The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

In Your Dreams

Mar
23

Yata would never in a million years admit he liked the uniform. No matter Saruhiko actually looked good in it, he looked good in anything, and Yata hated everything that reminded him of the Blues stealing his best friend away.

It was just because Saruhiko always wore one now that Yata saw it in his dreams. Only because it was Saruhiko, not the uniform, that most of his more private fantasies saw the buttons half undone, Saruhiko looking disheveled, but not actually undressed. Yata didn’t actually want to imagine Saruhiko naked.

Then it wasn’t a dream anymore.

“Leave it on.”

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Mismatched Expectations

Mar
21

Chuuya had been worried about the whole biological process of kemmer (more…)

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No, Without Appeal

Mar
20

“No.”

“But Chuuya! You haven’t even heard what—”

“No.”

“Chuuya!”

Dazai’s whine only got more indignant the more Chuuya refused to even listen to whatever his request was, complete with putting on his headphones and blasting rock music loud enough that he could practically see Dazai planning on teasing him for impending deafness later.

But Dazai was too terrifyingly chipper, and Dazai always had ulterior motives, and Chuuya was not in the mood.

Dazai lifted the headphones from Chuuya’s head and held them out of reach, one hand on Chuuya to stop his Ability. “I need you, Chuuya!”

“NO!”

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Meet Immovable Object

Mar
20

Shiro was enjoying the peace of Kuroh making dinner and good smells filling the air when a sudden thwack from a cooking utensil sent Neko howling and hissng across the room.

“You spanked the cat?” Shiro stared between an indignant Kuroh standing guard over his foodstuffs and an even more indignant cat, white fur all standing on end.

Neko apparently hadn’t been in human form all afternoon, preferring to sneak her paws into Kuroh’s cooking.

Kuroh stared back unrepentantly. “Dinner will be ready soon.” He made a shooing motion at both Shiro and Neko and turned back to the stove.

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Dangerous Work

Mar
20

Nanere first picked up the knives when she was a little girl. She rammed one into the knee of her mother’s love. When he howled and swung, she slashed his arm.

When he was finally gone, still cursing her, she gently washed her mother’s face and applied salve to her bruises, then fixed her mother’s makeup for her.

“He was our next meal,” her mother slurred.

Nanere thought of the shipyards and dangerous work available for tiny bodies that could fit into the small spaces between mechanical parts. She hardened her face and stiffened her shoulders. “I’m our next meal.”

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End of the World

Mar
19

The last time Dazai kisses Chuuya is at the end of the world, Corruption unleashed in all its power, Chuuya’s head thrown back in laughter. Red light paints Yokohama with destructive glow.

It’s beautiful, terrifying, perfect—a double suicide neither of them had planned but neither regret.

Because destruction can save, and they’re stopping the end of the world. This is for everyone else, one last sacrifice.

The last moments are theirs, Dazai tasting the blood of Corruption in his mouth as he holds Chuuya and sees the light in his eyes one last time before everything crumbles to dust.

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Last Kiss

Mar
19

It wasn’t supposed to be his last kiss, the first time he reached out and took Tatara’s face in his hand, studying the way it made his eyes widen slightly and his mouth fall open, and the first time he’d ever kissed the only person that ever made him feel like everything was somehow worth it.

It wasn’t supposed to be Mikoto’s last kiss.

He opened his eyes from memory and breathed out smoke from his cigarette, something hard and angry burning in his gut.

This power is to protect.

Whoever killed Tatara was still out there. Not for long.

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Fight Instinct

Mar
19

One minute, there was a knife grazing his skin; the next, a knife ripping through his shirt; and it only made Yata’s face light up with a more ferocious grin than a moment before.

Aura on aura, they wrestled and tumbled, and the manic gleam in Saruhiko’s eye only found an answer in Yata’s—not a protest.

They didn’t plan it, didn’t make any conscious decision one way or another, just cut through clothes, bit through skin, and pressed mouth to mouth and hips to hips, and suddenly neither of them were fighting each other but fighting for their pleasure.

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The Price of Vegetables

Mar
19

“I’m not eating that,” Saruhiko said flatly without bothering to look up from typing.

Yata scowled. “It’s just dip!”

Saruhiko shot him an even flatter look. He pushed up his glasses with the most condescending sigh. “I know what’s in guacamole.”

Avocadoes. Vegetables.

Fate seemed determined to saddle Yata with a partner that wouldn’t know how to take care of himself if someone explicitly taught him how. “Fine,” he snapped. “Sleep by yourself tonight.”

Saruhiko looked startled, then narrowed his eyes, deciding how much Yata meant it.

Yata stared back.

Saruhiko weighed vegetables against chastity and clicked his tongue. “Fine.”

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Almost Lost

Mar
19

He’d almost lost Saruhiko.

Yata didn’t like to think of himself as weak or clingy, but he’d lost so much. Saruhiko, Totsuka, Mikoto, HOMRA for a while, almost Anna, and his red aura and power. He wasn’t going to lose Saruhiko again.

“Stop glaring,” Saruhiko chided, annoyed, from the hospital bed.

He’d lost a lot of blood in the fight with Sukuna and Yata knew a line of stitches ran up the side of his leg. “Shut up, Monkey.” You nearly died without me ever knowing.

Saruhiko stared but settled back comfortably.

They were together again, found instead of lost.

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Broken Things

Mar
18

His entire childhood had been a long line of broken things, things that guy had burned, things he’d torn apart and unraveled and left as gifts to his only child. Saruhiko had never had anything he cared about that had ever lasted whole.

Misaki was different. Misaki was his friend, and he’d left when that guy had come. He’d left and hadn’t been just another broken thing.

Saruhiko didn’t know why he thought it would last. He’d wanted to destroy the world with Yata, remake it, and somehow along the way, they’d taken fire to each other and broken everything.

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Missing You

Mar
16

It’s past midnight. Yata can’t sleep. He tosses and turns on the pillow, rolls over, huffs a sigh, trying to ignore the empty space where Saruhiko used to sleep, trying to ignore the quietness in their little place.

Saruhiko has always been quiet, but somehow it never felt like this.

Yata clenches his fists and buries his face in the pillow, trying to ignore the hot, tight feeling in his chest. Saruhiko betrayed them (him), left them (him). He isn’t coming back.

The room is empty of anyone but Yata. There’s no one there to mock or watch him cry.

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Dancing through Riftspace

Mar
15

When most people first learn about integrates and the need for a entire spaceship computer to be able to calculate a safe trajectory through riftspace, they think of numbers and advanced math and a human enabled to think like a machine.

Cor doesn’t bother to correct them, but it’s not like that at all.

It doesn’t feel like numbers or cold calculations. It feels like diving and spinning and swimming through space, knowing with instinct and reflex how to follow the paths that match his affinity and capability. He can do anything, go anywhere, dancing in the headiness of space.

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Shadows

Mar
15

Saruhiko isn’t afraid of shadows when he walks through the city on missions he despises, climbing Jungle ranks like it comes easy. (It does come easy. He had a thorough training in malice and sadistic behavior before he ever encountered the clans.)

He has nothing to fear from the members of the Green Clan or the King he knows he will come to meet. He’d been afraid of the Red King once, all flame and power, but he’s not afraid of shadows, not anymore.

That guy had occupied the shadows, malicious, sadistic. He’s dead, and now it’s Saruhiko owning them.

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Nonexistent Sexual Tension

Mar
13

Fushimi was surrounded by idiots.

“I’m not in love with Yata Misaki,” he stated, enunciating each word carefully for the two clan members exchanging glances in front of his desk. “I’m not flirting with Yata Misaki.”

They had been joking about cutting the sexual tension with a knife, literally, and if there was a worse pun to use, Fushimi didn’t want to know, but it was a fact of life that Misaki was physically incapable of experiencing sexual tension without blushing, running into a wall, or falling on his face.

They looked unconvinced. He thought he was getting a headache.

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Eat Up

Mar
12

“What are you making?” Saruhiko suddenly asked, sounding highly alarmed and less than enthused.

“Shut up. You’ll like it.” Yata shot him a grin over his shoulder.

Saruhiko only looked more alarmed. Possibly because of Yata looking ever so slightly sniffly (he wasn’t crying, it was onions, okay?), possibly because the smell wasn’t the kind that was easy to mistake.

“I don’t like onions.” Saruhiko frowned as he pushed up his glasses and even ignored the pinging of his computer.

Yata waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ll survive one meal a week with vegetables.”

And like it too.

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Never Admit a Thing

Mar
09

Dazai really didn’t like Chuuya’s taste in clothes, alcoholic drinks, or battle tactics. Riling him up was fun, but working with him—no matter how well they did it—was not fun.

So he told Chuuya that, salvaging whatever he could out of the situation by prodding at Chuuya’s pathetically, entertainingly short temper, and Chuuya was justified in believing every word out of Dazai’s mouth about hating him.

(He did hate him. He did.)

But Chuuya would never know, Mori would never know, even Ranpo would never, ever know that Dazai loved him just as much as he hated him.

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Wistful

Mar
09

Whenever Dazai looks wistful, Chuuya notices it’s in moments they’re talking about drinking or a certain intelligence officer in the upper echelons of the Port Mafia or a certain lowest-ranking member of the same.

It’s never for things, like innocence or goodness or family or anything others seem to allow it to cross their face for. It’s never for someone like Chuuya.

He’s met them both, considered Sakaguchi Ango competent and professional. Oda looks at Chuuya like he’s listening with everything he is or, gently, doesn’t really look at all.

Chuuya isn’t Dazai’s friend. But then, he’s always known that.

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Virgin

Mar
09

Losing his virginity was a big deal, not because of the act itself but because who he was doing it with.

Saruhiko’s mouth was hot against his ear, his fingers warm on Yata’s cock, and it was a shock through his system but so, so good and worth every embarrassing shudder and moan that came out of his mouth.

Saruhiko’s eyes were bright and intense. Yata wanted to take his glasses off to see them better. He only managed to slide his hand over Saruhiko’s jaw and watch him shudder at the contact.

Yata grinned fiercely. They were both virgins.

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Simple Pleasures

Mar
09

Simple pleasure, taken in a night, left behind in the morning.

Dazai isn’t immune to pleasure, and he sees no reason to deny himself a night of soft, warm woman and beauty that doesn’t inspire him to pursue something that lasts.

Things that last are delicate. Things that last are prone to breakage and loss, pain piling upon pain, suffering piling upon suffering. Family gone, innocence broken, his only friend dead, and his partner something he won’t even reach for when he comes with a blaring bullseye in the middle of his Ability and an expiration on his life.

Fleeting.

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