This will be a month of summer evenings, small wonders, and lights in the dark. Think fireflies dancing over fields, wishes made at dusk, warm nights that seem endless, and magic that just appears when you look closely 🤫
Have fun writing and as always tag @monthlywritingchallenges and #fireflyjuly
Prompts
1. First firefly
2. Golden dusk
3. A wish
4. Barefoot in the grass
5. Lantern light
6. Summer thunder
7. Tiny miracles
8. Stargazing
9. "Did you see that?"
10. Catch and release
11. The longest evening
12. Secret garden
13. Warm breeze
14. A pocket full of treasures
15. Midnight picnic
16. Dancing lights
17. Summer nostalgia
18. The perfect moment
19. Sunset
20. Moonlit path
21. Glow
22. The sound of crickets
23. Hidden magic
24. Staying out too late
25. Childhood wonder
26. A sky full of stars
27. Fleeting
28. Night swimming
29. "Let's not go home yet."
30. A promise
31. Warm light
✨ Soft or magical. Realistic or fantastical. Just follow the light. ✨
➵ Stargazing with the port mafia! Featuring: Chuuya Nakahara, Kouyou Ozaki and Ougai Mori (separately)
➵ gn!port mafia executive!reader; fluff, some light angst sprinkled in; romantic undertones but the relationship is not explicit (aka can be read as platonic); reader is a sweetheart; everyone has some flavor of avoidant attachment
You had a habit of stargazing at the end of a long work day. Strange for a mafia executive but, then again, none of the higher ups in your organization was precisely "normal", you just so happened to be particularly romantic at the quieter times. You went to a spot where Yokohama's busy night couldn't outshine the firmament and get lost in the infinity that watched over the earth.
Sometimes, one of your colleagues would join in, and you'd stand next to each other, backs against the wall, clearing your heads in silence while inhaling second hand smoke, or drowning out the grasshopper's chirping with idle chatter or the occasional birth of a new joint project.
You spend those nights observing them in their peaceful state, while the moonlight bathed their features with a grace the meeting room could never hope to. There is a magic to it, how it highlights Chuuya's freckles, prettier than any constellation in the sky, his round cheeks framed by loose ruby curls and the worries and ambitions of youth; how Kouyou's gaze turns sad and soulful, how noticing the texture of the makeup over her skin made her more tangible, as if unveiling the model behind a painting, all the pink no longer overwhelming; how Mori seems to soften, inhabiting the silence in rest, not calculation, settling his musings on the wrinkles of his face to give space to a boyish, kind nature.
You would pretend to be aloof while studying them like sculptures, ever so grateful for that brief intimacy in a place as unforgiving as the port mafia.
Sometimes, you would spot a shooting star. The string of light would make you smile, without fail, and sometimes the childhood habit of pointing it out and exclaiming "make a wish!" would slip by.
"Huh?" Chuuya tilts his head towards you, eyebrows knit together as he did his best not to come off as mocking. He hadn't heard anyone say that at the sight of a shooting star in years.
You straighten up, cringing internally at the realization that you said that out loud. "Nothing, never mind..." You chuckle nervously.
He huffs, turning to stare at the sky again, really paying attention to it now. "You can't just let that go by- Do you really still wish on stars?"
You shift your weight on your feet, a little shy now. "Well, no... Not seriously, anyways."
He smiles. "You do wish on stars, then."
"It's... It's like buying a lottery ticket. Just a little bit of hope to carry. I don't actually expect it to work."
"It's kinda cute." He shrugs.
You clear your throat. Silence stretches between you. Another comet passes by.
"If stars could actually grant you their blessing, what would you wish for?" You muse, voice quiet and careful.
He opens his mouth, then refrains from saying whatever answer he had in mind, turning his gaze away to the pile of cigarrette ends on the floor instead.
Slowly, subtly, he turns small, sorrowful- his breath a little more shallow, his shoulders a little hunched. Emotions that would usually manifest as the strength to fight take him deep into his memories this time.
Seeing him that way makes you shiver. You place a hand on his shoulder. He immediately assures you "I'm fine." You retreat.
He absently tugs at his lovelock, then shakes his head. He's lost too many friends, there's no point in forming a sentence to call all of them back to this plane, to ask for just five more minutes and daydream on how to make them worth it.
"Those hypotheticals aren't for me, is all..." He glances back up at the sky, sighing as the immense blue envelops his heart.
"Hm?" Kouyou turns to you with an inquisitive smile. "A wish?"
"Ah... Yes. There was a shooting star, so..." You trail off, shy. She snickers.
"Wishing of falling stars... Do you believe in that?"
"No, it's just for fun... Sometimes I need a little something to give me hope, you know?"
Her eyes narrow warily. "I have never prayed to the stars."
You tilt your head, a grin on your lips. "Could I convince you to try tonight?"
You see it, just for a fleeting second, a crack forming on her carefully constructed mask. She digs her nails into her palm, consciously brushing off the pain from her gaze, turning to stare at the clouds running over the sky.
Would bringing hope back into her soul be too much to ask?
She closes her eyes, shrugging in that dignified way of hers. "I'm afraid not, my dear."
"Oh, miss, come on. You must have something you'd like to ask for." You pry gently.
She shakes her head, her cheeks curve with a graceful smile. "There's no point if it's impossible. And if it's possible, I'll do the work to get it."
"But that the fun part of it. Even if it's impossible, sending your desire to the universe might bring it to you. It's a nice thought."
She sighs. The back of her hand, covered by the sleeve of her kimono, brushes your cheek with rare affection.
"It is..." she almost whispers. "... a nice thought."
"A wish?" Mori gives you an amused chuckle.
"Oh God, did I say that out loud?" You frown.
His dark eyes trail fondly over your face. "Well, if there's someone I'd expect to wish on stars, it's you."
He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. You glance at his hand, bare and long, adorned with battle scars and little moles. Holding the boss' hand sounds like something impossible, and yet tonight you venture to do it.
"Indulge me, Mori," You request softly, running your thumb over his knuckles. "What would you ask a star for?"
His sharp grin softens, the creases around his eyes a little more noticeable as he thinks of home.
He imagines fresh tea and walls filled with portraits, tall bookshelves illuminated by lamps, laughter and tenderness he hasn't allowed himself in years. Little wishes he can't afford scattered like the wounds on his body, reflected on the dancing girl he adorns with lace and mauls for battle when necessary.
"Who knows..." He wraps his fingers around your hand, gentle and wary, pretending for a moment that you're not as tainted as him. "Something warm, probably." His voice is low and thoughtful despite the dismissive words.
➵ Third piece for #fireflyjuly! following @monthlywritingchallenges prompt list!
➵ This must count for if I miss a day... Right?
➵ Dividers by @strangergraphics and @lobster-graphics
Paintover by @jazaesis, concept art by Wesley Burt
It was too hot - always too hot. Loki's long sleeves and cloak did much to protect him, both psychologically and physically, the minute runes covering every inch of the fabric reinforcing the plethora of spells woven around him, but it could never keep him cool enough. His only savior was the cool drink in his hand, glamoured to look like wine.
The Æsir around him were laughing and singing, fed by good mead and the roaring fire. The hour was late, and only growing later; soon he could disappear without questioning, under the guise of returning to his rooms. Thor, surely, would be up much later, drinking and laughing and telling much-exaggerated stories. The behavior was detestable to Loki, but it served his purposes well - Thor would entertain their guests and their people late into the night, and Loki was free to wander.
And wander he would. Asgardr and Jötunheimr were growing ever closer, and it was becoming easier to travel between them along the Yggdrasil. New passageways, he believed, were opening between the two worlds; not two weeks ago he had discovered a new opening, almost too small for him to fit through, behind a shelf in Frigg's library. It had been marked with the same world tree symbol he had found upon every passage, and this one, too, had been devoid of magic. He had passed that shelf a thousand times before, and never seen the mark, just as the new one in the kitchens from a month ago. He would have to explore the entire palace before the conjunction, and record the locations of every opening he found. Tonight, however, would be dedicated to exploring the other side of the passage in the library - without his mother's watchful eye, or Thor's insistence on companionship.
Across the room, his mother was stepping away from the seiðkonur she had spent the last hour conversing with, a weary smile upon her face. He watched her seek out his brother, then father, who met her eyes and nodded at her, then she panned the hall, seeking him. He reached for the threads of the world and stepped forward, reappearing on the other side of the room, beside her. She turned to face him, used to his magic, and her face brightened.
"Retiring, mother?" He asked, offering her his arm. She took it with a smile, and they strode from the hall. As soon as the door closed behind them, Loki was folding the space in front of them, and the tapestry-laden walls blurred as they arrived with a few steps before his mother's door.
She released his arm, turning to face him. "Good night, Loki."
He smiled, catching her hand and kissing her knuckles. "Good night, mother." She entered her chambers, and he was alone.
The walk to the library was similarly short, lengthened only by a stop at his room, where strengthened his magical protections, repainted the few short-lived spells, and left an illusion of himself slumbering in bed. Should anything happen in his absence, the protections and alarms on his room, and illusion in his bed would buy him time to return to the Yggdrasil and then his room, unnoticed. Technically, Loki was not permitted to leave Asgardr unaccompanied, and Thor was similarly planet-bound. It was simply not safe for the princes, or any child, to wander space unattended.
Loki, however, was much more magically adept than he had revealed. If he could hide his absence, he reasoned, it was safe for him to explore; he was unlikely to meet a seiðkonur more powerful than his mother. He could typically escape detection altogether, and when he couldn't, he could escape attacks, bindings, and recognition. Failing all else, he could talk his way out of danger. He was valuable as a prince of Asgardr, and though it was shameful to be caught, it was worse to be hurt or dead.
This ability to escape detection was valuable as ever on his way to the library, as he made the door intangible and passed, silently and invisibly, past the guards on the door. It was a short walk to the shelf, and he could feel his magic, securing and hiding the gateway, as he approached. It was the work of several minutes to tease the hole open, pressing and pulling at the space as the branches of the Yggdrasil shifted on the other side. At last, though, it slid open, and he carefully stepped through.
The Yggdrasil was as it always was. The tree should terrify Loki, as it would any man or god. The branch he stood on was as wide as the largest hall in Asgardr, and then some, and stretched down into the distance. So far was the trunk that it was barely visible, if that was the trunk, and not simply another great branch, stretching up into the sky. Fog and distance consumed the bottom of the tree and much of the leaves, leaving Loki in a grey-green limbo of unending, moss-covered branches. As always, he felt only safe and stable, the great swaying and creaking of the tree calming and centering him instead of leaving him unsteady or afeared. He could feel the pull of Jötunheimr off to his left, although he could not see it yet. He anchored the doorway, lacing his seiðr through Asgardr and into the tree, and set off along the branch, away from the trunk.
\\ (2) (3)
@monthlywritingchallenges (also late, still sorry lol)
Ron was a San Francisco kid who thought seventy-five degrees was warm and couldn't stand the dry desert heat.
But he was also fascinated by the nighttime stars, frequently taking up night watches so he could look at them. One early night, Sam saw his face under the golden dusk and couldn't help but smile at the awe in his eyes.
Ron was devastated at the loss they saw regularly. Sam wasn't unaffected, but he'd lived through a lot, including Katrina. Ron was barely old enough to remember the earthquake of ‘89.
Ronald Riley pushed Sam out of the way.
~~~~~~~
For @monthlywritingchallenges Firefly July day 2: Golden Dusk
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Vörjeans (Band), Humorgruppen KAJ (Band)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jean Filip "Määnin" Mannerheim/Tommy Tall
Characters: Tommy Tall (Vörjeans), Jean Filip "Määnin" Mannerheim
Additional Tags: Romantic Fluff, Fluff, Male Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gay Male Character, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Established Relationship, Drunken Shenanigans
Summary:
Tommy and Määnin share a little but all the more important moment on a beautiful summer day.
Bucky leaned against the railing on the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the children playing in the courtyard. A few, he recognized; Laura Hadley and her little sister Bailey, Caroline, the Alden boys; others he didn't. It seemed like every time he returned to the 10th street apartments, something had changed.
Everything had changed. He thought he had known where he was going, building his little community, the cycle of taking jobs and coming home, but it was running away from him. And now Steve was sleeping in his apartment, two floors down. Steve had broken the last of the fragile peace he had here, appearing in a whirlwind with his friends, with "nowhere else to go." Bucky wasn't sure whether he believed him, but it didn't matter. He let him in, of course.
There would be questions tomorrow, from his neighbors and from Steve's friends, if not Steve himself. Hell, he had questions. How had Steve found him? How had he even known he was alive? Bucky remembered the last time they had spoken like it was yesterday, falling and the desperation, horror in Steve's eyes. Had Steve known he was back, and stayed away? He must have, to turn up apologizing. But why?
Had something more happened, that Bucky still hadn't remembered?
The night warmed as the streetlights turned on, and the children's parents began calling them inside. John Alden, the man who ran the bakery on the first floor of their building, walked outside to join the lingering children in the dampening grass.
The door clicked open behind Bucky, and Steve eased onto the rooftop.
Bucky kept his eyes on the courtyard as Steve walked up and joined him, looking out over the courtyard and the Manhattan skyline surrounding them.
"Bucky." His voice was almost as Bucky remembered, calm and patient, the voice of justice, of a good soldier.
There was none of the teasing tone Bucky had known, loved.
"Steve," Questions lingered in his mind, but only one found it's way onto his tongue, sudden and urgent. "Why did you apologize, when you arrived? Why was here the last place you would come?"
They finally made eye contact, and Bucky knew he must have looked as disheveled as he had hours earlier, sweaty and filthy from his latest mission. Steve, by contrast, looked as clean and put together as always. Bucky reached up and ruffled his hair.
"Hey-" The minute tension dropped out of Steve's shoulders, and he leaned in, just a bit. "I heard what happened to you, Buck, I didn't know if you remembered me."
"'Course I remembered you," Steve looked away, "and even if I hadn't, I'd want to remember. You're my brother, Steve."
"It might've been better. You're happy here."
Bucky felt like he'd been pushed off the roof. "Who are you and where's Steve Rogers? The little guy from Brooklyn, who was too dumb not to run away from a fight?"
"Maybe he got smart enough not to drag everyone else into them." Steve was still refusing to look at him, staring blankly down at the grass disappearing into the night. The bitter note in his voice confirmed Bucky's fears.
"Well, he needs to get smart enough to see that I'm with him, always have been, always will be."
Steve turned, sharply. "You died, Bucky, you fell! You weren't with him!" He turned back to the railing just as suddenly, breathing out harshly.
Bucky swallowed, at a loss for words. It was true, he had fallen. He had left Steve. And for all he was questioning Steve for staying away, he had also abandoned his friend. Bucky had heard quickly when the famous Captain America was recovered, had seen viral videos of his first flight onto the streets, his first missions. He had stayed away to, "waiting," too scared of disrupting the fragile peace he had; the apartments, the bakery, the cats. Distantly the children were chattering and laughing, but silence had swallowed their rooftop, the distance between them apparent again. Bucky didn't dare speak, dare disturb his friend.
He could see what would happen already, Steve and his friends would get the sleep and resources they needed, and he would help them, of course, as best he could. They would leave, as hurriedly as they had arrived, pile into their car and race off, running or chasing. Bucky would stand, on the doorstep or at his window or on this roof, watching Steve leave. Leave him. They would avoid each other again, easily, with their work, with Steve's friends and Bucky's community, with their fear. With the silence between them that Bucky couldn't break.
He had to.
"I'm here now. So are you."
Steve looked at him. "Yeah."
"What's happening? What are you running from?" He held Steve's eyes, trying to convey with his face what words failed him. Let me join you. Let me come back.
Steve watched him for a moment, then looked down. A bug had landed on the railing between them, centimeters away from Steve's fingers. "We're running from Hydra. They've taken over SHIELD, killed the director."
Bucky's chest went cold, battling the summer heat around them. "They're back?" His arm was freezing in it's socket, he could almost feel the metal on his face.
"Yeah. Wanted to keep you away. I saw the files-"
Bucky grabbed Steve's hand, the bug lifting back into the air. "Steve." Steve looked at him, their hands, him again. "I want to help you with this. I need to help you."
Steve brought his other hand up to frame Bucky's, staring into his face. The bug landed on the tips of his fingers; in his peripherals Bucky saw a second one settle into his hair. "Okay. Come with us. We're heading to Russia, Zola put himself in a bank of computers."
The bug on Steve's fingers lit up, casting a warm glow over them. A second later Steve's face glowed, and up close Bucky could see the amber in his hair and warm grey in his eyes. The hope in his eyes.
Bucky tightened his fingers around Steve's. "Russia it is. I think those are the first fireflies of the summer."
It took him near an hour to reach the edges of Jötunheimr's influence, although he had not hurried, and was sure he could traverse the expanse in half that time, with haste. The air had been cooling for much longer, the steady drop in temperature soothing his skin and reassuring him that he was traveling in the right direction. The moss had long since died off, lichen covering the branch in it's absence, and now that lichen was edged with frost, some ice spikes as long as his forearm. He ensured he was alone, then curled his fingers around one.
Blue spread up his arm, illusion melting away from the contact. It was always a strange felling, like adding a second layer of skin; no longer did the air feel pleasantly cool, nor the ice cold. The return of the oppressive heat in this skin never pleased him, but it was mitigated by the feeling of returning home, and soon he would be on the ice world, which would be cool to him now and almost unbearably frigid otherwise.
Travel slowed as he neared the connection to Jötunheimr. Thick fans of ice now coated the tree, and he was hard-pressed not to crush them as he passed through. He stopped, often, to inspect them; the ice formed veins, almost like a Midgardian fern. One day, he thought, he would make a lace cloak modeled after this ice, and a pair of matching daggers. Then he was upon the gateway, and he wove it open as he had the first. Frost was collecting now upon his Asgardian clothes, lining the metal in long, branching slates. He stepped through and stopped, awed.
He had been to Jötunheimr before, many times. The glacial world was often beautiful, in the way cold areas always were; the very air seemed cleaner, clearer. Today, though, he had stumbled upon something breathtaking. The gateway to the Yggdrasil had opened at the base of great cliffs, dark rock which towered on each side of Loki, lined with great columns of ice. Before him, a frozen waterfall cascaded down the center of the cliffs. It broke halfway down over a great rock, crowned in huge spikes of ice. The evening sun lit the intricate crystals inside the icicles, dazzling sparkles dancing over the dark frozen lake below.
There was something moving in the ice, whether a living creature or simply great tides, Loki knew not, but there was a slow moving glint below him, sliding away from the waterfall. Several meters down, at least, the water rippled and pressed up against the ice. Loki drew his hand across his soles and blades of ice materialized between his fingers, and he took off across the ice, enraptured by the dazzle of ice in the sun.
Eventually, he reached the dark maw of the waterfall, and his approach revealed a cave, hewn into the dark stone. Dark sand lined the entrance, but soon he stepped up onto a smooth, even floor, masterfully carved into the rock. As he left the sunlight, flames flickered to life in the palm of his hand, casting rippling shadows over the carved walls. Closer inspection proved bountiful: the blue flames illuminated deep carvings in the stone, continuing down the tunnel on each side. The section Loki was inspecting depicted several Jötnar weaving; one knelt by what might have been a sheep, another by a river and washbasket, another hung woll by a fire. Two more carded and spun the woll, an iconic drop spindle in one's hand. The last sat before a small loom, weaving thread along a shuttle.
As the flames danced over the stone, an icy blue light glowed in the lines of the last figure, and he shifted, looking up at Loki. Four runes illuminated in his frozen cloth: ᚮ, ᛕ, ᛁ, ᚿ, ᚿ. Opinn. Open. Loki brushed his fingers over the runes, and felt the magic within. It was ancient, cold and slow, like the dark waters below the ice. Then the magic reached back, and for a second Loki was suspended in the sea, frigid waters pressing down and into him, surrounding, cocooning. Then, with a gasp, he was back to himself, in the cave, with the guttering blue flame spreading down his arm, creeping over his shoulders.
A second of focus had it tamed, stable and bright in his palm. "Opinn", he spoke.
Dazai's first year in the mafia was an interesting one. Adjusting to everything, or rather, not adjusting, kept him occupied. It took him longer to settle into the monotony of his rank than it took him to move up into the next one, and that cycle kept him busy. It wasn't even intentional, that's just how he worked.
Yumeno was another thing that kept him busy. The child was a calamity from the moment their power awakened, and Dazai loved them for it. As close to love as Dazai could get. He saw the little child, and he recognized their loneliness, the weapon Mori could so easily turn them into, the danger their very existence posed for everyone. It was tragic. It was thrilling.
They'd walk hand in hand through the mafia's building, the kid's bright appearance a stark contrast to the black Dazai veiled himself behind. Idle, childish chatter filled the halls, sometimes replaced by the care and severity of a lesson or a scolding.
Dazai wasn't the worst guardian, or the best. But he was trying, he really was.
They rarely went out together. Osamu didn't frequent the city's child-safe spaces often. So that summer night they visited the park together, it felt truly special.
Dazai's ears rang with the absence of gunfire. There were no screams, no music, no string of letters to appease his restless brain. He closed his eyes, the smell of blood was nowhere to be found. There was only grass and earth, the faint, safe metal of the playground, and Yumeno's sickly sweet scent as the child tugged him about, demanding to be pushed on the swing.
Dazai sighed, opening his eyes again, but every plan he had to feign reluctance vanished when he saw a faint light among the bushes that surrounded the park.
He tapped Kyusaku on the shoulder, tilting his head when he focused his eyes in on the small yellow illuminating the plants.
"Q, have you ever seen a firefly?" He smiled faintly.
The kid tapped their chin with their finger, humming as they tried to match the word to a tangible concept in their mind. "No," they finally answered, turning their head to better look at their guardian. "What is that? A fire... fly." The innocent imitation of his theatrics made Osamu's chest ache.
He pointed towards one of the plants. "Over there," he grinned, letting go of Yumeno, who followed behind him as he went to grab the bug.
He cupped the small animal in his hands, flickers of light shinning through the gaps of his fingers.
"Don't get scared if it flies away, 'kay?"
The kid nodded, and Osamu lifted one of his hands. The tiny, oblong insect walked in circles on his palm. Its yellow light twinkled. On, off, on, off.
"Like the stars..." Yumeno muttered, mouth agape with wonder. They held tightly onto their scarf, a matching amber to their mismatched eyes, to the golden of the firefly, to the childish wonder of their smile.
The insect flew away, soon followed by a dozen other tiny stars illumating the cold park in Yokohama.
➵ Here is my first piece for #fireflyjuly! following @monthlywritingchallenges' prompt list!
➵ I've never seen a firefly in real life. It's one of my dreams, actually. As in, it's written on my bucket list. I love those critters so much.
