Step.
That’s all he had to do.
One foot. Then the other. Didn’t even need to be in front. Just needed to be.
Screwing his eyes up against the glare, he tried to lift his head. He didn’t know where he was going because he didn’t know where he was.
They’d taken him too far. He couldn’t see his ship. Didn’t know which way blessed safety lay. It would’ve been better if they’d taken him with them. They’d have had shade, water, maybe even someone who spoke a language he’d recognise.
But they hadn’t. They’d left him. Taken him out into the desert and left him there.
Exposed skin blistered in the heat. He longed to cool down, to peel back his uniform, but it would make it worse. Someone would tell him off for that.
Who?
Who would tell him off?
A medic… a brother.
Virgil!
Virgil would tell him to find shade. Impossible. Stay hydrated. Not going to happen. Stay put so they could get a lock on his location.
It’d take too long. He had to get back to One. Had to make sure the men hadn’t gone after her.
Step.
Step.
Step.
The pounding in his temples spread to his entire body. Every time his foot connected with the parched earth, the impact sent a tremble through him. There were dust motes dancing in his vision, but they didn’t fade when he shut his eyes. Nothing faded: not the heat, not the burning sand… Just a red glow that permeated every part of him.
He kept stepping. If it was the only thought he could hold onto, then it was what he’d do.
One foot.
Then the other.
If only there was a clue he was travelling in the right direction. Some sign that the endless dunes stretching forever didn’t truly go for all eternity.
He forced himself to look up.
Was that..?
It couldn’t be… but it was. There was something there. A hazy, wavering image. He wasn’t sure if it was real. But it was something… He’d rather walk towards an imaginary dream that stumble through a nightmare.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Thunder.
There was thunder. A deep, booming noise that he felt in his heart more than he heard.
But that couldn’t be right.
A desert meant the absence of rain. It was why the Poles were deserts. He remembered explaining it to a baffled Gordon.
There couldn’t be thunder without rain.
But the sky was darkening. A shadow falling over him that made him sway as the burning glare momentarily faded. The wind was whipping up the sand, making it scratch his eyes, his throat, he couldn’t breathe…
Burying his face in the crook of his arm, he tried to look up. The sky ahead was still blue. The thunder, the shadow, passed over him, but didn’t fade into the distance. It hovered, grew louder…
He had to keep going. The mirage was still there, shimmering at the edge of his vision. It could thunder on someone else. He had to keep going.
His knees hit the sand.
He didn’t step again.
-x-
“Lowering the platform now.”
Virgil didn’t check his safety straps. Gordon would keep him steady. His hands were already on the railing, ready to jump out as soon as he hit the ground. Or before that. No one would judge him.
The burning glare of the desert hit him with force enough to make him stagger as the hatch opened. He screwed up his eyes before remembering the visors Brains had packed.
Snapping on one, he breathed easier as the glare instantly reduced and the burning air stopped scorching his lungs. The platform was swinging out, lowering towards the ground.
Two couldn’t land. The sands were too uncertain; he didn’t know if she’d rise again. This was the only way.
But as soon as the platform was a metre from the ground, Virgil flung open the gate and jumped out. The ground shifted under his feet.
“Scott? Scott!” He darted forward, movement hindered by the surface, and stumbled more than ran towards his brother.
Scott was a smudge on the sand, nothing more. Dropping to his knees, Virgil turned him, swiping at the sand on his brother’s face. Blistered skin and chapped lips greeted him. It was the only greeting he got - Scott’s eyes remained closed.
But he was breathing. That much Virgil was certain about. His fingers shook as he fumbled for the med-scanner. Even with his protective gear, he was sweating as he waited for the reading. It was almost a relief when the lights came back red - anything to stop this infernal waiting.
The readings were bad. But Scott wasn’t injured. A couple of bumps, maybe, from when One had hit the sand and the men had dragged her semi-conscious pilot away from the Thunderbird.
Everything else was to do with this wretched desert.
Pulling his brother over his shoulder, he staggered back to the platform.
“Take us up,” he ordered.
Gordon did so. The cool air as Thunderbird Two drew them in made Virgil close his eyes in relief. He threw the visor off as soon as he could, needing to see his brother with his own eyes. It didn’t improve the view.
“Get us home, Gords,” he ordered, dragging Scott’s prone form towards the infirmary. He had a stocked sickbay, but he’d never seen anything like this. He wasn’t sure if it even counted as heat stroke in this severity.
He felt Two turn even as he hoisted Scott onto a bed. He knew Gordon would tag One’s position so they could come back and get her once they had Scott home. John had initiated lock-down procedures from Five: the men who had done this wouldn’t be getting in.
“Oh, and Gords?” Virgil hesitated as he slipped the first line into his brother. “Give us an ocean view.”
“F.A.B.”
Anything to wash away the image now burnt in his mind’s eye.
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Hand revealed
Characters: Near Hallow, Lewis Atteberry
Story: Second Chance At Life
TW: none
WC: 276
Near clenches his hands into fists as he stares at Lewis, trying desperately to keep his voice level. "Even if he is your father, that man doesn't care about you."
"That's- you don't know that!" Lewis is shaking, and Near can't quite figure out why exactly. Normally he'd say it's anger, but... something about that doesn't seem right. "I'm his son! The heir!"
"And that's the only thing he cares about!" Near takes a breath, flexing his fingers. Stay calm. Turning this into a shouting match won't help anyone. "He doesn't care that you're his son, he only cares that you're the heir. He's manipulating you every step of the way to turn you into a version of himself." It had been that way the first time around, and despite everything that's changed, it was the same this time.
"You- you're just mad he won't recognize you as his child!"
Oh. So Adrian had told someone this time. Still.
"Oh, wake up already, Lewis. I'm happy where I am. I've got the support of both Owen and Val, I'm respected. Why would I ever wanna give that up for a snakepit?" He'd done it once. Never again. "I'm trying to help you. I'm not saying you have to denounce him, or anything like that. I just need you to watch out, to stay aware. To stay your own person."
"I- whatever! You don't know what you're talking about!" Lewis storms away, but Near can feel himself relax. That look on his face at the end... It's the start he needed.
And maybe... Maybe in a while, Lewis will come to him, and really let him help.
---
Flash Fiction Friday taglist: @flashfictionfridayofficial
SCAL taglist:
General taglist: @simkarta333 @sparrow-orion-writes
If you want to be added to/removed from a taglist, you can either let me know, or do it yourself in this document (yes that's a link).
#isaiah posts#my writing#writeblrcafe#flash fiction friday#flashfictionfriday#Second Chance At Life#Near Hallow#Lewis Atteberry
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at dusk
she said she wanted a little pink house out in the countryside. i'd only known her a couple of months, and i was halfway through smoking a cigarette. hypotheticals, y'know? anyway i looked at her the way i always did - amused, with a hint of sarcasm.
"femmes," i muttered, and immediately coughed up my guts as repentance. she laughed.
"well, if you could have anywhere, where would you have?"
i thought about the idea of having a home, some place that was only mine. all i could think of was this one place in liverpool - not a house, but a garden - the whole thing on top of a hill. i remember sitting there the night before i left, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. the sun set in deep pink and fiery red on the city. home, i thought. it took three years for me to go back to the city.
"i don't know."
"you're so cryptic all the time." i hummed and smoked my cigarette. she was pretty in the evening, that lamplight on her skin. i wish she loved me in any meaningful way, but mostly when the time came she'd miss the way i fucked and not much else.
i don't offer much else except the faint smell of grief and the ash of cigarette smoke.
if i'd been half the person i pretended to be, i could've said her. i would have meant it only in that second, but at least she could've felt wanted.
homes are for people who know how to want. to yearn for something in the distance like a mountaineer scratching bloody palms on a rocky surface. but i've only ever been a monument to other people's desires.
"i just don't know," is what i said, after i thought that. "...i'm only twenty-two, what's there to know but the now?" she stole my cigarette off me, and i didn't argue back.
written for @flashfictionfridayofficial
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FFF224 Torn Veil
This was written for @flashfictionfridayofficial
WC: 778
“She tore the veil from the evening sky and put it over his face, blinding the Sun forevermore”. So does the tale of Apollo and Artemis, once loving siblings, now scorned enemies end. But how did the two Gods become each other’s antagonists, that is the tale that will be told here. It’s the tale of a hunt, a tale of trust, and a tale of the fallibility of mankind - or in this case, godhood.
A beast had broken loose, and no one was sure what exactly this beast was. It was supposedly as big as a mountain and could swallow cows whole. It had also poisoned a well and taken away dozens of sheep. Even then the gods knew that man often exaggerated stories and told tall tales.
Nowadays some demigods would be set upon the task, but this tale takes place in that time before Zeus had started to lust after the mortal flesh, so there were few demigods to go around. Thus the twins Artemis and Apollo had been sent out to vanquish this ‘unknowable’ beast.
The beast in question turned out to be a manticore. Manticores were indeed known for eating and kidnapping cattle, even the bravest of dogs wouldn’t stand a chance against a creature that had the mighty body of a lion and the venomous sting of a scorpion. That explained the poisoned water supply as well. And the twins had to give it to the mortals: This particular manticore was indeed quite huge, but still a far stretch from being mountain-sized.
A manticore would pose an impossible threat for mortals, and a reasonable threat for a demigod or two, but for two Gods of Archery, one of which is the actual Goddess of the bloody Hunt, this would be a piece of cake. Or should have been.
Closing in on the manticore took some time, but as the sun set, they finally had the monster surrounded. Necessity is the mother of invention, however, and a cornered beast is the living embodiment of that wisdom. A hunt like this was routine for the twins and they had grown lackadaisical and accustomed to the routine of doing their father’s bidding. The manticore pounced, surprising both archers, and grabbed Apollo by the neck with the vice-like grip of its stinger.
The prospect of the manticore poison being injected into his veins was not a welcome one for Apollo. Even though he was immortal, his godhood would not spare him the burning and flashing pain that came with the sting. And like all men do when they are faced with something they cannot escape from, he started trashing. Begging his sister to shoot the damned tail, so he could free himself.
As a dutiful sister Artemis, put a poisoned arrow herself on the bow, and her breath steady, took aim. Looking back at that moment now, it was almost as if the Fates, or Chaos themselves, intervened. Just as she was about to fire her arrow, the clouds shifted, and the evening sun bathed her in orange light. As beautiful as this may have looked, as much of a blessing from her own brother this may have seemed. It was nothing but a curse. A curse that momentarily blinded and distracted her.
Yet the arrow did fly. It flew straight and true, not towards the vexing tail that had curled itself around her brother's neck, but towards his eyes, its new target. The arrow pierced Apollo’s left eye as easily as it would have an apple. And the scream of agony that Apollo released at that instant reverbed across the known world, every being from the depths of Tartarus to the peak of Olympus heard the cry of Phoebus Apollo.
Mortified at what she had done Artemis amended her fault and unloaded her quiver on the manticore, securing that it now was dead, and rushed towards her brother. But the damage had already been done. One eye was already blind and the poison of the arrow spread towards the other one. The last thing Apollo would see with his own eyes was his sister - his beloved, yet betraying sister - face twisted in anguish running towards him.
As his vision left him, the sun turned an angry, violent orange, bathing the world in blood. And as the darkness crept upon him, he uttered a final prophecy of his own making, aimed at the cause of his new fate: “Your arrows will never fly true, as long as the Sun basks the world in its light”.
That is how Artemis tore apart the sky and veiled the Sun forevermore.
[Taglist: @lazy-bumblebee @lexiklecksi Send an ask or comment to be +/-]
#fff224#flashfictionfriday#writeblr#scae.writes#wip; the sacred disease#this was a great prompt to get back into things for my Nano project#needed to flesh out this part of the backstory for my version of the pantheon#it's going to be lovecraftian
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Karaoke love
This is written for @flashfictionfridayofficial with the prompt #FFF238 Take my hand and for @fluffbruary February 2 prompt : engagement | scent | jam
—
Beware of manga spoilers for the latest chapter. This is exactly 1000 words. I was totally into it at the end. I hope the ending makes sense. Heh!
Toto takes a shot from his whiskey glass, easing himself up. It’s his turn to sing. The screen monitor shows the song that he’s chosen awhile back. The truth is his singing is only confined to the four corners of the flat and his shower cabin in Asakusa.
Ron mentioned once that his love for singing in the shower is one of the rare times when Toto lets himself go apart from his innate resoluteness. But come to think of it, Ron didn’t say much about the quality of his singing voice, Toto has only been just self-conscious ever since that incident that he never sings anymore whenever he stays at Ron’s apartment.
Who suggested going to the karaoke bar anyway? Ah, it was Kawasemi-san. Today is the last day that he’s going to be in town and coincidentally his birthday that for all intents and purposes, Dr. Mofu asked him what else he wanted to do in Tokyo before going back to Aichi.
They rent a private room at the Karaoke Kan in Shibuya. The shop became famous when it was featured in a Western film in the early 2000s about two Americans, who found each other amidst the backdrop very alien to them: from food to cultural references. The premises have become a Mecca for tourists.
The whole gang is here. Amamiya, who tags along these days, and Dr. Mofu didn’t have the time when they went to Kamakura for sightseeing two days ago. So, they made sure that they were present this time around before sending Kawasemi-kun back to Nagoya. The only one who’s missing is Spitz, who cannot leave London at the moment and is disgruntled with a dash of envy in his body when he finds out their plans.
“Ack, Tototo! I am going to miss your performance. Ron-kun says that he has a rock ‘n’ roll singer living in his house.” Toto laughed when he heard this.
Should Toto stand up?
An arm gathers around him, as if grounding him. While the hand holds his shoulder, firm and yet tender. Toto turns to his left; Ron’s blue eyes confront him. Relax.
“Y-yeah…” Toto has calmed down a bit.
The first notes of a raunchy electric guitar surge, he poses to belt out the text that flashes on the screen.
“I'm an alligator/ I'm a mama-papa comin' for you / I'm the space invader / I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you / Keep your mouth shut … Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe … Press your space face close to mine, love / Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah!”
His friends are fired up, hooting at the way Toto playfully sings a David Bowie song. Chikori-kun’s admiration skyrockets to 200 per cent. Her eyes scream of glowing stars. Kawasemi kun sings along. He knows it by heart and has been a Bowie fan. He’s so glad that Toto made a little research about him. Dr. Mofu’s face breaks into a giggle as she stops conversing with Amamiya, who cannot stop smiling. Toto, gyrating before her very eyes, has transformed into another person. And Ron? He’s looking at Toto with his hungry eyes, his hands won’t stop rubbing his thighs clothed in loose jeans. He then places his right hand into his pocket and reaches for a small box inside, feeling glad that he hasn’t lost the engagement ring.
You deserve all the good things in the world, Toto!
As the Tokyo police officer hits the end notes, Toto bows to the delight of his friends clapping and whistling on his way.
“Thank you so much!”
Ron hands him a glass of water and half-hugs him when he’s already seated.
“You did well, Toto!”
Toto mouths his thanks as he downs another glass when the next song starts to play. Chikori kun can’t stop herself from gushing when he notices that Ron stands up.
Oh, he’s next. Toto is darn curious now. He knows that Ron can sing really well as expected of him.
“Wise men say / Only fools rush in / But I can't help falling in love with you / Shall I stay? / Would it be a sin / If I can't help falling in love with you?”
All of a sudden, the whole room turns quiet. No one claps, nor whistles. As if a magician does his trick enchanting the audience. Everyone is glued watching Ron does his interpretation of a popular Elvis Presley song.
Toto is fastened on his seat, mouth agape. Ron is looking at him, his intentions are clear. His heart beats faster, aware of his surroundings and the four sets of eyes that are focused on them.
“Take my hand / Take my whole life, too / For I can't help falling in love with you…”
Ron sits next to Toto and seizes his hand. He begins to speak.
“I am glad that our friends are here to give me support and witness the promise I will say here today. Too bad that Spitz isn’t around but he already knows my plans.”
Toto’s face is red now not because of the alcohol but specifically because of Ron, who is in front of him, who is now removing an object from his pocket.
“Toto, I know that it is all so sudden. But, after all the things that happened between us, I believe that there is an understanding that we can’t live without each other and instead prepare to die together if we are faced with a choice, are you willing to be my partner for life? Will you marry me?”
Toto’s mouth quiver, why hasn’t he never thought that this day will come? Ah, that’s why he can never be as good as Ron when it comes to sleuthing.
He then grabs Ron’s face and in front of everyone kisses Ron, his fiancé. Without remorse nor embarrassment while their friends say their congratulations.
“Yes!”
~ fin ~
#kamonohashi ron no kindan suiri#ron kamonohashi#totomaru isshiki#ron et toto#rontoto#rkdd fanfics#rkdd fanfic idea#my fanfic stuff#flashfictionfriday#flash fiction#flash fiction friday#fluffbruary#fluffbruary 2024#fff238#take my hand and take my whole life too!#take my hand#engagement#the whole gang#is here but spitz
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Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt number 235
Length: 600 words
Audience: General
Themes: Grief, loss, lonliness
A sanctuary can become a cage in time. A plethora of binding memories and belongings that tether to now meaningless brick and mortar. The amalgamation of our empire, a little pink house, nestled in a row of perfectly paired pastel structures of its likeness. It was never I who belonged. It was we. A symbiotic entity whose existence was acknowledged in unison. Now, there is no we, despite everywhere in my vision demanding it is so. It pains me to leave this place. To look upon all that is and be plagued with what once was. The vibrancy of life around me is now astonishing and nauseating, though my sensibilities tell me this is comfort. Was comfort.
Standing on the threshold of the familiar abode causes me to double over, to be ill. Because it was once we and it is now I. Pink doesn't suit me, it suited us. And now I am left draped in a hue that contorts my reality and contradicts my truth. My home is not bright and gentle like a sky alight with the first rays of the rising sun. The world around me isn't the powder blue of a clear sky nor welcoming like springtime's first sprigs of grass. It was never me who hoped for the future and rejected the past. It was you. Now that I am a solitary entity, lacking my comforting parasite who swallowed my grief and shielded those around me from my inner truth. I lack color. I lack the desire to produce and create things in vibrant hues, and living in a picturesque rainbow reality only reminds me that I never truly belonged. This existence is much too beautiful for me without you. Sunken to my knees, gripping my curse of a midsection, I make the decision to paint my world in my likeness. I stumble, clumsily placing one determined barefoot in front of the other. Gripping a metal handle hot from the day's blaring and painful bright sun, I thrust open the metal hanger, which was an obstacle to the object of my hungry desire. Hunched over, stumbling, still clutching the ever-throbbing emptiness just below my ribcage, I blunder my way to the large handled metal can. A grey liquid oozed from the single ridge that lined its lid.
You had said it's much too drab for the new room. That something to house youth was meant to ring with the colors of potential, colors that excite and entice. There was no room for apathy in your vision of the future. Only excitement and endless possibilities. But you aren't here, and there is no we, only I, and I think it's perfect. I lug the oozing can from its forgotten place behind the now needlessly large car on a shelf in the darkened garage. I breathe a small breath of relief in the reprieve from the endless brightness of the midday, then continue my trek. It's heavy and slaps unforgivingly at my thigh as I attempt to carry the heavy can of forgotten gray paint to the front of our little pink house. I can't take it anymore. The fruits of our labor have become the receipt of my suffering. I know what will happen if I do the task before me, but I can't bear the thought of not. With a belabored sigh, or maybe a shriek, I heaved the can, lid open, and watched in relief as a brilliant ark of grey splattered across the face of my nostalgic prison. I don't care what they say. I'll paint the whole damn thing grey.
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I finally have something (small) for @flashfictionfridayofficial. cw: climate crisis, displacement, natural disaster (flooding/rising tides).
In Memoriam
Microfiction | Literary | 255 words
Her earliest memory is of a place that no longer exists.
She remembers details, too - scattered and disjointed, yes, but so vivid and so many that she's now certain some of them must have been fabricated by her mind, over time, to fill in the gaps. Her subconscious carries, among an ocean of far less pleasant things, dreamlike memories of sand castles and hermit crabs, of glistening shells, of swallowing salty water, of sunsets so bright and vivid you could almost taste the sky.
To this day, when the weather is right and she closes her eyes, she can nearly smell the place - the salt in the humid air, the wafting, faraway scents of food, the pungent odors of stale heat and sunscreen. She can almost feel the hot sand under the soles of her feet, the living water rushing around her legs as her father held her hand, the comforting melody of her mother's laughter carried on the wind from somewhere behind them.
Nowadays, you wouldn't know it was ever real - not unless you plunged far enough into the depths of the Atlantic to find it resting, still and pristine, on the ocean floor. Some days, she likes to imagine it's been preserved exactly as it lives in her mind, only underwater - the seaside cottages, the dunes and cattails, the wildlife, even the people, all adapted to life in a modern Atlantis, far removed from what remains of the burning world above.
Most days, though, it's easier to pretend it was nothing but a beautiful dream.
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It's a good job I love you!
Heres to hoping im not to late. Im sure tumblr waits until Fridays to specifically mess up so i cant post 😭
Pairing -Bilbo/Thorin Warnings
No warnings, just fluff
Words - 449
Summary - Bilbo sees that Thorin has once again forgotten to take the rubbish out, bloody husbands, he thinks exasperated.
#247 - @flashfictionfridayofficial, also want to thank @littleoldrachel as this is number 30 of the prompt ask game.
Bilbo looked around his kitchen annoyed. Thorin had forgotten to take out the rubbish. AGAIN!
“Ugh,” he cried, as he threw his hands up in desperation. He loved Thorin. He adored Thorin with every part of his being, but sometimes he wanted to bloody strangle him.
He walked out of the kitchen and straight into Thorin's work room. Usually he stayed out of here, and Thorin stayed out of Bilbo's study, but today was the exception.
Bilbo marched in and then stopped, having to shake his head at the sight in front of him.
Thorin was bent over his desk, his magnification goggles half hanging off his head, caught in his hair. If he didn't look so adorable asleep, Bilbo would probably be more mad at him.
With a sigh, Bilbo walked forward and removed them from Thorin's hair gently, putting them to one side as he gently woke his husband up.
"Thorin, you need to get up," he said as he gently nudged him. Thorin woke up with a grunt and a sigh as he felt Bilbo's hands on his shoulder.
"Ghivishel?" he called blearily.
"I'm here, you're going to bed," Bilbo said firmly.
"But ..." Thorin went to argue before an enormous yawn caught him off guard.
"No buts," Bilbo said, broking no arguments. "Bed, I will wake you in a few hours. Tauriel's tiara isn’t going anywhere and you have months to finish it for the wedding. Bed Thorin," he ordered.
Bilbo felt more than heard Thorin's sigh as he stood and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek before stumbling to bed.
Bilbo wondered back into the kitchen and looked at the state of it. He would have said something, but really, he didn't have a leg to stand on.
He was often writing at odd hours, and Thorin had to pick up his slack. Whatever being decided two overly creative men should fall in love must have had a terrible sense of humour, Bilbo thought with a snort.
With that, he started straightening out the kitchen and emptying the bin.
Even if this was the worst chore he could think of, plus the big bin lids were heavy, it didn't really matter to Bilbo, especially when he had a huge blind spot for Thorin, as Thorin did him.
The blind spot for his husband's flaws was unimportant (as was his annoyance) when Bilbo decided writing could wait as he had a tired husband in his bed, and a tired Thorin was a clingy Thorin, which was just another thing about him Bilbo adored.
Even if he was going to get an earful about not emptying the rubbish when they both awoke.
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Another use for Beetroot
@flashfictionfridayofficial
In which Sam tries her hand at something between painting and handicrafts.
December 1943
“err... Sam, what exactly are you doing?”
Christopher Foyle surveyed the kitchen from the doorway. The table was covered completely in overlapping sheets of newspaper, which were also hanging down slightly over the edges, pelmet like. Sam was sat at the table, wearing what seemed to be an old shirt of Andrew's, put on backwards. The collar was turned down hard, and as she turned to look at him he noticed the collar was actually pinned into the shirt to keep it. In one hand she had a paintbrush, not one of Rose's but a workman-like medium sized one, in the other a thin rectangle of wood, which was partially – pink?. The tips of the fingers holding the bit of wood were also martked a bloody pink. And there was a distinct smell of boiled something
“Oh- Hello Kit.” She glanced between him, the window and the table, apparently only now noticing the fading light.beyond the window. She muttered something to herself, then said more clearly “Stay well away, unless you want to be stained.
Still tucked in the doorwat he raised an eyebrow, silently repeating his question.
Sam looked back at him ,eyes shifting, “The WVS are trying to gather up toys for the children still around here, and to send off to those evacuated. They'd rounded up some offcuts of wood and were giving them out at the Church Hall, if you could make anything with them. I was going to make a doll with scraps of cloth for clothes,but then I was cooking the beetroot anyway for dinner, and beetroot always stains anything that gets near it, so I thought I would see if the juice would stain the wood.”
She held up the piece of wood, frowning at it. “I'd hoped it would make a nice rich red, that maybe they could be made into a toy house or a building set – instead it seems to have gone rather pink.”
He considered the bit of wood she held up. It was indeed, a light, middling pink.
“Well, I'm sure girls enjoy toy houses too.”
“Hmm” Sam said doubtfully, “I would have liked a village set - but in Pink?” she sighed “It is what it is I suppose.”
You couldn't fault her for trying to help. “Look, clear up for now, put it to dry in the utility room and see how it settles overnight, if you keep back some of the juice and cooking water you can give it another coat, that might turn it red.”
She looked from him to the wood doubtfully.
“Or at least closer to red,” he amended.
#flashfictionfriday#foyle's war#fff235#foyle's war fanfiction#sam stewart#christopher foyle#make do and mend#of a sort
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An unfortunate ignorance
Characters: Malleus Draconia, Shimura Kyomi, Malleus' grandmother
Story: A sort of sleeping beauty AU of Descend Into Magic/that series
Warnings: none
Word count: 441
It's a bad idea and she knows it, yet Kyomi can't help but follow the call.
It's sweet and comforting at surface level, but beneath that, she can feel the danger, the anger.
And still underneath that, sadness, eagerness for something, longing. Loneliness, too.
The call beckons her, and she can't help it. She doesn't even know where she is, how she got there, all she knows is the call.
Then, with a pinprick, the call is gone. She has maybe two seconds to look around, see the dark room she's in, before sleep overtakes her, and then she's gone.
+++
"Oh," his grandmother gasps in delight as his spell finally takes effect. "There we go, oh, what a wonderful spell, absolutely flawless."
Malleus can't help but preen at the praise his grandmother gives him, or the proud — and amused — smile Lilia gives him from across the room. "All I did was follow your instructions, grandmother," he says, unable to stop his own smile from forming.
"A splendid casting, my dear." His grandmother reaches out, gently stroking his hair. "Yes, a splendid casting indeed. And now, we wait for them to notice."
+++
It takes almost a day for anyone to notice, in the end. Their darling prince is always running off, disappearing. Her not being seen for a day or two is nothing special. Maybe it should be, considering she's royalty, so always at risk, but well. She's proven she can take care of herself, and the people would rather see her happy than locked up.
In the end, it's her brother that finds her, and only by coincidence. A faint unfamiliar magic had caught his attention, and as he followed it, there she was.
If he hadn't decided to take a different route through the castle than usual, it would have taken even longer.
+++
Unlike his grandmother, Malleus can't find joy in watching their neighbors scramble in panic as their princess is in a deep, magical slumber.
He doesn't blame his grandmother, for their neighbors had brought this upon themselves, but he simply can't find the joy she does.
Still, he is curious about the princess his spell had caught, and so he goes to visit.
It's the middle of the night, and he uses his magic to get in unseen. Surprisingly, there aren't any guards around the princess' room, nor any magic to keep her safe.
Malleus raises an eyebrow before he shrugs, entering the room and closing the door behind him. Only then does he look at the bed, and his heart skips a beat.
Of all the people it could have been... It was her?
---
Flash Fiction Friday taglist: @flashfictionfridayofficial
Descend into magic taglist:
General taglist: @simkarta333 @sparrow-orion-writes
If you want to be added to/removed from a taglist, you can either let me know, or do it yourself in this document (yes that's a link).
#isaiah posts#my writing#Shimura Kyomi#Malleus Draconia#flash fiction friday#flashfictionfriday#Descend Into Magic
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