#value of silence [silent salt tag]

[badlydrawnbeastcookies]

Happy Valentines Day

#shadow milk cookie #burning spice cookie #mystic flour cookie #eternal sugar cookie #silent salt cookie #value of apathy [mystic flour tag] #value of sloth [eternal sugar tag] #value of destruction [burning spice tag] #value of silence [silent salt tag] #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #value of deceit [shadow milk tag]

[tsarisfanfiction]

Whump Prompt emojis:

🎧 for Virgil

And

🎁 for Scott

Stolen Senses

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Virgil, Scott

🎧 sensory deprivation 🎁 given as a gift

I've not written sensory deprivation before, so this was a fun challenge to poke at. This particular combination of prompts was also very intriguing, but I think I managed to get them both in.

Been a little while now since I last wrote Virgil's pov, too. Well, practice is always good :D

Whumpy Prompt List

True silence was terrifying. There was nothing, not even the sound of his breathing or the throbbing of his heartbeat. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Virgil didn’t know how long he’d been there. Didn’t know how long it had been since chains had snapped around his wrists, too short to reach the noise-cancelling headphones clasped tightly over his ears.

The blackness, an absence of both light and colour, made it even worse. He couldn’t feel a blindfold – his eyes were open and he could flick them around – but there was no penetrating the black, black darkness engulfing them.

Breathing was a challenge. Virgil worked with light, with colour and sound and the smell of freshly oiled machinery. To have none of them made his chest stutter and heave out of rhythm, the darkness a suffocating presence and the silence a noose around his neck.

He had no idea how long he’d been there. Not long enough for anyone to come bearing food or drink, although his body craved both when it wasn’t busy shying away from the lack of anything, lack of life in his vicinity.

Intellectually, he knew he was wheezing. He was sweating, shaking, weak and terrified and trapped. He could feel the tightness in his throat as the air forced itself past at an accelerated rate, but he couldn’t hear it.

He couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t see anything, either.

He barely remembered how he’d ended up there, either. It hadn’t been a rescue. An art exhibition, perhaps, or maybe a concert? It didn’t matter anyway, not when he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, could only feel cold steel ringing his wrists and jerking his arms to a halt if he moved them too far.

At least he had something to feel, he supposed, although that was far from enough to stop the ever-rising instinctual panic that came from having his two most valued, most relied-upon, senses stripped from him.

His throat was dry and parched. Surely they’d bring him water soon – whoever ‘they’ were – unless they wanted him to die a slow and painful death?

Virgil shuddered at the thought, feeling his chest wracked with violent trembles and knowing that if that was the case, there was nothing he could do about it.

Never see the sky again. Never hear the songs of the birds and the swell of the ocean in the bay. Nothing except this endless vacuum. Never hold another paintbrush, nor brush fingertips lightly across ivory keys.

There was salt in his mouth and a tightness to his cheeks, but still no matter how much his chest heaved and stuttered, there was no sound. No matter how much he contorted, the headphones stayed firmly out of reach.

His silent gasps grew faster still, drowning in desperation, in the realisation that there was no way out. Virgil needed the sunlight, neededthe sounds of nature and his brothers, but the cold, harsh steel and unforgiving darkness told him that they were nothing but a distant, rapidly-fading, memory.

Bright, retina-searing light flashed into existence and he knew he screamed, could feel the tremble of his vocal cords and the reflex of a widely-opened mouth. Eyes clenched shut against the sudden exposure, hot tears leaking across his lashes and crawling down his face.

He still couldn’t hear, and bright light was better than no light, so he forced himself to open his eyes into a squint, just barely enough to see past the bright.

Something landed in front of him, eerily silent for its mass, and it took Virgil’s abused eyes a moment to associate it as human-sized. Human-shaped.

A human.

They were limp and unmoving, a stark silhouette of black against the bright, bright lights, and Virgil’s instincts kicked in. Vaguely, he was aware that this was just a distraction for his mind, and that his reasons for edging forwards and tentatively reaching out for the blurred, indistinct figure were actually selfish ones, but he dismissed those thoughts and realisation because distraction or not, they needed help.

There was a bow, of all things, tied around their neck. Tightly tied, leaving red imprints in the skin where the fine silk had slipped. A garishly glamorous gift tag was attached, and Virgil’s trembling, chain-captured hands took multiple attempts before managing to catch hold of it and turn it around so that the writing was visible.

Eyes watering, Virgil could barely read the ink, and he furiously blinked away the moisture until the words stopped swimming on the page and became marginally legible.

Enjoy, it said, in large, thick black letters. There was nothing else that he could see, and with clenched teeth Virgil turned his attention back to the too-tight ribbon itself. His fingers still trembled, fumbling the knot several times before he finally got the purchase and grip to yank it free, exposing skin mottled black and blue.

The bruising continued, down over muscular shoulders and under a torn t-shirt, and up the throat, along the jaw and marring their- his face.

Virgil didn’t know if his voice made a sound as he screamed again, although this time he knew his lips were shaping a name.

Scott! Despite everything, his brother’s appearance was unmistakable. His eyes were closed and he didn’t stir, no matter how much Virgil tried to rouse him.

He had a pulse, though. Thin and thready and nothing reassuring, except that it was there. Virgil could feel his brother’s life beneath his fingertips, and it was enough to make him cry again.

Why was Scott here? How long had Scott been here? Why was Scott in such a terrible state when Virgil had barely been touched?

He had answers for none of those questions, and still couldn’t reach his hands high enough to yank the infernal headphones off of his ears. He could reach Scott, though, and tentatively pulled his unresponsive brother closer until his head was in his lap.

Wake up, Scott, he begged, needing his big brother to be okay even though he clearly wasn’t. Needing Scott to fuss and yank off the infernal headphones before telling him that there was a plan in place, that they’d be out of there in no time, as long as Virgil trusted him.

Virgil always trusted Scott.

The light disappeared as quickly as it had come, plunging him into utter darkness again. He – they – had to be underground to get such complete inky black, and Virgil’s fingers unconsciously curled in Scott’s matted hair.

Scott’s presence grounded him a little, gave him something to focus on that wasn’t the dark or the silence, and Virgil clung to that, clung to his brother like a life raft in an ocean of turmoil. He didn’t have sight or hearing, but he had touch, and the warmth of his brother in his lap. It wasn’t enough to stop his silent gasping breathing, but it was enough to stop his mind spiralling in self-isolation.

He didn’t know how long he sat in the darkness, periodically worming his fingers down the side of Scott’s face to find the pulse point in his neck before trailing back up to bury them in his hair. His hands were in the wrong position to count the rise and fall of Scott’s chest, but his chains didn’t reach far enough to let his hands settle there, so there was no way to track the passage of time, but even unconscious, Scott was a reassuring presence.

After some time, another blinding flash of light occurred, and while his eyes reflexively squeezed shut, Virgil’s first instinct was to curl himself over Scott, clinging to him as tightly as he could. No-one was taking Scott away from him.

The pressure eased from his head suddenly, and Virgil gasped as noise flooded in, loud and overwhelming in its intensity. He could hear his own raspy breathing, rapid with an edge of hysteria that was deafening after so long in silence. There were other people around, too, saying words that were far too loud for him to even begin to decipher them, and something quiet and pained from the brother in his lap.

The chains fell away with an even worse clang, metal clinking against metal and the cool stone of the floor, and it gradually occurred to Virgil that he was, somehow, impossibly, free.

Scott was still unconscious, and tanned hands crossed his vision, heading for his brother’s throat.

Virgil snarled, lunching forwards and almost biting the fingers clean off. They wouldn’t touch Scott. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, let them.

“Virgil.” It was meant to be a whisper but his name reverberated around inside his skull, loud and destructive and painful as it clashed against the earlier silence. A whimper tore itself from his throat. “Virgil, it’s me. It’s Gordon. I’m not going to hurt either of you, I promise.”

Too many words. They merged together into a single sound, abrasive against his sensitive ears. Only two syllables stood out.

Gordon.

Virgil raised his head slowly, inch by inch, keeping himself coiled protectively around his big brother. Worried amber eyes met his, tanned skin topped off by a shock of chlorine-damaged blond hair, and his eyelids blinked.

His breathing was still loud and rasping in his ears. Too loud to talk.

A tanned hand reached for Scott again, and this time Virgil let the tanned fingers brush against his big brother’s throat.

“He’s alive,” Gordon said, still a whisper and this time Virgil’s ears could handle that. A sudden yellow light bathed Scott’s limp form, and Virgil flinched. “Looks like he’s just drugged, Virg. He’s okay.”

The light flashed again, this time over Virgil, and he groaned.

“Can you walk, Virgil?” Whatever Gordon saw, he didn’t say. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Gentle hands edged towards his arms, brushing lightly against his skin, and Virgil startled.

“Come on, big brother,” Gordon coaxed. “I can’t carry both of you.”

Common sense. Logic. Something Virgil would have realised for himself if he wasn’t so distracted by everything.

He shifted, instinctively pulling Scott closer even as he tried to get his feet under him. They were uncooperative, mostly asleep and full of pins and needles at best.

Virgil didn’t even get as far as one knee before he stumbled, crashing down to the ground again and curling protectively around Scott.

“Virgil!” Gordon called, too loud for his ears to comfortably handle, and he curled up tighter, almost into the foetal position.

He knew he had to move. They had to get out of wherever they were, back to natural light and birdsong and everything else Virgil had missed. But he was exhausted; mentally drained as much as physically, his limit came knocking.

With the knowledge that Gordon was hanging around and humouring him, Virgil finally felt safe. With safety came willing exhaustion, and the delayed backlash of everything.

It was just easier to coil around Scott and close his eyes properly against the bright lights streaming in and around the place. Easier to leave the thinking and logistics to Gordon this time.

He didn’t notice when unconsciousness claimed him.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #virgil tracy #scott tracy #gordon tracy #drabbles #thunderangst #thunderwhump #janetm74 #stolen senses

[bluestmoons]

1. alias/name: Serena!

2. birthday: February 3rd!

3. zodiac sign: Aquarius! 

4. height: 5′8"? I literally don’t know I have no idea, but I’m tall-ish 

5. hobbies: RP!!! Umm,,, I don’t know what counts as hobbies, but! Playing Sims! Making up stories/characters! Learning German! Transcribing! Making friends!  

6. favorite colors: PINK, orange/gold, green, and purple! 

7. favorite books: I always say “my own” and Inkheart by Cornelia Funke so let’s go with that!! I haven’t read a real book in a bit though. 😭

8. last song listened to: “why do you feel so down?” by Declan McKenna ( JKLFDJAKLFDA ONE IN THE SAME... )

9. last film or show watched: Kimi no Suizou wo Tabetai! 

10. inspiration for muse: I think most people would just pick one muse but let me just go down the list and pick things that remind me of/inspire me about my muses and/or why I picked them up!  ELSA: Purples and blues, cold weather and forests, dizzying castles, tinkling bells, snow and ice ( duh?? ), icicles, Norwegian patterns, deep purple velvets, isolation, the scratch of a quill, and the taste of tears. She reminded me a lot of my childhood. ERK: Purple silk and burlap, old books, exhaustion, disgust, burning hands. He reminds me a lot of one of my husband’s characters.  ERIC: Bright white sand and green-blue seas, cream castles, the taste of salt and the feel of rope, wet dog smell, the deck of a ship at sea, sunlight, parenthood. I love his goofy light-heartedness.  FINIS: Feathers, sheer clothing, long hair, tears caught in eyelashes, sad arias, inky quills against parchment, repetitive motions, purple flowers, a broken body that never shatters, fire, bloody throats, overwhelming sorrow, the concept of immortality, the feel of grass between toes, small boxes, cages, deep breaths, immeasurably empty/lonely, the depths of the ocean, moons!!, comets, blue-white, gray. I’m literally in love with her, so.  ICHIGO: Serious focus, the scrape of metal, uncontainable emotion, logic, hair clips and short hair, dark blue and green, obsessive thought, quick footsteps, position and pain of leadership, strawberries and the number 15, sweet tastes, ache of desperation, regrettable words yelled in the heat of the moment, small stature. I mostly picked her up in step with Kristopher picking up Goro but I love my little kiddo so much... so short, so powerful...  ITSUKI: Nice cologne, athleticism, nice big watches, subterfuge, smells, loss of personal space, pretty boys, lightning/static, unrequited longing, eyes closed, green and hazel, basil, silent admiration, Othello. I genuinely picked him up the moment I realized he was an empath because I have a type. :,)   IZETTA: Nomadic existence, bare and dirty feet, the smell of sweat and hard work, loud compassion, hope, unevenly cut hair, red and gold, cheap clothing, white costumes, early rising, warm metal, inferiority complex, total devotion and dedication. I knew I needed to write her so I could steal some of her positivity...  IZUMI: High fashion, business casual, stockings and high heels, earrings and nose rings, frost, dual-bladed naginata, the shine of metal in the dark, sold souls, sibling love, obsession with perfection, fish tanks, a home without any distinct smell, self-imposed isolation, fluorescent lighting, purples and blues. I don’t know, Izumi is one of my favorite characters from Kyoukai no Kanata, I always knew I had to pick her up.  LEONIE: Sun shining on dry ground, the feel and breath of the earth, refined chaos, green tea, large vocabularies, strange speech patterns, dry wit, sons, secrets, old books with a flower bookmark, the muddy bottom of a lake, frogs, red fingers and cheeks, old swords, dirty gold embellishments, empty and untouched rooms, freckles!!!!, spinning sword moves, honor, old armor, repeating words said just earlier, unflattering and unfashionable garments, blonde braids, running away running away running away. She’s an OC, so!! I fell in love with her on my own!! I decided to pick her up after Kristopher and I were discussing the Reed mom and I realized oh God, I have a whole idea... MIRAI: Pinks and golds, blues and blacks, vintage chic ( “grandma style”, as I lovingly call it ), red frames, serious expressions, overt politeness, depression, bandaged wrists and palms, gold rings, bloody hands, the taste of iron, burning hot blood, monster/demons, unpleasantness, distaste and disgust, starvation, empty shitty apartments, bonsai, gardening, social media and anon hate, sacrifice, orphan, self-loathing. God I just... I’d die for her okay... I... wow... I gathered the courage to pick her up after I loved her for years.  SAKURA: Toddler clothing style on a high schooler, cooking, food, sleep, oversized flannels, tired eyes and cheeks, aromantic, succinct speech, big scarves, wide stripes, lime green and red, crumbs, bandaids, bag like a mom’s purse ( full of napkins and tissues and food and keys and totally unorganized ), memories, forgiveness, sarcasm, bells, kicking, sisterhood. MMMMM I LOVE MY QUIET SLEEPY DAUGHTER!!! I picked her up because I just... vibe with her energy, I love her.  SERRA: PINKS and whites, cleanly pressed clothing, loud echoing voice, devoted and steadfast religion, bright white magic, attention-seeking, loneliness, nunneries, rosaries, The Sound of Music tbh, glitter, make-up, pigtails, tears over a chipped nail, devotion to valuing oneself, dedication to becoming the best, volatile emotions, absolute joy or unbridled anger, cherry blossom perfume, rosy red joints, stringy hair, memorization of etiquette, adventure-lust, friend-seeking. I love her so much -- she reminds me of Willow, and when I saw her on my replay of the game, I burst into tears.  URSULA: Blacks and deep purples and blues, fine wine, tight fabric, velvet skin, sharp and entrancing gaze, crows, black feathers, leather gloves, mocking simper, blood red lipstick, neutral colored fashion, lies, sharp perfume, manipulation, gold chains, the click of high heels, short dark hair, shadowy silence. I made this blog for Ursula! I knew I could play her and Kristopher wanted to write opposite of her so I threw her out here! 

11. story behind url: The original thought was that I’d be here way less frequently than my other blogs. Once every blue moon I’d check in on here. Hence, bluestmoons! 

tagged by: @myloyalty​ ( thank you my love!!! ) 

tagging: okay I know this is a copout but I spent so long doing 10,,, please,,, just steal it, I can’t look at this anymore, JKFLAJK 

#( out of dreams. ) #( about the mun. ) #( the gravity of. ) elsa. #( the gravity of. ) erk. #( the gravity of. ) eric. #( the gravity of. ) finis. #( the gravity of. ) ichigo. #( the gravity of. ) itsuki. #( the gravity of. ) izumi. #( the gravity of. ) izetta. #( the gravity of. ) leonie. #( the gravity of. ) serra. #( the gravity of. ) mirai. #( the gravity of. ) sakura. #( the gravity of. ) ursula.

[starker-stories]

Iron Man

Also on AO3

Another of the moodboards by @starker-sorbet​ inspired this one. Whenever I'm looking for a bit of inspiration, that's where I go. There are moodboards there that just talk to me. Amazing work. The best moodboards in the fandom.

Click on the link to go see the pretty pictures :) Young, rich & promising app developer!Peter x ex hacker and now struggling homeless middle aged!Tony for anon. Peter takes pity on the man and gets him in his house to shelter him on rainy/snowy night.

Tags: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Hacking, Alternate Universe - Homeless, Homeless Tony Stark, Role Reversal, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Pre-Slash, Ex-Con Tony Stark, Rich Successful Peter Parker

------------------------------------------------------------------

The man didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t have a sign or a cup or his hat off and upside down on the ground in front of him. He was just leaning against the wall of a little delivery drive between stores near Grand Central. Something about his look, maybe the amount of snow he had on his cap, said he’d been standing there for awhile. He was wearing an old, frayed woolen top coat. The sort worn over a suit. Beneath it only a ratty t-shirt and baggy jeans. None of which would keep the man warm enough. Not when it was already in the teens and going to drop below zero that night.

Peter took a twenty out of his wallet and put it back. He folded the bill so it could be passed discreetly, but had the value showing. He didn’t want any other homeless people to see how much money the man had. Peter had read that thievery and violence was endemic to that class. He stopped just before he got to the man, standing off to the side of him, not directly in front, not threatening.

“For whatever, dude,” he said, holding out his hand as if to be shaken, but with the bill showing. The man shook his hand and nodded his thanks. “You need to get to a shelter. The city’s opening warming centers.”

The man scoffed. “It’s safer out here.” He started to walk away. “Thanks for the donation,” he said with another nod.

“How much to get an SRO for the night?” Peter asked, falling in to walk beside the man.

“Only by the week and only if there’s room and only if you have about a hundred.”

“The money’s not a problem…”

The man muttered, interrupting, “Wouldn’t think so.”

Peter passed it off. He was exceptionally well dressed. A coat like the man himself wore, only not frayed and this season’s style. Beneath it a suit. He’d been heading back to his hotel after a meeting, or else he’d be dressed down, Silicon Valley style.

“Okay, then let’s solve the other problem.” Peter always thought in terms of problem solving. Breaking a matter down into segments, creating an algorithm to work towards a solution. “Availability. How do we do that?”

The man shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Got a real California boy genius problem solver here. We walk, rich kid, we walk. Spoil those Louboutin’s with the salt and slush.”

Peter furrowed his brow. “How do you know I’m from California. I don’t tan.” The man smirked and kept on walking. There was something familiar about the expression.

Against his better judgement, Peter kept walking beside the man, even as he led him down a winding path, the blocks getting progressively worse in appearance. It was a very long walk. “What’s your story?” he asked just to fill the silence.

“Want me to sing for my supper? Don’t think so.”

“You weren’t panhandling.”

“Not there. Too close to the terminal. They move you on immediately if you put your hand out. Holding up a wall? You can get away with that for a bit.”

“Why waste your time there, then?”

The man shrugged his head to the side and spread his arms a little, hands upturned. Again, Peter was struck with an odd familiarity in the gesture. He watched the man move, falling a step behind to see his walk. Unlike most homeless, there was no slouch, no shuffle. He walked upright, steadily forward, with surprisingly confident, hurried steps.

The man gave a little chuckle and fell back to walking beside, not ahead, of Peter, but didn’t change his gait. “My time to waste,” he said. They walked silently for another block. “How was the 7 line to Queens today? Riding for old times’ sake instead of taking an Uber?”

Peter reached out and took the man’s sleeve, stopping their progress. “Do you know me?”

“Peter Parker. ParkerSoft.” The man brushed Peter’s hand off his sleeve and kept walking. “Another block. They usually have rooms.”

Peter stopped them again. “Do I know you?”

The man smirked again. “Nope.” He started walking again. “‘I don’t associate with Star Wars twerps and noobs’,” he said, giving Peter the same line he’d sent when the kid was a ten year old exploring corners of the web he didn’t belong in.

That time Peter grabbed the man’s arm, turned him away from the street and pushed him against the wall. “Holy fuck, you’re Iron Man!”

The man snorted. “WAS Iron Man. Now? Just being near that particular brand of phone,” he nodded towards Peter’s pocket, “is a violation of my supervised release.”

“Shit. I remember reading about your trial. Iron Man is Tony Stark.” The pieces were all falling together. The place where the man was leaning had a good view of Osborn Tower, formerly Stark Tower. And the phone in Peter’s pocket was made by Stark Industries.

“That, I still am, for all the name’s worth.”

“It’s still worth something.”

Tony laughed. “The board locked me out. And even if they hadn’t? Try running my business without going near a computer. Tony Stark’s as dead as Iron Man. You getting me this room or what?”

“Come back to the Langham with me,” Peter said excitedly.

He shook his head. “I mean it, kid. I’m not going back to prison so you can tap my brain and get me to do some work for you,” Tony said.

“I thought if you got caught at your level of hacking, the FBI or the NSA offered you a job.”

Tony laughed uproariously. “Still a noob. You believe that shit? The only thing they offer you is a six by eight room for fifteen years. And not at some country club estate.”

The problem solving wheels were spinning in Peter’s head. “Okay. Room first.” Peter grabbed Tony’s hand in his and headed into the SRO’s lobby. He paid for a month.

“Lose your bag, kid,” Tony said before they left the desk. “You’ve got my phone, you’ve probably got the tablet and I know you’ve got the laptop with the severely dumbed down version of JARVIS in there. He, I most definitely am not allowed near.” Tony smirked again. “’Course neither is anyone else.”

Peter put his phone in his messenger bag, and with a couple hundred incentive, left it with the desk clerk, hoping it would still be there. If it wasn’t and someone tried to access any of his electronics without his biometrics, everything would erase and the batteries would overheat, literally frying everything inside. He followed Tony up the stairs to his newly rented room. He plopped himself into the one chair in it.

Tony sat on the end of the sagging double bed. “So… TANSTAAFL. What do you want from me for the room?”

“I don’t want anything.”

Tony snorted. “If you didn’t want anything, you’d’ve upped that twenty to a hundred and walked on to your next meeting.”

Peter fell silent. “I want to test the limits of your cage. See what I can do to get them expanded.”

He chuckled harshly. “Easy for you to say from where you’re sitting. Before I lost it all, I threw everything I had at this problem. I had the best lawyers. Paid politicians at the highest level in my pocket. I was too damn high-profile for them to do anything. All the favors suddenly dried up because everyone knew I’d be in prison and be unable to make good on any deal. I’m worthless, Parker. This is it.” Tony spread his hands expansively, taking in the small room. “The limits of my cage, as you put it. It’s bigger than six by eight. And I can walk out that door whenever I want. After fifteen years, I count myself ahead.” He leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “I have nine more years of my ten supervised release to do. I am not spending that time back in prison. The limits of this cage don't get tested.”

“I thought you completed your sentence; you were free.”

“Fuckin’…” Tony shook his head. “Yeah, I got sentenced to fifteen, served fifteen. I got caught in defense systems. Federal time. No parole in that system. And after? They can do whatever the fuck they want to you. God, you’re naive, Parker.”

“Okay. So there’s no getting around the electronics restriction…”

“Nope.”

“Do you need access to code?”

“You are a piece of work,” he said shaking his head. “I am not coding for ParkerSoft. You can’t afford me,” Tony said, arrogantly.

Peter shrugged and looked around the room.

“Bye, Parker,” Tony said, standing up and heading for the door. “Better hope they never catch the Spider. Or I’ll be sharing a street corner with you.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. “How did you…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Tony turned and leaned his back against the door. “You were ten when I met you in the warez channels. And as you got older, you went everywhere bragging about every system you walked around in. You wrote lazy, distinctive code — still do. Anyone who looks at your old code and compares it to the shitty apps your company puts out would catch you in a minute.” “You don’t get it. I didn’t get it. How… ephemeral… this all is.” He crossed his left arm low across his body, holding his wrist.

“There’s nothing solid in the world, no matter how much we pretend there is. There are a million ways for you to end up like me, even if you never get caught. ParkerSoft has employees living in their cars, and you won’t even let them stay safely in your parking lots much less pay them a living wage for the area. Stark had them too. Living in places like this because the cost of living in New York is mad. At our lowest level, we had people taking sponge baths in McDonalds and sleeping wherever they could.

“I had no idea. Even if I did, I would’ve thought it was their own fault for lacking ambition or skill. You need to get it through your head. This is it for me. Maybe in nine years, if I live that long, I can manage to build a little something again to carry me through my sixties. Probably not.” He sniffed, scrunching his face.

“Then why not work for me?”

“Because, kid, I don’t trust you. You are going to brag about having Iron Man or Tony Stark writing your code. You can’t shut your fuckin’ mouth. I’m too big a get for you to just sit on that information.

“Second, not only can’t you pay me what I’m worth, you can’t pay me at all. I can’t have income without a job. I can’t get a job. Getting this place? I can say I got lucky panhandling. More than that?” Tony shook his head. “Not risking it.”

“C’mon, Tony. It’s a system. It can be gamed,” Peter said, enthusiastically. “You and me? Best in the business.”

Tony snorted at the kid putting himself in his category.

“Don’t judge me by my apps. That’s money.”

“What else do you have to judge you by? Certainly not your hacking skills.”

“I do games…”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Everybody does games. Thrill me.”

“Security.”

“Walk me through it.”

Peter explained the companies that he personally provided security for and how he did it. Tony grudgingly gave him a side nod. He went back to sit on the bed. “Interesting, but, eh… not exactly…”

“I’ve reverse engineered JARVIS,” Peter spluttered out.

“The OS on your computer may have his name but…”

“Not the OS. That was just the starting place.”

“Impossible.”

“Okay. I haven’t done it completely…”

“No shit.”

“But I’ve gotten farther than anyone. JARVIS is the big get our world right now. Has been since you went away. No one else has gotten past the OS.”

“But you have,” Tony said skeptically.

“I have his visual manipulation systems. The true natural language, not the crappy OS version.”

“Personality?”

Peter shook his head. “None of his personality or on-the-fly problem solving. Not…”

“So none of what makes JARVIS, JARVIS. Just a slightly more advanced OS that you’ll never be able to use because Stark still owns the rights to him even if they can’t get to him.”

“I’m looking to put together a buyout of Stark. Not just their computer division. The works.”

“You don’t have the resources, kid.”

“It’s not worth what it used to be.”

“I know exactly what my company is worth. Without me, it’s been rushing for the bottom. Pepper can’t salvage it, even though she’s good.

“Exactly. A decent offer, the board wouldn’t turn it down. They’re looking to cash out while what’s left is still worth something. A little manipulation…”

“You’ll get caught.”

“No I won’t.”

“Not gonna argue with you. You still don’t have the resources to buy Stark, even at a bargain.”

“When I turned twenty-one five years ago, I inherited my parents’ estate. Including my father’s chemical patents.”

“Okay,” Tony said, nodding once. Richard Parker had done some groundbreaking research. Stark had tried to hire him and failed. “But none of what you say, none of your ‘gaming the system’ gets me out of my situation. You can’t ‘game’ your way out of supervised release.”

“Your connections, give them to me.”

“Wow. You’ve got balls, kid. Anything else of mine you want in exchange for a three fifty a month room?”

“Yeah.”

Tony snorted. “Go on. Tell me. You want me to code. You want JARVIS. You want my connections. What else?”

Peter stood up and walked closer to Tony. “I want you to put me on this bed and fuck me brainless.”

Tony threw his head back and laughed. He looked up at Peter, ran his gaze up and down him, then laughed some more.

“What!” Peter said, offended at the apparent rejection.

“I’m far more than twice your age. I look like shit. I haven’t had a shower in a year. I’m fifteen kinds of filthy. And you want me to fuck you. What the hell kinda kink you got, kid?”

“You are still as fuckin’ gorgeous as ever. And brilliant. But I can’t fuck your brain. There’s showers down the hall, the guy said.” Peter took off his overcoat. “I’ll wait.”

“And you get to fuck your sexual-awakening crush. Bet you had pictures of my Iron Man icon on your wall along with the Death Star.”

“Nah, but I did have Tony Stark’s Rolling Stone cover,” Peter said, grinning.

“Shit. You always this direct?” Tony a.

Peter shrugged. “In business or fucking, it gets me what I want or gets me out quickly. You’d know. I took the play from your autobiography.”

“Kid, you’re killin’ me,” Tony said with another shake of his head. “Fuckin’ fanboy since you were ten. Why the hell should I put you in this bed?”

“I’d imagine you haven’t had any for awhile,” Peter said slyly.

“I’ve always liked them young and pretty and I’ve stayed in shape. This past year, not so much. Before? Plenty.”

That took Peter aback.

“Christ, Parker, I never raped anybody,” Tony said, seeing Peter’s reaction. “Stop watching bad movies.”

“Well?”

“I am not fucking you.”

“Okay.” Peter said down on the bed, next to Tony. “Can I take you to dinner?”

“You get nothing for it.”

“I’m okay with that.”

Tony looked at him skeptically.

“I’d just like to get to know you,” Peter said.

“Still a fanboy.”

“A little, maybe, but I’m a bit old to be just that. You’re hot and I’d like it if you fucked me. You’re brilliant and I’d like to get to know you.”

“Gonna take me on a date, kid?”

Peter smiled. “Maybe.”

“The clothes will still reek, but I’ll take a shower.” Tony smiled. “You figure out the best place that will let someone dressed like me into it. I’ll let you buy me dinner.”

“Unh unh. You’ll let me take you on a date.”

Tony laughed genuinely. “Okay Pete, I’ll let you take me on a date.”

#starker

[vanithesquidwrites]

Every Breaking Wave

A little oneshot for the road. Crosspost to AO3 for those who prefer to read there. No tags nor warnings apply. =)

Most ships merely pass in the night, but perhaps, if one waits long enough, a ship might finally come ashore.

They come in pairs, always, much like Ritha and you once did.

It is never easy, and never gets any easier — by nature, of course, but also by design. You have seen disdain doom too many men to count, and you refuse to let it blunt you enough to doom your own guests. It will likely make no difference, but they at least deserve a chance. So you hone respect and care both to keep understanding alive, and try to let compassion guide your words as much as pride once did.

Hard work in itself, after so long.

It never gets any easier, but there is a routine to it. A sort of methodology to leaving hope behind. You've whittled it down to an art. Several arts, to be accurate.

You'd taken to writing, at first, once it had become obvious to you that your voice would go unheard. Historical accounts of sorts, in the vein of those ancients tomes that had awed you in your childhood. You consigned each name and each achievement of mankind to paper, a silent scribe to every country, every change of the world's name.

Still, soon enough, all of them read like nothing but echoes and rhymes, as time let mankind fold itself in interchangeable layers, each more similar to the last, each burning to the ground in turn.

You'd tried to not let it bother you, to remember that their — your — sameness was a treasure of its own. But one can only describe how the world burns down so many times. Weariness had won, in the end, and you'd set ink and quill aside. Time takes its toll, even on you.

Especially on you, perhaps.

You'd moved to music, afterwards. Reed pipes, at first, then plucked strings arranged much like those of a lyre. With each new era and culture came a new harmony of sounds, and you thought of archiving those, in place of archiving people. The piano had come quite late — twelve, perhaps twenty Cycles in, in then-Asabti's capital. It had been love at first listen, and you had almost thought to steal the wonder from its maker's hands, afraid a Beacon would be lit and destroy the sound forever. Thankfully the woman had been amenable to sale, and for enough of your old gold to see her live well into old age, you'd taken what would become your one true jewel to your abode.

You'd taken to composing, in the beginning. You had woven your hopes and sorrows into garlands of bright notes, let them speak in your place when curious men peeked through your gates. But your songs were not heeded any more than your advice had been, and so you'd come to improvise, to let emotion guide your hands into whatever art would come. It filled the time and the silence, and you imagined that, perhaps, Ritha would one day sing with you.

The sculpting had come last of all, though your sheer productivity more than made up for the lateness. You had been just as gifted with blades and spells as ages before, and soon an army of silent silhouettes was born from your hands, each one a sentinel, a tomb for a lost world. Regrets sprung anew from your memories, and you carved them into wood, sculpted with all the care you had not known to give when sculpting men.

Some were reminders for yourself, of lessons best not forgotten; some were meant for your visitors, omens of what was sure to come.

They had not been understood any more than the words, books, or songs, but they had kept you company. They stood by Ritha through the night, museum of your better days and mausoleum of your worst, a graveyard for all the dead souls you could never afford to grieve.

Even now, they come in pairs. Always.

Always on that same quest, with that same vanity, that same conviction you'd once held that this time will be the last one. That strength of will and strength of arms will bring the Cycle to a halt, make of recurrence a bad dream. That evil is without and not hiding within.

You cannot answer their questions; not in ways that satisfy them, that do not lead the cogs of fate to careening even faster. You've attempted many a time, and you have failed every last one. You cannot lift their burdens from their shoulders nor their minds, not without fracturing their beauty or damaging their purpose — but you can grant them the kindness of a night spent in a warm room. You can grant them all plushy beds, good music, and hearty dinners.

Every meal is different. You make a point of it. History and human nature may twist all things into echoes, but to your many successors — these people who, like you once did, crave naught more than being special — you can grant this one, painstakingly handmade bite of uniqueness. It takes patience and much research, but by the time each new Prophet comes to ring the bell at your gates, a new recipe awaits them, each prepared to suit its diner. Each crafted with just as much care as the wood you carve afterwards, a brand new ghost of a soon-to-be-dead world left to haunt your halls.

You travel far, for these dinners. You've crossed oceans by boat and spell, climbed atop mountains with bare feet. You have never done things halfway, and you are more than determined to spare no expense for this one. If time and fate cannot let you be more than a cook for a night, then you will cook to perfection — for the sake of your successors, and for the sake of memory.

Yet another thing to collect, to store in the vaults of your mind as a trace of a world gone by. Of lesser value to the world than your artworks and artifacts, but priceless to your soul as practice of how to remain human.

The last meal you served, you prepared from Nehrimese game and poultry, with potatoes and tomatoes picked in Ostian with your own hand. Wild apples, cranberries, and leek, you'd plucked from across the Sun Coast, and the wild herbs and juniper had been grown in your own garden. You'd sun-dried it all a little, made sure that the meat had aged well, then set it to roast over open flames until it charred just right. You'd made the broth from rainwater and copious amounts of sea salt; a little algae for texture, mixed with a spoon you'd carved yourself. It had tasted of home and doubt and charcoal in equal measure, all served in your best silverware, with your best wine, your best efforts — and every last bit of oblique warning you could weave into words.

They come in pairs, always, and so had they, of course. They'd left the plates just as untouched as all the others before them; ignored your statues, your recital, the true meaning of your letter. You'd left them the casket with just as heavy a heart as ever, then you had let your routine complete, left hope behind, and moved on.

You feel no need to watch the end. The white light always burns the same, each shriveled corpse a new proof of your failure to bring Ritha home.

Yet there had been no empty world waiting when you returned, this time. The mountains had stood tall, still bearing your likeness, yet a handful of impossible birds had flown the skies. The cliff had been shaken, some of its rock unmoored, but it, too, had held some rare life — a handful of mayflies and a cricket or two, buzzing atop this or that stone. Your wrought-iron fence had caved under the strength of some unseen wind, and yet the world had still been there, gray and old, right beyond the bars.

The grass had been laden with dust, the trees fallen, the skies cloudy, and you had stood as if struck dumb by the lack of complete silence.

You'd expected a vacuum, or two god-kings in their heaven.

You hadn't expected ruin to be confined to Enderal.

You had barely dared to explore, fearing any word, any breath could send the gears spinning anew. You'd kept to your abode and your not-so-deserted cliff, observing from afar, watching the winter turn. You'd been careful — and you still are — to not let hope flare up too soon. There have been outliers before. Ritha and you, so long ago. Eras lasting longer than most. Beacons lit with a slight delay. Emissaries assassinated only for new ones to rise.

Still the moons came and turned, the birds sang, and the crickets chirped. Still new small things — a frog, a mouse — came to rest on your windowsills, the shadow of a Myrad sometimes passing by the mountaintops. And still, one day, a boat sailed by flying the flag of Arazeal, almost surreal in the fog.

They come in pairs, always, and it takes them thousands of years. But this one rings your bell alone, a mere three years after the last. And when he comes, he bears a smile and a wine bottle in each hand, as if you were some good old friend he was all too happy to see.

"Greetings, Mysir Gajus," he says with a crooked smile, unkempt gray hair plastered to his face by the wind and pouring rain. "And to your companion as well. Our gratitude to both of you."

You remember the man, of course, from his roguish air to his stilted attempts at conversation. He is, much like the world, both old and new alike, seeming fragile — brittle, almost — in his continued existence.

He reminds you of Elimar before the light had taken him, and you have not been reminded of Elimar in quite some time.

"A dear friend of mine thought you in need of drinks and a long story," he goes on as you stay silent. "I happen to be Enderal's best and last remaining expert on inebriated chatter — and decent enough company to share bottles with, I've been told. Though you may have higher standards. I would never dare to presume."

You let the words wash over you to pay attention to his voice, the sadness under the humor, the tense wrinkles around his eyes. It answers most of your questions, and quite a few others besides.

You gather there will be no need for a second guest bed, this time.

"Forgive me, Mysir Dal'Varek," you answer him at length, walking all the way to your gates. "My manners seem to have taken their leave of me in my old age. Must I open the gate for you, or will you find a way to tresspass into my home unaided?"

"Wise Hermit, no, no," the man stutters, having, it seems, acquired some sense since your last encounter. "No, I've just come to bring our sympathies and a peace offering. Endralean wine. The very last! Dug out and rescued from the brewery two weeks ago, by yours truly, and after quite a bit of effort if I do say so myself. Not quite the brooch of a Seraph," he smiles that self-deprecating grin of Elimar's once more, "but more enjoyable, I'd say."

You stare at the man through the gate, arms crossed over your chest, brow furrowed. Still young and more than a bit of a fool, for all that his hair is whiter than yours and his eyes just as tired. You tap your foot, consider chances, wonder what eventualities could spring from an open door. No danger to you, you are sure; compared to your magical might, the man is but a babe in arms. But dangers to an auspicious fate are not so easily measured, and you find yourself frustrated, wishing you could merely observe.

You could. You'd only have to leave. But then when would there next come to be a man standing at your door, bearing nothing but gratitude, sympathy, and a cup of wine?

"You visit is... unexpected," you admit, for lack of better words. "And quite a surprise, to be frank."

"But a pleasant surprise, I hope," Dal'Varek answers, raising both of his bottle-filled hands.

The bottles are tied with ribbons, hastily cut from dust-spotted fabric. Some sort of old green cloth, perhaps, likely salvaged from the ruins. The rain plasters them to the glass like the man's hair to his forehead, but you still appreciate the attention, for some reason. Some old memory, perhaps.

"I find myself in the position of being uncertain, for once," you reply to the rain-drenched man, a rare, wry smile coming to stretch the corners of your lips. "Time will tell, as it always does."

Dal'Varek nods, as if he could have the slightest conception of how much you mean by the words. But then, what had Elimar been, if not charmingly impudent?

"So," Dal'Varek continues, giving the two bottles a shake. "Would you prefer to begin with the drinks, or with the long story?"

"Why not begin with the story," you tell the waiting man as you make to open your gates. "It so happens that I have just set meat to cook on the fire — though nothing quite so carefully prepared as for your last visit. If you'll forgive the humbler fare, then there is room at my table."

"Why not," the man nods, his smile tainted an instant by memories. "We didn't take the chance to taste it at all last time. Our apologies for the waste. It did look delicious."

You shake your head in humor as you step aside to let Dal'Varek pass, gesturing him onto the path with a hand as you close the gates again. The hinges whine like cattle to the slaughter, as they always do, but you find that the sound, for once, is not quite as mournful as you've grown to expect.

"Worry yourself not, Mysir Dal'Varek," you reassure the man. "It has been quite some time since I was last upset by the wastefulness of mankind."

"...I suppose it would," he agrees, cordially enough. "I suppose you have much better wine to drink than this one, as well."

"I do indeed," you say, laying a hand on his shoulder as you both begin to make your way up the path to your abode. "Nevertheless," you add, "I appreciate the spirit of the offer — and its sentimental value."

Dal'Varek nods mutely by your side, eyes fleeting from one statue to the next. He does not stop or slow his steps, but he greets them all as he passes, bowing his head, whispering thanks. Better thanks than fright, you suppose.

Better late than never at all.

"Who knows," you tell the man, "it way still age quite well. Endralean 8234 could yet prove a fine vintage."

"Here's to hope," Dal'Varek concurs — and there his smile finally breaks, the silent shudders of sobbing beginning to shake his shoulders.

You were never a man for embraces and soothing words, but you know Ritha would speak them, if she were standing in your place. And so you let your hand leave Dal'Varek's shoulder to circle his back, and run it through his hair, pressing his head to your shoulder to let him cry into your coat.

"Yes," you comfort Jespar Dal'Varek and the ghost of Elimar both, as you see them into your house like dreams rather than bad memories. "Here's to hope springing eternal."

Titular song and lyrics on Youtube

[you-get-to-exhale-now-cyrus]

oh, those summer (salt) nights

Summary: After the disaster that was costume day, TJ tries to go and mend his relationship with Cyrus.

Ship: Tyrus

Word Count: 2095

TJ,

I’m not mad that you picked to dress up with Kira instead of me, so please don’t think that I am. I totally get it, you know? Kira’s really athletic, and pretty, and kind of nice, if you look at her in the right light. And you guys can play basketball together and all that jazz. Which is fine, really.

I’m not mad. I just feel a little stupid, you know? Well, not a little, I actually feel like a complete idiot. I guess I thought that maybe we had something special? And if not special, then at least maybe just something in general. I thought that maybe you liked being my friend and hanging out with me, at least from my perspective. I always thought that maybe us hanging out was fun for the both of us, and that we were important to one another. For the record, you’re still really important to me.

I guess I just thought that I was important to you. That I mattered in one sense or another. That maybe, just maybe, I was worth something to you. It sounds kind of melodramatic now that I’m writing it. Anyways, I guess I always knew that deep down, this was a bit of a one-sided ‘relationship’, if you will. I mean, I should have been grateful that you were even talking to me, let alone confiding in me for help and things like that. And I let myself believe that things were different between us. And yeah, even though I still had that lingering thought of doubt, I tried to push that aside. And slowly, I started to genuinely believe that you liked being around me and that you valued me as a friend.

I guess what I’m trying to say, or ask, is. . .why wasn’t I enough for you? Am I really not important to you? Do you consider us friends? I feel like such an idiot for thinking that what we had was actually real. I’m sorry for not being enough for you. I’m sorry for thinking that I was important and that you cared about me. I’m sorry for being this dork that’s just a bother to you. I swear I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. Thanks for making me feel at least a little special for a while.

- Cyrus

TJ clenched the letter in his hands, feeling like he was choking on tears as he walked down the street. He must have read the letter a thousand times. He memorized where the words were blurred with little splotches of water when he first got the letter. He’d run his fingers along the curves of the letters with a shaky finger. He’d never felt so awful in his entire life.

Absentmindedly, he ended up near Cyrus’ house. He always came over on the weekends, but he hadn’t done that for the last weekend, or even the one before that. He felt miserable all the time; he’d been cutting back from doing things. Last week, he skipped all his basketball practices. He hadn’t gone to tutoring for the past few days. He didn’t eat breakfast this morning because he felt sick to his stomach. All he wanted to do was tell Cyrus how sorry he was.

Believe him, he’d tried. He called, texted, emailed, and even tried to tape notes to his locker, but to no avail. Cyrus always turned away and tagged on to the nearest person, walking with them. TJ couldn’t blame him, though.

He folded the letter again on its creases, pressing it into his pocket as he made his way down the driveway of Cyrus’ house. He hesitated before knocking, which wasn’t something he usually did. Cyrus’ parents usually left the door unlocked for him, since they knew he would come over. He wondered if Cyrus told his parents about this. God, he hoped not.

Soft footsteps could be hear from inside, and TJ said a silent prayer that one of his parents wouldn’t open the door. He heard the door click, and he felt his heart leap into his throat.

Sure enough, Cyrus was standing on the other side of the door. In the split second that they made eye contact, TJ could see just how tired Cyrus looked; it seemed as though he hadn’t slept for days, and he looked like he was about to collapse at any moment. He inhaled sharply, pressing his lips together.

“Hi,” he managed, blinking a few times.

“Hey,” Cyrus replied softly leaning against the doorframe. He sounded so small, and almost afraid; TJ felt like his heart was breaking.

“Can we talk?” he asked, feeling in his pocket where the letter was. He clenched it in his hand, running his fingers along the edges of the creases.

Cyrus shrugged, stepping outside and shutting the door behind him. He took a seat on the bench, and TJ sat on the other side, leaving room between them. He really hated how their relationship had changed over the course of a few short weeks. They both sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, until TJ pulled out the piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

“I got your letter,” he breaks the silence, smoothing out the sheet of paper, “I read it,”

Cyrus nodded, his gaze down at his feet. He wasn’t sure what to say, and he was certain that if he started talking, he’d start crying, and he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“I’m sorry for. . .everything,” he said lamely, not really knowing where to start, with there being so much to say, “I didn’t want to ditch you for Kira, and I definitely didn’t mean to make you feel like. . .this,”

Cyrus didn’t say anything for a moment, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back against the bench. “Why’d you do it?” he whispered, swallowing hard, “why’d you leave me for Kira? Was I really just. . .just not good enough?” His last couple of words were so much softer, filled with so much more disappointment.

TJ sighed, shaking his head, and glancing at the other boy. “No, god, of course not, Cyrus. You’re the most important person in my life,” he tries to assure him, tapping his fingers along the edge of the bench, “it’s just. . .complicated,”

He scoffed at that, mumbling something under his breath. “It really doesn’t seem like that. If you don’t want to hang out with me anymore, why didn’t you just say so?”

“That’s not true!” he exclaimed, clearing his throat and lowering his voice, “Kira, she. . .she  told me she was going to say things about me that. . .I’m not ready for people to know,”

Cyrus brought up his eyebrows, a more confused look on his face than hurt. “What do you mean?”

TJ sighed, closing his eyes. “When we were at the park that first day, didn’t she seem a little. . .off?”

Cyrus remained quiet, thinking it over. “I mean, I guess a little. Probably because Buffy and I are friends and she has a feud with her,”

TJ shook his head. “It’s not just that,” he admitted, “I was there a few days after that and I was finishing up playing basketball. Naturally she was there too, and she asked me to do a costume with her-”

“-I know that,”

“No, hold on,” TJ cut in, “I told her twice that I couldn’t because I was doing it with you,” he paused, waiting for Cyrus to say something, but when he didn’t, TJ continued. “And then she got. . .defensive, I guess, or something, and was upset that I’d rather do a costume with you rather than with her,”

“But you barely even know her,” Cyrus mumbled.

“I know. And so I was just. . .I don’t know, it didn’t sit right with me. So I tried to catch up to her and ask her what she meant by that,” he could feel his voice trembling, just a hair, “and she was wondering why I’d rather do a costume with a boy rather than a girl, and I quote, ‘such as herself’,”

Cyrus glanced up at him, as if to say ‘go on’. TJ really didn’t want to continue; this was the hard part. But he knew he couldn’t keep hurting Cyrus like this.

“She kind of. . .implied that I was gay,” he mumbled, before adding more, “which wouldn’t have been a bad thing, except that the next thing I told her was ‘so what if I am?’, which wasn’t a wise decision,” he looked at Cyrus, trying to gauge his reaction. He looked sympathetic, and TJ felt at least a little better.

“So then we got in a bit of a. . .heated conversation about that and then she basically threatened to tell people if I didn’t do the costume with her,”

Cyrus felt his heart sink; he felt awful for thinking that TJ ditched him out of selfish reason. He should have known better. He scooted a little closer and put a hand on the other boy’s knee. “TJ. . .I’m so sorry,”

But TJ shook his head, blinking a few times. “And I was all dressed up in the beach outfit this morning and I was ready to go, and then I got to school early, hoping I’d get to talk to you about this and explain things, but she was there earlier. And again she was going to tell people so I just. . .chickened out. I should have told you. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry, Cyrus,”

Cyrus slung an arm around TJ’s shoulders. “It’s okay, really. I get why you did it. That must’ve been so scary,”

He nodded softly. “I didn’t want people to know yet. I mean, heck I could barely admit it to myself. And when she was talking about you and me. . .”

“You and me?”

“She. . .was pointing out how we were always hanging out or always, I guess, being close,” he mumbled, “and. . .she scared me. A lot. I didn’t want her to tell people. You’re. . .you’re the first person I’ve told,”

Cyrus smiled reassuringly, taking one of TJ’s hands and lacing it with his own. “I’m really proud of you. Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me,” he said softly, “did she say anything else about us?”

TJ chuckled lightly, glancing at the other boy. “She said we acted like such a couple. . .even though I told her we weren’t,”

Cyrus’ smile faltered a little bit, shifting his gaze down to his lap. “But what if. . .what if I want that?”

TJ looked a little confused, but it was more like he wanted to make sure of things before he got his hopes up. “What do you mean?”

Cyrus hesitated a little, brushing his thumb over the other boy’s knuckles. “I want. . I want us to be a couple. A thing. Whatever you want to call it. I want to be able to hold your hand without feeling nervous that you’ll pull away. I want to come up and hug you from behind and surprise you. I want to send you good morning texts with a string of heart emojis,” his voice grew a little softer each time, “I want to be able to kiss you and go on dates,”

TJ was beyond happy listening to Cyrus. With each of his desires, his smile grew wider and wider, and he couldn’t stay still any longer. He pulled the other boy in for a hug, closing his eyes softly.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he whispered, pulling back a little, “I like you so much, you know,” he paused, tilting up the other boy’s head with the hook of his finger under his chin.

“So. . what does this mean for us?” Cyrus asked softly, with a smile that reached his eyes.

“It means. . .I really want to do all the things you said. Hold hands, go on dates, surprise hugs. . .kisses,” he adds softer, his cheeks a dusty rose.

Cyrus grins, and before he can stop himself, he presses a quick kiss to TJ’s cheek, smiling all the while. “How about tomorrow? Movie night at my house?”

TJ smiled, but shook his head. “I actually have a better idea,” he said, a mischievous grin on his face.

Cyrus raised his brows. “Oh, really?”

“Since we missed out on the ‘summer’ part of the somersault, I was thinking, maybe we can take a trip to the beach?”

Cyrus lit up, breaking into a huge smile. “I’d love that,”

#andi mack #tyrus #tyrus fic #tj kippen #cyrus goodman #my fics

[sanjisock]

Fuck, Marry, Kill (or, how Usopp becomes the best matchmaker of the sea without really trying)

ao3

1.

It’s a classic , Usopp said. Any pirate worth their salt would play this at least once , he said.

Sanji would say he’s around eighty-percent sure Usopp just made this game up, but Sanji is always eighty-percent sure Usopp made something up just by principle alone. It certainly doesn’t help Usopp’s case that Nami is grinning wide beside him, notepad and quill in hands.

“So,” Nami echoes Usopp’s earlier question cheerfully, and her smile is way too beautiful and magnificent for the words that come out of her mouth next: “fuck, marry, kill. Who’s your pick?”

+

2.

There are rules to this stupid game. Actual fucking rules . Not even the world government kind, the ones they break on a daily basis anyways because, hey, pirates. These rules are the kind that forces you to pay Nami a hefty amount of Berries if you break them, which, on the deck of Sunny, means nothing short of Serious Business.

Nami had taken to the game with surprising interest as soon as Usopp told her about it, but then again, she talked about it with the same tone she uses when she’s going to swindle a lot of money from an unsuspecting poor fellow (read: Zoro), so maybe this isn’t much of a surprise at all.

The rules, pinned next to the spice cupboard and right under the dishwashing duty roster, are as follows:

A crew member must be picked whenever possible.

Only one name is to be given for each category.

If, and only if, one has come up with a legitimate reason not to pick a crew member, it has to be someone they’ve met, known, or at the very least, heard.

Choices are based on pure objective reasoning and any FUCK/MARRY shall not be interpreted as anything resembling interest or, worse, intention to pursue. This means you, Sanji.

The same applies to KILL. This means you, Zoro.

Individual answers are confidential and worth B500,000/answer, or 10% of your last loot, whichever is higher.*

*) Payments are to be made in cash to Nami.

Really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise at all. Sanji thinks he saw her eyes turn Berries-shaped. He personally thinks she still looks beautiful, and tells her as much.

She tells him this doesn’t excuse him from the game, and expects his answer by the end of the week.

+

3.

Sanji is the first victim by elimination — Chopper is out of the game because he is young, innocent and, ultimately, not human, Zoro is sleeping like the oaf he is, Luffy doesn’t seem to have figured out that the thing below his belt is useful for something other than peeing, and the others have left the ship to explore the newest island they’ve just docked at.

Sanji silently wishes the marines would start attacking them just so they could distract Nami and Usopp from the shitty game.

It’s not that Sanji wants to ruin what is — Nami’s expensive fine notwithstanding — ultimately some harmless fun. Sanji has never had problems going along with the crew’s antics, and between declaring war on the World Government and punching a royalty so hard they call a marine admiral after you, this one is far from outrageous by any means. He doesn’t think it’s physically possible for him to give Nami a no for an answer, either.

It’s just that... he doesn’t actually have an answer.

He’s a romantic person by nature. He likes to make everyone happy, and when that doesn’t work out, he likes to make everyone he gives a shit about happy. He does preen from the more... feminine attention, but between the bustling customers of Baratie, entering and leaving as they please, he never learned how to pick favorites.

Nami points at rule number two.

Usopp suggests he should just pick Zoro for MARRY, because they already fight like an old married couple anyways.

Sanji threatens to put Usopp under KILL and break the fifth rule, exactly in that order. Usopp has enough self preservation instinct to shut up really fast after that.

+

Brook has never heard of the game, which gives more credibility to the Usopp-Made-This-Game-Up Theory, but it’s not like there’s stopping them at this point, so Sanji fumes and glares, but in silence. Usopp smartly stays quiet.

Brook asks if Nami would show him her panties if he puts her under MARRY. Nami clocks him in the skull.

He settles on Zoro for MARRY.

“What,” Sanji says, stunned.

“Well, Zoro-san is a disciplined, reputable swordsman,” Brook explains, “and any decent swordsman would make a responsible husband.”

That...probably makes sense in Swordsman-Speak, or whatever language people like Zoro, who substitutes normal greeting with stabbing and slashing, speak in. Whatever. Sanji is civilized , and will not bother to even try to understand.

Brook can’t name anyone under KILL. He is, however, curious if anyone wants to pick him, considering he’s already dead, yohoho, skull joke!

Nami groans and hits his skull, again.

+

Franky has heard of the game, but he can’t pinpoint where he’s exactly heard it from, and Sanji suspects it’s from Usopp.

Franky also puts Zoro under MARRY. Franky is so not on Sanji’s list of favorite people today.

“Not you too,” Sanji groans, scandalized, because Brook is approximately a billion years old and therefore would understandably consider Zoro’s neanderthal values desirable, but Franky is, like, the future . Cyborgs are essentially sentient robots.

Franky shrugs. “He’s a super dude, his fights make great shanties, he can help me carry the ship materials —”

“ I can help you carry the ship materials,” Sanji interrupts, and wonders how his life has gotten to a point where he’s trying to compete with Zoro for Franky’s hand in marriage.

“ And ,” Franky presses, “he won’t chew me out for burping on the table after dinner.”

Sanji’s eyes twitch at that. Well. In sickness and health, sure, but that? That’s just barbaric.

“He’s a great dude who breaks the Sunny’s railings once a week,” Sanji points out, switching his strategy. If he can’t win, at least Zoro should lose, too.

His strategy backfires as Franky raises his eyebrow at him and asks, “Speaking of, didn’t you break the front railing yesterday?”

Franky puts Sanji on KILL for that.

Sanji considers smashing his feet through the railing again, just because he can.

+

Robin immediately picks Zoro for MARRY, because blah yadda blah bushido code, something something gentlemanly, yeah, yeah. Sanji mentally apologizes for tuning her out, but if he has to listen to beautiful Robin-chan talking about Zoro being a good husband, Sanji won’t be able to resist arguing, and that just won’t do. He isn’t about to question a lady’s decision, however irrational. Nobody’s perfect after all — not even Robin.

She also puts Zoro under KILL for ruining her flower bed last week when he accidentally dropped his oversized training weight (which is unnecessarily huge and totally an overcompensation for something ), and he falls for her all over again. Robin really is perfect.

She then tries to clarify whether normal Franky and Cyborg Franky count as one.

“Uh,” Nami says, confused, “would it even make a difference?”

“Nami,” Robin says as she leans forward, chin in hand and a mysterious smile playing on her lips, “the hands make all the difference.”

Robin puts Cyborg Franky under FUCK. Sanji blinks.

Usopp grimaces.

Nami has a distant look on her face, the kind of expression that guys wear when they witness other guys get hit in the nuts.

They pointedly don’t ask , and back away from the room slowly.

+

4.

The final tally is:

Sanji gets one flattering FUCK (he hasn’t found out from whom, and honestly, considering the available options of Usopp, Luffy and Nami, doesn’t want to take his chances), Robin gets two (Nami shiftily avoids everyone’s eyes for this one), Cyborg Franky gets one (Franky opens his mouth to question the specificity, turns beet red by his own realization, and promptly closes it), and Zoro gets one ( ew , is what Sanji would like to say, but Sanji is man enough to admit that Zoro can get it, considering those abs and deltoids he keeps flashing due to his unexplainable aversions to clothing. Fucking caveman).

Zoro gets a whopping five for MARRY.

That’s literally all the strawhats, minus Luffy (who probably doesn’t even know what marriage is), Chopper, Zoro himself, and Sanji.

What the actual fuck .

+

5.

Sanji succumbs to curiosity and pays Nami his ten percent.

Zoro put Sanji under KILL, he finds out.

It’s not a surprise. Hell, it’s the most predictable thing coming out of this game—the sky is blue, water is wet, and Zoro puts Sanji under KILL. Whatever. Sanji still hasn’t decided on his list quite yet, but he is certain he’d put Zoro under KILL, too.

Nami asks him if he wants to know what Zoro’s FUCK and MARRY are, and Sanji politely declines because he just doesn’t care which random chick Zoro wants to do the deed with and not because the way his stomach clenches oddly at the thought, really . It’s probably that beautiful marine lady that always tags along with Smoker — Tashigi-chan or something. Zoro always acts funny around her, even when the others never noticed. He’s an open book to Sanji like that.

Sanji walks away and doesn’t give it a second thought.

Bastard.

+

6.

He gave it a second thought.

And a third. And a fourth. And damn his shitty traitorous brain to hell, a fifth.

By the time lunch rolls around Zoro and Tashigi are married with a quaint little dojo at the foot of a mountain and blessed with three bespectacled, green-haired children Sanji can’t even bring himself to hate because they’d smile just so when their Uncle Sanji makes their favorite apple pie.

Not that there’s anything to hate. About Zoro and Tashigi-chan, that is. Well, there’s always something to hate about Zoro because he’s Zoro , and Sanji would probably nag him a little for receiving the affections from such a beautiful lady like Tashigi, but there’s absolutely nothing deplorable about the idea in general. They’d get along swimmingly anyways, probably spending hours and hours just talking about shitty swords and other sharp, pointy things as their three children play in their backyard overlooking a beautiful deep blue sea, the setting sun painting a warm backdrop on the wooden walls of their dojo.

He blinks as his train of thought crashes and derails into a nearby mental chasm.

He blinks again, just for good measure.

Holy fucking shit, he has a problem .

+

7.

“Marines!” Usopp yells from the crow’s nest, and Sanji wakes up, eyes still bleary, to three marine ships surrounding Sunny, cannons loaded and aimed towards the deck.

Be careful what you wish for, he feels like telling his past self.

He rushes to the deck to get a clearer view on their enemies, and hell , he’s convinced the universe finds pleasure in finding new ways to fuck him over because he sees Smoker on the helm of the largest marine ship.

And if there’s Smoker, there’s —

“Shit,” Zoro mutters from beside him, and Sanji only needs to follow his gaze to see Tashigi walk up towards the helm to stand beside Smoker. Because of course Zoro would notice her immediately. There are roughly a thousand marines on three of these galleons and she’s the first person Zoro sees. Great. Awesome. That would make a romantic story to tell their three green-haired children.

God damn it. His brain really needs to stop with the children already. He considers going for a check up with Chopper just for this.

A thousand bloodthirsty marines prove to be a good enough distraction from Zoro and Tashigi’s imaginary children, and soon Sanji is lost in the rhythm of the fight, almost enjoying it. He kicks a marine on the back of the head, does a spinning kick to immobilize another ten, and jumps aside to avoid a gunshot —

Only to find himself face to face with Tashigi.

“Black Leg —” Tashigi says, immediately taking a fighting stance, but Sanji is faster.

Before he knows it, he finds himself kicking the two guys guarding her, lifts and drives his right leg on her sword and into the cabin wall right beside her head, effectively pinning her to the wall. Sanji doesn’t kick women, would never harm a woman, but anything around her is fair game and he feels almost guilty for trying to wrestle a loophole in his own principle.

He needs to do this, though. He has to. She’s a marine, his enemy, a threat. And… there’s something he needs to know.

He blurts without thinking, “fuck, marry, kill. Who would you pick?”

Tashigi starts. “What?”

He thinks he’s blushing, but he figures if he wants to avoid embarrassment the ship has sailed a long time ago so he says, “out of the strawhats. If you had to choose, who would you fuck, marry and kill?”

Tashigi narrows her eyes and pulls harder on her sword. “Are you joking, pirate?!”

Sanji is stronger, though. He pushes her sword deeper into the wall. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle, but I don’t joke about this.”

Tashigi wears the expression of someone who wonders what kind of life decisions she’s made that has led her into this situation, which is something Sanji can relate with. “Well, fuck you , pirate. I’d kill you .”

That’s fair, Sanji supposes. “And marry?”

She opens her mouth, stops herself from saying at least three other different curses before turning an interesting shade of red.

She mumbles her answer.

“Yes, Tashigi-chan?”

“Don’t call me Tashigi- chan ,” she snarls, much louder, before muttering again, though Sanji can hear it this time, a low, shy, “well, that swordsman of yours did save my life back in Punk Hazard.”

Tashigi blushes brighter, and Sanji knows a lost cause when he sees one.

Zoro and Tashigi have four children this time in his head, three girls and one boy, and it sucks, so fucking unfair that everyone wants to marry Zoro, with his stupid hair and stupid face and stupid everything. What’s so good about him anyways? The moron doesn’t even have depth perception . He doesn’t deserve all these beautiful girls, wouldn’t even be able to cherish them and treat them with love like Sanji would.

Who’s to say that they would know him either? Zoro’s a moron , after all, and he probably only has, like, three sets of expressions. Sure, Sanji can read his tics, knows the way Zoro clenches and unclenches his left hand when he sees a potentially strong opponents, the way Zoro would rub the back of his neck when he’s embarrassed — but these girls don’t know that. He doesn’t think anyone knows that, and without knowing the real Zoro, how could they make him happy? Would they know how to find him when he gets lost? Would they cook him his favorite food every day? Would they love him as much Sanji does —

Wait.

Sanji pauses.

And.

Breathes.

Tashigi has started protesting now, demanding her swords to be returned now that she’s gone along with his ridiculous demands, but it all sounds so distant now, because.

He loves. Zoro.

Sanji inhales. Then exhales.

He loves Zoro .

He sees it again, the dojo at the foot of a hill overlooking the beautiful blue sea, but this time the dojo belongs to Zoro and him , and two of the four children have blonde hair, and the sea outside is All Blue. The imagination seems so vivid because somewhere along the line that has become his dream , a future he envisioned as clearly as finding All Blue and witnessing Luffy become a Pirate King.

Fuck, he’s in love with Zoro.

“Shit,” he says heartily. “I’m in love with Zoro.”

“What?” Tashigi says, perplexed. Sanji hopes it’s because she can’t hear him amidst the cacophony of gunfire, swords, and bodies hitting the floor.

He lowers his leg and steps back, still in shock by the revelation.

Tashigi is looking at him in confusion, or at least he assumes she does, because he’s no longer paying much attention to his surroundings. How could he, when he’s just come to such a huge revelation about himself, holy fucking hell he’s in love with Zoro —

A passing marine takes the chance and stabs a sword through his lungs.

+

8.

The last thing he remembers is choking on air, mentally laughing at the fucked up irony of living on a ship surrounded by endless seas just to meet his end by drowning on dry land. He thinks he saw flashes of metal, of Zoro’s stupid green hair and stupider face, torn apart between anger and concern, Sanji’s name for once stumbled out of his lips — but Sanji is pretty sure he imagined this last part up. He is a romantic fool like that.

He blinks himself awake to the familiar smell of Chopper’s infirmary, the oddly soothing mix of medicine and sweets. He tries to sit up as far as his bandaged torso would allow, and when he catches the orange of Nami’s hair his heart warms but doesn’t flutter. It hasn’t been, he realizes, for quite some time.

He really is in love with Zoro. God damn it.

“Sanji?” Nami says when their eyes finally meet, and she hurriedly stands up, “oh my god, you’re awake, I need to wake Chopper up, Chopper —”

“Don’t worry, Nami-san,” he says, catching her wrist just in time before she rushes out of his reach, “I’m fine. Let our doctor sleep for some time.”

“But,” she says, but it’s a token resistance at best, as she’s already sitting down again. She tugs his grip lightly at that — a small, playful movement — but he feels the pull reverberate through his arm and to his chest, jarring him into a coughing fit.

He thinks he’s coughed up both of his lungs before a glass of water touches his lips. It takes him a few gulps and a couple more deep breaths before he realizes Nami is rambling a guilty “oh my god, Sanji-kun, oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

He clears his throat and tries to give her his best smile, “please don’t apologize, Nami-san! A beautiful face like yours shall not be marred with unnecessary worries.”

Nami sighs, but it’s fond. “You were unconscious for a whole week,” she says, squeezing his shoulder, “let me fuss over you for a while.”

Sanji whips his head towards her in shock, mouth hanging open

“A week,” he echoes. No wonder he feels so sluggish. He thought it might have been the medicine, but apparently he danced far too near to the grim reaper than he was comfortable with.

His gaze drifts to take in more of the infirmary, afraid that he’s missed more important details like not remembering an entire week of his life . For the most part everything seems to be in place, large shelves filled with Chopper’s neatly-arranged medical books beside his work table, with complicated looking medical appliances situated more at the corner of the room, near the door. His gaze eventually falls on the small bedside table and he does a double take.

Zoro’s katanas — all three of them — are leaning against the foot of the table. Sanji frowns; it’s rare to see them without their owner, and rarer still to see them being parted with so voluntarily, away from the swordsman's sight.

“Yeah, Zoro was here,” Nami answers the unvoiced question as she notices what he’s been staring at, “been by your bedside all week, actually. We had a roster, just in case you —” Nami pauses at that, looks away and — did her voice waver at the end there? “You know. Anyway, didn’t even need the whole roster thing in the end because Zoro just wouldn’t leave. Stubborn man. Just his luck you woke up when he took a bathroom break; serves him right for growling at me when I offered him to switch on the first day. He looked like he was ready to gouge his remaining eye out and leave it in the infirmary if it meant keeping an eye on you, science be damned.”

Sanji blinks, again, at the story. There’s a weird tug at this chest. He lifts his hand up to touch it, and it feels warm, from the inside.

“It’s frankly kind of cute, how he’s been acting like a mother hen,” Nami continues, and her smile gains a mischievous edge as she adds, “or, you know, like a worried husband.”

Sanji wants to say something to that, but Chopper probably gave him some strong stuff because his tongue feels heavy and he can feel the strong pull of sleep dragging him back to unconsciousness.

He sees darkness at the edges of his vision, and doesn’t think at all as he says, “yeah, he would make a good husband,” and eyes already closed, he sees the house at the foot of the hill and mumbles, “I’d marry him.”

Chopper’s medicine really is strong.

+

9.

The next time Sanji opens his eyes, there’s a cottony rasp on the inside of his mouth and dread looming at the back of his mind. It’s reminiscent of days when they partied too hard and he drank one too many glasses of liquor, but worse , because he remembers every single word he said to Nami.

He considers asking Chopper on his stance on euthanasia.

It doesn’t help that the person sitting beside his bed is not the ever-beautiful, ever-wonderful Nami, but the last person he’d rather see after his accidental confession. He has no doubt that Nami has told Zoro everything — has told everyone everything — and while his body has mostly recovered from the injuries, he’s pretty sure he could still die from embarrassment.

He sits up on the bed, scrambling for an excuse, “Zoro —”

“You almost died,” Zoro interrupts before Sanji could even finish his sentence, and takes Sanji’s hand in his. “Don’t you dare do that again, Shit Cook.”

Sanji stares at their hands, and wonders if Chopper’s medicine is even stronger than he thought. “What does it mean to you?”

Zoro shrugs. “You know what,” he answers vaguely.

Sanji doesn’t , though. Zoro shifts in his seat, looking away, seemingly embarrassed by his own words, and Sanji is left wondering what the fuck is happening. Zoro is the type of person who gives brutally honest and oftentimes insensitive answers. He doesn’t give cryptic, vague answers — that’s more of Sanji’s department. “What?”

Zoro pulls his hand away, and Sanji hates how his own hand feels very cold all of a sudden. “You know. Our answers for Usopp’s stupid game.”

Sanji would rather take another sword to the chest than to continue with this conversation, so he does the cowardly thing and practically leaps out of the bed. “I’m not in the mood to talk about that.”

Zoro is faster, though — Sanji is blaming all the medicines in his bloodstream for his slow reaction — and manages to catch Sanji by the wrist. “Where are you going?”

“Away. Out.” He pats his pockets with his free hand, but doesn’t find his cigarettes, unsurprisingly. Fuck, he needs a smoke. “In case you forgot, I haven’t been out for a week from this shitty room.”

“Seriously?” Zoro growls in reply, tightening his grip. “That’s all you got to say? Didn’t you pay for my answers? Nami told me you — if that sea witch is lying again —”

“I told you not to call Nami-san like that,” he replies, almost instinctively, feeling more and more agitated by the turn of the conversation. “What the fuck are you talking about, brainless mosshead.”

Zoro glowers at him, face oddly serious. “Did you or did you not get my answers for the stupid game?”

Sanji is going to lose it. Is Zoro seriously trying to rub this whole thing in his face? The fact that Sanji wants to marry him, even after knowing Zoro only puts him under kill? Knowing that Zoro doesn’t find him desirable in any way, that he’d prefer having three wonderful well-mannered kids with a beautiful marine lady?

“You put me under KILL!” He yells, unable to stop himself. “If this is your way of telling me you want to kill me, drop it. Way too roundabout for your style, Marimo. And just in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t bother to find out who you want to fuck. Or marry.” He looks away, trying not to choke on his own heart. “Happy?”

Zoro’s eyes widen comically at that, and he loosens his grip on Sanj’s wrist in surprise; Sanji doesn’t miss the chance and kicks him on the chest.

Zoro flies out of the infirmary through the door with a satisfying bang , and Sanji relishes his victory for a moment before growing reluctantly concerned as Zoro doesn’t get up from that. Surely he didn’t kick him that hard, did he? He jogs towards the dust-covered body on the deck, and finds Zoro with his head in his hand, mouth twisting into a hysterical laughter.

“Stupid cook,” Zoro says as soon as Sanji’s close enough to hear him, “are you jealous?”

Sanji growls, and pointedly doesn’t blush. “I’m going to kill you.”

When Zoro drops his hand and looks up, he doesn’t look like he’s making fun of Sanji, though. He looks surprised, and even almost… hopeful? “You are jealous.”

Sanji has about a thousand retorts to that, but all of them die in his lips as Zoro tugs him down by the hand, pulling him to crouch right in front of Zoro. Their faces are really close like this, and Sanji can’t look away.

“Cook,” Zoro says when Sanji doesn’t say anything, “Nami said you put me under your MARRY. Is that true?”

Sanji refuses to answer, but the way he looks away and blushes like a fourteen-year-old is probably a good enough answer for Zoro. Zoro laughs, tightens his grip on Sanji’s wrist and pulls him into a kiss.

Sanji’s life needs to have fewer twists before he dies from heart attack at the tender age of twenty-one.

When they part, Zoro doesn’t lean away; presses their foreheads together instead, his hand large and warm on the nape of Sanji’s neck. There’s a big grin plastered across Zoro’s flushed face, the kind that Sanji only sees whenever the swordsman comes across an alcohol he likes, or wins a particularly hard fight, or — as Sanji begins to understand, heart hammering in his chest like it’s trying to escape — whenever Zoro is really, really happy, apparently. And to think that Sanji is the one who puts that smile on Zoro’s face —

“I put you under MARRY, you dumbass,” Zoro says, though his insult doesn’t carry much weight, considering the stupid grin still wouldn’t leave his face. “Put you under everything , Cook. Kill, fuck, marry — the whole deal. Because that’s how far you’ve messed me up — you idiot, stupid, annoying, oblivious Shit Cook,” he presses another kiss, chaste and light and all too quick, leaving tingling sensations on Sanji’s lips. “I am in love with you.”

The words rattle against Sanji’s ribcage, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. His face feels warm all over, and he’d look away, except for the fact that Zoro’s hands are gently cupping his face, thumb rubbing absentmindedly against Sanji’s cheek.

“You’d make the shittiest husband ever,” Sanji tells him, because Zoro might be the love of his life — and ain’t that a thought that could make his heart miss a couple of beats — but he still wouldn’t miss a chance to tease Zoro.

“Yeah.” Zoro simply agrees at that, laughing softly. “I’d be your shittiest husband, though.”

Sanji doesn’t find a reason to argue with that, heart jackrabbiting against his chest, and simply leans for another kiss.

+

10.

By unanimous decision, and with some heavy censorship by replacing FUCK with SLEEP, they decided that Chopper is at least old and human enough to know what’s going on with the game.

“I’m not happy at all that you decided to finally include me in the game, bastard!” Chopper said with a happy wiggle, his hooves clapping together excitedly.

He puts Zoro under SLEEP. Literally. Chopper thinks Zoro makes a great pillow, and a great sleeping partner because he doesn’t move around.

Chopper purses his lips at MARRY.

“The idea of human marriage is still foreign to me,” he says, explaining his silence, “there are too many factors involved in human marriage. For us reindeers, all we look for in a mate is one who can provide us food.”

As if on cue, Zoro throws a large fish onto the deck. There are three large slashes on its belly, crossing through its gills.

Chopper picks Zoro for MARRY.

Sanji resists the urge to bash his head repeatedly on the ship mast, and doesn’t go through with it only because Zoro leans in and steals a kiss from him, effectively blocking his path.

Bastard. Shittiest husband ever .

#opfanfic #zosan #roronoa zoro #sanji #one piece #easily the longest fic on this account. please take it AWAY from my hands

[threecrowsinatrenchcoat]

Hey @orionwritessomething remember when I asked for writing prompts for Lyric the Magic Shop Owner well over a month ago and you gave me one and then I never wrote it? 

Well I wrote it. Thanks for the prompt!

Prompt: “What about a group of chaotic adventurers stumble upon said shop and try to scam shop owner?“

“Um, Pandora, my dear, I don’t think this is... you know. A real magic shop,” Darcy said carefully. 

He had stopped some distance away from the shop his companion had led him to, and was gazing up at the battered old sign that hung above a weather-worn door. ‘The Raven’s Message,’ the sign proclaimed, and beside those words, an illustration of a raven perched atop a stack of books was discernible despite the old paint’s apparent determination to get up and leave. 

The front window, when Darcy stopped trying to look through it and instead just looked at it, was coated with a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. It was’t the dust that blocked his view of the interior, however- it seemed like shelves had been purposely placed in front of the window. Unusual for a shop. Downright strange for this street, where every little locally-owned business seemed to be trying to outdo each other with their window displays. Darcy frowned. 

“But isn’t that the point?” Pandora countered with a grin. She had made it all the way to the door of the shop, only to double back and join him there on the edge of the street. “You’ve got like a billion glamours and shit on this thing, any mage you take it to is gonna see right away something’s up. You gotta go to someone who thinks they know what’s what, but doesn’t actually.”

“You say that like you’e done this before,” Darcy teased. He knew full well that she had, which was why he had asked for her help in the first place. At his words, she laughed.

“Yeah, well, usually just with trinkets. Little stuff. And this shop is new to the neighborhood, so I haven’t actually been here before. So you’d better not be all talk and no skill.”

Darcy flashed her his most charming smile, and patted her cheek. 

“Five minutes,” he assured her as he sauntered toward the door. “That’s all I need.” 

The inside of the Raven’s Message was nearly identical to the outside: generic. The place felt barely lived in. Most of these small, family-run businesses tended to feel somewhat ruffled. Shelves were browsed, items picked up and later placed in a completely different spot. Some semblance of organized chaos made of up hand-written price tags and scavenged display bins. Full of love and hard work- people doing their best with what little they had. 

This shop had none of that.

Items were arranged carefully, almost mechanically, and had clearly not been moved since they had been placed. There were certainly a lot of items- sage, incense, crystals; everything one would expect to find in an imitation magic shop- but none of these items seemed, in any sense of the word, loved. 

“Is this place a front?” Darcy muttered to himself as he looked around. There was not a customer in sight. He did at least spot a cash register on the back counter, wedged between a display of salt lamps and a glass case filled with many colored crystals, but no one around to man it. Feeling uneasy, Darcy adjusted his grip on the item he held, wrapped carefully in a soft blanket. 

“Oh, if I had wanted a front business, I would have gone with an Italian food restaurant. At least then I could eat good food while I was up to no good.”

Darcy turned, startled by the voice. A man had stepped through the curtain-shrouded doorway to his right and now stood only a few feet away. He had somehow made no noise in his approach and Darcy, who had not been snuck up on since he was five, was both impressed and unnerved. 

“And speaking of being up to no good,” the man continued, “You seem like someone on a mission. Can I help you with something?”

Darcy took a moment to study the man before answering. He was not a particularly tall man, and of average build. He certainly dressed the part of an eccentric magic shop over, with the long, flowing coat at the ribbons and beads threaded throughout his long dreadlocks. His pierced ears had a slight point to the- elven blood, perhaps? He did move with a surprising grace for a blind man- that is, if the cloudy white eyes and the faded burn scars surrounding them were being correctly interpreted. There were not many elven-blooded in this city. They were children of the forest, after all. Darcy’s last observation before he spoke was that this may not be as easy as he’d thought. 

“Yes, hello,” he said at last. “I do hope you can help me, my good sir. See, I have recently come into the possession of a curious artifact, and I am hoping to find someone who may be interested in acquiring such an item.” 

“I may be interested, or I may know someone who is,” the shopkeeper answered smoothly. “Please, have a seat.” 

The man gestured toward the corner of the room, where sat a small table between two chais. Of all the spots in the cramped little shop, this seemed the most lived in. There was not a speck of dust to be seen upon the table’s wooden surface. A black cloth was laid out upon it, and a spread of tarot carts sat abandoned. Darcy tilted his head slightly. 

Tarot. How cute. 

“I should apologize for my lack of manners toward a... distinguished gentleman such as yourself,” Darcy said after a moment’s silence. The man paused in his efforts to clear off the table, and a faint look of amusement flickered across his face. Darcy continued speaking.

“My name is Darcien. Darcien Lux, though friends call me Darcy. I’m hoping we can be friends, Mr...?” 

“Lyric,” the other answered. “Just Lyric. And I do hope we can be friends, as well.”

Darcy smiled. Lyric smiled back. An awkward moment passed, then Lyric cleared his throat. 

“So. Darcy. What is it you’ve brought for me?”

“Oh? Oh, but of course.”

With well-rehearsed care, Darcy placed his bundle onto the table and, ever so gently, peeled back the layers of blanket until the item was unveiled. 

Darcy found himself suddenly grateful he had spent the extra time to enchant more than just this item’s appearance, but even so, he found himself holding his breath as Lyric reached out, hand hovering several inches above the jewel-encrusted goblet that sat unwrapped upon the table. 

“May I?”

“Oh,” Darcy answered, “By all means, friend.”

He watched warily as Lyric carefully lifted the goblet and slowly rotated it about in his grasp. His fingers gently traced along the inlaid jewels, and followed the lines carved into the heavy cast metal. 

The goblet, of course, was worthless: a cheap imitation of wealth; any value it might have carried once upon a time had been eroded away by the years spent buried in the depths of the cavernous dungeon where Dacy, Iris, and Pandora had found it. The journey had been otherwise fruitless: whatever sort of lair the place might have been, whatever secrets still lurked beneath the earth, the collapsed tunnels and heavy rocks had cut the unprepared adventurers’ quest short. But Darcy was not one to walk away from an adventure with nothing to show for it. And if he had to trick a few foolish shopkeepers into purchasing a few worthless trinkets, then so be it. 

Lyric took his time inspecting the goblet. Darcy let him, silently focusing on the magic he had placed upon the cup so that it screamed “wealth” and “rarity” to the one who helt it. Finally, Lyric set the goblet down, and lifted his milky white eyes toward Darcy. 

“This truly is a wondrous item you have brought me,” he said with a smile. “Very magical. I like that.”

Darcy- who, despite Pandora’s insistence that this particular magic shop was not a real magic shop, had kept a very close watch for any signs of the Detect Magic or Identify spells a true retailer of magical wares would know to cast, and had not seen the man cast anything- tilted his head slightly. 

“Er, yes,” he answered. A lie came quickly to his tongue. “This is... not my specialty, but I have been assured this is an item of awesome power, capiable of neutralizing any poisons that may find their way into this cup. Certainly a useful item in some instances. Perhaps for a victim of paranoia... or someone with less than trustworthy friends.”

“Mmm, yes, it certainly is,” Lyric replied evenly. Darcy’s eyes narrowed as he observed the man across from him, searching for any tells. There were none- the man seemed genuine, at least as far as Darcy could tell. And, typically, Darcy could tell quite far. 

“So, my friend,” he continued when there were no further comments from across the table. “What do you think? Does such an item strike your fancy? I assure you, you will not see an item like this again, not in your lifetime.”

Lyric seemed vaguely amused by that, a hint of a smirk touching his lips. But after a moment, he nodded.

“If you accept gold as trade, I would be more than willing to offer you fifty gold pieces for such an item. Is that agreeable?”

Darcy had to bite his tongue to keep his initial reaction a silent one. Fifty? He would have considered ten gold pieces to be a win. Fifty was...

“Friend, I believe we have ourselves a deal.” 

He stuck out his hand, and before the thought occurred to him that this was probably a foolish gesture, Lyric took his hand and they shook. Then, Lyric stood and crossed the room toward the cash register, while Darcy rubbed the warmth back into his hand. Lyric’s grasp had been unnervingly cold. 

Not two minutes later, the exchange was made. Darcy pocketed the gold with his most charming smile upon his face.

“It truly has been an honor doing business with you, my friend. I truly appreciate your time.”

“And I, yours,” Lyric responded in equal measure. He wore a serene smile upon his face as he held the goblet. Darcy was mostly out of the door when Lyric added, “And if you stumble upon any other interesting items in the same place you found this one, please do bring them to me.”

From the rustle of clothing followed immediately by the slam, of the shop door, Lyric figured Darcy had simply waved at him on the way out. He shrugged, unbothered, and made his way into the back room of his shop. 

Niiro was seated at Lyric’s workbench, valiantly trying- and failing- to keep the cats from investigating the spell components he had carefully laid out. When Lyric stepped into the room. three pairs of eyes immediately turned to him.

“What was that? A customer?” Niiro asked. Both cats, one a familiar in cat form and the other a cat in the more traditional sense, chirped. Likely asking the same question. Lyric lifted the goblet he had just acquired in answer.

“What is it?” Niiro asked dubiously. “Is it magical?”

Lyric grinned. 

“Not in the slightest, dear,” he replied. “In fact, objectively, it’s rather worthless after all this time.”

There was a clink of glass and the rustle of old parchment. Niiro had turned back to the spell he was working with. 

“If it’s worthless, why’d you buy it?” he asked.

“It seems like time and the elements have finally begun to unearth long-lost secrets,” Lyric answered. He was met with silence, but he could feel Niiro’s exasperated expression on him. Lyric sighed and held up the goblet.

“This is from one of my old hoards, from centuries ago. Last month’s rainfall must have finally uncovered it. I imagine many more treasures from my youth will soon find their way to me. Now, have you seen my spellbook anywhere? I must dispel all of this rather pointless illusion magic-”

As Lyric wandered off, voice fading as he continued the conversation with himself alone, Niiro just sighed and turned back to the mess of a spell he had laid out before him. Cricket, the orange tabby cat that was not exactly a “cat” per se, mewed at him. Niiro just shrugged.

“Fuckin’ dragons, man. What can you do?” he told the cat. 

Cricket seemed satisfied with that answer. 

#kye writes #i actually started it when you gave me the prompt but then i never finished it #well now it's finished #so thank you for the prompt! #i had fun writing it #lyric tag #niiro tag #darcy the mail girl

[matsuhanakids]

10 Years

Haikyuu!! Multi-character fiction. Who did you read about?

Doors slammed behind him, loud harsh sounds that cut through the quiet of the night.  He didn't turn around, didn't pay it much attention, they always slammed and he always walked on. His hands trembled with devastation of failure- ‘my failure.’ he thought to himself.

It was cold outside, colder than normal, but again he didn't care because he wasn't good enough, he had failed; that was all that mattered to him. At some point in his walk home he lost feeling in his fingertips, the cold nipping and biting at him like a rabid wolf. He didn't care, he wanted his useless hands to freeze, maybe they would even fall off.

When he got to his front door he paused and sat down, hands still shaking and cold soaking into his bones and then into his brain. All he could really care about what that he had failed and that everything was over. He brought his hands up, staring at his fingertips once more and wondering how a team could trust someone with useless hands. That's how he felt, at least, like he was of no value to his team, but again- that didn't matter, because it was over, and he was graduating soon. 

He sat there for god knows how long, crying silently without realizing it until tears dripped past his lips onto his lap and he tasted the cold salt when he whispered to himself. “I failed, I couldn't do it, tonight was supposed to be it and I failed.” He was too caught up in his own thoughts to hear the barely there footsteps, too busy giving up on his dreams to listen for the soft padding of sneakers. The soft voice that cut through the darkness caught him off guard, and his heart clenched. “Hey..why are you out here? You're going to be sick, stop crying please..” It said, and without looking up he replied.

“I'm sorry, I couldn't do it. Its my graduating year and I couldn't do it.” He whispered, voice breaking into thousands of little pieces. He expected an angry response, for the person in front of him to be upset with him at least. Not the soft words and gently hand on his cheek that came next. “Come on, I’ll make you some tea and we’ll go to bed, you didn't fail, you've never failed, at least not to me.” The words were soft. He breathed in sharply, cold burning his lungs and eyes as he stared at the boy in front of him. A mixture of panic and affection began to bloom inside in his chest, was this right? 

“Okay.” he whispered, and they went inside. This was the first time that the boy considered love.

There he was, standing in the kitchen of his childhood home with his best friend at 10pm, warding off frostbite and awaiting a migraine. It was soft, it was warm, it was wrong.

‘He’s your best friend!’ he told himself, swallowing thickly as a warm cup was pressed into his hands. ‘Of course you love him, you love all of your friends, right?’ he thought.

At some point within the next hour the boy showered and went to bed, curling up on his side with his head buried in his friends chest. At some point, he told himself that it was normal for best friends to do that. At some point, he lied to himself. He was 18. - Then he sat in his living room, silent and angry at the world. His ,at the time, girlfriend had just left him, leaving him all alone in the dark. He picked up his phone with trembling fingers, tears dripping onto his screen as he tapped it to life and searched for a specific contact. His contact. He found it relatively quickly, finger hovering over the start call button for just a second before it began to ring. Four rings and the line clicked before he was met with a voice he hadn't heard from in months.

“Hello?”

A beat and silence.

“Hey, are you there?” A worried tone accompanied the words now.

Again, silence. The call ended, phone screen flashing bright in the dark room. He sat there for 20 minutes, angry and broken, too busy crying to hear the jingle of keys in his door or the soft voice that called out to him. Soft hands pressed against his cheeks and he opened eyes that he never knew he had closed, tears spilling along with unspoken words. He stared, voice cracking as he asks the man sitting before him how he got here.

“I ran. What happened?” comes the anxious reply and suddenly he realizes that the man crouching in front of him lives 10 blocks away. He doesn't dwell.

He explains everything, breaking down once more and spilling his guts to his best friend. Then it's quiet, comfortable, right.

“I missed you, I’m sorry I haven't called,” he tells the other, opening his now closed eyes to look at him. Fingers comb through his hair and his friend hums in response.

“I'm here now, don't worry about it.” Hands pause, soft and tender in his hair once more. These words are what make him consider love for the second time in his life, sitting in his best friends embrace at 10pm. He was heartbroken, but having him there made it okay. He was heartbroken, but the laugh and joke about how she just doesn't have taste made it okay. He was heartbroken, and lying to himself and saying they're just friends made it okay. He was 22.

- Now he sits in his best friends embrace once more, wondering why the hell he can’t control himself. They’d only moved in together as roommates three months ago, and this had already happened twice. This time he can't help but repeat the same words over, and over, and over again. “I fucked up, I can't do it, I'm tired of this.” He had known his anxiety was bad, known that it had been getting worse, but at no point in time had he ever considered it would have gotten this bad. He goes to repeat himself again when he's stopped. His best friend, he decides, has lips that are softer than they look. When they pull apart he stares at the man sitting in front of him with wide, teary eyes. “You,” he begins “are so goddamn stupid. You’re such an amazing person and I don't think- no, I know that you don't know realize how special you are. You're funny, and kind, and you've made it this far, you can make it even farther. I promise. You've just gotta stop being such an idiot, got to realize that it isn't as bad as you think it is. You've got to realize that I love you and that I believe in you no matter what, so please, don't give up.” More tears fall, then another slow kiss, and a laugh. This is the third time in his life that he considers the possibility of love, sitting in his bed at 10pm with his best friend. This time, he doesn't deny it. He turns 28 next month.

-

When one falls in love with their best friend it never goes the way they expect it, they expect to be friends forever, not to come to the sudden realization that they love said person. Sometimes it's fast, harsh; like stumbling and falling face first into the dirt. Other times, its slow and calm, like the sink running over when you've left it running.

It's never smooth and easy, always messy and unpredictable, sometimes a bit calmer- but never quiet. When you think about it, it's funny how one may never realize it until he’s sitting in the cold at 10pm sobbing. Funny how it might not be until he’s just had his heart broken and is sitting in an empty apartment at 10 pm and someone just happens to come to his rescue. Funny how it might not even happen until he’s having a panic attack in bed at 10pm and his newfound roommate comes in and calms him down. Maybe love is like cheese, a little rotten, a tad funky, and it has to age at least 10 years before you can have it. 

Who did you imagine when reading this? Reblog and put it in the tags! Like Reblog Follow

[rowdy-revenant]

Haunted Hearts

Pairing: ghost!Kevin Tran x reader

Request by: @hunters-hiraeth

Beta-reader: @unsink-the-titanic

Words: 1500+

Warning: angst, bittersweet ending

[General masterlist]

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You stared at the table in the library. His papers were still there. Hell, his mug was still there.

“What are you doing awake?” Kevin had asked you.

You’d just shrugged. “I could ask the same for you.”

Kevin had bags under his eyes and his short black hair stood up at odd angles. “I have to finish translating the-”

“No, no you don’t,” You replied. “You have to sleep.”

Sighing, Kevin got out of his seat. He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed your cheek. “What would I do without you?”

You giggled. “The question is what I’D do without YOU.”

“You’d do just fine without me..”

But you weren’t just fine. You hadn’t been fine since the night Kevin died. Since the night where you found him lying on the floor of the bunker, eyes burnt out of his skull.

That was all you saw when you closed your eyes. You couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t bring yourself to even shower. You just shuffled around the bunker, occasionally grunting if the Winchesters asked you a question.

You could still feel his arms around your waist. No, really, right now you could feel slight pressure pushing into you. Then it was gone.

Why did Kevin have to leave you? Why did Metatron need to order his death? It wasn’t fair! None of it was.

You trudged to the kitchen, picking up the mug Kevin used to use. It helped a bit, using that one.

You put some coffee on to brew and thought back to times when things were right.

"Favourite musician, go!” You said, sitting on the counter and swinging your legs.

Kevin pondered for a second before reaching a conclusion of “Mozart.”

You blinked, unsure if you'd heard that right. "Mozart?”

“I mean, Bach has good stuff too. Can't forget him.”

You smiled. Then you chortled. Then you full on laughed. "I meant like someone alive!”

“Oh!” Kevin exclaimed, his cheeks growing red.

"You're such an old fart.”

“Am not! Take it back, Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

The voice repeated your name, but not in your head this time. You dropped Kevin’s mug. It shattered once it hit the floor, sharp sound echoing around the empty kitchen.

“No! Nononono…” You cried out, over and over as you tried to pick up every bit of ceramic. “I- I can fix this…”

A fragment dug into your palm, sending a prick of pain running up your arm. A line of crimson beads began to form on your palm.

“You're hurt.”

You looked up, and there he was. Kevin stood there, looking just like he used too. Maybe a bit paler, a little less solid, but definitely there. He smiled like he always did, flickered and disappeared.

“You're dead…”

The tension between the brothers had risen to the point where any conversation was an argument. The events with Gadreel, Metatron, Crowley and especially Kevin set everyone on edge.

And things weren’t right. Lights in the bunker flickered on and off. All of you knew what that meant.

You were in the kitchen with the boys, Sam packing shotgun rounds with rock salt.

“How is this possible? I thought you said this was the safest place on the planet!” Dean cried out, breaking the silence.

Sam sighed and stopped with his work. “Look, I know nothing got in. I mean, the bunker is warded and sigiled from top to bottom. There's no way something came in from the outside.”

“Okay, so whoever's haunting us died here.” Dean grumbled.

Sam scoffed. “What, dead man of letters?”

“Has to be a recent death.” You replied, the first time you’d spoken to the brothers in days. “Kevin.”

“No.” Dean said, crossing his arms.

“How can you be so sure?” You asked. “I know it’s Kevin, I saw him!”

“ I burned his body myself, okay? It's not him.” Dean growled.

“So I’m seeing things?!” You asked. “You cremated him, so what? I was there! You cremated Bobby, too, and-”

“Don’t bring Bobby into this!” Dean demanded, still shaken by the incident with his almost father’s ghost. “Y/N, I'm telling you, this ghost, it's not Kevin!”

At that point, the coffee maker screamed, its clock going crazy. The mug in Dean’s hand shattered. The brothers looked shocked, backing away. However you got up and walked towards the machine.

“Kevin?” You asked softly.

The coffee maker stopped making strange noises, beeped once, then shut off completely.

You looked over at Sam and Dean. “Believe me now?”

“Woah…” Dean mumbled. “So what now? Seance with a coffee maker?”

“He’s trying, Dean.” You said. “He’s new at this, and stuck in the veil. I mean, Heaven is all fucked up!”

“It did take Bobby ages to make contact.” Sam agreed. “It could take a while.”

Dean frowned, sitting down at the table. “You said you saw him, Y/N.”

“I thought I was insane,” You admitted. “But I really did see him. Idiot wasted his energy just to show off to me.”

The coffee maker beeped and you smiled. “I was just teasing you, Kev.”

“Y/N, now isn’t the time to goof off.” Dean said sternly.

“My boyfriend is a ghost and you’re telling me how not to grieve?”

“There’s more important things to do than play hard to get with a damn coffee machine!” Dean retaliated.

“Oh, like what?” You asked. “Begging for forgiveness?”

“His death was my fault!”

“Tell that to the angel possessing me.” Sam cut in.

“I should have been there to protect him!” Dean yelled. “I got him killed!”

“Dean, no! Stop blaming yourself for everything!” Sam said, raising his voice too. “It was my-”

The coffee maker screamed again, Kevin trying to make contact, whether it was to argue or end the fight. You’d had enough.

“ALL OF YOU STOP IT!” You screamed. The room went silent. You stood there, shaking with rage and sadness, trying to prevent the tears from running down your face. “It was all of our faults, maybe mine the most! But arguing isn’t going to make Kevin any less dead and stuck! So shut the fuck up, and act like adults!”

“Y/N-”

You didn’t know who’d spoken your name and you didn’t care. This was all too much and you’d had enough. You stormed into your room without another word.

Sam knocked on your door. “Y/N?”

“Go away, Sam.” You mumbled, turning over in your bed.

“It’s about Kevin.” He added.

You were curious. You opened the door, hair a mess and eyes red, cheeks stained with tears. “What.”

“We saw him too.” Dean added. “After you left, he was there for a couple minutes.”

“So?”

“So, he wanted a favour.” Sam explained. “We go save his mother while he has time here with you.”

You nodded. “You sure he wants to see me?”

Dean sighed. “Dude wouldn’t stop talking about how he missed you, almost talked our ears off ‘till he got to the point.”

“Talk to Kevin. We’ll be back soon.”

When the Winchesters left, you sat back down at the kitchen table, unsure of what to say next. Minutes passed before you gathered the courage to speak. “Kevin?”

Across from you, a form flickered. “Y/N can- can you see me?”

You nodded as his form solidified, Kevin standing right in front of you. He grinned. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

He sat across from you, flickering when he tried to move the chair. It looked like it took a lot of effort even just to be seen. “I missed you.”

You smiled and wiped your eyes. “God, I missed you too. I’m sorry Kevin. I’m so sorry!”

“Hey, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.” Kevin assured.

“But-”

“Trust me.” The ghost said, his voice calm and soothing. “I’ve had time to think. And I know that it’s not your fault any of this happened. If I hadn’t become a prophet I would never had met you.”

You laughed through your tears. “What will you do without me?”

Kevin shrugged. “The question is, what will you do without me?”

You were silent for a bit. “I… I don’t know.”

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Live your life.” Kevin told you. “Stay safe and live out your life. Grow old, get grey, adopt twenty cats. I’ll wait for you.”

“Then I guess I’ll wait for you too.” You replied. “I promise.”

The two of you spent the rest of the day just talking. When Kevin couldn’t hold a visible form any longer, you moved to the front room and turned a movie on, knowing he was right beside you.

The boys returned with Mrs. Tran, and you had a decision made. You looked at the ring Kevin’s spirit had attached to, turning it over in your hand. “I’m done hunting.”

“What?” Sam and Dean asked in unison.

“I’d like to go with Kevin and his mother. If that’s okay with Mrs. Tran.” You admitted.

Kevin’s mom smiled. “I could use some living company too.”

You hugged the Winchesters and turned to Linda Tran. “Give me ten minutes to pack.”

“Take all the time you need.”

You slipped the ring onto a small chain around your neck, feeling the cold metal against your chest. You’d wait to be with Kevin again, even if it took forever.

~ Murdoch’s tag list - want to be added or removed? Send me an ask! ~

@alexanderhamlinsin @ashiewesker @ashtheironbat @authoressskr @baritonechick @blessedbebucky @crowleysprincess159 @cynda-kiwi @d4rzill4 @eileenlikesyou-maybe @ellienovak @fayemenelmir @feelmyroarrrr @gabriels-depressed-angel @kristaparadowski @lenawiinchester @like-gabriel-and-castiel @madelineannmolder @negansgrimes @sdavid09 @shrimpdrake @sumara62 @thehowling1234 @thewhiterabbit42 @treitike @tenderlybeautifulbarbarian @tyrex15

#kevin tran #kevin tran x reader #supernatural #reader insert #supernatural imagine #angst #ghost!kevin

[badlydrawnbeastcookies]

what did the beasts even do in the tree to pass the time? cry? sing? sleep? evil things?

"Oh! Oh! Oh! I can answer this one!"

"Inside the tree was BORING and AWFUL."

"Some of us passed the time by thinking too little. Others by thinking too much."

"Eternal Sugar Cookie simply slept. And Burning Spice Cookie, with no outlet to cause destruction, thought of what they would have done that would have changed the situation."

"And me? Well, after going through the five stages of grief (with extra time spent in anger) I decided to use the time to write all the plays I would do once I got out."

#switching the format to letting the beasts themselves answer #shadow milk cookie #eternal sugar cookie #burning spice cookie #mystic flour cookie #silent salt cookie #value of deciet [shadow milk tag] #value of sloth [eternal sugar tag] #value of destruction [burning spice tag] #value of apathy [mystic flour tag] #value of silence [silent salt tag] #message from anonymous

[ecotone99]

[FN] Eyes on The Prize

According to Rell, the trader's caravan only made it to the village once a year.

It was a humble village, at the quiet edge of the world.

Nestled away in a beautiful forest, the village set on the edge of a cliff overhanging the ocean.

Apparently, the land was full of gods and demons, and the people were simple, yet wise.

Rell seemed to mention the innkeeper multiple times in his description of World's Edge.

The caravan was small, 3 wagons and 2 horses to each wagon.

Rell drove the first wagon, Alexa the second, Grim the third, and Veylor rode in the wagon alongside Rell, as this was his first trip to the mysterious village.

The road was simple, surprisingly smooth and well worn to start. The path became less discernible as they crawled deeper into the heart of the massive forest.

The forest consisted mostly of beautiful live oak trees, and vines that climbed all among them, forming one giant twisting network.

It was spring time, everything was green, birds darted about, and flowers bloomed, their colors showcasing life at it's most brilliant moment, the height of beauty.

As evening drew in, the forest grew eerily quiet, and only the wagon wheels could be heard turning.

"So...when do we stop to rest?" Veylor asked in a tone that conveyed his boredom fully.

"We don't." Was the reply Rell uttered as a sly grin crossed his face, followed quickly by a much more serious demeanor.

"Sleeping in the forest, is not something you want to do, if you value your life and sanity!" Alexa shouted from the second wagon.

Veylor looked around him, and as dusk crept in, in the last glimpses of light that broke the canopy, strange shadows danced at the edge of his eyesight. He squinted, but was rewarded with no further information as the Sun's light took its final retreat below the horizon. Darkness had settled in, the only light was the laterns from the wagons, that would cast a faint flickering glow through the strange twisting trees.

At night the forest felt different, it felt sinister almost, like a predator waiting for its prey to lose focus, so the claws could quietly slip into place.

Veylor took in a deep breath and centered himself, he knew nothing of the forest, but he could tell on feeling alone that Rell was speaking the truth.

He wouldn't sleep until he was free of this twisted abyss.

Yet the night would drag on, it almost seemed to last too long. The crew was quiet, all fighting demons of their minds own creation, in an attempt to fathom what lie in that inky blackness beyond the safety of the dim latern rays.

Finally, light began to slowly filter back into the forest. The budding dawn pushed back the unkown, and brought the crew back into a more sure world, a world where their brains could rest, as the eyes could now provide a much needed input, and put their anxiety to rest.

"How many more of those?" Veylor asked with a certain hollow tone to his voice. "2" was the haunting reply from Rell's mouth.

"3 days without a wink of sleep in this all consuming forest, and 2 more nights surrounded by demons that silently test my resolve...hopefully the money is worth this." Veylor thought to himself.

The second night, was darker than before, colder, the beast hungered for a weak soul.

The second day would speed by, as they all dreaded what it's end meant..the final night.

The final night was comprised mostly of a ghastly silence, and a tense atmosphere of survival as the crew fought sleep with every ounce of their being, fear helped here, but you could feel the malice of the forest. It wanted you to succumb.

On the final day, the exhausted crew pulled into a clearing that served to showcase the beauty of the village, but the beauty was lost on Veylor as his mind was weary, and his body was weak.

Rell and the innkeeper greeted each other like best friends and immediately began to talk, Veylor drug himself to an open room, and quickly dropped beneath the rising tide of sleep.

A week past as the small crew enjoyed the restoration of a deep magical slumber.

Veylor came to as his stomach called to him, drawn by his nose and the scent of fresh bread.

"Thar e' is, green as evr!" Grim grunted excitedly in his thick accent.

It was true, the other four people in the room looked like veterans of something he was just beginning to grasp.

The innkeeper, an elderly man, with silver flowing hair, a massive beard, simple clothing, and fiery eyes that spoke to an energy deep within him.

Then there was Rell, jet black flowing long hair, neatly bound. A clean shaven face, complimented by his light brown smooth skin. He wore draping garbs of mostly ruby reds and light blue. His eyes were brown too, and conveyed an almost parental kindness that was usually manifested in his seriousness.

Alexa and Grim looked much different, more rugged. Alexa was old, wrinkled, with fair skin that had been lightly tarnished and tanned by the sun. Yet her face always displayed an even happiness, she dressed uniquely, and each part of her outfit had come from a different corner of the world, colors and cultures clashed, and in the midst of the chaos, there was her aging carefree face with dark green eyes, and long frizzy red hair.

Grim was wearing a working mans garb, heavier and simple cloth, marked with many small stains and imperfections. His hair was thin, and mostly gone as it receded more with each passing year. His face was tough, he had thick, gnarled features. A heavy brow, large nose, tan skin that was pierced with a heavy salt and pepper stubble. He was short, and powerful. His shoulders and forearms bulged in his work shirt. Everyone else had tea with their bread, whereas Grim handled a pint of ale to wash down his breakfast.

Grim and Alexa were lovers of a sort, their love was strange, not very traditional, but unbreakable. The two recognized each other as independent entities, they would even wonder away from each other with nothing more than a quick glance to convey a message noone else understood.

Then there was Veylor, young, ambitious, impatient, and prone to tunnel vision. As such, he didn't have time for small talk, and simply responded to Grim with a small grunt. He then made his way to the fresh bread and tea. He was no stranger to table manners, so he did take his time to place himself at the table and began eating in a quiet and restrained pace. His stomach wanted him to feast like an animal, but he contained the urges until the rumbling stopped.

The innkeeper smiled and made a small nod in acknowledgement of Veylor's self control.

"You know, Veylor, your traveling companions here, have visited World's Edge many times. They bring us much needed supplies, and news of the world's happenings. We get many travelers here, but few are as welcome as these three people. They aren't simply merchants, but friends." The innkeeper said, smiling all the while, he then continued, " I extend the same hospitality to you, and I also extend a small bit of advice...Enjoy your time here, breathe deep, and take in the land of the gods, but, tread carefully, for it is also the land of demons."

The room grew momentarily silent, and a light belch from Grim broke the tension, followed by a stifled chuckle from Alexa. Smiles returned to everyone's face, and they finished their breakfast with light conversation.

After some light morning work with the wagons, in the beautiful spring sun, Rell gathered the rag tag group for a few words.

"This goes mostly without saying, but it is Veylor's first trip, so, I will explain the plan. We are here for 5 days, the first day, is recovery, the last is for preparation. At sunset each day we close the stands and stop selling, and on the last day we replenish our rations and travel supplies. Besides that, the days are yours to do what you will with." Rell explained, then a slight smile crossed his face, "Time to do what we came here for!!" He shouted holding a gold piece to the sky. The small crew erupted into a raucous laughter as they put the finishing touches on the wagons, and preceded to go wonder about in the town.

At first Veylor walked alongside the river, and peered over the cliffs edge as the waterfall went down into a clouded oblivion.

Then he walked through the town, saw some villagers fishing from small ponds, some farming, and some selling from stands in the simple dirt market square. The wagons were there, prepped neatly for tommorow.

A few children ran about, playing fetch with some of the dogs, everyone was happy, content, and Veylor...well...he was simply bored.

The towns serenity was unmatched, but he wasn't seeking happiness, he was seeking fame, status, to be legendary. He had heard of the gods and demons, he had even heard of some striking deals with humans. He had heard of some challenging humans, and the winners could gain otherworldly riches and power.

So he was off, off the beaten path, to the lightly traveled paths that led into the forest...few people tread outside the safety of the village, and even then, they stayed on the main road.

Veylor would not let fear be his crutch.

He wondered in the strange forest for quite some time, and when he had almost given up, he heard it.

It almost sounded like snoring with some grunts and labored breathing mixed in. He moved slowly now, carefully placing his feet heel to toe and creeping across the forest floor.

The snoring just kept growing louder, it resonated through the woods now and he could make out a thick circle of trees clustered close, almost like they formed a wall.

Veylor drew ever closer, but moved incredibly carefully, as if he were back home hunting, this he knew, he knew how to move through the forest quietly.

He finally came upon the thickly clustered trees, found a nice spot and sat where he could peer through into what lay beyond the tree wall.

The snoring was booming now, it resonated, even vibrated the ground he stood on.

He slowly peeked through the trees, and what he beheld was hard to understand.

There was a large clearing through the tree wall, and many beautiful things lay within the clearing.

It looked like a treasure horde, endless amounts of gold, emeralds, ruby, sapphire, and diamonds even. Crates of fresh wine, ale, and food sat around throughout the clearing. There were awe inspiring stone statues that looked like they had been taken from their original place and brought here. Where daylight gently pierced the cover of tree limbs, the horde of goods would shine brilliantly as gold and silver were everywhere.

But that didn't compare to the creature that sat in the massive throne chair in the center. Its hands were slightly larger than Veylor as they rested on the arms of the throne chair, but there were 3 large meaty fingers and a thumb, adorned with many expensive rings and bracelets. The arms of the creature were as thick as tree trunks, and it's head seemed to be that of a boar, heavily adorned with a multicolored tribal mask. The eyes were visible and shut.

The creature had a massive gut that extended out with more treasure simply resting on its stomach. It wore a light covering for the waist section that again looked quite beautiful and rare. Its two feet were cloven hooves. The creatures skin was grayish with a hint of a grotesque green.

The beast was snoring, and enjoying what seemed to be a deep slumber. Its massive chest would rise and fall, it's head slumped slightly downward while it slept.

Veylor took in the whole scene one more time, was this a god? Or even a demon perhaps? A god would surely not hoard so much worldly possession. Veylor was still unsure, but he was sure that there was boundless treasure in front of him.

If he stole from a god, or demon, what would happen? Would the loot be cursed? Would the beast wake up and destroy him? A small golden ring with a single ruby in the center lay within reach, just within the clearing. It sat alone on the grass. There would be no sound if he grabbed the ring.

His hand slowly moved towards the prize, silently and swiftly he snatched the ring. Placing the ring gently in his pocket, he exhaled slowly. The beast didn't budge.

It took him some time to do so quietly, but he made off back towards the village.

Veylor was ecstatic, god or demon, it seemed he had bested them, and had even earned a small trophy to remember his visit.

He returned to the village, and his lips would stay sealed shut about his trip to the forest. He enjoyed dinner and some light conversation with the crew. Upon waking the next day, he felt no different. He inspected his trophy one more time, before making the final decision that it was simply a ring, and he had swiped it from the feet of a slumbering god.

Yet all day while selling goods at the stand, he pondered the clearing, he pondered it's untold riches, he pondered the reason behind hoarding the loot, but mostly, he pondered if he should return to the forest.

He found himself inexplicably drawn back. Back to this mystic realm he walked. Still silent, but more confidence in the steps now. His ears nearly jumped with excitement when he heard the snoring entity. Like a hungry rat he crept to the precipice of the clearing, eyes ablaze with greedy glee.

This time, he filled his pockets, slowly he worked the outside of the clearing, grabbing what he could from a safe distance. The creature seemed to be in another plane of existence, it slumbered so heavily that Veylor wondered if anything would actually wake it.

Like a chipmunk with pouches full of supplies, Veylor was off. He had to be very careful to hide his loot, he didn't need the others asking questions, or worse, taking his treasure.

That night passed as easily as those before it.

The stand was mundane, boring work. Veylor was making scraps compared to what he had gathered at the clearing.

"One more time" Veylor thought quietly to himself. One more time, he would brave the forest. One more time, except he would go for something big, something extremely valuable. He could sell it all and live comfortably....or even keep it, as his own treasure hoard.

On the third day he set out. He arrived quickly, he was impatient now.

The snoring, was more of a background noise now, it mattered little. From the edge of the clearing he spotted his prize. A beautiful chalice, solid gold, laden with thick and brilliant gems. It sat precariously, on the peak of the beasts gut, threatening the leap of faith into a golden abyss with each rise and fall of the giant's slumbering frame.

Veylor knew that only one thing mattered now, his prize. He was very young, and nimble. Veylor moved like a rat skillfully creeping towards an ominously placed block of cheese.

The throne was massive, but it's intricate inlays and design gave many footholds as Veylor scaled the side. He had watched birds land on the massive stomach, and even seen squirrels wrestle across, and the creature was none the wiser, so Veylor took his chance and stepped slowly onto the boar's skin...

..and nothing changed.

He began clambering softly towards his victory trophy.

But something had changed... The white noise was different. The background ambiance was off. Someone had taken away the previously soothing sound of a snoring god. They had replaced it with something much worse.

Silence.

By the time Veylor's ears had warned his brain, it was too late. A monstrous hand engulfed his entire frame and held him tight.

Through a slight gurgling comes a booming, haunting laughter. Only Veylor's head is visible, the rest of his body held tightly.

"Did you believe yourself the master at my game? I am the lord of possession, I am Greed. What lust you have for my possessions, dust child." Said Greed through the tribal mask. His hot heavy breath came over Veylor in waves as he spoke, seemingly intensifying each word.

"I am driven by that force which I govern, such is the plight of a god. Simply, I greed because I must, Your avarice is a choice." Said Greed to his captive audience.

"I'm smart enough to know when I'm beaten, If you release me, I can return that which I have taken from you." Veylor said with fear in his voice.

"Smart enough to understand defeat, but greedy enough to steal from a god. You have my admiration, which is why this next part hurts me deeply." Greed said with heavy sarcasm, followed by a deep laughter.

What followed next would blacken the moods of the darkest of nearby crows. A grisly scene, a macabre lunch for a god. Not a lesson in morality, but an exploration of foolish drive, a delve into what fascinates man with possession.

The innkeeper sat still outside the inn, enjoying a brisk spring afternoon, when he felt an all familiar bite at the edge of his thoughts. A feeling he knew well, a feeling he had come to understand, be it with some sorrow.

At the center of a remote clearing where a god treads amongst his patch of golden forest floor sets a solid gold chalice. A beautiful chalice showcasing brillaint and thick gems. The chalice exudes power driven by wealth. The chalice sits in a state that would be natural to such opulence, filled with the blood of those who would oppose it's possessor.

submitted by /u/TerribleTallTales [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2BPJDPX

#Blogger #Story

[adriankooistra]

Freedom

Joseph

Salt water stung my eyes. Burned my throat. The current pulled and pushed at my limbs. Tossed me in every which direction. My body tumbles and is dragged across the grainy sandy bottom. My lungs have begun to burn in desperation. I feel a tug at my ankle and follow my way up the thin chord. I feel my face break the surface. Warm air soothes my deprived lungs and I gulp it in greedily. I pull myself back onto my board and rest, panting, as I feel a smile tug at the corners of my lips. I sigh contentedly because out here my worries can no longer plague my mind. They melt away over the horizon with the sun at the end of each day. Out here it’s just me and nature, and I’m at its mercy. Out here is freedom.

Indy

My brain has seized up in fear. I can’t move, I can’t speak, I can’t even breathe. I’ve been dragged away from my parents in a foreign country, screaming for them, only to be thrown harshly to the ground in this grotty prison cell. I hear others crying in their cells, and others pleading with our captors to tell us our crimes. But I sit in silence trying to fall asleep because I know they don’t have answers for us. I don’t think even they know of our charges. But I know mine. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unlike many of the others, I have been here long enough to be used to the daily routine. Eat slop, be hosed down with cold water, scrub the walls and floors, pee in a bucket, eat more slop, try to sleep despite the ever bright harsh lights and wailing of my neighbours, slip into a restless sleep, dream... dream of home, dream of family, dream of freedoms that I once took for granted like breathing fresh air, sleeping on a mattress, walking down the street. Freedom.

Pete

I stand glaring at my reflection for several minutes. My beard wild and unshaven. My hair unwashed and scraggy. My face appears thin and bare of emotion. My eyes bloodshot, puffy and empty. Empty like my apartment, empty like my contact list, empty like my soul. Alone alone alone. Deserted. Kicked to the gutter like trash. Forsaken over time as I pushed everyone away. My own fault for becoming an abysmal excuse for a friend, son, brother. Because life has been cruel to me I too became a cruel monster. I tear my gaze from my despicable face and I turn it to my hand grasping the tiny pills representing relief. I shove them into my mouth and force them down. I sit on the floor and wait. Relief comes gradually. First my fingers lose feeling, then my heart rate stops racing, slower, slower, slower. My vision goes blurry and I’m slipping. The all consuming mental pressure evaporates in puffs of black smoke. And finally finally my consciousness escapes my body and I’m floating in darkness. Free of the world. Free of my disappointment over how my life turned out. Free of the ache in my chest. Freedom.

Sally

I am whirling, spinning, leaping. This must be what it feels like to fly. I feel weightless. My only thought is of where to place my feet, hold my arms, position my body in space. I adore this feeling. My mind is rejoicing at the obsessive repetitive counts. My body loosens with each new movement, working out the kinks of the day. My silly troubles fade to the background as the music fills my soul, and renews my tired bodies charge. I start slowly, gracefully, calculated movements but by the time I Finish I am a flurry of limbs, unthinking just following the momentum. I collapse to the floor exhausted and sweating. A joyful laugh burst from my mouth and I’m unable to quash it. I feel exhilarated and at peace. I think this feeling is freedom.

Adrian

Sitting silently in this chair. Listening, always listening but I never contribute. Not from a lack of desire but because I can’t. People always are talking around me, usually about me, but they could never know what I wish I could say, if only my stupid mouth would work properly. So I sit in silence while my mind screams I’m in here! Change the channel I’m not a baby! Don’t dress me in that shirt the tag itches. Then one day, Finally, someone who understands! A nice lady who speaks to me like I’m smart, an adult even. She picks up my hand and asks me to spell my name by pointing to the letters on a board. Woah. It worked! I did it! Finally a way to speak my mind! I work hard at this freedom to express myself that so many take for granted. Soon I am able to communicate with her about myself. My likes and dislikes, my worldview! It’s intoxicating but not enough. I want more people to know who I am. To realise I have value to add too. To contribute to conversations I could previously only observe. This freedom to express myself is a dream but I still want more. The freedom to speak my mind non dependant on facilitators still eludes me. But one day I’ll get there and freedom will be mine.

[badlydrawnbeastcookies]

silent salt being so done with everyone’s shit. amen

yeah

#value of destruction [burning spice tag] #value of sloth [eternal sugar tag] #value of truth [pure vanilla tag] #value of silence [silent salt tag] #message from aimless-aimz #value of deceit [shadow milk tag]

[badlydrawnbeastcookies]

What is your opinion on Shrikes, the small predatory bird that impales prey on spikes!

"I like this beast! It's strong for its size."

"It's just like me for real."

"...."

"I like all birds! I didn't know there were any this violent!"

"What an interesting creature... I'd love to read more about it."

#animal death #value of deciet [shadow milk tag] #message from rateater2000 #value of sloth [eternal sugar tag] #value of apathy [mystic flour tag] #value of destruction [burning spice tag] #value of silence [silent salt tag]

[badlydrawnbeastcookies]

What was everyone’s life like before you tried destroying the world? We know SM cookie being some scholar but what about everyone else?

#im sorting out my headcanons #but i did have to ask some friends for advice when writing this #value of destruction [burning spice tag] #value of apathy [mystic flour tag] #value of sloth [eternal sugar tag] #value of silence [silent salt tag] #message from theclowngod #value of deceit [shadow milk tag]