1 - 20 of 23 Works by Midday
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Vivi carries the soulmark of the rains upon Alabasta behind her right ear. Nami is not her soulmate.
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"The sun coming up every day is a story." (Collection of short stories featuring various characters, pairings and settings with the common time of daybreak)
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It is just before the sunrise when Eddie Munson comes home from his night shift to Chrissy Cunningham on his front steps.
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no other end of the world will there be by Midday
Fandoms: 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, 魔道祖师 | Módào Zǔshī (Cartoon), 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV)
18 Jun 2021
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It is the sixth time – or fourteenth, or twenty-seventh, lost in his pointless count – that he finds himself content, happy even. He remembers Xingchen’s face, his lips and fingers and scent. As long as the time returns in the vicious, punishing circle, he is never to forget them.
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He wants Quentin back, but he doesn’t know how.
There are books, and movies, and tutorials on sketchy websites, and none of them helps. On the third day he remembers that no one taught him to read. Eliot is asleep, so he goes to his Not-Sister. He used to love her and dread her, but this body doesn’t know any of it.
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People shouldn’t get old, she thinks. The fine needle refuses to be held in her calloused fingers. She feels sick, almost - Marilla Cuthbert has not been taught to be like this, to be doubting God and Providence. It was sun-kissed and fair Mary of Green Gables who did so, and in this very room, and in this very life.
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His mom knows, maybe, and El for sure. He’s not sure either of them knows what it means. It feels like there are many people living inside Will, some of them still trapped in the Upside Down, some of them in the labyrinth of the Mind Flyer, some of them in the 80’s Indiana. Neither of them is a particularly good place to be.
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'I love you,' Kyuubei says. Tears are falling down her face and seeping into her shirt. And it's fine - even though the shirt will need to be washed later in the freezing water under the tap in the back garden - because no one falls in love for forever when they are twelve.
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Kougyoku sits, facing the window. She's given a cup of water that burns her throat and stings her eyes. Mor is given one, too, but she never drinks. Neither of them did, back then, when the midnight outings had a purpose. What was it, Kougyoku is not sure. Finding out how people live? Listening to the talks that are told only after cups of things that are not tea? Feeling once more like having a purpose, a mission, a place in the great machinery of the new world?
Kougyoku comes to get drunk.
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The string is of liquid light. It weaves around the tree branches, across the forest, disappearing in the smoke of charcoal burners' furnaces.
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Sometimes you told me you wanted me to keep for yourself. I reminded you that you already owned the sheets, the chambers, the palace, the grace of one of the mightiest, and whole world.
You told me the world was not enough.
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He tells her that his braid is filled with dreams and she believes him and he is not sure whether it is really lie this time.
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There was a man once, but it was long time ago. It was summer back then as well, and she never thinks about him. Accompanying story to Dreaming of Winter.
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His hair is a bird's nest.
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The sheets are wrinkled and blue and remind him of water.
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When a person gets older, he starts to think about unnecessary things - like his life, whether he lived it well, whether he did all he could manage, whether he has something to regret. That is what he had been hearing all those decades, when he was too busy to listen to blabbering of drunk old man in the ramen stall at midnight.
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As much as nights were of memories – as unpleasant as they were, mornings always came with faint smell of humans and gun powder no matter how far from the forest's edge he had laid himself to sleep, and unbearable loneliness. His forest was too big for him to handle alone.
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He wanted to carry the feeling that she was weaving something to that braid – care, hope, maybe even love, whatever he could take with him to Edo and cut it off.
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The snow is like sugar and it is freezing to the marrow of his bones, but it is her. He would bear worse things to meet her once more.
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He hands her papers to sign and looks cravingly to the direction of cigarette automats and their fingers touch. She half expects them to be marble-cold, half friendly warm and each one of possibilities would prove her some point about Hijikata Toushirou, though in this moment she is unsure what that point would be exactly.